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Author Topic: Rannoch Herrik - Knight of the Thorn  (Read 635 times)

The Great Unclean One

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Rannoch Herrik - Knight of the Thorn
« on: April 25, 2020, 11:26:14 PM »
The Vision

I had not truly believed in my Mistress until the Vision, the year of our Mistress 383 After Cataclysm, in the month of Fierswelt. Days of fasting had taken me to delirium with only bitter metallic water to give me respite, the noxious sulfurous water of the Sanction volcanoes.

A dark figure dragged me out of my cell and stripped me of my clothing. The slight sensation of a needle as it etched meaning onto my flesh served to wake me from a lifetime's slumber. Bleeding, but numb, I was thrown into a pit.

For a moment I ate the mud and dirt at the bottom of an oubliette, some voice in the back of my mind recording the distant traces of urine and feces and recoiling against my reality. There is little I remember of the pit except the tearing scars of my fingers against my chest and legs, attempting to tear off the blasphemous images imprinted upon my person and soul. A woman torn apart and copulated with serpentine mouths and bodies twisting from my gullet onto my toes.

Distant earthquakes woke me from my torpor as I found the door of my oubliette hanging open. I ripped into the mud of the walls and tore my fingers open as I crawled up from the mud like the beasts of old that birthed our own race. I sat on the threshold of the doorway and wept for the beautiful sight.

She stood before me, glorious and horrible. She wiped the tears from my eyes and stared into my soul with the burning intellect that spoke of thousands of worlds made and unmade, of a war that has made countless universes and unmade them, of the cycle between life and death, darkness and light, of a youthful image that belied an eternal need thirsting over countless millennia. I was made forever devoted, for I had learned a secret aspect of all the universes. I could only lower my head and grovel for I knew then that I was forever her slave, that my service would be the greatest act of any life my soul could ever live.

She motioned out towards a field of burning corpses and although her tongues spoke in a blasphemous hiss all I could hear was her true command,

« Last Edit: August 09, 2023, 03:05:02 PM by The Great Unclean One »
The Chaos Gods did nothing wrong!

The Great Unclean One

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Re: Rannoch Herrik - Knight of the Thorn
« Reply #1 on: August 09, 2023, 03:04:39 PM »
The Blood Oath

What is divinity, if not death surpassed?
What is love, if not madness embraced?
What is control, if not a motherís devotion?
What is hate, if not anger combined with knowledge?
What is submission, if not strength made manifest?

Submit or Die

Five different voices whispering to me, across time and space.
Five shadowed faces, slowly fading in the Mists.

My father, blood dripping from tears in crimson plate dying from his enemies.
My mentor, flesh sloughing off his form in order to obtain mastery over his enemies.
My master, resting comfortably on the heads of his enemies.
My superior, who looks away as the Dark Lady consumes Her enemies.
My servant, his stout neck straining a blackened steel chain having made himself his own enemy.

Submit or Die

A Hazlani summer is a scorching heat indeed. The Rashemi serfs break their backs in toil at the perfectly symmetrical fields of Ramulai, free in technicality but living the Hell of Slaves. One, bearded and worn, browned and wrinkled, takes a moment to wipe the sweat out of his face. He looks up and happens to look into my eyes. Shock, horror and fear flash as he immediately puts tool back to magically treated soil with added fervor.

With admirable efficiency Hazlan grows and thrives. The forests thrive with exotic life: krenshars screech as they chase down gremishka, owlbears hoot at fleeing goats, massive bees flit from hawthorn flower to golden aster. A man is not unlike a golden aster, awakening in the day to greet the sun, closing himself off to the night. He is oblivious to his fate: through toil his eyes fade, his back weakens, until one night he is plucked. A distant scream and wooden crash as a tree moves to crush a Rashemi rebel; a man is freed from this Hell of Slaves.

Submit or Die

Five thorns carve into my flesh.
Five serpentine heads tear at five faceless women on my flesh.
Five sword cuts across my abdomen.
Five whip scars on my back.
Five chains that bind me to the Hell of Slaves.

Love will guide me.
Hate will empower me.
Patience will reward me.
Order will bind me.
Toil will set me free.

Submit or Die
« Last Edit: August 09, 2023, 03:07:40 PM by The Great Unclean One »
The Chaos Gods did nothing wrong!