Gods and Monsters: Legends Reborn main campaign thread

Helm- There is a 5 foot long archway leading into a sizeable crypt. There are several neatly arranged, intact, sarcophagi, in the shape of a U, with chairs arranged the outside, forming a sort of dinner table. 4 columns support the weight of the mausoleum spaced out in the shape of a square. The crypt's oute rwalls are lined with biers, but no corpses or coffins remain. They are, instead, full of jars, bottles, alembics, mortar and pestle, sacks of unknown contents, boxes, crates, and other labratory/workshop/home supplies. There is a crudely wrought wooden bed in the back left corner, and a large wardrobe and 3 chests next to it. The right back corner has a shrine and altar depicting a skull-faced semblance of some higher power.

Seated at the apex of the U table is a horribly ugly woman. The other seats have been occupied by what appear to be rotting corpses, most likely zombies, however each one is dressed in normal clothing. There is a chair and a desk that has been positioned near the entryway and is vacant.

When you enter, the ugly old woman smiles and says, "OH! Welcome sweety, to my humble home! Rude to enter uninvited, but welcome just the same." She turns to the zombie standing next to her and yells out it, "Herbert, go fetch our guest a bowl of gruel, NOW!" She bats the zombie with the back of her hand, it moans and turns toward the fireplace and cooking pot, and begins scooping an unknown slop into a bowl. When it finishes, it slowly starts lumbering toward your desk.

With a moment of looking around, you notice there is another zombie lieing naked in the bed, and with what appears to be an enlarged groinal region, presumably for some kind of sick pleasure making.

"My name is Wendalen, and who might you be, you young handsome man?" she muses with a hideous grin.

I smile as I focus my psychokinetic powers on the deer. "Even had I not," I chuckle, centering counter forces on the hip joint, pushing on the carcass as I tear the leg free, "who could turn down a meal prepared by a dragon?" I fall to the venison, eating with gusto. "You really are a very good cook," I mumble around a mouthful of well done meat. I eat until the hunger subsides, then wipe the greases from my mouth and hands. "To the south you say?" I gaze off in that direction. "Well, a journey of a thousand miles starts with one step. You have my gratitude, Mighty Narthcellus. Be well, and may your wings always know a favorable wind."

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Zuoken- The dragon watches you for a moment, and then says, "Hold, Zuoken." It raises its wings up, stretching its muscles, yawns a large yawn, flexes its arms and legs in stretching motions, dances about a bit as if it is warming up its joints. "Before you go to the monastery, I would first test your skills. If you pass my test, I shall send word to them of your coming and bid you good day. But if you fail my test, they will not accept you, for it requires the blessing one of such as I to gain entrance."

The dragon stands on its hind legs, stretches its wings to the fullest extent, and roars, "Do you accept?"

I gird my mental loins, walk calmly before him, and bow. "I accept."

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I gather my belongings. Torn between a choice, civilization and the waste. The choice was easy. I am a Walker and this is my home. With a short prayer, I cast a spell to ease my journey.



I move swiftly and confidently to the eye of the storm.

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Zuoken- "Then attack me in the ways of Xan Yae. As best you can. Do not relent!", Narthcellus shouts, as he readies himself for your coming attacks.




Zoser- you stride effortlessly over the sands of the desert, toward the coming sandstorm. It is quite large, the front dust wall towering way up into the sky. When you reach the edge, the wind begins to buffet you around with extremely powerful gusts, grit, cactus limbs, rocks, etc. It is an angry storm. Not naturally occuring. You can't see with your eyes else risk them being shredded by the grit and debris flying around. Instinctually you pull your blindfold over your eyes to protect them and yet still see. You sense forms in the storm, whirling around in the wind, they are nebulous and large. Gusting in circular patterns around the middle. You push on through the blowing winds, your spell keeping your footing. When you breach the inner storm wall into the eye, its as if a huge hurricane has formed over the desert. In the middle is a gigantic figure, one comprised of all 4 elements. It has 4 arms, and only a gaseous lower body. It doesn't notice you as it drives the storm forward, and is heading right toward you.

It's a brand new day.

Pain
~This must be Father's doing. What have I done to earn his "punishment" now?
How could Mother let him do this to me. What kind of "brother" would stand idly by as his kin suffers?
One day this will come to an end. And they will learn the price of playing favorites among their children.~

~Is this what it feels like to die?~ *Loki grits his teeth*
~No, they would not even allow me that dignity.
They would have no one to toy with, no one to dance to amuse them.~

Gasping for air, for a moment of reprieve, for a lapse in this ceaseless agony. It doesn't come.
~Endure! Survive! I am not weak! They are nothing! They will pay!~

Screaming, roaring, and a thunderous howl. Infinite aching. Hopelessness.
Blinding light. Numbness, at last. Pins and needles. Coldness creeps in to replace the numbness.
*Unable to repress his body's natural function, he begins shivering uncontrollably from the extreme temperature*
*He manages a weak chuckle, through the pain, as the sharp cold clears his mind*
~Cold. Welcome, my old friend. My lover. With you, we will teach them the meaning of despair~

*Blood pulses erratically, heart pounding wildly, feeling barely warmer than the ice which has fallen away*
*Ice cracks and flakes, in response to the tremors from his limbs*
*Lifting his hands, he stares at his flesh. The color of a frozen corpse. It remains unchanged from the day he was born. The palest blue of arctic ice.*
~I am alive. As long as I yet live, vengeance will be mine. When I am done with them, all my suffering shall be repaid to every one of them. Every slight. Every insult. Every wound. Every injury. Every cruel joke. Every laugh. *EVERY* indignity.~
~*EVERY* *SINGLE* *ONE*~

*Shaking, he rises, with determination*
~This war is far from over. And a new battle has just begun~

*After several slow, shallow, breaths, he surveys the scene with an uneasy gaze. His eyes eyes flit from one thing to the next, trying to gain comprehension from his surroundings. To determine a way to move forward to his next victory*

*Clearing his throat, he disgorges a chunk of ice that had been lodged in his esophagus. Flecked and mottled with blood and mucus torn from his throat as it dislodged, Loki blasts the icy discharge with eldritch power, almost as an afterthought*

~Leave nothing behind. Leave no trace by which you may be tracked, or body part which may be used to scry you.~

*He whistles softly, imitating a snow bird. Cocking his head for a time, he seems almost disappointed at the lack of response. Noticing a lump within the nearby snow, he works to clear the mound, unearthing his equipment. Quickly drawing on his clothes, the temperature near his skin rises, however slightly, as his feet settle within his boots. After dressing, he draws his cloak from his pack, twisting and turning it with a single flourish. Gone is the vibrant forest green, replaced by a deep midnight black. With the passing of the cloth in front of him, his skin pinkens, softening his angular cheeks. Cheeks rounding, nose shortening, his facial features move quickly to a familiar form. Idly brushing snow from his pants, he looks down to ensure he is leaving no foot prints from the blast zone. Magical energy gathers around him. The fine hairs on his body stand out slightly, as several nearly inaudible thrums pass over him, and away from his body. Gripping his head in response to the pain the effort has caused, he barely manages to avoid falling to his knees. The pain fades, and eventually passes, but not soon enough. Gathering his pack once more, he glances around one last time. A mere fraction of a moment later, he vanishes from normal sight completely*

*the gentle sound of labored breathing floats through the air, from no apparent source, as Loki sets forth to find shelter. Chewing idly on frozen jerky, he contemplates his next strategy*

Showing no fear, but showing respect, I walk towards the figure. I slowly uncover my eyes and speak in a gentle, but loud tone in Auran.

"Greetings. I am Akahdrin Fireal, a Walker of the Dusty Conclave. This storm is amazing, a thing of true beauty."

I lower to a single knee and whisper a prayer to the waste. "Preserve and persevere." I lower my eyes towards the ground to show respect to this marvelous entity.

I patiently await my fate.

*Making note of the direction of the sounds relative to the landmarks, Loki turns towards the direction of the stone. Any power that may be held within the stone seems enticing. Such a monolith might be a beacon for travelers, enchanted for warmth in the harsh environment. better yet, it might be a teleportation point to deliver him someplace with people. Wherever folk can be found, there is a simpleton who will offer bread and wine for a story. Maybe he will even tell a true one this time... probably not. And if turns out to be nothing, he can always find the source of the noises in the distance.*




"Loki- The circular devastation around you is soon hidden by ordinary snow, just a few yards away. A light breeze is blowing, and a gentle winter flurry is picking up. A single, large, rectangular shaped black stone is standing nearby, with a glowing, circular shaped symbol etched into it's surface. Slight sounds of a bustling mead hall can be heard on the winds, from the east. You are unsure of the language being spoken at this distance, but it seems familiar. The sun is starting to set."

Merlin, Awake In A Strange Land

Merlin's thoughts turn, as they always do in times such as this, inward, toward the practical. Cold analysis overcomes emotion, fear, and panic. Pain is secondary. Nakedness is tertiary. ~Pain is weakness, leaving the body. The Dragon does not recognize pain as a hindrance; only as an inspiration, a motivation, a catalyst for action. I must focus! Where am I? Whose form is this?~

A wave of exhaustion threatens to overcome him; his body screams for relief, for rest, for sleep. But those screams go unheeded, in silence. The Dragon demands obedience; he must discover a number of things, where he is, how he got here, the nature of the fog, the source of the voices. As he examines his surroundings, Merlin's gaze falls upon the mummified form on the table behind him. ~It's a funerary bier. But whose? The stones... like a druidic circle. What place is this?~

Merlin closes his eyes, and sits cross-legged in front of the table. "Enlighten me, O Great Dragon, show me the path forward. Let your eyes be mine, show me where evil lies, and restore strength to this battered and exhausted form."