Date: Thu, 4 Dec 1997 21:35:21 -0600
From: Diana/Wenn & Co
((Apparently, my portrayal of Pestilence was not gross enough to suit some so... here's another installment. :P - Diana/Wenn - Sorry, I do not *do* pus
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Riding still, growing anxious to meet up with his counterparts, Pestilence amuses himself on his journey. He extends his bloody and blistered hands before him, swirling them in the air until his concentration causes a small whirlwind of glowing green smoke to appear. From his diseased throat, he calls up a bit of matter and spits it into the small funnel cloud. As the green light churns, it begins to spin out swarms and swarms of locust. Their sound would be deafening and shall be when each swarm collects at its destination. Had his ears not rotted off already, even Pestilence himself might be annoyed by the buzzing as it moves in all directions away from him. As it is, he grins his toothy grin before collecting another mass to spit into the glowing funnel.
This time large flies are at first disoriented by being flung to the winds before they find a flight path for their egg laden bodies, ready to find hosts, feeding grounds for their eggs and of course, carrying what disease they pick up to others. Pestilence is nothing if not generous. He laughs a hollow laugh thinking of all the subsequent havoc the new flies will wreak once all the maggots are well fed and mature. He whispers as he thinks of the folly of mortals "Harmless fliessss." His decayed teeth hiss. "What can be more harmless than a fly?"
Once more he calls up hot liquid from his gullet and spits into the whirlwind sustained by his weaving fingers. As it swirls about, the phlegm becomes mosquitos, thousands upon thousands of them flying out in all directions, all thin bodied and craving blood. Once fed, they shall carry the other plagues Pestilence has seeded and see to it that all in their path taste the bile he chokes forth.
Spurring his horse onward to the next village along his appointed path, Pestilence is taken by a sudden snicker. As he marches slowly onward, he spits here and there upon the ground and leaves a trail of wet patches that bubble up into hoards of poisonous frogs and toads. Their calls in the night comfort him as he moves on, thinking how delightful for young curious children to share in his bounty.
Date: Sun, 07 Dec 1997 23:53:35 -0700
From: Dan (Mystaran, Rannis, Falyar, Many others)
~
A cool wind swept the barren landscape. The pale orange glow of the sun peeked over the horizon, shedding light on this dying world. The fields were dry. The crops crumbled as the wind rustled over them. And as they parted to make way for the two travelers.
The farmhouse wasn't in much better shape than the rest of the area. The wooden door was torn off it's hinges, and hacked up as though eaten by an axe. A bucket overturned beside the door, and a rotting corpse denoted the surprise these people were caught by.
Telick held his nose against the stench as he preceded Mystaran through the door, stepping over the brutalized body strewn in front of the assaulted portal. He slowly turned, surveying the damage within, noticing that even the rodents which should inhabit this place were gone. Unconsciously, and despite Mystaran's assurances that he had been rendered immune to the disease, he held his tunic up over his nose and mouth, and breathed through it, resisting the urge to vomit as he spied more corpses strewn about.
It seemed as though these people had been peaceful farmers. Not a weapon of any kind was visible to his keen eyes. He nudged aside a slab of wood with his foot, and a nest of cockroaches scuttled away, their small claws working together, faintly audible to his ears. He contorted his visage in disgust. "Figures.." Mystaran entered the hut a few moments later, having searched the surrounding area for danger which still may be present. But he had found nothing. Only the corpses of those who had attacked, mauled in a similar manner as these. The axes which had done this damage were not made for battle. Simple woodcutters tools to aid one in gathering material for building; or perhaps just for a fire.
His purple eyes swirled in nothing but contempt at the sight, for he had seen too many similar sights in the past couple days. He crouched down beside the body of a young boy of perhaps 12, while Telick watched, almost standing at eye level now with the warrior. Mystaran passed a hand over his still opened eyes, closing them, and ending that vacant stare. He felt no psychic waves from this one, indicating sentience.. in fact.. none of these. He suddenly looked sharply towards a cabinet across the room, his right hand immediately dropping to one of the metal cylinders on his belt. His eyes flickered in anticipation, for he 'felt' something from that direction. And then he heard a noise. The faintest shuffle from within. He carefully and silently rose to his feet, the cylinder sliding easily from his belt. He touched a rune to the side, and with a hiss of escaping energy, a red shaft of light appeared, perhaps 3 feet in length. The end on one side broadened outwards, then curved, forming the head of an axe, while the other side jutted out into a mean looking hook.
Telick's jaw fell open at the sight, having little experience with weaponry such as this axe. He recovered himself to whisper hoarsely, "What's wrong? Myst?"
**Shhhhh.** Came Mystaran's psychic reply, his three toed blue padded feet beginning to step silently towards the debris, closer to his target.
The cabinet doors flung open suddenly, and a blurred form crashed into Mystaran, from the place of concealment, arms clasped tightly around his midsection, and struggling to take him down.
Mystaran regarded the boy carefully as he attacked, but the boy made little progress with him. It was then that the boy ceased his struggles, noting the strange make of the armor he clasped. And then he looked up. His grime covered face paled, eyes going wide as he caught sight of his face. He gasped, one word apparent as he backed slowly away. "Daemon!"
The boy made to run past Mystaran's right side, an attempt which soon failed as the blue skinned figure held out his left hand on his shoulder and gripped tight enough to restrain, but not to harm. **Peace, young one** He said into his mind. **We mean you no harm..** Telick watched the two of them, Mystaran continuing to reassure this boy through words he couldn't hear. He lowered his tunic from over his mouth, now feeling foolish as one was apparently still alive in this place of disease. With interest, he took note of the lad's change of posture. His change of expression, and his now calm demeanor. But it couldn't hold back, and the boy again put his arms around Mystaran's waist, except this time, in a hug.
Another hiss of energy, this time the blade losing shape, and the column of light sliding back into the cylinder. He clamped it down onto his belt, and put one hand on the boy's shoulder. He said nothing for a long time, merely being there for him to cry on. For he had lost his family. But strangely enough, he had survived. "What's your name, son?" Telick said aloud, breaking the silence in the room.
The child didn't respond at first, tears beginning to streak the dirt which covered his features. But as his sniffles died off, he looked past Mystaran and stated, "Timothy."
Telick nodded, watching the boy carefully, who seemed around 8 or 9 years of age, yet stood just as tall as the fully grown halfling. The bard hooked his thumbs in his belt, and on a light note, remarked, "Sooooooo... nice place you have here."
Timothy merely broke out into tears again at the reminder of what had happened. Mystaran sent Telick a glance. Not a stern one, or even chastising, but a questioning one, for he had never had a situation like this occur in his time here. But he did wonder if such a statement was appropriate in this case, and he commented, **Do most of your kind delight in the continued grief of a young one?** The halfling looked taken aback. He held up his hands in surrender, "Hey Myst. Don't look at me, I HATE kids."
Timothy looked towards Telick with an expression of both fear and contempt at these words, yet he remained with Mystaran, who he felt closer too. The blue skinned figure surveyed the room, and nodded. These people had indeed been victims of not only murder, but of the plague. Or one of the plagues. Yet Timothy alone had survived. He inwardly wondered at this natural immunity, then shrugged it off to chance. He turned towards the door, guiding the lad by the shoulder, and motioned for Telick to follow. The three of them stood outside the building, stopping a short distance away from the door.
"Okay Myst.. NOW where do we go?"
Mystaran inclined his head to one side, his eyes swirling for a moment as they fixed on Telick. A smile formed upon his lips for a moment, and he replied, **The same way we have been going, Telick.** He turned his head to look at a place on the horizon. **There.** "Yeah, but why?" The halfling requested.
Mystaran frowned this time, deep in thought for a moment, for he didn't know why it was this way, either. It just felt... right. And he had learned to trust his instincts.
**It is where I must go.** Mystaran said, the mental voice soft. **Where WE must go..** He corrected himself. Without another word, Mystaran reached down and took Timothy's hand in his own, and started guiding him towards the point on the horizon. Telick rolled his eyes skyward, "Well like THAT wasn't cryptic enough."
continued
Date: Tuesday, December 09, 1997 1:14 PM
From: Daniel/LordWolf & Co
In the far distant mountains, the great Dwarvin fortress of Stone Helm was one of the five greatest works of the Dwarf nation. The Sun Gate and the Moon Gate both stood closed as the dwarfs sealed themselves away from the world and the deadly chaos that seemed to reign there these days. Thristen Granite Cracker, Dwarvin King sat upon his thrown, his advisers standing before him as he listened to their counsel.
"Sire, the gates have been closed and all have been brought inside," the captain of the guard informed him. The King, barely three hundred years old, nodded once, his gray eyes not even looking to the captain. The council members argued among themselves as to the wisdom of the closing of their kingdom from the outside world. Their large community of twenty thousand or so dwarf's can well survive underground but the forced exile would play havoc with the kingdoms treasury.
"Enough of this." Bellowed the king, bring silence to the throne room. "I have already decided that we must separate ourselves from the other races. There is no point in continuing this line of discussion. I am the King and it is done." His councilors mumbled to themselves slightly at his words but they, as all others must bow to the King's wishes. "We shall continue our lives here, under the ground and let those fools outside kill one another as is their want." One by one the members of the council nodded their agreement and slowly files out from the throne room.
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Pestilence stopped his pus infected horse outside the entrance to the Dwarvin fortress, a slight bubbly chuckle escaping his rotted lips. "Doors of granite, halls of stone, a fitting place, to hide your bones." His fingers move in an spiral motion as once more he calls up the vortex of his blessing. Its green vapor slowly flows from the swirling vortex and flouts to the ground. The sickly tendrils move towards the sealed doors and by cracks and crevasses finds entrance into the kingdom under ground. For long moments he waits and steadily sends his gift to those below that thought to escape him and his brethren. The mist enters the kingdom and slowly drifts downward, invisible to the eyes of any who might happen to see it. Finally, assured that he has done his good deed, Pestilence turns his flea ridden horse away and continues on to the arranged meeting place.
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The Necromancer smiled softly to himself as the hordes of shades flowed into the Shadow lands and increased his powers. Orcus and his lot were doing nicely to supply him with power for the next step in the plans laid forth. It was a shame that Graal was lost to them, but his heart was not really into his work. Already one of the other daemons had stepped forth to take his place as the plans for the attack of the material plane fell into place. The Lords of Hell had been all to willing to join in the chance to attack the Host of Light once they discovered that the Angels were among them. Of course, telling them that there was a whole leading to the Angelic plane from where he has stolen the souls from the Well, had help to some degree. Yes, things were going rather nicely and it was time for the next Seal to be broken.
A smooth a silk the Necromancer rises and glides to the next room of the shadowed castle of Camelot. There, nestled upon a stone table laid the Book Of Life. Of Seven Seals which held the book closed, four were already broken. It had been no great task to summon the Four Horsemen and set them on their course of action. They were not real, only manifestations of what they represented. War, Pestilence, Famine and Death were all a part of life. Without them, there was no life, only stagnation which in turn would eventually spiral down to the absence of al things. Granted this would take millions of years to accomplish but his way was much faster.
Walking to the Book of Life, he gently reaches out and laid one bone white finger upon the fifth Seal when he felt a presence. Without turning to see who it was, knowing he would see nothing, he inquires, "So, you to felt it was time for the fifth Seal to be broken?"
"Time. Time holds no meaning to me, my friend. I simply decided that you would do so and hence I am here to help." The Necromancer grunted softly in agreement. "You will need my help for this and the two that follow you realize? You can not do this alone, no matter the number of shades to take and hold."
"Even as you need my help for that which you attempt Chaotic One. We need each other and there by the partnership is perfect is it not?"
"Aye, you wish a release from this form of life, an ending to yourself and I well, I simple wish for an ending of al things."
"As I said," replied the Necromancer, "A beneficial arrangement for the both of us. Now come and lend me what aid you can and we will both be one Seal closer to what we both wish for." Gathering the forces gather from the shades he has stolen he focuses and channels the energy through him. Using his art and Lordship of this place he channels the energy down his arm and through his finger tip to the Fifth Seal. The presence drift closer and adds itself, focusing all of its being into that one spot where the Necromancers power touches the Fifth Seal.
Amber points of light appear across the surface of the Seal and begin to whirl about forming a spinning vortex around his finger tip. As he watches the seal begins to buckle and dry. Turning brittle to the touch as the amount of power and the focused presence warp it. In the silence of the room the is a sound of tarring cloth and a slight sigh is heard as the Fifth Seal parts under their combined assault. A small black cloud rises from the broken Seal and hover before the Necromancer awaiting his instructions. Twin amber eyes regard him from within the inky darkness.
"You know the reason for your calling. Go out and fulfill that which you were made for. The Four before you are out there and your coming will signal to them that the time of reunion is close at hand. Now go!" The eyes blink once and then the cloud, moving faster than thought slips away heading for the material plane. "It is done," sighs the Necromancer.
"Aye, it is. I shall return when the time draws near for the Sixth Seal to be broken. If you have need of me sooner, you know how to reach me." With that, the presence withdraws leaving the Necromancer alone once more within the empty shadow castle of Camelot.
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In West Minster Abbey, services are being held for those recently claimed by a strange fever that has swept through a nearby village. What town folk that remain as well as visitors from other nearby villages have gathered to listen to the Priest give the service. As the benediction is being given, a small child enters the church and slowly walks up the long aisle towards the front of the church. The Priest watches the child, his words slowing and then finally stopping as his eyes meet those of the child.
The child, dressed in home spun clothing stops at the foot of the stairs leading up to the alters and kneels as all eyes watch him. "Bless me Father."
"Child, now is not the place for this," the Priest informs the child. Curious as to what ha brought the lad here the priest continues. "If you would come back after the mass is over, perhaps we can talk then of thy needs, lad."
The small boy quietly looks up to the Priest and in a tiny voice once more utters, "Bless me Father."
The Priest quickly looks out to his congregation and with a soft sigh and a prayer moves around the alter and approaches the boy. "Child, this is the House of the Lord and all these people have come here to be blessed. Will you have me place you before them? You must await thy turn, lad."
The lad calmly looks up to the Priest standing before him his face betraying no emotions yet his eyes shine with the light of hollow sadness. "And a child shall lead them to the promised land." The Priest stares at the boy for a long moment, a strange feeling coming over him. "Bless me Father."
A soft murmur rises from the gathered congregation and the Priest nervously looks about his tongue running once over lips that have suddenly gone dry. A man sitting in the front pew softly says, "Bless the boy Father and have done with it. I have family to bury and crops to tend." Similar comments are made by others close by all wishing to have the child blessed so that the service might continue.
Slowly the Priest raises his hand to silence them then makes the sign of the cross in front of himself as the lad once more bows his head. "In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit," he begins as he lays his hand on the lads head. Suddenly the Priest throws back his head and his back arches as his mouth opens wide in a silent scream of pain. The child remain kneels, his head bowed as if in prayer as suddenly the Priest body erupts into a pillar of flame. The priest staggers back as chaos erupts among the people gathered there as several surge forward to try and help the Priest while others run for the exits screaming.
Slowly the child stood and uttered, "And a child shall lead them." The stench of burnt flesh hung heavy in the air as the people watches the Priest dropped to the floor in from one moment o the next, turned into a pile of ashes. Several of the men turned in anger towards the child with the intent of doing harm to him. Amber eyes regarded them in there approach as his small youthful lips parted slightly. "Bless me Father" The men stopped in their advance and slowly began t back away from the lad at his words. None were suddenly eager to come any closer to him. Quickly they turned a ran from the place as the child slowly walked from the now empty church and it pile of ashes.
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In a distant part of Africa, a village chief tapped on the door frame to the Shaman's hut and wait for a reply. When none was forth coming he summoned his courage and looked inside. The room was clean and well ordered as he remembered it. Of the Shaman there was no sign except for a small pile of ash in the middle of the floor.
In a Spanish port town, rumor flew as quick a the wind of how all the priest at the local cathedral had all died in their sleep. It was said to be another plague come to kill them all. Those that could quickly booked passage from the cursed town.
In Eastern Egypt the High Priest of Ra was found dead bent over the alter with not a mark on him. That same day, the High Priest of Isis and all her acolytes were found burned to death within their temple, and apparent act of their Goddess.
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In England, within the great Fire Hall of castle Camelot Dream Knight listened to the reports coming in from all parts of the world of how holy people were dying every where. Turning to his friend Sir Poet after the last of the reports he sighs softly. "It has begun, the death of martyrs. He has broken the Fifth Seal, my friend."
Sir Poet nods once, having committed all the Seals to the Book of Life to memory. "Is there nothing we can do, DK? Is there no way to stop this madness?" Dream Knight looked to his friend briefly then looked away, for he had no answer for him.
Date: Wed, 10 Dec 1997 08:24:12 -0600
From: Diana/Wenn & Co
((Way long...way long!! SEEK Although it's only 2 ½ regular pages printed, both parts...Oh... Did I mention this is just part one? OOPS - Diana/Wenn -))
Settling gently on a snow dusted hill, the Great White Eagle folds up his wings even as bright light shrouds his form. When the light shrinks and fades, Lord Wolf pauses a moment there, just outside WolfKeep. He swallows around a swell within his throat and takes the paces toward the gate in long anxious strides, all but running. The nearly full moon glistens from the structure that appears formed from the bedrock of the world. He is once again home, where his beloved wife and son lie sleeping, even as the keep itself seems to sleep. As he crosses the cobbled bailey then enters the great hall's silence, his heart is full but heavy. What has been set in motion in this material plane weighs on him. In his flight home, his keen hearing picked up rumors and whispers... the death of martyrs... the Fifth Seal has been broken.
He quickens his steps now and runs up the stair, taking two at a time, still silent as the night hunter that is his namesake. He keeps his promise to himself to pass the door to his own bed chambers and goes first to Simon's room. The little snoring sounds Simon makes have been coming to him since Wolf entered the still keep and yet he can hardly believe his eyes when they finally rest upon the lad's sleeping form. LordWolf sits with little disturbance upon Simon's bed and reaches out his hand to gently brush his hair without waking him. At this touch, Wolf extends his own mind to find Simon's thoughts and drifting dreams. Wolf lingers there sharing some of what his absence has caused him to miss in his young son's life.
There are things on the fringes of Simon's mind that might have caused Wolf concern, but he tries to stay within the mainstream of the lad's thoughts, those foremost. He is grateful Simon seems to have postponed the building of the treehouse until winter has passed. Maybe in the spring, with any luck and help from the Powers that Be, Wolf would be available to help with this project or anything Simon wants them to do together, father and son.
Wolf withdraws slowly from Simon's mind as the lad shifts in his sleep muttering a few words of nothing, moving on to the next dream, the next adventure. Standing again, LordWolf slips out the door, his steps slowing as he crosses into his own room. He catches the first glimpse of his love where she sleeps in a rumpled heap of white gown and covers in disarray. He can see she does not sleep easily and partially blames himself for this. He knows how she worries. He feels he should have been here with her during this time, but he had no choice.
Wolf settles onto the bed, stretching out beside her, propped on one elbow. He gently brushes strands of her long light auburn hair from her face, wanting to watch her sleep a few moments 'ere he wakes her. An incidental brush to her cheek causes her mouth to draw into a soft smile but still her brow is a bit furrowed. She lays on her side curled up around her swollen belly. One arm is curled beneath her head, the other draped such that her hand rests over the child. Wolf's voice comes too soft to break the silence, too hushed to wake her, "I am sorry, my heart... my Wenn" as his hand presses lightly over the child, near hers. He closes his eyes on tears that slip slowly over his cheeks as he taps into the rush of Wenn's thoughts. Even her sleeping mind echoes his own heart, how much she has missed him and how much of their lives he has missed. He feels the mind of the restless child too, anxious to be in the world yet through the legacy of Wolf's blood within her, she is also reluctant to leave the safety she now knows.
A single thought overtakes all others in the stream of thoughts that flow between the three now. She. Wenn carries his daughter, a sister for Simon, of flesh and blood, not a construct of magic or energy like Lyrvette. He senses the daughter's strong life pulsing in every heart beat and feels his own blood coursing through her. She already knows much but will have to be instructed all the same. Wenn's mind awakens to Wolf, though her body still sleeps. Her love for him, her joy in this communion with him, crashes into his thoughts, washes over him completely, like a tidal wave. His tears turn to joy with her.
Wenn now recognizes what Wolf knows, that they have a daughter or soon will. She has thought such from what seers and others have told her, and the way she carries the child low. She shares with him the name Elandra and knows he fathoms its significance... simply "elven" in an ancient elven tongue. He knows even before her thoughts convey it, that she has selected this name for her love of him and his connection to this timeless race. The thoughts flow freely between them. For a moment or two, though Wenn can scarcely comprehend how it is possible, she receives thoughts from her unborn daughter. They are mostly impressions of comfort, warmth and overwhelmingly, love.
(to be continued)
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