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Saturday Morning Script

Urborg Vengrath

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Episode One: Awakening


The sky had fallen, the earth had trembled, and I alone stood to bask in the dark radiance of Undeath that lay before me. They had all died, those who had bound their lives to my own. Their bodies fell beneath the onslaught of magical forces. Their bodies shatterred before my very eyes. The screams of their demise would forever echo in the halls of my mind. The reak of their deaths lingerred upon the air like a cloud trying to force it's way into me, their very memory threatening to consume me.


All the while he was silent upon his throne of skulls. A twisted smile breaking upon half decayed lips, his eyes of pin pick light bearing down upon me with malice. They were a dread to look upon. The living corpse watched and waitted as my eyes roamed over fallen friend and foe. Most of them were corpses long since dead, only recently having relised their reality. A lake of blood and black ichor lay at my feet, the tides of my life of sin drawn tight about me, a flash of memories that would end on a whim.


Without warning my own legs became a life of their own, throwing me forwards upon fate's sword. The lips of the living corpse twisted into a sneer as a voice of rage filled the air. I could not tell wether it was his or my own. A pain filled my body as the Lich called upon his other worldly magics and struck them against me. Reality shatterred before my eyes and yet I lived to strike the Undead fiend I had once held in awe and reveraince. Blow upon blow my ebon blade ripped into the corpses' dead flesh. Each a struggle of mind and body, for a time I fearred my own thoughts had been ripped from me. Then with a final cry from the Lich darkness swallowed me hole.


I had survived. Countless lives lost and I alone lived. The void that had consumed me was endless, my own thoughts filling it. I could feel nothing, my body was gone and I fearred for the lose of the reality I myself had once been a threat to. The magical forces unleashed that night had surely been the end of all. The end of me? After a life time of painfull brooding and outcries my eyes opened. Light shone all round me, voices greetted me with awe filled praise. The light was unbearable and I could see nothing. A fire filled my eyes, it was all I could do to restrain my outcry. The light was burning me!




A blurr of motion passed before me and images began to form, yet the pain remained, sapping my strength. The darkness beconed for my return yet a voice from beyond encouraged my advance. Breaching the barriers of life and death the faces of former foes loomed over me. They were sea of pale skin and glistening fangs filled the room. An ocean of dark shining eyes bore down upon me hungerily. A woman dawning the night itself forcefed me what I assumed was boilled blood as a number of voices struck out at me deliverring a barrage of information. Aperantly I had won the day. The Lich lay dead, finally dead, but a meter from my position. One of those presant had shown me his head.


As the heated liquid pourred down my throat I could only glare into the darkness and ponder, for my own body would not respond to me. But the flok of pale skinned strangers hoverred about me, grafting skin and muscle from my fallen comrades onto my body. Between the mass of bodies and warm energizing liquid forced down my throat it was an amazement that I had yet to breath. A gagging cough sent the woman supplying me with drink aback and a portion of the red liquid spilling over my lips.


The more I was able to grasp hold of my senses the more confused I became. An unease and discomfort quickly filled me, more so when I took note of a marking on the woman's neck. It was the brand of Nathrazim, my former master and now fallen foe, the Lich whose body lay crumbled at my feet. The woman, calling herself Nathalie, apparently took note of the hate in my eyes and explained to me that she and her companions were Tieflings. Each one ripped from the planes and cast into slavery under Nathrazim's control. Apparently the marking on their necks held an enchantment of sorts that had bound them to the will of the Lich.


It was interesting how little one could learn of the work that a person did, even if your entire life had been devoted to them for decades. Then again, what was a single life time to one who had lived countless? A sudden dread filled me as I reflected upon the my false victory. It had taken all my earthly strength to fell the body of the Lich, Nathrazim, yet I had fallen from consciousness before I had been able to locate his phylactery. There was little time. Surely if the item were not destroyed the Lich would rise again and all my lose would have been for naught....



As my computer staged a revolt recently, I lost my entire "script". Though I am far too fustrated to reconstruct previously planned episodes, I will be using this board for any random writing endeavors.

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Prelude: A Summoning


I had prepared the ritual for sixteen years. Sixteen years of study, of gathering the required components, of mental and physical strengthening. After sixteen years, I was ready. Ready to summon the Him.


The exact process of the ritual was engraved into my mind. I had memorized every detail, every incantation, every gesture, to the minutest of details. I knew it perfectly. I performed it perfectly.


The blood of the one-hundred and eleven sacrifices stained my face, my hands and my clothes. Their wails died down as one after the other exhaled their final breath into the clouded air of my Church. Their bodies bore the markings of seven hundred and seventy-seven undead Lords of Hell. Seven markings for each sacrifice, carved into their still-living flesh. With precision bordering on robotic perfection, I carved the last marking into the body of the last woman. Her eyes fluttered open briefly as fresh pains added to her agony. I watched her face intently as she hung there on the x-shaped cross, her body abused and mutilated in the most perverse, desecrating way imaginable, her life flowing from her as her chest heaved slower and shallower, the light of seven hundred and seventy-seven black candles dancing across her naked, ravaged form.


Finally, with a barely audible whisper, she died.


And I no longer stood in my Church.


I took in my new surroundings. And only with a supreme effort of will, I clung to my sanity. What I saw was.... indescribable. Imagine your most frightening, your most depraved, most perverse nightmare you have ever experienced. Multiply those images by... infinity.... and the basic concept of what I beheld might dawn on you.


Mere words will be infinitely lacking in describing the scene of this realm. Evil, suffering, pain, depravity, perversion.... None of these words carry enough power to contain even the tiniest fragment of the horror of this hell.


It beheld me... I saw It, manifesting as a cloud of whirling blood and dismembered bodies, a cloud of faces and flesh and blood and defilement and corruption and evil.... such pure evil... It beheld me with eyes carved from the wombs of pregnant women. It smiled at me, showing lips and teeth forged of the flesh of young children. It spoke to me with a voice echoing the screams of his millions of helpless victims...


I wept.


It laughed.





For a time they tired to hold me in a prison, convicted to spend lifetimes of solitude for the acts I committed to summon It. The lives of those one-hundred and eleven innocent humans sacrificed in the ritual is a burden on my soul. Yet my greatest sin remains undiscovered. Of course none believe me. I am a madman, they say, a delusional psychotic who thought he could summon Hell, and committed atrocities to enact his demented fantasies. What foolishness.


What foolishness, indeed. I, and I alone, know... I will burn for what I did. But if there is are Gods, let them have mercy on the remainder of the world. Please Gods, help them! Save them! Protect them from what I have unleashed! I do not ask for forgiveness, such cannot be granted to one as me. Let me burn.... But Gods, I beg of you, have mercy on the world!


It is still laughing.

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