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 Prophecies of the First Wind, Portent the Flame (open) 
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Joined: Tue Aug 02, 2005 9:18 pm
Posts: 4
Post Prophecies of the First Wind, Portent the Flame (open)

. . . in the year of the Eclipse, 1005 Month of Grace, Day, Current. . .

The Mad Prophet.

He was dead.

And he stank.

At least untill the first passing shower rinsed the grime and filth away; the icy droplets scourging away the caked on efluvia of time in the dank embrace of the earth. Then only the clean smell of the soil and water and wind remained, an ozone aftertaste of thunder. mist and droplets streamed frm his wasted pale form, down past vacant eyes and across scarred and twisted limbs. The damned walked. At least, one of them shambled.

Vacant eyes stared ever ahead, stragling dingy hair the same color as the faded flesh trailed limply in the breeze. Discared rags and scraps of cloth, a mixmatch melody of melancholy castoffs, wrapped around by a hooded cloak that seemed more fluttering strips of cloth then formed garment. No insignia, no marks, no arcane sigils or tattoos, no identification, and no identy. Blackened teeth showed in a death's head rictus, and greyish spittle dribbled from the fleshless lips.

No course, no sane direction animated it. If one could trace its footprints they would lead into the deep desert, into the vast wastelands where few sane men went, and the winds ruled over a silent expanse of blistering sands. Trailing in one withered hand was a burnt up stick, more ash than wood or coal, destroyed by whatever cataclysmic force awakened it. Leaves of ash dotted it, on stems of fragile coal thier forms burnt to powder in an instant , they broke off one by one, crumbling to dust at the fickle touch of the wind. Yet on it stumbled. On wildly , as if it where a thing of steel and some great lodestone in the hands of a madman drew it forth inexorably against the strength of a mighty man. On, as if a man searching for that wich he loved amidst the fires of hell itself. On, as if by walking it could live again, in some unspeakable fashion.

At last its course carried near the habitations of man. A small Foretan town, on the borders of some unkown lord or ladies holding. Common folk, doing common things, and living out thier lives as best they knew. Loyal to Lord and Faith. A handfull of scouts manned a smallish out-post int the town, and the mail ran as often as thier supplies were refurbished. Not a hardship post for these warriors, just dull common duty. Duty that ate up days and years and made time itself slow to a crawl. The captain of the scouts was the first to see it, and to wonder at its odd appearance. Taking the figure for a lost traveller or a wandering beggar he dispatched a squad of scouts to intercept this moving mystery and see what it might be. The squad, veterans all, mounted up on sturdy barrens camels and headed out near night fall.

The captain's first and only warning was the return of one solitary camel belonging to the squad. Staggering and waving as if drunken, it collapsed in the city's gate. If the captain had been an animal handler, or trained herder he would have been stunned to discover that the animal in question had died; Of dehydration, in less than two hours. As it was, The captains only wise move was to close the city gates and forbid anyone else to leave untill his squad returned, or morning broke. Niether the scout captain nor any of the civilians he gaurded would see either the missing scouts or the dawn, again.

Deep in the watches of the night, the pale figure's staggering gait took him hard up against the gate of the city. at the slightest touch, the solid olive wood, inches thick and barred with bronze, sparked into flame. Thwarted by the slowly buring wood and gradually heating metal the raggedy figure pouned its pale limbs weakly against the gate, as if it belive it could crush them into the dust. Nothing. Burnt and weakening, the gate still held. The remaining scouts, alerted by this time, set arrows to string, and at the word, winged a flight toward this unknown menace.

The first arrow struck. The raggedy figure pinwheeled away, green fog leaking from its mouth and from the wound in its chest. The sudden manuver carried it clear of the rest of the shafts. High on the wall, the scouts prepared another volley. They would not loose it. Tearing the arrows barbs from its sunken chest the grisly figure waved its gory trophy above its head. The shrunken jaws opened, far wider than should have been possible. The figure spoke words. Words not heard in lifetimes. Words not spoken in the time or place, but ripped from another, given meaing here only at the cost of lives. A great wind swept forth from the sides of the north. . .

The dispatch riders who acompanied the weekly supply run brought back the first reports, wich later investigations would add to. The first report was terse, only a few lines.

Town destroyed by fire and wind. One survivor, now blinded an crippled.
Survivor reports devestation caused by one man like thing. Nothing remins of town except three words or runes burned into a small section of wall. Text unreadable. Send help.

(ooc) yes this thread is i wish you luck. There will be three others. Prophecies of the Second Wind, Sigil of Thunder, and Prophecies of the Third Wind, Tower of Ice and Summer. Now to Begin.

Tue Aug 02, 2005 10:10 pm

Joined: Tue Aug 02, 2005 9:18 pm
Posts: 4
Perhaps he was not as mad as those who labled him so. . .

It is a requirement for one to be mad, that one has been at once sane. . .

And this never was. Or perhaps never knew the difference. . .

The scholars that studied its meandering path across the land, and gathered to glean knowledge from the whispered tounges that frothed from its lips, also debated the very nature of its existance. Some learned ones held forth its nature as an elemental, a child of heat and wind, of the basic stuffs of th e earth and sky. They drew evidences from the destruction of the objects and people foolish enough to stand or be found in its way; Burned away or eroded as if by a mighty wind.

Opposing views saw only the corroded exterior of the thing, and assumed it was dead, or more likely undead, some foul vampire spawn. They assumed the death and destruction that followed it was the result of some dark magics or unholy deeds, and based thier researches along that line. The rest of the scribes were less than convinced about the vailidity of these arguments, pointing out that most of the language uttered by th r thing was in some form or alteration the droben tounge.

Elemental, Vampire or Droben, one thing was certain. It was unstoppable. Or rather, it failed to stop. Those obstacles placed in its way, or left there on accident, failed to hinder its progress. One particularly astue observer noted that it seemed to him that objects in the path of the wanderer seemed to age; at an accelerated rate. That is of course if they where so lucky as to be fireproof. If not, they burned; as if in a forges heat.

Some said that the tings mumblins where nonsense. . .

Some said they where the portents of old gods come anew. .

Some said they where signs of things not fo this world. . .

Some where right. .

Sun Aug 07, 2005 6:17 pm
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