Good afternoon, all.
Now I know Tom has introduced me as an aspiring creative writer, and so far you've only read a post about mind-reading, so I figured I'd post something I've written.
Varoram stood in the fields just outside of Faromey, eyes closed, his bare feet damp from the dew that covered the grass. He opened his eyes and breathed in the moonlight. It had been so long since he’d felt the wind on his face. He started walking toward the remains of what was once the great city of Faromey. Ever since the massacre, it had become but a pile of ruins and mangled, bloody cadavers. The glory that had once emanated from that city was long gone, crushed by the abominations that had slaughtered the citizens of the city. With each step he took, he left a burnt footprint on the grass, the tiny droplets of dew sizzling into the night air. The sounds reminded him the burrowers that used to sing any time a god would approach Faromey. Their long snouts would produce a flute-like sound, and tens of thousands of them would stick their heads out of the ground and produce a magnificent melody for the gods.
As Varoram thought of them, he looked down at his feet and saw one peering up at him. He bent down and picked it up, admiring it. It tried to move, but he would pass it from one hand to the other. Its shiny mulberry skin reflected the moonlight. He looked at its small legs, its short and pointy tail, and its arrow-shaped, green-tipped ears. It eventually stopped running, and stayed immobile in his hand, flaring its snout in all directions. Varoram smiled, and it suddenly stopped moving altogether. As he tilted his head, the burrower fell to its side and shrivelled up like a wilted flower. He dropped it on the ground and it landed soundlessly as he moved on.
After finally arriving in the city, he felt a strong breeze blowing his long black robe about. The streets of Faromey were meant to channel winds from the South-West, as they were the winds that brought good weather. He remembered, he’d helped design the city.
After a few moments, he felt something cold on his foot. When he looked down, he saw a corpse’s hand. His eyes followed the arm and reached finally reached the head. It was Tyll. He recognized the man. He was one of the city’s apothecaries. Varoram found it ironic that the one who healed people had been one of the first to die in the massacre. He remembered how the kraven had been the first creatures to charge, followed by the rest of the abominations. Kravens looked like dogs, but with a back that was far more arched, and were much, much more vicious. They were meant to be swift, but not to kill. They would maim, wound the opponents, while the other creatures went in for the kill.
With a quick jerk of his foot, Varoram moved Tyll’s limp hand, which turned an ugly shade of brown, as all the flesh dried up. He kept walking, stepping over cadaver after cadaver.
It was when he looked up that Varoram saw it: Nyusatar. Faromey’s great temple. It took up a large part of the city, since the city itself had been built for the gods. Nyusatar had been built out of the finest hewnstone in all of the land. It had once stood, proud and tall, towering above all the other buildings of Faromey, with spires that could be seen from miles away. But now, it was merely a pile of stone, a broken memory of a paradisiacal edifice, a crushed mirror of the beauty of the heavens. As Varoram approached it, he smiled as lines from the stone lit up in a bright powder-blue. When Nyusatar had been erect, these lines traced vines all around the exterior and interior of the temple. Leaves and flowers had been drawn on the hewnstone by magic from Nyunamey herself, and these drawings of divine beauty were meant to shine as soon as any god approached the city. Whether it be bright as mid-day, or dark as a moonless night, the beautiful lines never went unnoticed.
Varoram entered the temple, looking around him. It was strange to see it from this angle. He’d come in and out of the temple many times, but he was always in his ceremonial colossal self, never in human height. And as he walked through the halls, his marmoreal hand feeling the cold, hard walls, tracing the vines, he heard nothing. It was a deep and utter silence. There weren’t the usual cacophonic cheers from the citizens or the music of the fays and sprites. Even his feet didn’t make any sound. The corner of his mouth began to curl into a smile.
When he reached the courtyard at the center of the temple, it was exactly as he’d expected. On the floor of the courtyard, in those same lights as everywhere else in the temple, was an accurate astrolabe, a map of the stars under their feet. A true work of art, but now cracked all across. Varoram looked up at the night sky. The stars had once danced for him. With him, even. In the many glorious celebrations they’re had in Nyusatar, the stars, the moon, and even the sun had joined in the great feasts.
But that had been a long time ago.
A long, long time ago.
In the days of old.
He kept walking toward the opposite end of the courtyard, where the eight thrones had once stood. Now, only two of them remained: The one in the center to the left, and the one at the very right. He walked up the three steps and sat on the throne. His throne. He looked to the other one with hungry eyes.
Suddenly, there was the sound of claws on stone getting closer. Varoram slowly turned his head to the courtyard and observed as a kraven walked his way. It walked up to his throne and looked at him dead in the eyes. Then, it turned around and sat at his feet. He reached out and started petting its head. He looked straight ahead.
Somewhere out there, was Raiu.
Somewhere out there, was his son.
Somewhere out there, was the one who would help him, Varoram, the god of passion, of fervor and rage, in his ascension.
Help him in the instauration of his realm of darkness.