Demonic Chaos: Chaotic Oracle's Prologue
Across the time twisted wreckages of Rillanon, it seemed at first to only be the mice that stirred. Forgotten cobblestones, scarred by unnatural flames littered the derelict streets. Crows sang sorrowful lullabies, as they pecked at the sockets of the scattered corpses, burnt, blackened, and scorched. The semi-erect buildings tilted in the gales of the Midnight Vale, as the wind whistled through shattered windowpanes and mangled foundations. Yes, upon a single inspection, only the mice that ran from hiding hole to hiding hole stirred in this forsaken place.
The moonlight however showed this place differently. The Village of Tears was far less than abandoned. It wasn’t the deathly squeak of the mice, or the mournful din of the crows, but the echoing footsteps of The Wanderers; The Mage’s Circle’s chants were far from a good night’s sleep. Tall, hooded figures they were, robed from head to toe in black, hands lost in deep sleeves, wearing nothing but the earth on their feet. Their hoods stopped any of the strangely foreboding moonlight from reaching their features, though no earthly light could do them justice; deformed from hundreds of generations of inter-breeding, enough to keep anyone from visiting their lonely home. Solemnly, they paced their paths through the rubble. The rubble of the daytime; the kick stones of the night. Moans it seemed whispered from their charcoal lips. Chants; more precise. Incantations; exact. The very words they whispered – Aislic, the ancient tongue – were the words to keep them walking, to keep them talking. The very words they whispered kept the rocks rocks and the skies skies.
It was on this day however – the coming of the flames – that they stopped. A silence louder than Thunder’s roar; like the crash of tidal waves on jagged rocks. No mice squeaked. No Crows crowed. The mage’s circle, much documented as they walked, crossed paths for the first time since the Beginning; five, meeting at the five points of a pentagram. Each mage removed his hood in turn, and the night blinked to life. Clouds raced from forgotten corners of the skies, meeting with imbued precision. The world decayed. Monuments of jagged limestone smashed through crack and crevasse, whilst the sun chased the moon in twilight blur from east to west. Grass grew, fell and grew again, as trees grew higher than mountains in seconds. Mountains expanded, melted and formed in moments in the eyes of the five. They joined hands, and the whispering began.
Marc Sul’Deep was his name, oldest of the Magi. He wasn’t part of the five, but time had altered for him the same. He walked the thirty leagues of the Midnight Vale in the time it takes to skip a rounded pebble from the shore, with masterful speed for his uncountable years. Upon meeting the five, he slowly crouched under the arms of two and stepped into the center of the pentagram, engaging in a stance of complete concentration. The clouds screamed black omens, and parted in a perfect circle unleashing an unbroken beam of golden light. The light engulfed Marc, raising him from the ground, and the whisperings continued, increased, intensified. Purple lashes of energy whipped at the tightening grasps of their hold, their tendons were bulging from their fore-arms. The chants were as screams, and Marc revealed his purpose. He spread his arms from his cloak revealing a battered quill, soaked in unworldly ink. It reflected mysterious shadows across the changing surface of the earth in the reflection of the light. He scribbled furiously into the twilight, the purple lashing at the nib, imprinting his mark unto the sky. The violet glow of his letters on the sky was not thwarted by the golden light, it overcame, and it spread. An eerie blackness crawled up the light, Marc’s scrawls intensified. The neon of the text was enough to blind, as red electricity sparked in the air of the circle. Intertwining between letters and interlocking between sentences, the red encased the letters, forming parchment for the scribe.
The darkness had almost engulfed the light when it happened. That single bolt of lightening from Marc’s quill, sealing the document. Followed by another, stronger, brighter, piercing the heavens to the moon where it lay still. The clouds separated. The Earth rested. The moon crawled across the sky, ablaze with licking flames.
© 2007 Tyler Moyer
This is the prologue(Introduction) for my new RPG adventure series. 'Demonic Chaos'.
Unfinished
Across the time twisted wreckages of Rillanon, it seemed at first to only be the mice that stirred. Forgotten cobblestones, scarred by unnatural flames littered the derelict streets. Crows sang sorrowful lullabies, as they pecked at the sockets of the scattered corpses, burnt, blackened, and scorched. The semi-erect buildings tilted in the gales of the Midnight Vale, as the wind whistled through shattered windowpanes and mangled foundations. Yes, upon a single inspection, only the mice that ran from hiding hole to hiding hole stirred in this forsaken place.
The moonlight however showed this place differently. The Village of Tears was far less than abandoned. It wasn’t the deathly squeak of the mice, or the mournful din of the crows, but the echoing footsteps of The Wanderers; The Mage’s Circle’s chants were far from a good night’s sleep. Tall, hooded figures they were, robed from head to toe in black, hands lost in deep sleeves, wearing nothing but the earth on their feet. Their hoods stopped any of the strangely foreboding moonlight from reaching their features, though no earthly light could do them justice; deformed from hundreds of generations of inter-breeding, enough to keep anyone from visiting their lonely home. Solemnly, they paced their paths through the rubble. The rubble of the daytime; the kick stones of the night. Moans it seemed whispered from their charcoal lips. Chants; more precise. Incantations; exact. The very words they whispered – Aislic, the ancient tongue – were the words to keep them walking, to keep them talking. The very words they whispered kept the rocks rocks and the skies skies.
It was on this day however – the coming of the flames – that they stopped. A silence louder than Thunder’s roar; like the crash of tidal waves on jagged rocks. No mice squeaked. No Crows crowed. The mage’s circle, much documented as they walked, crossed paths for the first time since the Beginning; five, meeting at the five points of a pentagram. Each mage removed his hood in turn, and the night blinked to life. Clouds raced from forgotten corners of the skies, meeting with imbued precision. The world decayed. Monuments of jagged limestone smashed through crack and crevasse, whilst the sun chased the moon in twilight blur from east to west. Grass grew, fell and grew again, as trees grew higher than mountains in seconds. Mountains expanded, melted and formed in moments in the eyes of the five. They joined hands, and the whispering began.
Marc Sul’Deep was his name, oldest of the Magi. He wasn’t part of the five, but time had altered for him the same. He walked the thirty leagues of the Midnight Vale in the time it takes to skip a rounded pebble from the shore, with masterful speed for his uncountable years. Upon meeting the five, he slowly crouched under the arms of two and stepped into the center of the pentagram, engaging in a stance of complete concentration. The clouds screamed black omens, and parted in a perfect circle unleashing an unbroken beam of golden light. The light engulfed Marc, raising him from the ground, and the whisperings continued, increased, intensified. Purple lashes of energy whipped at the tightening grasps of their hold, their tendons were bulging from their fore-arms. The chants were as screams, and Marc revealed his purpose. He spread his arms from his cloak revealing a battered quill, soaked in unworldly ink. It reflected mysterious shadows across the changing surface of the earth in the reflection of the light. He scribbled furiously into the twilight, the purple lashing at the nib, imprinting his mark unto the sky. The violet glow of his letters on the sky was not thwarted by the golden light, it overcame, and it spread. An eerie blackness crawled up the light, Marc’s scrawls intensified. The neon of the text was enough to blind, as red electricity sparked in the air of the circle. Intertwining between letters and interlocking between sentences, the red encased the letters, forming parchment for the scribe.
The darkness had almost engulfed the light when it happened. That single bolt of lightening from Marc’s quill, sealing the document. Followed by another, stronger, brighter, piercing the heavens to the moon where it lay still. The clouds separated. The Earth rested. The moon crawled across the sky, ablaze with licking flames.
© 2007 Tyler Moyer
This is the prologue(Introduction) for my new RPG adventure series. 'Demonic Chaos'.
Unfinished