Prologue
A new dawn fell upon the facility, it's construction obviously benefiting from military industrial complex sourcing. A series of low walls and towers, the sound of something impacting against the earth, the heavy resonations echoing out of the valley. A fell voice echoed upon the severe and somber wind, a tongue not spoken aloud since days of yore. On the ground before the speaker, of whom's arms were outstretched, one hand possessing a book, the other some sort of slender icon or artifact, letters or perhaps hieroglyphs glowed an off yellow hue.
The figure, draped in the dark colours of the Order of Night, a collection of cleric's trained in the art thaumaturgy, held The Book of Eibon. Strangest and rarest of occult forgotten volumes, it is said to have come down through a series of manifold translations from a prehistoric original written in the lost language of Hyperborea. In the other hand,his right, the artifact being the Seal of R'Lyeh.
As the storm above began to whip itself into a frenzy, funneling down and into the tear itself, the cleric brought both his hands together and a white light danced from it and towards a set of five stone arches at the edges of the circle of glowing writing, and the base below the tear. A grinding sound echoed forth, and the stone moved, following a long since forgotten path, activated by a mechanism unseen. As each tip of the talon like arches came close to one other, the light from the cleric became a solid, burning white ball between the five points.
The brightness reached out, drawing from the searchlights, causing sparks as the sets burnt out, bulbs popped and then silence. The light was gone, but something was making noise. As emergency lights activated, and fresh spotlights, some from nearby vehicles came online, a tangible presence could be felt. Something ancient and evil was coming to life here, bit by bit being unleashed into the mortal realm from it's long prison. A scion of the Sleeping Old One, a goddess of the forest, and as horrible as the creature that she both served and was of. Flesh like vines, as thick as a man's body, black as the darkest night, seeped from the portal and into the air as the prison opened more and more.
The wind stirred banners that hung about the entry into another realm, each bore the emblem of a black hand, upright and thin, upon red circle, it upon dark grey background. Scientists and soldiers alike stood there, witness to the approaching terror, the summoned entity that loomed above. The haze of spotlights stun the area and the eyes, while robed members of the church swayed urns upon chains, the white and black misty smoke dancing across the air. The speaker continued his chants, now joined by others of that order, and it seemed to become a bellow, or a roar of sorts.
Awake now, the creature revealed as it pulled itself free of the prison, it also became aware of the life below it, and the chanting. So these were the cultists of the Old One, The Great Sleeper, and she, the great Lythalia, Goddess of the Forest, thought, perhaps they shall serve at my whim instead. There, hanging in the sky for a moment, it brought all of those present to it's command. As the winds subsided and the clouds dissipated, so to did the ancient evil. It's form transcended it's original appearance, and in it's place, atop a throne of burnt silver, a woman resided. Her eyes glowed an orange hue, and the bronze flesh of her body gleamed as if a second sun.
She rose from this ancient seat, transported upon one of the many vehicles, and moved with purpose to the one officer that had yet to break before her. Intrigued as she could spy the artifacts in those hands, and she knew instantly a magister of some sort had summoned her, freed her, from the abyss. Path taken between the two furthermost pillars of modern stone, built by builders that she knew not, beyond the grasp of what might have been in days of her past. Such was the tale of the modern time, man had come far, to be ruled by her master when he awoke, or at least by her until then.
As the Scion came closer, the magister officer in question would come more into detail. Slender of build, human in species, white hair cropped close to the scalp and with eyes of light blue. Trained, ingrained, brained to be a zealot, fervor kept just behind the calm mask of his face. His attire consisted of a long leather like robe, clasped to the far right of his chest from heart to shin in silver straps. A scalp and neck cover made to look like bones rested further, with wrists, palms, and fingers borne in metal of the same. Fingers wrapped with rings that led to talons that absently clicked against one another as he offered a nod of head at times to the female form directly before him.
So came Lythalia, to inspect this somber individual. She noted a bit out of surprise, that this was not a female. Atypically her summoners were of the various witches covens, sorceresses and so on. Rare indeed this pleasure. This had to be from his closeness to the prison as she escaped, she surmised. She noted that his skin was pale, nearly that of a light grey as if the flesh tone had been sucked right out of his body. A glance also paid to the other mortals, they all wore the same garb, and they carried..weapons of some sort she was sure of it. Were these to be hers? Summoned for the purpose to rule?
Those wickedly taloned fingers clasped each other and were placed behind at lower back. A sense of inner peace could be found in this vale, though at what cost he wondered. When stepping beyond this oasis of earth and field, one became jaded at the sights that sprung into view. The haughty nobles, the suffering serfdom, and the so called honorable armies clashing for false prophets and resources. It was true, force would be necessary to rid these worlds of this plague, to enjoy this peace, to remember it and spread it once the will of the Ascended was passed to all.Goddess, we are at your command, say the word, and the Purifiers shall begin to cleanse this world.
Her tactical mindset was set to the question posed to her by the magister-officer, as to when the holy war would begin to pass, and this in it's state would become but a memory. A foggy memory though irked her, for her last was a thousand years ago, during the time of Potsaph the Fierce. No one knew of this person now, not these mortals, nor the leadership that dared to bring her forth.
They were the first to be wiped away, she would rule from the throne and let these mortals draw the world into chaos once more. A slow and languid settling down upon the throne, watching as her temple disgorged troops clad in that dull black and grey, their footsteps creating a thunder that was only drowned out by the chariots in the sky. Eyes widened a moment as she laughed, the sky filled with warships of a kind she'd never seen before. As boring a hue as the uniforms they so wore, vessels of death blotted out the sun for a time as they slid across the heaven's.
So it would begin, the world's purification...
