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[Lord_lemonpie]

I jolted, using my legs like I never had before. Running, pushing, faster than a bolt of lighting. The people saw the fear within my eyes, and panic started spreading. Never before had the tavern seemed so big, as the air around me seemed to turn into a thick goo. I moved faster than I ever had before, though it felt like I crawled slower than a paraplegic snail. I heard sounds of battle behind me, Omer fighting the shadow bear. Yet I did not look back, as I was afraid it would slow me down. Finally, I reached the stairs. I felt something churn inside me, pulling at me. The feeling of turning. Yet I sped on, stumbling down the flights of stairs, pushing away whomever dared to stand before me. I hurried and hurried, until I found the immense doors of the chapel. I ran inside, and saw a dozen people looking at me. The churning increased in its ferocity, intensifying immensely. The bear was about to break out. I knew it. And I realised, I would not be the first bear to break lose within the sacred walls of my cathedral. It had happened before. The Gods had sent me the most obvious of signs, and I ignored it, blinded by my zeal. The Bear had come before. And it would come again, to wreak havoc. Like Armok always would.

I collapsed on the floor, the feeling of claws ripping through my bowels from the inside. Those trapped between me and the dead end of the church started to panic, as I screamed and growled. Yet, I fought and fought the Bear's wretched curse, using all my physical might. I dragged myself onward, back to my cell. Slowly, steadily, but I went on. It seemed to take hours, hours of agony. There, I saw the hatch had utterly vanished, been ground to dust by the claws of the Bear. I could feel it laugh. There was nothing holding me back. My journey towards the cell had been for naught. Once I had turned, I would just wander back into the chapel, into the tavern. I almost lost hope. I almost turned that very instant. Almost. With the last of my effort, I called upon Omer. Yet, no answer came, as he fought the shade beneath. All of his being focused upon fighting the shade. I screamed, tearing through. Forcefully grabbing his energy, stealing it to be mine. With it, the stairwell seemed to close, the floors of solid rock growing towards one another like plants would, twisting through. This gate would never open again. I had sealed myself in, for eternity. Realising what I had just done, I called back to Omer, to apologize. Yet I felt nothing. Nothing, but the immeasurable coldness left by a God's death. And within that darkness, I saw but one vision. A toothy, bloodied grin.

The grin of the feasting bear.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Lemonpie, forcefully stealing Omer's last powers to seal himself into his tomb, before instantaneously turning into a bear shaped monster.

[apiks]

Lemonpie the heretic, huh? I guess there's a darkness within us all.

[Enemy post]

No werebearpocalypse then?

[Imic]

Do not be afraid. The werebears shall come, and the dwarves shall ride out in the name of Soviet Russia, to destroy all capitalism within this fragile earth, and replace it with the glorious glory of Communism. Only then can we finally say that the world is now ruled by Communism-inducing werebear syndromes.

[Glass]

This is neither Redstar nor Blazecooks. Please don't make me play an economic heretic with an obsession over cotton paper again.

[Imic]

No! For your disobedience, you will be lowered into the black pool of the northmen, to be crushed beneath their longships, and forever sink into the depths of the sewers of the great city if the east.

[Glass]

"If the east"? If the east what?

[TD1]

The poet starts.
Had he heard a growl... a snapping of teeth?

Had a cold finger trailed up his spine, tickling his nerves into a dance of fear?
He rather thought it had.

Shivering, the poet withdraws his hand from the valuable vellum, sprinkles sand over it to clean out the blots. Then sets it aside, unfinished; the Lay of Apiks and Arx, his magnum opus (though he prudently never says so himself) can wait for another day. Some time when the moon does not hang, full and dangerous, in the sky.

He pulls forward a new sheet. Doodles in the borders, trying to allay the creeping terror. Another growl.

The poet starts.
Had he heard a....

Stopping himself, he writes. For comfort. For encouragement.

In halls of stone where echoes toll
Beneath the gloaming hill
Where endless rivers darkly roll
To lakesides deep and still.
Where in their towns the humans sit
‘Neath wood hewn of the tree
That they had cunning taught to fit
In forms no longer free.
Even unto the gleaming glade
Where animals are found
And all things walk as unafraid
As saplings in the ground.
In hollows under birchen hill
That house a secret home
And all who enter, never will
Be free again to roam -
Aye, darker still, where foulness creeps
And sludge falls from the skies
Under the baleful glare of keeps
Where all that’s mortal dies.

In all these places, varied, free
Beware of misery.
All mountains end, all towns will burn -
The forests ashen turn.
So when the scribe of fates is near
And reads your life aloud
Let it be said you lived in cheer
Contented, yet unbowed.

[Lord_lemonpie]

Omer's corpse festered. There was no blood. No guts, no gore, no bones. Nothing, but rot remained. Pure rot. A crack in the fabric of the material plane, spewing miasma where Omer had made his last stand. A god had perished. My god had perished. Because of me. Because I had taken what did not belong to me. Because when Omer gave me his hand, I gave it a yank and dropped him into the bear pit. All for the cursed people in this cursed fortress. Necrothreat stood, because I murdered what was most holy to me. I took the life of a God for this wretched, unholy chasm. Omer, one of the few benevolent energies in this world, had given his life for me. For Necrothreat. For a hole in the ground meant to unearth nothing but worthless knowledge. The gravest mistake I had ever made.

Yet I did not feel guilt. It was worth it. All my friends, my followers, even those in the fortress I despised, they thrived. Oblivious to the fact that I had almost driven them to extinction. Oblivious to Armok's working within the fortress, his ever present power. They laughed, they cried, they loved and they hated. Onward and onward. Life continued, thrived even. And I felt like it was worth it. Even if I would forever be stuck within this prison of rock, it would be worth it. Even if I would never laugh, cry, love and hate again, I felt it was worth it to sacrifice my God for this. For friendship. For love. For Necrothreat, eternal.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Omer's rot, where his emanation fought the bear-shade and was defeated

[apiks]

For Necrothreat.

[TheOGHoneybadger]

May Necrothreat live forever. I have followed along popping in and out over the past 2 years or so, first reading about necrothreat 3, oh so long ago. Over the past few months, I have moved from where I once lived, and have received a PC that can handle most games. It is sad that Necrothreat IV is ending now, but hopefully soon Necrothreat V will be born. If you would have me, I would gladly join the ranks of the Overseer's and help shape the fortress for the good of all. Aaaaand maybe a little !!SCIENCE!! here and there

[Bearskie]

Do I hear someone... calling...
my name...?

[apiks]

It's also high time for you to be finishing your turn, Lemonpie. Any progress on that end?

[Lord_lemonpie]

It's also high time for you to be finishing your turn, Lemonpie. Any progress on that end?

Had a very intense week so didn't get to finishing writing everything. I've got a regular update coming and I'll need to get some kind of final post going. Expect the save later tonight or tomorrow!

[Lord_lemonpie]

Life went on. Stone was hauled, fires burned and soldiers sparred. Our militia was the best it had ever been, while I sat locked in my accursed cell. Pondering my mistake. My success. All I could do was observe, see what happened within the fortress through my scrying station. All I could do was sit and look. I wondered if anyone knew of my demise. There was no way to reach me through these rocks, no way other than tunneling. The council's room laid empty, partially constructed. It would never be finished. Not by me, at least. Plans of grandeur, destroyed by the death of a god. Destroyed by the bear, viciously mauled like an elk's carcass. Monarchs would continue their rule, holding all power, one at a time. Failing, plotting, switching like beasts. Never would there be elections, true, sensible elections.

As I mauled these thoughts, I could feel the magic of a newly created artifact. I rushed to my scrying table, following the trail of magic that radiated from the training fields in our new courtyard. There, Carefulrogue stood, a glowing spear in his hand. The weapon had absorbed so much blood, so much sweat and so many tears in its lifetime, that it had formed its own aura. An aura of destruction and warfare. The aura, of course, was nothing compared to Tanbetan's, Apiks' famed chainsaw.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Carefulrogue, standing defiantly with his glowing weapon, his squad-mates observing him.

A detail of the spear itself, Ashentapers the Grief of Spirals, photorapths of its wielders and victims displayed alongside it.

Tanbetan, the most dangerous weapon in the fortress, spare for the hidden Rosywander.

Soon, my scryer wandered off. I observed the fortress, seeing quite the buzz. Many dogs were being trained for war. Other useless cattle was butchered, sacrificed to Omer. Prepared for ritual consumption. The poor folk did not know of Omer's demise, and did not realize these sacrifices would only serve strengthen the Bear. I looked upon the happenings, unable to tell them to stop. Unable to contact them. Powerless.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Suddenly, the focus of my scryer zoomed into the cathedral. Into my own prison. All outside of it faded to absolute blackness. Within my prison, it showed the carvings moving, broken, stuttering movements. I looked behind me, and saw their grins contorting, shifting. Their bodies trying to break free from the rock on which I had them engraved. I stammered backwards, tipping over the fragile table as the monsters approached me. They came closer and closer, laughing and grunting like demons from hell. Yet they did not touch. They could not, as I was one of them. One of these monsters, the only difference being that of flesh and rock. I looked backwards, and saw my scrying table shattered. Unfixable. The intricate network of cracks showing but a single pattern on the blackened surface. The toothy grin of a laughing bear.

I wailed, cried and wept.

It was not long before my wails turnt into a haunting song. A ghastly song of priests, gods and bears.

A ghastly song that even cut through my lonely confinement.

A song of true pain.



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