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A Mysterious Message! A new skin has been added in honor of the season! Also, Brackenridge Manor has opened it's doors! The butler has some words of warning for you. Cordially, Icarus
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| How Past and Future Perish; Disillusion Prequel | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: May 14 2008, 11:07 PM (89 Views) | |
| Deleted User | May 14 2008, 11:07 PM Post #1 |
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London, England A series of hurried footsteps marched down the hall. Several members of one of England's many supposedly non existent societies glanced in a shocked mannerism toward the runner. For one thing, she had never been seen running before. To summarize the rest of the surprise, the tears running down her face showed a broken and desperate woman to individuals whom until now preferred to think of her as a crypt. Fey Alastair was a cold prophet. Born into the daughters of Avalon and raised as a Seer, Fey had been taught that the future was a stone certainty to be carried forth from their tongues in a stoic manner. Those teachings compounded with the fear of being discovered as a Pagan in a reality where religious knights hunted such things drove her to be far colder than ever. The mysterious and history of Fey Alastair are as deep as the Atlantic itself. However, mysterious were not why she ran toward a warm double hinged oak door without bothering to wipe her eyes before entering. Fey Alastair was tall for a woman. Tall and frail, much like a shadow. It took every once of strength from her body to knock that door open in the way she wanted to, bashing down a wall or perhaps knocking the horseman of Death off his mount. In fact, knocking back Death was exactly what she wanted to do at this moment. An elderly gentleman of far more warmth than herself had been sitting behind his oaken desk. Despite the fact that he appeared busy, there was nothing on this bald man's desk other than a nifty little black name plate that read Sir Trinis Callum Alastair in thin gold letters. He rose immediately, genuine concern written across his face. "Fey dear, what in the name of-" "Past and Future Shall perish before the Pale Summer brings a Winter to the world..." The statement crept out of her voice as a moan that tried and failed to remain cold. A second passed between them, while Trinis took the knowledge of Fey's abilities and attempted to fit that to what she had just said. If indeed something could break Fey as this foretelling seemed to, then that greatly narrowed down the individuals it applied to. Fey was a person who always wanted to seem like she out thought everyone. Her coldness and cryptic terms were constantly flung out at her son, husband, and father-in-law. Then again... she had never foretold of any deaths in the family before. Trinis cleared his throat before starting to speak, and made a point to walk over and hold his daughter. He had not been pleased with his son's choice in a wife, yet had learned to accept and love her as his own family. His embrace was genuine, and his tone softly asked: "So is it our family we must prepare to bury?" A nod was all that could escape her while an open cry of anguish rose through her throat. The cold heart of Fey Alastair, shadowy prophet and wife of the might Alastair family had at last met an enemy it held tolerance against. The moment of her loud sobs seemed to become an hour, after all that her hoarse whisper finally managed to speak. "I've been a cold witch to this family, and to my own child... Now this, now I will never have time to repay you or to make amends with him. My tears are selfish father, they are tears of a woman in more anguish over what she has done than eventual loss of her son and Father." "Hush Dear, does your husband know of this?" Fey shook her head, revealing that the prophecy was fresh and possibly untold to anyone but Trinis. "Then we need to inform him, and we need to prepare. I hold confidence that you as a Daughter of Avalon have more than just some flimsy sentence to present me. Tell me everything Fey, there is always something to be done." * * * Outskirts of Norwegian Territory, a Mountain Castle hidden within the ice "Would you like some water, or perhaps a spear thrust up into your side?" Seconds before that question was asked, the eyes and lungs of a man literally pinned into a large wooden cross detailed with rich lime green glowing druidic runes carved across it. Just as his eyes and lungs had opened to take their first breath in over twenty years, so had his heart at long last started beating again. The second and third breathes had gone in a rapid pace, the shock of suddenly being completely alive burning itself across his mind. Then, before even the forth breath was drawn, a figure in rather lavish attire standing four feet below him sought open mockery. If his mouth had any saliva left in it, he would have spat in proper response before completely ignoring the being below to look around the room. It was unnerving. To start with this was not the area he recalled dying in, which despite not yet remembering his own name this gentleman clearly remembered dying in a mossy chamber with only a single column of light coming down in the center. There, roughly twenty feet from the light had been where his cross had been placed, where his eyes gazed out for the last time first at the light, then at the pool of water below him. His reality now was a completely unsurvivable room, a giant chamber of ice that seemed to have no beginning nor end... yet he was against a wall. His eyes glanced at the glacier colored wall, and then down at the floor with the lavishly dressed gentleman. "Do I make favorable artwork? If you'd grant me the water first, then hurl the spear... I will not die dehydrated again." The last words were a statement and threat combined into one. Despite how threatening it may have sounded, this man was in no position of power. The incredible amount of fresh pain bounding into his brain from the hands meant that he was indeed still nailed in. One more look at the feet confirmed they were as well. Even more aggravating was that with his hands pinned like this, all the renewed internal energies he now felt were unusable. All the spells running through his mind to level this place and the lavish gentleman below him were for naught. The figure would best be described as a man who seemed beyond age. Though he had long white hair that seemed frail and straight, his brow held the look of eternal malice. His body was covered in some sort of brilliant full plate metal with gold adornments and a long white fur. A small reaction twitched at his lips before it simply faded, but he lifted a finger and gave a single 'tut,' as if to state that his artwork's tongue would not be tolerated any further. "Don't you remember how useless it is to stab you with a spear? Does your spirit remember what it felt like to die up there from dehydration and starvation like some regular mortal?" There was a pause between the two men. The one nailed into the cross took full consideration of those words, tasting the bitter irony of being invincible to a sudden death yet completely feeble against the slow and agonizing kind. His captor remained silent due to analyzing his artwork, much in the mannerism that one analyzes a lab rat they are about to kill. In the sickest sense of the word, it was entertaining to them both. After letting that bitter cold silence hang in the air for a minute, the armored man spoke again. "There are a million things that need to be said here, but alas two immortals are in a race against time. While you've been up there hanging, that world out there is falling to shambles. While in my preferred version of plans the clashing titans would take care of themselves... Something has forced my hand. "Truthfully my hand was forced almost a year ago when a young man that would be something like family to you almost killed us all. Though in your case it did enable the spells you had written to begin functioning again, which allowed me to locate the important parts of your spirit and piece you back together. If I may say, bravo little mortal. Your Necromancy was something close to the skills of a greater being, a return to the genuine root of spirit control and communication-" "Why are there only parts to my memory?" The man on the cross was still suffering, and thus cared very little about what his owner was saying. "I only needed certain parts to bring you back. Some of your spiritual clones were destroyed, others still too hidden for me to bother to locate. After all, you wrote your spiritual copy spells across thousands of bones in the world. Truthfully I did not know how many it would take to bring you back at all..." The figure trailed off, as if trying to avoid stating something. "So, there were failures to my resurrection? You should have broken my body and spirit away from this damned cross first-" "No. I wanted to see how much of you it would take to survive that cross. A very disappointing 85% before the success of today. Now, did you want down? Because coming down here means that you will be set on the path I choose for you. Revenge, Destruction, and the resurrection of the Age of Magic are my simple goals; which align quite well to your own Sleiv." The man on the cross knew that Sleiv was not his true name. It did not take much to guess that the man below him knew the real identity and could be forced into sharing it if he were free. "What shall I call you, my master and savior?" A cold glare bit back up at him. The armored man held several identities, but no longer knew his own name. "My favored reference title at the moment is Wessix, but I am also remembered as The Saxon, or as Vincent Cambridge, ex 3rd Chair of the Red Claw council." His hand made a simple flicking motion, releasing enough formless magic to crush the crucifix to dust and drop Sleiv unto the ground. Sleiv's body hit with a resonating sound that filled the chamber, and Wessix did not bother to speak up again until all of that noise had faded. "Your surname, the one that unites us to Gaia with a common enemy, is Alastair. My Dear Sleiv, you will be my hammer to strike down that enemy, and my champion to bring forth a new Age of Magic." Sleiv's recovery from the fall was slow, but he bothered to first pull the nails from his hands and feet before he spoke again. "So, Red Claw and the Alastair family still exist? Whether I am a free man or slave, I will not tolerate that upon this age or any other. Since our goals do hold an initial alignment and you have resurrected me, I shall serve." Wessix looked uneffected, truth be told he had never had a subordinate like this before. It was not the way of his race to delegate unless necessary. "Come, the Lady of the Earth, Terra; she wishes for you to help her, to help us. The earth has missed you for twenty long years, Alastair." |
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