Thread Status:CLOSED
Players involved: NONE
Characters involved: NONE
Setting: Shrine of Jackroth
Time: Night time just before the shrine goes to lay down for the night. The month is Ganthor and the day is 15th day of the 50 days.
Weather: Clear
![[Image: uZNOoq4.png?1]](https://i.imgur.com/uZNOoq4.png?1)
The night had been so clear. The crescent moon smiled down on the world as it waned. It was silent that night; the sounds of the shrine, nonexistent. The night bell for sleep unrang. No wind, no animals, no sound of life… The only sound that could be heard was a faint drip...drop…
DRIP.
The sound only seemed to get louder deeper inside the shrine. It echoed off the very walls of the offering room, the fire within was dead. The only trace that there had even been a fire that night were the small wisps of smoke curling up from the dying embers. As they died out, so too did the sound of the world, leaving nought but an eerie silence. The normally pristine, pearly floor darkened as every source of light in the room snuffed out, one by one, as a dark liquid seeped across the floor in uneven movements. Slowly it flowed around the base of the pillar that once held the bowl of fire. Just before the liquid could completely encase the base, the fire erupted back to life, casting away the darkness of the room with its blazing light. The shadows fled from the fire, leaping back and taking shelter below a construct that stood in the middle of the room where the gods’ statue had been.
The base was no longer recognizable as a priest lay there, his face pressed on ground in a pool of his own blood. His internal organs lay strewn around him, like a macabre decoration. He held his heart in cold outstretched hands, as if in offering. The body of the statue was gone, instead replaced by the bodies of the other priests and priestesses. They were there on their knees, reaching up, eyes missing, mouths agape, remnants of blood streaming down their bodies. Almost as if they were looking for something, but unable to see it, their faces twisted in pain and fear. Their fingers brushed the skin of a body standing in the center of the mass of people. His body quivered as his lips strained to form a prayer, but nothing happened. His dull eyes drained of life and glazed over as his last breath left him. His arms remained outstretched, held there by magic, his back cut open, skin flayed and pulled back to resemble wings. The bleeding slowed by the same magic that kept him clinging to the only shred of life within him. A constellation of Jackroth could be seen on the left skin-wing; on what had once been the left side of his back. The oracle gave one last shudder as the next and final drop of blood fell. As it struck the base, a spark ignited and flickered to life. The flames leaped up in great strides as it lapped hungrily at the figures. The bodies turned black and crumbled apart as the fire climbed up and up, destroying the image. The fire took on a life of its own, taking on a phoenix-like shape as it consumed the statue. As it ate away at the oracle’s body the skin-wings of the oracle became its wings as the fire consumed them, and with its form now complete the flames burst free to raze the entire shrine to the ground, leaving nothing but ashes in its wake.
Players involved: NONE
Characters involved: NONE
Setting: Shrine of Jackroth
Time: Night time just before the shrine goes to lay down for the night. The month is Ganthor and the day is 15th day of the 50 days.
Weather: Clear
The night had been so clear. The crescent moon smiled down on the world as it waned. It was silent that night; the sounds of the shrine, nonexistent. The night bell for sleep unrang. No wind, no animals, no sound of life… The only sound that could be heard was a faint drip...drop…
DRIP.
The sound only seemed to get louder deeper inside the shrine. It echoed off the very walls of the offering room, the fire within was dead. The only trace that there had even been a fire that night were the small wisps of smoke curling up from the dying embers. As they died out, so too did the sound of the world, leaving nought but an eerie silence. The normally pristine, pearly floor darkened as every source of light in the room snuffed out, one by one, as a dark liquid seeped across the floor in uneven movements. Slowly it flowed around the base of the pillar that once held the bowl of fire. Just before the liquid could completely encase the base, the fire erupted back to life, casting away the darkness of the room with its blazing light. The shadows fled from the fire, leaping back and taking shelter below a construct that stood in the middle of the room where the gods’ statue had been.
The base was no longer recognizable as a priest lay there, his face pressed on ground in a pool of his own blood. His internal organs lay strewn around him, like a macabre decoration. He held his heart in cold outstretched hands, as if in offering. The body of the statue was gone, instead replaced by the bodies of the other priests and priestesses. They were there on their knees, reaching up, eyes missing, mouths agape, remnants of blood streaming down their bodies. Almost as if they were looking for something, but unable to see it, their faces twisted in pain and fear. Their fingers brushed the skin of a body standing in the center of the mass of people. His body quivered as his lips strained to form a prayer, but nothing happened. His dull eyes drained of life and glazed over as his last breath left him. His arms remained outstretched, held there by magic, his back cut open, skin flayed and pulled back to resemble wings. The bleeding slowed by the same magic that kept him clinging to the only shred of life within him. A constellation of Jackroth could be seen on the left skin-wing; on what had once been the left side of his back. The oracle gave one last shudder as the next and final drop of blood fell. As it struck the base, a spark ignited and flickered to life. The flames leaped up in great strides as it lapped hungrily at the figures. The bodies turned black and crumbled apart as the fire climbed up and up, destroying the image. The fire took on a life of its own, taking on a phoenix-like shape as it consumed the statue. As it ate away at the oracle’s body the skin-wings of the oracle became its wings as the fire consumed them, and with its form now complete the flames burst free to raze the entire shrine to the ground, leaving nothing but ashes in its wake.
