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DARK•HERITAGE -- 16 installments to date, updated April 20th
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<blockquote data-quote="Desdichado" data-source="post: 1605136" data-attributes="member: 2205"><p><strong>Prologue I</strong></p><p></p><p>A very long time ago...</p><p></p><p><em><span style="color: orange">(The following is a cut scene/flashback and was not part of the game itself...)</span></em></p><p></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'">"And so you see, friends and colleagues, that these slight modifications to Nimlanâth's charm's, using the research I published earlier in <em>The Annual Review of Advances in Thaumaturgical Science</em> do indeed make the summoning of creatures from the Shadow Realm not only possible, but quite safe for the Mage who casts the spell. The implications for our understanding of the Shadow Realm moving forward, and our ability to advance the art, speak for themselves. Thank you."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'">Zimurrun bowed slightly to indicate that his presentation was over, and smiled to himself at the sound of applause. He was at the bottom of a large indoor arena, converted over for this conference. A hardwood stand was placed on the sands at the bottom of the arena, and dark hardwood benches and paneling rose around him in a ring, row after row. Probably two hundred of his colleagues, fellow students of the magical arts, had risen to their feet and were clapping enthusiastically. His summoned daemon bellowed at the applause, and raged within the carefully prepared pentagram he had placed on the hardwood floor. He was still surprised at what had come in response to his summoning, but was gratified that it was such an imposing creature. Grotesquely obese, covered with brownish scales and bristling with ridges and spines, the creature bellowed again. A fetid odor wafted from its wide, froglike, but wickedly toothed mouth, and four beady eyes came to rest again on him as the author of the creature's current helpless condition.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'">Zimurrun turned slightly weak under that baleful gaze, and his hands shook. He smiled unconvincingly at the creature and spoke the words that would banish it, although he cringed to hear his voice crack, higher pitched than his normal silky lecturing voice. The daemon's outline turned smoky then, and it looked around confused and a bit alarmed, to Zimurrun's satisfaction. He kept his eyes on it as the outline began to break up, and the massive bulk began to fade, and didn't look away again until it was completely gone. He then realized he hadn't taken a breath either while watching it fade. He panted slightly, as his lungs struggled to catch up again.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'">He looked up again, and nodded and smiled, waving even to a few familiar faces, as the other Magi filed from the room. His was the last presentation of the evening, and most of them would either be heading for bed, or heading for the taverns. His presentation had been a complete success, and he could see most of them talking animatedly about his demonstration.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'">Well, except for one. Probably the youngest Mage invited to the convention, Virrun Salthukk was an enigma to most. He sat near the top of the seats, unmoving as the rest of his colleagues gradually filed out. He had a small frown, and was looking carefully at Zimurrun with his sharp blue eyes, who couldn't help but feel a bit self-conscious under the intense scrutiny. Virrun Salthukk was a smallish man, pasty faced and thin, with slick black hair pulled back from his face. Finally, he stood, and with a final chewing of his lip as he watched Zimurrun pack away his materials, he left and the converted lecture hall was empty.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'">Zimurrun let out another sigh. His eyes turned slightly shifty themselves. He bounded up the stairs, taking two at a time, until he was level with the doors. Poking his head around the corner, he couldn't see anyone in the corridors beyond, and the sound of muted conversation was fading quickly. None of the other Magi had remained. Shaking slightly, he shut the doors and locked them. Then he walked around the circular landing that ringed the arena checking all the doors and locking them, as well as extinguishing all the oil lamps at that level. In a few minutes, he was confident that he had ensured himself of privacy. More slowly now he walked down the darkened steps to the hardwood floor and the pentagram that he had inscribed earlier. A feeling of dread filled him, and he questioned whether what he was doing was really wise. Although the summoning he had demonstrated to the convention of Magi had been successful, it had been more difficult than he imagined to control such a powerful, malevolent entity, and his will had been shaken. He imagined that he could hear a dark, murmuring rustling sound behind him, and he whirled. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'">Nothing.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'">The murmuring seemed almost to he laughing at him. He knew that no one was there, knew that he was hearing things. Knew that he should not attempt another summoning, especially of so powerful a being as he intended, until he had recovered, rested, let his sanity gradually seep back in. Magic of such a powerful nature always impacted the caster to the point where he became confused, he hallucinated, his mind and will could be broken if he was not careful.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'">But no, he had very carefully prepared this room for this event. Although his earlier summoning had been spectacular, that was really only the warm-up. Being able to showcase his new theories was a bonus, not the end result. The ultimate goal was to summon a creature capable of striking a bargain that would make him the most powerful Mage ever; one who did not need to fear death, one who could rule forever, as the Magi were meant to do. The accolades of his colleagues would be hollow at that point. He would be far beyond the need of them.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'">He had reached the bottom of the arena again, and he felt very small. He trudged through the sand to the steps of the lecture platform. There were two lamps here, that gave a fair amount of light to the arena floor, but beyond a row or two of the seating, the rest of the room vanished into pitch blackness.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'">Zimurrun nervously shuffled his parchment notes, making sure he had everything he needed. Most of what was required for this summoning was in his head, of course, and most of the ritual had been completed hours before, but he double checked his formulae one final time. A fleeting panic crossed his mind again that he was not in a good enough state of mind to go through with this, but he quashed such thoughts. He had prepared for this moment for months, and he wasn't going to let cold feet bring a stop to his plans now.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'">He carefully relit the candles at the junction points of his pentagram as he chanted slowly under his breath in a strange tongue. He nearly winced at the smell as he scattered crushed brimstone around the inner layer of the pentagram, continuing his chanting slightly louder and faster now. Next to each candle he placed a rat skull, deliberately and stiffly. Even louder and faster his voice rolled over the unnatural sounds of the words of magic. Then he reached into a small, dark wooden box that he had cached innocuously next to his notes.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'">Earlier he had killed a slave as part of the ritual, a teenage girl who's body was surely even now being rent and devoured by feral dogs in the grim alleyways of the city. Inside the box was her heart, which he had brutally ripped from her ribcage using a small saw and his hands. The heart still beat faintly, even after hours of sitting in the box. A strongly unpleasant smell swept up from the heart, and it suddenly began beating more strongly, and very quickly. A trickle of blood seeped from the organ to run down his forearm. Zimurrun's chanting was now a feverish shout, but his voice had gone somewhat hoarse. He set the beating heart in the center of the pentagram, turned and walked back out of it. He thought he could hear the murmuring voices again, stronger now, but he knew that it was probably not his imagination this time. So close to completion of the ritual, the Veil between the Shadow Realm and the Material Realm was parchment-thin.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'">Suddenly the pounding heart in the center of the pentagram burst into flame. A cold sweat drenched Zimurrun's face and back, but his hoarse voice continued to chant. Greasy black smoke starting pouring from the fiery heart, filling the room quickly, but all the while contained by the mystic boundaries of the pentagram. And then glowing eyes appeared in the smoke, first one pair, then another, and then another. The smoke faded and dissipated, and Zimurrun's voice stopped with a gurgling rattle in his throat.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'">The entity before him was blasphemous in every sense of the word. It was huge; swelling up into the dark recesses of the arena, and was only vaguely humanoid. It was the color of a week-old bruise; purple and yellowish. Scaly wings stretched from its back to scrape plaster from the ceiling. Its hideous, daemonic head had three faces, and the central pair had its eyes fixed hungrily on the mage who had summoned him. A long, slavering tongue writhed from a leering, grinning mouth. And then the thing spoke.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'">Zimurrun abruptly stopped sweating and turned as dry as he could imagine. His mouth was so desiccated that he could barely open it. He felt the blood drain from his face, and a hot flash of panic surged through him, but he seemed unable to move. The daemon spoke with all three of its mouths at once, and although the words were the same, the three voices were all different. One voice was a rumbling deep bass, and the words that spilled from that unnatural mouth seemed curiously malformed, as if it was unable to form the sounds used by mortal mouths. Another voice was a ghastly shrieking, as of a man having his eyes burned out of his sockets. And the final voice was the worst of all; a penetrating chilled whisper, colder than the grave. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'">"You are daring, mortal, to summon me to the your Realm. Surely you did not think to control me with this pathetic scrawl on the floor?"</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'">Zimurrun was blasted by the voice; his eyes rolled up in his head, and his catatonia became complete. He pitched forward on his face. His forearm fell across the border of the pentagram.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'">Unseen, but most certainly not unsensed by the daemonic entity, Virrun Salthukk crouched behind the benches, watching in horror. The daemon grabbed almost daintily at Zimurrun's arm and pulled him completely into the pentagram. A long claw disemboweled the hapless mage, and three tongues shot from the beast's mouths to lap up the insides of the man. Salthukk realized with horror that each of the tongues had a ringed toothy maw at the end. He heard a sickening fleshy crunch from the writhing body of Zimurrun, and in just a few seconds he was reduced to a bloody but emptied skin.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'">Salthukk lost his composure then, he wasn't aware of anything for many hours, he finally came to himself to find that he had been screaming for the god's knew how long. His voice was long gone; his throat damaged beyond repair from the constant screaming. He was still covered in cold sweat and stale vomit, and he stank of stark, naked terror.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'">He looked around wildly, but the spell had faded and the daemon was gone. In the center of the pentagram was a book, bound in pale leather. Salthukk heaved dryly for several more minutes, his stomach spasming uncontrollably as he realized that it was made from Zimurrun's skin, and that his face -- locked forever in a silent scream -- decorated the cover.</span></p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Desdichado, post: 1605136, member: 2205"] [b]Prologue I[/b] A very long time ago... [i][color=orange](The following is a cut scene/flashback and was not part of the game itself...)[/color][/i][color=orange][/color] [font=Trebuchet MS]"And so you see, friends and colleagues, that these slight modifications to Nimlanâth's charm's, using the research I published earlier in [i]The Annual Review of Advances in Thaumaturgical Science[/i] do indeed make the summoning of creatures from the Shadow Realm not only possible, but quite safe for the Mage who casts the spell. The implications for our understanding of the Shadow Realm moving forward, and our ability to advance the art, speak for themselves. Thank you." Zimurrun bowed slightly to indicate that his presentation was over, and smiled to himself at the sound of applause. He was at the bottom of a large indoor arena, converted over for this conference. A hardwood stand was placed on the sands at the bottom of the arena, and dark hardwood benches and paneling rose around him in a ring, row after row. Probably two hundred of his colleagues, fellow students of the magical arts, had risen to their feet and were clapping enthusiastically. His summoned daemon bellowed at the applause, and raged within the carefully prepared pentagram he had placed on the hardwood floor. He was still surprised at what had come in response to his summoning, but was gratified that it was such an imposing creature. Grotesquely obese, covered with brownish scales and bristling with ridges and spines, the creature bellowed again. A fetid odor wafted from its wide, froglike, but wickedly toothed mouth, and four beady eyes came to rest again on him as the author of the creature's current helpless condition. Zimurrun turned slightly weak under that baleful gaze, and his hands shook. He smiled unconvincingly at the creature and spoke the words that would banish it, although he cringed to hear his voice crack, higher pitched than his normal silky lecturing voice. The daemon's outline turned smoky then, and it looked around confused and a bit alarmed, to Zimurrun's satisfaction. He kept his eyes on it as the outline began to break up, and the massive bulk began to fade, and didn't look away again until it was completely gone. He then realized he hadn't taken a breath either while watching it fade. He panted slightly, as his lungs struggled to catch up again. He looked up again, and nodded and smiled, waving even to a few familiar faces, as the other Magi filed from the room. His was the last presentation of the evening, and most of them would either be heading for bed, or heading for the taverns. His presentation had been a complete success, and he could see most of them talking animatedly about his demonstration. Well, except for one. Probably the youngest Mage invited to the convention, Virrun Salthukk was an enigma to most. He sat near the top of the seats, unmoving as the rest of his colleagues gradually filed out. He had a small frown, and was looking carefully at Zimurrun with his sharp blue eyes, who couldn't help but feel a bit self-conscious under the intense scrutiny. Virrun Salthukk was a smallish man, pasty faced and thin, with slick black hair pulled back from his face. Finally, he stood, and with a final chewing of his lip as he watched Zimurrun pack away his materials, he left and the converted lecture hall was empty. Zimurrun let out another sigh. His eyes turned slightly shifty themselves. He bounded up the stairs, taking two at a time, until he was level with the doors. Poking his head around the corner, he couldn't see anyone in the corridors beyond, and the sound of muted conversation was fading quickly. None of the other Magi had remained. Shaking slightly, he shut the doors and locked them. Then he walked around the circular landing that ringed the arena checking all the doors and locking them, as well as extinguishing all the oil lamps at that level. In a few minutes, he was confident that he had ensured himself of privacy. More slowly now he walked down the darkened steps to the hardwood floor and the pentagram that he had inscribed earlier. A feeling of dread filled him, and he questioned whether what he was doing was really wise. Although the summoning he had demonstrated to the convention of Magi had been successful, it had been more difficult than he imagined to control such a powerful, malevolent entity, and his will had been shaken. He imagined that he could hear a dark, murmuring rustling sound behind him, and he whirled. Nothing. The murmuring seemed almost to he laughing at him. He knew that no one was there, knew that he was hearing things. Knew that he should not attempt another summoning, especially of so powerful a being as he intended, until he had recovered, rested, let his sanity gradually seep back in. Magic of such a powerful nature always impacted the caster to the point where he became confused, he hallucinated, his mind and will could be broken if he was not careful. But no, he had very carefully prepared this room for this event. Although his earlier summoning had been spectacular, that was really only the warm-up. Being able to showcase his new theories was a bonus, not the end result. The ultimate goal was to summon a creature capable of striking a bargain that would make him the most powerful Mage ever; one who did not need to fear death, one who could rule forever, as the Magi were meant to do. The accolades of his colleagues would be hollow at that point. He would be far beyond the need of them. He had reached the bottom of the arena again, and he felt very small. He trudged through the sand to the steps of the lecture platform. There were two lamps here, that gave a fair amount of light to the arena floor, but beyond a row or two of the seating, the rest of the room vanished into pitch blackness. Zimurrun nervously shuffled his parchment notes, making sure he had everything he needed. Most of what was required for this summoning was in his head, of course, and most of the ritual had been completed hours before, but he double checked his formulae one final time. A fleeting panic crossed his mind again that he was not in a good enough state of mind to go through with this, but he quashed such thoughts. He had prepared for this moment for months, and he wasn't going to let cold feet bring a stop to his plans now. He carefully relit the candles at the junction points of his pentagram as he chanted slowly under his breath in a strange tongue. He nearly winced at the smell as he scattered crushed brimstone around the inner layer of the pentagram, continuing his chanting slightly louder and faster now. Next to each candle he placed a rat skull, deliberately and stiffly. Even louder and faster his voice rolled over the unnatural sounds of the words of magic. Then he reached into a small, dark wooden box that he had cached innocuously next to his notes. Earlier he had killed a slave as part of the ritual, a teenage girl who's body was surely even now being rent and devoured by feral dogs in the grim alleyways of the city. Inside the box was her heart, which he had brutally ripped from her ribcage using a small saw and his hands. The heart still beat faintly, even after hours of sitting in the box. A strongly unpleasant smell swept up from the heart, and it suddenly began beating more strongly, and very quickly. A trickle of blood seeped from the organ to run down his forearm. Zimurrun's chanting was now a feverish shout, but his voice had gone somewhat hoarse. He set the beating heart in the center of the pentagram, turned and walked back out of it. He thought he could hear the murmuring voices again, stronger now, but he knew that it was probably not his imagination this time. So close to completion of the ritual, the Veil between the Shadow Realm and the Material Realm was parchment-thin. Suddenly the pounding heart in the center of the pentagram burst into flame. A cold sweat drenched Zimurrun's face and back, but his hoarse voice continued to chant. Greasy black smoke starting pouring from the fiery heart, filling the room quickly, but all the while contained by the mystic boundaries of the pentagram. And then glowing eyes appeared in the smoke, first one pair, then another, and then another. The smoke faded and dissipated, and Zimurrun's voice stopped with a gurgling rattle in his throat. The entity before him was blasphemous in every sense of the word. It was huge; swelling up into the dark recesses of the arena, and was only vaguely humanoid. It was the color of a week-old bruise; purple and yellowish. Scaly wings stretched from its back to scrape plaster from the ceiling. Its hideous, daemonic head had three faces, and the central pair had its eyes fixed hungrily on the mage who had summoned him. A long, slavering tongue writhed from a leering, grinning mouth. And then the thing spoke. Zimurrun abruptly stopped sweating and turned as dry as he could imagine. His mouth was so desiccated that he could barely open it. He felt the blood drain from his face, and a hot flash of panic surged through him, but he seemed unable to move. The daemon spoke with all three of its mouths at once, and although the words were the same, the three voices were all different. One voice was a rumbling deep bass, and the words that spilled from that unnatural mouth seemed curiously malformed, as if it was unable to form the sounds used by mortal mouths. Another voice was a ghastly shrieking, as of a man having his eyes burned out of his sockets. And the final voice was the worst of all; a penetrating chilled whisper, colder than the grave. "You are daring, mortal, to summon me to the your Realm. Surely you did not think to control me with this pathetic scrawl on the floor?" Zimurrun was blasted by the voice; his eyes rolled up in his head, and his catatonia became complete. He pitched forward on his face. His forearm fell across the border of the pentagram. Unseen, but most certainly not unsensed by the daemonic entity, Virrun Salthukk crouched behind the benches, watching in horror. The daemon grabbed almost daintily at Zimurrun's arm and pulled him completely into the pentagram. A long claw disemboweled the hapless mage, and three tongues shot from the beast's mouths to lap up the insides of the man. Salthukk realized with horror that each of the tongues had a ringed toothy maw at the end. He heard a sickening fleshy crunch from the writhing body of Zimurrun, and in just a few seconds he was reduced to a bloody but emptied skin. Salthukk lost his composure then, he wasn't aware of anything for many hours, he finally came to himself to find that he had been screaming for the god's knew how long. His voice was long gone; his throat damaged beyond repair from the constant screaming. He was still covered in cold sweat and stale vomit, and he stank of stark, naked terror. He looked around wildly, but the spell had faded and the daemon was gone. In the center of the pentagram was a book, bound in pale leather. Salthukk heaved dryly for several more minutes, his stomach spasming uncontrollably as he realized that it was made from Zimurrun's skin, and that his face -- locked forever in a silent scream -- decorated the cover.[/font] [/QUOTE]
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