Fearfully it is that soon, very soon, that approaches. I found a trail...an errant causality etched in rune, that spoke of another...creature. Beyond the end of life, in the den of demons.
My Lord, soothsayer and partner eternal, would see me through this path. My hands; ye, they shake, shake at the formulation that blossoms within my pan's basal clutches.
A many-named temptress, brood of the lifeless shrikes, awaits at the end of the hall. Shall I dare...?
...the Children are scattered, but they thrive to be guided, do they not? Perhaps, with harm notwithstanding, those means shalt in ultimatum be justified.
His gaze lingers, I know it. But to venture forth requires amassing the pluck of all our people, and lift the pestilence over yonder the boundary, into demise where it sprung. Hmm...
Ok, an interesting choice! Honestly as far as my characters/what you might expect from a zombie Zomson could be a lot worse. He's generally polite and tries to be inoffensive (except for Matild, but even they have a blackrom camaraderie) although otherworldly in terms of his stubbornness.
That being said, if any of these squares said 'says a lot of fancy words when simple words would've sufficed' that would bingo by itself gjfhfnjmfj
>So there he, Dallan, lay as the faithless swarmed about him, his visage shredded by the blades of war;
>Voiceless, and timeless, and hopeless, and senseless;
>And knowing of nothing to come, and caring of nothing to come;
>When from the stony palate, laden came His voice, wrought with despair over the suffering of his Child...
>And there He stood before Dallan, cloaked in resplendence, for he was resplendence Itself;
>And though He did not say His name to Dallan, he knew it was He who had descended from the everlonge woods;
>Wherein which was nestled the raging river, from which came all parturition;
>Upon which Dallan heard within his mind the voice of Him, which was all around him and choked with love for him;
>X-PB-NDJG-NDJG-ADGS. RPAX-KTGP;
>You have called for me, Dallan, in the shadow of your loss;
>All your life, your short and beautiful life, you have awaited death, and death has awaited you;
>But as your Path converge, you have yet to see the face of the apparition;
>And Dallan was breathless, but could not protest; he hungered, but could not eat; he wept, but could not sob;
>And He pulled Dallan from the cavern of rot, and into his arms to chase the talons of The End away, and said of much;
>A finality awaits you, but not of equanimity;
>A finality awaits you, but not of reticence;
>A finality awaits you, but not of nirvana;
>And then He showed Dallan that it was so;
>And Dallan wailed and shrieked and sobbed, and his perturbation and dread shook the heavens, for what he saw was worse than the hurt of expiration;
>To soothe the depth of his perturbation, He whispered in his quivering ears words so holy, so entire, that they rattled what Dallan believed of the world, and all its mortal devices;
zomson whats your favorite meal or food to sit down and enjoy with people?
Aha? Have my senses turned to wool, or do I detect the intonations of a comrade? Elijah, was it not? How fortuitous to happen about you once again.
The priest politely bows, but then shakes his head.
The era of hunger has orphaned me, I fear. Tastes stole away with this degradation. Typically my modern modus operandi foregoes all oft-visited stages of digestion. Such is a morsel of the alterations this vessel has experienced, and any beholden to my precarious consumption must recognize its natural falsehood.
Now, if reference is paid to an earlier era, I conformed once to the correlative nature of vitality and diet. An ensemble of produce, swollen with hoards of vitamins; fungal bouquets, roasted upon the flames; hearty baked loaves sculpted from local, harvested grains.
Translation: After being turned into a daywalker, he doesn't ever feel hungry, so any time he eats it's more just to appease other people. But when he was younger, before his rot got more egregious, he was very health-conscious, and loved salads and mushrooms and homemade rustic bread.
What is it to eat, if not to fuel and replenish our stores? A force of nurture to innervate myself with the force of nature, indeed. Thank you mightily for your inquiry.
The priest wiped the ebbing ochre ooze from his forearm with a moistened cloth as the body on the altar beneath him quivered. Its muscles convulsed, fighting against the mixture of medicine and blood that pierced its cells, changing them from life, then to death, then to life again. The thick ivy that kept them secured to the cloth-covered platform strained but held firm, even though the troll had long lost consciousness, now on the journey past the curtain of mortality.
"......"
The voice of the serpent of creation muttered incoherent prayers as the acolyte's flesh went cold, their eyes opaque, their joints stiffening.
His all-shrouding mask, pale and smiling, did not look away from the Child as the last vestiges of Life dissipated. The moment of silence stretched, heavy. You could feel something vanish from the room. The troll's lips were a pale nectarine colour.
"......The acme has been reached."
He rasped, taking a cloth from the bowl of water and dabbing it across the sweat-soaked forehead of the troll beneath him.
"Now comes the descent."
He turns to the onlookers, yourself included, many who seek one day to experience such an honour.
"The finale of this voyage is paramount now, my Children. Sort to their congeniality. When sense refuses to vacate the blessed span, alarm and disarray make quick companions. Call me once the spell is passed."
Straightening his body, Zomson bows to the group, then departs through a curtain into an adjacent room, leaving you with the supine shell of a troll at your feet.
A revival was at hand, but it did not make the sacrifice any more chilling to witness. Well, for you anyways, perhaps; yet in the eyes of the Children, you see little other than awe and honour reflected instead.
...The Foreseer.
Somehow, The Foreseer has returned, is it so? You aren't facilitating a ruse are you, Galleria?
Well, I guess Galleria is his name for the anons now.
Such a revelation is a call to action, no doubt. With gusto I fly, like a sparrow-wing, to adjoin once more with distraught company. My Lord has remunerated my loyal servitude once again!
With those words, he rose from his chair- slowly, mind you- and began to walk through the cobblestone hall of the decrepit castle he'd taken refuge within. A quick word with the heretic, and he would make his way back towards the Capitol. Zomson rested assured that he had to figure out how he'd go about announcing his presence on the walk over.
so zomson, i hear that athens is single again. how do you feel about that?
Apologetic for the unfortunate nature of it, most presently.
Should he require any semblance of companionship for the underlying or immediate nonce, I'm predisposed to imparting a familiar and comfortably supportive disposition for Athens.
While all of Life's events are precious - and it takes the misery of existence to understand the benefit the elation - the transitional deriliction promotes the gluttonous swell of emotional agony. Such is not truly welcome for my former suitor.
