Azakhet’s Age of Chaos Scary
Story Contest 2003
Winner:
Best Overall Age of Chaos Scary Story
Untitled
by
Kryven
Agony; the swooning sensation in his head
was unbearable. He could feel the veins on his temples throbbing. He tried to remember,
but blistering pain faltered memory. The disorientating feeling made him want
to throw up, he struggled to open his eyes. It felt as if he were prying
mountains from the very earth. His limbs were leaden but not numb, his skin
felt wet and slick with something that felt like sweat, only he knew it wasn’t.
There was a sweet noxious smell that hung in the air; the smell of something
else dank and putrid lurked in a corner.
He tried to open his eyes again,
darkness. Then a sudden realization struck him; his eyes were open. There was
just nothing to see, darkness black as crows enveloped him. Then that familiar
panic devoured his heart.
Was he dead? Could it be true that death
brought this endless darkness? That the Creator left his children to such cruel
fate, dead and adrift in this eternal void. He had pondered this thought many
times before, but this time an irresistible fear accompanied it.
He felt a wetness on his face, dripping
down to his chin. A feeling of impotence overwhelmed his senses, with all his
will he tried to fight it but it was futile. Unable to suppress it any longer,
he felt a sudden urge for release. He heard his own distant screams echo
through the endless darkness, it was as if it were someone else’s voice.
Then awareness beckoned consciousness; he
could still feel his mortal shell…
A great relief overcame him; he took
several deep breaths for assurance. Yet the fear lingered still, as if death
himself waited by him…
Then the migraines returned, but it did
little to interrupt his thoughts. Once again he tried to remember, but
something cut off his train of thought. He felt a hand lay over his brow, as if
it were nursing a child. The hand was cold, yet despite it a warm comfort
flowed from it. An insatiable feeling of gratitude compelled him; he wanted so
much for light. He wanted so much to see this beautiful creature with the
comforting hand…
He heard a snicker, as if the person had
heard his thoughts.
Smiling though he could make nothing of
it in the shadows, he tried to move. But the comforting hand restrained him
gently; he stopped. He tried to speak, but confusion ran rampant among his
thoughts. What possible words could he use to express such thankfulness and
love for his mysterious savior? Then where words failed him instinct took over,
with a trembling voice he asked, “What is your name?”
He could almost feel the creature smile,
followed by a sweet delicate laughter. The gentle creature responded with an
almost seductive caress across his forehead, and in a luscious voice replied,
“If you must know, Onilaseth.”
For a moment he pondered the strange name
and its alluring voice. He recognized its enunciation and knew it to be of
elven descent. Yet it seemed somewhat harsh, almost cruel in comparison to that
of the silvery elves… Ah, but that voice… What absolutely transcendent! It
flowed with such lustrous cadence and beautiful intonation. Though a hint of
her elvish heritage marked her accent, and there again was the disturbing
edginess…
Suddenly he heard other voices; there
were several of them. They spoke in a strange rhythm that seemed almost in
unison. There appeared to be in some sort of dispute, but he could do little to
make out the strange dialect they spoke in. It seemed a cold mockery of the
elvish tongue, and bore a distinguished crudeness…
Then a voice came from near him; it was
vicious and almost animalistic. It sounded more like a snarl then that of
something human. Silence immediately followed.
Instinct told him to move away, but he
could not bear to part with the comforting hand of his savior. Even if he
wanted, he had barely the strength in his body to breathe. Then came that sweet
noxious aroma once more… he felt drowsy… Sleep beckoned but he resisted it with
all his will.
A moment passed. Then he heard the
bestial voice address his savior. They argued but the dispute was quickly
resolved, it had seemed his savior had won. He heard the savage one’s growl,
followed by his departing footsteps.
Then came the moment he had longed for.
He caught the almost blinding effects of scintillation, then came the faint
scent of grating flint, then fire.
She was beautiful, despite the dirt the
covered her head to toe she was simply ravishing. She was tall, and despite her
feminine build it was apparent that she was very strong. Her skin was unusually
pale and almost glowing like moonlight. Her features marked her to be of elven
blood and her eyes… They stared into him like the deepest night, magnificently
round and all encompassing.
She
grinned, the simple shift of those finely cut lips would have made any mans
heart swoon. Then he noticed something... Her teeth gleamed as she flashed her
grin; her teeth were razor sharp resembling fangs… Then she spoke to him once
more in his human tongue.
“They wanted to eat you.” She spoke as if
it were something of a joke. His heart sank, then suddenly everything began
coming back to him… The memories came in a torrent of dreadful slowness. His
stomach suddenly felt ill, he felt like throwing up. He remembered everything…
Suddenly he became aware that his
strength had returned, wasting little time he staggered to his feet. But
Onilaseth restrained him, holding him as if he were a child. “I see the drug
has wore off.” She smiled that irresistible smile once more before continuing,
“Don’t fret my precious, I saved you from them.”
With what little courage he could muster
he stammered, “What do you want?”
“You will know soon enough, now you must
eat. So settle down now my precious one, unless you wish to join your
friends.”
Warily he studied the creature before
finally settling down on the filth and dirt. He saw her walk towards a huge
brewing cauldron, and return with a generous filled bowl of a strange stew. He
stared at her indignantly as she handed him the bowl.
“Well? Eat.” she declared before flashing
him another grin.
He
glared at her icily, then thought to himself. If she wanted him dead she
wouldn’t have had gone to the trouble of poisoning him. With that out of his
mind he wolfed down the strange concoction. He realized now that he was
starving, the stew tasted stale but was not altogether unpleasant. He scrapped
off the remaining chunks of meat with his hands, devoured them voraciously. All
this while Onilaseth watched, as if amused by his pitiful state. Soon the bowl
was emptied; it took all his will to resist the urge of licking the bowl.
Hunger still wracked his body; the strange familiar smell from the large
brewing cauldron tempted his yearning appetite.
Onilaseth took the bowl from his hand,
then with a mocking smile on her face asked, “More?” Before he could answer she
walked away again towards the massive cauldron. Collecting himself he settled
down, he didn’t want to think, the inevitable grief that came with it was
unbearable. There came the waft of that familiar smell once more, what was it?
He knew he had recognized it somewhere before, but memory failed him, he felt
his migraine coming back.
She handed him another bowl full of stew,
he was almost grateful… Then before he could polish off the contents of the
bowl again, he saw something strange floating atop the brew… As he poked at it,
he realized that it was a human eyeball… Onilaseth fell into a riot of
laughter, he hurled the bowl at her but she dodged it with ease. He could do
nothing to contain his disgust, heeling over he emptied his stomach onto the
cold hard earth.
Slowly as he recovered, he caught sight
of a gaunt shamanistic figure entering the room. He knew it was the bestial
one, it spoke, “Is he ready?’
Onilaseth replied with a nod as she
recovered from her little laughing fit. The bestial one nodded back and pacing
towards him. Panic held him down like leadened weights, he could have fled but
fear bound him. The beast-like creature gripped him violently pulling him onto
his feet, and then with a bark he began prodding him into another room. He
didn’t even bother to fight back, he knew it would be pointless.
He was brought into an enormous cavern;
the place was well lit with several burning candles. Its walls were painted
with numeral images of dark rites and sacrificial rituals, and large
bloodstained altar stood at its center. Out of nowhere, appeared two darkly
garbed figures that took hold of him. The bestial one had unsheathed a
bone-hilted dagger and was murmuring dark incantations.
He saw Onilaseth enter the room, how much
he despised her as he struggled in vain against the two figures holding him.
Onilaseth greeted him with a cruel smile; he gave her a look of utter contempt
cursing her under his breath. Then he looked to bestial one and demanded, “What
are you going to do with me!”
The bestial one ignored him completely,
he seemed totally absorbed with the task at hand. Suddenly a faint glow
enveloped him; the candles in the room began to flicker. Out of nowhere a
chilling gust swept the cavern, the very bowels of the earth began to shake.
Then from the bloodied altar rose a hideous form…
The abomination vaguely resembled a
towering humanoid; rotting flesh covered its entirety as blood dripped from
ever inch of its being. The creature was wholly composed of dismembered body
parts, and each of those parts seemed individually alive...
With each terrible stride the creature
drew closer towards him, several voices moaned from the creatures many heads.
As he watched the creature approach he recognized one of its faces… its
haunting features tore an avalanche of images from his memories... He wanted to
scream but there was no sound…
Suddenly Onilaseth appeared by his side,
whispering into his ear, “Fear not precious…” Now even her wretched words gave
him comfort…“It won’t harm you.” She smiled. He wanted to answer, but the words
were caught in his throat.
Finally Onilaseth whispered into him
again, “Lothiatlan is going to make you one with it…”
He
knew his fate…
Winner:
Best Age of Chaos Setting Scary Story
by
Blaise
The young boy had dwelt all his life in
the sheltered village of Shar Loelyn, not far from the great city of
Manetheren. His family was humble shepherd folk who were content with watching
the sun rise and set peacefully each day, but he yearned for something more
valiant and exciting than chasing stray sheep. Occasionally tales of great
bravery and daring-do filtered to his ears from the adventurers who came with
hides for the craftsman Candrel. However each time Candrel saw him peeping
around the corner of his hut, he always ordered Holly to fling the scrap-ends
of leather at him and chase him away.
“Tales such as these are not fit for
young ‘uns to hear” he would grunt as he took up yet another bloody carcass.
“Go home and rear your sheep you young devil!”
But the tall sturdy men who strode in and
out of the shop with skins and pelts of legendary beasts flung over their
shoulder as casually as he would lift a new-born lamb had fired something
within his imagination. He hung about even more, hoping for a crumb of gossip
as a dog hoped for a bone. Finally after many months of eavesdropping and
snooping, he pieced together an account of the greatest adventure any could
hope for – the Labyrinth. Of the gates there were thirteen, with the last being
more dreadful than any legend could tell, but if one emerged unscathed one
would walk as an Ancient Race reborn. Such honour and glory, he thought, would
be far beyond any he could hope to achieve in the village, and he with his
bravery that had chased a wolf - a real wolf, mark you, away from the sheep
pen, was definitely fit for the Labyrinth. So with only a few pieces of bread
in his bundle, one night he crept forth and ran along the ravine path without
looking back to his former life. But he had something more precious and
valuable, which he concealed within a small pocket sewn into his clothes – he
had stolen the magistrate’s emerald pendant.
Finally weary and footsore, he arrived in
Manetheren and was awed by huge bustling city. Worldly wise travelers stood
around the glistening fountain in the square quenching their thirst as they
traded news and compared dangerous looking weapons. That night, he was too awed
to enter the magnificent Stag and Crown Inn so he contented himself with
sneaking into the stables behind the stablemaster’s back and rolling himself
into a bale of hay. The next day he set about his task of learning how to gain
entrance into the Labyrinth, rashly believing he was equal to all its perils. However,
no matter whom he asked, they just laughed at him and told him to go home to
his mother.
“What could you possibly want with the
Labyrinth? Go home and look in the mirror! You will never be a warrior!”. One
by one they scoffed at him, and it was true that next to even those who had
tried and failed, he looked a poor sort of fighter. He tried bartering his
emerald pendant for information, but it looked shoddy and cheap next to the
dazzling jewels adorning the breasts of the warrior maidens.
Disconsolate, he wandered down to the
harbor, toying with the idea of stowing himself in a ship bound for faraway
lands. Suddenly he saw something glittering on the ground with the iciness of
death. Before he had time to think, he darted forward and thrust it into his
pocket. There it burned demonically and scorched his skin, so that he nearly
took it out again to cast aside. But then he saw a hefty pockmarked face
barbarian looking around the cobblestones agitatedly as though he had dropped
something, and he thought better of it. Just the day before, the same barbarian
had sneered at him for stinking of sheep. If he could rob the man of something
valuable, then well was it done. He rounded the corner panting and took what he
assumed was a piece of treasure from his pocket. Before his amazed eyes, he
beheld: the Death Sovereign, key to the Labyrinth.
He had done it! He was holding the key to
fame, fortune and glory within his hands and he rashly believed he was equal to
its promise. Catching up his bundle, he hastened forth to Westershire Road,
where it was told the entrance to the Labyrinth was hidden, deep within the
graveyard.
He had never been to this part of the
city before and he nearly quailed when he saw how dark it was with the
mist-covered tombstones and low, overhanging trees. But he closed his eyes and
walked down the path to the door of the cathedral. Bracing his shoulder, he
heaved against its stone. It was locked. He wandered down to the side, used a
stone he found on the ground to shatter the window and crawled in. Ghostly
figures paced up and down the aisles making him shiver as he crept along the
wall and entered the sarcophagus as he had heard from the adventurers’ tales.
Suddenly he found himself face to face with an enormous demon! He screamed
aloud in terror, dropping the sovereign. However the demon sat like stone,
ignoring him. Finally plucking up a little courage, he retrieved the coin, and
edging around the gaping maw and bloodied eyes, stepped into the fiery depths
of the pentagram.
He emerged in a nightmarish place,
shrouded in fog and echoing with the clang and cries of dying men. Surely this
must be the Labyrinth, he thought, shivering from the cold and he suddenly
wished he were safe back in the sheep pen. Nonetheless he stepped forward,
picking his way amongst the dead bodies as the chill winds blew. Suddenly a
skeletal face leapt out of the fog at him, leering through its bone-white teeth
and wielding a iron sword that went cleaving towards his neck. For a moment he
was paralyzed with terror then his senses came back and he ducked just as the
blade went whistling past his ear.
“NOOOOOOOO!!!!!” he shouted as he ran
from the hideous Death Knight, tripping over corpses as he went. Blood-spattered
and stricken with fear, he fell to his knees and crawled blindly amidst the
rubble. His hands and knees were skinned and ripped over the stony ground,
while to the left and right were piled dead bodies frozen in grotesque
attitudes. He thought he heard voices in the wind calling to him, shrieking his
name as it tore through his clothes and hair and every minute he imagined the
footsteps of that horrible creature sounded behind him.
His one thought was to get away from the
Knight, but then he collided with the hem of a dark cloak. He groped in panic
at it, hoping to find some ally, some other Labyrinth wanderer who would offer
him assistance. Looking up, he first saw a dim lantern swinging from a gnarled
and gutted human hand, and beyond that – the face of a thousand nightmares,
maggot eaten and ghastly beyond imagination, Lord Rivengaard, master of the
valley of the dead. Gurgling madly with fear, he tried to turn and run, but the
hands of death came down and plucked him off his feet, and a snakelike voice
hissed through the rotting teeth: “Sssssoooooo, you have decided to rest in
death within the fog of war? For the insolence of entering my kingdom, I will
grant your wish!”
“NO! NO! NO!” he howled as he felt the
sharp nails score his skin and squeeze his throat. “I th-thought they said I
could leave the Labyrinth whenever I wanted!! P-please, take me to the egress!
I will leave! I will never trespass your lands again!”
He was aware of a rustling around him as
a horde of Death Knights silently thronged round, anticipating a feast of
blood. He struggled even more wildly as he saw the skeletal faces clustered
about their lord and saw their writhing hunger in their empty eye sockets.
“Feeeeaasssst……feaasssstt…..” came their voices in the wind, as their decaying
tongues licked their lipless drooling mouths.
Rivengaard opened his hideous mouth and
laughed uproariously. “Did you think you were in the Labyrinth, boy? You are
not even fit for the Labyrinth if you have failed to pass through the fog of
war. Your punishment for your presumption is DEATH!”
Slowly the eager crowd of Death Knights
pressed around him, clawing and renting his hair and skin with their bony
talons and as they closed upon his struggling body, his disembodied howls split
the air “NO! NO! LET ME GO! LET ME…” were the last words to leave his lips as
his head was ripped from his body and his entrails spilled from his split guts.
Rivengaard
stood aside as his knights feasted hungrily over the still-twitching cadaver.
“Friend Arnax, you owe me much for disposing of such pollution, even for your
corrupted Labyrinth”, he murmured as he contemplated the golden sovereign that
now lay abandoned on the bloodied ground.
Winner:
Best Funny Age of Chaos Scary Story
"From Whence Evil Comes"by Caanan
Lord Azakhet was upset. Nothing seemed to work. He tried every trick in his vast book of hatred andmalice. And still those damned mortals always, ALWAYS, found a way to defeat them. Lord Azakhetgrunted in vexation and somewhere down in Manetheren, a cat burst into flame. Steepling his longfingers, Lord Azakhet sank down into his throne to contemplate on the past. 'First I gave them balrogs', he thought with glee. 'But that didn't keep them in check', 'I mean the nerveof those mortals, becoming so powerful they title themselves, "Balrog Hunters". Lord Azakhet growled,'Then I thought, I know, I'll create a zone that will drive them to madness! 'And so Astirin was born, inall it's terrible glory and evilness, and with it came the Tier and then the Orthis Project. It was brilliance!A triple shot of hate, sure to curl the toes of even the stoutest hero! Lord Azakhet grimaced, noting that certain clans now both xp and rank in those zones. A sigh offrustration slipped from Lord Azakhet's lips. In Tar Valon, two horses dropped dead, their eyes rollingin terror. Meanwhile, Lord Azakhet sat deep in concentration, considering the myriad possibilities ofhate available to him. Suddenly, the darkest fires of infernal discovery lit Azakhet's eyes. He issuesforth the most evil maniacal laugh and across the world, nosebleeds and incontinence plagued thepopulace. Rushing to his room of devilish creation, Azakhet began his ritual to create a creature sofoul, so hated that his very name would be like unto a curse to the mortals. "Hunt, MY balrogs will they?, he snarled, "Map MY Orthis!?" "Let's see how they like this demoniccreation!" Never will this evil being fall to any group of overpowered heroes, he will laugh at anyattempt to defeat him." "He will spread my hate, across this land, and no one will be safe from hismachinations!!" "And even better, Azakhet thought with glee, "I will make it so the mortals seek outthis creature, and they themselves will bring upon themselves his vengeance!" And so Lord Azakhet brought forth, his most diabolical creation yet, the evil, depraved, and oh soinept, Candrel, The Craftsman. And hate spread quickly. And Azakhet smiled, and some guy inTear lost his eye while brushing his teeth. And it was good.
Winner:
Best “Real” Age of Chaos Scary Story
by
Pravus
It
was a typical day in New Manetheren, waiting for my mobs to repop. I sent Gedwin
another tell, and sure enough this time it went through. Immediately I cast
locate object for an abyss bracelet. There was one in an unknown location where
there had been none before! It was a tweak, I knew it. In order to beat
everyone to the punch, I cast teleport major to Bel’sam. This was but the
beginning.
The
instant my spell fired, a gut wrenching feeling followed by a flash of light
elicited a curse from me. I had mis-ported! I was now standing in a dry, rocky
creek bed lined with rotting trees. Astirin. No escape except through the
waygate, which is death for a stilled and silenced mage. I had no choice but to
wait out the spells, my only thought was that I hoped nobody else checked
Gedwin before I got out. The wandering mobs were proving troublesome to avoid,
and treading quickly ate up my moves. It was a good idea to rely on the airwalk
spell for my fleetfeet, I thought sardonically. I turned off tread and checked
my affects. Two hours left. Of course at that moment my luck took another turn
for the worst as a rift opened up at my feet, and a balrog demon stepped out
and grinned evilly. I ran.
My
moves, already low, plummeted as I ran down the creek bed towards the relative
safety of the Steam Tunnels. Inevitably, I received the dreaded message
informing me I had run out of moves. I scanned the area; the balrog was two
rooms away. It was hunting fast! Quickly I attempted to tread again. Failure.
After the lag I tried again. Another failure! I cursed my luck. This time the
lag left me helpless, the balrog walked in and attacked. As I watched my hit
points drop for a couple round of combat, I regenerated enough moves to finally
flee. Already having it typed in, I instantly attempted to tread again. Finally
it worked, but my sigh of relief was cut off by the balrog materializing in my
room. It had teleported! Again it pummeled into me as I was helpless to defend
myself. My breath caught in my throat as I dropped below 100 hit points. One
round more and I was dead. By some insane stroke of luck (my first of the
night), I managed to flee once again. I was left with 50 hit points and 0
moves, standing next to a balrog demon just hoping he didn’t teleport again or
wander into my room. Seconds passed and seemed like hours. I scanned; the
balrog was still there. I finally got a few moves back and was going to move
farther away when I got the message like a ray of sunlight breaking through
dark clouds, “You can feel the magical source again.” I was saved.