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Author: admin, 24.01.2016. Category: Cause Of Ringing In Ears

There could be few harder materials to traverse when you weigh more than a knight in full regalia than coins.
Kallorn grasped the rim of what appeared to be a part of a submerged chariot, hauled himself another blessed metre closer to his goal.
Dark clenched his fist tight, and Kallorn’s whole body blazed with the acid-burn pain of his soul coming under assault. Dark clenched for the longest time yet, holding the torture till Kallorn started to black out. Muscles straining, veins rising like knotted ropes on his sweating skin, Kallorn took hold of the edge of the harp, gripped it so tight his knuckles creaked.
With an explosion of gold he smashed into the pedestal, somehow managing to grasp the Orb as part of his frenzied tackle. At first Kallorn thought it was some sort of after-death spasm, his mind projecting a natural event onto an unnatural situation. And there, for perhaps the first time, deep in the depths of the underworld, Kallorn thought about what it truly meant to keep your word.
After a long moment, broken only by the gentle whisper of the wind, Kallorn walked again, following Dark. And so the monster and its unwilling keeper disappeared into the depths, the pale glow of the red Orb marking their progress. The stranger stood on a hill overlooking the temple, his worn cloak fluttering in the summer breeze. Ever since he had been visited by the vision a few hours ago, Oracle Relekos had been in a jubilant mood. Of course, the acolytes and oracles were not surprised by the head Oracle’s good mood, all anyone had been able to talk about over the last few days had been the imminent arrival of the thief. Despite the siege-proof door between him and a hunched over person, Relekos began to feel something was wrong.
With horror, Relekos saw that the stream of lighting was heading for a cluster of acolytes picking themselves up from the floor. It was true: Relekos reached for his magic, but his head throbbed and the stench of his own sick made him light-headed, he couldn’t focus enough to grasp the complex patterns of words and thoughts. The call of the young voice cut through to the scene, and with relief, Relekos felt the hand around his neck release its pressure, holding him firmly but allowing air into his lungs. The ring of acolytes held position, each cradling a weapon of some kind, and looked on at their leader. And he stepped back; left Relekos there prostrate in the dirt, and once again held his axe loosely. Arrkas Zek grasped the orange Orb of Warding he had come for, stalking back through utter devastation. Arrkas tromped through a portion of collapsed wall, the Orb of Warding clutched under his arm.
Relekos dashed down a hundred paths, twisting ones and straight ones, flat and elevated, wide and narrow.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spotted one path that he had not seen before.
Without another word, Arrkas strode off, the crowd of temple staff parting around the monster like fish avoiding a shark. As Arrkas went to leave the Temple of Enlightenment he found Relekos, leaning on Lindos, barring his way. Relekos thought about responding to the departing figure, but decided his ego (and body) was bruised enough for one day. Relekos almost motioned for some nearby acolytes to close the temple gates, when he remembered that there weren’t any gates anymore. Of course, when the famed soldier Kalemne and her personal squadron of Iroas’ most blessed soldiers arrived, fresh from defending their temple, the chase was on. The port-city of Meletis was bustling, filled with throngs of humanity going about their business with industry and purpose.
The only door into the temple was locked and barred, but Quennus whispered a quick spell and his form turned to water, flowing through the bars before reforming into solidity. Guise back up, Quennus calmly strode further into the depths of the temple, discreetly checking each room for his target.
They found him in the temple’s most sacred room, following a trail of open and unbarred doors and up to his arms in the magical safeguards protecting the Orbs of Warding. But they weren’t working, the intruder grimaced with each hit, but kept working, his arms waving a complex dance as they struck each symbol just after it discharged and deactivated them. Quennus smiled, unhurriedly cracking his neck in a sideways neck twist reminiscent of an owl. Melinds’ meaty hands swiftly unstrapped a pair of solid bronze knuckle dusters from a sling on his belt, deftly strapping them to his arms.
These were no back alley cutpurses ‘dusters, but finely wrought weapons of war, heavily constructed for maximum damage and studded on the knuckles with corpse-coins. Melind was still a significant distance away when his partner waved his arms, clearly casting a spell. After four hits Quennus got the tempo of the guardian’s assault and surged up before he could make his fifth hit, shooting a palm into the hero’s thick chest. Quennus had over a long career of planeswalking noticed that there were many responses by natives when they discovered a visitor not native to their world or ecology, but most were just variations of a few base emotions.
With a slight straining, Quennus hefted Melind bodily across the room to crash heavily to the ground, his knuckle dusters throwing up sparks they grated along the floor. Overcome with magical exhaustion, the thaumaturge fell to hands and knees, fighting the magic, and was able to raise a glowing hand to Melind, casting one final spell before slumping over. Quennus waved his arms, arcs of power flying from his gestures in waves that filtered across the room. As one, the crowd moved in perfect formation, circling Quennus, then locking arms in a ring of bodies. Quennus studied Melind intently as with slow inevitability, the entranced Therans walked over to the Orbs. Suddenly, like a bowstring breaking, Melind shot forward, sword raised and a cry partly borne of hysteria on his lips.
The boy snatched the Blue orb in his hands, and with only small resistance pulled it out of its magical orbit.
The blade, full of terrible, life-taking power, crashed into the floor, lodging in the stone.
From within his cloak Quennus withdrew a small scroll, sealed with bronze and tied with gold thread. Quennus extracted a small, clicking cogwork device from within his cloak, and threw it to the ground. Every footstep brought a mini-landslide of them away under his weight, threatening to send him tumbling down, or treacherously gave way, trapping his short legs thigh-high in a heavy grasp. He wasn’t the sort to stop talking if he felt like talking in the slightest, and that went double where Kallorn was concerned. No matter how many times he had felt its searing caress Kallorn could never prepare for or withstand Dark’s most unique punishment. His sudden movement took Dark by surprise, giving him a precious few seconds of frantic, nothing-to-lose movement. I wish to be free,” thought Kallorn as the bottom of the pile of treasure rushed up to meet him. As soon as it had come to rest, it exploded out in a huge wave, scything through the Temple of Silence.
Disgusted, he let go of the Orb, but rather than roll away it floated up and began to orbit his head, winking its faded red light. Of massive build, the stranger shrugged off the cloak, uncaring as the wind fluttered it away. He had a skip in his step, a hum in his voice, and he even had a few kind words to say for the novices when they made mistakes or posed poor questions, which was unheard of in recent times. After the theft in Meletis it had been realised that the old, almost forgotten prophecy had begun, and what to do next had caused much debate and consternation from speakers in all three polises. Eventually Relekos stepped forward, claiming he had a foolproof plan to not only safeguard the orbs, but capture the would-be thief as well.
Shortly after breakfast, Relekos scried, and after much contemplation and ritual, had the vision. He’d never heard the High Oracle refer to anyone outside of the temple as his ‘colleague’, but he was happy not to have to get the door. The figure reversed its grip on its walking stick, and now Relekos could see the double-bladed greataxe that had been rested head down and out of sight through the door slot. His hood slid off, revealing the horror beneath: a head like that of a hydra, with a mouth lined with flesh-tearing teeth. Novices who were rushing to see to their Oracle were picked up in a great wave of force and scattered like leaves.

The great double-bladed axe cleared its back and locked into position, clenched tightly in arms not out of place on a Minotaur. Unlike some of the other gods of Theros’ pantheon, a prayer answered by Keranos is clear for all to witness. With a grimace, Relekos cut off his connection to the lighting, and the beam stopped, the acolytes unharmed.
White spots exploded in front of his eyes, his legs turned to jelly, and the ground rushed up to grab him. The hand withdrew its grasp and Relekos vomited, his soup coming up and splattering the ground in a green pile. He was humiliated, held like a piece of limp game by this lizard-creature, his arm ached and his head screamed and he just couldn’t take any more. Arrkas crouched his massive form down to the small crumpled figure and cupped his chin with one talon-tipped finger. Slowly Arrkas panned and surveyed the perimeter of acolytes around him, meeting their looks of fear and anger with cool indifference.
It was a wonder he was still conscious, hardly the state to be attempting complicated magic. His path was erratic, swapping and turning almost as soon as he set foot on the current path. Streams of mana from half a dozen mages kept it sustained, while the lizard-man screamed and howled in frustration, spitting curses and roaring like a hydra in inarticulate anger.
He was disorientated for a brief moment as his earthly pains and ills washed back over him, but as unconsciousness nearly threatened to bowl him over he spoke. He surveyed his temple brethren nearby, ready to lay down their lives to protect the temple’s property. They did not like what they had heard, but it had come from the mouth of their High Oracle, so who were they to argue? Arrkas put the butt of his greataxe on the stone, the pale orange Orb of Warding lazily winding its way around his brow. The sun was just starting to disappear behind the rolling hills, bathing them both in a soft glow. They hit the trail as soon as some Thaumaturges could be rustled up to track the Orbs trace magic. Nets full of fish were hauled in, stone was shaped, and prayers were offered to the gods for a sunny and productive day. In a few moments the entire enchantment shut down with a crackle of static, and the intruder rose, noticing the guardians. Quennus could see this was a well trained move borne partly out of tactics and partly out of compassion.
He was, as Quennus would later journal it, a “remarkably robust human specimen”, even his frown caused muscle to shift.
Rather than the click of bone popping, there was a clacking as if of metal falling into place.
Not exactly subtle, but then as Quennus watched the burly hero run straight at him with a blood-curdling battle cry, he reminded himself that he wasn’t dealing with a subtle man. Quennus tensed for a attack, but a quick reading of the energy the thaumaturge was calling to him suggested a simple piece of battle magic, so Quennus let it complete uncontested. With a crackle Quennus’ guise was dissipated by the hit, but Melind hadn’t noticed, as he was trying to bludgeon Quennus into paste. The piston-driven strength of the shove forced Melind back, and as he righted himself he saw what he was really facing. Quennus had predicted that due to his aggressive tendencies Melind would skip over fear and continue in aggression when confronted with the unknown, and as the swiftly drawn shortsword swished at his heart, he knew that once again fate did not have any surprises in store for him. This cleared the thaumaturge to fire the spell he had been holding back while he waited for a clear shot. Swiftly though the beam tracked him as he weaved, glancing across his wingspan a few times and threatening to knock him from the air, but Quennus spat out a simple sleep spell learned in his youth.
Now glowing white with the thamaturge’s magic, Melind rose, his fists crackling with solar energy. The few holding Melind released him, and moved without urgency to the altar of Ephara, where the Fabled Orbs of Warding lazily orbited. The shortsword was in his hand, and he was watching the Therans with an intensely pained expression, a man torn between two ideals. As he clutched the orb to his chest tightly and was lowered down, Melind was crossing the distance quickly. Their blue eyes were locked on their master, oblivious to the armed man charging at their ranks. Scrutinizing it for a moment, Quennus nodded in satisfaction, and the Orb took to the air to begin is orbit around the Bird-Mage. It burst in a shower of sparks, releasing the energy within, and with a whisper from Quennus to shape the unbound Aether, the energy formed into a swirling blue portal.
He continued to muse aloud as Kallorn manage to grab a hold of a gleaming breastplate that was half buried in the pile.
He screamed, and around the treasure pile the remaining zombies took it up, dead throats letting out pained moans.
Ploughing through the coins explosively, Kallorn grabbed a protruding bust, using it for purchase he hauled himself off it to grip a stone dais just as the coins below his feet started to cascade away. Suddenly the pain was gone, and Kallorn gasped, face staring up at the sky as his body tingled at the sudden change. With the cloak gone, the stranger grasped the massive double-bladed axe tied to his back and hefted it in one hand. Some, mostly greybeards from Meletis, said that the prophecy could not be avoided, and that if it was stated the orbs would be taken, they would be, protections or no. Unlike the visions of the lesser acolytes and prophets, High Oracle Relekos could, with great difficulty, see events that would come to pass no matter what. From the clouds on a clear summer’s day sprang thick branches of lightning which leapt to the Oracle.
He didn’t know what was happening until a huge hand fastened itself around his throat and tugged.
Gasping for air as the foul tastes assaulted his senses, Relekos reached deep inside himself for a small remaining scrap of fight, and found it.
I was heading to the temple, walked miles and miles to get to it when I heard it was where the Orb was.
Relekos branched off from the highway and moved into a new path, this one slightly narrower.
Without looking back Arrkas stamped the ground with his foot, and the whole temple crumpled into a chasm in the ground, leaving nothing but a crater. The details were different, the timings inconsistent, but the overriding sense of fate was the same: Arrkas would claim the Orb, and the more that stood in his way, the more bodies he would step over to claim it.
The massive barbarian walked away from the temple, and with the sun framing him, he might, under very different circumstances, have looked like a conquering hero walking off to his next adventure. The residents of the Temple of Epiphany, even the Head Oracle tasked with guarding the Orbs, told her to give it up, the thief was long gone, but she ignored their weak excuses. The Thaumaturges stammered about some kind of magical ‘imprint’ on a small area behind the web of a colossal spider, but could detect nothing of use. The Oracle spoke in a voice not her own, and none of the attendants could fathom the meaning behind her words. But as the seasons passed by one after another and no sign of the strangers came, those who knew of the prophecy began to relax.
Through all the hustle and bustle strode Quennus in one of his guises, this one a human with coppery skin and violet eyes. Every few seconds a bolt of azure energy would spark from the mass of symbols, mental spikes designed to confuse, shock and swiftly incapacitate a thief.
Rather than appearing fearful or concerned by the armed solider and the robed thaumaturge, the intruder smiled. Clearly speeches like the one he had just delivered rarely failed to cower the audience into a pile of writhing hysteria. Melind suddenly leapt into the air as though fired from a catapult, crossing the distance of the huge inner sanctum in a heartbeat. The thrust was true, with a steady arm, but Quennus saw it coming and thus managed to deflect the blade’s point away from his more vulnerable area and into the right side of his chest, where the blade wedged into Quennus’ metallic sternum.
The attention of Ephara’s guards he could handle, but the reason he had been forced to leave Theros was because Purphoros was hunting for him.
Each was about the size of a pair of clenched fists, and trailed thin white vapor as they moved. Meanwhile, the entranced citizens silently formed a group allowing one of their number to be hoisted up. With a cry Melind burst amongst their ranks, hurling the adults aside like a enraged rhinoceros.

His staff, always a trusted and valuable travelling companion, could give him no purchase here, and every handheld just came away in his grasp. Tugging, Kallorn was gratified to find that the heavier weight of the armour made it more stable, and he began to look for other pieces to act as anchors.
Trying to keep me at arm’s length, not as a living being, just a thing, something you could destroy without hurting your precious morality. Heaving a great gasp of exertion, he had just cleared the dais to aim for the last object, a huge harp of ivory, when Dark reacted. The outside world blacked out in a haze of pain, but as he fell Kallorn gripped the Orb with mortal intensity. Kallorn may have lain like that for some time, staring at the sky, clutching his hard-won prize, had not a scream taken up his attention. Dark extended one hand to Kallorn, though whether asking for mercy or trying to torture was impossible to tell. As the expanding wave of energy passed through the zombies, they explosively ruptured without protest, corpses coming apart and sharp shards of bone hurled in all directions. Others of a more active view, mostly from Akros, decried this line of thought as cowardly, that fate was not a certain thing after all, saying that even those who dedicated themselves to the path of the seer could see only fractional glimpses of the future, frequently open to interpretation and prone to error. The orb would, to all public knowledge, be kept at the Temple of Triumph, but in reality it would be secreted at the Temple of Epiphany. A moment later he shifted his stance, his arms full of lighting, and threw them out at Arrkas, and the lightning obeyed his wishes and leapt at Arrkas.
Arrkas was smoking, his axe glowing red like the inside of the forge, and there was a slight limp in his stride, but he was standing. Sick still dripping down his mouth, he thrust a hand out and called to the lighting once more. But you scholarly types, locked away in your temples with your scrolls, you forget what the real world is like.
Had to know more, couldn’t make possibly the most important decision of his life on mere fate.
Relekos muttered a silent prayer to Keranos for failing him like this, then spoke in the biggest voice he could muster. Still fired up from the thrill of the fight, the party took off into the nearby forest in pursuit of the thief.
Even before the hunting party had been assailed by a surprisingly high number of monsters: giant spiders, gargantuan foxes and massive snakes with two heads that, strangely enough, were native a continent away.
His face concealed behind a hooded cloak, the crowds parted around Quennus like fish avoiding a shark, partly because of his size and partly due to the subtle magic he used to prod them aside.
With an incoherent roar he swung, his metal-clad fist crashing into Quennus with tremendous force. In the background he could hear the sonorous chanting of some kind of prayer coming from the thaumaturge, but there wasn’t time to pay that mind. A distressing sight to say the least, especially when even regular avian humanoids didn’t exist on your world. As Melind tried to extract it, Quennus reached out and grasped the hero’s forearm in a grip of (literal) steel. Word around the polis was that the blacksmith had refused to credit Purphoros with either the inspiration or knowledge to create the super-metal, and the god of the forge was said to be incensed by the slight. Instantly the planeswalker felt even his hardened metal components begin to melt and what diminished feeling he still had told him his flesh was blistering. The real, tangible gods of Theros, much like the existentially-circumspect, distant gods of other planes, were an arrogant bunch, and did not kindly suffer ‘mortals’ to gain fame and renown without paying tribute. He saw that Quennus’ eye, the non-metallic one, was a brilliant sapphire orb without iris, whereas before it had been hazel. The young boy, no more than twelve, reached his arms out, waiting as first the orange, then the red orb wafted by. Kallorn shut him out, though that wasn’t much of an achievement when every nerve in his body was shrieking for attention in a rather more insistent way. To give in without at least trying to avert the prophecy’s events would be shameful, they urged, and when the Akroans started to say the Meletians simply wanted others to be tarred with their failure to protect the orb, all parties reluctantly consented to move the orbs to somewhere where greater protection could be placed on them. Warned by the efforts of the oracles of Keranos, the warrior-servants of Iroas would wait for the thief to enter to claim the orb, and then ambush him.
Safe behind a thick locked door, Relekos saw no harm in giving the stranger a little haggle. He’d need a clear head to bring the wrath of Keranos on the vile cur that had attacked the temple. In response Arrkas barked out a guttural word of magic, a split second before he was engulfed with lighting. He couldn’t resist, not that trying would achieve anything by the feel of the iron fist around his neck. But before it could come, a huge scaled hand slapped his arm aside, and then another crashed into his jaw. The creatures almost seemed like they had been placed as obstacles, guarding some location, but after the hunting party cut their way through the creatures, Kalemne always first into the fray, there was nothing.
Coming to one of the main temples located bayside, a shining edifice of polished stone, Quennus slipped around into an alley out of sight of the main crowds.
As if on cue, the thaumaturge poked his head out from behind the barrel chest of his protector, speaking slowly as if to a child.
Melind reversed his stance and tried to force the blade in deeper for lethal penetration, but with inexorable force Quennus pushed the arm out, extracting the blade.
This was beyond the thaumaturge’s normal ability, Quennus sensed an immense power emanating from the human, power not his own. Quennus had refused to do so with his creation of Stymphalian Bronze, and now the minions of the forge god were also hunting him.
In a moment Melind was surrounded by a crowd of acolytes, priests, and petitioners to the temple three dozen strong, all with glowing eyes and all paying the guardian not the slightest bit of attention. Perhaps he was considering his own failure or that perhaps the gods he had known all his life were not the only beings of power.
When his eyes focused again, Dark was in his face, his smooth features twisted with hate, transforming him into something bestial and ugly. Even as his mind reeled, a small iron part of him spoke that he would never have to feel this again if he could just keep moving. Shredded bodies hit the floor and lay still, but wisps of almost invisible energy sailed from their forms and into Dark, who drank it in eagerly. The bolts of furious energy played over his form like curious children’s fingers, prodding here and there with endless energy, but Arrkas did not fall, a blackened husk.
He reached for another spell, one that would once and for all stop the powerful brute-mage. The grip tightened, cutting off his air completely with token effort, and Relekos began to struggle weakly. Relekos fell, but had scarcely touched the ground when he was grasped again by the neck and hauled aloft. The giant raged and stormed, uprooting trees and widening whole clearings in her fury at being thwarted, but eventually the party had to turn back for Arkros empty-handed, the hero of no tales this day.
As all moments of life-changing importance tend to do, time played out a little, making the moment seem like a lifetime. Thick, vaguely purple veins pulsed in his face, and he had ripped his lips while speaking, causing blood to trickle from his slashed mouth. Kallorn quickly plotted out a likely course, and prepared himself, bunching his muscles for movement. He rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, the picture of perfect vampiric health once more. Instead he levelled his axe, and a second later the energy burst from the axes’ head, the obsidian blade shimmering with heat.
He had just begun to construct a complex enchantment that would banish Arrkas to the night sky, where the gods themselves could pass judgement, when Arrkas shot forward. Each oracle and acolyte had their own individual perception of the metaphysical space where they could receive and interpret visions, and for Relekos it has always been a maze of stone paths, each branching off and combining in patterns far more complex than any human mind could conceive.
Forming a new circuit, the lighting obeyed its nature and continued on, raking the wall of the temple with its fury, gouging a furrow out of the stone. Disregarding the grounding techniques that seers often used to make their journey safer, Relekos dashed off into the maze, seeking the thread of what would come.

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