Spires - The Influence

Spires - The Influence

Postby Kobra » Thu Feb 19, 2004 7:52 pm

Dusk.

Darkness creeps out once more with the stealthy, playful grace of the very nocturnal beasts its tenebrous cloak enfolds. From nook and cranny, from thistle and hedge, from knothole and rathole, shadows lengthen; night claims Myrken Wood, mercifully.

For daylight paints a bleak picture. From the Spires' point of eruption outward, a ring of decay and putrefication has spread.

But not only do the trees wither and the animals die.

Hanging from the knothole of a twisted oak tree, a pulsating birth-sac swells. Within it coils the fetus of what may once have been a squirrel.

A thorny thicket hides the mangled body of some nameless, unfortunate traveller. His rotting boot protrudes. But the thorns are now merely the sheath for pink, glistening tendrils; sockets of uplifted skin along his legs have become the anchor-points for them, into which they burrow, to slither along the corridors of his veins.

A fig-tree deep within the woods creaks and groans. Its grainy skin is stretched over a series of protrusive branches and ridges emerging from its trunk.

Were one to look at them long enough, one might see the curves of a female form, hands outstretched, screaming without sound. Crying tears of blood-coloured, crusted sap from the knotholes where eyes should be. A bizarre, coincidental growth? Or the frozen sculpture of a trapped dryad?

From the branches above, bulbous fruits shaped like beating hearts swell, spurt congealed blood from their open sphincters.

The Influence is spreading.

A rebirth. A reforging of flesh and spirit in a new image. It is only a matter of time before its plague touches the human population - if it has not already begun.
"Life is but a moment - Legends are forever."

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Lamai

Postby Elfling » Mon Feb 23, 2004 11:16 am

The nights had become just as much work as the days. Sleep had been forgone in those first moments when she'd braved the darkness beyond the tavern's winking safety -- if safe it could be considered.

Boots planted into bloody ground, staining the soft leather with their crimson poison. The color crept in slowmotion up the leather, as if to corrupt the very soul that walked within them. Arms were painted with red, as well, as was her hair, her face, her legs. One might think she had been part of a massacre..

.. and they'd be right.

Again, fingers curled about the bulbous pouch of regrowing flesh that would respawn something that once was a squirrel, but would become something far worse. Again, the sharp edge of a knife would cut through the very life attaching it to the tree, to send the pulsing life to the ground, even while she was moving quickly backwards, not trusting the tree.

Again, hands planted against wooden faces, drawing the tormented life from within its branches and completeing the Circle. Again, pumping blood would cease its spillage, but not before coating the tiny woman in its foulness.

Again, torch would be placed to glistening thickets ripening on the dead flesh of the unwary. Full concentration went to ensuring the entire mass of woodlands didn't burn, taking Myrken Town and the Broken Dagger with it.

Again and Again. Night after endless night. Some days held very much the same. The hopeless, endless struggle of one person to undo the corruption festering beneath the very surfaces she trod upon, before this home turned into the last.

Each night turned with a heavier heart, a little less hope.. a little more despair.
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Can't find yourself, lost in your lie~
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The Horrors of This World Are An Inevitable Doom

Postby Angilena » Wed Feb 25, 2004 11:07 am

In this deadening part of the woods, the air crept up the backs of the weak, threatening to blind their eyes as its icy fingers slithered 'round from the back of their heads. In this decaying part of the forest, the moon's blue gaze darkened every deep shadow, glistened upon every festering boil the earth now suffered, a more hideous detail to a landscape already horrible.

On these bleak grounds, two forms ran for their lives.

It had come over a horizon of few in this hell of Myrken, as if the rising of the moon had both birthed it from the shadows and taken possession of what soul it held within its web-like skin. First, keen ears of a blinded girl heard the deep sching of unimagineable, infinite claws ripping through the earth. Then, it widened the thick lids of dragon orbs as its vision was vomited over the hill. Neither giant dog nor bear nor abominable cat could be assigned to its form, though on four legs it bounded, its spine rounding with silhouetted spikes stretching their shadows towards them on the ground. ..and its giant head held the snapping fangs of what seemed like two pitchforks as one, destructive mouth. They had fought a failed battle in their single mind - that unconscious will to liken the wrapped and stretched skin of the thing...to human flesh and tendon.

On unpredictable ground, they ran, their hearts sinking with stubborn acceptance of pending death, for all that they could not run like that. They couldn't not feel the human jolt of weight with each, thumping foot-fall to the ground. Even Trip, as instinctively as his back curled, foretalons gripping the earth while readied hinds threw themselves forward, he could not stretch the limit of heart-strings between he and Angie - could not pass the barrier of their mortality. They were beginning to notice the change of the trees, through what his eyes could see in their stumbled attempts. The horizontal beams of the moon's penetration through the canopy had become fewer. The trees were becoming more dense. They were losing themselves deeper into the forest.

Behind them, far enough away to ensure seconds more of precious life, but frightening enough to feel its breath upon the backs of sweatied necks, the beast shrieked a blasphemy of human sound, seemingly distorted through beams of trapping steel, a sound of rusted metal grinding against metal. Angie whimpered, hands once low to the ground rising to cover her ears - a flaw in their pitiful attempts.

Her face met the foulness of rotting earth.

..and, before them, its answer was heard in the gears of the Spire.

She reached out a hand to grasp the tumbling ball of scales, his wings slick with a black, oily substance.

"Don' look at it, Trip! Please!"

She felt the desperate beat of the earth beneath its infection. ..and the wind that was not deceitful spoke of the horror of shadows. ..but Trip's eyes had already held the image of the thing, a tower standing tall and hideous, penetrating their skin with a reddened light that shown down from its peak, drenching its surroundings with pale crimson. Like the mother of the beast pursuing, its abomination pinned them to the ground. Angie wailed a helpless cry, her body curling about a shivering dragon. She felt the horrors of this world were an inevitable doom. ..and lay weeping, awaiting the pierce of metal claws.

...

...

"You're bleeding."

It gave enough hope to lift the horned head of Trip, his eyes wincing, blinking at the owner of a whisper.

"You should not be so deep in the woods. Wolves have no mercy for innocense."

A woman shrouded in robes, so much so that only the scarred skin around her eyes could be seen, shadows curtaining over deeply sunken eyes now reddened by the Spire's sun, stood beside the dark pillar. ..and she lifted a mangled hand to her face, sliding the veil over a presentless nose. Only the holes of her nostrils quivered, flaring desperately with what flesh surrounded the skull-like appearance.

"You're bleeding."

It was not only the hunger so obvious in that whisper that had them fleeing from both beings. There was a piercing gaze from those seemingly eyeless holes, as though their very skins had been wrenched free from their bodies, revealing the muscle beneath. They didn't realize that it was the eyes of the Spire.

Out of this diseased part of Myrken, they ran to where light would keep them from the shadows.
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An unwanted reunion

Postby Khalika » Thu Feb 26, 2004 10:27 am

Dawn is in it first moment of creation, the black of the night sky slowly by each second giving way to the rising sun...Though it is not the explosion of light and sky painted color. Nah, the heavy pollution of the Spires influction, leaves a dull haze between earth and sky. smoke of the blackest icur, pumping in continuios rhythm, to mask sun and sky. Three have pushed in viloent birth from the ground to stand like black towers, the points of a large triangle that encompasses the forest, the center most point...

The Broken Dagger.....

Upon the roof, a cloaked figure, hood drawn so that only auburn splinter escape to whip and throttle in the light morning breeze. Fur lined within the inside, the outer a patchwork covering of soft brown and green leather. knees drawn in and crossed in the native styling, arms to rest in the inner curves. One hand gloved to hang dead, fingers gnarled and scarred burned by the fire that saves. The other Cooper hued and bare to the weather chill, rest uneasy, a solitary finger teasing the snow with the tip of a touch. While the other finger enclose around an amulet, three triangles one encased in the other...this odd piece of jewerly twist and rotates in the Gypsy womans hand as her eyes lay closed. The silence of the roof top an escape to allow meditation and thought...The area around her holds an errie silence. the forest near empty, the tavern common tucked away in slumber...

Hour would pass and noon would soon fall the Sun nearing its hieght and she would stir finally...A plan laying in motion within her thought a stolen look to the amulet, before it is tucked away, and she was moving to depart...a reunion will soon take place, and one she is not looking forward to..Ajex, Loyal sted, of rich chocolate colorings stands restless and waiting...He was wild one like she...Both tamed and molded by the battles won and loss. And here they both were lost within the Prologue of the next great tale....Words whispered softly to his ear, in the Romani tongue, encouragement and promise..Then as that working hand, strong unhampered grabs the mix of main and reins pulls her to sit upon the Sturdy back of her companion. With a Sharp kick the stallion reers up and they are off in a harsh charge through the snow...They would ride as such till the reach the farside of lake and there standing like one of those statues of Queens of Lore stood...

The Guardian....

She has held many names in her life time, and titles aswell. She was once upon a time one of those Queens. Her tittle now is The Lady Morrighan one of the nine sister Guardian and Enchantress of the Light. But the Gypsy woman has only know her as Guardian, a heaker of great skill and in there many encounters has always found her to be a stiff know it all, who cannot help but place herself into others people business. So it was begrudgingly that she sent the correspondance to ASK for aid. And now they stand the warrior Gypsy Mercenary before the small petitte healer whose Chesnut hair hangs to her was in straight lines. Her face etheral, as her ancestory holds the blood of the fae. as much opposites as two beings can be. The woman speaks in flows of ageless grace...

"My Lady Quiller, I have come at your request..what is it you need of the nine?" She holds great pride in her tones, as awaits the Gypsy reply.

"You have the abilties to travel through roads not open to man....I am in need of such" The Gypsy's words hold their usual harsh exterior, her jaw locked and tense. Those who know her know she is never one to outwardly ask for assistance in anything..so it is with great hardships that she stands before this woman now.

"Oh?...I have always been under the impression you held a distaste for such dare I say magical means.." Was the Guardian responce to the request, not even taking the oppurtunity to bring up the oh so many conversation they have had when the Gypsy herself has pit upon the womans abilities and skill..."May I ask why?

"Because I need to travel great distances and Have not the luxuray of time." Snapped the Gypsy, who hated how the other could be so Coy and pleasant even as the world was crumbleing at her feet..

"Of course...My dear.. It seemed that explanation was enough..though more so by that glimmer in emerald laid eyes, it seemed the Guardian alreay knew the cause and her conterparts dislike for the situation at a whole....

A clutched hand would open and stretch out to the Gypsy, rested within its palm was a simple wooden disc, cut from the trees of the Apple Island...An that has been a haven to the light since hte beginning of time...It has held many names, and many occupants, and holds now a great power...upon the disc is carved a a large tree upon one side and a road upon the other...

"This will get you where you need to go...The trods are many and this is their key, there map, are your thoughts." Her words soft like baby skin, a smile upon pale pink lips match each tone so simple perfection..

The Gypsy took the token, hold it gingerly in her hand...Her body tensed, as if the very morrow that formed to create her being fought to stand and not run, she as long thought herself unworthy to hold such things and know the Guardian give it freely, as it it were nothing but a childs trinket...No thanks come, only more words.

"there is something else.... She would start only to have the woman's hand raise to hault her words...

"I know....And if it comes to that grey day...I will take Wryin from this place...Her final Days shall not be held surrounded by such....Death.... Even the harrolded Guardians words do crack when she brings mention of the state of the land..This woman who has faced more then even the Gypsy could imagine, holds pause to the darkness that surrounds her, The effect lays a shadow upon a face that breaths light like the sun.."But the others, I will not force, those two who hold a shared heritage to you...Must come by choice or not at all...That is the way.."

Those words cut at the Gypsy heart and bring jaws to grind teeth to powder..Damn her...Damn her words and her laws...But she knows loud protest will not move the womans mind...Like a mountain she is. So in the end only a nod would fall i agreement.

"I know well your Laws..Guardian, I know that their fates lay in their hands Alone....I only hope It will not go that far.. Her words are weak, for this woman's nature is an errie calm as if standing before a Priest most cannot help but fall into confession.

"It will...It will be that and more I fear....The skies are churning and laying out a timeline to follow....Be Strong Lady Quiller, or this land and those who walk it, I fear will be forfieted to the one.... In riddles she talks at times as Laws prevent at times outwards spillings of truths she may know...

"And where will the nine be... Guardian?" Those words held a harsh bitterness as in her mind it seems the Guardian has forsaken them as all other have...

She laughs like bells after church...no not so forboding, spring chimes of peace...that is what is held with such a sound." Lady Quiller, you know, that you merely need to ask and we shall stand before you....But you a hve not..and I fear will not...yet.

And indignant responce and a safe one in the Gypsy mind, but again she nods..for know she will not bow before the great one and beg her assitance as she has seen so any other do..

"Then we are done.... There is no defeat in her words, and with a curt sharp nod she turns back to Ajex, token in hand. and moments later she is but a speek in the distance, leaving the Guardian to smile at her sucess...

"No Manndela Quiller.....not yet...

The woman holds many secrets, some so great she would die before they are spoken, but one that is wrapped within the many is the true name of the woman who has left her...And the reason she uses her mother name....

-----------------------------------------

to be continued...
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pt.II

Postby Khalika » Thu Feb 26, 2004 11:26 am

Time has passed but not as much as one might think, the Myrken people would no doubtably be preparing for early dinners and returning from their days labours...But the Gypsy is not there no more..The trod key has ferriered her through roads not seen by mans eye, to the other side, a place long since forgotten the travel would be simply enough for those like the Guardian who use such things in abundance, but for the Gypsy when she feels firm ground again is overwhelmed equilibrums turned a sunder and for a moment she drops to a knee in a nausiating spin. Curses would fall from her lips in launguages of the common and Romani Tongues.....

"such a foul mouth you hold...Gypsy"

Comes an old crackled voice. female and ancient in tone. eyes look up to find who she sought....The Crone, who has aged as known other...Her apperance a reflection of her life.. hair like grey wires messed and uncared for, skin holds a wrinkle for every year she has lived and there are many, and her eyes pale white orbs that have long since seen the sun... have long since seen anything... cloak of black tattered and worn through, her home a run down cottage. A Pauper?...no for greatness need not align it self in gold to be great.

"I'm not here for a lesson in ettiquet Crone... Came the harsh responce as the gypsy stood again...towards this woman there is not even the uneasy truce she holds with the Guardian. for even the Gypsy can fell the womans magiks seep into her flesh and it is an errie and unwanted touch..."I seek the mirror...I seek the sight..."

"Of course you do child...I am suprised it too you so long" She berated as she stood, a wooden cain bent and knotted, holds her hunchback form, her body should have long since faded to dust but it remains...to retell her story one would need a map of history..."As For your Ettiquet..Well we do not have the years it would take..." Harsh and uncouth, it seems The Crone does not hold the same manners, as her Guardian Grandchild.

Into the cottage they make their way. It is dark and damp, bare of any luxary, books and viles collect dust, dish litter uncleaned. Large jars hold herbs and the dried remains of many an animal. Witch many have called her...and many would be right..But she is more then simple witchcraft, some have whispered..more have rumored that she was the first....

"You seek the water...This I know...You need views not able to be gained by your ability alone...So you seek....Ragnal... Her name is old, like she..It holds meaning and myth. but her words ring with truth, for that is what the Gypsy came for...to look upon the red water and see...

She shakes this ancient women, her hands but bone the flesh barely hanging, nails long, the two index's longer still. Bottles and jars rattle with her touch. belongings fall to the ground as she clears them with her cain, a bowl plain, it lacked nothing special though some say the holy grail, that chalice of great quests was but a carpenters mug...And this bowl too holds it wounders in the lines of wood.

Set up right, upon the table, those shaking hands gather what is needed, a jug of stream water fills the bowl half way, flecks of this and that accompany such, the women gnarled whispers the only thing that disturb the silence. The Gypsy just stands there, hating magics as she does she is not familar with the process, nor does she care to be...the final product is found when a Crow swoops in through the window. Hands that could barely lift jars moments before now snap up like lightening strikes to grab the bird at its neck. The caws and screches echo out as one of those sharpened nails near claws themselves slice open the birds gullet and left falls its blood into the pool...The Crow as well life sacrifised, for sight, is droped into the water now red with blood...Those mumified hand rubbing the blood into their every crevice..

The whispers grow louder...as hand grip the bowl...once only full to the half way point, now overflowing, swallowing the feathered corpse. and then like the Phoenix rising from the fire...The bird spasms to life once more. wet wings stroke the wind as the Crow departs leaving the Gypsy with flashes of Zombie memories. Only to have the course splintering cackle of the Crone to pull her back....

"Look to the water now child...and see what Crow does show you.. Came words of from the blind woman...hands still fused it seems to the bowl, the water red, with a solitary raven hued feather...

She inches closer....looking down, but does not see the bottom of the bowl instead a picture lays before her...From the eyes of the once dead bird...It is travling..like light it crosses land, sea. soon, sooner then she could inmagine it catches sight of Mrykens edge... high it climbs, above to trees, above the Spires themselve.. Only to hault, the vision opening up like a wide mouth, to show the Spires... the three that make one large Triangle and there laying in the center was the Dagger...The Gypsy would frown... as if familar in some way with the setting... hand would pull out the amulet, and hold it over the bowl. The largest Triangle's points would line up with the Spires, while the smallest Triangle would fall in place with the Dagger itself...

"Is it a map you hold?...Or a guide to the destruction?.. The blind woman it seemed needed not eyes to see....

The amulet snatched up and tucked away..as the Gypsy looked upon the Crone..."I don't know...It and its twins have adorned the followers of he who I believe is responsible for the Three..

But would there be more?...she wounder now as she looks upon the vision in the bowl...Two of the three accounted for..but what of that middle Triangle?..What would it represent?.. more Spires?..To stand between the three? and stain the ground with their very presence. Questions she has answers she needs. But she knows the Crone will not respond to them, and it eats at her insides, the way her and her line. Pick and choose their battles so... Hidding behind laws long since forgotten....

"Look for the man who matches the face....There is a connection" More riddles, and how the Gypsy hated them so..But she would nod...and Say no more.

The woman cain aided was shuffling towards an old rickety rocking chair, that made the tavern Furniture look lavish in comparison. The Gypsy aids her down, though her face is filled with confusion over her words and what they could possibly mean. though she is surprised when the old one speaks again..

"The snake man aswell....and the healer that is more...They hold connection to this one...But be weary that you do not fall again into temptation.... And then eyes close and her body goes limp as if those words were her last..but no only slumber, takes her now..and in silence the Gypsy leaves the Crone..

the first steps taken in this road she would rather not walk. But before anything can be set in motion she must make her body whole....So she will seek Lamai the healer who once offered aid, to heal her hand....Curses be damned...

For it seemed everything else already was...
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These were my trees.

Postby Madel_H » Thu Feb 26, 2004 12:04 pm

The chirping of birds filled the midday air, a cheerful testimony of the beautiful day. Trees quivered in the wind, but never more than a slight breeze to startle their peaceful slumber. Through the serene landscape the ranger moved, silent steps and careful movements giving no hint of his passage. Through a parting of the trees, he can see a deer grazing on a patch of grass untouched by winter's blanket. A doe, with small fawn beside. Both added to the scene, enhancing the joy the ranger felt whenever he was in these trees, any trees. Despite the image, he never paused to watch, but continued his vigilant patrol of the woodlands. Besides, he could pass near enough to touch the doe, and she would never had been any the wiser. A chipmunk perched on a branch above him, chewing furiously on a pecan. A gloved hand was raised to it, and suddenly the tiny ball of brown stopped chewing, stared forward at him. It dropped the pecan and went down on all fours, twitching nervously as the ranger's hand revealed him just beneath the creature. Whispered words passed his lips, a quiet assurance. Tension would ease from the small animal, and it began to study the man, running up and down the branch in short burst, looking at him from every angle. Madel's hand was extended a bit further, palm up to the chipmunk. In its center, the bits of pecan that remained. The animal seemed to ponder for a moment, then skittered into his hand, taking up the food once more. With a smile, the ranger continued forward, chipmunk finding its way to a perch upon his shoulder.


He pushed forward, through trees whose branches hung low, through vines whose thorns rose high. And yet, never did he disturb the landscape. The chipmunk had long departed, skittering away to find a new tree in which to rest. Darkness was coming now, and the creatures of Myrken knew what was coming, even if a long absent forest-guardian did not. As the sun's round sank beneath the trees, Madel knew that it was coming time to return home. He had journeyed far this night, far enough to warrant a hard-worked day. Just a little further, he told himself, then I can go home. And so he pushed just a little further. At first. Just a little further, he continued to tell himself, until he had walked well into the night and the moon stood high in the cloudy sky.

Something snapped a twig off to his right, and he turned for just a moment to look. When he turned back, he nearly fell back onto the ground. The trees were blackened, twisted sacks of pulsating flesh hanging from them in a mockery of life. He turned to view the carnage that touched the trees, and kept turning and turning. He could see it now, the black death moving slowly further and further, cutting into the woodlands that he called home. One of the fleshy sacks squirmed, and he took a few slow steps toward it. He could faintly make out the general shape. He knew what it was, but he hoped he was wrong. He hoped with all his will that he was mistaken. Another step brought him a little closer, the image taking a more distinct shape. He had never been a religious man, never truly trusted in higher deities. But he prayed now. He prayed to every god he had ever heard in his long life, he prayed and prayed that that shape was not what he knew it was. He uttered promises to do anything and everything if he could only be wrong. He wasn't. The sack was most definitely a chipmunk, roiling and twisting as the misshapen tree utterly absorbed the life from it. A tear drop fromed in the ranger's eye, tore a line through the grime on his face.

The sound came again, a rustling in the sickening mass of plant life that had once been a bush. Cautious steps carried him closer, one hand easing his belt dagger out of its sheath, the other parting the foliage before him. What he saw made him retch.


A twisted lump of flesh clawed at the ground, skin bathed in blood. It was its own blood, apparent due to the lack of a lower body. The form ended at what would have been the waist, dwindling off into trailing organs and blood. What remained was a torso ripped to shreds by some unknown assailant, two upper limbs that clawed at the ground, and a head. A closer inspection revealed something far, far worse. It was a human head. A face turned up to stare at the ranger, a young and unscarred face. He could see that it was a youth, barely seventeen. "Please," the voice died away, replaced by a wheezing breath. "Please, help me." Blue eyes stared up, pleading with the ranger. "It hurts-" another rasp of breath. "-so bad. Please help."

Madel looked on with pity. So much pain lay in the boy's eyes, so much loss. "I can't feel my legs." The voice was just a whisper now. "It hurts so much." The dagger shook as tremors ran down the hand that gripped it. Madel looked down at the blade. He knew what he should do, but the pain in the boys eyes threatened to crush him. In the end, it was that pain that convinced him to follow through.

The ranger left that spot, ran as fast as his legs could carry him, pumping them harder than he could ever do again. He tore through the branches and shrubs and vines, broke of small twigs and left deep prints in the snow. He ran and ran and ran until he collapsed on the ground just outside his own house. Tears streaked down his face, the face of a grown man that had been reduced to a shivering mass of sorrow. Only exhaustion pushed him into sleep.

When he awoke, he discarded that dagger, threw it as far as he could into Silver Lake. The blood that had stained the blade had been fresh.
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