Illarion.org

Posted: **Tue Mar 15, 2005 7:49 am**

Willum layed low a skeleton that advanced on him, easely with the new hammer and armour he had gotten from Moshker. Willum began to feel....young once more, his heart racing, the tast of battle on his lips. Though as he fought he noticed at how weak he had become in his old age, he felt tired faster, and he was unable to carry as heavy a load as he would have been able to while he was young. Willum looked down at the smashed bones befor him, he stared at them wondering if he would become them one day. As he curled up in the small nest he had made durring the times of the great wars, befor he fell asleep in his favorite nest in his favorite tree, he looked up at the stars and wondered "Should I die, would Malachin accept me as I am, or must i become stronger...." His thoughts were interupted by a sound of crakling, Willum looked down from his nest and saw a skeleton circling his tree, he sliped down and delt with it, yet he stilll felt the pain of his age. Willum looked at the stars and prayed to Malachin "Please, I ask a favor from the god whom i have served over the years.....let my strength of my youth return, let my spirit once more be filled, instead of empty as it become after my loves death." He knew his prayer would most likely not be awnsered and he would remain old, and weak, he knew that any vagabond with a wepon could best him now days. Willum climbed back into his nest and fell asleep, his mind racing and dreaming.

Posted: **Tue Mar 15, 2005 11:15 am**

The old town wall of Trollsbane, cracked still from the pressures of the Northerot War, casts shadows down into the Eastern swamps, meeting the buzzing of insects and the croaking of toads, it's grey-white splendor contrasting with the murk. Along the edges of the dark, green water there is a set of footprints left behind by a lone, diminutive figure.

Upon the man is a beautiful robe of a golden-hue, it's layers of fabric folding over itself, like ripples upon water. His carved wooden staff has intricate patterns that can only be understood by men who are well-studied in the Arcane Arts, which were lost by common men, and now only used by those with uncanny patience. One might guess that he walked this hellish swamp for some sort of magical research.

However, if that were the case, his mind wanders elsewhere, into the town behind those splendid walls, where one, even at this distance, can still hear the hammers of the smiths and the laughs of children. The muscles of his face, even as he resists, pull his mouth into a smile.

He speaks to the insects and toads around him, for they are the only ones who can hear him,"The Northerot War never ended until this day. There was yet one injured soldier who never came back, and was never healed. Perhaps now the healing has begun."

Illarion.org

An old spirit rekindled

An old spirit rekindled