The Descent. ACT 1. What is Necropolis? Is it another world in the Frey, like our world? Yes and no, my darling. You see, its not a world like Ragnalon. Its the dark sibling of Ragnalon, made whole by gloom and darkness. Dark magic, Necromancy, Necros legacy, whatever you like to call it. I was into it. Fascinated by it, enthralled by a spell craft that was not of the worlds I knew. Sorcery allowed a person to do many wondrous things with knowledge at hand. Beomancy allowed a person to harness the power of imagination. Divinity allowed for better discipline. But Necromancy was quite different. I had no clue what fuelled it. Discipline? Knowledge? Imagination? Although the answer to this question eluded me, I was determined to find it. My colleagues consistently warned me to stay away from dark magic, for it would lead me down to madness, and misery. Paying no heed to their warnings at the time, being so young and foolish, I kept up my studies of the dark arts. I robbed graveyards of corpses, and experimented on them. I could only cast simple Necrotic spells, and certainly not the stuff of legend. I tried to raise multiple corpses, and failed several times before success reared its ugly head. The corpse rose up, with a pained moan. His eyes were jet black, aside from his pupils, which were blood red and glowing. I asked this monstrosity a multitude of questions, since I had never created a living undead before…well, living in the hypothetical sense. He never answered any of my questions, but finally said something completely unrelated to my queries, and in a language that I had never heard before. Sá sem ferðast niður Náheima, er merktur sem Káði eftir að sál fyrstu fórnar er fleygð. These words befuddled me. What did they mean? So many questions rose, and I didnt get any answers from the corpse. It collapsed into a pile of meat and bones before I could ask it anything more. The language sounded like some strange version of the dialects spoken by the people of Sothenheim, the southern region of Ragnalon. I looked for someone who knew this language, and I found only one man. A fellow scholar of spell craft by the name of Arjhan whom I first met in Ebonyr some years ago. He told me that this language is called Necrotic , from which all Sothenheim languages are derived from. Language of the undead people of Necropolis. I was intrigued to learn what he knew, but he only knew the sound of the language, and certainly had no clue what the words meant. I did not give up, as I searched Ragnalon for more lore about Necromancy. Since all Sothenheim languages are originally derived from the necrotic language, I decided to start my search there. Sothenheim makes up the entire southern part of Ragnalon, and includes the nations of Osgorod, Snaeland, Kythor and Rinmark. Kythor was the northernmost region, and the most civilised by far. Osgorod was pretty much just a mountain region, Snaeland was a large island far out at sea (some debate that it is not a part of Sothenheim), and Rinmark is just a collection of tundras. So I started my search in Kythor. I sought out any Sorcerer I could find, and asked them about the necrotic language. No one knew anything, and alas, I was about ready to give up my foolish quest. But, after days of relentless investigation, I happened upon a fellow who told me something useful. In response to my queries about the language, he said Necrotic, eh? tis a dangerous road you be travelling down, stranger. I know of only one person whos been to were youve been, and he aint all there anymore, He pointed at his head , if you catch me drift?. I asked him where I could find this man. He shook his head. Man? Man! He chuckled to something only he found funny, for I was not amused in the slightest. She aint a man, mate. Shes a woman. he said with a grin. She lives all the way in Snaeland, on the southern tip, near the town of Wyrmstead. How could a woman learn the secrets of Necropolis? This I did not understand, so I thanked the man for his information, and set out for Snaeland. The journey was harrowing, and I lost a toe to the ordeal. I spent a night in the town of Wyrmstead, and headed out to find this woman the next morning. The land was treacherous, and I was attacked by several humanoid fiends. It didnt take long before I had grown distinctly weary of this dreadful place. When I finally found the womans hideout, she greeted me warmly. Only when her face entered the light of the campfire, could I make out the grotesque humanoid features on her face. She was a troll, and an ugly one, even by their standards. I said hello, and she smiled, revealing pitch black teeth. I politely asked for her name, and she replied I am Gryla, oracle of the land of eternal snows. I gave her my name, and asked her what she could teach me about the necrotic language, and necromancy in general. Necrotica? She said Thats a language only spoken by the death born people of Necropolis. Why do you seek to learn it? I told her that I was just curious. What she told me was startling. To know Necromancy and its language is to know pain. Sorcery is powered by knowledge, beomancy by imagination, and divinity by discipline. Necromancy is powered by the pain from the soul. To learn the language is arduous, and I can teach you. The more pain you have suffered through your life, the more powerful you will become. I asked her to give me an example. The pain of a broken heart is probably the most potent of all soul sickness. Love is a powerful force, and it has the power to utterly destroy a person…or, perhaps make that person more powerful? she cackled with insane delight. I felt uncomfortable, but insisted that she would teach me what she knew of the language. She agreed, and I spent the next couple of years learning the ancient language of Nátunga or so she called it. When the first words were spoken, a chill ran down my spine. It was an unwelcome feeling that made my hair stand on end. Something about this language…bothered me. ACT 2. Years passed, and I finally mastered the necrotic language. Gryla said that my vocabulary was still off, and that I could not pronounce some words properly. I felt it was enough, so I asked her to teach me better Necromancy. She refused. I asked her why she didnt want to teach me. I look into your soul, and see no misery strong enough to power your dark spells. You are still young, and have a lot to learn…and a lot to suffer through. She answered with a sinister grin. I was furious to say the least. I had come all this way just to learn a language. It was very frustrating, and I went back home to Draconia. I slept in my bed, studied the notes I had taken with Gryla, and kept up my studies of the language. Gryla told me that it would help in the future to know this language, so I kept it up. Eventually I decided to write a book called Necronomicon detailing all the lore I had collected about Necromancy. Gryla taught me that Necromancy has existed ever since Necro, the heartless god, died at the hands of our god, Ragnar. From Necros kadavon came the world Necropolis, just as Ragnalon came from Ragnars kadavon. Necros children, Nexion & Nexia, used the remaining kadavon to create a fourth well of magic at the base of the Frey. This was the Spring of darkness, the source of misery in all of the Frey. This is what created Necromancy, or so the story said. Personally, I did not believe this at the time. I did not dismiss it however, and added it to the ever-growing Necronomicon. Seldom did I leave my house in downtown Swanbrook. I wrote all the knowledge of the language in this single book, and used sorcery to lengthen the amount of pages when I had run out. When I had finally written all of my current knowledge down into the tome, I started a new adventure of discovery. This time, I intended to find out how I could become more powerful in Necromancy. I went to the library, and started researching the subject. Not a long time passed until I bumped into someone. Looking up from my tome, I was awestruck by the beautiful sight in front of me. Icy blue eyes, golden yellow hair, fair skin. She apologised for bumping into me, but I told her there was nothing to worry about. She seemed to be interested in me, so I asked her out. We went to the local inn, and got to know each other better. Her name was Fjola, and she was an intern from Kythor, to the south. The following months went by like a breeze of cool summer air. I had never been so happy in my life. She brought me so much joy, and laughs. We went to her place one night, and made love on her bed. All the painful years of studying under Gryla had paid off…or so I thought. That very night was when the first one hit. The first dream. I was in a very mountainous region, with the skies being coal black, and the clouds devoid of any life. Snow was everywhere, but it did not melt into water when I grabbed it. It turned to ash, and drifted away. Suddenly, I struggled to breathe. I gasped for air, trying to inhale. I looked up, and in front of me stood a hooded armoured figure. The only aspect of his face visible were a pair of shocking white eyes, with the rest of his facial features obscured by perfect darkness. His arms were bare with fingerless armoured gloves, and his skin was pale. I tried to speak, but my tongue fluttered in vain. He kneeled down to me, and said Ást blómstrar í vöku hryggðar. I woke up with a scream. The following days were distressing, for this nightmare was always in the forefront of my mind. I kept wondering who or what that figure was in my dream. Fjola kept me occupied for the next two years, and my studies of Necromancy came to a stop. I didnt care anymore. So fixated was I on Fjola, and all the wondrous things she brought to my life. For a long time we lived in Swanbrook, until I met a man called Torinn. He offered me a job I could never even dream of doing in my naive youth. He offered me a position as an illustrious enchanter in Balmora Academy. The academy was in the city of Dale. This most fortuitous opportunity excited me, for Dale was located in Kythor, Fjolas homeland! Fjola missed her homeland dearly, often mentioning it during our conversations. I was ecstatic to have the chance to move there with her. It was like a dream come true. So off we went to Kythor, homeland of the Kelts. The first year in Dale was wonderful. I met new friends, Fjola reunited with hers, and life was good in general. Fjola was so happy with me, that she asked for my hand in marriage. Apparently the women ask for marriage in this part of the world. I of course said yes, and we got married a few months later. Then one night another one hit. When the first strange nightmare hit me, a year ago at that time, I simply dismissed it as a simple dream. But this one alarmed me considerably. I was surrounded by trees on all sides. Looking at one of the trees closely revealed bones jammed into the trunk. I backed away quickly, and tripped on something. I regained my footing, only to witness to my horror what I had tripped over. Fjola was lying on the ground in front of me, completely covered in blood. I wept for my beloved, and didnt notice that I was holding a blood drenched dagger in my right hand. I cried out in fright, and tossed the dagger out of my hand. My hands were covered in blood. Her blood. The blood of my love! I dropped to my knees and wept. My tears were of blood and sorrow. She died, and I didnt know why. I felt a hand gently touch my shoulder, and a voice saying Gráttu eigi fyrir hennar hendi, lundafari. I snapped upright, and looked behind me. In front of me stood a heavily armoured man. His helmet had two horns on it, and a single opening, where his icy blue eyes were the only feature visible to any degree. He wielded a gigantic sword. Gráttu frekar fyrir þína hönd. Hrakningar þínar verða töluvert verri. Days after this dream hit me, Fjola had become increasingly worried about my mental health. She said that I spent too much time researching, and rarely went outside. It took a long time for me to forget this horrifying nightmare. The mere thought of Fjola lying in a pool of her own blood sent shivers down my spine. My head felt like it was gonna explode. These dreams were a message. They were connected in some way. I picked up my Necronomicon and started writing the dreams down, making sure that I would not forget them. Then I tried to investigate the dreams, trying to connect them to a common theme. Months went by, and I was unable to connect the dreams. The only thing that connected them was the fact that both featured a person speaking the necrotic language. This meant nothing to me at the time. I felt like my sanity was becoming frayed. I was under a lot of stress because of my new job as an Enchanter. Fjola told me they were simple dreams. At the time I believed her. She was never wrong, and who was I to question her wisdom. It wasnt just her, my new friends told me the same. So I put down the Necronomicon once more, and resumed to live my life as I saw fit. More years passed, and Fjola told me she was with child. I was livid, but panicked at the same time. The idea of being a father was a totally new experience for me, and I had no clue how to handle it. Our child was born in the winter, before the Yule festival, in the month of Fyrne. A girl we named Inga, in honour of Fjolas grandmother of the same name. Raising a child turned out to be a lot harder than I thought. Fjola was very good at raising a child, and so our child grew up to be a fine Mage. What path she chose…remains to be seen. Then one winters night, 10 years later, it happened yet again. The third and final nightmare hit me like a brick to the face. I was in a ruined city. Blood and corpses were rampant everywhere I went, and battles raged between brothers and sisters. Dead men fought one another for sport, laughing with delight when the killing blow was struck. They ignored me, for reasons unfathomable to me. I saw a man raping a defenceless victim, and I intervened to stop him. He proved stronger than me, and punched me in the face. Hví verndar þú hina veiklyndu, lundafari? He stabbed me through the stomach with a serrated blade. The blade hurt me, but did not kill me. I listened for my heartbeat. I heard nothing. Von Káðana er að lina sínum eigin þjáningum. I looked behind me, and saw a man clad in black armour. His helmet looked like a face with a gaping maw, with fangs. His crimson eyes were the only thing visible from his face, and they pierced into my soul. I demanded to know what he wanted from me. Hvað ég vill þér skiptir fáum málum. Ef þú þarft að vita hver ég er lundafari, komdu til mín. Þessi káði bíður eftir þér, með örvæntingu. His words sent me into a shock. The blood and pain from the blade in my chest was enormous, but it did not kill me. Why? I woke up with cold sweat running down my brow. The smell in the air was unpleasant. It was familiar to me. Blood? I looked to my left, and saw that Fjola was covered in blood! Her blood! My own blood! I held the dagger in my hand, and there was a taste in my mouth so horrid, I could not think. It tasted like…flesh. Her flesh! I inspected the rest of her body, and saw a large chunk of her flanks had been devoured. I vomited all over, revealing that the contents in my stomach were of human flesh, bloody and putrid. My daughter was in the next room. There was no time to explain this to anyone. I had to protect my daughter from this sight. I made no sound. I stifled the panicked screams rising inside me, and planned to hide her own mothers body. I was in the middle of the city, so the sewers were not a bad choice. Suddenly, a presence inside me awakened. A voice in my head said Stýfðu og torgaðu. Ást lífs þíns á ekki skilið að vera enn eitt hræ í holræsum Dalarbæjar. Étu hennar hold, og vertu runninn af okkar rótum. I ate her. Her eyes sloshed in my mouth, her skull cracked, and her brain was in my gut. I did not cry, for it would wake my daughter. My stomach was close to bursting when the deed was done, and the voice spoke again. Minn hlýri, það mundi vera mikið grimmdarverk ef dóttir þín mundi alast upp án foreldra. Sparaðu henni kvalinar, og endaðu ævi hennar meðan hún er enn ung og saklaus. Stýfðu og torgaðu! I did not obey the voice. And to this day, I havent. I wont! ACT 3. Now we enter the present day, and I sit here writing the last pages of my cursed book. What I have seen, and what I have done is unforgivable. I have become one of them, and in time, they will take me away. The voices in my head speak to me still. The three beings of nightmares and darkness call to me, and speak my new name. Eddusprænir These three beings spoke to me in my nightmares, and yelled my name. The three signs of darkness. When I learned the language of the dead, my life was already over. My death was simply delayed by one simple fact: I was not miserable enough for ascension. So they waited. They waited for the chance to break me, and in time, they finally did. I write this because they are coming for me. It is unlikely that this book will ever reach you, but if it does, read it once, and then burn it. They are here! Oh gods, I cant get out! I love you Inga! *the rest of the pages are covered in blood*
Posted on: Thu, 31 Oct 2013 10:38:14 +0000
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