Location: Barad-dûr (The Tower).
Interacting with: The Tower? The Group? The Gods?
The greatest of wizards walked the planes. From the vast depths of the astral seas above, stepping into the illuminated voids, to the infernal dimensions perpetually plagued by ever-burning flames. And from these realms the powerful magi enslaved the denizens to their collection of treasures amassing each wonder one by one. From there perhaps these planeswalkers would engage in magic duels, competitions of skill and tactics to see which was the superior duelist. It was at times perhaps they would summon such creatures to their beck and call by expending enough mana or magical energy. Some would summon fey creatures more attuned to earth and wood; fairies and the like, unicorns and even giants, others called forth leviathans and krakens from the seas. Other still called forth angelic hosts of heavenly nature, while darker magi like the possible necromancer summoned forth the shadows of death. Yet perhaps of all the magi, it was those who could tame the beasts of flaming purgatory that were the most skilled in destructive arts. Twas the nature of fire and brimstone, the devil you know and the demon within you as the god's first loss and man's first act of power. And with that faint smell of...
"I don't know there could be magic around I don'-Oh by- Hastur that's F-" The Sorcerer managed before being stricken down for his attempts to detect the subtle nuances of residual magic. Most spells left a signature in the air, or rather in the fabric. Like how a tailor can mend and stitch cloth to his or her will, so too could a mage warp reality. It wasn't as much as force one's will upon reality as it was to convince reality to decided otherwise, and sometimes if one was sensitive enough, you were able to sense the fine discrepancies of what should be and what is left by the use of magic. Thus it was often enough that one magic user trained and sensitive enough to these subtle changes in the weave could sense magic be it a staticky feeling in their beards or in Thomas' case a prickle inside his blood as the latent magics interacted with whatever seemed to interface with it. This time however there was not quite a tingle inside as it was a burning. A burning that singed his nostrils with a malodorous whiff so foul words fail to describe what could such ghastly aroma be compared to.
There was death, and there was this, and death dear friends, was far more merciful. For death only reaped, and did not reek. Death decays but does not rot, and this, this vile cloud of pestilence, coming in from the Grey skies above was anathema. The nip in the air could do nothing as the stagnant stank to befoul and purge the olfactories. The aerosolized bioweapon singed each nerve, a putrid touch of bleak bile and vile venom that corrupted the neuronal pathways with the flames of infernus. The pyre of Thomas' nose alighted, and alas, it was too late and the threshold was crossed beyond the veil. Taken by the hand, death submitted his bony grasp to this invisible assassin that yanked the poor sorcerer into the swallowing void. The toxic hand shoved down his throat, dripping of noxious poison ripped itself back out and took with it a fistful of Thomas' soul, as he felt himself die a little bit. And of course, along with the soul, came the bilious broken bready bits of breakfast.
Hurled with great force, or at least enough that his gag reflex could muster in such a circumstance, the fresh vomit projected itself so uncouthly beneath him. It was indeed a spectacle, one that you had to have been there to witness proper, but alas, there was nothing proper about upchucking was there? Nay, Thomas' eyes watered, his vagus fully engaged as a panic set over, the autonomics sending his heart racing as the inevitable load reversed bolused itself out of his mouth as the young mage heaved and clutched his chest. And the waterfall had no end so quickly, like a balloon sputtering out it lasted until the lad came crashing down weakening at the knees as the sorcerer buckled forward to his horror. Planting himself facedown, and soaking his robes in a touch of recently thrownup acids that burned his throat as they left. It was either some terribly great magic, or someone had just shoved their arse....
But let's avoid such vividly disturbing images and return to the situation at hand. There Thomas lay in a collection of his own vomit before the old suspect tower. Winded, heaving, and trying to purge the lingering scent from reaching his brain and melting it, Thomas clutched at his nose and messy mouth while the other hand lifted his head every so slightly off the ground...
Did anyone else smell death?
