A Haunt of the long Past
Posted: Thu May 18, 2017 6:24 am
Just another day and a rite of communion. Runes drawn, shaman in the midst, blocking sight of all but the called. Braziers are lit and scents of faraway lands fill the air. A slow hum, a low-toned chant. A rite done precisely for all but one detail…
A shaman’s mind wanders today and the mistake was observed.
Instead of expected, the aether is disturbed by a carrion call of crow as they flock to his form, circling above. A hiss, a whisper, a shriek. A voice, chilling his very soul, sending tremors through his body from the far beyond:
“….and what a fine morsel I spy today…. It has been a while, Bran…. Nightingale!” The word falls heavy, naming the one, his soul bare to see for the one who had touched his spirit before!
A shaman heaves as if suffering a blow to the gut, cold swear runs across his features as he reels from the sheer power of the intrusion: “No…. no, no, no… please no,… not like this…” *words spoken with a pleading whimper.* “Oh Yes, Nightingale… Like this… Like in days long ago…. *the entity spoke in words, sweet and poisenous* I will have my reckoning, I have made you a promise, and you will know it for an eternity!”
*A shriek of sheer terror bellowed through the shaman’s mind.* “You’ve left your mind a turmoil of emotion…. Wrath, fury… Zeal?! And what is this I spy…. Is that… genuine love? *the last word spat out like an insult* …Oh Nightingale… how the mighty have fallen… tsk, tsk, tsk…” *The voice from beyond savoured every single moment of the communion intruded upon, his talons slowly raking across the shaman’s mind, leaving open wounds, slowly twisting the radiant features the man wore beyond the veil.* “Let us expose the flesh, Nightingale… let us tear away the visage!” With a shriek and a tear, Crowfather of beyond clawed into the spirit-form unshielded.
Bran inside the circle of runes convulsed, a bestial roar parting from his lips. His hands frantically ran across the runes of power towards the knife at his hip, a flash of metal, a spray of blood from a slit wrist, covering the rune-trap.* “No! Not. Like. This.” The shaman bellowed beyond the veil, the aether-sky parting at the force of his command! “It will not be like this! I defy you, Ninth of the Eight! I defy you and all of your ilk! You will not claim me!” At the words the veil shuddered and cracked, Bran, tossed aside like a leaf in the winds, the runic circle in an instant caught fire and burned away, the communion severed.
He lay there… his wrist oozing crimson upon the ground, chest heaving as air filled his lungs with great effort of will and form, sweat still cool upon his brow. The Crowfather hath returned to claim what was promised long ago, and he was defied. The events imprinted to memory, a lesion of humility, that even one mighty can be brought low at a whim, at a slightest crack.
A shaman lay there… with a coy smile upon his lips, his thoughts drifting towards the guttural crowing of the Ninth, recalling the words… “…is that… genuine… love….”
A shaman’s mind wanders today and the mistake was observed.
Instead of expected, the aether is disturbed by a carrion call of crow as they flock to his form, circling above. A hiss, a whisper, a shriek. A voice, chilling his very soul, sending tremors through his body from the far beyond:
“….and what a fine morsel I spy today…. It has been a while, Bran…. Nightingale!” The word falls heavy, naming the one, his soul bare to see for the one who had touched his spirit before!
A shaman heaves as if suffering a blow to the gut, cold swear runs across his features as he reels from the sheer power of the intrusion: “No…. no, no, no… please no,… not like this…” *words spoken with a pleading whimper.* “Oh Yes, Nightingale… Like this… Like in days long ago…. *the entity spoke in words, sweet and poisenous* I will have my reckoning, I have made you a promise, and you will know it for an eternity!”
*A shriek of sheer terror bellowed through the shaman’s mind.* “You’ve left your mind a turmoil of emotion…. Wrath, fury… Zeal?! And what is this I spy…. Is that… genuine love? *the last word spat out like an insult* …Oh Nightingale… how the mighty have fallen… tsk, tsk, tsk…” *The voice from beyond savoured every single moment of the communion intruded upon, his talons slowly raking across the shaman’s mind, leaving open wounds, slowly twisting the radiant features the man wore beyond the veil.* “Let us expose the flesh, Nightingale… let us tear away the visage!” With a shriek and a tear, Crowfather of beyond clawed into the spirit-form unshielded.
Bran inside the circle of runes convulsed, a bestial roar parting from his lips. His hands frantically ran across the runes of power towards the knife at his hip, a flash of metal, a spray of blood from a slit wrist, covering the rune-trap.* “No! Not. Like. This.” The shaman bellowed beyond the veil, the aether-sky parting at the force of his command! “It will not be like this! I defy you, Ninth of the Eight! I defy you and all of your ilk! You will not claim me!” At the words the veil shuddered and cracked, Bran, tossed aside like a leaf in the winds, the runic circle in an instant caught fire and burned away, the communion severed.
He lay there… his wrist oozing crimson upon the ground, chest heaving as air filled his lungs with great effort of will and form, sweat still cool upon his brow. The Crowfather hath returned to claim what was promised long ago, and he was defied. The events imprinted to memory, a lesion of humility, that even one mighty can be brought low at a whim, at a slightest crack.
A shaman lay there… with a coy smile upon his lips, his thoughts drifting towards the guttural crowing of the Ninth, recalling the words… “…is that… genuine… love….”