Rite of Virtous Damnation
The ritual chamber was shrouded in darkness, save for the flecks of candlelight that pierced the gloom. It was silent, not even Väljassi's Dawn Elvish hearing could pick up a single sound, not even the breathing of those observing the rite could be traced. Yet the Ätsiilaissi knew they were there. They were never ones to miss the initiation of another into their brotherhood. A voice, more akin to a loud whisper, emerged from the twilight.
"Step forward, one who has been chosen to walk the road of damnation, to spare others from it."
And so Väljassi did, following the source of the whisper. The Dawn Elf remembered the event that earned the attention of his soon-to-be brothers-in-arms all too well. He had been a Shaman of his clan, devoted to using his magical gifts to serve his people and the gods. It was the closing days of the 6th Crux of the End Times. When they were joined by these otherworldly warriors, both the clan and the Order waged a war of survival against the Demonic hordes from beyond the Veil, joined by their twisted Nefaalaiset kindred. Their beautiful, snow-white visages conceal a cold, black heart; their eyes, the colour of either blood or midnight, convey the gaze a predator would give to its prey. The clan barely survived, many good Ätsiilaissi joined Tuonissä in her gilded, water-filled halls waiting for the next life to come; the warriors, impressed with Väljassi's grasp of the arcane, a trait so common among the Elven kindreds, that they offered him a chance to quell the rising darkness before it spills again into the world. Seeing the devastation of the his people and mystic woodlands from which they hailed, the Shaman had agreed.
Returning to the present, Väljassi had finally stopped, a circle of eerie azure light had surrounded him. Out of the darkness stepped forth a figure, completely swaddled in a blueish-black, star-woven cloak, save for a mask of ethereal silver that glowed balefully. Fear arose in the Dawn Elf's heart as the figure drew closer. The mysterious figure spoke, in that otherworldly loud whisper.
"You have come Dawn Elf, to walk in darkness so that others may walk in the light?"
"Indeed I have."
The figure gave no sign of acknowledgement to the Elf's response. Instead, it carried on speaking.
"Are you willing to raise a blade, to evoke a spell in the defense of those who are strangers to you?"
"To spare them from the worst an Eldritch abomination can bare, to save them from that we have witnessed; yes."
The mysterious figure then opened his robe, revealing a gloved hand that gently grasped a red chalice. It then reached its free hand towards its mask. Slowly, it tore it away and revealed a sight that horrified Väljassi. The being before him was definitely a male Elf, but his features were now a grotesque parody of their beauty. His face was gaunt, even for the Elven kindreds, what would have once been a radiant goldish tone was now a sickly yellow. The mysterious Dawn Elf's visage was marred further by visible black veins that laced his features, they were most apparent upon his high cheekbones. Most disturbing of all, was the warrior's eyes; that which should have been the colour of vibrant, cool gemstones, now stared at him with pitch black orbs, laced with throbbing crimson capillaries. He spoke once more, this time in a raspy and deathly hiss.
"Are you willing to sunder yourself, so you can spare others from it?"
Väljassi considered this question; should he accept a cursed life in servitude to those who would despise him? Or return to a life of near blissful service to the gods? A realisation dawned upon him, he could never go back. Not after what he has witnessed.
"Yes!" He yelled. "I am willing to sunder myself, if I die so be it."
The tainted Elf then pressed the chalice forward.
"Then drink! Drink deep of the blood of the Demon! Infuse yourself with the essence of the forbidden gods from beyond the mortal plain!"
Quickly, Väljassi took the chalice from the warrior's grip. He looked within; a blackish red fluid that possessed a fell, demonic glow swilled within. The Shaman put the chalice to his lips, expecting a sickly taste. The moment the liquid touched his tongue, he encountered something else entirely. Väljassi tasted wildfire, yet a strange force compelled him to drink more. The burning spread throughout his body, setting every nerve aflame with agony. From the moment the cup was empty, everything grew as cold as the Northern winters. The Dawn Elf stared at his tainted kinsman; a chant, invoked in a language long dead, gently poured fourth from his lips.
"Veritas de Vitae Incubo. Veritasde Vitae Ménmorkon."
Immediately, Väljassi felt something tug at his very soul. An overwhelming sense of nausea and exhaustion crept over him. His sight blurred and the tainted Elf's voice grew distorted. However, it seemed he wasn't alone in the chanting; many ethereal voice joined the warrior's litany. Some were heavenly and uplifting, whilst some were roars of deep rage that bayed for blood. Just as the world grew dark for Väljassi, the voices grew in intensity. He finally collapsed into unconsciousness, the last sight being of the one overseeing the ritual.
So what do you guys think? Should there be a second part to this short story?
When the sky falls down, The Dead sleep no more.
Can you survive as your world slowly tears itself apart?
"When life gives you lemons...BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD"
Last edited by Farseer Ulthris; 10-22-13 at 12:06 PM.