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The Fall of Civilization
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<blockquote data-quote="the Jester" data-source="post: 7469136" data-attributes="member: 1210"><p>“Dawn,” the <em>Silver Rose of Garnet</em> says slowly. “Her name was Dawn.”</p><p></p><p>The party stares at her portrait. </p><p></p><p>“How did you know her?” Torinn asks. </p><p></p><p>The <em>Rose</em> doesn't speak for a long moment, and when it does, its tone is full of regret. “I can't really remember. It was so long ago...” It sighs. “I think she bore me. I remember that much.” </p><p></p><p>“What else?” asks Vann-La. “If she used you, she must have been good, right?”</p><p></p><p>Without delay, it answers, “Yes. She was good and lawful both. I know that.” Its voice is anguished. “Dawn! Something must have happened to her.” A pause, then: “I think... I think I may have known Arawn. Yes- I remember now. They were betrothed.”</p><p></p><p>Cook speaks. “Ooi, were they both happy with the betrothal?” </p><p></p><p>“Yes, very... I think. It was so long ago!”</p><p></p><p>“Was he an evil man then?” Heimall asks. </p><p></p><p>“No. She never would have loved him if he was. He was a hero.”</p><p></p><p>Torinn steps up to the mirror and studies himself. The <em>Silver Rose</em> is cilpped to his cloak. </p><p></p><p>A ghostly form steps forth. </p><p></p><p>Torinn jumps back with a startled yelp. </p><p></p><p>The ghost is clearly that of Dawn. She doesn't seem to see them. Instead, she seems to be arguing with someone unseen, but soundlessly. Though she shouts, the party cannot hear her. </p><p></p><p>They watch, though. They see her rage and rail at whomever she is talking to, and finally, she turns and rushes from the room, ascending a spiral stairway that leads further up the place. </p><p></p><p>“Let's go!” says Heimall. </p><p></p><p>The party hurries after her, climbing up to the next floor. From the landing, she rushes out into a large room with a large open balcony attached to it, then turns, tears streaking down her cheeks, with her holy symbol in hand.</p><p></p><p>“Is it him?” wonders Iggy. “Is Arawn chasing her?”</p><p></p><p>“Look!” Hkatha cries. </p><p></p><p>There is a faint, wavering image of the person at whom she is directing her tirade. Her face is contorted, and now she seems to be hurling invective at him. </p><p></p><p>“He's wearing more priestly raiment,” Vann-La says. </p><p></p><p>“Higher ranked than her,” Torinn elaborates. “A bishop or something.”</p><p></p><p>Dawn's ghost snaps her holy symbol. The watching heroes fall silent. She hurls the pieces to the ground, backing away from the bishop (or whatever) that is pressing forward after her, shaking his finger. </p><p></p><p>“He's ordering her to do something she won't do,” Cook says. “Look at her face!”</p><p></p><p>“Can we stop him?” wonders Torinn.</p><p></p><p>Hkatha shakes his head. “This already happened. We're too late. Too late by centuries, probably. But we can learn from this.”</p><p></p><p>Dawn keeps backing away, out onto the balcony. To the very edge. The spectral bishop stops his advance, but continues his silent harangue. She screams at him, but our heroes can't hear her words.</p><p></p><p>“She's going to jump,” Iggy says, “isn't she?”</p><p></p><p>And indeed, she looks over the edge, shouts a last soundless curse, and throws herself over. </p><p></p><p>Heimall nods slowly. “That's it, then. That's what drove Arawn over the edge. No pun intended.” </p><p></p><p>For a moment, they all stand silent, mulling over what they have just seen. But then, footsteps sound from the stairs. Vann-La whirls, <em>Killing Spree</em> leaping into her hand. Cook darts into the shadows to the side, and Shak-Gar steps forward, growling, “Gonna dunk on you!”</p><p></p><p>“You are too late.” The voice is cold, sepulcheral. The visage of the helmet it comes from is that of a goat-faced demon. “I have won. Your empire is extinct- and soon, so will be your races.” Half a dozen animate corpses shamble forward around him, spilling into the room. “Whatever ill-conceived notions you have of saving your species, give them up now, for you are in your last moments.” A sword, ill-omened green power spitting from it with a sizzling sound, slips out of the sheath at the figure's hip. The breastplate of its black enamaled plate armor bears a six-fingered hand, clenched into a fist, before a grinning skull.</p><p></p><p>“Arawn,” Heimall says, “stop, we don't want to fight you. We want to help you. We want to help you lay Dawn to rest.”</p><p></p><p>“You dare?!” roars the death knight. He points his sword at them, and green-black flames blossom all around.</p><p></p><p><em><strong>Next Time:</strong></em> The final conflict with Arawn the Black!</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="the Jester, post: 7469136, member: 1210"] “Dawn,” the [i]Silver Rose of Garnet[/i] says slowly. “Her name was Dawn.” The party stares at her portrait. “How did you know her?” Torinn asks. The [i]Rose[/i] doesn't speak for a long moment, and when it does, its tone is full of regret. “I can't really remember. It was so long ago...” It sighs. “I think she bore me. I remember that much.” “What else?” asks Vann-La. “If she used you, she must have been good, right?” Without delay, it answers, “Yes. She was good and lawful both. I know that.” Its voice is anguished. “Dawn! Something must have happened to her.” A pause, then: “I think... I think I may have known Arawn. Yes- I remember now. They were betrothed.” Cook speaks. “Ooi, were they both happy with the betrothal?” “Yes, very... I think. It was so long ago!” “Was he an evil man then?” Heimall asks. “No. She never would have loved him if he was. He was a hero.” Torinn steps up to the mirror and studies himself. The [i]Silver Rose[/i] is cilpped to his cloak. A ghostly form steps forth. Torinn jumps back with a startled yelp. The ghost is clearly that of Dawn. She doesn't seem to see them. Instead, she seems to be arguing with someone unseen, but soundlessly. Though she shouts, the party cannot hear her. They watch, though. They see her rage and rail at whomever she is talking to, and finally, she turns and rushes from the room, ascending a spiral stairway that leads further up the place. “Let's go!” says Heimall. The party hurries after her, climbing up to the next floor. From the landing, she rushes out into a large room with a large open balcony attached to it, then turns, tears streaking down her cheeks, with her holy symbol in hand. “Is it him?” wonders Iggy. “Is Arawn chasing her?” “Look!” Hkatha cries. There is a faint, wavering image of the person at whom she is directing her tirade. Her face is contorted, and now she seems to be hurling invective at him. “He's wearing more priestly raiment,” Vann-La says. “Higher ranked than her,” Torinn elaborates. “A bishop or something.” Dawn's ghost snaps her holy symbol. The watching heroes fall silent. She hurls the pieces to the ground, backing away from the bishop (or whatever) that is pressing forward after her, shaking his finger. “He's ordering her to do something she won't do,” Cook says. “Look at her face!” “Can we stop him?” wonders Torinn. Hkatha shakes his head. “This already happened. We're too late. Too late by centuries, probably. But we can learn from this.” Dawn keeps backing away, out onto the balcony. To the very edge. The spectral bishop stops his advance, but continues his silent harangue. She screams at him, but our heroes can't hear her words. “She's going to jump,” Iggy says, “isn't she?” And indeed, she looks over the edge, shouts a last soundless curse, and throws herself over. Heimall nods slowly. “That's it, then. That's what drove Arawn over the edge. No pun intended.” For a moment, they all stand silent, mulling over what they have just seen. But then, footsteps sound from the stairs. Vann-La whirls, [i]Killing Spree[/i] leaping into her hand. Cook darts into the shadows to the side, and Shak-Gar steps forward, growling, “Gonna dunk on you!” “You are too late.” The voice is cold, sepulcheral. The visage of the helmet it comes from is that of a goat-faced demon. “I have won. Your empire is extinct- and soon, so will be your races.” Half a dozen animate corpses shamble forward around him, spilling into the room. “Whatever ill-conceived notions you have of saving your species, give them up now, for you are in your last moments.” A sword, ill-omened green power spitting from it with a sizzling sound, slips out of the sheath at the figure's hip. The breastplate of its black enamaled plate armor bears a six-fingered hand, clenched into a fist, before a grinning skull. “Arawn,” Heimall says, “stop, we don't want to fight you. We want to help you. We want to help you lay Dawn to rest.” “You dare?!” roars the death knight. He points his sword at them, and green-black flames blossom all around. [i][b]Next Time:[/b][/i][b][/b] The final conflict with Arawn the Black! [/QUOTE]
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