Post by The Barbarian King on Jun 10, 2013 6:22:16 GMT -5
March 13, 23 CLE
All around him was darkness, an infinite abyss of black before is eyes. He could see nothing, and feel the cold creep of nonexistence wafted over his skin like a lead coat. But where he could feel what he did not want to and see nothing, it was what he could hear that caught his attention the most.
Whispers... endless and maddening, like thousands of tentacle-bound bodies simultaneously screaming in agony and in twisted ecstasy. Millians of voices whispered over and over in disjointed babble, while millions more of ocular irises stared at him. On the horizon, eerie purple haze began to glow, like a dawn that should not have been. The land was frozen, composed of interlaced tentacles still somehow able to pulse and throb beneath his feet in the ice-bound land. On the violet horizon, shapes could be seen, thousands, millions, all of an alien horde of monsters chained to their twisted purpose: bring all to the Void.
As the mass drew closer, the Barbarian King could feel the thousands of voices screaming in his mind, bringing the mighty lord to his knees. It felt as if the weight of the Void were thrust upon him, throwing him to the side like a rag doll, his eyes rolling back into white. The great beasts that symbolized the Void eternal were all there; Cho'Gath, Kha'Zix, Kog'Maw, the entire fleet of the famed Void monstrosities all screaming the same thing, "Join us... Join us! JOIN US!!!" But lastly, perhaps most terrible was the looming specter of Malzahar floating above the sea of tentacles, staring down at the broken and defeated king.
"Join us."
From purple came red, from madness came fury, and an all consuming anger took over the King. He charged forward, mindless in thought and body, tearing the hoard to ribbons. Left and right the entirety of the horde fell before his hands, the raging beast fully unbridled and let out of his cage. It felt like moments to the king, and soon Tryndamere was standing on the fetid corpse of the mighty Cho'Gath, crushing the most famed of the Void beneath his titanic body, and The Prophet impaled to his crimson chitin by the famed sword of the Barbarian King. One last roar of blood and rage overtook the King, as his crimson aura seemed to rip the scene before him to naught but dust.
And then the King woke up.
He was staring up at the long shadows of night crept upon the ceiling, as the torch flame flickered and danced as it burned away at its fuel. The King's body was covered in droplets of sweat, slightly glinting in the torchlight as he leaned up in his cot. He looked around, and was apparently in the medical ward of his castle, where presumably he was left to recover. Flashbacks of the battle played through his mind, and his eyes darted to his leg.
It had been wrapped in white bandages, with a great dark crimson stain in a particular part of it. Tryndamere easily tore through the bandages, where he found whatever would he received to be reduced to not but a scar. It was as if the anger of his dream had glowed along the edges like hot steel, melting over the wound until the wound was but another in a long list of scars. He ran his rough hands over the former wound, which wasn't even tender. He punched it to make sure, and could say with confidence that the would was fine.
He stood up from the cot, carrying his horned helm between his left body and arm, with his famed sword resting on his right shoulder, the handle held firm by his hand. The steady clunk of metal on stone walked though the halls of his home, great bear skins and tapestries adorning the walls, with a combination of intricate rugs and fur padding the stone floor. While he walked to the royal chambers, Tryndamere thought about the ramifications the past events held on not only his tribe, but for all of the Freljord as a whole. The void had come and dealt tremendous damage, but most significant was how it had corrupted and altered the Freljord herself. Though thankfully the Avarosan's had escaped the afflictions dealt to the land, the Winter's Claw was suffering its effects more than ever now. He didn't know of the status of Lissandra and those under her sway, nor did he particularly care; he wasn't interested in talking diplomacy with a being whose been existing far longer than he would care to know.
No... if any alliances were to be forged, Sejuani would be his best bet. Not only were her forces just as wounded as his own, but unlike his tribe, the Winter's Claw was still dealing with the ramifications of the Void corroding the land, and inevitably, their own people. He knew that Ashe's calm, logical diplomacy was of no use here, because now more than ever, she would not listen. However, if an opponent were to appear before her on equal footing, with a mind to talk rather than bash brains...
Tryndamere lay his helmet and sword outside of the two large doors to the bedchamber of the King and Queen, slowly opening it as not to wake Ashe; his footsteps were muffled by the thick beast hide that lay over the stone floor. He slowly opened a wardrobe, quietly pulling an entire coat from off the rack. It was a light grey, and though Tryndamere could easily bare the cold of the Freljord, its main purpose was to retain his anonymity. He didn't want people to know that the Barbarian King was walking around at first glance. He knew this would warrant a lot of questions and worry for his time gone, so, crudely, Tryndamere wrote a letter for the queen.
Quietly, Tryndamere walked to the vacant side of the bed, opposite of where the queen slept. There he briefly thought to leave her a parting kiss, but he did not want to wake her. He lay the crudely scrawled-upon piece of paper on the bed, his iconic helmet resting just slightly on the thin stationery so it would not fly away. Once outside of the room with the doors quietly closed, he donned the cloak, his sword strapped to the side and under the cloak. He pulled up the hood, and with his long black hair flowing out of the opening, the King left for the north.
He wasn't expecting this to go well, but dealing with the Winter's Claw rarely did.
To Be Continued Here:
maelstromlol.freeforums.net/index.cgi?board=freljord&action=display&thread=960
All around him was darkness, an infinite abyss of black before is eyes. He could see nothing, and feel the cold creep of nonexistence wafted over his skin like a lead coat. But where he could feel what he did not want to and see nothing, it was what he could hear that caught his attention the most.
Whispers... endless and maddening, like thousands of tentacle-bound bodies simultaneously screaming in agony and in twisted ecstasy. Millians of voices whispered over and over in disjointed babble, while millions more of ocular irises stared at him. On the horizon, eerie purple haze began to glow, like a dawn that should not have been. The land was frozen, composed of interlaced tentacles still somehow able to pulse and throb beneath his feet in the ice-bound land. On the violet horizon, shapes could be seen, thousands, millions, all of an alien horde of monsters chained to their twisted purpose: bring all to the Void.
As the mass drew closer, the Barbarian King could feel the thousands of voices screaming in his mind, bringing the mighty lord to his knees. It felt as if the weight of the Void were thrust upon him, throwing him to the side like a rag doll, his eyes rolling back into white. The great beasts that symbolized the Void eternal were all there; Cho'Gath, Kha'Zix, Kog'Maw, the entire fleet of the famed Void monstrosities all screaming the same thing, "Join us... Join us! JOIN US!!!" But lastly, perhaps most terrible was the looming specter of Malzahar floating above the sea of tentacles, staring down at the broken and defeated king.
"Join us."
From purple came red, from madness came fury, and an all consuming anger took over the King. He charged forward, mindless in thought and body, tearing the hoard to ribbons. Left and right the entirety of the horde fell before his hands, the raging beast fully unbridled and let out of his cage. It felt like moments to the king, and soon Tryndamere was standing on the fetid corpse of the mighty Cho'Gath, crushing the most famed of the Void beneath his titanic body, and The Prophet impaled to his crimson chitin by the famed sword of the Barbarian King. One last roar of blood and rage overtook the King, as his crimson aura seemed to rip the scene before him to naught but dust.
And then the King woke up.
He was staring up at the long shadows of night crept upon the ceiling, as the torch flame flickered and danced as it burned away at its fuel. The King's body was covered in droplets of sweat, slightly glinting in the torchlight as he leaned up in his cot. He looked around, and was apparently in the medical ward of his castle, where presumably he was left to recover. Flashbacks of the battle played through his mind, and his eyes darted to his leg.
It had been wrapped in white bandages, with a great dark crimson stain in a particular part of it. Tryndamere easily tore through the bandages, where he found whatever would he received to be reduced to not but a scar. It was as if the anger of his dream had glowed along the edges like hot steel, melting over the wound until the wound was but another in a long list of scars. He ran his rough hands over the former wound, which wasn't even tender. He punched it to make sure, and could say with confidence that the would was fine.
He stood up from the cot, carrying his horned helm between his left body and arm, with his famed sword resting on his right shoulder, the handle held firm by his hand. The steady clunk of metal on stone walked though the halls of his home, great bear skins and tapestries adorning the walls, with a combination of intricate rugs and fur padding the stone floor. While he walked to the royal chambers, Tryndamere thought about the ramifications the past events held on not only his tribe, but for all of the Freljord as a whole. The void had come and dealt tremendous damage, but most significant was how it had corrupted and altered the Freljord herself. Though thankfully the Avarosan's had escaped the afflictions dealt to the land, the Winter's Claw was suffering its effects more than ever now. He didn't know of the status of Lissandra and those under her sway, nor did he particularly care; he wasn't interested in talking diplomacy with a being whose been existing far longer than he would care to know.
No... if any alliances were to be forged, Sejuani would be his best bet. Not only were her forces just as wounded as his own, but unlike his tribe, the Winter's Claw was still dealing with the ramifications of the Void corroding the land, and inevitably, their own people. He knew that Ashe's calm, logical diplomacy was of no use here, because now more than ever, she would not listen. However, if an opponent were to appear before her on equal footing, with a mind to talk rather than bash brains...
Tryndamere lay his helmet and sword outside of the two large doors to the bedchamber of the King and Queen, slowly opening it as not to wake Ashe; his footsteps were muffled by the thick beast hide that lay over the stone floor. He slowly opened a wardrobe, quietly pulling an entire coat from off the rack. It was a light grey, and though Tryndamere could easily bare the cold of the Freljord, its main purpose was to retain his anonymity. He didn't want people to know that the Barbarian King was walking around at first glance. He knew this would warrant a lot of questions and worry for his time gone, so, crudely, Tryndamere wrote a letter for the queen.
Ashe-
I have left for the Winter's Claw. I need to make them see the day of light from their foolish ways, even more so now that all of Freljord is under threat. I am sorry we have not had much time together, but there is work to be done. I expect to be back soon.
Sorry,
-Tryndamere
I have left for the Winter's Claw. I need to make them see the day of light from their foolish ways, even more so now that all of Freljord is under threat. I am sorry we have not had much time together, but there is work to be done. I expect to be back soon.
Sorry,
-Tryndamere
Quietly, Tryndamere walked to the vacant side of the bed, opposite of where the queen slept. There he briefly thought to leave her a parting kiss, but he did not want to wake her. He lay the crudely scrawled-upon piece of paper on the bed, his iconic helmet resting just slightly on the thin stationery so it would not fly away. Once outside of the room with the doors quietly closed, he donned the cloak, his sword strapped to the side and under the cloak. He pulled up the hood, and with his long black hair flowing out of the opening, the King left for the north.
He wasn't expecting this to go well, but dealing with the Winter's Claw rarely did.
To Be Continued Here:
maelstromlol.freeforums.net/index.cgi?board=freljord&action=display&thread=960
