Kingfisher — Roleplayer Guild

Jaralia- The Night Thirster 

The flowing expanse of the Plains of Dust shimmered softly beneath the sun’s rays, a sea of white sand sweeping across the northern wasteland, under the watchful eye of a lightly clouded blanket of sky, which seemed to merge with the blazing desert below. 

Standing sentinel amidst rocky mountains and the searing slopes of golden sand dunes, stood an obelisk of black stone and slanted bronze roofs, bursting out of the barren landscape and lording over all which lay below. The Yimosha. “Vault of Terrors” in Vasihelian; a language as dead and desolate as the Plains of Dust themselves. Time had long since forgotten this slither of Ansus, sleeping silently at the world’s ceiling, but the Yimosha continued to slumber amidst the ocean of sand and rock, fading into the realm of mythology over the countless centuries since its creation. 

Deep within the Yimosha, tucked away from the blazing heat of the suns above, and sealed within a cold stone room, the once-dead body of the Night Thirster stirred quietly amidst the darkness. 

Jaralia had never maintained a particularly strong posture, but as she lifted her head up off of the floor of her cell, she suddenly became very much aware of the immense strain her overly-rotund body placed on her spine. 

“Urgh...I think I’ll be taking the litter today.” the former queen muttered through clenched teeth, placing one plump hand gently on her back as she heaved herself up into a sitting position. Her stomach spilt out in front of her, plopping down in her lap, as she squinted in an attempt to try and make out the finer details of her darkened surroundings. 

It was then that she remembered. 

She had died. 

They’d pulled her away from her experiments, and cast her down the side of her own pyramid. She’d burst like a grape on the rocky slopes, and become a dark stain on the side of her palace. 

Jaralia shot up suddenly, the pain in her back instantly forgotten, her mouth agape with shock. 

 Where in Vasihelios am I?! 

She slowly started to run her hands over she obese frame, feeling the gentle warmth of her own soft skin. She was alive, and this was very much real; that atleast was certain.

“This is an...interesting turn of events.” Jaralia mused aloud, a twisted grin sweeping across her painted lips. 

She began to pad cautiously through the darkness, her bare feet slapping against the smooth stone floor. 

 Ressurection.  That term began to ring through her head as she explored the cavernous halls of the Yimosha, pacing quietly through the darkness with only her thoughts for company.  Did the rabble really think they could bring death to the Queen of Vasihelios? What was it that the usurpers had called her?  The Night Thirster. Yes, that seemed fitting.  I am Conquest made flesh. This realm of sand and dust could not placate me, so I have returned to quench my thirst on the flesh of the great green beyond.
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