Sil
jus one more fing
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- Aug 28, 2016
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- Nebulae
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A party of three stumbled across it in their travels. A bag, that goes against the laws of physics by being larger on the inside than the outside. In these lands, such bags were a relative commodity for those of an upper-class living and merchants alike, being able to store and carry more than what meets the eye... though, these three were not living in luxury- they barely had enough food to keep them healthy each day. One was a righteous and kind-hearted cleric, always carrying a mace and a shield during her travels; another, a man operating in a dark pact under the service of something far more powerful: he was a warlock, who always seemed to be enveloped in ancient scripture in mind-warping languages; finally, the link between the two, a simple rogue with an air for debonair and a noir attire donned wherever he went.
The warlock, fascinated by the reality-bending properties of the bag, became immediately interested. He wanted to study it, looking at each individual thread of the packing piece to figure out what mysteries it held. The cleric, being someone who recognised the bag's utility, stepped in and elected herself to bare the bag- storing the heavier pieces equipment inside. The rogue, with a witty mind and a sharpshooter's sight, saw the potential of the device: something capable of storing things without letting on its contents, from wealth to evidence in more dire circumstances. Being more of the 'lurking in the shadows, striking silently' type, he chose not to confront the cleric, deducing that it'd serve the trio tremendously if he kept his trap shut.
The party, of course, tested out the wonders of the bag with more rudimentary objects: twigs, stones, and so-on all went into the bag... and it felt none the heavier. Infact, it barely changed at all- as soon as the items went in, they sat in the bottom of the deep, dark, satin room the bag bore for the party, with only the sunlight (swiftly turning into moonlight) to give it light. To prevent the contents from falling out, the party used the pullstring around the entrance to keep it closed, with these two beautiful beads of beech keeping the string at the desired position. As night time came about, the party found a small grove to nestle into, pitching up their tents and preparing the campfire. They offloaded their gear into their respective forms of housing, sitting around for hours as the moon rose and the stars above twinkled like gems adorning the deep, dark blue crown of the night.
The warlock, in standard fashion, had his velum-bound books and red wax candles ready for his late night reading. The rogue got his exotic-fur bedroll all warmed and fluffed up in his silky sleeping clothes; lastly, the cleric prepared her humble living-space and set up a small shrine to her God, with a holy symbol being hung right above where she slept as if her God was watching over her. The trio said their goodnights, and went off to rest...
As the morning rose, and the sun began to shine down upon them, the cleric appeared absent. This wasn't out of the ordinary, as she regularly would go for an early morning walk around their surroundings to collect food. Regularly she'd return with berries, fruits, and on occasion game. The rogue turned to his fellow man, who was... pale. Shivering in his spot, book covering his face as he trembled. The quiet whispering of incomprehensible muttering echoed from him, which others would deduce as just being gibberish... but it wasn't. It had intonation, followed a certain formula in speech, and sounded... wrong. Abnormal, even for standard languages. Likely a consequence of reading ancient scripture, though he was still concerned. He tried to get his attention, tapping his knee, though the poor warlock seemed almost catatonic.
Suddenly, the near-broken man went for the bag, trying to open it. He scrambled at the beads, fiddling with the strings and yet... he remained unsuccessful. After all, it was found out in the wilderness... it's probably just cursed, maybe it'll open the next day. The warlock, though, he was obsessed with it. Clawing at it, trying to pry it open... and failing, perpetually. The rogue shook his head, stepping in. He confiscated it, deeming the warlock's insane craving of the bag to be unhealthy for him. His mania was not helping, and the cleric will have to speak with him if he continues. The warlock, who was physically frail and unable to put up much of a fight against the experienced highwayman of a rogue, cowered back into his tent- engrossed in some of his more otherworldly books. The rogue sighed, wandering around to clear his head. It was a mistake to enlist the help of a crazed lunatic obsessed with things that just aren't real.
He kept walking, tired of having to deal with the warlock's shenanigans. He wanted a bit of peace and quiet for once, and he knew the party's belongings was in safe hands. He didn't want to speak to anyone, not the cleric, not the warlock, not a soul. Finding an old stump, he leaned up against it and stared into the sky... it was golden, a strange but beautiful offset to the typical shades of blue that it regularly painted. He peered into the forest, spotting the songbirds cheep and chirp their lovely music for the rest of the fauna to listen to. Gradually, he grew tired... the solitude, it felt so comfortable... Hands behind the back of his head, he began to fall asleep... just a 30 minute nap, then back to the tent- breakfast would probably be ready by then.
He awoke to something sudden. The sounds of unearthly crackling, before a bass-bellowing explosion happened next to him. He fell to his side, scrambling to get his bearings. A shrill cry rattled him to the core straight after the explosion, as another crackling charge of eldritch energy flew towards him- wait... eldritch? The rogue turned to see the warlock, a look of pure horror and dread on his face. What the hell had gotten into him? Was he truly insane? Did that damn book possess him or something? In retaliation, he got up- withdrawing his flintlock pistol, with which he was an expert marksman, and took a single shot... the warlock was dead before he hit the floor, falling face-first into the forest's damn dirt. His blood began to pool as the shot pierced his skull and brain on both sides, leaving a near golfball-sized wound through his head. The rogue gritted his teeth, storing his pistol away... he was alright, uninjured and untouched... something felt off, though. He reached for his belt, to find his bag had gone missing.
However. Upon turning around, his gaze met with something truly terrifying, something that in the moment filled his veins with ice and had him frozen in fear. Its torso- emaciated and a pale, patchwork mess of grey and pink- was exposed, with gangly, rangy arms so lacking in anything that you could see the joints just barely covered by the skin slumped towards the ground... these large jet-black talons stuck out in place of the nails, faded and worn yet sharper than folded steel- sharp enough to cut the words out of the air as someone spoke. Its ribs, like a skin-covered grid of bone sat across its chest, which rose up to the only thing the rogue managed to see. A matted, maltreated mess of measly yet still mile-long hair- faded grey to burgundy-stained black- was strewn down from its head, a deep thicket that bore two white baubles. Gateways into one's very being, these white marbles shone like the headlights of a car, piercing the rogue's soul with malicious intent.
In the blink of an eye, something this creature couldn't seem to do, the rogue's throat was splayed open. Veins, arteries, muscles, ligaments, skin... strewn out, like someone taking a knife to a pillow. The creature's thumbs swiftly and deftly gouged out the rogue's larynx, stealing his voice in a more literal sense. The small pipe still skewered along the end of the creature's talon, it gripped down against his head- both thumbs now sent to his orbital. Like olives, the rogue's eyes were violently pierced, with visceral juices mixed in with the deep red of life seeping down his head... one might describe it as crying, if not for the lack of true tears. The creature withdrew back into the bag, taking his second victim with him into his pitch-black pit... laying in wait for the next prey who would stumble upon the Bagman.
The warlock, fascinated by the reality-bending properties of the bag, became immediately interested. He wanted to study it, looking at each individual thread of the packing piece to figure out what mysteries it held. The cleric, being someone who recognised the bag's utility, stepped in and elected herself to bare the bag- storing the heavier pieces equipment inside. The rogue, with a witty mind and a sharpshooter's sight, saw the potential of the device: something capable of storing things without letting on its contents, from wealth to evidence in more dire circumstances. Being more of the 'lurking in the shadows, striking silently' type, he chose not to confront the cleric, deducing that it'd serve the trio tremendously if he kept his trap shut.
The party, of course, tested out the wonders of the bag with more rudimentary objects: twigs, stones, and so-on all went into the bag... and it felt none the heavier. Infact, it barely changed at all- as soon as the items went in, they sat in the bottom of the deep, dark, satin room the bag bore for the party, with only the sunlight (swiftly turning into moonlight) to give it light. To prevent the contents from falling out, the party used the pullstring around the entrance to keep it closed, with these two beautiful beads of beech keeping the string at the desired position. As night time came about, the party found a small grove to nestle into, pitching up their tents and preparing the campfire. They offloaded their gear into their respective forms of housing, sitting around for hours as the moon rose and the stars above twinkled like gems adorning the deep, dark blue crown of the night.
The warlock, in standard fashion, had his velum-bound books and red wax candles ready for his late night reading. The rogue got his exotic-fur bedroll all warmed and fluffed up in his silky sleeping clothes; lastly, the cleric prepared her humble living-space and set up a small shrine to her God, with a holy symbol being hung right above where she slept as if her God was watching over her. The trio said their goodnights, and went off to rest...
As the morning rose, and the sun began to shine down upon them, the cleric appeared absent. This wasn't out of the ordinary, as she regularly would go for an early morning walk around their surroundings to collect food. Regularly she'd return with berries, fruits, and on occasion game. The rogue turned to his fellow man, who was... pale. Shivering in his spot, book covering his face as he trembled. The quiet whispering of incomprehensible muttering echoed from him, which others would deduce as just being gibberish... but it wasn't. It had intonation, followed a certain formula in speech, and sounded... wrong. Abnormal, even for standard languages. Likely a consequence of reading ancient scripture, though he was still concerned. He tried to get his attention, tapping his knee, though the poor warlock seemed almost catatonic.
Suddenly, the near-broken man went for the bag, trying to open it. He scrambled at the beads, fiddling with the strings and yet... he remained unsuccessful. After all, it was found out in the wilderness... it's probably just cursed, maybe it'll open the next day. The warlock, though, he was obsessed with it. Clawing at it, trying to pry it open... and failing, perpetually. The rogue shook his head, stepping in. He confiscated it, deeming the warlock's insane craving of the bag to be unhealthy for him. His mania was not helping, and the cleric will have to speak with him if he continues. The warlock, who was physically frail and unable to put up much of a fight against the experienced highwayman of a rogue, cowered back into his tent- engrossed in some of his more otherworldly books. The rogue sighed, wandering around to clear his head. It was a mistake to enlist the help of a crazed lunatic obsessed with things that just aren't real.
He kept walking, tired of having to deal with the warlock's shenanigans. He wanted a bit of peace and quiet for once, and he knew the party's belongings was in safe hands. He didn't want to speak to anyone, not the cleric, not the warlock, not a soul. Finding an old stump, he leaned up against it and stared into the sky... it was golden, a strange but beautiful offset to the typical shades of blue that it regularly painted. He peered into the forest, spotting the songbirds cheep and chirp their lovely music for the rest of the fauna to listen to. Gradually, he grew tired... the solitude, it felt so comfortable... Hands behind the back of his head, he began to fall asleep... just a 30 minute nap, then back to the tent- breakfast would probably be ready by then.
He awoke to something sudden. The sounds of unearthly crackling, before a bass-bellowing explosion happened next to him. He fell to his side, scrambling to get his bearings. A shrill cry rattled him to the core straight after the explosion, as another crackling charge of eldritch energy flew towards him- wait... eldritch? The rogue turned to see the warlock, a look of pure horror and dread on his face. What the hell had gotten into him? Was he truly insane? Did that damn book possess him or something? In retaliation, he got up- withdrawing his flintlock pistol, with which he was an expert marksman, and took a single shot... the warlock was dead before he hit the floor, falling face-first into the forest's damn dirt. His blood began to pool as the shot pierced his skull and brain on both sides, leaving a near golfball-sized wound through his head. The rogue gritted his teeth, storing his pistol away... he was alright, uninjured and untouched... something felt off, though. He reached for his belt, to find his bag had gone missing.
However. Upon turning around, his gaze met with something truly terrifying, something that in the moment filled his veins with ice and had him frozen in fear. Its torso- emaciated and a pale, patchwork mess of grey and pink- was exposed, with gangly, rangy arms so lacking in anything that you could see the joints just barely covered by the skin slumped towards the ground... these large jet-black talons stuck out in place of the nails, faded and worn yet sharper than folded steel- sharp enough to cut the words out of the air as someone spoke. Its ribs, like a skin-covered grid of bone sat across its chest, which rose up to the only thing the rogue managed to see. A matted, maltreated mess of measly yet still mile-long hair- faded grey to burgundy-stained black- was strewn down from its head, a deep thicket that bore two white baubles. Gateways into one's very being, these white marbles shone like the headlights of a car, piercing the rogue's soul with malicious intent.
In the blink of an eye, something this creature couldn't seem to do, the rogue's throat was splayed open. Veins, arteries, muscles, ligaments, skin... strewn out, like someone taking a knife to a pillow. The creature's thumbs swiftly and deftly gouged out the rogue's larynx, stealing his voice in a more literal sense. The small pipe still skewered along the end of the creature's talon, it gripped down against his head- both thumbs now sent to his orbital. Like olives, the rogue's eyes were violently pierced, with visceral juices mixed in with the deep red of life seeping down his head... one might describe it as crying, if not for the lack of true tears. The creature withdrew back into the bag, taking his second victim with him into his pitch-black pit... laying in wait for the next prey who would stumble upon the Bagman.
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