Saturday, March 30, 2013

1.2: Evil Emerges First- Always

Evil emerged from the shadows of Rivermoon’s bowels, a strange sentience in robes that flattered no one and did not seem to care. Ankle deep in muck it stood up and decided that, yes, bipedal would best serve him. The unknown beckoned and knowing the unknown caused so many to flourish towards him. Lifting his collar, evil surveyed the stalls and waste about him, glancing his eyes upward toward the rivers of streets, up to the city’s mount, a tavern. Evil found it funny, increasingly that this lavish port city on a decaying continent would have a tavern as its central ornament.

It made these new insides feel good, though the idea of good did disturb him. That at least felt good. 

This manifestation of Evil could feel the tendrils pulling at him, delicate seductive appendages toward that gleaming white Tavern filled with scrawl. In the meantime it allowed itself to relish, a plump rich fruit, like the ones decaying under the stalls, this city, this reality that summoned him. 

The streets of Rivermoon improved slowly as Evil made the ascent toward that summoning place. The city built centuries before as a buffer to the Southern Isles, so full of dangers on land and sea that no one ever lived long enough to name them, now prospered feeding on the decay of the dead N’tari Empire’s remains. Slums turned to wards, wards turned quarters, and finally quarters to districts. Always the eyes avoided him, and the ones that did not, the ones with axe or shield in hand, quickly saw that death would be best spent elsewhere. 

"Tis not errday," the armored Warven grunted, loosening his axe in an act of ease. Nor did that race, the progenitor of the Dwarves, move from their path easily. 

"But we will, surely," Evil recoiled not from fear of the Warven but from the sound of its own voice echoing in the tight districts closer to the Milkmoon. Deep, expectant, and ending in a sarcastic question. It dared not look in the waters of the streets. Not even the Pit want to know what Evil looks. 

The Milkmoon Tavern, a stucco building with dark blue scales, perhaps tiles perhaps real scales dominated his vision. About him the characters, always characters, argued and sought their plans for glory. All of it shiny dust to him, Evil. Yes, this was the place that had to filled, had to be known, a blank spot in his complete contentment. 

Crouching slightly under the doorway, the bustle about retreating, bugs in the presence of light. Admiring the view of the countless maps, countless lists, countless campaigns that riddled the walls. Evil enjoyed all that had been done in its name. For even the most prized Paladin does its work when there is greed and lust for more. 
Pulled to that unknowable, his trimming increasing with every step, Evil took on the trophies of warlocks and sorcerers. The typical class of character unable to survive an extraction but with deep pockets to hire the proper equipment. Yes, for the purpose of a campaign, individuals were only equipment, everyone else merely players. 

The seat, made more comfortable by the luxurious robes tunic, and leggings that evolved around him; felt strangely like a throne of deity. And over the crown of his still solidifying skull, upon the wall- was a halo of emptiness. 

To Episode 1.3