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Snippet #2485087

located in Phyrexian Grassland, a part of The Garden: An Arcadian Boneyard, one of the many universes on RPG.

Phyrexian Grassland

Vast plains of grass and large fields were the norm at one point here near Kerris, but after a game with a Demon Lord the Phyrexian Grasslands are withered and barren waste-lands devoid of all but a tiny almost village area home to The Nameless.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Wayland "Brimstone" Smith Character Portrait: River Saetyrix Character Portrait: Tiotio Character Portrait: Keres Leventis
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The smithy man stood between her and the golem. Smoke puffed out from him in a gentle rhythm, filling the air with a haze. The smell of him, like strong metal, filled Tiotio with resolve. His frame spoke of power and of a fierce energy, just barely contained.

Just one strong ally to help her protect Eitr, one friend, meant she was not alone, that this would not end as it had that night in the alley.

<b>“With you both as my witnesses, I will never run again.”</b>

Tiotio screeched her support, thrusting her bo threateningly at the golem.

The golem did not advance, did not give indication that it noticed them. The mud that rippled across its body flowed faster, swirling around, dislodging the sticks, picking them up like branches in a river.

It seemed for a moment to convulse as the mud changed direction and flowed to the ground. A pool spread before the creature as it oozed to the ground, its mockery of a face pulled into something horrifying as it melted.

Wayland could not back away fast enough as the mud surrounded his shoes. It crept up, caking the toes in filth. He realized too late that the mud was not rising, he was sinking, as cold wetness gripped his legs.

Then he was gone, like a stone dropped into a lake.

Tiotio was shocked into a still stupor. Her bo hung limp in her hand. Next to her Etir called, screeching out in his baneful voice that she should fight, run, do anything. She found her senses just in time to see a hand shoot forward out of the mud.

Its claws were the tips of treebrances, and its fingers lumps of mud that held her by the neck, lifting her into the air. Her bo dropped to the stone floor. She kicked and clawed uselessly to try to free herself. Filth coated her hands and feet as they passed through the mud.

On the other side of the platform Keres still stood, still stared forward. Whether she was still lost in her own despair, Tiotio did not know, but she used her last wind to try and call to the woman for help.


---


River was alone on the platform. The echo of Aizen’s words hung overlong in his ears, like a ringing. A discordant note.
The note seemed to stretch out, filling the air above his head, causing the darkness to vibrate. Then he was vibrating. It was not his own body, his own flesh, but the energy he carried inside of him, the souls he’d consumed.

A form condensed out of the air, a single white string, strumming to the now melodic sound. It was voices calling, drums beating, waves crashing. It was deafening and calming.

The string opened into a seam. It split wide to reveal white nothingness. Then there was a pull, a longing that tore at him from the inside. The souls, each one he’d consumed, each piece of essence he’d ripped away from its person, called in one voice to be set free, to be allow passage into this welcoming place.

With this tugging came a certainty, that if these souls, these spirits, found their rest through the light, the act would tear River to pieces. His own soul, his own being, would travel with them and vanish into the air, join them in their peace.

But a noise pulled him from this realization, pulled his attention from the light. A column of water, thick and round, suspended in the air, splashed stray bits of water onto the stone, and on to River.

Nothing seemed to be holding it in place, and even as small bits of it dripped and dribbled on the ground, the main body of the column stayed suspended in the air.

Inside the water was a man, one River thought he recognized from the trials, maybe the battle. His clothes, torn and stained from the battle, whipped around him as if pushed by some churning current.

In Wayland’s mind he saw ocean, the light of day on the surface, growing every more dim as he sunk further and further. The heat of his body, of his bones and muscle was leaking out of him into the icy water. He did not see the red haired boy who stood only feet from him, he saw dark blue nothing, crushing him from all sides.