NinjaTangerine
Lord of Altera
Around him, nothing was to be seen amongst the area, illuminated by the pillars of gleaming light peering out from the tiniest holes far above. Elsewhere darkness lurked, filling the gaps where nothing furthermore was to be seen. The drought of his mouth hit him suddenly, his brain immediately alarming his body that water was lacking, and he became overrun by immense heat and desiccation. Dust scattered across the ground as he heaved himself upright, his armour creaking as the creases clashed when they collided in conjunction with his movement. He rubbed his eyes, hoping to clear his vision, yet to no avail, but simply adding more dust to his eyelids, causing him to blink frantically as his eyes attempted to acquire what body water could be left to replenish them. As the heat became increasingly unbearable, he began to clamber at the rock wall in front of him; pulling and clawing at each stone, beginning to pull himself up towards the holes. The climb got harder the higher he ascended, his breathing intensity increasing as the struggle became even more difficult. as he reached the ceiling of the cavern, he began pushing the stones near the holes out, revealing more light; which blinded him momentarily, for the drastic change in light was evidently something he had not seen for many a year. The hole widened, and eventually he was able to pull himself out of the cavern, hauling his body through the hole, where, after escaping, he rolled to his back, his hands shooting to his eyes, as his body baked into the light glistening directly above him.
Moments passed before he returned from his dazed, blinded state. As his vision focused and his breath recovered, he heaved himself to his feet, and looked around him. Stone, carvings, pillars, bridges, rubble littered the area; the ruins of what was clearly an old civilisation surrounded him. The roasting heat of flowing lava radiated to his body, as it traveled slowly from the great ceiling into a distant pool of glowing magma. He looked at his armour; rusted, scratched, dented, he had worn woolen gambesons which were more useful than his armour at it's current state. He reached to his back, where his hand simply brushed a ripped strap of what once held his historic weapon; his pick. He peered back into the hole from which he emerged, yet to no joy did he see anything. Around him was simply rock and rubble, and, unfortunately, no evident way out.
His memory was shattered, scarred into several segments in which he could not place in chronology. He decided the only way out was upward, and so began to climb the rubble as his rusted armour clanged against the stone, echoing throughout the cavern. As he climbed, he gazed back into his memory, recalling being on the seat amongst many of his kind, ruling from a great mountain, an entire Kingdom. He recalled several faces, those of whom he loved, those which he had hated, even a few which he had killed. He delved deeper in his mind as he lugged himself up the rocky wall, recollecting the memories of an everlasting battle among a stoned keep, as he fought alongside the men of a northern Jarl. He remembered a particular group, lead by the most peculiar of elves, in which together they ran a most secret organisation, of what purpose his mind did not allow him to recall.
Deeper his mind searched through what he felt to be a library stuffed with unwritten books, as he remembered glances of a city covered in snow, and a naked bartender with the most convenient of beards. He searched then for his family, yet to no avail could he picture them.
Finally, the library released the largest of books into his mind, revealing several faces which he was certain he would never forget. Those of the people who betrayed him. Taken what was his and forced them to become theirs. Those, who were his own people, who had taken his kingdom. Those, who forced him into exile, to be taken by the wilderness.
Those, who left him in this cave to rot.
Hrothgar used his bracer to bash against the ceiling, as he focused on his memories, recollecting as much as he could, before eventually breaking through, as he felt the cold touch of snow on his hand, the freezing winds of the north brushing against his wrist, and finally, the sunlight gleaming onto him as he clambered out of the hole to the surface. Hrothgar wiped the dust and ash off his face to the best he could, before stretching the muscles which had laid still for so long, and then grabbing his extended beard, which was now darkened; coloured grey as the clouds of the North. Looking ahead from the peak in which he stood, he gazed upon the valley which stretched across the land, revealing a realm which soon; very soon, would recognise the name King Hrothgar once again.
Moments passed before he returned from his dazed, blinded state. As his vision focused and his breath recovered, he heaved himself to his feet, and looked around him. Stone, carvings, pillars, bridges, rubble littered the area; the ruins of what was clearly an old civilisation surrounded him. The roasting heat of flowing lava radiated to his body, as it traveled slowly from the great ceiling into a distant pool of glowing magma. He looked at his armour; rusted, scratched, dented, he had worn woolen gambesons which were more useful than his armour at it's current state. He reached to his back, where his hand simply brushed a ripped strap of what once held his historic weapon; his pick. He peered back into the hole from which he emerged, yet to no joy did he see anything. Around him was simply rock and rubble, and, unfortunately, no evident way out.
His memory was shattered, scarred into several segments in which he could not place in chronology. He decided the only way out was upward, and so began to climb the rubble as his rusted armour clanged against the stone, echoing throughout the cavern. As he climbed, he gazed back into his memory, recalling being on the seat amongst many of his kind, ruling from a great mountain, an entire Kingdom. He recalled several faces, those of whom he loved, those which he had hated, even a few which he had killed. He delved deeper in his mind as he lugged himself up the rocky wall, recollecting the memories of an everlasting battle among a stoned keep, as he fought alongside the men of a northern Jarl. He remembered a particular group, lead by the most peculiar of elves, in which together they ran a most secret organisation, of what purpose his mind did not allow him to recall.
Deeper his mind searched through what he felt to be a library stuffed with unwritten books, as he remembered glances of a city covered in snow, and a naked bartender with the most convenient of beards. He searched then for his family, yet to no avail could he picture them.
Finally, the library released the largest of books into his mind, revealing several faces which he was certain he would never forget. Those of the people who betrayed him. Taken what was his and forced them to become theirs. Those, who were his own people, who had taken his kingdom. Those, who forced him into exile, to be taken by the wilderness.
Those, who left him in this cave to rot.
Hrothgar used his bracer to bash against the ceiling, as he focused on his memories, recollecting as much as he could, before eventually breaking through, as he felt the cold touch of snow on his hand, the freezing winds of the north brushing against his wrist, and finally, the sunlight gleaming onto him as he clambered out of the hole to the surface. Hrothgar wiped the dust and ash off his face to the best he could, before stretching the muscles which had laid still for so long, and then grabbing his extended beard, which was now darkened; coloured grey as the clouds of the North. Looking ahead from the peak in which he stood, he gazed upon the valley which stretched across the land, revealing a realm which soon; very soon, would recognise the name King Hrothgar once again.
