He sat in the old, dilapidated temple. His back had moulded into the stonework, accepted it as part of him. He was unable to move now, even if he wanted to. His bones had siezed and become rock under his sagging skin. He had no need for foo,d for water. The only thing that still worked was his vocal chords, his tongue and his jaw. He no longer saw the real world. Instead, he saw what the gods wanted him to see.
The gods, being the strange creatures they were, often seperated themselves from eachother, each in their own sphere of influence, each ruling over something of their own. Sometimes the lesser gods would be adopted under the name of one of the main gods in order to keep their godhood. But lately, the gods were telling him something knew.
A coup was beginning. The mancers would lose their powers. Gods were being cast down. For the first time in all his communications with the gods, Pallaraeon felt fear. He felt fear flowing from their hearts and souls, felt fear overwhleming him, an urge to run overcame him, an urge to hide and scream the visions away.
He saw so much blood.
He inhaled tightly, felt the cold air touch his rotten teeth, let out a slow exhale as the visions lifted, leaving him in darkness as he listened carefully for anyone approaching. Nobody had in centuries, but without regularity to his day, without a rythm, he would go insane.
The gods would not enjoy it if their main conduit went insane.
Well, perhaps Baelagon would. But he was the god of madness, he didn't count.
The gods, being the strange creatures they were, often seperated themselves from eachother, each in their own sphere of influence, each ruling over something of their own. Sometimes the lesser gods would be adopted under the name of one of the main gods in order to keep their godhood. But lately, the gods were telling him something knew.
A coup was beginning. The mancers would lose their powers. Gods were being cast down. For the first time in all his communications with the gods, Pallaraeon felt fear. He felt fear flowing from their hearts and souls, felt fear overwhleming him, an urge to run overcame him, an urge to hide and scream the visions away.
He saw so much blood.
He inhaled tightly, felt the cold air touch his rotten teeth, let out a slow exhale as the visions lifted, leaving him in darkness as he listened carefully for anyone approaching. Nobody had in centuries, but without regularity to his day, without a rythm, he would go insane.
The gods would not enjoy it if their main conduit went insane.
Well, perhaps Baelagon would. But he was the god of madness, he didn't count.