Hamza - Salir Soulwarden
A lone monk sits, meditating in the bones of an old temple. The stones there tell a story. One that, despite his lack of physical sight, the monk can read quite well on his own.
Deep in his rumination, he pours over the ethereal messages before him. He sees the people that lived here once, their souls trapped within the walls, echoing out from the catacombs to the spire. One such trapped spirit approaches him.
“You should not be here, blind one,” whispers a voice. “He will find you, you know. Quite quickly.”
The monk sits in silence.
“It is unwise to welcome such danger.”
The monk sits in silence.
“As you wish,” says the spirit, his final words pouring out with a haunted breath. A violent eruption of the soul swallows the room, engulfing the sanctum in pale blue light. The spirit now stands before the monk as a terrible malformation.
“You are weak, blind one,” rumbles the great beast.
The monk opens his eyes to greet his unleashed foe. In the astral plane they would fight. The hulking spirit, ripping, striking, and biting at the monk as he glides between blows. In an instant and an eternity they would fight. He would have to work quickly, such magical interference could prove disastrous to the balance that bound him there. With a lucky twist, the beast latches onto the arm of the monk, biting hard and burning away at his flesh. It was now or never.
Wrestling the gnashing creature to the ground, he holds his palm high, summoning the power of the spiritual world at his zenith. With a downward strike, he severs the chords of the beast's soul, rending it asunder as the energy spirals out from the wound. In an instant, the flames in the temple die. There are no whispers, no lingering lights or trapped voices now.
A lone monk walks, leaving the bones of an old temple behind him. The stones there told a story. One that, despite his lack of physical sight, the monk read quite well on his own.