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Old 07-02-2017, 12:13 AM   #1
Kaen
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Default [Calamity] Prophecy [ARC]

THe mountain's tip cut against the sky like a shattered piece of glass, dark and smoky against the clear, beautiful landscape of Valley's mountains. It was surrounded by other peaks, high and snow-covered, that formed a harsh natural barrier against those who sought an entrance.

Which was to say nothing of the spiritual barriers. Ancient wards maintained since times that had passed from the fickle memory of mankind. Wards against harm against intrusion, against evil. Designed not to keep foulness out, but in.

This is Calamity Mountain, the festering spiritual cesspit that is known across the continent as the Cradle of Evil. And on the slopes of its mountain, the Miasma that rises from the mountain twists into horrible, sinister shapes. Promising, pleading, tempting . . . Demanding.

Yet, the further up the mountain one goes, the thinner the air becomes. It is not a holy place here, but the miasma cannot reach the peak. And so, it is here that the Wardens of Calamity have made their home. The High Oracles lived atop their town in meditation, pouring over the secrets of the world from the safety of their lofty perch, using their eyes abroad to add to the vision of the Wardens. to guide them in their course. Where a coven of black miko had gathered, where monsters were lurking in wait . . . Their scrying cast an everpresent eye over the world that few could conceal themselves from.

On this day, the eldest of the High Oracles would die.

Meyuki sat in meditation with her fellows, holding hands as part of the miko circle, when her eyes split open. Her hold on her fellow's hands slipped, and her gaze turned upward, mouth half open, peering at the ceiling.

There was a question, but she didn't seem to hear it, instead Meyuki staggered to her feet, and when she turned her eyes to her fellow oracles they burned with a holy light bright enough to shake the souls of the purist priests in Calamity.

And she spoke, echoes of many other varied voices ringing through the air, with words that etched themselves into the spirits of all who heard them, as a stonemason carves at chisel, from this moment to the day of their deaths.
”The sunthief comes on sunless day to open the foul womb of the evil mountain and in his wake, demons rouse.

The dead shall walk among the living, the truth shall lose its meaning; the past is made putty in his hands in the yawning dawn of Yomi's dark.

“Yet, Champions will rise; from Her shattered blade made whole, the force that holds this mountain may be slain.

I hear them now! Those who will shape the future! They are . . .”
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