Rea Family/Dancer/The Return

Roleplay

This was many years ago, before Nothi took over Firbalt. Dancer stood, a chill midnight wind whipping his heavy cloak asunder. The square in Firbalt was silent, save the occasional shutter sadly clattering in the wind. The peasants had fled to the farmlands dotted around the city days ago, the nobles, to other realms. Everyone knew the Liars were coming to take the city, and they would not tolerate anyone who stood in their way. Dancer stood, where he had been all those years ago, before all this. The temple had barely changed, massive oak doors stood proud, daring anyone to approach, and the stone pillars stood in ranks, guarding the entrance to all who opposed the Truth. Imposing spires still clawed at the sky, challenging the very gods themselves. Dancer reached up, stroking the cool stone of the nearest pillar. He had always found the temple of the Truth to be beautiful, in its own way. A single tear journeyed down his face, like a lonely soldier trekking on long after the war had been lost. Dancer sighed, and walked up to the doors. Up close, he could see the weathering of the years. Chips and bloodstains marred the surface, making the doors look like a pair of grumpy veterans who had seen too many battles. Perhaps they had. Dancer pondered for a moment. Perhaps they all had seen too many battles, too many dead, too many friends lost to the Lies. The doors opened, although Dancer had to put his shoulder into it. His footsteps echoed in the cavern of the main atrium. The air was stagnate, the smell of rotting fruit permeated the air. Darkness crouched all around him, guarding the walls from prying eyes. Dancer strode past the light from the doors, right into the blackness. The darkness was oppressing, squeezing the very oxygen out of the air. Dancer soldiered on, sweeping his right foot in front of him every few feet. After what seemed like hours, Dancer's foot caught on something with a thunk, slightly bruising his big toe. He smiled into the dark, and bent down, fumbling around. A few moments and a tinderbox later, the main brazier roared to life, throwing light across most of the atrium. More stone pillars lined the walls, decorated with cravings of the history of the portal. Mortals made deals with Deamons in the far corner, great priests spread the Truth to all corners of the continent on the left wall, and great battles were waged across several hundred feet of wall to the right. The crowning piece of the room, however, was the statue. In the front, on a dais of polished obsidian, stood the statue of Akkan, two hundred feet tall. The artist must have been a savant in stonework, although a statue could never quite capture the /otherness/ of the Deamon Lord.

Roleplay

Many years ago As Dancer admired the statue, a cool wind grazed his cheek, lightly lifting his hair. Dancer pulled his cloak tightly around himself. His next task would not be easy, and would be very dangerous. A small shudder went through him, like an icicle racing down his back. For a moment, he allowed himself to breath. He must be completely composed. He must have faith. He closed his eyes, and took a deep breath though his nose, taking in the familiar smell of stone and ash. There was a faint stench of discarded fruit behind the familiar scents; the temple had been abandoned for several days now. Many offerings, scattered around the walls and pillars, had been left to rot as the priests and clergy fled for the hillsides. Much like the fruit, Dancer was left behind, nothing more then remnants of a fading empire. Dancer opened his eyes, once more beholding the statue of his master. He chided himself for his weakness. The Deamon lords would not look kindly on him for such feelings of doubt. He would have punished himself, had he the time. The Liars were coming to the city, there was no way around that. The peasants had been raised, and defeated, the nobles the same. Dancer hurried to the base of the statue, and began to feel around the base. He got halfway around the base when his fingers finally grazed over a small nub nestled in the obsidian just below Akkan's heel. Dancer drove his thumb into the nub as hard as he could, straining a little before it disappeared beneath his thumb. He quickly stepped back, as a loud grinding noise broke the silence of the deserted temple. A man sized section of the base slid down, revealing a short stretch of stone before disappearing into darkness. Dancer walked back to the brazier in front of the statue, and grabbed a torch from a storage rack below the pot. The tar on the top of the torch caught fire almost immediately, and he returned to the doorway. He gingerly stepped inside the tunnel, feeling the wall to his right. The tunnel was made of obisiden, sloping sharply downwards. A few steps in, and his finger met another nub. It was harder to push then the first, but the result was similar. Loud grinding once again broke the silence, as the doorway closed, unsulling the statue once more. Dancer strode forward and downward, no hesitation in his step. The obsidian quickly changed to common stone walls, and the floor to weathered stone tiles. After a few minutes, Dancer stopped short. The light from his torch ended abruptly two paces ahead of him. As Dancer carefully moved to the edge of the light, the temperature dropped several degrees, and a bitter wind gusted up into his face. He tossed the torch, aiming for a point several feet in front of him. The torch spun forward, and as it lost momentum, fell. First to where Dancers feet were, then, several feet below that. The torch fell until Dancer could only see a small prick of light, and then that too was gone. He had been told of this place, once. A pit so deep, no one had ever reached the bottom. Many who knew of the void believed went straight to hell. Others thought it went on forever, a place forgotten by the gods. Dancer hoped for the former. He stood at the edge, the precipice daring him to try to return to his masters. He must do it, and he must have faith. With a whispered prayer, he jumped.

Roleplay

Present Day Wait for our return, Acolyte. One day you will preach the Truth again. It was dark. The smell of must filled has nose, liquid dripping on his cheek. His face itched, sandy particulate chafing his nose. His body lay heavy, he had found quickly he could not move. Dancer wondered how long he would be here. It had felt like years, decades even. He wondered if he was dead. Perhaps he was in hell, cast away from his masters. Or perhaps this was purgatory, and he was eternally trapped with an itchy nose. Maybe he didn't exist at all, and he was imagining the itch. No, he thought, he had to exist, otherwise his cursed nose would stop itching at some point. Purgatory was out too, with his history, he certainly would go to hell. His musing was interrupted by a light scratching noise, muffled, and some ways away. It went on for a while, steadily gaining volume. Soon enough, there was a thunk, and the sound stopped. Dancer waited, wondering what new sounds might emerge, or indeed if any. He hoped for the former, anything to break the oppressive silence. Light flooded his vision, and a figure stood above him.