Post by Koric on Nov 28, 2020 21:16:36 GMT -5
5a873, Katris 17
Silence, pervasive and smothering, engulfs all existence.
A mist grey landscape fades into view from the nothing.
A deep thrumming manifests across the fathomless expanse. The noise pulses, arrhythmic with the heartbeat, leaving the bowels in a disquieted roil, nervously anticipating the next asynchronous beat.
Across the Three Worlds every sentient being shares the same discomforting experience.
Unable to speak into the silence or move within the space, each individual exists for an indeterminate time within the boundless grey and thrumming vista.
A lack of color manifests and each Essence is instantly teetering on stark white threads in a sea of black. The Darkness shines and the threads vibrate with the same disquieting and arrhythmic pulse.
The Pulse becomes Sound.
“Heed the words of The Unholy Bastion.”
A flat, contemptuous voice thunders through each Essence, carrying currents of rage and certitude.
“The face of Destruction turns to The Three Worlds and calls the Wrathful Souls.”
“The face of Retribution turns to The Three Worlds and calls the Aggrieved.”
“The Laws of the Drowfather have been forgotten, or worse, ignored. This laxity has stirred Wrath and Ruin.”
“Heretics have been called to account before the Vengeful Son, their very Essence forfeit.”
“This is the Will of Koric.”
Each Essence not sworn to The Bladed Gauntlet experiences an instantaneous and interminable reversion to their norm and is left reeling from the loss of Divine contact.
“These words are for my people alone. The Drow, the Duergar, the wrathful and vindictive. All you Faithful attend me and my Intent.”
“Long have my laws been allowed to lie fallow. I witness untended glens of Da’Chora and overripe fruit rotting on the vines of Es’Draery’Lar. I witness gardens of weeds littering the Empire.
I see nary a Coppicer in sight.
Abominations have been allowed to spread, tainting the Blood and poisoning the Spirit of a once great People.
Vermin have been permitted to aspire beyond their station, laying claim to an existence that should be denied them.
Once, a great Rotting Tide crashed over the face of Severall, pushing back the vermin and bringing Law and Darkness to the land. Now the tide placidly laps at the shores on the land of vermin. A once great people left obediently making way for their own nullification, courting their own downfall.
In a time before, I gave the command to “Arise”. Newly made Blood and Shadow were breathed into a listing sail. The sail now lies limp and the vessel has no Captain. Rudderless.
I will provide you direction.
I command you again.
“Eradicate.”
Failure comes at a price and each and every one of you worship a God of Destruction.
Behold him now.”
A vision accretes in the mind of all his Faithful.
In the center of the web of strands, pulsing in time with the asynchronous thrumming, a diminutive Drow stands before a rough worked Altar of basalt. A white spider tattooed on his face and the Holy Symbol clasped around his neck.
Palpable waves of Power radiate outward in time with the Pulse.
A destructive frequency resonates within every Essence balancing on the threads. An urge to annihilation coupled with a righteous indignation at the iniquities of Existence.
Koric raises his head and all are forced to stare into his unforgiving countenance.
“Do not fail me again.”
Silence, pervasive and smothering, engulfs all existence.
A mist grey landscape fades into view from the nothing.
A deep thrumming manifests across the fathomless expanse. The noise pulses, arrhythmic with the heartbeat, leaving the bowels in a disquieted roil, nervously anticipating the next asynchronous beat.
Across the Three Worlds every sentient being shares the same discomforting experience.
Unable to speak into the silence or move within the space, each individual exists for an indeterminate time within the boundless grey and thrumming vista.
A lack of color manifests and each Essence is instantly teetering on stark white threads in a sea of black. The Darkness shines and the threads vibrate with the same disquieting and arrhythmic pulse.
The Pulse becomes Sound.
“Heed the words of The Unholy Bastion.”
A flat, contemptuous voice thunders through each Essence, carrying currents of rage and certitude.
“The face of Destruction turns to The Three Worlds and calls the Wrathful Souls.”
“The face of Retribution turns to The Three Worlds and calls the Aggrieved.”
“The Laws of the Drowfather have been forgotten, or worse, ignored. This laxity has stirred Wrath and Ruin.”
“Heretics have been called to account before the Vengeful Son, their very Essence forfeit.”
“This is the Will of Koric.”
Each Essence not sworn to The Bladed Gauntlet experiences an instantaneous and interminable reversion to their norm and is left reeling from the loss of Divine contact.
“These words are for my people alone. The Drow, the Duergar, the wrathful and vindictive. All you Faithful attend me and my Intent.”
“Long have my laws been allowed to lie fallow. I witness untended glens of Da’Chora and overripe fruit rotting on the vines of Es’Draery’Lar. I witness gardens of weeds littering the Empire.
I see nary a Coppicer in sight.
Abominations have been allowed to spread, tainting the Blood and poisoning the Spirit of a once great People.
Vermin have been permitted to aspire beyond their station, laying claim to an existence that should be denied them.
Once, a great Rotting Tide crashed over the face of Severall, pushing back the vermin and bringing Law and Darkness to the land. Now the tide placidly laps at the shores on the land of vermin. A once great people left obediently making way for their own nullification, courting their own downfall.
In a time before, I gave the command to “Arise”. Newly made Blood and Shadow were breathed into a listing sail. The sail now lies limp and the vessel has no Captain. Rudderless.
I will provide you direction.
I command you again.
“Eradicate.”
Failure comes at a price and each and every one of you worship a God of Destruction.
Behold him now.”
A vision accretes in the mind of all his Faithful.
In the center of the web of strands, pulsing in time with the asynchronous thrumming, a diminutive Drow stands before a rough worked Altar of basalt. A white spider tattooed on his face and the Holy Symbol clasped around his neck.
Palpable waves of Power radiate outward in time with the Pulse.
A destructive frequency resonates within every Essence balancing on the threads. An urge to annihilation coupled with a righteous indignation at the iniquities of Existence.
Koric raises his head and all are forced to stare into his unforgiving countenance.
“Do not fail me again.”
