Maybe, as an idea, he could be less busy? That seemed like it would be super good for everybody.
"I am of the Onakke," he said, his voice so deep that it was heard as much as felt, a vibration in the bones. He held up a shield large enough to cover his chest, made of some black metal and decorated with bones. More bones formed a necklace around his thick throat and hung at his waist. "Guardian of the dead. Here to stop you. You must stop. You must close the door. You may not have the vessel."
Whispers started, hundreds of voices rising up, a loud susurration that made eyes water and jaws clench. "...nurtured the root...strong enough...the vessel..." they whispered. "...hallowed earth...the void's first breath..."
The whispers did not stop, just got louder and more insistent until they were all that he could hear, a wave of "the vessel...the vessel is ours...the vessel...shut the door...SHUT THE DOOR...SHUT THE DOOR" that tried to swallow him, that crested and broke--
And when it did, they shifted, displaced by the hubbub of an outdoor marketplace situated in a deep green jungle. As darkness settled over the jungle, Onakke merchants and artificers were packing up their goods and starting to disperse. Stark saw spectacular artistry in every booth and cart, the work of artisans whose awkward size belied their incredible talent. Delicate handiwork, from chainmail so finely knitted it looked like satin to jewelry that gave the impression of never ending fractals to woven images that looked ready to step off the fabric and into the real world.
For a moment, all was peaceful and quiet. But that moment didn't last. Ogres paused, looked around, cocked their heads to listen. Then Stark heard it, too, a low roar in the distance, but growing louder with each second. Across the square, he saw one ogre running wild-eyed out of the jungle, shouting words he couldn't make out as those nearest to her dropped their goods and launched into a mad scramble.
The running ogre fell on her face, but her body sloshed forward as if melted, turning into a black smear on the ground around a scattering of bones. And around her roiled a purplish cloud that washed over the remains and surged onward, extending new tendrils ahead of it as though it were dragging itself along the ground.
And every ogre it touched suffered the same deliquescent fate. A touch. Screams of agony. And then they hit the ground, liquefying into puddles of black goo.
It was over in minutes. In just minutes, the marketplace was gone, the roiling fog covering its Onakke victims, the stately buildings, swallowing the hubbub of life and leaving only the horror of death.
And the whispers returned. "...swallowed up...annihilation..."
Re: ...Inside Stark's Mind
"I am of the Onakke," he said, his voice so deep that it was heard as much as felt, a vibration in the bones. He held up a shield large enough to cover his chest, made of some black metal and decorated with bones. More bones formed a necklace around his thick throat and hung at his waist. "Guardian of the dead. Here to stop you. You must stop. You must close the door. You may not have the vessel."
Whispers started, hundreds of voices rising up, a loud susurration that made eyes water and jaws clench. "...nurtured the root...strong enough...the vessel..." they whispered. "...hallowed earth...the void's first breath..."
The whispers did not stop, just got louder and more insistent until they were all that he could hear, a wave of "the vessel...the vessel is ours...the vessel...shut the door...SHUT THE DOOR...SHUT THE DOOR" that tried to swallow him, that crested and broke--
And when it did, they shifted, displaced by the hubbub of an outdoor marketplace situated in a deep green jungle. As darkness settled over the jungle, Onakke merchants and artificers were packing up their goods and starting to disperse. Stark saw spectacular artistry in every booth and cart, the work of artisans whose awkward size belied their incredible talent. Delicate handiwork, from chainmail so finely knitted it looked like satin to jewelry that gave the impression of never ending fractals to woven images that looked ready to step off the fabric and into the real world.
For a moment, all was peaceful and quiet. But that moment didn't last. Ogres paused, looked around, cocked their heads to listen. Then Stark heard it, too, a low roar in the distance, but growing louder with each second. Across the square, he saw one ogre running wild-eyed out of the jungle, shouting words he couldn't make out as those nearest to her dropped their goods and launched into a mad scramble.
The running ogre fell on her face, but her body sloshed forward as if melted, turning into a black smear on the ground around a scattering of bones. And around her roiled a purplish cloud that washed over the remains and surged onward, extending new tendrils ahead of it as though it were dragging itself along the ground.
And every ogre it touched suffered the same deliquescent fate. A touch. Screams of agony. And then they hit the ground, liquefying into puddles of black goo.
It was over in minutes. In just minutes, the marketplace was gone, the roiling fog covering its Onakke victims, the stately buildings, swallowing the hubbub of life and leaving only the horror of death.
And the whispers returned. "...swallowed up...annihilation..."
And the scene changed again.