The ominous and bloodred walls of the Age of Celebration, great fortress of the South, belie the beauty and grace of the wondrous structures found inside. The vast storerooms filled with treasures spoken of only in the whispered tales of fortune-seekers and madmen. The beautiful and dark tombs, chamber after chamber, wherein light refracts off the jewel encrusted hallway to be meted out by the deep violet clouds which constantly creep the floors.
Once a great enterprise of the Dwarven Kingdoms, holding much promise for nobles who had long ago spoken it name only in irony, doubting its potential for glory, the curse of this ruin has since spread further than its fame once did. The rivers north now run red with blood of un-remembered heroes and cowards, foolhardy enough to trespass the grounds of the Age either in its full life or in its silent days of death.
Those of the Elven nation still shudder at the day when, having lost contact with their once prosperous caravans, they pried open the dusty halls of the Age of Celebration to find the desecrated corpses of Elves gone mad, their blood and vomit still running free in an wild course down the endless designs covering the floor.
In its heyday, the fortress stood, not unbreachable, but still a nightmare to all who spoke of it. Many armies have crossed the deadly moat on the sodden backs of bloated corpses, many have destroyed the mighty gates with laughs and shouts of victory. None have returned. The fortress consumes all, and spews forth none but dwarves, dwarves, more dwarves every day. A writhing cesspool of hairy creatures, swirling about in their own madness and tenacity, devouring earth, life, water in one long cheer, greedy and sickening.
Despite this, stories still leak out of the fabled walls.
They tell of the day the dwarves' insanity burst its dams, and consumed them all. Though not even the most intoxicated drunkard slurs the tale to barstool friend, nor the most wicked minstrel sing the songs in malicious earnestness, from child to king, all know the story.
It is a story of Hunger, in all forms.
The hunger of the mind, the belly, the sword. That of the walls.
The maw of the Age of Celebration sucks in all, releases none, yet the hunger never abates. So too feel the once proud folk who lived inside long ago. Need and want drove them to endless obsession.
The floors of every room from dungeon to vault spiral with endless shapes and depictions of ghastly travesties, covering every inch of stone. They trail into the darkness, and lead some where light cannot follow. Carven long ago by the masterful and mad hand of Cilob Claspreleased, they tormented Man, Dwarf and Elf alike until all light was extinguished to hide the terrors from view.
Madness descended
Strange craftsmen toiled with the flesh and bone of their fellows. Quiet ones stalked the dark hallways, their fingers itching for young throats. Horrors lurked the corridors ready to give sanity one final shove down the slippery slope into the dark, greasy pit of lunacy. All but the mad feared the soft squish of flesh underfoot, the excited grinning faces of the dead and damned, of friends lost in the dark. Their terror made them brothers, but their Hunger made them pigs.
And pigs eat their weaker siblings.
Even in its final days, the walls of Celebration did not vomit. It held its food, with lock, bar, and trap. Over ages, all inside are digested in terror raised by their own hands.
The feast of Madness reigns on.
All cheer. Some dance. Others cry.
The Age of Celebration continues
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Topic: The Age of Celebration (Read 1302 times)