Post by AdamR on Jan 8, 2019 14:01:26 GMT
Marek was a sickly boy...
Marek was a sickly boy. Born in Chamon in the early days of the Age of Chaos he crawled from his dead mother's womb disfigured and deformed. Hunchbacked, missing his left arm and hideous of visage, he was shunned by his few remaining family save the grandmother who raised him. But when the Chaos Reavers attacked and slew the old crone in Marek's twelfth winter, he was forced to fend for himself, an outcast living at the fringe of the village. He had but one way to support himself - from his earliest days wandering the trackless forests of the Bitterfrost Marek had developed a keen - some might say indefatigable - sense of direction. The next few winters Marek spent as a guide for merchants wishing to pass through the Bitterfrost, shortening the trade route to the kingdoms to the north by over a month . But eventually the traders stopped returning. Instead floods of refugees packed the great north road, bringing tales of obscene armies dedicated to unspeakable gods, which had razed the kingdoms of the north.
All too soon the outriders of the Chaos Hosts followed them - Bare chested marauders on evil tempered steeds and horn-helmed warriors that gave no mercy to any who crossed their path. Marek's village was destroyed utterly, his last sight of it was burning thatch and billowing black smoke. And the stink of roasting flesh.
In truth Marek cared little for the fate of the villagers, those who had shunned him and hated him. Turning, he fled into the Bitterfrost, seeking to get away from the murderous host behind him in the dark labyrinthine trails that crisscrossed it's interior. His flight did not go unnoticed however. A Sorcerer was part of the Chaos force and he unleashed scampering daemons of blue flame to hunt down Marek.
They chased him to the centre of the Bitterfrost, to the ruins that stood there. Tales told in the village claimed there was a gateway to other realms there, but Marek had never found it amongst the crumbling arches. Just stone and snow and the memory of a better time. As he tried to hide from his pursuers beneath those arches they came upon him. He begged, he pleaded, offered service, swore to be their slave, but the creatures merely continued to caper about him, all the while dousing him in white hot witchflame. His screams echoed about as his skin blackened and peeled. An eyeball burst, vitreous fluids turning to steam as the ran down the remains of his face. He fell backward, waiting for death...
But it did not come.
Marek awoke but wished he had not. his body was a ruin of fused and melted flesh. With his remaining eye he saw through a crimson haze that he was no longer in the Bitterfrost ruins, but rather some kind of cyclopean, unimaginably vast labyrinth carved from iridescent crystal - one moment blue, then red, then green, then other colours the human eye could not fathom. Sussurating voices echoed through the tattered remnants that passed for his mind. "Find the centre and you will find salvation" one said. "Find the centre and you will find truth!" hissed another. "Find the centre and find power" growled a third voice, darkly. "But you won't!" they cooed in unison. "Mortals never do!"
Stretching out his one arm ahead of him, ignoring the pain as the roasted skin that covered most of his body split and bled, Marek began to crawl. He had been cursed from birth. Misshapen, disfigured, hated, and now mutilated and maimed. He knew pain. He was used to it. And there was one thing he did have. Against all the horror the uncaring world has thrown at him. He could always find a path. He would have salvation. He didn't really care about any truth. But power? the power to avenge himself on an uncaring world. Power to avenge himself on the sorcerer who had unleashed the daemons on him. Power he would like very much.
Marek was a sickly boy. Born in Chamon in the early days of the Age of Chaos he crawled from his dead mother's womb disfigured and deformed. Hunchbacked, missing his left arm and hideous of visage, he was shunned by his few remaining family save the grandmother who raised him. But when the Chaos Reavers attacked and slew the old crone in Marek's twelfth winter, he was forced to fend for himself, an outcast living at the fringe of the village. He had but one way to support himself - from his earliest days wandering the trackless forests of the Bitterfrost Marek had developed a keen - some might say indefatigable - sense of direction. The next few winters Marek spent as a guide for merchants wishing to pass through the Bitterfrost, shortening the trade route to the kingdoms to the north by over a month . But eventually the traders stopped returning. Instead floods of refugees packed the great north road, bringing tales of obscene armies dedicated to unspeakable gods, which had razed the kingdoms of the north.
All too soon the outriders of the Chaos Hosts followed them - Bare chested marauders on evil tempered steeds and horn-helmed warriors that gave no mercy to any who crossed their path. Marek's village was destroyed utterly, his last sight of it was burning thatch and billowing black smoke. And the stink of roasting flesh.
In truth Marek cared little for the fate of the villagers, those who had shunned him and hated him. Turning, he fled into the Bitterfrost, seeking to get away from the murderous host behind him in the dark labyrinthine trails that crisscrossed it's interior. His flight did not go unnoticed however. A Sorcerer was part of the Chaos force and he unleashed scampering daemons of blue flame to hunt down Marek.
They chased him to the centre of the Bitterfrost, to the ruins that stood there. Tales told in the village claimed there was a gateway to other realms there, but Marek had never found it amongst the crumbling arches. Just stone and snow and the memory of a better time. As he tried to hide from his pursuers beneath those arches they came upon him. He begged, he pleaded, offered service, swore to be their slave, but the creatures merely continued to caper about him, all the while dousing him in white hot witchflame. His screams echoed about as his skin blackened and peeled. An eyeball burst, vitreous fluids turning to steam as the ran down the remains of his face. He fell backward, waiting for death...
But it did not come.
Marek awoke but wished he had not. his body was a ruin of fused and melted flesh. With his remaining eye he saw through a crimson haze that he was no longer in the Bitterfrost ruins, but rather some kind of cyclopean, unimaginably vast labyrinth carved from iridescent crystal - one moment blue, then red, then green, then other colours the human eye could not fathom. Sussurating voices echoed through the tattered remnants that passed for his mind. "Find the centre and you will find salvation" one said. "Find the centre and you will find truth!" hissed another. "Find the centre and find power" growled a third voice, darkly. "But you won't!" they cooed in unison. "Mortals never do!"
Stretching out his one arm ahead of him, ignoring the pain as the roasted skin that covered most of his body split and bled, Marek began to crawl. He had been cursed from birth. Misshapen, disfigured, hated, and now mutilated and maimed. He knew pain. He was used to it. And there was one thing he did have. Against all the horror the uncaring world has thrown at him. He could always find a path. He would have salvation. He didn't really care about any truth. But power? the power to avenge himself on an uncaring world. Power to avenge himself on the sorcerer who had unleashed the daemons on him. Power he would like very much.