Post:Zamidren Book Vision. HUGE VISION - 11/6/2009 - 21:17:36

Zamidren Book Vision. HUGE VISION · on 11/6/2009 9:17:36 PM	11572
I think I got it all... A flurry of disparate images fight in the back of your mind for expression. You catch quick glimpses of a snowy night, a robed Elf, a dank pit... but it's too jumbled up and unrealized to fully grasp. A headache slowly but steadily builds in force as the prophetic message gathers intensity, heralding that it will, in fact, be one of those nights. A cloud of pungent incense blows into your face, revealing the sanctuary of a small temple. Twin rows of torches trace the entire length of the room's stone walls, while braziers near the center billow with sacred smoke. Images of Rutilor dominate the walls, all larger than life and brooding in the flickering light. Men and women crowd into the sanctuary, some in priestly robes yet most in mis-matched suits of armor. A middle-aged Elf in a formal, floor-length robe stands raised on a dais, next to the altar. The Elf cries out, "Brothers, hear me! A darkness sweeps over the land, which the laymen do rise up against for the glory of the most holy names. Yet there is another darkness, that slips from mind to mind; lip to ear, which infects all souls with its passage." You see a figure concealed within the folds of a hooded, coarse brown robe. He leans inward, toward a stone wall, his hand hovering contemplatively just below a small symbol painted in fresh blood. Two diagonal lines meet at the bottom of a circle that, for its morbid paint, was drawn with remarkable precision. The robed figure nods to itself and makes a gesture toward his back. It sneaks away and, mere seconds later, the shadows of other men can be seen against the wall, following the same way. Your mind is once again drawn to the crowded temple and the Elven priest's sermon, "We have labored long and sacrificed much to preserve the innocence of the world. There will be yet more holy blood shed before our task is complete. Yet take heart, for by the glory of the Immortals and their illuminating light, an end can be seen! Though the world is darkened, we have the opportunity to finally end Kigot's hundred-year farce." You feel a moist chill that seems to come from your bones and radiate outward. A Human, bundled against the cold, trudges his way up an incline, snow crunching beneath his boots. An elderly man stands at the top of the incline, amidst undisturbed snow, watching his progress. With slow, clockwork steps the Human reaches the top, only to be met with darkness. The ground gives way in front of him into a nearly vertical drop. The only thing the snowy night reveals of the landscape beyond the fall is the tops of a few giant conifers. The younger man throws back his hood, while both men gaze pensively down the cliff. A roisan seems to pass before the Old Man breaks the silence. "You're worried." Zamidren closes his eyes. He says, "I don't have the luxury of hesitating." Despite the protestation, both men return to silent contemplation. Zamidren is the first to speak up again, saying, "We find out tonight if the philosophy is worthy of survival." The Old Man, disturbed out of reverie, says, "Hrm? Oh, that. I was just thinking." "What?" "Don't think you'd survive the fall. Can't say you'd make the climb without breaking your neck. Won't even bet if you'd live through the wilderness that lies down there. The cliff, though? It faces east." The words of the Elven priest echo in your mind, "We have the opportunity, the obligation, and the right! Too long has this cancer been left to fester in its pits and tempt the weak. Too long has the Alchemy of Flesh been allowed to taint the order which the gods did ordain!" You see... nothing at all, though you smell stale, diseased air and acquire an inexplicable claustrophobic dread in the back of your mind. As time passes, your ears and eyes strain for stimuli with some measure of success: a faint movement of the air, bereft of any other sound, resolves into shallow breathing. The stink and the threatening darkness hold your senses for a small eternity, before something shifts... above you? Before you can contemplate the spatial possibilities, there is a far too loud screech and a blinding explosion of light! When your senses recover, you see a Dwarf in filthy rags, shackled hand, foot and neck in heavy chains at the bottom of a stone oubliette. A lanky Human man stands at the top of the oubliette, holding a torch above his head. The ragged Dwarf yells out, "Go away! Save the gibbet for someone whose neck can still snap!" The Human responds, his voice a study in even politeness, "I'm sorry, sir, I had to rescue you without writing ahead. Have I interrupted something? I can always come back later." "Wait! That voice... that voice... Markat!" "Yes, sir." "You little bastard! I should have made something out of your scrawny, broken corpse when I had the chance!" "But, sir," Markat affects an injured tone, "If you had done that, I would not be here now and we could not have such a nice conversation." The Dwarf growls out, "What do you want, Markat?" Markat says, "I have been asked to present an invitation to you. One of the Philosophers has emerged triumphant and would be humbled if a Dwarf of your luminous reputation would agree to provide your wisdom in the dark days ahead." "Hah. Who is it, boy?" "Zamidren Book." "Go forth, my brothers! Let any tome which holds the Alchemy of Flesh be destroyed! Let any tongue that speaks its blasphemy be torn out! If a building may harbor one of these nihilist philosophers, then shall it be burnt as an offering to the most high! By sword, by axe and by spell this black folly will end!" You see Zamidren Book striding down a narrow, stone passage with grim purpose. He follows a track of dark red carpeting laid down the center of a polished marble floor, though for all the expense the walls around him manage to look closed in, bare and sterile. Turning a corner, Zamidren faces a set of wide iron doors attended by Markat. The younger man nods in recognition and swings the doors open with dramatic force. He then faces into the room, bowing low and extending his arms wide. His lowered head does little to disguise the wide, sardonic grin across his face. Inside, dozens of cloaked men stand in a rough semi-circle, interrupted by a man-sized obelisk that occupies the center of the room. Zamidren strides into a center position and stops. Seconds pass as Zamidren and the crowd stare at each other with restrained hostility. Zamidren speaks, his voice loud and oratorical, "We are victims of unintended consequence. Lyras and her childish demons have brought the Temple to a head. We are being picked off one by one for the audacity of knowing of the Alchemy of Flesh. It is not so far fetched to assume that this room holds the majority of us that are still left alive. If we continue to do nothing, the philosophy dies with us! But there is another way."
This message was originally posted in Events and Happenings in DragonRealms' Elanthia (13) \ General Discussions - Events in General (OOC) (5), by VAHLISSA on the play.net forums.