Deliverance.

Where the Rodera, Orcs, Goblins and Avians once called home

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Deliverance.

Postby Peter Levy » Mon Nov 12, 2012 2:44 pm

**A lone figure swoops from the air, landing on the northern-most point of the great wall, Gungrol's Deliverance. Built over a century ago, this mighty wall had held back the fiercest of storms from the East. Until last year it had been constantly manned by the Orcs, but then the darkest storm ever to hit Pargon swept away the guard, and almost everyone behind the Deliverance.**

**He looked North. Until a few months ago, the wall gave way to a vast cliff descending into the Heartlands. Now its edge was buried beneath Mount Heart. The mountain was steep, rugged, hard to ascend. But there were still a few roaming ghouls, probing their way around Sinya Palurin, Noore I'Meles and into the Erda Ridge. The figure wanted to remain hidden, and in a flash of power he vanished.**

**Up upon the mountain, at a point where Gungrol's Deliverance would once have stretched, wings could be heard flapping. The sound disappeared, and a small spot of earth was disturbed. A hole; a tiny hole. It was covered, concealed, all but invisible. Another sound of wings beating, and the mountain was again eerily silent.**

**An hour later, a single figure, stooped, with a pair of leathery wings drooping from his shoulder blades was seen walking along the wall. He knelt down, playing with the mortar between the stone of the western edge of the wall. He muttered to himself, and stood up. Checking for signs that he was being followed, he continued his walk along the wall. Several times he would stop and inspect the western side of the top of the wall. As darkness began to fall, the figure incanted again, and disappeared.**

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Re: Deliverance.

Postby Peter Levy » Thu Nov 15, 2012 1:51 pm

**After a couple of days of walking the wall, the winged figure takes to the sky, surveying the land as it stretched out to the horizon. It used to be so beautiful; rolling hills, rich woodlands, clear rivers, painstakingly ordered farmland, ornate fortified settlements. Noore I'Meles, land of Rodera and the Blackskins, is now corrupted. The hills teem with moving corpses, the trees have died, the rivers run a sickly maroon, the crops all failed, the towns are bereft of life and beauty.**

This used to be my home. I did not choose to leave, they forced me out. I have seen so much of the outside world that we... they had considered to weak. If they were weak, we were weaker. I warned them or their blindness!

It's too late to worry about the Council's failings. My failings are greater. It was always my fate to lead, of that I am certain. But I never willed it, not once. Perhaps I did choose to leave... I called the new Council, I united them, I freed their minds. We toiled, we kept ourselves alive. It was a good team. We were winning. But then the Soulless crept up on us.

Well, they sort-of crept up on us. They called in outside help, the embodiment of Dakron's power on Velmaneth. We stripped him of his power, and I consider that some way toward justice. Danahil, Dark Flight, whoever he truly was was no more than a mercenary. His crime is dealt with. The crime committed by the Soulless is greater, and warrants great retribution.

They, through Dark Flight, cowardly poisoned this land. I, probably just as cowardly, took our people away. Away to somewhere safe: the Bastion of Hope. One hundred lives saved, from a nation of many thousands. One hundred.


**He closed his eyes, suppressing his emotions as best he could. He opened his eyes to look at the horde beneath him, and the anger, the loss, the disappointment filled him to the brim.**

I swear by all that I have seen, all that I have learned, all that I am, I shall reclaim this land for its rightful, LIVING citizens.

**He flew high up into the sky, beyond the clouds, and out of anyone's view**

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Re: Deliverance.

Postby Peter Levy » Sun Jan 27, 2013 7:16 pm

**Once again the winged figure was sighted; this time in the foothills of the Erda Ridge. A flash of light and arcs of dark flame may have drawn a few eyes to his location. Three pale, wasted corpses lay beneath him. Two were shredded by some burning blade or other, the third with its abdomen simply... missing. In place of the fallen creature's stomach was a dark metallic object; a sword. The figure threw a sheet of velvet cloth over the sword before any other eyes could see what it was. He fell to his knees and looked up at the sky, his hood falling back to reveal the matted, twisting fur of his head.**

I... Have never felt anything of that nature...

**He looks into the setting sun as he pulls his hood back up, concealing himself as best he can.**

No matter how much armour Ashout lends me, I would never be a warrior. Though I did get a taste of it once, fighting to get to your fallen body before you bled out... But it was just that: a taste. My inexperience with a sword must show; I can barely hold one the right way up. I have known killing; I know how to kill. How to fight, how to do battle, and I have experienced them, each. But for all the tastes of a warrior, I have never felt anything like this. This fury, this passion. I know why you concealed it so long. I know where it came from, I know the powers that created it, I know its purpose. But I had no idea what it actually was. I cannot use it... Not as you did.

**He slowly got up, shaking a little. Carefully, tentatively even, he wrapped the sword in the cloth. He pulled it from the earth, blackened by its power, and tucked it under his cloak. Cautiously, he wandered deeper into the mountains. There would doubtless be more undead around, and he could not guarantee he could contain his anger if he found more.**

No, it is a symbol.

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Re: Deliverance.

Postby Plot Bot » Mon Jan 28, 2013 10:55 pm

As the sun set and the shadow's lengthened, Farrek felt a presence. Turning, he saw the shadow that he cast on the floor behind him seem to step off the floor and become a darkened figure beside him. It looks exactly as Farrek's shadow had done except the shadow of the sword is unwrapped.

"He concealed me because of his fear. Fear of his father. Fear of me. Fear of himself. There is no need to fear me. Do you fear yourself?"

Bane

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Re: Deliverance.

Postby Peter Levy » Tue Jan 29, 2013 3:25 pm

**He was certainly afraid. Of Velnashar's Bane, certainly. Of himself; he hadn't considered it. But yes. He was afraid.**

Whether there is a need or no, I still fear you. Perhaps I do fear myself. I fear what may become of me if I linger around you too long...

**Attempting to ignore the shadow as best he could, he took his Book, and sank the sword into its pages.**

Sleep now. Your time will come, you will cause more destruction than many could imagine. But not until we are ready. Sleep.

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Re: Deliverance.

Postby Plot Bot » Thu Jan 31, 2013 4:41 am

As the sword passed into the book, Farrek's shadow resumed its normal existence and he heard a whisper.

"You can hide me but you cannot hide your darkness."

Bane

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Re: Deliverance.

Postby Peter Levy » Sun Mar 10, 2013 12:49 pm

**By and by, the winged Rodera is seen by the coast. He crouches, burying something, and a sense of connection builds. He is creating something; a line, a boundary, a circle? He spends a while staring out into the ocean. He reaches out across Velmaneth, feeling the flow of magic around it. Few, if any have his sense for power. Across the sea is an island distinctly lacking magic, a large power is building deep beneath Sanga, a power similar to the disease in the domes lingers in the rubble of Ingolé, all four of the Quarin walk the earth. Beyond Velmaneth, the gods are stirring, the Shadow Plane is shifting, a great power has left the Hopewastes. He could no longer sense himself; he had trained to conceal himself. Focusing on one specific power, a sword, he locates the Orcs, and seeks them out to deliver his message.**

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Re: Deliverance.

Postby Peter Levy » Thu Jun 06, 2013 6:13 pm

**Farrek flies under the Zeppelin; beneath the island in the sky. He finds a spot roughly in the centre. There's a little crack in the rock, into which he wedges something. Something shiny, humming with magical energy. He twists it until it is firmly wedged. He sighs an expectant sigh, and returns to the surface.**

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Re: Deliverance.

Postby Peter Levy » Fri Jun 07, 2013 12:57 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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