Today I decided to get to work on getting classflexing privileges for the Harbingers, the quest of the organ is a pretty neat one - So I wanted to share. Enjoy!
You put a somnolent purple death watch beetle into the first pipe.
You reach up and carefully deposit a somnolent purple death watch beetle into the first pipe, where
it skitters around with harmonic ticks.
You deftly play the keys upon a grand stone-wrought organ, and a low rumbling sounds throughout the
The hiss of air rushes through the hollow stones of a grand stone-wrought organ.
A haunting melody issues forth from a grand stone-wrought organ, accentuated by the eerily perfect,
unnerving ticks of the death watch beetles within.
A dark, violet illumination suffuses the pipes of the organ as the melody sounds.
With a haunting chord, the Echo of Mahalla appears, hovering above the organ. As the music overtakes
your senses, She begins to sing.
The sunlight wanes, the shadows bloom, in dark, the forest sleeps.
Coarse threads snarl upon Fate's loom; for death, the forest weeps.
The air around you blurs and darkens as the cavern seems to grow further away, replaced by a
shivering, shadowed forest.
Farewell the silken spiderweb, begone the shade-graced tree.
Go soft, ye birds, and beasts, and life; I mourn, I mourn for thee.
Shadows swirl around your arm as the Fingerblade of dha'Wyrden-cree digs itself more painfully into
Sudden motion catches your eye as a slender deer staggers into your clearing, comprised of shadow
and bleeding darkly from its side, each step in time with the beat of the Echo's song.
Fear not, ye who may hear My song, dare not harbour despair.
Fear not, for though you die today, thy world shall not be bare.
Abruptly, the clearing is filled with panicked life, as furrikin of all shapes and sizes stumble
through the treeline, eyes wide with terror.
The shadowed image of a terrified furrikin wails, "The Voice! The Song! The harbinger of death is
Though air grows still, though colour wanes, though beauty dies, and art.
Absolved you are of mortal stains, for you have done your part.
A dark shadow passes over the invisible sky above, throwing the tenebrous panorama into further
darkness. Only motion is discernable, and motion there is, as the panicked furrikin swarm about,
The forest stands, the forest thrives; The forest, dark, is hale.
Though you shan't see another day, the beetles tell the tale.
The unnerving ticking of a great many death watch beetles sounds from every direction, sending an
unconscious chill down your spine.
Around you, the furrikin still, breathing heavily. Nearby, the weeping of a child breaks the silence.
If darkness comes, if death is near, a beauty shall it make.
For life is given, yet, when sheared, life can also take.
A howling wind sounds around you, entirely insubstantial as it rages, parting about your form.
The furrikin shriek in agony, their fur and skin eaten away by the wind's acidic nature as a
malevolent gaze falls upon the clearing.
In shadow's grasp, in death's embrace, when life has lost its lure,
Joy is stolen, gone is grace; The forest, still, is pure.
Around you, in the darkness, bodies slowly drop to the floor. The sickening thud of flesh sounds in
places close to you, though others are nearer the clearing's perimeter, escape denied them.
For beauty lies in its dark heart, untouched by mortal hand.
At nature's bosom lies true art, no life upon its land.
The shadow over the clearing lifts at length, revealing the mutilated corpses of countless furrikin
inhabitants - and just before you lies the body of Krik Worntail, eyes glassy in death.
Fear not, ye who may hear My song; The forest, dark, is hale.
Fear not, for though you die today, the beetles tell the tale.
As the Voice falls silent, the organ stills, its haunting melody resounding in the cave before at
last fading. The shadowy scene about you tears away like smoke, becoming a stale enclosure once more.
Krik Worntail weeps brokenly, hanging suspended limply in the air.
Suddenly, Krik Worntail falls to the floor, the strings at his wrists and ankles snapping with a
Krik Worntail says, "It...it is done. She has been paid the glory that She well deserves..."
Krik Worntail says, "She was...not an omen of goodness, though great and terrible Her beauty is. Her
death...Her death by the Soulless was a violent one."
Krik Worntail says, "Mahalla was marked by death, you see? She was drawn to it, often before it
occurred. When she came, and sang, we thought that it was the Soulless. I know now that no Soulless
could have sang of such beauty."
Krik Worntail says, "No...the Soulless came after. She merely anticipated, and sang. Sang for death..
Krik Worntail says, "When She was through, and the land was wiped barren, She would move to the next.
..and her song would be heard again."
Tears fill Krik Worntail's eyes and begin to slowly run down his face.
Krik Worntail says, "Go now. Neither of us has need to linger here."
As Krik Worntail's gaze meets your own, a persistent, driving song echoes in your mind, driving your
ego to new heights.
Krik Worntail keens out a low, haunting melody, vanishing in a wreath of ethereal violet light.
The apple is cold, crisp, and sour as the juices fill your mouth. As you consume the fruit, you glimpse, for a moment, a massive, shadowy figure, Her snow-white hair framing a perfect, icy-eyed visage. Beneath you, a vast, perfect web of silken strands lies - and, for a moment, you realize that you too are part of it, weaver and strand both - and home.