Chosen of Legion

Kinda old now (but still awesome) but I was asked to share it. Lavinya is appointed avatar and Chosen of Legion!

Your vision momentarily blurs and swims as countless whispers assault your senses, a vision of the Fulcrux of Morgfyre flashing within your mind.

You step into a globe of swirling, chaotic energy, and it leaps around your vision and consumes you whole, enveloping you into an abyssal realm of twilight stars and bizarre foreign skies. The vistas of limitless alien horizons in unknown worlds spring into your mind, and are gone just as soon as they enter. After what seems an eternity, but you somehow know is only moments, you emerge from the globe once more, exiting somewhere completely different.

The Fulcrux of Morgfyre.

The eternal worm Ouroboros, a great serpent biting its own tail, floats mystically suspended in the air, forming a dark stone shrine of Morgfyre.

You drop to one knee, demonstrating your humility and respect.

The air here fairly thrums with power, the presence of Legion close at hand.

A wailing voice full of despair says, "A greeting, Our daughter."

Utterly compassionless, an emotionless voice says, "We trust you have had much indeed to contemplate over the passing months."

You say, "Indeed I have, my Lord."

The frail, haunting voice of a child says, "And now?"

You say, "My path is clear, my hunger unabated."

A voice filled with harsh undertones says, "Your goal is once again in sight, then."

Sobbing quietly, a pleading voice says, "Let not your spirit waver, child. Very little is immutable."

You nod your head slowly in understanding.

A feverish, obsessed voice filled with fervent zeal says, "We wonder, however..."

A booming voice of command says, "The DisOrder remains quiet, too many of Our faithful complacent. We lack a High Priest, and the General sleeps much."

A sensual voice on the cusp of ecstasy says, "Shall you disprove Us, Lavinya? What say you of these events?"

You say, "The mighty fall and the lowly rise, every changing on the Wheel. To fight these things is futile, what is needed is every forward motion."

A wailing voice full of despair says, "You have learned much indeed, and see further than most of your peers."

Cool and silent, an ocean breeze swirls through the august ruins, blue leaves and bright pink blossoms from the twisting trees dancing rhythmically in the wind as they glide out to the twilight sea.

Utterly compassionless, an emotionless voice says, "Will you then be the one to serve Us in creating that motion?"

You say, "I have spent much of my time reflecting Your words and deeds. I will serve to further Your will and this motion in whatever capacity You would have me, my Lord."

The evanescent form of Morgfyre coalesces from nothingness, His expression unreadable.

A husky, silken voice in velvet tones says, "You shall stand, then, and We shall see."

You stand straight up.

Morgfyre, the Legion lifts His hands, fixing you with a malevolent, bone-chilling smile. The very air about you begins to churn and roil, at once sweltering and oppressive.

Faint, chromatic traces of oil-slick colour begin to bleed from your surroundings, pulsing as they slowly swim about you, tracing an encapsulating barrier that paints your world with seething, shifting runnels of madness. As the array pulses, so too does your heart.

Reminiscent of a hissing snake, a sibilant voice says, "Farewell, Our daughter."

As the voices of Legion rise in a blasphemous chorus, the array converges on you with menacing intent, flashing ever faster as your heart races. Finally, in one awful instant, your heart ceases beating and your blood fountains into the air. With shuddering cracks, your ribs erupt through your skin as Morgfyre extends a hand. In answer, your dead heart bursts from your chest in a spray of gore, barely meeting the God's hand before vanishing in a pyre of multi-hued flames.

Not an instant later, the array of seething energies about you converges, blowing you off your feet as fell powers swell in your breast, filling you with life anew and mending your wounds, your heart replaced with something greater, something immutable. For a scant moment, each of your Lord's disparate voices is perfectly comprehensible, and all praise you and raise you high, marking you as His Chosen, now and evermore.

The skies momentarily flare a deep crimson as a thousand dissonant voices rise up in blasphemous adulation, heralding the rebirth of Lavinya d'Murani as the Chosen of He Who Is Legion.

Morgfyre has imbued you with great powers, use them wisely.

Tears flow freely from your eyes as Morgfyre, the Legion appoints you to the Chosen of Legion.

Lavinya drops to her knees in awe and wonder.

A musical, lilting feminine voice says, "Farewell, Our daughter, and rise, Our Chosen, Our mortal hand in all things."

A voice filled with harsh undertones says, "You have served Us unceasingly, without question, and taken to heart what We would have you do so with."

Lavinya rises to her feet, standing a little taller, a little straighter.

Laden with a thick accent, a foreign voice brashly says, "To you We grant power the likes of which lesser beings may only quail at, and with it you shall work wonders in Our name."

You say, "As you command it, it shall be done."

Laden with a thick accent, a foreign voice brashly says, "There is a great deal to come, for you and the DisOrder as well as the Engine of Transformation at large. We must ensure that these events fall as planned."

The model of flawless elegance, a woman's noble voice says, "Lead Our faithful, Lavinya, and serve Us. That is all We require."

You say, "Nothing would please me more, my Lord. It is ever an honour to serve You, and so shall I continue."

The ghost of a smile passes fleetingly across Morgfyre's lips.

A mirthful, joyous voice laughingly says, "We shall come unto you once more when We deem you prepared for the tasks at hand. Until then, you may seek out Nadira - she will tend to the more immediate matters."

You say, "The lady is wise, indeed I will seek her council."

Motes of churning colours swim in the air, and a throaty feminine voice says, "Our eye is no longer upon you, child, for you are Our hand. Wear your title proudly."

Morgfyre, the Legion tilts back His head and utters deep, rumbling laughter, sending rippling swirls of prismatic colours cascading through the air.

The form of Morgfyre, the Legion dissolves into howling streaks of colour, which disperse into smoky wisps of aetheric ribbons that slowly dissipate.