verlandes.
rollspelskollektivet
En patron till Shadowdark (jag har delat denna förut, i en tidigare version)
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WRNUs kreativitetskalender 2025
- Thread starter krank
- Start date
Troberg
Sinister eater
- Joined
- 27 Jun 2001
- Messages
- 18,012
Nästa rapport från Waverider, nu färdas ett par av besättningen över öknen tillsammans med ökennomaderna.
The desert sang at night.
For two weeks, Rahim and Kethra had traveled with the Tazulmar, the centipede riders of the Dune Sea. The Waverider could not cross the sands, and so the two had been sent inland to chart the passes and mark the hidden wells, a task no outsider could survive without the nomads’ guidance.
Now, as the Shar’zul rested half-buried in the dunes, the tribe sat around their fires, singing songs that wound like smoke through the dark. The air trembled with the beat of hollow drums, the hiss of sand against shell, and the faint metallic whisper of wind over endless dunes.
Kethra sat beside Rahim, wrapped in her cloak. The firelight caught the brass fittings of the Tazulmar instruments, the glint of tattoos on dark arms. Beyond the circle of flame, the desert stretched away into blackness, vast and empty, its silence threaded with the sigh of drifting sand.
Rahim’s eyes were elsewhere.
Something had moved. A ripple of shadow at the edge of the dunes, too smooth, too slow to be the wind. He stood, silent. Kethra reached for his sleeve, but he was already walking, his steps soundless on the sand.
She cursed softly, grabbed her sword, and followed.
The songs faded behind them, replaced by the breath of the desert, a living, endless exhale. When Kethra crested the first dune, Rahim was gone. Only his footprints marked the slope, already half-covered by shifting sand.
Then she saw him, standing alone on the flat below.
And with him, something else.
A man-shaped figure rose from the darkness, tall and thin, wrapped in veils that moved though there was no wind. Its skin was black as obsidian, its eyes twin fires burning through the night. When it spoke, its voice was like sand poured through a hollow drum.
“Who walks in my shadow?”
Rahim did not bow. “A soldier,” he said. “One who has fought men and monsters alike. I would prove myself against a djinn.”
The being tilted its head, as though considering. Then it smiled, a slow, bright curve of light across its dark face.
“So you are,” it said.
Flame rippled along its arm. A curved sabre of flame formed in its hand.
Rahim drew his blade.
They met in a rush of sparks and wind. Steel struck flame. The sound was like thunder swallowed by the sand. Each movement left afterimages, flashes of light, lines of motion too swift for sight. Kethra watched from the rise, breath caught, unable to move. She knew this was Rahim’s test, for him alone.
They fought until the dunes themselves seemed to breathe with them. Neither yielded. Neither bled. Then, as if by unseen accord, they broke apart.
The djinn lowered its weapon. The flame flickered once, then died.
“You are worthy,” it said. “Tested by man and djinn alike.”
It bowed deeply, not in defeat, but in respect, and vanished. The air shimmered, heat fading into stillness. Only Rahim remained, his blade buried in the sand, his chest rising with slow, steady breaths.
Kethra ran to him. “Are you...”
He smiled faintly, eyes still reflecting fire that was no longer there. “Alive,” he said. “And seen.”
For a moment she just looked at him, the distance between them filled with something wordless, fragile as the space between heartbeats. Then she nodded. “Come on. The Tazulmar will think the dunes have swallowed us.”
They walked back together, side by side, their shadows long and close under the twin moons.
When they reached the fire, the songs were still rising, slow and winding, like prayers. The centipedes stirred in their sleep, the desert wind turned warm, and the stars above burned like distant watchful eyes.
Kethra sat beside Rahim again, closer this time. Neither spoke.
Around them, the Tazulmar sang on, songs of dust and djinn, of pride and passing, and in the rhythm of the drums, Rahim thought he heard an echo of laughter, deep, soft, carried by the dunes.
For two weeks, Rahim and Kethra had traveled with the Tazulmar, the centipede riders of the Dune Sea. The Waverider could not cross the sands, and so the two had been sent inland to chart the passes and mark the hidden wells, a task no outsider could survive without the nomads’ guidance.
Now, as the Shar’zul rested half-buried in the dunes, the tribe sat around their fires, singing songs that wound like smoke through the dark. The air trembled with the beat of hollow drums, the hiss of sand against shell, and the faint metallic whisper of wind over endless dunes.
Kethra sat beside Rahim, wrapped in her cloak. The firelight caught the brass fittings of the Tazulmar instruments, the glint of tattoos on dark arms. Beyond the circle of flame, the desert stretched away into blackness, vast and empty, its silence threaded with the sigh of drifting sand.
Rahim’s eyes were elsewhere.
Something had moved. A ripple of shadow at the edge of the dunes, too smooth, too slow to be the wind. He stood, silent. Kethra reached for his sleeve, but he was already walking, his steps soundless on the sand.
She cursed softly, grabbed her sword, and followed.
The songs faded behind them, replaced by the breath of the desert, a living, endless exhale. When Kethra crested the first dune, Rahim was gone. Only his footprints marked the slope, already half-covered by shifting sand.
Then she saw him, standing alone on the flat below.
And with him, something else.
A man-shaped figure rose from the darkness, tall and thin, wrapped in veils that moved though there was no wind. Its skin was black as obsidian, its eyes twin fires burning through the night. When it spoke, its voice was like sand poured through a hollow drum.
“Who walks in my shadow?”
Rahim did not bow. “A soldier,” he said. “One who has fought men and monsters alike. I would prove myself against a djinn.”
The being tilted its head, as though considering. Then it smiled, a slow, bright curve of light across its dark face.
“So you are,” it said.
Flame rippled along its arm. A curved sabre of flame formed in its hand.
Rahim drew his blade.
They met in a rush of sparks and wind. Steel struck flame. The sound was like thunder swallowed by the sand. Each movement left afterimages, flashes of light, lines of motion too swift for sight. Kethra watched from the rise, breath caught, unable to move. She knew this was Rahim’s test, for him alone.
They fought until the dunes themselves seemed to breathe with them. Neither yielded. Neither bled. Then, as if by unseen accord, they broke apart.
The djinn lowered its weapon. The flame flickered once, then died.
“You are worthy,” it said. “Tested by man and djinn alike.”
It bowed deeply, not in defeat, but in respect, and vanished. The air shimmered, heat fading into stillness. Only Rahim remained, his blade buried in the sand, his chest rising with slow, steady breaths.
Kethra ran to him. “Are you...”
He smiled faintly, eyes still reflecting fire that was no longer there. “Alive,” he said. “And seen.”
For a moment she just looked at him, the distance between them filled with something wordless, fragile as the space between heartbeats. Then she nodded. “Come on. The Tazulmar will think the dunes have swallowed us.”
They walked back together, side by side, their shadows long and close under the twin moons.
When they reached the fire, the songs were still rising, slow and winding, like prayers. The centipedes stirred in their sleep, the desert wind turned warm, and the stars above burned like distant watchful eyes.
Kethra sat beside Rahim again, closer this time. Neither spoke.
Around them, the Tazulmar sang on, songs of dust and djinn, of pride and passing, and in the rhythm of the drums, Rahim thought he heard an echo of laughter, deep, soft, carried by the dunes.
verlandes.
rollspelskollektivet
En rival i min gamla Electric Bastionland-kampanj. Förnäm guvernant med ett stort svärd.
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Troberg
Sinister eater
- Joined
- 27 Jun 2001
- Messages
- 18,012
I dessa juletider kan det vara intressant att se hur man firar högtider i andra länder. Waverider-expeditionen är i Itzalcoa och ser hur de firar högtider (eller, egentligen, hur de firar allt...).
The jungle was quiet when they entered Itzalcoa. Too quiet, Gato thought, the kind of silence that meant everything was watching.
They moved through heat and shadow, the air thick as blood. Even the trees seemed alive, their trunks painted with old prayers, their roots littered with bones.
“Tracks,” Decimus murmured.
Gato crouched beside him. Footprints, deep and uneven. Bare feet, shackled. A trail of dragging iron.
They followed the path until the trees fell away, and the valley opened like a wound.
Below, a procession wound toward a city of gold and smoke. The captives shuffled in chains, flanked by warriors in jaguar skins. Sunlight struck their obsidian blades until it hurt to look.
Gato felt his throat tighten. “How many?”
“Hundreds,” said Decimus. “Maybe more.”
From that height, the city looked almost holy, a dozen ziggurats gleaming under the haze, rivers shining like molten metal. Only the smell betrayed it: incense, sweat, and the copper tang of blood.
They descended under cover of dusk. The closer they crept, the more the illusion crumbled. The golden walls were streaked with red. The air vibrated with drums that never stopped. Every street held shrines where hearts still steamed in the bowls, racks upon racks of impaled skulls.
By night, they reached the arena.
The crowd roared like a storm. Torches flickered over thousands of painted faces. In the pit below, bound men faced armored warriors who circled with slow delight. When one captive ran, the jaguar-man laughed and smashed his club into the man’s leg, breaking it like twigs. The crowd cheered.
Gato turned away. “They’re toying with them.”
Decimus’ face was shadowed. “I’ve seen men fight for life before. Slaves, thieves, soldiers. I've done things I'm ashamed of in the arena as a slave. But this... Nothing like this...” He shook his head. “This isn’t sport. It’s ritual.”
They moved on, deeper into the city’s heart, each street worse than the last. Slaves dragged bodies from the ziggurat steps, singing softly through cracked lips. Priests in crimson robes scattered ash from the volcano, tracing spirals in the air. Every wall seemed to whisper.
By dawn, the great festival began.
The drums changed, slower now, deeper, like the heartbeat of something buried beneath the earth. The captives were led up the ziggurat, their bodies painted white, their faces numb. Smoke coiled from censers of burning flesh.
A priest stepped forward, black obsidian knife raised high.
The chant grew faster. The sun turned red through the ash.
The knife cut. Slowly, leisurely, deliberately. Cuts meant to cause pain, but prolong the suffering before the final release of death.
The scream that followed didn’t sound human.
Then another. And another.
Gato’s stomach twisted. “We have to stop this.”
Decimus didn’t move. His eyes were hollow. “And then what? Kill them all? Burn their city? You can’t kill a faith, Gato.”
Gato’s voice cracked. “So we do nothing?”
“We live,” Decimus said quietly. “Long enough to remember what we saw.”
They left as the volcano rumbled, the sound blending with the chants. Smoke rose behind them like the breath of the gods.
Two days later, still walking through the jungle, they heard voices, a small caravan of captives, bound and stumbling under guard. A dozen men and women, their eyes already dead.
Gato looked to Decimus. The older man said nothing.
The ambush was silent. Arrows from the dark. Knives from behind. The guards fell before they could shout.
Gato cut the ropes. “Run,” he said. “North. Don’t stop until the trees thin.”
The freed captives fled without a word. The last looked back once, eyes wide with disbelief, then vanished into the green.
For a long time neither spoke.
Gato wiped blood from his blade. “That felt good.”
Decimus leaned on his spear. “It did. But it changed nothing. We saved a dozen. Thousands will still die.”
Gato looked toward the trail where the captives had vanished. “Maybe. But we saved a dozen.”
Decimus nodded once, weary. “Then that’s twelve the gods will starve of tonight.”
They moved on, the drums of Itzalcoa still echoing behind them, fading into the jungle’s heartbeat, but the memory was etched forever in their minds.
They moved through heat and shadow, the air thick as blood. Even the trees seemed alive, their trunks painted with old prayers, their roots littered with bones.
“Tracks,” Decimus murmured.
Gato crouched beside him. Footprints, deep and uneven. Bare feet, shackled. A trail of dragging iron.
They followed the path until the trees fell away, and the valley opened like a wound.
Below, a procession wound toward a city of gold and smoke. The captives shuffled in chains, flanked by warriors in jaguar skins. Sunlight struck their obsidian blades until it hurt to look.
Gato felt his throat tighten. “How many?”
“Hundreds,” said Decimus. “Maybe more.”
From that height, the city looked almost holy, a dozen ziggurats gleaming under the haze, rivers shining like molten metal. Only the smell betrayed it: incense, sweat, and the copper tang of blood.
They descended under cover of dusk. The closer they crept, the more the illusion crumbled. The golden walls were streaked with red. The air vibrated with drums that never stopped. Every street held shrines where hearts still steamed in the bowls, racks upon racks of impaled skulls.
By night, they reached the arena.
The crowd roared like a storm. Torches flickered over thousands of painted faces. In the pit below, bound men faced armored warriors who circled with slow delight. When one captive ran, the jaguar-man laughed and smashed his club into the man’s leg, breaking it like twigs. The crowd cheered.
Gato turned away. “They’re toying with them.”
Decimus’ face was shadowed. “I’ve seen men fight for life before. Slaves, thieves, soldiers. I've done things I'm ashamed of in the arena as a slave. But this... Nothing like this...” He shook his head. “This isn’t sport. It’s ritual.”
They moved on, deeper into the city’s heart, each street worse than the last. Slaves dragged bodies from the ziggurat steps, singing softly through cracked lips. Priests in crimson robes scattered ash from the volcano, tracing spirals in the air. Every wall seemed to whisper.
By dawn, the great festival began.
The drums changed, slower now, deeper, like the heartbeat of something buried beneath the earth. The captives were led up the ziggurat, their bodies painted white, their faces numb. Smoke coiled from censers of burning flesh.
A priest stepped forward, black obsidian knife raised high.
The chant grew faster. The sun turned red through the ash.
The knife cut. Slowly, leisurely, deliberately. Cuts meant to cause pain, but prolong the suffering before the final release of death.
The scream that followed didn’t sound human.
Then another. And another.
Gato’s stomach twisted. “We have to stop this.”
Decimus didn’t move. His eyes were hollow. “And then what? Kill them all? Burn their city? You can’t kill a faith, Gato.”
Gato’s voice cracked. “So we do nothing?”
“We live,” Decimus said quietly. “Long enough to remember what we saw.”
They left as the volcano rumbled, the sound blending with the chants. Smoke rose behind them like the breath of the gods.
Two days later, still walking through the jungle, they heard voices, a small caravan of captives, bound and stumbling under guard. A dozen men and women, their eyes already dead.
Gato looked to Decimus. The older man said nothing.
The ambush was silent. Arrows from the dark. Knives from behind. The guards fell before they could shout.
Gato cut the ropes. “Run,” he said. “North. Don’t stop until the trees thin.”
The freed captives fled without a word. The last looked back once, eyes wide with disbelief, then vanished into the green.
For a long time neither spoke.
Gato wiped blood from his blade. “That felt good.”
Decimus leaned on his spear. “It did. But it changed nothing. We saved a dozen. Thousands will still die.”
Gato looked toward the trail where the captives had vanished. “Maybe. But we saved a dozen.”
Decimus nodded once, weary. “Then that’s twelve the gods will starve of tonight.”
They moved on, the drums of Itzalcoa still echoing behind them, fading into the jungle’s heartbeat, but the memory was etched forever in their minds.
verlandes.
rollspelskollektivet
Rickard
Urverk speldesign
Cool karta. Saknar lite motivationer till vad som kan hända. Punkterna var inte tillräckligt för mig.
verlandes.
rollspelskollektivet
Hm, tråkigt. Jag kan gilla sån här lite vagare äventyrstext, särskilt när man spelar med mindre barn och det mer blir lekspel - men det är kanske en smaksak!
Edit: tänker överlag att denna tråd mest är lustfylld, detta äventyr kastade jag ihop för några år sedan för att spela med barngrupper på bibliotek och förskolor!
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Troberg
Sinister eater
- Joined
- 27 Jun 2001
- Messages
- 18,012
Waveriders besättning hälsar från Alborum, den största staden i det största imperiet i världen, och de är inte imponerade.
The air of Alborum was thick with spice and rot.
The Waverider’s crew walked single file through the market, the sound of their boots lost beneath the roar of the city. Above them rose the towers of the Great Empire, white marble stained by smoke, banners fluttering like the wings of carrion birds.
The marketplace sprawled in chaos. Stalls overflowed with silks and gems, perfumes and powders, gold worked by hands that would never touch it again. Every color screamed for attention, every voice shouted over the rest. Beneath it all, chains clinked.
A slave auction took place on a raised platform beside a fountain. The auctioneer called prices like a priest leading a chant. The merchandise stood silent: men, women, and children, their backs marked, their eyes fixed on nothing. One of them coughed, and the auctioneer struck him for it. The crowd laughed.
“Keep walking,” Virellus said. His tone carried no anger, only restraint.
Past the auction stood a row of tents draped in red cloth, guarded by fat men with whips. Outside, the faces of the slave women were painted in powders to hide the bruises beneath, offering their bodies for coin, all under the watchful eyes of their owners. A group of young nobles stumbled out laughing, tossing coins at a child to hold their cloaks. The coins fell in the mud. The child knelt and licked one clean before pocketing it.
Ulfar muttered under his breath, “This city stinks of perfume and piss.”
“Worse than that,” Phaedros replied. “It stinks of comfort.”
They turned down a broader street, paved with white stone that gleamed even through the grime. There, under banners of gold and crimson, slaves fanned their masters as they dined at open tables. Wine spilled freely. Musicians played. A man lay on the steps nearby, ribs showing through his skin. No one looked at him.
From somewhere ahead, a cheer rose, sharp, savage. Someone mentioned the spectacle at the arena: an amazon captured from Amazireth jungles, to be executed for rebellion. The words “public spectacle” and “artful dismemberment” passed between the crowd as if describing a play.
Selene’s face went pale. “They call that entertainment?”
“They call it justice,” Venera said coldly.
They crossed a bridge where slave children scrubbed the stones with rags, watched by guards who lounged in the shade. Below, the river ran brown and slow, carrying the city’s waste out to sea.
At the far end of the market, a noblewoman passed surrounded by soldiers. Her dress shimmered like oil. Behind her trailed six slaves, three carrying her train, two fanning her, one kneeling to polish the dust from her shoes after every few steps. She did not once look at them.
The Waverider’s crew stood aside to let her pass. None of them spoke.
Only when they reached the outer gate did Captain Virellus stop. He looked back toward the heart of the Empire, the shining city of his sponsors, its towers glinting like spears in the sun.
“That,” he said quietly, “is what they call civilization.”
Then he turned away, and they followed, leaving the laughter and the chains behind them.
The Waverider’s crew walked single file through the market, the sound of their boots lost beneath the roar of the city. Above them rose the towers of the Great Empire, white marble stained by smoke, banners fluttering like the wings of carrion birds.
The marketplace sprawled in chaos. Stalls overflowed with silks and gems, perfumes and powders, gold worked by hands that would never touch it again. Every color screamed for attention, every voice shouted over the rest. Beneath it all, chains clinked.
A slave auction took place on a raised platform beside a fountain. The auctioneer called prices like a priest leading a chant. The merchandise stood silent: men, women, and children, their backs marked, their eyes fixed on nothing. One of them coughed, and the auctioneer struck him for it. The crowd laughed.
“Keep walking,” Virellus said. His tone carried no anger, only restraint.
Past the auction stood a row of tents draped in red cloth, guarded by fat men with whips. Outside, the faces of the slave women were painted in powders to hide the bruises beneath, offering their bodies for coin, all under the watchful eyes of their owners. A group of young nobles stumbled out laughing, tossing coins at a child to hold their cloaks. The coins fell in the mud. The child knelt and licked one clean before pocketing it.
Ulfar muttered under his breath, “This city stinks of perfume and piss.”
“Worse than that,” Phaedros replied. “It stinks of comfort.”
They turned down a broader street, paved with white stone that gleamed even through the grime. There, under banners of gold and crimson, slaves fanned their masters as they dined at open tables. Wine spilled freely. Musicians played. A man lay on the steps nearby, ribs showing through his skin. No one looked at him.
From somewhere ahead, a cheer rose, sharp, savage. Someone mentioned the spectacle at the arena: an amazon captured from Amazireth jungles, to be executed for rebellion. The words “public spectacle” and “artful dismemberment” passed between the crowd as if describing a play.
Selene’s face went pale. “They call that entertainment?”
“They call it justice,” Venera said coldly.
They crossed a bridge where slave children scrubbed the stones with rags, watched by guards who lounged in the shade. Below, the river ran brown and slow, carrying the city’s waste out to sea.
At the far end of the market, a noblewoman passed surrounded by soldiers. Her dress shimmered like oil. Behind her trailed six slaves, three carrying her train, two fanning her, one kneeling to polish the dust from her shoes after every few steps. She did not once look at them.
The Waverider’s crew stood aside to let her pass. None of them spoke.
Only when they reached the outer gate did Captain Virellus stop. He looked back toward the heart of the Empire, the shining city of his sponsors, its towers glinting like spears in the sun.
“That,” he said quietly, “is what they call civilization.”
Then he turned away, and they followed, leaving the laughter and the chains behind them.
verlandes.
rollspelskollektivet
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God45
#PrayersForBahakan
- Joined
- 23 Oct 2012
- Messages
- 21,653
Troberg
Sinister eater
- Joined
- 27 Jun 2001
- Messages
- 18,012
Nu är Waverider-expeditionen i hjärtat av Montosho-jungeln, i sökandet efter kapten Solonex bror, druiden Meronex. Joseph Conrads ande svävar över dem.
We had come in search of Meronex Virellus, the captain’s brother, a druid who had vanished into the Montosho wilds two decades ago, claiming he would learn to speak with the forest itself.
For days, the Waverider’s landing party had pushed upriver, their boat scraping through roots as thick as a man’s waist. The air was heavy and wet, filled with the hum of unseen insects and the slow, patient breathing of the forest itself. Every sound echoed too close, every shadow seemed to move.
Ileena, their catling guide, led the way from the bow, her tail flicking in irritation as she hissed at the others to keep quiet. Her hair was slick with rain, her eyes narrow slits of green. “The trees listen,” she had warned them once. No one laughed after that.
By the fifth day, the river narrowed to a trickle. The trees pressed in so tight that daylight came only in shreds. Virellus stood at the prow beside her, his face drawn and pale. He hadn’t spoken much since they’d left the sea. None of them had.
Then the river ended.
Before them rose a wall of roots, tangled and ancient, the heart of the jungle. And there, at its center, stood a man. Barefoot, gaunt, his skin the color of old parchment. Vines wound around his arms and chest, pulling him gently against the trunk of a massive tree as though the forest itself refused to let him go. His hair hung in damp strings, his beard overgrown and matted with moss.
“By the gods,” Selene whispered. “That’s him.”
Captain Virellus took a step forward, his voice barely a breath. “Meronex.”
The man lifted his head slowly. His eyes were wild and bright, unfocused and dull, feverish.
And then, he spoke. His words came out slowly, rasping, and they were either genius or madness. We could not tell which, and I am still not sure.
Do you see them? No... you don’t. Of course, you don’t. You still look for purpose like a child begging the wind to mean something. But they’re all here... the tendrils, the teeth, the unblinking blossoms... yes, yes, they watch. They consume and bloom, bloom and consume, and never once do they ask why.
(He nods forward, gesturing at nothing, at everything.)
You think intelligence is a crown? Pah! A paper crown on a maggot's head! Intelligence is... a flicker, a brief itch on the hide of something older, dumber, and far more divine. Nature does not think, it does not plan. The jaguar does not calculate, the vine does not debate whether to strangle the tree or the corpse it grew through. And yet... it thrives!
(He grins, lips cracked. Blood on his teeth.)
Cruelty? You whisper the word like a curse. But I... I have seen the cruelty of nature, and it is beautiful. Not beautiful like a painting, no. Beautiful like a scream in perfect harmony. The baby bird that dies in the egg because the sun cooked its mother... The fungus that puppets the ant, makes it climb to heaven just to burst with spores. That is not evil. That is not mercy. That is truth with its face unpainted!
(His eyes drift up, as if something immense and invisible looms over him.)
I used to be clever, you know. A student of cycles, of seasons, of symbols. I thought, “Ah, the forest is a system! A mind!” Ha! The forest is not a mind. It is a mouth. And we... we are its meat.
(He leans in, whispering, a conspirator with the abyss.)
You talk of balance. Balance! There is no balance here. Only hunger. Only the ceaseless gnashing of things that will never understand themselves... and need not to! The tree drinks the bones of the dead and grows taller! Is that wisdom? Is that morality? No! it is power! And it is glorious!
(Suddenly angry, he tears a beetle from the air and crushes it, staring at its remains.)
This thing had no thoughts. No doubts. And it will outlive all your libraries. Because it did not care. Because it was. Because being is enough for the forest. It always was. You clutch your precious thoughts to your chest like relics while the soil opens its mouth beneath you, and the roots reach, reach...
(He looks down at his arms, something is crawling on them. He does not brush it off.)
Do you feel them yet? The ones that grow inside us, the ones that whisper in chlorophyll and rot? They told me things. Secrets without language. Truths you must not put in a book.
(He raises his arms, laughing now, voice cracking, mad or holy or both.)
There is no plan. There is no intelligence. There is only the dance of decay, and in that decay... the purest ecstasy! I have seen it. I have heard it in the scream of the frog swallowed alive, in the weeping tree split by lightning... in the silence that comes after. That silence is not peace. It is appetite.
(He suddenly drops limp, sobbing or laughing, it is impossible to tell.)
Oh... how beautiful it all is. How beautiful the cruelty. I was blind. But now, now I see...
(His voice fades, as though the jungle itself is beginning to consume him.)
And the forest... sees me.
For a moment, no one moved. The forest was still, holding its breath around them. Then Meronex’s eyes found his brother. The fever in them flickered, and for the first time, focus returned.
“Leave,” he whispered, voice rough as bark. “The forest is not for you.”
His head dropped forward. The vines that held him tightened slightly, as if to cradle rather than bind.
Solonex stepped forward, trembling, reaching for his knife. “Hold fast,” he said. “We can cut you free.”
Meronex stirred, just enough to raise a hand. “No.” The word was barely sound. A sigh more than a voice.
Selene stepped between them, laying a hand on the captain’s arm. “He is dying,” she said softly. “Let him choose how to end it.”
For a long heartbeat, Solonex stood frozen, rain streaking his face. Then he lowered the knife.
He turned without a word and began walking back toward the boat, his boots sinking into the black water with every step. Behind him, the forest exhaled, a low whisper through the leaves, or perhaps only the wind.
No one looked back.
For days, the Waverider’s landing party had pushed upriver, their boat scraping through roots as thick as a man’s waist. The air was heavy and wet, filled with the hum of unseen insects and the slow, patient breathing of the forest itself. Every sound echoed too close, every shadow seemed to move.
Ileena, their catling guide, led the way from the bow, her tail flicking in irritation as she hissed at the others to keep quiet. Her hair was slick with rain, her eyes narrow slits of green. “The trees listen,” she had warned them once. No one laughed after that.
By the fifth day, the river narrowed to a trickle. The trees pressed in so tight that daylight came only in shreds. Virellus stood at the prow beside her, his face drawn and pale. He hadn’t spoken much since they’d left the sea. None of them had.
Then the river ended.
Before them rose a wall of roots, tangled and ancient, the heart of the jungle. And there, at its center, stood a man. Barefoot, gaunt, his skin the color of old parchment. Vines wound around his arms and chest, pulling him gently against the trunk of a massive tree as though the forest itself refused to let him go. His hair hung in damp strings, his beard overgrown and matted with moss.
“By the gods,” Selene whispered. “That’s him.”
Captain Virellus took a step forward, his voice barely a breath. “Meronex.”
The man lifted his head slowly. His eyes were wild and bright, unfocused and dull, feverish.
And then, he spoke. His words came out slowly, rasping, and they were either genius or madness. We could not tell which, and I am still not sure.
Do you see them? No... you don’t. Of course, you don’t. You still look for purpose like a child begging the wind to mean something. But they’re all here... the tendrils, the teeth, the unblinking blossoms... yes, yes, they watch. They consume and bloom, bloom and consume, and never once do they ask why.
(He nods forward, gesturing at nothing, at everything.)
You think intelligence is a crown? Pah! A paper crown on a maggot's head! Intelligence is... a flicker, a brief itch on the hide of something older, dumber, and far more divine. Nature does not think, it does not plan. The jaguar does not calculate, the vine does not debate whether to strangle the tree or the corpse it grew through. And yet... it thrives!
(He grins, lips cracked. Blood on his teeth.)
Cruelty? You whisper the word like a curse. But I... I have seen the cruelty of nature, and it is beautiful. Not beautiful like a painting, no. Beautiful like a scream in perfect harmony. The baby bird that dies in the egg because the sun cooked its mother... The fungus that puppets the ant, makes it climb to heaven just to burst with spores. That is not evil. That is not mercy. That is truth with its face unpainted!
(His eyes drift up, as if something immense and invisible looms over him.)
I used to be clever, you know. A student of cycles, of seasons, of symbols. I thought, “Ah, the forest is a system! A mind!” Ha! The forest is not a mind. It is a mouth. And we... we are its meat.
(He leans in, whispering, a conspirator with the abyss.)
You talk of balance. Balance! There is no balance here. Only hunger. Only the ceaseless gnashing of things that will never understand themselves... and need not to! The tree drinks the bones of the dead and grows taller! Is that wisdom? Is that morality? No! it is power! And it is glorious!
(Suddenly angry, he tears a beetle from the air and crushes it, staring at its remains.)
This thing had no thoughts. No doubts. And it will outlive all your libraries. Because it did not care. Because it was. Because being is enough for the forest. It always was. You clutch your precious thoughts to your chest like relics while the soil opens its mouth beneath you, and the roots reach, reach...
(He looks down at his arms, something is crawling on them. He does not brush it off.)
Do you feel them yet? The ones that grow inside us, the ones that whisper in chlorophyll and rot? They told me things. Secrets without language. Truths you must not put in a book.
(He raises his arms, laughing now, voice cracking, mad or holy or both.)
There is no plan. There is no intelligence. There is only the dance of decay, and in that decay... the purest ecstasy! I have seen it. I have heard it in the scream of the frog swallowed alive, in the weeping tree split by lightning... in the silence that comes after. That silence is not peace. It is appetite.
(He suddenly drops limp, sobbing or laughing, it is impossible to tell.)
Oh... how beautiful it all is. How beautiful the cruelty. I was blind. But now, now I see...
(His voice fades, as though the jungle itself is beginning to consume him.)
And the forest... sees me.
For a moment, no one moved. The forest was still, holding its breath around them. Then Meronex’s eyes found his brother. The fever in them flickered, and for the first time, focus returned.
“Leave,” he whispered, voice rough as bark. “The forest is not for you.”
His head dropped forward. The vines that held him tightened slightly, as if to cradle rather than bind.
Solonex stepped forward, trembling, reaching for his knife. “Hold fast,” he said. “We can cut you free.”
Meronex stirred, just enough to raise a hand. “No.” The word was barely sound. A sigh more than a voice.
Selene stepped between them, laying a hand on the captain’s arm. “He is dying,” she said softly. “Let him choose how to end it.”
For a long heartbeat, Solonex stood frozen, rain streaking his face. Then he lowered the knife.
He turned without a word and began walking back toward the boat, his boots sinking into the black water with every step. Behind him, the forest exhaled, a low whisper through the leaves, or perhaps only the wind.
No one looked back.
verlandes.
rollspelskollektivet
Du blir verkligen märkbart bättre på att rita - någonstans är det nästan lite sorgligt..!
God45
#PrayersForBahakan
- Joined
- 23 Oct 2012
- Messages
- 21,653
verlandes.
rollspelskollektivet
Äh, har varit så trevligt med dina streckgubbar, synd att du gick pro (dummar mig bara!)Tack
Varför sorligt?
Troberg
Sinister eater
- Joined
- 27 Jun 2001
- Messages
- 18,012
Nåja, vi kände honom innan han blev berömd...