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Suggestion A lore suggestion post

Immortal

Immortal

Because Jay promised to give $2 to the first person to do this, and I had not much else to do.

The man stumbled through the twisting landscape. His breath was ragged from exhaustion, but that was but an insignificant hurdle when putting it before his grand goal.
His prize for these weeks and months of arduous travel through the lifeless landscape of the Silent Graves.

He could see it now. The titanic structure loomed menacingly, its menagerie of spikes and concentric circles dizzying to behold.
The veined surface under his feet got more jagged. Skeletal hands clawed through the powdery rock, grasping at the first life they had seen in millennia before crumbling back into the primordial rockscape.

He was closer now. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He felt the presence of a being. Someone...powerful.

And then, in a swirling cloud of jet black smoke and tendrils of darkness, a figure materialized a few meters before him. He..or she, for how could one attribute gender to such a being, was clothed in dark robes and a hooded robe that seemed to absorb all light around it,
and held a massive gray scythe with one hand.

Swallowing his fear, the man spoke, 'I wish to meet someone. Someone who I just lost.'

The dark figure leaned closer. He tilted the scythe until the tip rested on the man's chest.

*What's he doing?* the man wondered until he briefly looked down. His feet were translucent and smoky, their substance ebbing into the dark aura of the figure

'What are you doing?' the man screamed, feebly clawing at his ankles to stop the vapor from escaping, but in vain. The smokiness spread up his body and crossed his chest.

Just before he was consumed completely, he heard a gravelly voice, the rattling of a thousand bones, sound from all around him. 'Of course. You shall become one of them.'
 
Immortal

Immortal

Yet another, almost unrelated lore suggestion. Here we go!

'Another!' he exclaimed, banging the glass mug down on the counter. Raucous laughter filled the room as the near-awed bartender filled his sixth mug of rum. His bulky steel armor clanking, he lifted the glass and chugged it entirely at one go, the people seated around the heavily clad knight encouraging him all the way. A few seconds later, he lifted the empty glass triumphantly and slammed it down before the bartender, who jumped, startled. A few seconds later, the others in the room were cheering for him again as he chugged down his seventh glass of rum.




He stumbled out of the pub. Struggling to balance on his two legs, he walked a few feet before leaning heavily against a nearby stone wall. While the former champion of many battles (both martial and vinous) had a notoriously high resistance to intoxication, nobody can down eight glasses of rum and still walk straight.

He shook his head briefly to attempt to clear his head, but in vain. But while doing so, he spotted a woman in the shadow of a nearby cathedral. She was robed in dark purple and black robes, a hood veiling her face from being seen.
The knight smiled, his beleaguered mind assuming that she was a shy admirer who wished to meet him. He beckoned to her with one hand. With a slight limp, she stepped forward and out of the shadows.

'Sir Bartholomew The Second?' she asked, with slight nervousness and a Tabian lilt. He grinned and replied 'Ah, how lovely. My reputation precedes me.'. 'Indeed it does', the woman said with a slight smile. 'So how did you find out about me? My prowess as a commander or my invulnerability in battle?'. This time, the woman gave a full-blooded laugh, and if his mental facilities had been coherent, Sir Bartholomew would have noticed that the nervousness and lilt were gone. 'Neither. Instead, I was told that you were a boastful weakling who could be defeated by a peasant if they but had the will to do what was necessary.'

At that, he drew his sword. Even his addled mind could tell that she was mocking him. Though his sword wobbled and swayed, his hand struggling to hold it still, five feet of glistening metal cleaver was still a formidable sight. 'Lady, I don't know who you are, but you'd better apologize'.

The woman's smile widened. After a brief pause, she began walking towards the knight. His intoxicated mind overreacting, he lunged forward and ran the woman through the chest with the weapon.

For a brief moment, both the knight and the woman stared at the blade embedded in her chest. His addled mental faculties briefly clearing in horror at what he'd done, he pulled the sword out of her body. Staring in revulsion at the purplish fluid coating the blade, he dropped it on the ground.

And then the woman continued to walk forward.

Now weaponless and terrified beyond all belief, he turned around and tried to run.

That was his fatal mistake.

In a blur of motion, the lady's arm flashed out, and Sir Bartholomew's eyes rolled up in his head as a tiny dagger buried itself in the back of his neck. Stopping briefly, his body fell to its knees and keeled forward, laying still.



'What happened?' the Mage asked a passerby who was standing a little bit away from a huge crowd. The man looked at him curiously before replying, 'You must be living under a rock if you haven't heard this piece of news. The general's nephew was found dead on the pavement. Something about drinking too much shoddy rum.' Before he had finished the sentence, the Mage had run into the crowd, pushing his way to the center. He reached a tiny clearing in the mass of people which he now knew was centered around a body lying on the floor. He only saw it for a second before being shoved out of the way, but the sight made his blood run cold.

It had been marked with the Sigil Of The Queen.
 
Last edited:
KabbyDankGod

KabbyDankGod

Wiki Team
Wiki Team
Baron
Aight here's my addition to this post.


The crowd's rowdy chatter echoed throughout the city, almost the whole country had gathered in the capital. It was a special day after all. The ecstasy filled mass of people flowed through the cities many alleys and main streets. Ale and meat being bought left and right, there was no stop to the trance-like partying.


Hours passed before noon hit as the cathedrals bells rang, the sound alerting everyone. ‘It’s happening!’ the mob of people shouted in excitement. It was time for the main attraction. The square before the cathedral was jam-packed to it’s fullest. The high-commander of justice Sir. Theothol Lustre ambling up from within the cathedral, with a group of lord paragons marching after him. After the squad of gold fitted paladins followed a man of large stature. The half-giant Nartor, the chief in command executioner of the whole country. The sea of citizens cheered them on, some of them fainting at the pure sight of this god-like squadron of monstrous knights.


The turning of gears could be heard by those close to the stand, as a portion of the floor retracted. Following the opening of the deck, a cloaked person emerged from within it. The figure was bound to a pillory made out of lightly glowing stone and on closer inspection, dark seals were covering the rock. Theothol laughed at the sight, before turning to the crowd. “We have someone important in front of thy faces.” One of the paladins pulled the man's head up, the hood of the cloak revealing his scarred face. The people who could see the individuals unruly mug were filled with terror as they completely froze in place. Theothol took out his sword of myths, pointing it towards the man. “We the great paladin of this holy land have captured none other than… Arch scumbag Menstoga.” As this was announced, the rest of the attendees fell silent. A second passed, and another. The crowd jumped up in awe for the paladin. Whistling and clapping filling the square and the surrounding area. Everyone praised Theothol and his force of the elite. “Silence peasants!” the exhausted Archmage shouted in fury. His voice boomed and overthrew the uncontrollable mobs' praises. Theothol would inch his blade closer to Menstoga’s neck, the outer layer of his skin bursting open making him fall silent. “Now! Time to hear this deviant mage’s last words.”


“His kind of criminal doesn’t deserve any last words!” an avid supporter shouted. “Yeah just kill him!” Another shouted. “We want to see the blood flow out of his pathetic body!” A third called out. The rest of the people joined in quickly, boos filling the air. “Hush! We don’t want to fall down to his trash level!” Theothol said trying to calm the blood-hungry citizen. “Now mutter out your last words, fool.” The drunken crowd started to quiet down as the stage was now the Archmages. Menstoga would cough, a few drops of blood spilling out. “For the queen!” he murmured. Theothol and the crowd started to cry out laughing when the man still tried to keep his pride. “Well those were kind words, I’ll send her your regards. Now Nartor, It’s your turn.” The giant man walked up the stairs and onto the stage with a large claymore at least nine feet long comfortably sitting in his grasp. He’d groan a few times while stepping up to Menstoga. Nartor would take a deep breath before raising his sword high into the sky. “I raise this sword up towards the heavens, so I wish that this poor sinner is granted eternal life.” Nartor prayed to the gods before slamming the blade down towards the Menstoga’s neck. “Fool!” Menstoga uttered out in his last breath.


A large crack was heard by everyone in the near vicinity. A flash of light quickly blinding everyone. As they regained their sight, Nartor’s holy executioner’s sword was cracking from the tip to the hilt. With a quick breeze of wind, the sword decayed and turned to dust, carrying on past the crowd. Menstoga’s body started to glow in a dark purple light, as he started to grow, becoming so big it cracked the shackles binding him. “You’ve made a grave mistake Theothol.” Menstoga slyly mentioned as he kept growing, nearly reaching twelve feet tall. His cloak was now torn apart, revealing his ripped body with a glowing emblem on his back. The innocent people started fleeing, but it was now too late. Ten large magic circles surrounded all opening to the square. Menstoga looked up laughing hysterically. Large waves of mana flew towards Theothol and his paladin who quickly pulled out their shields in an attempt to protect themselves. Cries of agony and terrifying screams could be heard as the waves shredded anyone in their path to bones. Even Theothol, the strongest known paladin in the country was quickly ruptured into a volcano of blood. The only person left on the stand was Menstoga, who had now raised his arm up, pointing his finger towards the clouds above. “The god of destruction and lightning, fill me with the power to defeat the heretics in thy presence.” The demon-like man beseeched. The clouds were now pitch black and shining with currents of lightning. A singular flash of light hit Menstoga directly, forming a thick armor of lightning around his body. “Praise the Queen!” He shouted as a thousand lightning bolts rained down towards the city. Within the blink of an eye, Menstoga and his allies were gone, the city now left to ruins.


A few days later, a group of mages flew over the now-abandoned city. They couldn’t believe their eyes when they saw the remains. A large print was made in the city… the Sigil of the Queen.
 
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