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Morgfyre's Reward
An unnerving, pervasive voice says, "Further, We believe We promised a fitting reward for such a maddening task."
You say, "Oh? What was the reward?"
The Path of Death. (road).
It is uncomfortably cold. Misty clouds form a fog that make the degenerated road positively perilous to travel. Indeed, the glacial fog is so thick that no view is possible, either above or below. The cold air is arctic and breathing is a fight to stay conscious. Colourful and exotic to behold, a blue-crowned paradise parrot preens diaphanous wings of cloud gossamer here, yellow streamers of early daylight dancing about her form. Morgfyre, the Legion floats in the air, chaotic tendrils of nether energy lashing about His form. He wields a serpentine staff of primal energies in His left hand.
You see exits leading north and southeast.
The ghost of a smile passes fleetingly across Morgfyre's lips.
Hinting at twisted delights, a wicked voice says, "Our undivided attentions, of course."
The form of Morgfyre, the Legion dissolves into howling streaks of colour, which disperse into smoky wisps of aetheric ribbons that slowly dissipate.
Enormous viridescent embers blaze into existence, burning reality in their wake as they swarm about you, your environs replaced with a dark, guttering labyrinth. Struggling to comprehend, you offer a crooked, sideways grin to no one as the hideous laughter of Morgfyre swells around you.
Wandering the precipice of insanity.
Tall, wrought-iron torches erupt at regular intervals from the rough-hewn stone floor of this labyrinthine hall, ablaze with malachite flame. The guttering light causes the shadows to sway erratically, at once revealing flashes of walls engraved with unintelligible hieroglyphs and twisting tunnels leading deeper into the earth at impossible angles. Insidious whispers echo from all sides, rebounding again and again across the alien geometries of the passage, speaking of your boldness, your cleverness, your cowardice, your selfishness, your genius, and your insignificance.
There are no obvious exits.
Remarkably uncomfortable, you give yourself a swift once-over. Finding nothing, you frown, laying a palm against your cheek meditatively. Ah, there. You curl your fingers, digging your nails into the flesh of your cheek and drawing blood. If you could peel the skin away entirely, that irksome, restless feeling would depart.
An unnerving, strained giggle pierces through the surrounding whispers, echoing bizarrely against the walls. It sounds again, your throat vibrating from the exertion as it bubbles through your chest. It really is quite funny; you know the way out.
A rasping cough passes your lips, your mouth suddenly astonishingly dry. You clear your throat and only succeed in coughing again, the cough echoed by the faceless voices all around you. Frowning, you move your tongue between your teeth and bite down with all your strength. A coppery tang fills your mouth and you swallow greedily, dizzy with euphoric pain as the cough abates. You are so clever.
The shadows dance and reel between the unearthly flames of the torches, pulling back to reveal a brief flash of your own body, lying crumpled on the ground amid scattered hunks of your own viscera. You blink and shake your head, and the vision is gone.
A persistent itch manifests in your ear. You lift a finger, inserting it into your ear and wiggling it back and forth, to no avail. The itch grows worse, and you dig your finger deeper in an effort to alleviate it. You press harder, and a sudden snap echoes through your skull. Something warm and wet dribbles down the side of your face and neck, but the itch is gone.
A soft voice whispers in your ear, suggesting that you take a short rest. You pause, considering, and feel something heavy slide across your shoulders, punctuated by a low, long hiss. Resolutely, you do not turn your head.
The weight does not lift.
You examine your fingers, marveling in their dexterity. You grip the index finger of your right hand with your left and bend it backward, ignoring the twinge of tension. You press harder, and the bone cracks, you finger swinging backward to lay flush against the back of your hand with a sharp jolt. How very dextrous you are!
A slight dampness runs from your nostril to your upper lip. Hastily wiping it away, you pull your hand back and observe your fingertips stained with slick, fresh blood.
A susurrus of quiet whispers lulls you to inaction. Truly, were you to stay here, you could be master of this place - master of all that you deserve.
As exhaustion settles into your frame, you yawn widely, and your jaw twitches infinitesimally with a slight pop. Pausing, you reach up to feel against your mandible; if you twisted just right, you could dislocate it entirely. Certainly a larger yawn would banish that pesky feeling of enervation.
As the whispers intensify around you, you finally realise the way out of this endless labyrinth. Frantically, you claw at your own neck, skin shredding beneath your scrabbling touch as you lose your grip utterly on sanity. Skin gives way to muscle beneath your clawed fingers, and, finding purchase at last, you tear out your own throat with a triumphant, gurgling cry, painting the floor ahead of you with a horrid spray of blood as you pitch forward, crashing against the stone floor.
You have been slain by Morgfyre.
Kethaera has been slain by Morgfyre.
You say, "Oh? What was the reward?"
The Path of Death. (road).
It is uncomfortably cold. Misty clouds form a fog that make the degenerated road positively perilous to travel. Indeed, the glacial fog is so thick that no view is possible, either above or below. The cold air is arctic and breathing is a fight to stay conscious. Colourful and exotic to behold, a blue-crowned paradise parrot preens diaphanous wings of cloud gossamer here, yellow streamers of early daylight dancing about her form. Morgfyre, the Legion floats in the air, chaotic tendrils of nether energy lashing about His form. He wields a serpentine staff of primal energies in His left hand.
You see exits leading north and southeast.
The ghost of a smile passes fleetingly across Morgfyre's lips.
Hinting at twisted delights, a wicked voice says, "Our undivided attentions, of course."
The form of Morgfyre, the Legion dissolves into howling streaks of colour, which disperse into smoky wisps of aetheric ribbons that slowly dissipate.
Enormous viridescent embers blaze into existence, burning reality in their wake as they swarm about you, your environs replaced with a dark, guttering labyrinth. Struggling to comprehend, you offer a crooked, sideways grin to no one as the hideous laughter of Morgfyre swells around you.
Wandering the precipice of insanity.
Tall, wrought-iron torches erupt at regular intervals from the rough-hewn stone floor of this labyrinthine hall, ablaze with malachite flame. The guttering light causes the shadows to sway erratically, at once revealing flashes of walls engraved with unintelligible hieroglyphs and twisting tunnels leading deeper into the earth at impossible angles. Insidious whispers echo from all sides, rebounding again and again across the alien geometries of the passage, speaking of your boldness, your cleverness, your cowardice, your selfishness, your genius, and your insignificance.
There are no obvious exits.
Remarkably uncomfortable, you give yourself a swift once-over. Finding nothing, you frown, laying a palm against your cheek meditatively. Ah, there. You curl your fingers, digging your nails into the flesh of your cheek and drawing blood. If you could peel the skin away entirely, that irksome, restless feeling would depart.
An unnerving, strained giggle pierces through the surrounding whispers, echoing bizarrely against the walls. It sounds again, your throat vibrating from the exertion as it bubbles through your chest. It really is quite funny; you know the way out.
A rasping cough passes your lips, your mouth suddenly astonishingly dry. You clear your throat and only succeed in coughing again, the cough echoed by the faceless voices all around you. Frowning, you move your tongue between your teeth and bite down with all your strength. A coppery tang fills your mouth and you swallow greedily, dizzy with euphoric pain as the cough abates. You are so clever.
The shadows dance and reel between the unearthly flames of the torches, pulling back to reveal a brief flash of your own body, lying crumpled on the ground amid scattered hunks of your own viscera. You blink and shake your head, and the vision is gone.
A persistent itch manifests in your ear. You lift a finger, inserting it into your ear and wiggling it back and forth, to no avail. The itch grows worse, and you dig your finger deeper in an effort to alleviate it. You press harder, and a sudden snap echoes through your skull. Something warm and wet dribbles down the side of your face and neck, but the itch is gone.
A soft voice whispers in your ear, suggesting that you take a short rest. You pause, considering, and feel something heavy slide across your shoulders, punctuated by a low, long hiss. Resolutely, you do not turn your head.
The weight does not lift.
You examine your fingers, marveling in their dexterity. You grip the index finger of your right hand with your left and bend it backward, ignoring the twinge of tension. You press harder, and the bone cracks, you finger swinging backward to lay flush against the back of your hand with a sharp jolt. How very dextrous you are!
A slight dampness runs from your nostril to your upper lip. Hastily wiping it away, you pull your hand back and observe your fingertips stained with slick, fresh blood.
A susurrus of quiet whispers lulls you to inaction. Truly, were you to stay here, you could be master of this place - master of all that you deserve.
As exhaustion settles into your frame, you yawn widely, and your jaw twitches infinitesimally with a slight pop. Pausing, you reach up to feel against your mandible; if you twisted just right, you could dislocate it entirely. Certainly a larger yawn would banish that pesky feeling of enervation.
As the whispers intensify around you, you finally realise the way out of this endless labyrinth. Frantically, you claw at your own neck, skin shredding beneath your scrabbling touch as you lose your grip utterly on sanity. Skin gives way to muscle beneath your clawed fingers, and, finding purchase at last, you tear out your own throat with a triumphant, gurgling cry, painting the floor ahead of you with a horrid spray of blood as you pitch forward, crashing against the stone floor.
You have been slain by Morgfyre.
Kethaera has been slain by Morgfyre.
Sure, it's the thought that counts, but I feel like he could have just gone with a plushy hamster. Something simple.
"Chairwoman," Princess Setisoki states, holding up a hand in a gesture for her to stop and returning the cup. "That would be quite inappropriate. One of the males will serve me."
14
(c) Iron Realms Entertainment 2012.
Comments
It’s easy to be cruel without meaning to be. There’s nothing you can do about that. But you can choose to be kind. Be kind.’
Estarra the Eternal says, "Give Shevat the floor please."