EZ_Bella Donna
01-29-03, 09:00 AM
Bete sat at the table with a mug of ale in her hand, staring absently at the wound on her wrist. It was a sizable tear in her flesh, a parting gift from the last encounter she'd had with a crypt mummy in the Southern Desert of Ro. The jagged gash was clearly infected, and the smell of the pus issuing from the wound mingled with the scent of honey as she lifted her mug to her mouth to drink. The young Necromancer suspected that the infection spreading in her blood was Rabies since her health remained low even now, hours after her battle. Bete closed her eyes and savored the feeling.
A finely armored Elf sitting at a nearby table with friends noticed Bete's wound and mistook the her peaceful expression for signs of shock. He hurriedly pulled a worn book from his pack and opened it to an earmarked page. He studied the page for a couple of seconds, then looked at Bête and began to speak in quiet tones.
The Gnome Necromancer heard the sounds of a spell being cast nearby, but paid little attention to it. The city of Freeport was full of travelers, especially here in the western edge. They were always setting their fists on fire, sprouting thorns from their skin, or creating mystical armor for themselves. Why one needed to be heavily armored to drink ale or buy supplies, Bete did not know, but as far as she was concerned, it was their business.
Then Bete felt a tingling sensation in her hand, and realized that the spell being cast nearby was aimed at her. She sighed in disappointment and opened her eyes just in time to see the wound on her hand vanish. She looked around the room and found the Elf staring at her and smiling. A cleric most likely, and, if appearance was any indication, one highly advanced in his field.
A moment passed as Bete stared at her benefactor. "He'll be expecting me to thank him," she thought to herself with disgust. Briefly, Bete considered summoning a pet and attacking the interloping fool, but she realized that she could do little damage to one so far along in the circles. Still, she smiled at the thought of standing over the Elf's corpse and watching as his soul sped towards its reincarnation.
The Elf, seeing Bete's smile, nodded his head and said "No problem," in the Common Tongue. He then resumed his conversation with his seated friends.
But to the Gnome's way of thinking, there was a problem, indeed. And the source of that problem was the Gods themselves. How dare they give their worshippers power over disease in others? Her infection was the blessing of Bertoxxulous himself, delivered to her using the crypt mummy as an instrument. The heated blood, light head, and the smell of her flesh being consumed in sacrifice to her God were hers to enjoy, and her opportunity to grow closer to Him. Had she been allowed to let the disease continue to weaken her, she might have been blessed with delirious visions; precious moments where Bertoxxulous' plans for her might be revealed in word or image. And, were she fortunate enough to die because of her infected wounds, in the moment between her passing and her reincarnation, Bertoxxulous himself might have chosen her soul to return to the world as an undead servant, free of living flesh and filled with disease so that she may share his gift with others.
But the other Gods, jealous of the power Bertoxxulous would give to the mortals if they were freed of their flesh, give fools such as that Elf the power to cure disease and command them to use it. And they gladly do so to please their Gods, keeping Bertoxxulous' blessing from ever reaching his children.
But, thankfully there are those who understand what must be done. Every God has the potential to become greater than the rest, but they require their children to deliver this power to them. In Bertoxxulous' case, the gift must be a disease so strong that no magic can cure it. A plague so virulent that it spreads on Tunare's breeze, so powerful that it crushes Zek's minions, and so painful that it consumes Nife's children in agony.
It was Bete's hope to be the child who delivers her God this gift. She would find the keys to unlock the final plague by traveling the lands and growing in power everywhere she went. She would taste the diseases every creature had to offer, and she would suffer them gladly. She would meditate as her flesh was being sacrificed to Bertoxxulous, and through her devotion, touch the plague bringer's heart so that he would choose her as his instrument of deliverance.
The young Gnome finished her ale and tossed a few coins on the table. As she came out into the light, she raised her hands to her eyes and turned towards the South Gate. She would go into the Oasis of Marr tonight, and, as she had done earlier in the Southern Desert of Ro, she would kill everything in sight in the hopes that her power would grow. "Leave none alive," she whispered to herself as she walked. That would be her creed, and her gift.
A finely armored Elf sitting at a nearby table with friends noticed Bete's wound and mistook the her peaceful expression for signs of shock. He hurriedly pulled a worn book from his pack and opened it to an earmarked page. He studied the page for a couple of seconds, then looked at Bête and began to speak in quiet tones.
The Gnome Necromancer heard the sounds of a spell being cast nearby, but paid little attention to it. The city of Freeport was full of travelers, especially here in the western edge. They were always setting their fists on fire, sprouting thorns from their skin, or creating mystical armor for themselves. Why one needed to be heavily armored to drink ale or buy supplies, Bete did not know, but as far as she was concerned, it was their business.
Then Bete felt a tingling sensation in her hand, and realized that the spell being cast nearby was aimed at her. She sighed in disappointment and opened her eyes just in time to see the wound on her hand vanish. She looked around the room and found the Elf staring at her and smiling. A cleric most likely, and, if appearance was any indication, one highly advanced in his field.
A moment passed as Bete stared at her benefactor. "He'll be expecting me to thank him," she thought to herself with disgust. Briefly, Bete considered summoning a pet and attacking the interloping fool, but she realized that she could do little damage to one so far along in the circles. Still, she smiled at the thought of standing over the Elf's corpse and watching as his soul sped towards its reincarnation.
The Elf, seeing Bete's smile, nodded his head and said "No problem," in the Common Tongue. He then resumed his conversation with his seated friends.
But to the Gnome's way of thinking, there was a problem, indeed. And the source of that problem was the Gods themselves. How dare they give their worshippers power over disease in others? Her infection was the blessing of Bertoxxulous himself, delivered to her using the crypt mummy as an instrument. The heated blood, light head, and the smell of her flesh being consumed in sacrifice to her God were hers to enjoy, and her opportunity to grow closer to Him. Had she been allowed to let the disease continue to weaken her, she might have been blessed with delirious visions; precious moments where Bertoxxulous' plans for her might be revealed in word or image. And, were she fortunate enough to die because of her infected wounds, in the moment between her passing and her reincarnation, Bertoxxulous himself might have chosen her soul to return to the world as an undead servant, free of living flesh and filled with disease so that she may share his gift with others.
But the other Gods, jealous of the power Bertoxxulous would give to the mortals if they were freed of their flesh, give fools such as that Elf the power to cure disease and command them to use it. And they gladly do so to please their Gods, keeping Bertoxxulous' blessing from ever reaching his children.
But, thankfully there are those who understand what must be done. Every God has the potential to become greater than the rest, but they require their children to deliver this power to them. In Bertoxxulous' case, the gift must be a disease so strong that no magic can cure it. A plague so virulent that it spreads on Tunare's breeze, so powerful that it crushes Zek's minions, and so painful that it consumes Nife's children in agony.
It was Bete's hope to be the child who delivers her God this gift. She would find the keys to unlock the final plague by traveling the lands and growing in power everywhere she went. She would taste the diseases every creature had to offer, and she would suffer them gladly. She would meditate as her flesh was being sacrificed to Bertoxxulous, and through her devotion, touch the plague bringer's heart so that he would choose her as his instrument of deliverance.
The young Gnome finished her ale and tossed a few coins on the table. As she came out into the light, she raised her hands to her eyes and turned towards the South Gate. She would go into the Oasis of Marr tonight, and, as she had done earlier in the Southern Desert of Ro, she would kill everything in sight in the hopes that her power would grow. "Leave none alive," she whispered to herself as she walked. That would be her creed, and her gift.