So I thought I'd share more of my semi-epic high/science fantasy, The Realms of Sarglath
It spans three different, semi-advanced nations on a planet known as Sarglath, that is getting further contact with the mysterious Realm of the Gods.
Part I
I'm still working on part III which follows the advanced nation of the Farlands.
Suggestions, comments, compliments and criticisms are all welcome.
It spans three different, semi-advanced nations on a planet known as Sarglath, that is getting further contact with the mysterious Realm of the Gods.
Part I
In the heart of the night, in the heart of the monastic camp-city Ewom in the heart of Enrakior, a youth received a vision. This was as uncommon as there was sand on the ground, for the draw of magic led many of all cultures to engage in religion. In the curved, semi-monastic tent of the fairly young Yor, there were odd hooded figures with chains for arms, rulers clad in serpentine garb and strange monoliths with endless sets of hands. These visions passed and flowed into one another as quickly as cultures in Rarglath became aware of one another. When all that could be heard was simply the chirping of the lizards, a tired yet excited Yor went to his computer and typed about what he had seen in it, published it in his blog, Arcanics, did some research about the artifacts of Enrakionian Traditions and fell asleep at his machine, anticipating more visions. This was the first part in his Becoming.
Because Yor was undergoing an act of Becoming, he was forced to fast for seven days and seven nights. Even though this improved the quality of the visions, his rotund belly shrivelled in impatience. As Yor got hungrier, the sights became weirder. Now there were whirling wizards wielding flaming flails fanatically, lizard creatures with thousands of heads, and grotesque imitations of man, moaning about, crying for help, covered from head to toe in ritual daggers. On the final night, after waking from an unspeakable trance, Yor went to his computer, published his latest visions and drank a foul liquid known as dream-mead. The ritual was almost complete. All that was left for Yor to do was dream of his artifact, all of which were unique to the practitioner.
The dream came to him in two acts. The first told of a mighty scepter used to call the Realm of Gods into the Realm of Sarglath and how it was destroyed by the Serpent King of the Larzonaks to prevent a great evil from spreading. However, his advisor, Floask, hid the scepter in a crypt, where he rebuilt it with his blood in a personal ritual to bring harmony to the land once and for all. Floask died peacefully without recognition of this act. The next part showed the Realm of the Gods. Eyeless figures danced with spider-legged warlords, tentacled giants ate entire cities and continents, armies of beast-men fought against each other as their tides of blood flowed to create bizarre seas of skeletal fish. Everything blended together to create an amorphous abomination, which painfully morphed into the scepter. After what seemed like eons, Yor woke up in a sweat, wrote in his blog and hurried to the communal mess hall for the completion of his ritual.
The mess hall was the grandest building in Ewom. The outside was decorated with Larzonak gold, detailing the forge god Dring and the spread of his religion and technology. Yor walked into the tent, the sound of voracious eating and scholarly debate growing louder each step he took. Yor greedily stuffed his plate with exotic pleasures reserved for the final day and sat down at an elegant chair next to his friends Erior and Plior, with whom he grew up with. The three had always hung out together, fantasizing about the world and the unexplored parts of Sarglath, judged only as “primitive” or “exotic.” They had always craved something different in life, with Erior wanting fame and renown in life and Plior wanting a form of spirituality to attach to. Yor was a bit different, he wanted power, magic, the arcane in physical form. They were all willing to look past the restrictive lifestyles, even if it meant not interacting that much, except by networking. As Erior and some slob of a student talked about their visions while having heavy sips of Serpent Juice, the Elder in the Pronged Crown handed out swords from the mountains in the North and then cast a spell of silence.
“Attention!” the Elder in the Pronged Crown shouted, even though everyone could clearly hear him, “I wish to congratulate you all on surviving your Nights of Vision. You have shown great courage and fortitude and for that I give you your artifact.”
Moans and complains were heard throughout as the monks stared at the lumps of metal staring back at them.
“Hey man, I had a dream about an axe-orb! What’s this Lizardshit?” said Erior in a whiny voice.
“These, my uncultured friend, are placeholders. If you may look past their appearance, you will find them quite useful in searching for your artifacts. They come from our friendly neighbors to the north, the Larzonaks. They act as a compass to find the true relic. This is the final part of your quest.”
“Hey man, why do I have to do this? I wasted seven freakin’ days not eating and having hallucinations about food wizards! When I signed up–”
“You can channel magical energies through it,” Said the Elder in the Pronged Crown.
Every monk breathed a sigh of relief.
“Now get on your lizard and find it!”
At once, the everyone in the canteen scurried to the communal parking and hopped on their lizards, after getting a tome of spells. Plior went east, Erior went south, and Yor went north. Everyone spread in such a great direction that it was impossible to see each other, even without the constant sandstorms. Yor was hopeful, yet anxious for the other students and what troubles they would encounter. He would later come to not worry about this as much, because he would have plenty of troubles to deal with.
The deserts of Enrakior were vast, yet varied. As Yor sped through the shifting sands, he noticed sand forests, complete with sand trees, sand mountains, and even caves made of dry sand. It seemed as if the world was grander than what was shown in the limited, and ultimately censored internet. Too distracted by the ever-changing and flowing scenery, Yor didn’t notice his sword was talking to him about where to go until he reached a flat piece of desert, flanked by nothing in particular.
“The first part of your journey is almost over. Keep on going north.” Said the sword in a whiny, aggravated voice.
“Ah! A talking sword!” Yor nearly fell of his lizard in fright. “I thought you were for direction and magic!”
“Well, that’s where me talking comes in. You know, not everyone has such a tool to use. The Larzonaks would consider me a god! A minor, animistic god, but a god nonetheless.”
“A god, even with all of that technology to determine what’s right or not? In my school, we learned that the gods exist on a plane above our perception, but still can be called by the humans who worship them,”
“All is flowing with the energy of magic. As the gods once lived here, and shaped this land, we are products of this magical energy. You may view us as products of the forge god, Dring. Now why don’t you go north?”
Annoyed, Yor shoved the sword in a pouch of his lizard and rode like the wind in a sandstorm.
Eventually, the land would turn from a sea of dunes into a sea of scrubby mounds. Smooth, artificial mounds towered into the sky. On top of these mounds were pitch-black monoliths that seemed to radiate an aura of civilization, no matter how foreign. Yor could hear people on top of the mounds throwing disks and toasting the sunset, albeit in a manner unlike anything he had seen, even though he had read about it. Their accents, although in the same language, were barely comprehensible, and their ultraslender bodies were in stark contrast to the short and stocky Enrakionians. Some of them didn’t notice Yor zip by, and some did. The hills grew larger and the streets grew more urban as Yor passed through the area. Sentience bars, street sigils and internet cafes grew more common, and everyone seemed to possess a beard. As the night wore on, Yor stumbled across a small hole-in-the-wall litel (lizard hotel), bartered with the clerk, and got a cheap room with the view of a nearby mound and monolith. Yor fell asleep reading his book of spells. The last thing Yor thought of before going to bed was how the monolith looked a lot like the one in his dream.
Yor awakened to the sound of his room being torn apart. Groggily, yor turned his head towards the ceiling, only to find a large black hand staring back at him. Frightened, Yor took all of his things, and ran towards his lizard. With a stroke of fear, he picked up his sword and murmured a prayer to the god Yrium, lord of knives. Nothing happened. Mildly annoyed, Yor murmured a prayer to the goddess Niumor, queen of ice. Nothing happened. Frustrated, Yor screamed a prayer to the extradimentional being Yi’llormnioandiroeromntioamndor, the androgynous master of searing death and vile destruction. Nothing happened. Suddenly, a rain of knives came down from the sky, puncturing every inch of the large creature. Smiling, Yor got on his lizard and rode as fast as he could. Suddenly, a block of ice came down and crushed the creature, breaking it into small fragments. Yor was almost out of town when he heard a piercing scream as bat-things, rat-things, cat-things, hat-things and fat-things descended from the heavens to tear the creature apart.
“Be patient,” warned the sword as he was violently stuffed into the pouch of the lizard. Yor journeyed onwards into the north, getting more confused as the land got more confusing.
As Sarglath impressed Yor with technopolises, death palaces, underground seas and even rockets to realms beyond Rarglathian perception, Yor felt left out. Even though he was slicing through horde after horde of Progrot, Hoemnfent, Ewoen and Guereeren that stood in his way with prayers and curses to the many gods, he had never had anyone ease him into doing such a thing before. His time at the monastery was both too short and too long, in that it prepared him for what to do, but it didn’t prepare him for what he’d see. While Yor was in awe the times he spent soaring through the forests, eating strange food and seeing the wondrous flora and fauna, he was in awe too much. This awe crept over him as a great evil would creep over an unsuspecting village. The hills gave way to plains which gave way to forests which gave way to mountains. The land became more and more civilized, with large cities being the dominant settlement up north. Finally, he left the city of Uronq in the mighty mountains with a hammer in his heart. Yet as he got further north from there, a great fear slowly vanished. He heard tales of great power over the Scepter of the Dimensions, and these tales boosted his initiative to seek it. After days of searching, camping out and fighting off lizard-bugs, he came across a magnificent palace. Coated in Larzonak gold, it had the grandeur and rarity of an invading being from the Ancient Space, or even the Realm of the Gods, rarely explored by mortal men and stepped in otherworldly magic. Yor parked his lizard at the parking lot, got his sword and walked up the shimmering staircase.
Inside, the palace was in ruins. Parts of other rooms and ceilings were completely dismantled, and as Yor crept through the place, he noticed the downstairs was in much better condition than the main hall. Fountains of the many gods spun around in pure delight, and the ceiling was wrought in grotesque splendor. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Scepter. It was a grey lump of metal with a simple crescent at the top, but its shape suggested a pantheon of colors, jumping to and fro in every direction. He reached to grab the implement, when suddenly, he heard a ghastly sound radiate from the crypt. The floor burst open and there appeared an unholy sight. A shambling, many headed dragon creature swung its massive arms towards Yor. Frightened, Yor prayed to Ilililirii, god of doors, chanting and raving every which where, trying to dodge the massive blows of the ever-approaching thing. Remembering the event from the mound city, Yor tried not to pray to any more gods, instead cowering in a corner next to a globe of the world waving his sword and the scepter in the air. Suddenly, an astral door opened and dragged the dragon and the rest of the palace into it. In the void of howling fear, before all became black, the last thought Yor pondered was that the gates to the Realm of the Gods have opened and that could be a good thing for the rest of humanity, but certainly not for him. He was right about one of those.
Because Yor was undergoing an act of Becoming, he was forced to fast for seven days and seven nights. Even though this improved the quality of the visions, his rotund belly shrivelled in impatience. As Yor got hungrier, the sights became weirder. Now there were whirling wizards wielding flaming flails fanatically, lizard creatures with thousands of heads, and grotesque imitations of man, moaning about, crying for help, covered from head to toe in ritual daggers. On the final night, after waking from an unspeakable trance, Yor went to his computer, published his latest visions and drank a foul liquid known as dream-mead. The ritual was almost complete. All that was left for Yor to do was dream of his artifact, all of which were unique to the practitioner.
The dream came to him in two acts. The first told of a mighty scepter used to call the Realm of Gods into the Realm of Sarglath and how it was destroyed by the Serpent King of the Larzonaks to prevent a great evil from spreading. However, his advisor, Floask, hid the scepter in a crypt, where he rebuilt it with his blood in a personal ritual to bring harmony to the land once and for all. Floask died peacefully without recognition of this act. The next part showed the Realm of the Gods. Eyeless figures danced with spider-legged warlords, tentacled giants ate entire cities and continents, armies of beast-men fought against each other as their tides of blood flowed to create bizarre seas of skeletal fish. Everything blended together to create an amorphous abomination, which painfully morphed into the scepter. After what seemed like eons, Yor woke up in a sweat, wrote in his blog and hurried to the communal mess hall for the completion of his ritual.
The mess hall was the grandest building in Ewom. The outside was decorated with Larzonak gold, detailing the forge god Dring and the spread of his religion and technology. Yor walked into the tent, the sound of voracious eating and scholarly debate growing louder each step he took. Yor greedily stuffed his plate with exotic pleasures reserved for the final day and sat down at an elegant chair next to his friends Erior and Plior, with whom he grew up with. The three had always hung out together, fantasizing about the world and the unexplored parts of Sarglath, judged only as “primitive” or “exotic.” They had always craved something different in life, with Erior wanting fame and renown in life and Plior wanting a form of spirituality to attach to. Yor was a bit different, he wanted power, magic, the arcane in physical form. They were all willing to look past the restrictive lifestyles, even if it meant not interacting that much, except by networking. As Erior and some slob of a student talked about their visions while having heavy sips of Serpent Juice, the Elder in the Pronged Crown handed out swords from the mountains in the North and then cast a spell of silence.
“Attention!” the Elder in the Pronged Crown shouted, even though everyone could clearly hear him, “I wish to congratulate you all on surviving your Nights of Vision. You have shown great courage and fortitude and for that I give you your artifact.”
Moans and complains were heard throughout as the monks stared at the lumps of metal staring back at them.
“Hey man, I had a dream about an axe-orb! What’s this Lizardshit?” said Erior in a whiny voice.
“These, my uncultured friend, are placeholders. If you may look past their appearance, you will find them quite useful in searching for your artifacts. They come from our friendly neighbors to the north, the Larzonaks. They act as a compass to find the true relic. This is the final part of your quest.”
“Hey man, why do I have to do this? I wasted seven freakin’ days not eating and having hallucinations about food wizards! When I signed up–”
“You can channel magical energies through it,” Said the Elder in the Pronged Crown.
Every monk breathed a sigh of relief.
“Now get on your lizard and find it!”
At once, the everyone in the canteen scurried to the communal parking and hopped on their lizards, after getting a tome of spells. Plior went east, Erior went south, and Yor went north. Everyone spread in such a great direction that it was impossible to see each other, even without the constant sandstorms. Yor was hopeful, yet anxious for the other students and what troubles they would encounter. He would later come to not worry about this as much, because he would have plenty of troubles to deal with.
The deserts of Enrakior were vast, yet varied. As Yor sped through the shifting sands, he noticed sand forests, complete with sand trees, sand mountains, and even caves made of dry sand. It seemed as if the world was grander than what was shown in the limited, and ultimately censored internet. Too distracted by the ever-changing and flowing scenery, Yor didn’t notice his sword was talking to him about where to go until he reached a flat piece of desert, flanked by nothing in particular.
“The first part of your journey is almost over. Keep on going north.” Said the sword in a whiny, aggravated voice.
“Ah! A talking sword!” Yor nearly fell of his lizard in fright. “I thought you were for direction and magic!”
“Well, that’s where me talking comes in. You know, not everyone has such a tool to use. The Larzonaks would consider me a god! A minor, animistic god, but a god nonetheless.”
“A god, even with all of that technology to determine what’s right or not? In my school, we learned that the gods exist on a plane above our perception, but still can be called by the humans who worship them,”
“All is flowing with the energy of magic. As the gods once lived here, and shaped this land, we are products of this magical energy. You may view us as products of the forge god, Dring. Now why don’t you go north?”
Annoyed, Yor shoved the sword in a pouch of his lizard and rode like the wind in a sandstorm.
Eventually, the land would turn from a sea of dunes into a sea of scrubby mounds. Smooth, artificial mounds towered into the sky. On top of these mounds were pitch-black monoliths that seemed to radiate an aura of civilization, no matter how foreign. Yor could hear people on top of the mounds throwing disks and toasting the sunset, albeit in a manner unlike anything he had seen, even though he had read about it. Their accents, although in the same language, were barely comprehensible, and their ultraslender bodies were in stark contrast to the short and stocky Enrakionians. Some of them didn’t notice Yor zip by, and some did. The hills grew larger and the streets grew more urban as Yor passed through the area. Sentience bars, street sigils and internet cafes grew more common, and everyone seemed to possess a beard. As the night wore on, Yor stumbled across a small hole-in-the-wall litel (lizard hotel), bartered with the clerk, and got a cheap room with the view of a nearby mound and monolith. Yor fell asleep reading his book of spells. The last thing Yor thought of before going to bed was how the monolith looked a lot like the one in his dream.
Yor awakened to the sound of his room being torn apart. Groggily, yor turned his head towards the ceiling, only to find a large black hand staring back at him. Frightened, Yor took all of his things, and ran towards his lizard. With a stroke of fear, he picked up his sword and murmured a prayer to the god Yrium, lord of knives. Nothing happened. Mildly annoyed, Yor murmured a prayer to the goddess Niumor, queen of ice. Nothing happened. Frustrated, Yor screamed a prayer to the extradimentional being Yi’llormnioandiroeromntioamndor, the androgynous master of searing death and vile destruction. Nothing happened. Suddenly, a rain of knives came down from the sky, puncturing every inch of the large creature. Smiling, Yor got on his lizard and rode as fast as he could. Suddenly, a block of ice came down and crushed the creature, breaking it into small fragments. Yor was almost out of town when he heard a piercing scream as bat-things, rat-things, cat-things, hat-things and fat-things descended from the heavens to tear the creature apart.
“Be patient,” warned the sword as he was violently stuffed into the pouch of the lizard. Yor journeyed onwards into the north, getting more confused as the land got more confusing.
As Sarglath impressed Yor with technopolises, death palaces, underground seas and even rockets to realms beyond Rarglathian perception, Yor felt left out. Even though he was slicing through horde after horde of Progrot, Hoemnfent, Ewoen and Guereeren that stood in his way with prayers and curses to the many gods, he had never had anyone ease him into doing such a thing before. His time at the monastery was both too short and too long, in that it prepared him for what to do, but it didn’t prepare him for what he’d see. While Yor was in awe the times he spent soaring through the forests, eating strange food and seeing the wondrous flora and fauna, he was in awe too much. This awe crept over him as a great evil would creep over an unsuspecting village. The hills gave way to plains which gave way to forests which gave way to mountains. The land became more and more civilized, with large cities being the dominant settlement up north. Finally, he left the city of Uronq in the mighty mountains with a hammer in his heart. Yet as he got further north from there, a great fear slowly vanished. He heard tales of great power over the Scepter of the Dimensions, and these tales boosted his initiative to seek it. After days of searching, camping out and fighting off lizard-bugs, he came across a magnificent palace. Coated in Larzonak gold, it had the grandeur and rarity of an invading being from the Ancient Space, or even the Realm of the Gods, rarely explored by mortal men and stepped in otherworldly magic. Yor parked his lizard at the parking lot, got his sword and walked up the shimmering staircase.
Inside, the palace was in ruins. Parts of other rooms and ceilings were completely dismantled, and as Yor crept through the place, he noticed the downstairs was in much better condition than the main hall. Fountains of the many gods spun around in pure delight, and the ceiling was wrought in grotesque splendor. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Scepter. It was a grey lump of metal with a simple crescent at the top, but its shape suggested a pantheon of colors, jumping to and fro in every direction. He reached to grab the implement, when suddenly, he heard a ghastly sound radiate from the crypt. The floor burst open and there appeared an unholy sight. A shambling, many headed dragon creature swung its massive arms towards Yor. Frightened, Yor prayed to Ilililirii, god of doors, chanting and raving every which where, trying to dodge the massive blows of the ever-approaching thing. Remembering the event from the mound city, Yor tried not to pray to any more gods, instead cowering in a corner next to a globe of the world waving his sword and the scepter in the air. Suddenly, an astral door opened and dragged the dragon and the rest of the palace into it. In the void of howling fear, before all became black, the last thought Yor pondered was that the gates to the Realm of the Gods have opened and that could be a good thing for the rest of humanity, but certainly not for him. He was right about one of those.
Rom’n was trapped. Surrounded at all sides by dire liches, flailing his bone-sword around as if to ward off these horrid beasts and their unnatural magic. He knew the God Times were upon the land of Jarguln, as the land terraformed into gross imitations of itself, and people had to survive by killing or being killed. Even now, in the deserts just beyond the city of Iii, the survival instincts of the land kicked in, creating a deathly feeding frenzy of man, beast and what was once man or beast. Rom’n sliced off of the heads of the many giant liches enhanced by some horrid sorcery. His slender, muscular figure was getting progressively covered in Death Aura, and as he tried to wash it off with his Bio-Cleanser, he was swarmed further. The bone-sword he carried was injected with an anti-regeneration poison, brewed by the alchemist priests in the High Tower. Rom’n had lived amongst them, although he was too afraid to try the magic and participate in serving the gods. Instead, he opted to fight the harrowing hordes of malicious magic, created by power-high sorcerers serving the darkest of gods on Sarglath. Rom’n ran as fast as he could, jumping and impaling, until he reached an even emptier spot of land. He stretched his hand to the ground and tore off a piece of his flesh. Rom’n stepped backwards and smashed the flesh with his sword. A strange aura enveloped him while the liches shambled forward firing bolts of arcane magic. What felt like hours of excruciating pain were only seconds as Rom’n was transported to his home street in the city of Iii. The streets were made of dried carcasses of Rhinormbols, yet were scented by the biolords as being mildly flowery and pleasing to the nose. Rom’n walked up to his flat, door covered in animal hides.
“Honey, I’m home!”
“What is it dearie? Did you find the Pillar of Distortion?” Said his wife, Qorin, a biolord and alchemist.
“Nah, I was swarmed by Dire Liches, you know, it’s the God Times. I had to tear off a piece of my flesh to teleport as a tribute.”
“Oh, no biggie,” She said. “Make sure to stop by tonight and pick it up, okay?”
She took a piece of ghost toxin and rubbed it over Rom’n’s hand. As the toxin slowly made his hand regenerate, Qorin mumbled prayers of protection over Rom’n’s bonesword, slowly scraping her hand over it to drench it in magical blood.
“Now be sure to find that Pillar of Distortion.” She said, “I’m sure it’s somewhere in the deserts beyond the city. Have you tried looking inside the tunnels below Sarglath?”
“That’s not a bad idea” Rom’n said as he darted out of the door and painfully teleported himself into the deserts beyond Iii.
Rom’n journeyed long and far, searching for an entrance. Far off in the distance, sorcerers gathered for strange rituals, but they did not care for any mortal being. The desert became hotter as the day wore on, and the malicious rays caressed Rom’n’s supple body as he tried to find cover. Finally, the moon started to shine. Beaten and weary, Rom’n decided to walk back to the city of Iii even though it took a long time. As soon as he lifted his feet from the rocky desert, he was falling. Falling into a strange pit of fiends not meant to be known, but at least he was closer to his goal.
Rom’n awoke in a chamber of the Rock Lords. They had built magnificent palaces out of stone, to the more obscure deities in the Realm of the Gods. It seemed as if the diminuitive is ancestors had stood greater than the tallest man of Jarglun, but Rom’n knew that not to be true. Out of the corner of his eye amidst the glorious ruins, halls and rock-cut temples, he spied it. The pillar radiated with a dark aura, slowly beckoning for Rom’n to come closer. Rom’n readied his Bone Sword as he plodded forward, breathing getting heavier with each step. The pillar spat and bubbled, silhouettes of animal headed figures slowly coming into being. As soon as Rom’n touched the pillar, it began to change into a formless blob, writhing at its existence. He stabbed at the form with his bonesword, but before anything could happen, the mass transformed into a pale man with the head of a bird. Afraid, Rom’n stabbed at the figure once again, but was blocked by some sort of invisible metal.
“Squork!” cried the being as Rom’n painstakingly teleported him and the outsider to the city of Iii.
Rom'n gazed at the carnage done to his beloved city. It certainly was the God Times.
“Honey, I’m home!”
“What is it dearie? Did you find the Pillar of Distortion?” Said his wife, Qorin, a biolord and alchemist.
“Nah, I was swarmed by Dire Liches, you know, it’s the God Times. I had to tear off a piece of my flesh to teleport as a tribute.”
“Oh, no biggie,” She said. “Make sure to stop by tonight and pick it up, okay?”
She took a piece of ghost toxin and rubbed it over Rom’n’s hand. As the toxin slowly made his hand regenerate, Qorin mumbled prayers of protection over Rom’n’s bonesword, slowly scraping her hand over it to drench it in magical blood.
“Now be sure to find that Pillar of Distortion.” She said, “I’m sure it’s somewhere in the deserts beyond the city. Have you tried looking inside the tunnels below Sarglath?”
“That’s not a bad idea” Rom’n said as he darted out of the door and painfully teleported himself into the deserts beyond Iii.
Rom’n journeyed long and far, searching for an entrance. Far off in the distance, sorcerers gathered for strange rituals, but they did not care for any mortal being. The desert became hotter as the day wore on, and the malicious rays caressed Rom’n’s supple body as he tried to find cover. Finally, the moon started to shine. Beaten and weary, Rom’n decided to walk back to the city of Iii even though it took a long time. As soon as he lifted his feet from the rocky desert, he was falling. Falling into a strange pit of fiends not meant to be known, but at least he was closer to his goal.
Rom’n awoke in a chamber of the Rock Lords. They had built magnificent palaces out of stone, to the more obscure deities in the Realm of the Gods. It seemed as if the diminuitive is ancestors had stood greater than the tallest man of Jarglun, but Rom’n knew that not to be true. Out of the corner of his eye amidst the glorious ruins, halls and rock-cut temples, he spied it. The pillar radiated with a dark aura, slowly beckoning for Rom’n to come closer. Rom’n readied his Bone Sword as he plodded forward, breathing getting heavier with each step. The pillar spat and bubbled, silhouettes of animal headed figures slowly coming into being. As soon as Rom’n touched the pillar, it began to change into a formless blob, writhing at its existence. He stabbed at the form with his bonesword, but before anything could happen, the mass transformed into a pale man with the head of a bird. Afraid, Rom’n stabbed at the figure once again, but was blocked by some sort of invisible metal.
“Squork!” cried the being as Rom’n painstakingly teleported him and the outsider to the city of Iii.
Rom'n gazed at the carnage done to his beloved city. It certainly was the God Times.
I'm still working on part III which follows the advanced nation of the Farlands.
Suggestions, comments, compliments and criticisms are all welcome.
