Lyras Cycle Visions

The following are the visions during the march of the necromancer, Lyras after the fall of the Great Barrier.

Note: These visions are named so out of the page author's desire to summarize it with a few words and to organize. As with any vision not officially named by an GMNPC you should consider them unofficial and make your own call on the validity of the author's given titles.

Transcendence

The following are a continuous story arc of visions set from the viewpoint of other necromancers.

How It Was

Violent winds howl in your ears, not quite obscuring a multitude of distant moans and screams. Your vision slowly comes into focus, revealing three figures facing each other, weapons drawn, amidst a swirling crimson dust storm. To your left is a young Human man, wielding a curved silver dagger and covered by a dark overcoat. To your right is an Adan'f, holding a mattock and wearing a crude hauberk. Directly across from you is an elderly Halfling woman, in a blood-stained white robe and tensely gripping an oaken cudgel. A blast of ruddy sand momentarily obscures your vision, but not the clash of weapons. Within a second the figures have turned on each other with murderous intent. Their three-way melee continues unabated as the storm rises around them, consuming everything with its stinging grit.

Facing the Devourer

Your vision darkens, barely revealing a small room dominated by an ornate deobar writing desk. Thick curtains are drawn across the only window, leaving a lamp perched on one corner of the desk to throw fitful light on the scene. A slender man sits at the desk while an unnaturally bulging form stands at the doorway, both little more than silhouettes in the gloom. The man in the doorway tosses something onto the desk, where it lands with a metallic thud. He croaks out in a guttural voice, "What now?" Your point of view shifts to look down upon the object, revealing a leather-bound tome. The blade of a belt knife sticks out from underneath, pinned to the desk by the book's weight. The slender man gently traces a slender finger across a sigil of sharp angles that marks its cover. "Now," the word escapes in a raspy exhalation. He pauses for another moment and when he speaks again, his voice is strong and grim, "Now we await the triumphant."

The View from Afar

From amid the infinite vistas of the Plane of Probability, you dredge up a simple pastoral scene. A cottage sits at the center of a narrow valley, surrounded on all sides by a sprawling vegetable farm. A small brook winds its way along one side of the valley, receding into a sparse forest at the edge of the farm. Small figures gather opposite of each other on the lips of the valley, each indistinct against the strangely crimson hue of the sun. Soon two opposing armies have gathered and bolts of magic, both sacred and profane, fly between them. The cottage door opens from the inside and out steps a short Human male, elderly but stepping vigorously amongst his vegetables. The old man pays the war waged above him no mind at all. Slinging a hoe across his shoulder, he sets his eyes to care for the harvest.

Outrunning the Inescapable

You see a gigantic granite cliff towering in the pre-dawn gloom. The cliff is nearly sheer, interrupted only by deep gouges and blade-like protrusions. Darkness obscures the base of the cliff, while the first rays of morning shine above its crown. A young Human slowly climbs the face of the cliff, using nothing other than a curved silver knife as an impromptu pick. The young Human pauses for breath within the base of a narrow gouge. He assesses the rest of his climb, only to lock eyes with an elderly Human who now looks down at him from over the ledge. The young Human cups his hands over his mouth and calls out, "Could you help me?" The Old Man says, "Sure." He rubs his mouth, then points at the knife, "You know what they say about a man that only owns a hammer?" A string of Gamgweth profanity echoes back in reply. The Old Man shrugs and walks away.

Above the Fray

Howling winds blow past you, churning up an endless cloud of stinging, red sand. Partially obscured in the sand storm, you see wave upon wave of undead monstrosities throw themselves at a phalanx of brightly armored men. Far removed from the carnage, two Humans look down from a rise. One is barely in his twenties and hidden by a long coat one size too large. The young Human clutches a curved, silver knife at his side so tightly that his knuckles have gone white. The other Human is short and elderly, wearing homespun clothes, carrying a farmer's hoe casually slung across his shoulder. The younger man says, "It doesn't matter who wins." The Old Man says, "Immediately? No, I suppose not. But the world will be better off one way more than the other." "We're going to die! The Great Work is going to end with us." The Old Man chuckles and says, not unkindly, "Heads, you lose; tails, you lose. Wasn't that the point all along?"

Lyra's Option

Note: This vision took place before The Battle of Sorvendig's Stand.

Buzzing sound, somewhere between a pipe organ and a seizure, erupts within your head. Your sight fades to red as the sound reaches an agonizing climax, then resolves into a distant scene.

Rain comes down in a heavy downpour upon a forest track. The Undead march down the winding trail in a tight column, heads locked forward in an unintended parody of a military parade. An elderly Human man sits on a large rock and under the canopy of a tree a scant few feet off the road, a garden hoe propped unceremoniously against the tree. He watches the undead pass by with a bemused expression.

Roisaen seem to pass uneventfully, until a middle-aged woman appears within the column. She spots the man and comes to a sudden stop, causing a confused jostling to ripple up the line.

Lyras says, "You."

The Old Man shrugs and replies, "Me."

"What are you?"

"I'm a farmer. I grow things."

"Why are you here?"

"Trying to stay out of the storm, miss."

"Bow."

"If I did that, I wouldn't be able to get back up again." A pause. "Joints, you understand."

The Old Man says, "Always interesting to see travelers. Not many people walk down this road."

Lyras asks, "There are others?"

"Someone had to blaze the trail we're on. Not very often you see a real human being on it, though. Mostly used by animals these days."

"Enough! You will tell me why you are spying on me or I will wring it from your corpse!"

The Old Man lets out an exaggerated breath. "The metaphors not doing it for you? Ya know, between you and me, I'm not really sure why I'm out here. But I have a good guess."

Lyras stares mutely at the Old Man until he continues, "Everybody gets one, even you."

The Old Man says, "You could've made it, you know. That Descent of yours was a little weird, but you managed to hold onto enough. You could've had eternal life if you wanted something so modest. But that was all a little too abstract for miss Lyras. You wanted to hurt people. You wanted them to scream for every slight, and a corpse for every bruise.

"Now, I'm not one to judge. Bloody revenge is a perfectly Human behavior, we even got gods for that sort of thing. Just," he waves his left arm vaguely through the air, sweeping over the entire visible column of undead, "Maybe things have gotten a tiny bit out of hand?

"Okay, sure, third incarnation of a demon hell-bent on cracking the plane open like a walnut. That's bad, but there's still a bit of you left in there. Enough, anyway, that you still have some choice in the matter. This doesn't need to end this way, if you don't want it to." ff Lyras says, spitting out the word, "Redemption."

The Old Man grabs hold of his hoe and carefully tosses it toward Lyras, where it lands in the mud at her feet. He says, "No, redemption isn't in the cards. You aren't walking out of this with anything resembling a soul. But a soul isn't everything, and there's other states of being to explore, if you want to."

Lyras gazes down at the hoe, her flat affect betraying none of her thoughts. She bends down to grab it, weighs it in her hand... and then watches impassively as it blackens and turns to ash.

A violent howl echoes through the woods, perhaps the sound a wolf hears when he dreams of howling. Unbidden thoughts of violence, vengeance and the hunt ride across the primal howl, causing even the undead to quail. Lyras turns toward the east, leaving the Old Man at her back.

The Old Man says, "Pity, that was a good hoe. Ah well. No regrets, eh?"

Lyras turns back sharply, but the Old Man had already left.

The proto-wolf howls again, shaking the very earth Lyras stands on and causing your skull to buzz with sound and vibration. The visionary experience fades along with the sound, leaving you with a deep headache.

Miscellaneous

Creation of Sahfra

The broken puppet of an Elven girl dances on a tangle of strings. Looming above the doll is the visage of a hideous beast, pulling at the strings that control the figure and making it dance to and fro. A bright red light looms at the heart of the figurine as if from a tainted gem, seeming to corrupt the very air around it. Wraiths and skeletons join in with the macabre dance, the vision becoming nearly maddening before stopping.

Trapping of Tachid

A crimson and chartreuse blob hangs suspended in the air, seemingly composed of coagulated blood and pus woven into one vile mass. Suddenly, a wave of shimmering water surges from below. The goo throbs violently and lashes out with stringy pseudopods, but eventually diffuses in the water, rendered inert.

Khurek's Interrogation

A cold sense of apathy takes hold as you find yourself walking with heavy steps through darkened halls and finally into a dusty chamber. You latch the door and turn to a S'Kra Mur convulsing in a pool of blood, parts of her black scales burnt and bleeding from a large spiral branded onto her body. Orange eyes filled with a mixture of agony and defiance fix on you, and she hisses through chattering fangs, "Thisss insssolencsse will..." A wet slash abruptly silences the woman before her head rolls toward the base of an ornate pedestal.

Testing of the Temple

The hum of energy fills the air around you. Curious, you turn in an attempt to pinpoint its source. A phantasmal apparition appears in the air before you: massive towers rising high into the air surrounding a central domed structure. The image draws in upon the dome as if you were moving closer to it, bringing its details into clarity. You pass through walls, ascend stairs and traverse great corridors before at last arriving before a massive cambrinth orb. An unknown soft voice whispers, "Its powers shall soon be tested. Smile upon us in the troubled times ahead, Truffenyi." A breeze scatters the wispy image, leaving nothing in its wake.

Rocky Road

Out of nowhere, a skeletal claw rakes across your field of vision, nearly taking your nose with it! Reeling away from the strike and turning to face your assailant, you find a middle-age Human with ash-blond hair glowering darkly at you. An army of animated corpses in various states of decay ambles around and behind the figure. Her cold voice sneers, "You cannot fathom the powers blocking your path, mortal." A blinding flash of light explodes from her being, forcing you to avert your gaze. Looking back when the light dims, all traces of the figure and army are gone.

Crossing, Interrupted

You have a fleeting thought about the Crossing. Inexplicably, this causes the vessels behind your eyes to pulse painfully. The coppery smell of blood drifts into your nostrils, and the feeling of cold, naked metal caresses your hand.

There's Always Politics

Your vision focuses on a lanky Human male, leaning with both hands upon a balcony rail and staring up at Xibar.

A shadow detaches itself from the gloom behind him, revealing a feminine Elf.

The woman says, "He is an idiot, unworthy to wield Kigot's knife and you are of an even worse order for following him."

The man says, "And hello to you too."

"What was he thinking? The signs were not that obscure!"

"The hound thinks he's figured it all out. Though I wonder."

"What?"

"Did you know that the Bards can see things? Glimpses of different Philosophers over the century. The Moon Mages have visions about a young Necromancer with a knife and a wise old man."

"I..."

"Feeling a little exposed?"

"He is not the triumphant!"

"Someone will be and not either of us. The games are over, dear. Draw your knife or throw it down."

Unattributed Visions

You focus inwardly searching for insight into your future.
You find yourself staring down the edge of a precipice, which fades into blackness far before the bottom is visible. A cold wind carrying wisps of red-tinged necromantic taint caresses your back, as if encouraging you to jump. Somewhere distant, your sanity screams at you to run, but you abandon all caution and fling yourself over the edge. Clawed hands reach out of the darkness to eagerly grab you, and you awaken just as they drag you down into the abyss.

You focus inwardly searching for insight into your future.
A pair of dead, unblinking eyes stares hungrily at you, boring their way straight into your very being. The scream of something malevolent echoes around you, and a withered grey hand reaches toward you to tear at your soul. Overhead, the sky is slowly blanketed with soot-like clouds, and you look up to see the darkness spreading all around you. As the vision leaves you, a bit of a headache and an odd sense of detachment lingers for a brief moment.

You focus inwardly searching for insight into your future.
A bell tolls in the distance, drawing your attention. Curiously, you're aware of no such bells in that direction. Carried by the speed of your dream-like state, a tower soon rises up upon the horizon. Armored guards stand in formations, defensively surrounding the structure. A voice calls down from above, "We will hold this ground, or we will die trying! If your fallen comrades rise up beside you, do not hesitate to slay them for the good of us all!" The vision fades, leaving only a lingering echo of the ringing bell.

You focus inwardly searching for insight into your future.
As your vision clears you see a child's doll dressed in a hooded scarlet robe. The doll lies face down in the mud. You lift the doll carefully, cleaning mud from the back of the robe. You turn over the doll and discover a skeletal face staring back. The face seems to smile at you as the doll fades away in your hand, and your vision returns to normal.