Thread: sotc ➝ swag and walruses

Never before had the vagabonds laid their eyes upon such a masterful piece of architecture. The bridge before them spanned a freakishly large fraction over the desolate barrens hundreds of feet below, mottled in lichen and ancient runes that none of their scholars could decipher. One woman, a shaman whose name was never mentioned, claimed to have known them from some venerable texts she'd read during her vagrancy. Instead of absorbing her knowledge, the mercenaries and nomads all inclined their heads and gazed forward at the setting sun. At the head of the caravan was a rather large man with dark eyes and wiry black hairs limning his jawline. His garb was primarily forged from iron and immensely cumbersome to wear, but it was not his place to gripe about discomfort. These nomads, a comely people, paid handsomely for their services and he was not quite equipped to begin showing his disdain. His men traveled adjacent to the vagabonds and merchants with their wobbly-legged rounseys and packing mules and carts. Flanking the rear was none other than the shaman who they shunned. Her mane of stark black hair was cowled by a shawl, her robes a queer combination of orange roughspun cotton chased with aqua coloured stripes. The other half was as black as her mane but no where near as thick in texture. On the horizon! Look! Two mercenaries leaned over the crenels to gaze below they noted a weeping fissure and a infertile pool of water while the others pointed towards the fearsome looking shrine a quarter mile ahead. It was an enormous work of masonry and blotted out the sun with its great horned steeple. The travellers knew the story of this expanse, this 'Forbidden Land'. Despite the warnings and tales they travelled brazenly into the peninsula with their carts of seeds to plant and wood to build with. The head of the van, Tormund Vossler, beckoned for his men to keep in line and march forward. One of the merchant scurried along his side, evidently fatigued from their journey. An eerie thing, that, he sniffed, gesturing towards the shrine, Perhaps there are people living there? Vossler shook his head. This land is damned. And infertile. He nearly gritted his teeth when he spoke. Nothing lives or grows but carrion birds and horned lizards, things that feed off of death. But it was once said that this place once hosted a blossoming civilization, the likes of one the world had never seen. He scoffed. All I see is dust and debris and death . Even so, the sun is setting, thus it would likely be wise to take shelter lest the elements be at our back. That shrine looks promising enough. We may hear a few ghosts moaning but nothing likely to hurt us. He steered the caravan into the shrine wear they hurried about their business, many stalking the grand corridor at the long end of the shrine's vestibule to marvel at the sixteen stone idols carved into its niches. Some were human shaped, others resembled an animal's anatomy. Likely the gods of whoever built the shrine, whispered one of the vagabonds as the shamaness strode by. She ventured past the men unpacking their satchels and women draping threadbare blankets around their shoulders to ward off the chill. Even so, the shamaness seemed inexplicably settled by the place. It was far too spacious for so few people and the pool at the end of the corridor seemed dreadfully misplaced. She turned - before her sat a bier with the most ornate of markings, something that the dead were displayed so that their loved ones could mourn. Some say this alter sacred, Vossler so rudely interrupted. He gawked lawlessly at the shaman with his crude black eyes. Sacred to the dead, the shaman replied. Her voice was strict although mellifluous, like that of a matronly story tell her lulled children to sleep with her songs. This place is stirring . We should not be here. Vossler merely shrugged. Night grows closer each waking moment. This shrine seems to be the only viable shelter for miles around, lest you'd like to sort through the darkness and return with your findings. She hadn't received his jape as courteous nor his face particularly handsome like the female merchants had preached, but she was certain he was as arrogant as any man of his position could be. Do as you will, Tormund Vossler. I am here to heal, not preach.