Ermm. The latter part of this chapter is. graphic and if you would
rather skip this PG-13 borderline R part then go ahead, just warning you.
~ There was nothing. Then there is life. It was as if the process of dying was reversed. The light of nothingness is at your back, almost pushing you along. As if death no longer wished your embrace. The cold nether winds that sucked you in now expel you onto the cold, hard shores of reality. Nothing is the same.
Sethor knew that he was born, and watched as the memories of death leaked away from his infantile body. There was now life; there was no need to cling to the heavens or hell. Sethor watched and yet participated in this obscene ritual, both watching from spirit and experiencing from body what is the miracle of creation. He watched as the blurred figures that were his parents coddled the newborn, coddled Sethor.
As Sethor watched the scene began to grow more blurred, and he felt the winds of death that had at one point expelled him onto the earth. They now pulled at his soul, forcing him forward. Sethor reached out to the vision but saw no more, reaching instead out into the nether that surrounded him. He cried out to be returned to the past, but his voice had no power, he had no hope.
**********************************************************
Shereth stood at the edge of the altar, a long dagger reaching downwards towards Maier's chest. He was smiling as best he could, the bandages around his mouth transforming the cruel features into a grim mockery of death itself. The sun had risen and now barely touched the horizon. Now was the time, now fate would give him what he desired, would give Il'Laquar what she desired. Shereth plunged the dagger downwards, and pulled the dagger back up. It dripped. Shereth once again plunged it down again. The crunch filled Shereth with elation. There was no scream, but the eyes were open; the fear that filled them was slowly draining into nothingness. Shereth stabbed again. Again. Again. Blood now flowed freely from the wounds, dripping down the sides of the altar. The blood filled the rivulets of the Dwarven Rune etched on the side, and Shereth's grin widened as it began to glow a dull crimson. The tip of the blade had broken off now, inserted somewhere in the corpse. He stopped, stabbed the body one last time, and stood back. Now too wait.
Bellea watched from her perch right outside the doorway, she turned away and muttered a quick prayer for the departed soul. She motioned for Brutus to follow her, starting to try and find her way back through the catacombs. She would leave all this behind.
***********************************************************
Sethor knew something was wrong. The currents that drew him along his journey had stopped, and he floated amidst the Nether, examining the pinpricks of light in the distance. He let himself drift, until he saw another vision. Now he was a child, playing with the orphans he had called his friends before joining the performers. They were innocent, and he laughed at the antics he was a part of: tossing people into ponds, earning extra money in the workhouse, playing pranks on his parents.
That stopped him. His parents. He remembered nothing, but yet the memories now played on, as they were part of some hidden record locked away long ago. He watched as they tried to raise him, but he wouldn't listen even at his young age. He watched as his father, a cleric of Pelor, left to go to battle against some unknown agent of darkness. He watched as his father returned a broken man, who died of a shattered soul. His mother died soon after, leaving him alone. The High Priest his father had campaigned with turned his nose up at Sethor's requests for help and training.
The High Priest stood in front of him, sneering at him.
"The great god Pelor doesn't care for snooty little brats whose fathers kill themselves. Your father did us all a favor, now go crawl into a hole and die like the insect you are."
Sethor cried out, and doing what he could not do then, pushed the vision of the Cleric over, and pummeled him. The vision dematerialized in Sethor's hands, leaving Sethor once again in the nether, now crying; balled into a fecal position. He watched as his performer friends crawled by on hands and knees; burned, battered, nothing more then skeletons. They blamed him for leaving them, for not dying with them.
"Why are you doing this? What have I done to deserve this?"
Then the visions stopped, and Sethor found himself on the ground in an all too familiar clearing. There were no sounds; the wind did not blow. In the distance, the ashes of a town were visible, the carcass of a recently burned carcass.
~ There was nothing. Then there is life. It was as if the process of dying was reversed. The light of nothingness is at your back, almost pushing you along. As if death no longer wished your embrace. The cold nether winds that sucked you in now expel you onto the cold, hard shores of reality. Nothing is the same.
Sethor knew that he was born, and watched as the memories of death leaked away from his infantile body. There was now life; there was no need to cling to the heavens or hell. Sethor watched and yet participated in this obscene ritual, both watching from spirit and experiencing from body what is the miracle of creation. He watched as the blurred figures that were his parents coddled the newborn, coddled Sethor.
As Sethor watched the scene began to grow more blurred, and he felt the winds of death that had at one point expelled him onto the earth. They now pulled at his soul, forcing him forward. Sethor reached out to the vision but saw no more, reaching instead out into the nether that surrounded him. He cried out to be returned to the past, but his voice had no power, he had no hope.
**********************************************************
Shereth stood at the edge of the altar, a long dagger reaching downwards towards Maier's chest. He was smiling as best he could, the bandages around his mouth transforming the cruel features into a grim mockery of death itself. The sun had risen and now barely touched the horizon. Now was the time, now fate would give him what he desired, would give Il'Laquar what she desired. Shereth plunged the dagger downwards, and pulled the dagger back up. It dripped. Shereth once again plunged it down again. The crunch filled Shereth with elation. There was no scream, but the eyes were open; the fear that filled them was slowly draining into nothingness. Shereth stabbed again. Again. Again. Blood now flowed freely from the wounds, dripping down the sides of the altar. The blood filled the rivulets of the Dwarven Rune etched on the side, and Shereth's grin widened as it began to glow a dull crimson. The tip of the blade had broken off now, inserted somewhere in the corpse. He stopped, stabbed the body one last time, and stood back. Now too wait.
Bellea watched from her perch right outside the doorway, she turned away and muttered a quick prayer for the departed soul. She motioned for Brutus to follow her, starting to try and find her way back through the catacombs. She would leave all this behind.
***********************************************************
Sethor knew something was wrong. The currents that drew him along his journey had stopped, and he floated amidst the Nether, examining the pinpricks of light in the distance. He let himself drift, until he saw another vision. Now he was a child, playing with the orphans he had called his friends before joining the performers. They were innocent, and he laughed at the antics he was a part of: tossing people into ponds, earning extra money in the workhouse, playing pranks on his parents.
That stopped him. His parents. He remembered nothing, but yet the memories now played on, as they were part of some hidden record locked away long ago. He watched as they tried to raise him, but he wouldn't listen even at his young age. He watched as his father, a cleric of Pelor, left to go to battle against some unknown agent of darkness. He watched as his father returned a broken man, who died of a shattered soul. His mother died soon after, leaving him alone. The High Priest his father had campaigned with turned his nose up at Sethor's requests for help and training.
The High Priest stood in front of him, sneering at him.
"The great god Pelor doesn't care for snooty little brats whose fathers kill themselves. Your father did us all a favor, now go crawl into a hole and die like the insect you are."
Sethor cried out, and doing what he could not do then, pushed the vision of the Cleric over, and pummeled him. The vision dematerialized in Sethor's hands, leaving Sethor once again in the nether, now crying; balled into a fecal position. He watched as his performer friends crawled by on hands and knees; burned, battered, nothing more then skeletons. They blamed him for leaving them, for not dying with them.
"Why are you doing this? What have I done to deserve this?"
Then the visions stopped, and Sethor found himself on the ground in an all too familiar clearing. There were no sounds; the wind did not blow. In the distance, the ashes of a town were visible, the carcass of a recently burned carcass.