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Week 2: Through the Door
The scribe stumbled over the jagged rocks to colossal crack in the towering gate.
“Millennia have worn thiss placce down,” he croaked, stumbling through the crack.
Calling it a crack doesn’t do it justice, it was the size of a large cave system, so massive it could fit an army. The gate hadn’t stopped intruders in centuries. Barg followed.
Once the pair made it to the other side, chaos ensued. A confusing rush of clanging metal and flickering fire, lighting up the great tunnel with a dazzling light that blinds. Shouting, crashing and urgent footsteps echoed through the empty mountain. The great guards of almighty Ancria fled, the stench of Barg assaulting they’re terrorised nostrils. Archer windows, blockades and towers emptied in the blink of an eye.
They walked. At first there was some light, some sound, something to ground them. But as the last guards, deeper in the tunnel, fled, it was just Barg, the scribe, and the dark. Time was meaningless, space incomprehensible. Days were years and weeks were hours, the dark ever unforgiving. If you lost your sense of direction you would be sent back to the start. After a day, a month, maybe even a year, they made it.
A blinding light filled Barg’s eyes, as they adjusted he could make out some lush dark green trees, some bright green grass, skies of bright blue, mountains with peaks of majestic white and rich silver. Birds fluttering around and chirping, instead of hiding in they’re nests choking on the dry air. They'd made it.
The scribe stumbled over the jagged rocks to colossal crack in the towering gate.
“Millennia have worn thiss placce down,” he croaked, stumbling through the crack.
Calling it a crack doesn’t do it justice, it was the size of a large cave system, so massive it could fit an army. The gate hadn’t stopped intruders in centuries. Barg followed.
Once the pair made it to the other side, chaos ensued. A confusing rush of clanging metal and flickering fire, lighting up the great tunnel with a dazzling light that blinds. Shouting, crashing and urgent footsteps echoed through the empty mountain. The great guards of almighty Ancria fled, the stench of Barg assaulting they’re terrorised nostrils. Archer windows, blockades and towers emptied in the blink of an eye.
They walked. At first there was some light, some sound, something to ground them. But as the last guards, deeper in the tunnel, fled, it was just Barg, the scribe, and the dark. Time was meaningless, space incomprehensible. Days were years and weeks were hours, the dark ever unforgiving. If you lost your sense of direction you would be sent back to the start. After a day, a month, maybe even a year, they made it.
A blinding light filled Barg’s eyes, as they adjusted he could make out some lush dark green trees, some bright green grass, skies of bright blue, mountains with peaks of majestic white and rich silver. Birds fluttering around and chirping, instead of hiding in they’re nests choking on the dry air. They'd made it.