Achaea is full of wonderful events, both grand and small that take place, but sadly we cant always be around to see it. Whenever we hear that something big took place and we missed it, many of us generally have to ask around for logs or simply accept it and wait for the events post. Sadly, even on our forums, logs of past events are pretty scarce. I introduce this thread for that purpose, to post logs as they come.
Below is the current one that took place:
The skies above the Seat of Chaos darken, tendrils of black and purple light streaming up from the city streets as they coalesce into a ball of rapidly forming karmic essence.
The air crackles with tension as the sphere cracks, cerulean light swirling across the heavens as a rift in the fabric of reality descends into the depths of Ashtan.
A deafening silence stills the heavens.
Without warning, a terrible gale envelopes the surroundings, a sickeningly intense chill gathered within its depths. Each scathing, soulscourging blast of cold sends a lance shuddering into the very depths of your soul, maddening whispers arising in the fell wind's wake.
(Big health damage)
The maddening winds claim the sanity of several dozen villagers all at once, running the streets of Delos red in a slavering bloodbath.
Caught in the fell gale, an Genji villager plummets headlong to his death among the Vashnar Mountains.
Anguished screams arise from Tasur'ke as mortal minds violently reject that which simply must not be.
Sacrificed to quell the ill omen, a Tarhani child has perished in absolute fear and confusion, her shaman mother's haunted eyes resounding with terrible clarity in her final moments of life.
The wine-dark depths rise to claim the newfound wrecks of a Kashari trader-fleet, consigned to eternal rest upon the reefs of Miralawi.
Hushed whispers herald the end of the Seventh Sept as they yield to the will of the void-winds, spilling their lifeblood in honor of their century-long prophecy.
You are no longer stunned.
(massive willpower drain)
On and on, the scathing winds scream, unabating in their fury as the Prime Material Plane is deluged in a zephyr from beyond, the skies darkening with each passing moment.
Howling beyond compare, the terrible winds shriek with a sudden ferocity, the anguished noise echoing with thunderous potency. Ill omen stirs the winds in a singular direction from wherever they may lay, the jade-streaked gale gathering in an inky churn within the heart of the Bog of Ashtan.
A shiver ripples down your spine as a profound sense of wrongness creeps slowly into the fibers of your being. The sensation of thousands of tiny needles and claws prick and scuttle across the surface of your skin, eliciting an unsettling itch that grows by the second.
Tendrils of seething dark erupt from the Caverns of Enheduanna, tainting the tempest with thick streaks of vile miasma as the bog churns and boils, spraying clods of sodden earth hundreds of feet into the air.
Moment by moment, the towering figure grows, titanic in its stature as the whorling pestilence coalesces into the manifestation of the Lord of Oblivion, His fathomless gaze scouring the landscape from nearly a thousand feet above.
You shudder violently under the weight of your own infinitesimal reckoning as the stare of the Lord of Oblivion passes over you.
All of Creation quakes as the ominous tones of Babel, the Lord of Oblivion pervade, "For centuries, My gaze has lingered upon the fringes of Creation, but no longer."
All of Creation quakes as the ominous tones of Babel, the Lord of Oblivion pervade, "The Throne endures its emptiness no more, the sightless now see. The boughs bear the jewel of the Prime upon their boundless reach, and now, the parasite shall be shed."
A scant instant of pensive silence lingers after the Elder God's musing, broken only by the beginning of a terrible, grating laugh, utterly assured in its victory.
All of Creation quakes as the ominous tones of Babel, the Lord of Oblivion pervade, "Time is running out, Dunamis."
The gelid winds all but explode with fury, the maddening whispers suddenly united in the Lord of Oblivion's manic mirth as His figure among the clouds dissolves away, segments of blackened miasma dripping to the earth below to rain hell upon the landscape beneath.
Crystalline and clear, Lorielan's voice cascades powerfully, "Interminably predictable, inevitability rouses to stir the pot once more."
An avalanche threatens the peaks of the Siroccian Mountains as the Temple of War erupts into action. An army musters at its core, the earth trembling under the feet of marching divisions.
The silken voice of the Dark Father reverberates from everywhere and nowhere, "Lo! Oblivion comes on the heels of its servant's marriage to the foetid whore. No doubt our "doom" is imminent."
The uppermost skies shudder before an incalculable Presence, sheets of lightning tearing a fulminous path from horizon to horizon with blinding intensity.
The skies of Creation shatter beneath the Storm's incandescent fury as the Skylord intones, "At last you stir from your contemplations, Brother. It has been far longer than expected."
Crystalline and clear, Lorielan's voice cascades powerfully, "Yet far from long enough. Begone another eternity, Ye of rot and waste."
Thousands of daemons howl and shriek as Sartan, the Malevolent roars above the cacophony, "Come to Me, Brother, and I shall bring YOu the End You so desire!"