I'm the one to blame. I was a little intimidated because I had never role played before. Tonight I'll read over all the material, sleep on it, and in the morning I will write up an [pro]logue.
I'm ready whenever- Need something to do on the site while I'm sifting through my latest hate mail Besides, I really wanted to play with this character.
Weapon of Choice: Magic, but a short sword at the ready.
Bio:
Galaphile remembers:
Long, dark tunnels, filled with the endless dead. Corporeal and grotesque manifestations of the spirits- the Undead. They were strewn about him, raising their limbs and shaking appendages with weary and cumbersome movements. Their eyes would seem empty to all but the knowing Spirit Wielder, a Necromancer of the truest kind whose White Magicks were being tested beyond the brink. His own essence transcended the horrific scene about him, transcended the chaotic and terrifying screams of the aching dead. Shades of light emanated from his mind and body, echoing through the living world and going beyond it- to that which is forbidden the mortal eyes. To the land of the dead.
Rathma had taught: There is to be balance. Always. If there is not, establish balance in its absence. Only then will the true cycle of life and flow of spirits be complete and unified- in life, and its inevitable counterpart, death.
The living dead about him must be made balanced. They must be made restful. Their existence are animation was an abomination to the balance.
Galaphile stretched his spiritual being from host to host, testing each possessed manifestation. There were floods of terrible human sufferings- starvation, loneliness, suffocation, anguish- the bodies were rife with them. The whole crypt was rife with them. The balance was upset. The spirits had been wronged in life and must be put to rest.
He firmly took hold of their spiritual hosts, grappling with them one by one, his own living body shaking and trembling, being molested and beaten by not only the spiritual excursion, but also the physical pains of the dead trying to destroy his physical focal point. He could not lose his living body- if he did, his spirit would be losed to the same damnation that these poor souls endured for centuries. He must not lose focus, he must not die. Not yet.
The lights of high spiritual presence were floating and flying about the great crypt- passing about pillars and through skeletons and decaying flesh- inhabiting anything that they could find hospitable. The spirits were becoming more hostile. Galaphile could not fight them off on his own- his spirit was too weak. The Priests had not prepared him for such a task as this- they did not predict such loathsome hostility in the crypt. It was worse than they had feared.
The spirits began to shoot through his body- piercing his very soul. With each pass, he felt a metaphysical chilling pain course through him, his own light shade beginning to lose from his corporeal body.
He could not put it off any longer. It had to be done. Losing his glove, he pulled his fine stone wand from his belt.
It was all he could do to hold his concentration and begin small incantations to focus his power so that he might gather the spirits to one single focal point so that he could deal with them all at once. So that he could deal with their suffering, with their pain, all at once.
It was risky, but he could not fight them all.
"Recolligo silenti etc,
Signum sursum suum poena,
Redimio lemma,
Signum lemma,
Obfirmo phasmatis volo!"
It was a harsh whisper as it all came from his mouth, his hand cuffed closely about his wand as the symbols about it flared to life with enchanted power. Under normal circumstances, he would have banished the vile spirits, perhaps even without an incantation. They were too strong and too numerous, however. They needed to be dealt with differently.
Besides, they would provide good fodder for his own conjurations later, if necessary. Their spirits were hostile and powerful enough.
No sooner had he finished the Incantation of Spirit Binding than the lights of death began to pour in to his own body. Hundreds of them, their pains and sufferings nearly overwhelming- their baleful screams and cries the only thing filling his mind. Any lesser Necromancer would have lost his being at this point. Galaphile was stronger, though. He would be stronger. He had to be.
The last bits of death shade filled his body, flashing for only a little moment longer until they were fully absorbed. The bodies of the dead dropped to rest about him, grimy, rough finger nails and limbs that had been mauling his body falling uselessly to dusty death. His mind reeled with the afflictions of the dead. His body convulsed and spasmed under the mental and spiritual strain. His eyes struggled to regain vision of the physical world after ingesting so much spiritual energy. He struggled not to let his stone wand fall from his grasp or the seal could not work and they would be released again, tearing his own soul with them.
With a shaky hand, he groped for his bone knife. Fumbling upon a twisted handle, he yanked it free of its leather binding and jammed it in to his chest. Though streaks of pain seared through him and his ribs cracked from the heavy and deep stab, he did not relent, lest he lose his soul. He carefully but slowly carved in to his flesh, very deeply, ancient runes of power adapted from the southern swamps who housed the ruins of ancient Sorcerers. As his own blood left him, he was filled to overflowing with new, spiritual blood. It was dangerously invigorating and seductive, and Galaphile mustered all his being to resist its power.
Finally, the sealing was complete. With a final wave of nauseating pain and terror, the spirits were locked deep within his flesh, his body a prison to the dead. He managed a brief sigh as his bloody body collapsed onto the dusty stone floor, ancient bones crunching under his weight. It was not a practice that was permitted, sealing the dead in such a way, but it was his only choice.
Several hours later he managed to climb from the labyrinthine depths of the crypt, ascending to the Sealed Chamber of the Hall of Testings. Priest Coai walked hastily to him, wrapping an arm about Galaphile's form. He met his gaze with determination, "They are finished, the Souls of the Starving."
Coai nodded, "A difficult task. I and the other local priests of Ra'Thul had not foreseen such a hostility in the dead. When someone dies of such a primal suffering, however, things can become nasty in the afterlife."
Galaphile only nodded weakly.
"Ah, forgive me, you are obviously weakened from the endeavor. Come, follow me." Caoi kept his arm about Galaphile, bringing him out the stone-block building, the Hall of Testings, and down its many stone steps.
I need time to struggle with my new found demons, he thought quietly to himself. Rathma willing, Caoi will never need know what manner of spell I sowed to contain those beings.
-------
Caoi had taken Galaphile to his small hut on the edge of the priests' dwelling area and set him on his bed. Galaphile was asleep instantly, gone in to that strange realm beyond the waking eye where one dealt with other issues than the physical. It was not long until the voices began.
Hear us, hear us! they screamed in his mind. Sealed we are, and now you bear what we had suffered in life. Listen, hear!
He felt as though his body was tossed from the sky, and he came to rest on a pile of bleached bones in a dark chasm. He saw about him the spirits of those sealed within him and, despite his training, was terrified. Their metaphysical, dreamworld bodies were grotesque and twisted forms of human shades, their eyes betraying only emptiness and longing, such dreadful longing that Galaphile could feel their eyes' weight on his own soul. Their suffering had ended, it was now his- their purpose, however, after their death had yet to be finished, it seemed.
What manner of dreadful curse befell you that you should haunt a man in his resting hours?
Curse? Curse?! What manner of curse would cause a mother to be taken from her children, slaughtered in the public places for all those gloating fools to see? What manner of curse would take a son from his family and throw his blood upon the flagstones, for his faith was found lacking? What manner of curse defeats freedom and laces its bearer to a dark death in agony and loneliness? Tell us, tell us! What do you know of curses, young Necromancer?
They circled about him, their eyes grown wild and hungry as they displayed their sufferings momentarily and then returned to their state of longing. Galaphile could see wrapped about each of the spirits the same binding glyphs he had carved on his own flesh in the form of spiritual chains and fetters.
So, if not a curse, what troubles you, lost ones? Why do you persist in your deaths?
There is, to the north, a large city, whose name we will not utter in our deaths, for fear of opening old memories- a large and grand city whose history is painted in blood and sacrifice. There the faithful gather and snuff out all who do not accept their mantle and charge. Go there, for another task is needed, one that requires you.
They began to close about him in their ever-tightening circle of ghastly forms. What manner of task? What would be more balancing than bringing death to the death-givers abundant?
They hissed in unison, their bodies crouching low as if to incline one to a whisper. You know of a great world beyond Sanctuary whose name is Burning- from whence comes a great Evil. No, Three!
They began to spin around him in a dance of macabre and death, reciting a dreadful mantra:
One in Purpose, Three in Part, Terror, Hate, Destruction; Banished from the Burning Lands And now to Men Awakened.
Go! Go! Go to them! Find their power, squelch it! For in their Wake the Demons Come And Men will Live no more!
So it is written in the Eaves of Fate, in the Book of Dooms. Go forth, our time is done and message heard. Our purpose is finished, now we go. Let not our suffering to have been in vain!
In an instant they were caught up in a great whirlwind. Galaphile was knocked from his dreamtide feet and thrown from the pile of bones in to the darkness, falling... Falling...
-------
He awakened to a humid, misty morning, as always in the deep Eastern Jungles. The dream was the only thing on his mind. Remembering the fetters of the spirits, he quickly looked at his chest to see if the runes had scarred over.
They were gone.
That meant that the spirits had freed themselves- their purpose had truly been fulfilled. Their words came back to him in his waking mind. He must go north to find a great city, whose history was paved in blood and sacrifice and whose dwellers are the faithful. It was an easy enough riddle.
Cool, can't wait
Name: Galaphile
Age: 24
Skill Trees:
-Poison and Bone Spells
Weapon of Choice: Magic, but a short sword at the ready.
Bio:
Galaphile remembers:
Long, dark tunnels, filled with the endless dead. Corporeal and grotesque manifestations of the spirits- the Undead. They were strewn about him, raising their limbs and shaking appendages with weary and cumbersome movements. Their eyes would seem empty to all but the knowing Spirit Wielder, a Necromancer of the truest kind whose White Magicks were being tested beyond the brink. His own essence transcended the horrific scene about him, transcended the chaotic and terrifying screams of the aching dead. Shades of light emanated from his mind and body, echoing through the living world and going beyond it- to that which is forbidden the mortal eyes. To the land of the dead.
Rathma had taught: There is to be balance. Always. If there is not, establish balance in its absence. Only then will the true cycle of life and flow of spirits be complete and unified- in life, and its inevitable counterpart, death.
The living dead about him must be made balanced. They must be made restful. Their existence are animation was an abomination to the balance.
Galaphile stretched his spiritual being from host to host, testing each possessed manifestation. There were floods of terrible human sufferings- starvation, loneliness, suffocation, anguish- the bodies were rife with them. The whole crypt was rife with them. The balance was upset. The spirits had been wronged in life and must be put to rest.
He firmly took hold of their spiritual hosts, grappling with them one by one, his own living body shaking and trembling, being molested and beaten by not only the spiritual excursion, but also the physical pains of the dead trying to destroy his physical focal point. He could not lose his living body- if he did, his spirit would be losed to the same damnation that these poor souls endured for centuries. He must not lose focus, he must not die. Not yet.
The lights of high spiritual presence were floating and flying about the great crypt- passing about pillars and through skeletons and decaying flesh- inhabiting anything that they could find hospitable. The spirits were becoming more hostile. Galaphile could not fight them off on his own- his spirit was too weak. The Priests had not prepared him for such a task as this- they did not predict such loathsome hostility in the crypt. It was worse than they had feared.
The spirits began to shoot through his body- piercing his very soul. With each pass, he felt a metaphysical chilling pain course through him, his own light shade beginning to lose from his corporeal body.
He could not put it off any longer. It had to be done. Losing his glove, he pulled his fine stone wand from his belt.
It was all he could do to hold his concentration and begin small incantations to focus his power so that he might gather the spirits to one single focal point so that he could deal with them all at once. So that he could deal with their suffering, with their pain, all at once.
It was risky, but he could not fight them all.
"Recolligo silenti etc,
Signum sursum suum poena,
Redimio lemma,
Signum lemma,
Obfirmo phasmatis volo!"
It was a harsh whisper as it all came from his mouth, his hand cuffed closely about his wand as the symbols about it flared to life with enchanted power. Under normal circumstances, he would have banished the vile spirits, perhaps even without an incantation. They were too strong and too numerous, however. They needed to be dealt with differently.
Besides, they would provide good fodder for his own conjurations later, if necessary. Their spirits were hostile and powerful enough.
No sooner had he finished the Incantation of Spirit Binding than the lights of death began to pour in to his own body. Hundreds of them, their pains and sufferings nearly overwhelming- their baleful screams and cries the only thing filling his mind. Any lesser Necromancer would have lost his being at this point. Galaphile was stronger, though. He would be stronger. He had to be.
The last bits of death shade filled his body, flashing for only a little moment longer until they were fully absorbed. The bodies of the dead dropped to rest about him, grimy, rough finger nails and limbs that had been mauling his body falling uselessly to dusty death. His mind reeled with the afflictions of the dead. His body convulsed and spasmed under the mental and spiritual strain. His eyes struggled to regain vision of the physical world after ingesting so much spiritual energy. He struggled not to let his stone wand fall from his grasp or the seal could not work and they would be released again, tearing his own soul with them.
With a shaky hand, he groped for his bone knife. Fumbling upon a twisted handle, he yanked it free of its leather binding and jammed it in to his chest. Though streaks of pain seared through him and his ribs cracked from the heavy and deep stab, he did not relent, lest he lose his soul. He carefully but slowly carved in to his flesh, very deeply, ancient runes of power adapted from the southern swamps who housed the ruins of ancient Sorcerers. As his own blood left him, he was filled to overflowing with new, spiritual blood. It was dangerously invigorating and seductive, and Galaphile mustered all his being to resist its power.
Finally, the sealing was complete. With a final wave of nauseating pain and terror, the spirits were locked deep within his flesh, his body a prison to the dead. He managed a brief sigh as his bloody body collapsed onto the dusty stone floor, ancient bones crunching under his weight. It was not a practice that was permitted, sealing the dead in such a way, but it was his only choice.
Several hours later he managed to climb from the labyrinthine depths of the crypt, ascending to the Sealed Chamber of the Hall of Testings. Priest Coai walked hastily to him, wrapping an arm about Galaphile's form. He met his gaze with determination, "They are finished, the Souls of the Starving."
Coai nodded, "A difficult task. I and the other local priests of Ra'Thul had not foreseen such a hostility in the dead. When someone dies of such a primal suffering, however, things can become nasty in the afterlife."
Galaphile only nodded weakly.
"Ah, forgive me, you are obviously weakened from the endeavor. Come, follow me." Caoi kept his arm about Galaphile, bringing him out the stone-block building, the Hall of Testings, and down its many stone steps.
I need time to struggle with my new found demons, he thought quietly to himself. Rathma willing, Caoi will never need know what manner of spell I sowed to contain those beings.
Caoi had taken Galaphile to his small hut on the edge of the priests' dwelling area and set him on his bed. Galaphile was asleep instantly, gone in to that strange realm beyond the waking eye where one dealt with other issues than the physical. It was not long until the voices began.
Hear us, hear us! they screamed in his mind. Sealed we are, and now you bear what we had suffered in life. Listen, hear!
He felt as though his body was tossed from the sky, and he came to rest on a pile of bleached bones in a dark chasm. He saw about him the spirits of those sealed within him and, despite his training, was terrified. Their metaphysical, dreamworld bodies were grotesque and twisted forms of human shades, their eyes betraying only emptiness and longing, such dreadful longing that Galaphile could feel their eyes' weight on his own soul. Their suffering had ended, it was now his- their purpose, however, after their death had yet to be finished, it seemed.
What manner of dreadful curse befell you that you should haunt a man in his resting hours?
Curse? Curse?! What manner of curse would cause a mother to be taken from her children, slaughtered in the public places for all those gloating fools to see? What manner of curse would take a son from his family and throw his blood upon the flagstones, for his faith was found lacking? What manner of curse defeats freedom and laces its bearer to a dark death in agony and loneliness? Tell us, tell us! What do you know of curses, young Necromancer?
They circled about him, their eyes grown wild and hungry as they displayed their sufferings momentarily and then returned to their state of longing. Galaphile could see wrapped about each of the spirits the same binding glyphs he had carved on his own flesh in the form of spiritual chains and fetters.
So, if not a curse, what troubles you, lost ones? Why do you persist in your deaths?
There is, to the north, a large city, whose name we will not utter in our deaths, for fear of opening old memories- a large and grand city whose history is painted in blood and sacrifice. There the faithful gather and snuff out all who do not accept their mantle and charge. Go there, for another task is needed, one that requires you.
They began to close about him in their ever-tightening circle of ghastly forms. What manner of task? What would be more balancing than bringing death to the death-givers abundant?
They hissed in unison, their bodies crouching low as if to incline one to a whisper. You know of a great world beyond Sanctuary whose name is Burning- from whence comes a great Evil. No, Three!
They began to spin around him in a dance of macabre and death, reciting a dreadful mantra:
So it is written in the Eaves of Fate, in the Book of Dooms. Go forth, our time is done and message heard. Our purpose is finished, now we go. Let not our suffering to have been in vain!
In an instant they were caught up in a great whirlwind. Galaphile was knocked from his dreamtide feet and thrown from the pile of bones in to the darkness, falling... Falling...
He awakened to a humid, misty morning, as always in the deep Eastern Jungles. The dream was the only thing on his mind. Remembering the fetters of the spirits, he quickly looked at his chest to see if the runes had scarred over.
They were gone.
That meant that the spirits had freed themselves- their purpose had truly been fulfilled. Their words came back to him in his waking mind. He must go north to find a great city, whose history was paved in blood and sacrifice and whose dwellers are the faithful. It was an easy enough riddle.
He must go north, to Kurast.