Tal’khaz-Mir (1)
From Atlantic Roleplay Wiki
Title: Tal'khaz-mir [1]
Author:
--a dark tale found within a crumbling tome in the Necropolis--
A frosty chill wind propelled powdery snow through the air with stinging pressure, creating and building upon pre-existant drifts.
Lightning cracked the cloudy sky, and the moon above barely pierced the canopy of darkness enough to illuminate the surrounding landscape. It was barren here, almost mournfully empty; not a tree in sight, and the only sound was the howling wolves and wind.
The few animals who inhabited Dagger Isle huddled in their hidden caves and dens along the mountainside, struggling for warmth within their thick, pristine hides.
Somewhere along the mountain was a passage, beaten by snow and ice, which lead to an ancient network of caves and stonework. It was a dungeon, Deceit as it would later be named, and Tal'khaz-mir stood only a few feet within, holding a torch high in a gloved hand. He was bedecked in dark, thick robes and thigh-high boots, with a thick hat and scarf to help him stay warm. Down here he thought perhaps he would be protected from the wind, but nay, there was a deeper chill here, one that went straight to the bone.
The air stunk of rotting flesh, and Tal'khaz-mir nearly jumped with surprise when he noted a distant figure, shambling slowly toward him. Hastily, his sword was drawn and he stepped forward, holding it at the ready should the figure prove hostile. Light from his torch glimmered upon his polished valorite blade; low-burning lamps and glowing sigils upon the walls and ground added to the eerie splendor of what seemed like an ancient tomb.
As the figure slowly limped into the light, Tal'khaz gasped in horror. Its flesh was covered in disgusting wounds, some so deep that bone showed beneath; it had turned green with rot and age, and smelled of hollow death. There was no life in its eyes, only cold understanding in its purpose. It had to protect its home and its age-old family, which meant adding another to the eternal damnation the dungeon's curse would offer. It crept closer, lifting a gnarled arm to strike.
The arm was severed with the blink of an eye, and directly following it with a side-swipe of Tal's sword was the zombie's head. Somehow though, bound by magic, it crept on, striking with its other arm. Tal parried the clumsy blow with his blade and kicked the foul beast in the ribs, sending it stumbling backward. He advanced and hacked viciously at its leg until it seemed to come apart at the seams. With enough damage dealt, the enchantment was broken and it fell limp to the cold stone floor.
Tal stared at the corpse for a few moments, unblinking, until he heard a strange noise to the northwest, echoing down the hallway. It sounded like a growl, powerfully issued and strong. Never claiming caution over curiosity, the man slowly crept in the direction of the sound, footsteps soft against the stone beneath him, yet loud in the silence that had been undisturbed for so very long. He paused at an intersection; two passages sprung out to his left and right, while the main tunnel kept going straight. He decided to try left, since it was to the west, where he had heard the noise.
Inside the chamber, he could see a brazier filled with glowing red embers. A feeling of dread crept over his figure, pouring into his veins and quickening his heartbeat. Something about this sight defied the natural order without reason, and he could recognize that clearly, that something was very wrong, yet he couldn't put a finger on it. Again, his curiosity won the day, and he stepped closer. Soon, his fear had melted into intrigue, and he was completely fascinated and charmed by the device. He stared at it unblinking, moving slowly closer.
A stiff breeze rushed through the room and devoured the flame of his torch. Tal'khaz-mir did not seem to care. He dropped the lightless object and let his arms hang idly at his side, having sheathed his sword back in the tunnel. He could feel the heat of the coals on his skin, even through his many layers of clothing, but he still did not seem to care. He tilted his head, and slowly begain to extend his hand toward the coals. Had he lost his mind? Had he gone utterly insane?
The hand crept closer and closer to the coals; his glove caught on fire from the heat, spreading to the sleeve of his robe, but he did not seem to care. He layed his hand upon the coals, and it was then that a mystical blue-white energy surged through his fingertips and channeled up his arm, spreading to the rest of his body. The heat didn't seem to affect his skin, leaving no marks or burns. Oddly, instead of darkening it seemed to lighten, growing pale, as if he were a ghost.
His eyes gleamed a vile red, and slowly he lifted his hand from the coals. His voice was inhuman and low, incredibly powerful. "Et aahl az`rah-tu mel khas..." His voice slowly began to blend from an ancient language to the modern speech of man. "...I am finally free." He slowly blinked his eyes, bowed his head and strode back the way he had came. Instead of turning toward the entrance at the intersection, though, he headed deeper into the depths of the dungeon.
A group of thirteen white-robed individuals gathered around a massive tower built of bone and mortar, each chanting alone with one another. One stood in front of the rest, holding a golden staff as high as his arm would allow. He shouted praises to righteous gods, willing them to banish what they had dubbed a temple of evil and dark repute. It was known to them as destruction, darkness, death and decay. It was known to those who researched as Golgotha, the Tower of Bone.
A figure stood calmly inside, his head shaved and bare, pale and gleaming in the dim blue light cast by runes etched into the walls. He wore a massive suit of gleaming black platemail, all save for the helm, with a dark blue robe worn over it. He held a valorite sword, polished and well-kept, runes carved into the blade with a hilt long enough to be held with two hands. It resembled an ancient design used many decades before, when raiders had first come to the frozen slab of rock.
The figure looked up, eyes glowing a bright shade of red, his highly intelligent demeanor and strength apparent, even without a display. The group outside could *feel* his evil throbbing through the ground like shockwaves of an earthquake, or possibly silent thunder pulsing through the air in crushing waves, the heartbeat of a long dead island... slowly, the man turned, and began to ascend the stairwell that lead to the tower's roof. Bone crunched beneath his heavy step, but it reformed again behind him, stirring until it had resumed its original position.
The figures outside chanted more fervently as the silhouette of a man appeared on the top of the tower, slowly moving to its edge and looking out at them, a cruel, knowing smile upon his dark lips. "Mach`ahl-zen.. bah.. et.. lum.. ol gheist..." His words were painfully slow, deep and powerful, like the concussion blast of a vicious explosion. Dust spilled past his lips with each utterance, as if he had not spoken or even moved in centuries. As the moments passed, as each word was spoken, he began to speak faster.
"Baal et yahn le pa wael mahn..."
The men below froze, as if commanded by some ancient magic. Their breath had been stolen as easily as if an experienced tailor were pulling a needle through thin cloth, or a blade fresh from the forge slicing through already warm butter. It seemed so easy to the seasoned force of evil; there was no passion to his voice, only inflection where the spell deemed appropriate. Slowly his free hand clenched fightly into a fist, and he twisted it in the empty air, vicious cold wind beating against his dark gauntlet. The men below all fell to their knees, clutching their hearts, except one, the man who held the staff.
It seemed as if the silence spell had been broken, and the staff-weilder spun it 'round twice, uttering a single arcane phrase. As the spell climaxed, he withdraw a gemstone from a pocket of his robe; it was an odd gem, completely round and flawless. With the sheer strength of his spell, the souls of all twelve men around him were sucked into the gem, and the thirteenth, the essence of Tal'khaz-mir, the man standing atop the tower, possessed by daemons, was devoured by the gem. Twelve guardians in eternity for one vile demonic force.
The lifeless figure of Tal'khaz-mir slowly decended into the forgotten cellars of Golgotha, disappearing into darkness, willed there and controlled by the evil that was Golgotha. The robed man smiled somberly, turned, and stepped away into the blinding snowstorm. His work was done at the cost of twelve comrades, who had come unknowing of what must be done.
--continued in volume two--