NationStates Jolt Archive

It was nearly 4,000 years ago that the monstrosity that was Nuir Enkur roamed the planet, bringing all to his will with his deathly powers. Although his true name unknown, he was gifted beyond his years. Yet, despite the praise, the power, and the popularity he had amongst the people, he was a destined child. A child with a destiny to fall into darkness.

How he fell, was a mystery, even to the closest of his friends. No one knew what damage his mind had seen, or the terror he brought, save a diary. It was said, in old folklore, that he kept a diary before his fall. This diary, said to have been inscripted with every passing major moment of his life, disappeared, and his reign of terror began, leading to his mysterious death years later.

Although it was apparent his brother Ciranaar was the trigger of his death, his body was never found, only his armor, and his remains scattered. Now, presently, during an archaelogical exhibition in the forgotten city of Murun in Suriga, the possible town of Nuir Enkur's birth, a small book was found, claiming to be the diary of the Dark Lord himself.

Whether this was the diary itself or not, a truly terrible price was paid. Although Suriga was within Sandurian control during the finding of the diary, only one man in the entire world knew how to read the ancient runes marked on the inner chasms of this accursed book; the cunning king of Jenrak, the former province of Methronn. Despite his hate towards the descendants of the Warlords, Arborgard the Twelfth agreed to go to the massive stone city of Missun in Sanduras to decrypt the diary of the Dark Lord.

Whether his intentions are true to his word or not remains to be seen.

OOC: The only person who can RP in this is Jenrak and I, as only us two know this stuff. Tagging is allowed, but that's it.

A glass shook around on the table, withering its way towards the edge, eager to fall. The wine within it was sloshing around violently, as the plane he was on was shaking and jerking around violently in the storm, the clouds fogging his view.
A long, lanky, black robed young man, with thick white hair and gold frizzled gauntlets, Arborgard was a misjudging person. Most tyrants would think twice about denying his offer when they see what this young man is capable of, his mind as detached as a machine. He never sees the soul behind a person; only the benefits, and the weaknesses. For that, his heart was ice, and his eyes were a window to the black void that was his emotions.
Now and then he talked, but he kept to himself when he could. He had a high tolerance for pain, as his eyes shifted around suspiciously to see the wintry clouds rumbled around him, as he swished his glass of wine.
"A diary of my ancestor. Hmm." He pondered to himself. No one was in the metal cargo plane but him, and his sword, thousands of years old, not fit for proper battle, but it stilled carried a killing capacity. How it survived all the tormented years was unknown.
"The diary of Nuir Enkur." He whispered quietly. He read much of his god, and he doubted anybody knew how to read the ancient scripts as he does. It was his primary language, yet a language he could not teach, as it was a language the ghosts of his past taught to him.

The snow fell down softly, as the people huddled by, busy from their shopping. The trees were withered, save the pine trees as they whistled around quietly as the wind blows strongly.
The road was slippery, and on the main street of Missun, the ice stopped at a brown building, a stumped structure with bricks poking out of place, and signs stick up, as the antennas were snapped or bent. However, the place was of utmost importance. While the building was weakly designed, it was crucial to the people who worked diligently inside. The brown building was the main office of religous momentum and archeological control.
Far off, a rumbling sound shattered to chattering noise, when the people looked up to see the metal monster of a cargo plane, the wings shifting loudly throughout the air, the lights flashing from its back carefully lowering down, to a steady halt. It was odd for a plane to be landing in the middle of a huddling snowstorm, but then again, it was odd for the populace of Sanduras to leave their comforted homes to shop for items in a snowstorm as well.
Strange times were ahead, and they will not stop.

The plane slowed to steady stop on the airspace, as the people walked out and saw the unknown visitor.

The wheels spun slowly, as the driver gripped the steering wheel, the backseat soft and furry, as the head architect Simon Fern lobbed himself into the car, his large behind blocking the door, the people behind him gasping for air as they mocked him by twitching fervently. But Simon didn't know.
As he shoved his way into the front seat of the car, the driver stared begrudgingly at him, and his friends fumbled into the backseats following him.
Wheels chortled, the engines rumbling violently, as the gas spurted out of the tailpipe at the end in the snowy winterscene, the gas fogging up the back of the car, as the people walked by. Snowflakes tumbled deftly onto the frozen of the windows, and the car began to choke and spit as the driver jammed his keys into the silvery slot.
Auzzuuu....Auuzuuu The noise of the car peculiarly made. It began to suffer for more tormentingly long seconds, before it finally started up, awakening to life, and the headlights shined blindingly onto the road ahead.