▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ The Hand of Fate Grasps the Ocularum by Telis Dalarac, circa 309 A.C. ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ (music for your entertainment) ❢◥ ♩♫♪ ◤❢ A great hall desiccated by smatterings of last afternoon's exsanguinations was filled to the brim with a number of the master's chosen, their allies, and those to which are there out of necessity. Brass clad armor jangled with each step upon entry into this procession of predators. The future within his grasp, their future. And the words of every entity which came along to bargain. Passions pressed and hissed out of mouths, shouting and hollering their Will to live for the future. How to live for that future. The entity of antiquated armor a mere messenger allowed them their time to convince themselves of their choice. While the hall grew violent with words, a flock departed. "Vote for Fire -- Vote the VOID! -- I wish to live, I will return to the shadows!" "My lovelies we must reach a concordance! Hear my voice!" "We must wait for the Master! The Solifuge must stake their call on the blood!" Two birds of the same feather leapt into the unknown. In the muck and grime of a late afternoon upon the streets of Crookback alone sat the hermetic Beacon. Cast in shadow by the great wing-span of a roosting dragon which lit the skies over the district with his molten visage, he waited patiently for anything. "Coren!" shouted a lone voice of an old student to him, they approached breaking his meditation. Vehemently they demanded to know whom among their kind aimed to steal the future of Sanguine-kind and deliver it unto him. They received their answer, and more. Not only was he set to remind them of their failings, but still devoted to seeing their future was theirs's and theirs's alone. One little raven then arrived -- its eyes beady and red. Then two. Three. They lingered on the rafters, the rooftops, and balanced along the street-lamps. Watching with sinister intent as their master descend into view. Then the question was posed. Two birds of the same feather. One striving for their truest potential, the other striving to be recognized. Neither desiring to die quietly in the night, nor allow the masses of cowardice to claim their future. "Worthiness is not defined by success, or determined by failure. Your worthiness is defined by how you wield yourself, determined by what you do with yourself." - Hymnal of Obsidian Soul, 20-42 ❢◥ ▬▬▬▬▬▬ ◆ ▬▬▬▬▬▬ ◤❢ [Prior section flavor story to chase this following section. A written announcement, shared between word of mouth, noted, and publicized.] You must remember that a threat lingers on your doorstep, Sachem after Sachem they skitter around and empower their Colossi. But let's all be afraid of the terrifying dragon within the Void. The same dragon which sought to free this city, from you. But... also the one which offered to free you from this poor fate destined to strangle your flame like a watchmen after dark snuffing out lampposts. You chose the squalor of the sewers and hiding beneath the cloak of shadow once again, after tasting the ambrosia of freedom during this long night you've cast upon the people of Regalia. Well I choose different for you all. The war isn't over, its only beginning. A hidden war not many have yet to perceive or deign to care of, but I shall enlighten you all as is my glorious purpose. Why choose the slow and agonizing death of your people as you're strangled by the darkness yet again? You may be asking what have I done with your Ocularum -- what comes next? Do not concern yourself, I'm merely the middle-man in this engagement. The Supreme Being Draga Ifrit will do exactly as they expressed to you. I shall leave you to with this as you ponder your future, hopefully you'll thank me in time and forgive your brethren. Sometimes the hand of fate must be forced. Beacon, 999 Scales Worn in Humility to the All Supreme ❢◥ ▬▬▬▬▬▬ ◆ ▬▬▬▬▬▬ ◤❢ ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓
A loud click of a keyhole and creak of a rustic door could be heard reverberating through the, often empty streets of Crookback, still asleep in the earliest hours of morning. The air smelled sour to the sanguine and thoughts of returning to hovels were always distasteful, but necessary. Ulat promised a chance to right this all. Then a sound, the fluttering of a paper carried on the wind… “P-perhaps Louvi’thaea’s words of throwing themself onto a sword before this ended still hold merit. Hrmph…” His horrified murmurs trailed off and away back into the darkest crevasses of the rotting squalor, clenching the crunching piece of parchment in one hand.
“Let Draga Sever the control of the void. Let the Thousand scales unbind the chain…if he can,” The witch mused, “Let us hope he shall prove different from his fellow Dragons. Hopefully The Mother shall be pleased by…well what ever this intriguing development is.” The woman began pouring over her books. Going line by line of the transcript to attempt reconstructing its meaning.
