RP:Vanishing Point
Summary: After the long stride beside Queen Hildegarde, Rorin and the Silver reach the Temple of Aramoth. Once inside, Rorin seeks a cure for his curse and enacts a ritual to seal it away inside a magical sword... but the dangers are greater than anyone could have known.
Frostmaw: Temple of Judgment
This room is open and cold, and as you look up you can see a man-made whole within the ceiling that allows sunlight to travel down against the patterns on the floor. However, since then, the snow has fallen and the room is covered in ice and snow. The area seeming rather magical as well, as you notice many of the books here in this place are not cold to the touch. As the sun escapes in through the roof, it gives off no heat, but only light. You see a path leading to your east, and west, as well as north.
Rorin handled the books in the library with care. At first he studied them one by one and delicately flipped through their pages regardless of the magic protecting them as he queried his search by relevance to curses. He searched for anything he could on Haath, on the magic they used to turn their soldiers, on their war against the invaders.
Then he became somewhat desperate. Instead of searching for a means to a cure he sought means to control. Lycanthropy, vampirism, parasites, warfare of the more biological variety, and all of the ways to fight against it. Hours, days if he had to, Rorin would learn every ritual, every ingredient, every minute bit and piece of knowledge that he could, whatever would possibly help him. Only when his mind was exhausted and his body ached would he pause to explore the temple further. He felt drawn for whatever reason towards the Eastern side of the temple first and thought perhaps it may be because of the rising sun.
As the once-paladin traveled down the temple hall he began to pass souls that twinkled like twilight. The sword on his bag did not shake here as it normally did in the presence of otherworldly energy and instead the young man believed he could almost hear it hum. When his left hand lightly caressed the handle it felt as if a wave of calm rushed over him and all the aches and pains of the past few days melted away.
When he neared the Altar of Purity he felt conflicted. His right arm began to feel tighter and tighter as he drew closer to the altar. His eye itched and felt as if it nearly bled. Yet Rorin was desperate, desperate to know, to understand, so dedicated to seeking out the path beyond the curse that he willed himself forward through the pain. As he endured the spirits floated closer to him to whisper words that felt kind yet could not be truly heard before they continued on their path.
To the North Rorin could feel it more than he could see it. With his left hand reaching out to cling to hope and his only good eye searching the words written upon the stone Rorin felt as if he were so close to the answers, so close to truth, mere moments away from discovering all the good that could ever be done- when he turned away. Tears welled up in his eyes and wet trails down his face as he hobbled down the corridor after the twinkling spirits. A ringing left his ears, an angelic melody, as if his sword could sing.
The boy realized he was angrier. Angry at all the things that had brought him here. At Lionel, for losing his mind, at Artia, for dying and betraying him, at Oline, for leaving him, when he had given up so much for her. He would find answers. No matter what the cost. No matter who stood in his way. Rorin passed through the Western hall as spirits clung to him, their scratches and screeches so full of hate and pain, as they were dragged ever onward towards the main room. The sword on his back clattered furiously though Rorin could hardly think about that now.
When Rorin entered the room with the dark altar he could barely think. His mind became so singularly focused he had to refuse to even so much as look at the altar there lest he become obsessed with a need to destroy it, a need to end the pitiful suffering of the souls it conjured, instead he drove himself to need to look beyond it. He could feel a part of him wanting it for itself, wanting the power it would bring him if they could only bring it under his control, an army of everlasting darkness, souls of fiery rage, all at his command! Before the still sane fragments of Rorin knew what had happened he found himself standing at the tablet of darkness and attempting to read the words written there upon.
Spirits clung at his feet, whispered in his ears, and it was almost entirely too tempting to stay there and read every word, but as the knowledge burned itself into his mind Rorin found that he was the one screaming while blood leaked down his face. Tearing away from the darkness by hinging on every memory of light he held dear Rorin approached the main chamber once again. The sword on his back grew lighter, though it seemed full, dense in a strange way Rorin could not comprehend.
If he could not find the answers for his curse, perhaps he could find answers about this, Rorin decided. He took the sword out of its scabbard and went to the library in hopes to find whatever he could on the mystical yet ancient seeming blade. Among the tomes and titles gathered here the accursed one did find a certain ritual. One that could help him do more than simply understand the blade. To unlock its secrets, to know every detail hidden within, to bind it to his very soul, Rorin had everything he needed right here. Plans began to form in his head of unraveling the blade, binding parts of himself to it, using it to unravel the curse.
Could it be done? Was it possible? So many of the works here spoke of control yet so few of them spoke of consequences. What would happen to him? Would a part of his very soul be lost to the red gem set into it’s pommel? Would he be trapped forever inside with whatever whispers and trembles he felt it give him throughout the night? Whatever may happen, it was worth the risk. He could finally control the curse, use it as the weapon he needed, no longer would it conquer his mind and the visions of it’s bloody hunt each night haunt his every waking moment! With this, he could both cleanse the wicked, and himself. With this he could truly win not just the battle but the war.
In a fit of passion and crazed disparity Rorin set himself to work. With every book, every prayer, every marking, he grew closer to the moment of triumph. The moment of truth. His breath was heavy and his hands shook as h stood to look at the staging area for his last and greatest fight against Justice. Against the beast that had swallowed his mind as the curse had taken his flesh. At the place where he would become whole again.
In the middle of the floor the blade which Rorin would use, it’s chipped and scarred length, pitifully held together through sheer force of will, black handle ended in it’s pommel dominated by a plamable red gem. The blade stood on its tip through some supernatural power all its own. As if it knew. The once holy young man stood before it and opened the last book. A prayer book written so long ago. His fingers trailed along the frailness of its pages as he spoke the words aloud. Power gathered in the room.
The spirits clashed with fervor renewed, their collisions waxing and waning with the beat and pulse of Rorin’s words, the light scattering across every anticipated paragraph before him. The tempo grew with the rising of the wind and the dense impacts spreading fire and ice from the mystical bodies warring above. The once-paladin could feel the power rising in him as well where it burned and scratched out of his right side and pushed like the unstoppable tides out his left. Despite the growing ache between them with the clamoring of space in his head he continued. He would not be deterred.
With the chant and verses coming together Rorin could feel part of him leaving, almost see it, as if there were trails of blue and red fleeing from him into the gem of the blade. His right side had been prepared, marked and etched, as deep and well as he could, but it bt back with flame through his skin. The left side gave out almost equally and Rorin’s concentration doubled on the book. If he could do this, if he could isolate the curse within the sword, he was free!
He felt as if claws sunk into his skin, ripping, tearing, holding on as tight as they could, while the rest of him spun and swirled heavy in the vortex of fate. The blade itself began to glow with a magical light, the gem active internally, the pommel rattling crazed around it’s payload. How long could any of them hold on? How much more effort could they take? Beaten and broken into the ground so many times over and again how much fight was left within?
None for the blade. It burst, finally shattering it’s war warn edges, sending shards all around them. The gem itself rose into the air, sucking up the souls and their vortexes, all the spilt energy, and eating away at the child hero's resolve until that too was gone. Rorin and Justice, the infernal beast that had grown in half his mind, split. Each was sent flying across the room where they fell to the ground as nothing more than spirits in the dust. Without a moment's pause after their separation, not even time enough for individual thoughts, they were sucked in.
Quiet now. A hush. For a moment no more spirits wandered and the power that had risen here fell. The gems quiet descent towards the floor marked the end of this event, this single truth, unseen and perhaps even unheard, with no mortal eyes to pay it witness so it was. So it is that the shards of the blade seemingly scattered across the room felt the call to rejoin and rejoice for they were whole again. Was Rorin? Could he ever be? Somewhere in the shining gem beneath the well worn blade perhaps there was a whisper. Not a plea. A promise.
Seemingly dissapeared, the only things left of rorin are a note, and an old sword. the note promptly reads to keep the sword close, and keep it safe. no other instructions, clues, or warnings are given. only a few words scribbled by someone who seemed to be running out of time.