An eidolic omen
By: Anoshia Posted on: July 30, 2006
A swirl of dust wafted through the air, disturbed by a set of billowing black robes quickly passing over the hazy floor. Unrest pulled at the cultist's mind as he paced through the mists, quietly whispering muffled prayers between baited breathes. Many years had transpired since the god of Death had fallen into slumber, and now his servant moved quickly, spurred forward by new signs of Thoth's unexpected presence.
Little did the servant know, only a few days remained before his Master would stand in tangibility once more. Though regardless, as the saga of Death's awakening began, so did a lesser event. An event unseen or unacknowledged by mortal eyes.
Months before the wake would occur, a strange uneasiness crept into the soul realms. Where silence once resided, confusion and anxiety now rested over the realm like a thick blanket, weighted down with feathers of fear and hope. The souls residing within the vaporous halls begin to feel a change undetectable by mortal eyes, and they began to stir.
One by one, the Qui'anar cultist confronted each soul, searching for answers to the strange restlessness. Most wavered in answer, but it was the Atavian soul that would reveal most...
Her wings lay tangled in misty vines fat with water, holding her entangled within the dead reeds. A sickly-blue colour tinted her bloated skin, and slowly she lifted a droopy hand upwards, motioning towards the sky. The cultist watched anxiously as she gazed into the obscurity overhead, her eyes focusing on something unseen.
"He comes," she spoke slowly, in a low-guttural voice, "With dreams..."
"You've seen this?" the cultist asked as he inclined his cowled head towards the drowned maiden.
The Atavian soul hesitated, glancing about her watery coils nervously as she faded slowly between corporeality. Liquid swirled about her form, mingled with the filmy tresses of her leaf-ridden hair and several loosened feathers. Beads of water spilt over her lips as she lowered her brow, slowly beginning to speak again in the same deep voice.
"I floated upon an endless sea of branches and debris, my wings ensnared as water began to fill my lungs. Slowly I drowned alone, unable to cry out at the black skies above me. As I passed, six arms appeared before me, beckoning me upwards. The weeds receded from my feathers and I begin to ascend, and all around me were flying birds with wingspans measuring the length of a man's arm. Slowly they melded with the darkness around me, and I flew on in countless leagues of ebon sky."
As the final words trickled from her mouth, the maiden sunk into the stagnant waters, a saddened look spreading across her face. The cultist surveyed her, watching the soul for any other signs of emotion or knowledge. Satisfied and finding no further questioning, he slowly turned to wander to the next being.
In a move of desperation, the soul lunged towards him, grasping in vain at the tatters of his robe. Her wings pulled slightly, unable to escape the fetters. A single finger of her ghostly hand brushed against his ankle, barely touching the cultist's bared skin. The man stopped instantly, paralysed by the prick of cold, dead skin.
"He must return," the soul spoke through watery eyes, "We are restless. His Halls must open again, for our number grows and our passage wanes. It is time."
In the same month, two days later, the Deathlord would awaken again to take His throne within the mortal realm. A myriad of souls would find their wait relinquished as they were begot passage to His Halls, granted final rest by the will of their Master.