Monday, December 19, 2011

The Return - Raising of Altdorf

A breath of wind stirs in the far frozen Northern wastes, high in the heavens, so high, brushing the great darkness.  If the breath cared it would find itself moving South over frozen ice sheets the size of continents.  It does not care.  Ice sheets transform into fractured sea ice, to frozen sea, so cold little can survive.

The breath does not care.

Over raging ocean it moves, becoming a gentle breeze, still so high.  Far below, if it cared to see, something breaks the surface of the raging waters, a fin, tenticles, it broaches creating massive waves, if the breeze cared it would see the monster was as massive as a city.

The breath does not care.

Further South the breath goes.  Lower now, warmer, becoming a wind, a fresh strong wind smelling of salt and sea.  The wind does not care.  Land, cold almost frozen land and barren.  A massive city full of strange beasts not all two legged, a banner cracks, onward South to a fortress, its walls covered in blood written letters, if it cared.  Lower it comes, no longer smelling of sea, no longer fresh, faster it becomes.

Suddenly it moves East, something is drawing it in, it cares not.  Out over sea it goes lower and increasing in speed.  A storm is in the distance, crackling with power, it destroys all it touches, lashing out streams of power the wind is drawn in.  It cares.  Something awakens, tainted.  West, it turns West. Increasing speed, land.

Another city, different to the last. Smoke billows, flames dying.  This city, once of man now devoid of man.  Fingers of stone reach for the skies, blackened and blasted.  On the highest point a creature stands.  Mightiest of his breed, if winds cared for such things.  No longer sea and salt, but sulfur and death, rage has come.

The wind storms, no longer caring, it writhes in fury.

His Most Benevolent Majesty Harakj VII turns, surveying the ruination of man.  He smiles to himself, sacrifice he understands, but this human concept of self sacrifice is something he fails too, he muses over the seemingly unquenchable hope that man has.  The Banner of Woe is beside him and still, it flutters, it snaps taught.  He turns, his clerics have finished another line of prophesy, written on fire blacken walls.  He reads, DROP DOWN YE HEAVENS FROM ABOVE AND LET THE SKY POUR DOWN RIGHTEOUSNESS. A mighty gust blows, knocking Harakj off his feet. The smell of sulfur, burning and death is magnified one thousand fold.  The crack of stone deafens. For the first time in an age Harakj fears.  He looks up.  Red and black, mighty and powerful, muscle and wings.

"I am come"

Hope is despair.

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