The Deliverance of Noore I'Meles

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Peter Levy
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The Deliverance of Noore I'Meles

Postby Peter Levy » Fri Jun 07, 2013 8:52 am

**It is noon. Some of the Rodera step through the Gate of I'Meles, seeking a different life elsewhere. The others wait for what is coming. With several people gone, the Zeppelin begins to descend. Farrek Char steps up to the middle of the island, where his sword lies dug into the earth. He grasps the handle, which is connected by barely visible threads of magic to each soul on the island, and concentrates. The Zeppelin spirals gently down, coming to a rest at almost the exact centre of Noore I'Meles; between whatever's left of Gutlar and Ronas, on the shore of the Great Lake. He yanks the sword from the ground, and the island groans, its edges cracking as it settles into the earth of Pargon. The magical filaments dissolve, and there is a moment of absolute stillness.**

The time has come. Our time. Your time. My time.

**He places the ancient Roderan blade into the same belt loop that had carried it for five years, and produces two more weapons: a purple orb atop a venerable wooden staff, and a shadowy sword embellished with skulls and barbs. The staff draws cool air around it, soothing its bearer. The sword should be too heavy to wield in one hand, yet carries itself, urging its bearer to destroy. Something beneath the landed Zeppelin seems both connected and repulsed by the sword. The gods are watching.**

For two years we have watched our world crumble. For two years I have watched the rest of the world fester in their inaction. For eighteen months we have been running. We ran to Coshwood Isle. We ran from Coshwood Isle. No more! We will not run. The Dead shall not inherit our home. If that means wiping the slate clean, so be it.
Soon, one will claim the sword of I'Meles, and they will guide you into our new world. I want you to keep in your minds the power of magic; a respect for the god Onlurin. I know you will keep in your minds the power of unity; a knowledge that as a people, we are stronger than we can know. I hope you will remember today as a victory; the day we stop running, and begin building our new future.


**He nods to Lorax On-Eye, who approaches and lays a white roll of leather on the ground in front of Farrek. They nod, knowingly at each other. Lorax is a peculiar man, but a sound leader for now. Farrek turns to Mother Mollal, the other Councillor of the Rodera. Her face is stern as always. She would watch over the people, perhaps keep Lorax in check. Farrek smiles. His mind turns to the others who have given him hope and strength. His friends across Velmaneth,from Sundairs to Rilla, from Reuben to Erathil, Rosanki, D'Arvan, Vynrael, Singe, Jin'ro, Flash, Sylas, Gizmo, even Ashout, and so many more faces. One in particular: Quayle.**

To the end...

In the beginning of this world, there was not nothing. There was something. There's a whole world of ideas about what that something was, but no matter what it really was, from this something came Eremine. She opened her eyes, and the void was filled with lights. She breathed out the very essence of creation, she embodied the very essence of creation. Eremine took form. Her power coalesced into a great, shining jewel. The power of creation scattered through the void formed into moons, which shaped this world we call Velmaneth. The earth, the seas, the skies, living things, and their freedom.

But this was not the first time it had happened. Velmaneth had already existed, but it was broken. In moments it was unmade, removed from existence, annihilated. It returned to whatever the something was. And then Eremine sprang forth once more. She formed the Jewel, her moons were born, her son was formed. All this in a quest for perfection.

Today we strive for perfection. Today we invoke the power to annihilate,to undraw the map. Today we invoke the power to create, to redraw the map.


((Open Ritual Circle 288))

**He kicks the leather bundle, and it unrolls revealing a map of Velmaneth. Most of its features are obscured by a shifting sea of blue-black ink. A small tin ship floats just above the surface of the map around where Ingolé used to be. A small flat stone sits at the centre of Noore I'Meles. The blue-black tide slowly approaches the stone; the Soulless are approaching. Farrek stares at the map, and visibly rages.**

This is our world. This dark, ruined mess. We have divided the land between the peoples. Noore I'Meles is my home, so that is where I'll begin. Over the last year I traced our entire nation's borders. Periodically, I have placed little bone beads in the ground. I call the power of magic, pure and balanced. Metamagic, and the power to Ward an area. By the power of this circle, by my will, and through my six cirlces of Metamagic, let the wards rise around our borders as marked by the beads. Let them rise above Noore I'Meles, and delve deep below it. Secure our land with all the power of Meta, all the power of our will. Let none pass in or out of Noore I'Meles, save for the Gate of I'Meles. And none shall pass through that but the Rodera. I invoke Gebo, rune of balance to bring up the wards. By my power, let this be channeled over immunity. Let them stand until the bearer of the Blade of I'Meles bids them drop.

**From the inner edge of Gungrol's Deliverance in the East, from the tops of the cliffs of the South and West coasts, and from the base of the Erda Ridge a shimmering ring of magic rises, and circles into the sky, slowly closing above Farrek's head. A great opalescent dome, that slowly fades from view, but whose power is still tangible. In the circle, Farrek seems to shrink slightly, his hair greying as he throws all of his Metamagic into the circle.**

Onlurin, hear my call. I once told you I would ask for more rules to be stretched. Now hear my request: that for this rite I am now enacting, that the land taken from Coshwood Isle become the caster, not I. Let all effects I invoke manifest not from me, but from the edge of this land-island. You know what I offer, you know what I plan, you have seen that our people will think on you as our land is reborn.

**He flaps his wings and slowly ascends. He holds the Staff of Eremethal up high.**

A brave and noble man had a dying wish. He did not want to see the fate of the world in the wrong hands. He wanted to see the power in the right hands. He thought of me. Perhaps selfishly, I gave the responsibility on. I passed over the role of Anointed one of the Cosmic Path to Singe. She wanted it, I never did. I am flattered, and honoured that Lophaetus turned his mind to me. With the Prince of the Storm Elves in mind, I call the power of Eremethal.

This stick is the Staff of Eremethal. A focus on Velmaneth of the power of the heavens. Today I call its power, I call the power of Eremethal, I call the fury of the storm. Each time I look at that map showing our world covered in the filth of Quarin, my blood boils. A storm rages inside me. Now let that storm be felt across Noore I'Meles. From the edge of the Zepellin up to the wards of our borders, let the winds rise!


**The air begins to fizz with energy. All across Noore I'Meles, dust rises from the earth and twists up in tornadoes. The hordes of undead sway as they are battered by the gales. Across Velmaneth, the winds change course, being drawn into the storm. Farrek holds the Staff above his head, and sweeps his sword up the haft. It shatters into dozens of shards, which shoot out into the air around the Zeppelin. The winds pick up, circling ever faster around the ritual. A great hurricane sweeping across Noore I'Meles, bombarding the deserted cities, the empty fields, the Soulless armies. The great canopy that had previously borne the earth in the sky is buffeted by the storm, and begins to twist, tightening the lines that tether it.**

This great canopy has saved our lives. So now let it continue to act as our shield. I call the power of Asternia to this place. I invoke Dagaz, rune of light, and call Lady Asternia's gaze to us. Lady Asternia, lay now upon our canopy. Soon the fury of the sun will be upon the land. Shield our little island of life. A child of your plane has spent much time here, I'm sure he'd agree we're worth saving.

**Farrek smiles and descends to the map. He holds the sword, Velnashar's Bane, the blade of Quayle point down. He carefully digs the point into the map. He traces the border of Noore I'Meles, the blade burning into the leather. He crouches down, sliding the blade along the map, scraping away the top layer. The top, blue-black stained section of map crumbles to ash, then to vapour, then to nothing. In its place is left a blank, crude space, with a stone at its centre. This is the Noore I'Meles to be.**

Quayle, before you ascended, you said you'd do me a favour. I probably don't need to ask, but this is where I'm calling it in. We will level Noore I'Meles. As I have stripped away the surface of the map, so shall the storm and the sun and the light peel away and unmake the land of Noore I'Meles. Beneath the Zepellin is the half of the Tear. This will serve as the symbol of Eremine; as the seed from which the new Noore I'Meles will grow.

But now I turn to this sword. Bane. A weapon crafted from the finest weapons in existence. This is where my part in its story comes to an end. The sword that killed a god is the perfect symbol for this rite. I commit this blade to the storm. Let its power, its destructive, fiery violence shred the forces of Quarin, and cleanse the land of their taint!


**He throws the sword with all his might, and it almost seems to fly of its own accord. As it touches the edge of the hurricane, it slowly unravels: a shining plume of pure magic, a dark gloomy smoke, a burst of unholy fire, the absence of anything, and a million shards of truest steel. The storm swells with the power of Velnashar's Bane, tearing into the ground. Rocks are flung into the air, tearing through the weaker walking dead. The Soulless armies at the border try to flee, but are trapped. Across all of Pargon, the ground begins to tremble.**

Now to the sun. I invoke the rune Thurisaz, rune of fire. Your rune, Quayle. Scorch the earth! Send your fire, your destruction. Let the Storm of Noore I'Meles burn with the intensity of the sun. There's a lot of undead here. Wipe them out! Genocide! Tear the land apart until the depth of its corruption has been charred away.

**From above, the sun seems to shine brighter and hotter. The clouds burn away as its rays concentrate on the Southwest corner of Pargon. The air shimmers with the heat as the hurricane warms up. The temperature rises uncontrollably. The lake bubbles, the dead trees catch light, the bones of the horde are charred. But on the island, all is still, calm and cool. The shadow of the Canopy shields the Rodera. Farrek draws the ancient Roderan Blade of I'Meles.**

My name is Farrek Char, son of Talen Farrek. I am leader of my people. The sword chose me, and by that I am chosen as leader. I have led us in our escapes from oblivion, but now I must lead us into a new future, and a new permanent home. Into this circle I place all my essence, my capacity to shape the world. I give all that I could have been. If this version of this incarnation of this world could have been different and I had more to offer, I offer that. All my essence, from all possible futures, let it flow into the storm.

**Farrek lifts off the ground slightly, and the winds intensify. Slowly, the storm is stripping away the land. He takes a leather-bound roll of papers out from the back of his belt.**

For my whole life I have studied Light magic. I have mastered it as best as I can. Today I will unlearn; granting all my Light to the storm. I invoke Dagaz, rune of Light. Into this rite, this storm, I dedicate the sixth circle; the power to appear elsewhere, to call light down from the sun. Into this rite, this storm, I dedicate the fifth circle; the power to turn aside blows, to bend light's rays from sight. Into this rite, this storm, I dedicate the fourth circle; the power to release the mind from shadow, to transmit magic across the world. Into this rite, this storm, I dedicate the third circle; the power to move as fast as light, to summon forth the rays of the sun. Into this rite, this storm, I dedicate the second circle; the power to penetrate the shadows and reveal the invisible, to determine fact from fiction. Into this rite, this storm, I dedicate the first circle; the power to bend rays around you, to embody a moment of pure light.

**As he tears each circle of magic from him, he pulses with light. A bright glow emanates from him, and into the Zepellin. An aura of Light magic builds up in a column in the eye of the storm. Farrek unrolls the pile of papers, and slowly rises into the air.**

For nearly six months I have been crafting this. Over one hundred and fifty scrolls of Light Storm spells of the fifth circle. Each one is attached to a scroll detailing the contingency by which they will be released. Now I give whatever else I may. The experience, the power of more than two-dozen Rodera, my power, my experience, my skill. I commit my very being, my mind, my will, my Soul, my blood imbued with the power of the first of the Light Elves. As I release the scrolls, let that power, the make-up of Farrek Char be added to the storm. So as Noore I'Meles is unmade, let me be unmade. I invoke Jera, rune of the Celestials, Berkano, rune of Life, the unnamed Rune of Magic, of the world, and Gebo, rune of balance, creation and Eremine, and Raidho, rune of the Rodera.

So, my friends, my kin. I trust your new world will be brighter. I trust your new world will be wiser. I trust your new world will be stronger. Goodbye. Today, we see our Deliverance.


**As he utters the last word, the roll of scrolls shines out with a blinding power. It streams out into the column of light magic, which swells and brightens. The power of one of the most potent Light Mages Velmaneth has seen in recent times boosts the ritual further. A ball of blinding light, a miniature sun grows until it meets the edge of the storm. With an almighty flash, the whole of Noore I'Meles is bathed in pure, white light. All is silent for a couple of seconds. Across the world, the sky seems darker. And, quick as it expanded, the light fades. In the wake of this mighty lightstorm, Noore I'Meles appears from the outside to be covered in a thick, pink mist. A sea of mist covers the land. From within the eye of the storm, the Rodera uncover their eyes and look to where Farrek was. There is no sign of him. The ancient sword of the Rodera, the Blade of I'Meles falls from the sky, and lands blade first at the centre of Zeppelin, embedding itself into the rock. All is still. The Rodera take a few moments to let the events sink in. Their home is gone, unmade, reduced to nothingness. Now it will regrow. A whole new world.**


((tl;dr http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A5q7XOzvTNg))

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