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Legends Unbound. (Adventure in the Trojan Saga and Try to Survive.)
- Thread starter Magoose
- Start date
- Original Fantasy
- Location
- Second French Empire
Hades: *opens door and see's theodosios*
Hades: Not interested *slams door shut*
Hades: Not interested *slams door shut*
Magoose
SV's Questing Fanatic
- Location
- California USA
- Pronouns
- He
Book 1: The House of Hades
Magoose
SV's Questing Fanatic
- Location
- California USA
- Pronouns
- He
Book 1: The House of Hades
[X] Write: Admire the architecture of the temple for a bit, after all it is probably the last thing you will see in your life.
[X] Knock on the Door: You might as well be polite and knock on the door.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
Unknown Temple.
You took a deep breath, your eyes adjusting to the dim light as you studied the architecture of the temple. The ancient stones that formed this place were unlike anything you had ever seen—a lost relic of a time long forgotten, yet preserved with an eerie perfection. The walls, composed of an oily black stone, seemed to pulse with a faint, unnatural glow. It was as if the stone itself was alive, emanating a soft luminescence despite the complete absence of sunlight.
The dark stone, smooth yet cold to the touch, reflected the flickering light from the few torches that lined the walls, casting elongated shadows that danced across the cavernous space. This place was a fitting tribute to the God of the Dead, its solemn grandeur radiating a sense of timelessness and dread. The architecture was austere yet majestic, with every block of stone carved with precision and purpose, as if the very act of building this temple was a sacred ritual.
You could see symbols and carvings etched into the stone, depicting scenes of the underworld: souls being ferried across the Styx, skeletal hands reaching out from the depths, and the imposing figure of Hades himself, seated upon his throne, surrounded by his spectral court. The craftsmanship was exquisite, each detail rendered with a reverence for the divine and a fear of the unknown.
The air was thick with the scent of burning pitch from the torches, mingling with the musty odor of the ancient stone. The flickering flames cast an eerie glow on the carvings, making them seem almost alive as if the figures could step out from the walls at any moment. It was a place where time seemed to stand still, where the boundary between the living and the dead was thin and permeable.
You felt a shiver run down your spine as you absorbed the atmosphere of the temple. This was no ordinary cavern—it was a sanctum, a place where the living rarely tread, and where the dead held dominion.
So you did the only thing a living soul could do in such a place—you knocked on the door. It felt like the only respectful act, a gesture of reverence in the face of the unknown. The door loomed before you, massive and imposing, and as your hand hovered just above its cold surface, a wave of unease washed over you. This was no ordinary door; it was a barrier between worlds, a threshold that few had crossed and returned from.
With a deep breath to steady your nerves, you pressed your hand against the door. The smooth, oily stone was cool under your palm, sending a shiver through your body. For a moment, time seemed to stretch, the silence of the cavern growing heavy and oppressive. Then, with a resolve born from equal parts duty and dread, you knocked.
The sound that followed was beyond anything you could have imagined. It was not merely a knock; it was a booming reverberation that seemed to shake the very foundations of the earth. The noise echoed through the cavern, magnified by the hollow stone walls until it became a thunderous roar that filled your ears and rattled your bones. It was as if the door itself was alive, its voice a deep, resonant boom that commanded attention.
The sound was so powerful, so overwhelming, that it dwarfed every other noise you had ever heard in your life. Not even the crashing of waves against the cliffs or the roar of a storm could compare. The only thing that came close was the memory of Zeus's wrath—the deafening thunder that had once shattered the sky as the god unleashed his fury upon your fields, leaving nothing but scorched earth and broken dreams in its wake. That was a force of nature, of divine anger, but this... this was something else entirely. It was the sound of the underworld acknowledging your presence.
As the echoes gradually faded, you were left in a silence that was almost more terrifying than the noise itself. The air seemed to hum with a lingering vibration, and you couldn't shake the feeling that something—or someone—was now aware of your intrusion. Your heart pounded in your chest, each beat loud in the stillness. The door, though unmoved, seemed to pulse with a life of its own as if waiting to see what you would do next.
And then, the torches began to dim, their once steady flames wavering as if caught in an unseen breeze. You watched in silent apprehension as the light flickered, casting erratic shadows across the ancient carvings on the walls. The temperature in the cavern seemed to drop, a chill seeping into your bones. The flames fought against the encroaching darkness for a moment longer, before one by one, they were extinguished, plunging the cavern into an oppressive blackness.
Just as the last torch died, the door before you creaked open. The sound was low and mournful, like the groan of a giant beast slowly awakening from a long slumber. The darkness inside was even deeper than that of the cavern, but as your eyes adjusted, a faint glow began to emerge, revealing a sight that filled you with awe and dread.
Before you, the River Styx flowed silently, its dark waters winding their way from the mortal realm into the underworld. The river was a thing of legend, a boundary between life and death, and now it lay before you, as real and inevitable as the passage of time. The waters were inky black, reflecting nothing as if they absorbed all the light and life that touched them. The air around it was thick with otherworldly energy, the very essence of death and transition.
A solitary boat waited at the river's edge, its worn wood creaking softly as it bobbed in the water. There were no souls gathered on the shore, no restless spirits eager to cross into the afterlife. The only presence was that of the boatman, Charon, sitting motionless at the helm. His figure was shrouded in shadow, his face hidden beneath a dark hood. Despite the obscurity, you knew exactly who he was—Charon, the eternal ferryman of the dead, the one who carried souls across the Styx to the underworld.
"Hello," you said, your voice barely more than a whisper in the stillness. The sound seemed to be swallowed by the cavern, but Charon heard you. You could feel his gaze, though his face remained unseen. There was no need for introductions; the boatman knew all who approached him, for he had ferried countless souls across the Styx throughout eternity.
Charon made no reply, but his presence was enough to convey his purpose. He sat in the boat, an eternal sentinel, waiting for you to make your choice. The stillness of the river and the silence of the cavern pressed down on you, reminding you that this was not a place for the living. Yet here you stood, on the threshold of the underworld, with nothing but the ferryman and his boat to guide you.
The decision was yours. To step into the boat was to cross into the realm of the dead, to leave behind the world you knew and enter the domain of Hades. But there was no turning back, no other path to follow. The underworld called to you, its ancient and mysterious power drawing you forward.
Spot Check:D20 => 16+1=17
As you approached the boat, your eyes widened at the sight of three figures seated within. The three Fates—the Moirai—were there, weaving and sewing the threads of destiny. Each one handled her task with deliberate precision, their focus unbroken even as you drew near. Their presence was overwhelming, the air around them heavy with the weight of countless lifetimes they had shaped and ended.
Beside them, young Zagreus stood with a tense expression. His eyes darted nervously between the Fates, betraying a fear that was palpable. It was clear that even a god, especially one who had a fate was to be written.
The first of the Moirai, her voice both soft and commanding, turned her gaze towards you. "Enter, young one," she intoned, her words carrying the weight of inevitability. As she spoke, the three began to shift and transform before your eyes, their forms changing as if to emphasize the roles they played in the grand tapestry of life.
One became a child, her eyes wide with the innocence of beginnings. This was Clotho, the Spinner, who wove the thread of life from her spindle. The thread in her hands shimmered with a light that spoke of potential and promise, the very essence of life itself as it began.
The second figure morphed into a maiden, her beauty radiant and timeless. This was Lachesis, the Allotter, who measured the length of the thread, determining the course of each life. Her hands moved deftly, measuring out destinies with a calm and unwavering grace. There was a cool detachment in her eyes, reflecting the impartiality with which she wielded her power.
The third, and final, became an old crone, her face etched with the lines of countless ages. This was Atropos, the Inexorable, the one who cut the thread when a life had reached its end. She held a pair of shears, sharp and glinting, poised to sever the thread at the appointed time. Her gaze was piercing, filled with the knowledge of all that had come to pass and all that would be.
As the Fates settled into their new forms, they continued their work, their hands moving in perfect synchrony. The thread of fate, once spun, measured, and cut, was beyond the control of any mortal or god. You could feel the power of their craft, the enormity of their influence on the world and all who dwelt within it.
"Step in." Clotho ordered.
There was silence. But they were demanding you come onto the ferry boat. For what purpose you did not know.
What do you say?:
[]Write in
Note: Fateless activated. Rolls will have a bonus.
[X] Write: Admire the architecture of the temple for a bit, after all it is probably the last thing you will see in your life.
[X] Knock on the Door: You might as well be polite and knock on the door.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
Unknown Temple.
You took a deep breath, your eyes adjusting to the dim light as you studied the architecture of the temple. The ancient stones that formed this place were unlike anything you had ever seen—a lost relic of a time long forgotten, yet preserved with an eerie perfection. The walls, composed of an oily black stone, seemed to pulse with a faint, unnatural glow. It was as if the stone itself was alive, emanating a soft luminescence despite the complete absence of sunlight.
The dark stone, smooth yet cold to the touch, reflected the flickering light from the few torches that lined the walls, casting elongated shadows that danced across the cavernous space. This place was a fitting tribute to the God of the Dead, its solemn grandeur radiating a sense of timelessness and dread. The architecture was austere yet majestic, with every block of stone carved with precision and purpose, as if the very act of building this temple was a sacred ritual.
You could see symbols and carvings etched into the stone, depicting scenes of the underworld: souls being ferried across the Styx, skeletal hands reaching out from the depths, and the imposing figure of Hades himself, seated upon his throne, surrounded by his spectral court. The craftsmanship was exquisite, each detail rendered with a reverence for the divine and a fear of the unknown.
The air was thick with the scent of burning pitch from the torches, mingling with the musty odor of the ancient stone. The flickering flames cast an eerie glow on the carvings, making them seem almost alive as if the figures could step out from the walls at any moment. It was a place where time seemed to stand still, where the boundary between the living and the dead was thin and permeable.
You felt a shiver run down your spine as you absorbed the atmosphere of the temple. This was no ordinary cavern—it was a sanctum, a place where the living rarely tread, and where the dead held dominion.
So you did the only thing a living soul could do in such a place—you knocked on the door. It felt like the only respectful act, a gesture of reverence in the face of the unknown. The door loomed before you, massive and imposing, and as your hand hovered just above its cold surface, a wave of unease washed over you. This was no ordinary door; it was a barrier between worlds, a threshold that few had crossed and returned from.
With a deep breath to steady your nerves, you pressed your hand against the door. The smooth, oily stone was cool under your palm, sending a shiver through your body. For a moment, time seemed to stretch, the silence of the cavern growing heavy and oppressive. Then, with a resolve born from equal parts duty and dread, you knocked.
The sound that followed was beyond anything you could have imagined. It was not merely a knock; it was a booming reverberation that seemed to shake the very foundations of the earth. The noise echoed through the cavern, magnified by the hollow stone walls until it became a thunderous roar that filled your ears and rattled your bones. It was as if the door itself was alive, its voice a deep, resonant boom that commanded attention.
The sound was so powerful, so overwhelming, that it dwarfed every other noise you had ever heard in your life. Not even the crashing of waves against the cliffs or the roar of a storm could compare. The only thing that came close was the memory of Zeus's wrath—the deafening thunder that had once shattered the sky as the god unleashed his fury upon your fields, leaving nothing but scorched earth and broken dreams in its wake. That was a force of nature, of divine anger, but this... this was something else entirely. It was the sound of the underworld acknowledging your presence.
As the echoes gradually faded, you were left in a silence that was almost more terrifying than the noise itself. The air seemed to hum with a lingering vibration, and you couldn't shake the feeling that something—or someone—was now aware of your intrusion. Your heart pounded in your chest, each beat loud in the stillness. The door, though unmoved, seemed to pulse with a life of its own as if waiting to see what you would do next.
And then, the torches began to dim, their once steady flames wavering as if caught in an unseen breeze. You watched in silent apprehension as the light flickered, casting erratic shadows across the ancient carvings on the walls. The temperature in the cavern seemed to drop, a chill seeping into your bones. The flames fought against the encroaching darkness for a moment longer, before one by one, they were extinguished, plunging the cavern into an oppressive blackness.
Just as the last torch died, the door before you creaked open. The sound was low and mournful, like the groan of a giant beast slowly awakening from a long slumber. The darkness inside was even deeper than that of the cavern, but as your eyes adjusted, a faint glow began to emerge, revealing a sight that filled you with awe and dread.
Before you, the River Styx flowed silently, its dark waters winding their way from the mortal realm into the underworld. The river was a thing of legend, a boundary between life and death, and now it lay before you, as real and inevitable as the passage of time. The waters were inky black, reflecting nothing as if they absorbed all the light and life that touched them. The air around it was thick with otherworldly energy, the very essence of death and transition.
A solitary boat waited at the river's edge, its worn wood creaking softly as it bobbed in the water. There were no souls gathered on the shore, no restless spirits eager to cross into the afterlife. The only presence was that of the boatman, Charon, sitting motionless at the helm. His figure was shrouded in shadow, his face hidden beneath a dark hood. Despite the obscurity, you knew exactly who he was—Charon, the eternal ferryman of the dead, the one who carried souls across the Styx to the underworld.
"Hello," you said, your voice barely more than a whisper in the stillness. The sound seemed to be swallowed by the cavern, but Charon heard you. You could feel his gaze, though his face remained unseen. There was no need for introductions; the boatman knew all who approached him, for he had ferried countless souls across the Styx throughout eternity.
Charon made no reply, but his presence was enough to convey his purpose. He sat in the boat, an eternal sentinel, waiting for you to make your choice. The stillness of the river and the silence of the cavern pressed down on you, reminding you that this was not a place for the living. Yet here you stood, on the threshold of the underworld, with nothing but the ferryman and his boat to guide you.
The decision was yours. To step into the boat was to cross into the realm of the dead, to leave behind the world you knew and enter the domain of Hades. But there was no turning back, no other path to follow. The underworld called to you, its ancient and mysterious power drawing you forward.
Spot Check:D20 => 16+1=17
As you approached the boat, your eyes widened at the sight of three figures seated within. The three Fates—the Moirai—were there, weaving and sewing the threads of destiny. Each one handled her task with deliberate precision, their focus unbroken even as you drew near. Their presence was overwhelming, the air around them heavy with the weight of countless lifetimes they had shaped and ended.
Beside them, young Zagreus stood with a tense expression. His eyes darted nervously between the Fates, betraying a fear that was palpable. It was clear that even a god, especially one who had a fate was to be written.
The first of the Moirai, her voice both soft and commanding, turned her gaze towards you. "Enter, young one," she intoned, her words carrying the weight of inevitability. As she spoke, the three began to shift and transform before your eyes, their forms changing as if to emphasize the roles they played in the grand tapestry of life.
One became a child, her eyes wide with the innocence of beginnings. This was Clotho, the Spinner, who wove the thread of life from her spindle. The thread in her hands shimmered with a light that spoke of potential and promise, the very essence of life itself as it began.
The second figure morphed into a maiden, her beauty radiant and timeless. This was Lachesis, the Allotter, who measured the length of the thread, determining the course of each life. Her hands moved deftly, measuring out destinies with a calm and unwavering grace. There was a cool detachment in her eyes, reflecting the impartiality with which she wielded her power.
The third, and final, became an old crone, her face etched with the lines of countless ages. This was Atropos, the Inexorable, the one who cut the thread when a life had reached its end. She held a pair of shears, sharp and glinting, poised to sever the thread at the appointed time. Her gaze was piercing, filled with the knowledge of all that had come to pass and all that would be.
As the Fates settled into their new forms, they continued their work, their hands moving in perfect synchrony. The thread of fate, once spun, measured, and cut, was beyond the control of any mortal or god. You could feel the power of their craft, the enormity of their influence on the world and all who dwelt within it.
"Step in." Clotho ordered.
There was silence. But they were demanding you come onto the ferry boat. For what purpose you did not know.
What do you say?:
[]Write in
Note: Fateless activated. Rolls will have a bonus.
Last edited:
Duke William of
I really need to finish my quests. :V
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] ...So how's the weather down here?
[X] ...So how's the weather down here?
What an ice breaker 😆
What an ice breaker 😆
- Location
- Second French Empire
Uh, do we have any Drachme on us?
Magoose
SV's Questing Fanatic
- Location
- California USA
- Pronouns
- He
You're covered, considering that Zagreus, and the Fates are on that boat.
- Location
- Second French Empire
Phew, last thing I wanted was to try and cheat the world's oldest taxi drivers fare
- Location
- Second French Empire
[X] ...So how's the weather down here?
I'll follow the dead kings lead, he knows things
I'll follow the dead kings lead, he knows things
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] ...So how's the weather down here?
We can always ask how is fishing in the River Styx 
[X] Hey Zagreus Demeter's son Arion wants me to wish you a happy birthday. He would do it himself, but he's a little horse!
- Location
- Anchorage, Alaska
[X] ...So how's the weather down here?
-[X] Hey Zagreus Demeter's son Arion wants me to wish you a happy birthday. He would do it himself, but he's a little horse!
this is totally a techno answer...
-[X] Hey Zagreus Demeter's son Arion wants me to wish you a happy birthday. He would do it himself, but he's a little horse!
this is totally a techno answer...
Amused Bystander
Herald of 'She who Umu's' Be Brave!
- Location
- Philippines
[X] ...So how's the weather down here?
-[X] Hey Zagreus Demeter's son Arion wants me to wish you a happy birthday. He would do it himself, but he's a little horse!
-[X] Hey Zagreus Demeter's son Arion wants me to wish you a happy birthday. He would do it himself, but he's a little horse!
[X] ...So how's the weather down here?
-[X] Hey Zagreus Demeter's son Arion wants me to wish you a happy birthday. He would do it himself, but he's a little horse!
-[X] Hey Zagreus Demeter's son Arion wants me to wish you a happy birthday. He would do it himself, but he's a little horse!
[X] ...So how's the weather down here?
-[X] Hey Zagreus Demeter's son Arion wants me to wish you a happy birthday. He would do it himself, but he's a little horse!
-[X] Hey Zagreus Demeter's son Arion wants me to wish you a happy birthday. He would do it himself, but he's a little horse!
[X] ...So how's the weather down here?
[X] ...So how's the weather down here?
