It was as if a million dwarven voices had cried out in terror and suddenly been silenced... in the underhomes, all at once...
It was the voices of shrieking dwarven women; and yet also of their confused and terrified babies clasping them tightly and hiding small chubby faces in their soft flowing beards; and yet still, those of the aged dwarves who wheezed out thin terror-gasps, half-doubting the falling rock around them to be some cruel mirage of senility, even until it had smashed them to jelly with horrid realism; and finally, it was the outrage of peaceful craftsdwarves, sending their wails and gnashing of teeth up to the heavens, not for themselves, but for all their precious and beautiful works that were being destroyed about them. They had stayed behind in their beautiful mountainhomes to create exquisite art, when the grand bellicose dwarven crusade stomped forth on its act of incalculable folly against the fireworm... and instant destruction was the reward of their peace-loving reticence.
The latter voices in particular, those of the peaceful craftsdwarves, rent the universe for their purity and selfless anguish at the destruction of art. And thus a god winked into existence in the great beyond, and was hurled at an unfathomable speed across the maddening distances of nothingness toward the gaping rift that had pierced the boundary of creation. The vast rift seemed to writhe with tendrils of energy, but as the new god drew close, he saw that each snaking tendril was actually an unknown power from the beyond throwing itself impetuously into the rift in hopes of being born on the other side. He thought to turn away from this destiny rather than face some of the savage entities that he observed eagerly streaming into that self-same rift, but alas, he had no control over the beckoning. Into the rift, then...
The heavens on the other side blazed with sizzling bolts and resounded with deep staccato thudding noises, as vast engines of celestial warfare mounted on a massive glowing ring spat deicidal energies into the onrushing hordes of otherworldly monstrosities. He saw beings the size of planets melt away under the steady sleet of energies, and yet he was so small, the size of a mere craftsdwarf, that somehow he had soon flitted beyond the harrowing scene, toward a rather ugly planet scarred and pitted by various wars and disasters.
New to this terrifying and horridly unaesthetic realm of creation, he flitted in an unthinking panic behind the shadow of a nearby moon and tried to understand what had birthed him. Aha, the knowledge returned to him. It was the final screams of dwarven artisans, not for vengeance or wrath, but for restoration of their art. And his name was the sound of a mountain falling. But no, mortals could never pronounce that in their prayers. Volondor. That would have to do.
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Topic: Pantheon Play Thread: In the beginning there was... (Read 86909 times)