Naelwyn
Non sum qualis eram
Springrise, 2259.
The uproar in the Cathedral has ceased. The shimmering portal lies flat, and dull. The sky, remains clouded, but the storm has ceased, and the varied creatures of the dark no longer spill forth from the building, the tide, stemmed by those who have fought.
It lies quiet, and still.
And yet, I cannot help but feel that this is just the beginning.
Exactly one week hence, the sky above the Grove of Shalherana appears to crack, like an eggshell. Once. Twice. Thrice, is a loud, cracking sound, like a hammer on steel, and the crack widens briefly to admit a falling object, then closes.
Streaking down towards the heart of the grove is, quite simply, a building-sized sword.
It lands with a shriek of metal upon stone, strewing dirt and stone skywards, embedding deep into the ground.
And the ground upon which it touches, sizzles, seeming, almost.. to scream, as the blade glows unnaturally.
And from the writhing ground do tendrils sprout, a foul mockery of vines, spreading rapidly across the stone, from the heart of the Grove on outwards.
And for hours, all that can be heard from the grove is the sound of women, screaming, and wood, warping and snapping.
Under the fall of night, a false wall is collapsed, and several members of the Sisterhood run for the boat on the Dock, sailing down the river and up, northwards.
And one day later, morning dawns. And again, the grove is quiet. Peaceful. And serene. For not one sound occurs within it. And the Grove.. is at peace.
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The uproar in the Cathedral has ceased. The shimmering portal lies flat, and dull. The sky, remains clouded, but the storm has ceased, and the varied creatures of the dark no longer spill forth from the building, the tide, stemmed by those who have fought.
It lies quiet, and still.
And yet, I cannot help but feel that this is just the beginning.
Exactly one week hence, the sky above the Grove of Shalherana appears to crack, like an eggshell. Once. Twice. Thrice, is a loud, cracking sound, like a hammer on steel, and the crack widens briefly to admit a falling object, then closes.
Streaking down towards the heart of the grove is, quite simply, a building-sized sword.
It lands with a shriek of metal upon stone, strewing dirt and stone skywards, embedding deep into the ground.
And the ground upon which it touches, sizzles, seeming, almost.. to scream, as the blade glows unnaturally.
And from the writhing ground do tendrils sprout, a foul mockery of vines, spreading rapidly across the stone, from the heart of the Grove on outwards.
And for hours, all that can be heard from the grove is the sound of women, screaming, and wood, warping and snapping.
Under the fall of night, a false wall is collapsed, and several members of the Sisterhood run for the boat on the Dock, sailing down the river and up, northwards.
And one day later, morning dawns. And again, the grove is quiet. Peaceful. And serene. For not one sound occurs within it. And the Grove.. is at peace.
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