The stars twinkled in the pre dawn grey that ebbed to gold on the horizon the castle was quiet aside from the occasional moan of the wounded or sob of the now homeless and lost. The quiet before the storm or perhaps simply sitting in the eye of the storm an illusion of calm as the tempest raged around until by its own gravity it collapsed inwards and laid all to waste.
It was cruel when one’s finest efforts fell short the man mused as he recalled the valiant effort his guard had made at holding the town, the effort all had made. Yet it was small comfort that despite the daily and often ridiculous amounts of arbitration he did about town the men and women he trusted had proved themselves fine choice to the last.
A grand legacy as captain the first to lose the town, no denying what he smelt burning in the air….all those people all that blood. His most absolute failure he let his hand wander to the lute that lay at his side old and worn it had traveled with him since before this isle. Decorative and hand carved each water mark, small burn or chip to the finish a moment a memory, oh grasp them for the slip from hand so fast.
A tune seem to craft itself with in his hands the lute taking voice on its own a ballad of battle. Forming wild crescendo pulling from memory the clash of battle lines and steel on bone and faded gently; to envisage a tear drop as it traced a slow path down the unknown face of a soldier casting his last gaze to a darkening sky as his life fled slowly.
Bowing his head as the music spent it self like rage pouring forth he bowed his head and brought the instrument to rest on his lap so he may use the back to pen a letter.
Caitlin my light it seems in these days there is only time to say and do what must be done and seldom time to for what should be done. I wish now I had held you tighter, stolen a few more moments to simply gaze into your eyes. You have been and remain till my last breath my…
Tucking the note into an envelope adorned with a night angel blossom the man began setting his armor to order an old set heavy and blackened, the helm a crude likeness of a raven and the gauntlets adorned with a talon. Armor from an older time when death had seemed easier to trade and he had felt younger more immortal, strange comfort to think back and imagine once there was something to relish in battle.
Stalking down stairs he tucked the letter into Caitlin’s bag and a gentle kiss on her forehead, through the window dawn broke blood red and ominous as castle began to stir.
the eye of the storm
Moderator: Gamemasters
-
Lathor Isakthin
- Posts: 9
- Joined: Tue Nov 15, 2005 3:48 pm
- Location: The Northern Forest.
Lathor sat crossed legged on top of the library roof, screams of fear and hate
rang out in the distance. He watched figures fight in the distance, bodies
twisted in the throws of death. This could have been ended. If they had just
come to him this would not have been necessary. He sighed, what would his
father have done? What had he done before he fell to Rasmantil at the cross...?
He looked on at the mass of pain faces and dying men below. The clank of
metal rang out below. He looked down, an unknown stranger screamed in
agony, an undead had pinned him to the wall, a rusty sword hung limply
from his stomach.
Lathor stood silently, his staff raised.. he pointed it carefully at the
creature a look of calm on his face.
He stopped. his staff raised mid-air. "Why should he?, No-one aided his father."..
He let his staff fall back to his waist, watching as the man below him felt the wrath of the skeleton.
rang out in the distance. He watched figures fight in the distance, bodies
twisted in the throws of death. This could have been ended. If they had just
come to him this would not have been necessary. He sighed, what would his
father have done? What had he done before he fell to Rasmantil at the cross...?
He looked on at the mass of pain faces and dying men below. The clank of
metal rang out below. He looked down, an unknown stranger screamed in
agony, an undead had pinned him to the wall, a rusty sword hung limply
from his stomach.
Lathor stood silently, his staff raised.. he pointed it carefully at the
creature a look of calm on his face.
He stopped. his staff raised mid-air. "Why should he?, No-one aided his father."..
He let his staff fall back to his waist, watching as the man below him felt the wrath of the skeleton.
Athian walked through the shadows of Varshikar Quietly, relishing the silence that had been so rare over these long days of battle against the minions of the undead. He slipped between the houses in his usual routine. Checking for thieves or roaming creatures. The ward on the walls of the houses flared purple in his passing warning him of the danger of their touch. With a slight smile he stopped to stare at one of the rune constructed circles. He had gone about altering the initial Design Jeremy had places on the buildings. Restructuring and making them stronger and more deterrent.
He was putting very much faith in these warding. They were the one of the only reasons he left his home in Varshikar with his children and wife sleeping within. Athian stepped from the shadows and onto the dimly lit street, heading toward his door. His pace was slacked however, from the fatigue of battle and strategy. In truth he’d not been so tired in a very long time. The curse or blessing of longevity placed upon his lineage had given him the strength to fight on without tiring, and the summer month brought about the pull of the flames in his soul. But both were lacking powers, and were now taking their toll for his over use.
Upon reaching his door he stopped and turned out toward the darkened stead. Letting his eyes rove between the shadows. There had been no conflict here aside from a hungry looming castle. He smiles almost gratefully for that simple annoyance. Though it might compile itself in the future into something truly threatening at the moment it only seemed like a drop in an ocean of hard days to come. He’d contemplated for hours below the castle at the altar of Malachin. Listening to the voices echoing down from above. The sides were so unbalanced now. And the darkling’s of his own beliefs were as much a part of it as anything. Within the past few days his talents as a follower of the Goddess, Exorcist and Warlock had all come into play. His hand sipped idly into his pocket withdrawing the fruits of those labors
The dark shard from the sword that had pierced Baileys shoulder. He’d removed it with the special form of alchemy he’d learned long ago, mixing and powdering various gemstones stones for the properties and subtle power. He’d done a lot of that lately. Next to it was a red Blackstone, turned blood colored by the spirit that he Marie and Tanessa had forced into the crystal bindings when freeing an elf from possession. Wicked powers ran rampant throughout the land and though he did all in his power he could only contain as much as he could hold in his left hand. He thought back to the way the name of the goddess was being slandered. It angered him to his core, not because of the words but because of the imbalance that occurred. There stood to sides to those who worshipped the Goddess, the preverbal light to the darkness, and though those on the side of the light were as shadowed and ruthless to the cause as their brethren most of them knew the true purpose of what they we’re inscribed for. To balance the equation.
Yet in these past few days, no matter how many prayers he offered, no matter how many offerings he left, his words went unheard. It was as if Cherga had chosen a side in a battle in which she had always thus been neutral. The Darkness swelled and grew in power everyday yet the calls of the light were going unanswered. At first he had been angered by this fact. His entire homestead was devoted to serving the Goddess in the same manner as him and had done so faithfully for a thousand years hence. Never before had he felt so abandoned by the Goddess. His letter home for assistance he knew would never reach there in time to make an actual difference and the other Varshikari were not nearly as adept in the ways of the Goddess.
Athian turned slowly, almost lurching to his door. With a gesture of his hand the lock sprang open. As he clutched the handle. He revelation in the temple of Malachin came to mind. Those who stood in the light of the Goddess sought to balance the power, regardless of which the Goddess favored at the time. With there own strength they fought the darkness while both walking its line and crossing it. It had been and it would be, even if the Goddess herself sought their demise. The two forces of the spirits were like two violent waves. Crashing constantly and negating one another. They were like forces of nature and though one might bend a force as such to there will, no being was able to stop the inevitable clashing. It would be like trying to halt the stars…
There was no pleasure in this resolution. Merely resolve. He would fight and fight and break the darklings. To restore the balance to protect his family, to continue his people’s legacy even so far from home. Even if the goddess ignored his calls, he would serve. As he entered the room, his eyes drifted over the occupants of the house. His son and daughter sleeping peacefully Ari his silver fox, big as she was resting on the table, her yellow eyes regarding him briefly before closing, and his wife who lay placidly in there bed. Athians hand drifted to his face, to the body that had stopped aging in his mid twenties. That would not age for over two thousand year, before he turned to dust. A body and a spirit that would fight for the Goddess as a living mortal or in hindsight as a lich like his brethren. This was his curse. To serve always. And he would serve and stay alive and see his son grow into a troublesome man and his daughter into a fine and equally troublesome woman.
Athian laid down in his bed not slipping under the sheets or even removing his armor. Tomorrow would be a long day. He would route the enemy and bring them to halt no matter how long it took. He could only home that perhaps even if just this once the Goddess would chose to answer his call.
He was putting very much faith in these warding. They were the one of the only reasons he left his home in Varshikar with his children and wife sleeping within. Athian stepped from the shadows and onto the dimly lit street, heading toward his door. His pace was slacked however, from the fatigue of battle and strategy. In truth he’d not been so tired in a very long time. The curse or blessing of longevity placed upon his lineage had given him the strength to fight on without tiring, and the summer month brought about the pull of the flames in his soul. But both were lacking powers, and were now taking their toll for his over use.
Upon reaching his door he stopped and turned out toward the darkened stead. Letting his eyes rove between the shadows. There had been no conflict here aside from a hungry looming castle. He smiles almost gratefully for that simple annoyance. Though it might compile itself in the future into something truly threatening at the moment it only seemed like a drop in an ocean of hard days to come. He’d contemplated for hours below the castle at the altar of Malachin. Listening to the voices echoing down from above. The sides were so unbalanced now. And the darkling’s of his own beliefs were as much a part of it as anything. Within the past few days his talents as a follower of the Goddess, Exorcist and Warlock had all come into play. His hand sipped idly into his pocket withdrawing the fruits of those labors
The dark shard from the sword that had pierced Baileys shoulder. He’d removed it with the special form of alchemy he’d learned long ago, mixing and powdering various gemstones stones for the properties and subtle power. He’d done a lot of that lately. Next to it was a red Blackstone, turned blood colored by the spirit that he Marie and Tanessa had forced into the crystal bindings when freeing an elf from possession. Wicked powers ran rampant throughout the land and though he did all in his power he could only contain as much as he could hold in his left hand. He thought back to the way the name of the goddess was being slandered. It angered him to his core, not because of the words but because of the imbalance that occurred. There stood to sides to those who worshipped the Goddess, the preverbal light to the darkness, and though those on the side of the light were as shadowed and ruthless to the cause as their brethren most of them knew the true purpose of what they we’re inscribed for. To balance the equation.
Yet in these past few days, no matter how many prayers he offered, no matter how many offerings he left, his words went unheard. It was as if Cherga had chosen a side in a battle in which she had always thus been neutral. The Darkness swelled and grew in power everyday yet the calls of the light were going unanswered. At first he had been angered by this fact. His entire homestead was devoted to serving the Goddess in the same manner as him and had done so faithfully for a thousand years hence. Never before had he felt so abandoned by the Goddess. His letter home for assistance he knew would never reach there in time to make an actual difference and the other Varshikari were not nearly as adept in the ways of the Goddess.
Athian turned slowly, almost lurching to his door. With a gesture of his hand the lock sprang open. As he clutched the handle. He revelation in the temple of Malachin came to mind. Those who stood in the light of the Goddess sought to balance the power, regardless of which the Goddess favored at the time. With there own strength they fought the darkness while both walking its line and crossing it. It had been and it would be, even if the Goddess herself sought their demise. The two forces of the spirits were like two violent waves. Crashing constantly and negating one another. They were like forces of nature and though one might bend a force as such to there will, no being was able to stop the inevitable clashing. It would be like trying to halt the stars…
There was no pleasure in this resolution. Merely resolve. He would fight and fight and break the darklings. To restore the balance to protect his family, to continue his people’s legacy even so far from home. Even if the goddess ignored his calls, he would serve. As he entered the room, his eyes drifted over the occupants of the house. His son and daughter sleeping peacefully Ari his silver fox, big as she was resting on the table, her yellow eyes regarding him briefly before closing, and his wife who lay placidly in there bed. Athians hand drifted to his face, to the body that had stopped aging in his mid twenties. That would not age for over two thousand year, before he turned to dust. A body and a spirit that would fight for the Goddess as a living mortal or in hindsight as a lich like his brethren. This was his curse. To serve always. And he would serve and stay alive and see his son grow into a troublesome man and his daughter into a fine and equally troublesome woman.
Athian laid down in his bed not slipping under the sheets or even removing his armor. Tomorrow would be a long day. He would route the enemy and bring them to halt no matter how long it took. He could only home that perhaps even if just this once the Goddess would chose to answer his call.
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Bailey Thunnigan
- Posts: 191
- Joined: Mon Apr 11, 2005 12:53 pm
- Location: * If love was red, then she was colourblind *
Bailey clasped her side as she became conscious at the Malachín shrine again. The last three demonsskeletons were too much. The guard grinned to herself.
It was a success after all, definitely.
Bailey had attacked the lich so that the others could wrest away that holy sword from it. Despite her believe it really worked out. The sword was back in their possession.
Just as she wanted to go upstairs again to aid the other fighters once more a certain lich stepped into her way.
„You will come with me“, its dark voice stated, appearently angry about its loss.
„Doubtfully“, Bailey answered, but just in the moment as she wanted to turn to Balamos to tell him something important, she found herself teleported in Trolls Bane. Still exhausted the woman fell to her knees, breathing in deeply.
The lich grabbed her and forced her into the library; the room that was once the shrine of Elara was tainted now. A dark, bloodstained alter towered were once was a holy place.
„Are you ready to die?“
„Not yet“, Bailey claimed and freed her arm from the lichs grip and raised her sword once more, yet not attacking.
The lich reached his hand out for her neck, but the warrior stepped back, striked out and though she had not the slightest hope in having any success she battered her sword down at her foe with all the strength she had. She would not give up without fighting.
To Baileys surprise some bones shattered to the ground, as her blow struck off the lichs arm, but before she could raise her sword once more, the undead one hitted her face with all force. Stumbling back, Bailey lost the grip around her sword and she sank down.. Blood ran over her lips and chin.
The lich kicked her and set his foot upon her, pointing a black sword at her neck.
She closed her eyes tight, expecting death. „...I'm wondering if it was foolish that I never prayed...“, she mumbled to herself, swallowing blood.
The sharp blade cutted the skin along her neck before the lich pulled it back, just to strike out and pierce it forcefully right through her shoulder.
A scream escaped Baileys lips and she writhed in pain.
She heard the words from the lich like they would be spoken from far away. „You will make a fine servant.“ Then he pulled the bloodstained blade out of her flesh.
As the woman opened her glassy eyes once more, she could see the dark sword... the tip was missing. A part of the enchanted blade still stuck in her shoulder.
„There you have your mark. I will call you.“ With those words the lich disappeared in an iceflame and Bailey struggled with herself to sit up.
* * *
A couple of hours later, between pain, unconsciousness and struggling... she was in one of the beds of the Grey Rose. Thanks to Avareniah who cared for her wounds and to Athian who pulled out the metal of her shoulder, she was alive.
The night was horrid. The not ending pain in her shoulder kept her awake and the few times she felt asleep she got tortured by nightmares. Wiping the sweat from her forehead, Bailey felt that she had temperature.
„Damn“, she thought. „I need to be fit tomorrow again. I will not be able to lead a sword with this shoulder; I have to fight lefthanded.“
She growled slightly in the back of her throat and her thoughts wandered again to the lichs words. She was not sure about how they were meant.What would happen if the lich called her. Would she lose her will and turn to the other side?
She would rather die than being a servant of those undeads.
...
It was a success after all, definitely.
Bailey had attacked the lich so that the others could wrest away that holy sword from it. Despite her believe it really worked out. The sword was back in their possession.
Just as she wanted to go upstairs again to aid the other fighters once more a certain lich stepped into her way.
„You will come with me“, its dark voice stated, appearently angry about its loss.
„Doubtfully“, Bailey answered, but just in the moment as she wanted to turn to Balamos to tell him something important, she found herself teleported in Trolls Bane. Still exhausted the woman fell to her knees, breathing in deeply.
The lich grabbed her and forced her into the library; the room that was once the shrine of Elara was tainted now. A dark, bloodstained alter towered were once was a holy place.
„Are you ready to die?“
„Not yet“, Bailey claimed and freed her arm from the lichs grip and raised her sword once more, yet not attacking.
The lich reached his hand out for her neck, but the warrior stepped back, striked out and though she had not the slightest hope in having any success she battered her sword down at her foe with all the strength she had. She would not give up without fighting.
To Baileys surprise some bones shattered to the ground, as her blow struck off the lichs arm, but before she could raise her sword once more, the undead one hitted her face with all force. Stumbling back, Bailey lost the grip around her sword and she sank down.. Blood ran over her lips and chin.
The lich kicked her and set his foot upon her, pointing a black sword at her neck.
She closed her eyes tight, expecting death. „...I'm wondering if it was foolish that I never prayed...“, she mumbled to herself, swallowing blood.
The sharp blade cutted the skin along her neck before the lich pulled it back, just to strike out and pierce it forcefully right through her shoulder.
A scream escaped Baileys lips and she writhed in pain.
She heard the words from the lich like they would be spoken from far away. „You will make a fine servant.“ Then he pulled the bloodstained blade out of her flesh.
As the woman opened her glassy eyes once more, she could see the dark sword... the tip was missing. A part of the enchanted blade still stuck in her shoulder.
„There you have your mark. I will call you.“ With those words the lich disappeared in an iceflame and Bailey struggled with herself to sit up.
* * *
A couple of hours later, between pain, unconsciousness and struggling... she was in one of the beds of the Grey Rose. Thanks to Avareniah who cared for her wounds and to Athian who pulled out the metal of her shoulder, she was alive.
The night was horrid. The not ending pain in her shoulder kept her awake and the few times she felt asleep she got tortured by nightmares. Wiping the sweat from her forehead, Bailey felt that she had temperature.
„Damn“, she thought. „I need to be fit tomorrow again. I will not be able to lead a sword with this shoulder; I have to fight lefthanded.“
She growled slightly in the back of her throat and her thoughts wandered again to the lichs words. She was not sure about how they were meant.What would happen if the lich called her. Would she lose her will and turn to the other side?
She would rather die than being a servant of those undeads.
...
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Mempriclus
- Posts: 109
- Joined: Sun May 25, 2003 9:02 pm
- Location: In ethereal realms...
Balamos stood at the doors of the castle, his arms folded about his chest. His gaze wandered about the courtyard, falling upon the many battered warriors of the war. They were veterans now, all of them, having fought over the last few days in too many battles to care remembering. The ring of hammer hitting anvil sounded from within the castle, whilst the ring of sword hitting shield sounded before him. These were tough days, and the troops wanted to be as skilled as possible. "I'll join them later" he mused, his eyes flaring a little as he viewed the determination across their faces.
There was no shrine to Zhambra, nor holy place of his, so Balamos contented himself by merely praying wherever he was. Zhambra was in his soul, and that was a shrine large enough for him. Dropping to his knee's his head bowed, and hands clasped in his lap he began utterances once again. A prayer for his comrades, and a prayer for himself.
The past days' events poured through his mind, all he had felt, all he had seen, and that had been told to him troubled his mind. Where they going to defeat this foe, were they going to live to see the next sunrise, and was Bailey right? Should he weild the holy sword against the undead that stained this land?
He did not know the answers to the questions he asked, and so all he did was pray, pray for guidance, pray for strength and pray that he could serve his comrades, and serve his God, as faithfully as he could. His faith gave him strength, and he needed that now more than ever.
His head lifted, and his eyes opened, they were met by plumes of foul smoke rising from the town. He felt the cackles of the undead residents rip through his mind and his soul flared in anger. But deeper still was a troubled glint, a small sparkle of worry and fret. There had been no news from his dearest friend. Did she live? His knee's strained to bring him to his feet and he took a step towards the town. But no, Pendar said no, and he would obey. As his head sank to his chest eyes sullen with fear a single word played across his lips, "Rose."
There was no shrine to Zhambra, nor holy place of his, so Balamos contented himself by merely praying wherever he was. Zhambra was in his soul, and that was a shrine large enough for him. Dropping to his knee's his head bowed, and hands clasped in his lap he began utterances once again. A prayer for his comrades, and a prayer for himself.
The past days' events poured through his mind, all he had felt, all he had seen, and that had been told to him troubled his mind. Where they going to defeat this foe, were they going to live to see the next sunrise, and was Bailey right? Should he weild the holy sword against the undead that stained this land?
He did not know the answers to the questions he asked, and so all he did was pray, pray for guidance, pray for strength and pray that he could serve his comrades, and serve his God, as faithfully as he could. His faith gave him strength, and he needed that now more than ever.
His head lifted, and his eyes opened, they were met by plumes of foul smoke rising from the town. He felt the cackles of the undead residents rip through his mind and his soul flared in anger. But deeper still was a troubled glint, a small sparkle of worry and fret. There had been no news from his dearest friend. Did she live? His knee's strained to bring him to his feet and he took a step towards the town. But no, Pendar said no, and he would obey. As his head sank to his chest eyes sullen with fear a single word played across his lips, "Rose."