The second gods awoke from their eternal slumber, roused by the wet winds blowing through the aether. It carried with it the sloshing sounds of solemn souls, prayers whispered, prayers screamed. None had answered, until now. Upon awakening, the gods knew some of this world, overheard snippets which had slithered into their sleeping subconscious. Once there were others like them, Yora, Uri, Gamb, Betu, Vaaz and others. Older cousins to the now conscious gods. They had spun wonderous tapestries of life, magic, and monsters. Stories and tales sung of their heroics, and their villainy. Religions founded in their names, devoted followers crafted from brinkwood, crystal, mud and meat. This was all gone now. They had sung their songs too loudly, and woke the sleeping titans. Their power equal to the gods, the fighting raged across the world, but in the end, it was mortals which tipped the scales. The titans were defeated, those that had risen up, their bodies and souls imprisoned deep in the earth once more.
The titan Alk was unlike the others, it did not raise up against the gods. It did not attack them, it did not climb forth from the depths to teardown the heavens and sunder the sky. It simply ate. One by one, the titans were sealed, and the hungry Alk reached into their prisons for an easy meal. Soon, the titans were no more. They could not die, but this hardly mattered, they were eaten all the same. Soon, there were none left to eat, but yet, the titan still hungered. Soon, the titan turned it's hungry eyes upwards.
Now only crumbs remain and the satiated creature slumbers deeply once more. Here among the rubble the second generation of gods finds themselves, they wake upon their thrones, trapped there as the titans were once trapped. Yet their powers reached beyond their physical limitations, reaching far beyond their throne rooms. Even before their eyes opened, this power was felt by what few beings managed to hide away from the towering monstrosity. They huddled around you, their prayers stirring you from sleep. They called names almost familiar, invoking powers that no longer exist, calling on those who had come before, and hence passed. Yet this was enough to germinate the newborn gods. Now only time will tell if they will grow, or if they will wither among the Dark Towers.
When Air was still forming, many came and went through their tower. Some had seen the structure begin to rise, and many tales of the gods rebirth began to spread upon the wind. Yet, when some did arrive, many were disappointed to find the tower empty. Many arrived, but few stayed. When asked by others why they would remain while the other towers, and even the wastes, could sustain them despite the peril, they always said the same thing: "There's some power in the Air here." When Air did eventually stir, they found themselves sat upon the wind itself, shaped into a throne, unable to blow beyond it's bounds no matter how much it tried. Air found themselves in a similar situation. The tower was his kingdom, but also his prison. And he did not inhabit it solely. Orcs, goblins, humans, elves, dwarves and beastmen had founded camps across his three floors. Others too had come in smaller numbers. Air smelt blood upon the wind, a tinge of decay, and the smell of cooked meat. His would be followers knew little of kindness for those who were of other kin, a desperate defense in a world that would eat them if only it had not fallen asleep too soon.
Balg-Deth had slept with their eyes open, and had seen much of what had transpired. From dozens of empty sockets, he leered, sat upon his coffin throne. This was both his womb and his grave, he knew he could not stray far. The days of gods who roamed the heavens freely have since expired. Yet, if Balg-Deth knew one thing, it was how to bring back what had once been. Many had been drawn to Balg-Deth as they began to wake. The tired, the sickly, the few remaining mortals struggling to survive upon a cold sunless world, devouring whatever scraps were overlooked. Balg-Deth knew they would find no sustenance here. He watched them come, unable to turn them back even if they had desired. They could simply watch as hunger, disease, and desperation took them. It was a quiet way to die. And when he awoke, so did they. Little remained of what they once were, filled with the power of Balg-Deth, they rose. Yet soon many returned to death, for only those most attuned to Balg-Deth could be sustained on his radiance alone. If he truly wanted to raise an army of the undead, they would need sustenance.
Fiona had begun to grow shortly before the death of the First Gods. Her tower had perhaps once been a cave, or deeper underground, cast upwards by the rise of Alk. Here she has long sat, her mycelium spreading further and further as she swelled to an immense size. The crystal lights of he throne room casting steady beams of purples, blues and cyans across the water worn stone floor. In cracks and crevices, fungi began to sprout. Some grew tall, others grew wide, and some hardly grew at all. She was a deep sleeper, and little of what transpired sullied the strange dreams of the sleeping mushroom god. When Fiona finally awoke, it was simply a dream to her, the loss of her cousins and of what once was. Her tower is all she would truly know, the bounds of her mycelium, and thus, her soul, ended with these dark walls. Her children had stirred long before her, and she was one of the few to receive fanfare upon her awakening. The fungaloids quickly gathered around her and began to emit pheromones and vibrate. This created an odd song of smell and sound, deep and earthy, it reverberated through the throne room. Yet, the song was not as loud, or pungent, as it should have been. There were fewer fungaloids than Fiona expected, and even those that had gathered, had become weak in time. Her throne room was not as it should have been, it was mostly barren. Her restless children had eaten what they could, now little edible remained.
Acter was an odd god. Rumored to being a recurring force within the universe, granted divinity in eons before eons existed, but forever cursed to appear in worlds which would ultimately expire. In that respect, many would later consider this particular iteration of Acter to be particularly tardy, as he had not arrived until after the world had already ended. Yet with him, his chosen followers appeared. It is unclear whether or not they existed upon this world previously, as one of the few spacefaring races, it is certainly a possibility. But none of them recall the world beyond the walls of this tower. This has already sparked heated debates among the populace, with some arguing that they did exist previously, born of a different Acter, and thus drawn to his rebirth in this world, only to have their memories wiped so as to prevent any overlap in Acterian influence. Others argue that they are simply a biproduct of the creation of a new Acter, that when one congeals from the underlaying universe, so too does this disturbance create the sciro. Others argue further that this is a faulty premise, and that Acter only exists here and has or will not ever exist elsewhere, and the effects on their memory are simply due to the birth of a new god. It is this rather heated discussion which disturbs the slumbering god, who finds himself surrounded by emaciated Sciro wildly postulating about the nature of his divinity.
Oneiron was last to wake, as they had the closest connection to the slumbering titan. Born from it's dreams, it was an oddity among the other gods, though upon inspection, no hint of titanic influence besmudges their divine essence. They had wandered the dreams of the sleeping titan, seeing distorted reenactments of the events of yore through lenses of dream logic and through mirrors which reflect which is no longer there. In one such dream wandering they had stumbled upon a pitch black lake which reflected stars from within itself, they sang sweet songs to Oneiron, a lullaby for the dream beast. They slept deeply there, descending further into the dream, wrapped in the blanket of night. When they awoke, they moved to leave the pool, only to find it had no shore. Many sleepless cycles Oneiron swam, never to find the shore. They told themselves they were simply dreaming a dream within the dream, yet they could not wake. After ages, their strength failed them, and the creature slid screaming beneath the waves. They woke with a start as the dark waters filled their lungs and obscured their vision. Yet they were not where they once were, they had woken up entirely from the dream world of Alk. Yet even here, they could not escape that warm welcoming lake. Here upon it's shores, it used what little it had with it to create the first of the Zolgs, beings woven of fur and dream antler, their souls called forth from the dream to give the dolls flesh and form. Few at first, their forms called for food, and all eyes turned upwards towards the dreamlands of Alk. From there their souls had been plucked, nothing more than seeds planted in the garden of Oneiron, there they would find sustenance, and there they would return.
The recruitment and OOC for this game is located here:
https://discord.gg/6jPYaybx5UAt this point, each tower is three floors tall. The top floor is used for the throne room, the second is used as housing for your starting mortals, but the third floor is currently empty. Many journeys into the spirit would will result in objects, supplies, creatures, and other things to devote these floors to. See OOC for more details.
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Topic: Dark Towers (IC) (Read 501 times)