Pataniscas Satânicas

Pataniscas Satânicas

quinta-feira, 24 de setembro de 2015

The Stormwatch

Cold Fog.

The Chosen sits in the little row boat. His arms ache from rowing for almost an hour and his white tunic cannot seem to keep out the chill from the fog.

He shivers against his will, and the Elder sitting to his side seems not to notice. The grizzled Elder just keeps on rowing, unperturbed by the fact that his grey tunic is getting soaked with cold sea water.
In front of him, sitting on the prow, is the Wise Man. He faces the waves, beard frosted with ice. He chants prayers of protection, to calm the seas and ward off the Deep.
Two other Elders sit behind him, and chant to the rythm of his prayers. Neither of them seem to mind the cold.

The sea is the colour of lead. The sky brews heavy weather.

He is about to say something and damn his vow of silence, when he suddenly sees it.
Something in the fog. Something enormous behind the mists. Impossibly high, such that he needs to strain his neck up to see it.

A face.

A gigantic face, carved out of the black rock of an entire cliff side, with a raging mouth open in a furious but silent cry, turned towards the sea.

The fog is quickly clearing, and he can see a dozen other faces, carved into the cliff on either side of this one, fading into the distance. 
As they get closer, the Chosen one notices that all of the stone faces are different. Each has their own features, and were clearly sculpted to bear the semblance of a real person, certainly long since dead.

The tiny row boat seems even smaller as they reach the foot of the cliff, among the crashing waves. Almost miraculously they manage to land the boat without smashing it against the rocks, and the Chosen wonders if the Wise Man's prayers had anything to do with that.

He knows a dozen other boats should be reaching the cliffs by now, with a dozen other Chosen Ones in them, his brothers and sisters. He wonders if they made it safely.

All that's left now is the slow, grueling climb to the top.

After what seems like hours they reach the top of the cliff.
The Chosen feels pain all over his body, from the rowing and the climbing, but his mind is clear, almost exhilarated.

The wind is picking up now. The clouds are dark and heavy, and the Storm is almost upon them.
They quickly make their way to the edge of the cliff, the preparations must start soon.

On the top of the cliff, just above the enormous stone face, there is a circle of Standing Stones. Most of them are covered by moss, and all of them have deep etchings on their sides. The Stones seem almost older than the faces carved into the side of the cliff.

It starts raining as it gets darker. 

The Chosen takes his place in the center of the Stones, barefoot. 
The Wise Man and the Elders gather around him in a circle. The black clouds gather above them all.

As the Wise Man begins chanting once again. The Chosen shivers, this time from excitement.
The Elders join him, chanting lines in faint discord. The rising and falling of the hypnotic chant seems to grow with the swelling of the Storm. 
Or maybe it is the Storm that grows in tune with the chanting.

The wind and rain are at their full strength now and it seems as if they will be blown off the cliff at any moment. The clouds are roiling in their thick greyness, and it is almost pitch black.

The Chosen hardly feels the rain anymore, and to him it seems like the powerful chanting is coming from inside his head now.
He is vaguely aware of a deep rumbling groan coming from over the sea, as brilliant flashes of lightning strike the waves in the distance.

The Storm grows to an almost impossible violence, but not even the deafening thunder muffles the chanting in his head.

The Wise Man raises his hands to the sky, the Standing Stones around him begin to glow with energy.

The chanting rises as the Storm reaches its peak, and the Chosen screams.
And then it happens.

A pillar of light and energy burns through the dark clouds and strikes the Chosen.

As the lightning courses through his body he feels almost no pain, but the power surging in him is nearly unbearable.
The gigantic face carved on the side of the cliff becomes illuminated from within, it's eyes and open mouth glowing.

As the Chosen's scream and the roar of thunder become indistinguishable, a powerful blast of energy shoots from the raging mouth in the cliffside and into the distance, into the Storm.

Simultaneously, the other carved faces in the distance also shoot beams of white energy into the blackness of the Storm. 

The horizon lights up with the lightning beams. An agonized roar can be heard over the thunder and wind, and a gigantic mass in the darkness appears to writhe in pain and slowly sink into the ocean.

The Deep is held back, once again.

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