Post by Caedrus on Sept 15, 2008 13:15:17 GMT -5
Olarune 21, 994 YK
It is past midnight. The moons of Eberron are obscured by the clouded sky.
Kennrun's courtyard is silent, though many dreams are disturbed this night. The wreckage of the ir'Judiss flagship covers the battlefield.
Wood explodes from the upturned botton of the ship with arcane force. A gloved hand reaches out, and grabs the edge.
What happened? Lord General ir'Judiss wondered wearily. My plan... was perfect. Memories flooded back... the ship was taking another pass... and the mist had come up behind it, consuming the back of the ship... the ring had shatterred... he had fallen... thrown up wards at the last moments...
Then nothing.
There were dark forms on the walls, silhouettes that saw him, and instinct kicked in. Before an alarm could be raised, he reached out a hand and skewers of white light shot from his fingertips, impaling the throats of the sentries on the guardtowers. He watched as they writhed on the 200-foot pikes of solid white fire, dangling like puppets.
The light vanished. He stood alone in darkness.
"My army... my plan... how could this happen?! It was perfect!!" He laments wretchedly as his sashes catch the light wind. He casts a spell and takes flight, descending to the ground before the airship lightly. "Why? Why do the Sovereigns forsake me now?" He asks to the skies. He looks to the gates. That mist that hangs over the walls...
What is it?
Lord Serge ir'Judiss ascends to the battlements. He walks towards the opaque veil of mist with a mix of trepidation and mourning and unquenchable curiosity. He reaches through the mists... steps through. He can't see anything but more thick mists...
...and then he hears the violent, whispering voices.
"Lord ir'Judiss... join us..." the myriad voices call. "It was meant to be..." It was ghosts. Hundreds of what would only be known as Mourners coalescing from swirling mist, grabbing at his hand, pulling him inwards.
Horrified, Serge ir'Judiss pulls back from the voices of his fellows, tearing away from their iron ethereal grip. As he struggles, the forms embrace the arm that linger there, pulling at it, coalescing around it, as he struggles in horror to escape their grip. "Begone, spectres!" He manages a stilled spell, and arcane force explodes at the hundreds of visions, and the pulling grip slackens. He tears what remains of his arm away. All the flesh is gone, and only a skeletal limb remains.
Yet it moves.
"My... my beautiful hand! AAAaaaaaagh!!!"
He knew now.
"My beautiful hand... my beautiful ship... my beautiful family... my beautiful Cyre!! O cursed fates! O careless Sovereigns, that would forsake the jewel of the world!" His voice is filled with untold mourning and lament. It is a wretched and pitiful sound.
Serge collapses, sobbing, raising his horrible skeletal hand that moves without muscle, bemoaning the loss of all that was beautiful.
Oh yes. He knew now.
"They shall all pay..." He says shakily, with unbridled rage, as he rises to his feet with tears and blood still streaming. He bolted upwards into the air, through the clouds, to confront the traitorous stars that could look upon such a sight and still shine bright.
It is past midnight. The moons of Eberron are obscured by the clouded sky.
Kennrun's courtyard is silent, though many dreams are disturbed this night. The wreckage of the ir'Judiss flagship covers the battlefield.
Wood explodes from the upturned botton of the ship with arcane force. A gloved hand reaches out, and grabs the edge.
What happened? Lord General ir'Judiss wondered wearily. My plan... was perfect. Memories flooded back... the ship was taking another pass... and the mist had come up behind it, consuming the back of the ship... the ring had shatterred... he had fallen... thrown up wards at the last moments...
Then nothing.
There were dark forms on the walls, silhouettes that saw him, and instinct kicked in. Before an alarm could be raised, he reached out a hand and skewers of white light shot from his fingertips, impaling the throats of the sentries on the guardtowers. He watched as they writhed on the 200-foot pikes of solid white fire, dangling like puppets.
The light vanished. He stood alone in darkness.
"My army... my plan... how could this happen?! It was perfect!!" He laments wretchedly as his sashes catch the light wind. He casts a spell and takes flight, descending to the ground before the airship lightly. "Why? Why do the Sovereigns forsake me now?" He asks to the skies. He looks to the gates. That mist that hangs over the walls...
What is it?
Lord Serge ir'Judiss ascends to the battlements. He walks towards the opaque veil of mist with a mix of trepidation and mourning and unquenchable curiosity. He reaches through the mists... steps through. He can't see anything but more thick mists...
...and then he hears the violent, whispering voices.
"Lord ir'Judiss... join us..." the myriad voices call. "It was meant to be..." It was ghosts. Hundreds of what would only be known as Mourners coalescing from swirling mist, grabbing at his hand, pulling him inwards.
Horrified, Serge ir'Judiss pulls back from the voices of his fellows, tearing away from their iron ethereal grip. As he struggles, the forms embrace the arm that linger there, pulling at it, coalescing around it, as he struggles in horror to escape their grip. "Begone, spectres!" He manages a stilled spell, and arcane force explodes at the hundreds of visions, and the pulling grip slackens. He tears what remains of his arm away. All the flesh is gone, and only a skeletal limb remains.
Yet it moves.
"My... my beautiful hand! AAAaaaaaagh!!!"
He knew now.
"My beautiful hand... my beautiful ship... my beautiful family... my beautiful Cyre!! O cursed fates! O careless Sovereigns, that would forsake the jewel of the world!" His voice is filled with untold mourning and lament. It is a wretched and pitiful sound.
Serge collapses, sobbing, raising his horrible skeletal hand that moves without muscle, bemoaning the loss of all that was beautiful.
Oh yes. He knew now.
"They shall all pay..." He says shakily, with unbridled rage, as he rises to his feet with tears and blood still streaming. He bolted upwards into the air, through the clouds, to confront the traitorous stars that could look upon such a sight and still shine bright.