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Each character nominated has up to three sample posts. Happy voting!
Comments are MOST welcome.
The Lich - Star Crystal (Lady Dark Moon)
2 posts
[Post #1]
Commander Rolan and his men welcomed him with open arms. But then again, it was only polite of them to do so.
His velvety robes murmuring against the stone floor, the Lich glided across the chamber without a glance at the skeletal warriors that prostrated at his feet. They moaned in adoration, their fleshless chins kissing the floor. They knew a master when they beheld one. This, however, did little to impress him. After all, he was used to it.
The lone figure in the center of the chamber still boasted armor that gleamed in the torchlight, with russet-tinged patches of silver winking from the millennia of dust and grime. His movements were mechanical yet oddly graceful, and his breastplate grated as he raised his arms. His lips cracked in what passed for a rictus of a grin. "Welcome, emissary of the Shadowers. You have come a long way. Archmage, is it?"
"No," the Lich replied flatly, without offense, without emotion. "No, not Archmage. But you may call me Lord, as I hail you Commander Rolan, once esteemed warrior of the Renegades."
The noise that issued from Commander Rolan's rotting throat sounded like glass shards raking across stone. The most courageous of men would have wet his breeches at that, but the Lich only looked on with patient dispassion. He waited for Commander Rolan to finish laughing. "Warrior of the Renegades!" the gaunt figure gasped, sobering with remarkable abruptness. "Does this" - he swept a gauntleted arm around the chamber - "does this look blessed by the gods to you?"
The Lich looked. It might have been a weapons room once, disregarding the swords rusting in their scabbards and the racks gnawed away by a thousand years of termites. Dashing. His fellow conversationist sounded authentically bitter. Except he really didn't care. "Formalities, my dear Commander," he said dryly. "You were Renegade warrior once, and so I name you thus. As I was once lord, but does this look like a lord's finery to you?" He waved the question away. "What matters is this. The gods charged you to stand vigil over this tomb, did they not?"
The skeletal men stirred. Commander Rolan gnashed what remained of his teeth. "Charged! Two thousand years ago! They no longer - "
"And then they forsook you, turned their backs on you, yet trusted you to hold true to that duty, did they not?" the Lich continued, as though he'd never been interrupted.
"Trivial matters of the past, great Lord. I don't see why - "
"What if I told you that the gods have a pet? A little pretty vassal filled to the brim with divine blessings?"
Commander Rolan's skeletal fingers skittered across the pommel of his morning star. "Go on."
The Lich smiled under the silken shadows of his hood. He glanced around, as though to make certain none of the other warriors were listening. Then, for full measure, he leaned in. "Would you like for me to tell you a secret, Commander?"
[Post #2]
Shadower Lord Qal-Sorak was feeling the sting of a certain sentiment commonly known as annoyance. The Shadowers, however, especially the initiates, liked to call it something different. Something along the lines of "run for your life."
The murky tendrils within the scrying bowl crawled to the bottom of the skull. The Shadower Lord watched them swirl into inky blackness. The cerberus. He'd watched them destroy his demonic pet, watched the fire elemental pound it to pulp. And then there were his legions on the rooftop, incinerated wave by wave upon the blasts of the Chosen's pyrotechnics. He steepled his fingers and riveted his gaze on the sputtering candlelight. All was not lost. The cerberus could be resummoned. The undead hordes were expendable. He'd merely have to try harder, to throw more obstacles into their path, to exhaust them further...
"No."
He didn't turn. He knew the voice, with its rasp that sliced through the air like a serrated edge, and it was hardly a voice worth turning for. Never mind that its owner had managed to encroach upon his thoughts. He'd simply have to be more careful next time. His lips curled into a sneer. "Oh? Do you have an opinion to share, dear assistant?"
"No more than you have brains to spare, dear elf. I do not have an opinion. I have a command."
"Is that so?" Qal-Sorak felt a smile creep across his face. His second-in-command was amusing, he'd give him that. Yes, beneath the seedy robes and dusty hood, the Lich was quite amusing indeed. "And how might you persuade me to heed this command, pray tell?"
The Lich's fingers on the nape of his neck were colder than he would have thought possible.
Rage bubbled in his throat. The Shadower Lord leaped up, spinning around in a storm of black robes. He thrust out his hand, his mouth already forming the words that would subjugate this insolent worm and prostrate him at his feet -
The spell crackled, then sizzled away into thin air. The Lich had vanished.
Darkness swallowed the chamber.
Qal-Sorak recovered swiftly. He was the archmage of the Shadowers, the most powerful of them all - a position he had not attained through intellectual languor. He could - would - annihilate any fool who stood in his path. He was also an elf, blessed with the same acumen as his tree-hugging cousins. He could feel the room, sense the vibrations in the air, judge by instinct alone the location of his enemy...
The impact struck him from behind.
And before he could retaliate, before he even realized what had hit him, he found himself on his knees. His head was pounding. His blood had congealed in his veins. And through the ice shooting up the nape of his neck, through the screams that split his eardrums, he heard a voice. Familiar. Raspy. Like a serrated edge.
"Bow to me."
Shadower Lord Qal-Sorak threw himself onto the cold floor.
Good. Very good. Now. You will crawl to the lowest levels of the Citadel and face our friends. The assassin and the healer are soft. They will fall without a whimper. The mage might present himself as a bit of a problem. Destroy him first, if you can.
Somewhere in the blurred recesses of Qal-Sorak's consciousness, he registered that something was wrong. A question forced itself out. "The... the Chosen?"
A sigh of velvety robes. A rattle of ancient breath. Long, icy fingers stroked his cheek. He couldn't restrain a shudder. But the Lich was satisfied with him. Pleased, even. The whispering presence caressed his mind.
Leave the Chosen to me.
General Ironlegs - Star Crystal (Lady Dark Moon)
2 posts
[Post #1]
Alfryn was a dragonrider squire like any other. He was merciless and unsympathetic, but that was a given among Meiltha recruits. The world was a harsh place. This was the only way to survive. The weak were manipulated by higher powers. The strong molded their own fates.
But, also being a typical young man, he was rash and eager to prove himself. Thus when Warlord Gahst sent him with a summons to High General Ironlegs, commander of the Meiltha legions, he could hardly contain his grin. Ironlegs may have been respected among the veterans, but he was a legend to the squires. He'd never seen the man but had heard much about him, which only enhanced the effect. He was a demon, some said. Others claimed him to be a man with black wings, an angel fallen from the gods.
Nothing could have prepared him for the shock.
The High General was imposing, seven feet tall, but that was hardly a daunting feature compared to the sheer aura of power that surrounded him. Magic-user. And a puissant one at that. The rune-etched battle axe slung over his broad back was the most fantastic thing Alfryn had ever seen. That adamantine monster could fell dragons, so they said.
But it was neither his height nor his aura that most set him apart.
Could he truly be called a man? His torso was naked, openly vaunting his magnificent physique. From his back sprouted two vestigial wings reminiscent of a dragon's. His powerful legs were also like those of a dragon's, covered in silver scales from the waistline down. Silver scales that gleamed metallic in the firelight. Like iron.
His penetrating silver eyes impaled Alfryn. Impatience tinged his gravelly voice. "She is captured?"
Alfryn could only manage a squeak and a nod.
Ironlegs nodded and lashed his dragon's tail. "Excellent. Take me to her."
[Post #2]
This obscure village by the sea was, surprisingly enough, almost as amusing as an afternoon of chess in the command tent. It was refreshing. A tad inconvenient, perhaps, but High General Ironlegs liked it.
Of course, he was fully aware that his men were bored. Nothing boosted morale more than a razing of a helpless village, a slaughtering of an amateur militia, and a carting-off of young women. Not that Ironlegs enjoyed any of the three. The officers could do as they liked when he wasn't around, but he preferred a battle against men who knew how to properly hold their swords. However, this village's militia was a rare exception. It was about as amusing to watch as a toddler taking its first steps, and even more so to interact with.
"Lyssa, did you say?"
"That's Mayor Lyssa to you, Meiltha fool!"
The High General bared his fangs in what most people desperately hoped was a friendly smile. "Very well, Mayor Lyssa," he conceded, and the utter absence of mockery in his rumbling baritone made Lyssa narrow her eyes. He continued pacing, around and around the three score of villagers gathered in the commons. The men followed his feline movements in the corners of their eyes and clutched their hoes tighter to their chests. Ironlegs returned their stares with a curt nod, and they hurriedly glued their eyes elsewhere. "Is this your army, Mayor Lyssa?"
A few of the Meiltha soldiers lounging around the town square snickered, but they hastily sobered when their general displayed no sign of humor. Instead he continued pacing, around and around, the muscles in his legs rippling like molten steel in the sunlight. He frowned at Lyssa's silence. "I asked you a question, Mayor."
Lyssa's jaw tightened. In a clipped voice, she answered, "Yes." Then, louder, "Yes, Meiltha. This is my army. Do you know why we'll prove victorious today?" Without waiting for a reponse, she answered herself, "Because we fight for a cause, Meiltha. And when these men... when these brave, noble men lie resting on the field, that cause will be preserved."
High General Ironlegs deemed this worthy of consideration, and went as far as to cease his pacing to ponder her words. "Impressive," he admitted, nodding at his men as though to gain their agreement. He paused a moment longer, then said quietly, "Your women and children are gone, aren't they." Another pause. Long, excruciating.
"I know where they are."
Despite her clenched fists, despite her adamantine will, Lyssa began to tremble.
"Now," Ironlegs continued, softly, soothingly. "Perhaps you can tell me of Mistress Merrin Dragonrider and the gods-kissing traitor."
Half an hour later, sixty-three bodies lay cooling in the village commons. Half an hour later, one sea dragon - the one who'd come with her land-crawling cousins to bring the message to the High General, the one who'd been listening in all along - was gliding along the water toward the abandoned city of Thyrault.
Lord Raen - Phantom Grey & Sacred Realm (username)
2 posts
[Post #1] (Phantom Grey)
"...And so you can see, ambassador, that we are taking quite good care of your little princess," intoned the tall, black-haired elf with a languid gesture toward the large mirror on the wall. "My good commander even went so far as to rescue her from that dreadful half-blood mercenary. Is that not correct, Commander Aderit?"
"It is so, my lord," the she-elf replied stiffly, inclining her head fractionally. "I have detained the mutt as well, on the small chance that she may prove valuable. I-"
She was promptly cut off by a dismissive wave. "Thank you, Commander. I will discuss such matters with you in a moment. What is your present location?"
Aderit's amber eyes narrowed, but she managed to mask her irritation well enough when she spoke. "I anticipate not more than six hours of walking tomorrow, my lord."
"Excellent. Did you hear that, ambassador? Six hours after sunrise. They will have arrived by noon tomorrow, at which point I fully expect to have your answer. Commander Aderit is my most skilled commander, but even she does have her limits. Accidents can occur, after all. It would be positively dreadful if something were to happen to your dear princess along the way, would it not?"
The elven 'ambassador' struggled against the bonds that held him to the chair. "Lord Raen, you would not dare. I-"
"Have not touched your wine yet," Raen interrupted. "That is terribly rude, you know. That happens to be a very good year, and I opened it especially for you. The very least you could do is acknowledge the gesture with a sip or two, and perhaps a compliment concerning my selection. Or do you trust me so little, Adaniar, that you suspect poison? I am wounded that you should think so little of me. After all, you have yet to inform your people of your decision. I can hardly dispose of you before then."
"Then I will never agree to this."
"Oh, don't be so boring," Lord Raen replied with an air of long-suffering. "You know perfectly well that I can always kill you and inform them of your dying wish, should you continue to resist. If you cannot bring yourself to feel at least a small amount of self-preservation, then think of your people. They would be positively distraught to learn that their leader and their heir died within the same day."
The captive elf tensed once more, but said nothing.
"Why, they might even turn to me, in their desperation. Would that not be convenient? And I, of course, being the benevolent leader that I am, would more than gladly take them under my wing...for a price. It is your choice entirely, Adaniar. Will your people swear fealty with you, or without you?" He motioned to the two guards who had been waiting by the door. They quickly moved to pull the high elf up from his chair and escort him back to his cell. "Think on it, will you?"
As soon as he was alone in the chamber, Raen turned back to mirror. "My apologies, Aderit. You were saying?"
"The half-breed. To be frank, my lord, I do not foresee any potential use for her. She clearly inherited the human disposition, and I do not anticipate any degree of cooperation on her part. Nor is she in any position to be potentially valuable. I see her as only a liability or a hindrance, both of which are best when dead."
"Now, now, my dear, I have told you to not be so dismissive of a potential tool," Raen chided gently. "All tools have their uses, as obscure as they may be. You will bring her along with the princess."
"Of course, my lord. If I may ask, what news of the others?"
"They have entered the realm of the dwarves," he replied in a tone of mild irritation. "I will have no news of them until they have left, I fear, but it is of little consequence. Kytana is only one very small piece on the board, Aderit, and a piece divided by civil war, at that. Once the elves have united under one banner once more, the affairs of humans will be of no concern."
"Naturally, Lord Raen. If you have nothing more to ask of me...?"
"No, no, you must rest, of course. And do try to refrain from harming the princess. I do not need to stress to you how vital she is at this point."
"And the half-blood hindrance?"
"Do as you see fit, Commander," Raen replied, smiling indulgently. "I ask only that she be alive and conscious upon her arrival."
Aderit returned the smile - a truly chilling sight, to most - and bowed before severing the connection.
[Post #2] (Sacred Realm)
Lord Raen endured the proceedings with the same dispassionately tolerant mien that he bore every time he was forced to partake in one of these absurd discussions that served as little more than fodder for the court gossips. If Raen had believed in such a thing as fate, he would have been rather convinced that it hated him. One year. One year and six months since he had departed - not escaped, of course, nor fled - from his own world, after the humans had found themselves in possession of more power than they could ever have possibly known how to use. Since he had detected a slight weakness in the fabric of space and time and exploited it to arrive here, where elves united as one to claim their rightful rule over humans. Since he had begun working tirelessly to gain position and reputation and favorable standing with the High Vassal. One year since all of his hard work and perseverance had been rewarded not with favor or position or power, but with the detestable assignment of living among humans.
Yes, fate frowned upon him in abundance.
Ostensibly, he had arrived as a replacement for King Jyden's military advisor, who had most tragically fallen ill and died. In truth, however, he had been tasked with closing the gap between the Realm's military and the Supremacy's as much as possible. Oh, to be certain, a vast majority of his suggestions were perfectly sound - brilliant, even, one might say. But if reinforcing that wall happened to leave another wide open for attack, well, that would be a few hundred soldiers fewer for the elves to face. And with the state of the elvish military as it was, they would require every miniscule advantage that they could secure. Raen cringed to even contemplate some of the drills he had witnessed shortly after his arrival. A mere mockery of true elvish potential, in his opinion.
Speaking of fools, that had been Raen's secondary assignment - providing additional "motivation" for one Denaris Erydera (who had just been more than ten minutes tardy in responding to a summons again) to expedite his experiments in the realm of magic. Apparently, the High Vassal was less than impressed by the lack of significant breakthroughs reported over the past few years and felt the need to impress upon Denaris the importance of what he was doing. Of course, Raen was of the opinion that if the High Vassal desired efficiency, then anyone but Denaris Erydera should have been selected, but he was not in a position to argue with elvish leader. Not yet, anyway. So for now, he was forced to content himself with observing the experiments from a distance and continue to report on any progress made.
The remainder of the discussion passed relatively painlessly. Both elves listened dutifully, nodding and making comments where necessary. It was ultimately determined that the duke's daughter would be granted one week to produce evidence of an alternative suitor, and in the absence of said evidence, would be wed to Langrish's son on the very next day. This matter settled, they went on to discuss an assortment of equally trivial things, until King Jyden seemed to deem the kingdom safe from the threat of collapsing beneath them at any moment and dismissed the two advisors.
Raen did not speak until they had passed through quite a few corridors and he was entirely certain that they were at no risk of being overheard. "Your asinine smirk appears to be less sincere than is customary," he observed flatly. "I would rejoice, if not for the disconcerting amount of smoke that was coming from your study last night. What did you do?"
Lord Cutler Beckett - Various PotC (Calloniel)
3 posts
[Post #1]
At hearing about a pirate escaping a hanging so easily Lord Beckett's expression darkened. However, it darkened even more when the name of Jack Sparrow was mentioned as the very pirate who had preformed the escape. It had been too long since he'd heard any mention of Jack however this may be just what he needed. Jack stayed in the Caribbean. The Caribbean was where the Dead Man's Chest had been rumored to be. Beckett's eyes slightly glittered at the thought. In the past few years he had been gathering important information on this certain object from the old pirate lore his clerk had picked up and from some prisoners who had been vital information givers. Some of them had been willing, some had to be persuaded. Either way he had learned quite a bit about the Chest and it's owner. Beckett's mind suddenly turned and he could not hide the inquisitive look that spread across his face. "and where did this occur, who was the commander who let him escape, and who helped Jack with the escape?"
[Post #2]
Beckett tensed at the very nerve of this woman. Who did she think she was? She was only a poor, street urchin with little knowledge on what power or real success was like, "wouldn't you?" he raised an eyebrow, "perhaps you underestimate what tasks one person can accomplish alone? The East India Trading Company with all it's bumbling idiots, as you call them, could do something far more impressive than one person stumbling around trying to make things happen on his own. And being the leader of such a company brings respect and responsibility... and," he paused, "honor. But it's something only the well qualified person can achieve." There was an obvious hint of pride as he said this. He picked up his teacup and took a sip while staring at her over the brim.
[Post #3]
Beckett was on his feet in minutes and was walking, he didn't know where, but he was walking. He was going to get out of there and back to England, to his Company, to anywhere but here. Images of his Company being split and ruined without their great leader flashed in and out of his mind. Jack Sparrow's despicable face flashed to his mind as well, next came Davy Jones' image. Oh, hang that fish-faced villain!
After walking in the same, tormented way for about a half an hour Beckett started to wonder if the landscape ever changed. He also wondered where his ship had gotten to if they had gone down together. One thing was for certain in his mind, Lord Cutler Beckett was NOT going to stay in Davy Jones' Locker... or whoever owned it now.
Denaris Erydera - Sacred Realm (Lady Dark Moon)
3 posts
[Post #1]
High Vassal A'theril Ascentis, de facto ruler of the New Realm, did not look happy.
"With all due respect, Your Highness, you don't look happy," the black-robed mage pointed out. He was seated in an overstuffed armchair facing an oaken desk. The human carpenters had fashioned this particular work of furniture to look like an cow - square and brown, with all four feet planted on the polished floor. Oh, the idyllic charm of human aesthetics. It made him want to puke.
"It has been three years, Erydera. My patience is wearing thin."
Denaris Erydera didn't feel like leaning forward, so he tilted the scrying bowl on the wooden cow until the watery face within sloshed into view. "Your Highness, I apologize sincerely. Your disappointment truly strikes me a blow to the heart. However, infiltration is costly. Procuring the King's trust requires time. And winning an advantage over the wheezing old geese in the Supremacy's court..." He sighed. "But I ramble. I cannot imagine how trivialities like the success of this mission could possibly concern you, safe in your little palace as you are."
High Vassal A'theril Ascentis, de facto ruler of the New Realm, suddenly assumed the tone and texture of an overripe eggplant. The lines of his face sharpened in the waters of the scrying bowl. He was bending in close. His voice dropped to a silken purr. "Tonight, Erydera. I want it done tonight. Excuses will cost you much more than your life."
The scrying bowl went blank.
Lip twisting in disgust, Denaris let it fall back with a thud, and it slopped water all over the surface of the wooden cow. He flexed his fingers as though preparing to cast a spell - a nervous habit that he really must break someday. Had he pushed too far this time? The High Vassel of the New Realm was hardly someone he wanted for an adversary.
Well, he might as well get started. The spell would take hours to prepare. It was one of his own innovations, actually. He'd done his research, had borrowed a phrase from one spell or a hand gesture from another, and had patched them all together for an intricate mantra that, when articulated or gesticulated incorrectly - an inflection on the wrong syllable, a motion out of place - could very well bring the castle crashing down around his ears. Which would have been dandy, except for the fact that one toppled castle would hardly bring about the Supremacy's downfall. What would bring about the Supremacy's downfall, however, if everything went as planned...
As he rose smoothly to his feet and set about placing wards upon his study, he tried not to think too hard about success. Overconfidence in spellcasting had, in the past, caused many a pretentious mage to lose a soul or two, occasionally the mage’s own. Besides, the spell was due for another few months of polishing before he could deem it safe enough to perform. He'd take the necessary precautions to protect his own neck, of course. Nevertheless, the failure rate was very, very high.
Tomorrow morning, he would owe the High Vassal a plump, juicy I-told-you-so.
[Post #2]
Denaris had attempted make a quick escape as soon as the doors of the audience hall had slammed shut behind them. That was, of course, before Raen had shot him a glare that could curdle milk. Denaris had sighed and had fallen into step beside his fellow elf. The things he did for friendship.
Four corridors, eight comments on the weather, and sixteen more escape attempts later, the two elves found themselves standing alone in a drafty passage that someone had neglected to drape with tapestries. The corridor was deserted save for a single guard rounding the corner on patrol duty. The fully armored human clanked past them with a mumble of greeting.
"Excuse me," Denaris said. "Did you just grunt at me?"
The guard smacked nose-first into something completely invisible, utterly magical, and painfully solid. He turned around, wide-eyed, with a clatter of sollerets on stone. "I-I apologize... I d-didn't see you, m-my lord."
"How insulting. Don't tell me that you haven't yet informed yourself of Imperial Decree #573?"
The poor human's eyes almost popped out of their sockets. "Imperial Decree... what?"
"Tsk, tsk." Shaking his head, Denaris quoted, "'All subjects of lesser rank shall, from this third day of Harvest Moon forth, address the superior of King Jyden's advisors by the title Your Illustrious Eminence."
The guard's glance darted to Raen.
Needless to say, this annoyed Denaris to no reasonable end. "Obviously, that refers to myself. Or have you not had your fill of walking into invisible walls for today?" He would have added more, but Raen once again plucked him by the sleeve and dragged him away.
Four additional corridors later, Raen's glare was boring a hole through Denaris's temple, and the latter was beginning to suffer a headache. What was it that Raen wanted again? Oh, right. Excellent. A painful pain in the buttocks indeed. Denaris shook his head and eyed yet another drafty passageway. Poor Raen. The elf simply had no appreciation of style. Hammering military doctrine into the thick skulls of ten thousand humans could do that to a person. A pathetically thankless job. Truly, the High Vassal must hold a grudge against him.
Nobody else was in sight, but Denaris hadn't attained his position through carelessness. He mouthed a few syllables of magic, and a globe of silence descended upon them. Anyone eavesdropping would merely overhear a debate between two irritable advisors concerning whether or not Lord Langrish's son was man enough to keep his bride.
Denaris coughed. How to begin? Ah, well you see. I came very close to collapsing three years' worth of efforts around our pointy ears. Blame the dolt who calls himself the High Vassal. No, of course not. He musn't be impolite. "If you really must know, our esteemed ruler popped his head through my washbasin last night. Uninvited, I must add. With all the intelligence at his command, he informed me that if I didn't cast the spell within the hour, he'd turn me into a human." He frowned, trying to recall exactly what the High Vassal had threatened him with. Something about a fate worst than death.
[Post #3]
Denaris quirked an eyebrow. All traces of his smile dissipated as if they'd never been. Raen's tone was disparaging, belittling of an experience far beyond the military advisor's understanding. If Denaris held his arms still, he could still feel his fingers tingling. He could still recall, with vivid ecstasy, the majesty of the spell's first moments. The fire, more scorching than the sun, pounding through his veins. The eldritch words rasping from his tongue. The harsh scrape of syllables so harsh that they'd drawn blood from his throat. The glorious union of mind and spirit, channeled through his hands - the divine power of gods.
And then the falling. The frantic confusion as his tongue slipped, as the pieces of his mind and spirit scattered to the four winds. He'd reached out for it, pathetically, as an infant reaches for its mother when the blankets are snatched by an arbitrary wind from its fragile body. And at last, the disappointment when he'd realized his failure.
He'd overestimated himself, yes. It certainly wasn't the first time, and it might not even be the last. But something about the way Raen had expressed it...
"Do not," said Denaris, his voice a silken whisper, "attempt to lecture me on the intricacies of my craft. I am perfectly aware of the consequences of my actions - consequences, I might add, that hardly jeopardize our lives. Your life and your own methods of preserving it concern me not at all. Nevertheless, you may thank me. The castle has not collapsed upon you, squashing you and a thousand other humans like insects beneath it."
A flourish of his hand, and the smile was back again. He'd produced a crystalline glass, fully filled with crimson elven wine, from the voluminous sleeve of his robes. "As for the extent of the damage... I find it rather amusing, actually. Would you like to see?" He raised the wine glass in mock toast and took a sip - the icy draft was seeping through his robes - before turning on his heel and, with a dramatic sweep of his black robes, leading the way down the corridor.
Mikol Roviny - Split at the Seams (Nurrantiel Mashiara)
2 posts
[Post #1]
"Perhaps they weren't thinking," he offered casually. "After all, a few mugs of ale and a few boasts might easily set off a spark that could be regretted later. Such powers are....dangerous... when unchecked." He looked over the rim of his mug to see a slight twitch on the female's face. Eyes widening, he saw the woman newcomer glancing at their table with interest.
------
Things were starting to get out of hand. Not that pleasant, brawling, knock-em-down and fist-in-your-face out of hand, but a rather eerie gathering. Mikol was beginning to feel uncomfortable under the scrutiny of so many eyes -- some possibly Enlightened eyes. And too many elves. He didn't trust elves. They were too smug and wrapped up in themselves, never giving a care for other races. Too many were Enlightened, as well. The large amount of people conveniently placed by the fire was starting to worry him. He worked best in the shadows, not out in the open. Two or three people he could take care of, but this....too many for comfort.
Setting the legs of his chair back on the floor and bringing his boots down with a thud, Mikol handed some coins to the innkeeper and headed up the rickety stairs. He paused in the shadows at the top to see all the others look around themselves. Wondering who he was, perhaps? Or maybe he was too paranoid. Or too egotistical, he thought with a dry smile, to think any of these people cared about a lone traveler. The smiled faded as he stepped into his little cubbyhole of a room. He had a mission to do, but how was he to go about doing it if everyone stayed so closemouthed? People love to talk, everyone knew that. So why did the one time he wanted them to, they shut their mouths as tight as crayloons? Rumors can't get started that way.
Easing himself onto his bed, which might have collapsed beneath him, he rested his head on his hands. Mikol Roviny, he told himself, you have some work to do. Start thinking.
[Post #2]
Mikol looked at the woman. Her total disdain for anything and everything around her immediately recommended her favorably to him. He noticed her interest with various pointy objects on her person, and decided to massage his dagger handle just in case. Not that he would stab without warning, of course, just that he might stab without any other warning than showing his blade. Her entire manner, though, seemed too similar to his own for him to completely overlook her.
"Do I live here? Underworld be cursed, I certainly hope not." He hoped civilized conversation wasn't too much to ask for. "I'm on my way South to Carithas. Do you know of any goings-on down there?" Mikol stopped as a small bird flew through an open window to land in front of him. Ruffling it's pearly grey plumage, Mikol removed a slip of parchment and sent the bird back outside.
Important. The note was scrawled hastily and with little attempt to mince words. New information. Yasmir's Tavern, Lake Town. Mikol frowned at the thought. Lake Town was out of his way, but....usually Reina was reliable. Out of the corner of his eye, Mikol saw the woman staring curiously at the note. He didn't know why, but he had a feeling that she was on his side. And besides, he was skilled enough in weapons to be able to get away in need.
"If you would be interested in heading the direction of Lake Town, I could appreciate some company. There may be....benefits to the trip." He looked questioningly at the other.
The Shadower Lord - Star Crystal (Lady Dark Moon)
1 post
"My lord, the Chosen has arrived."
Shadower Lord Qal-Sorak didn't deign so much as a glance over his shoulder.
"My lord..."
The acolyte was sweating, he knew. He could smell the warm fluid seeping from the pores on the man's forehead and armpits. It smelled like pork left out too long in the sun. A cornered piglet, squealing and sweating as the wolf stalked past. The imagery amused him. He bent over his desk, closer to the flickering radius of candlelight, and continued to scratch his quill against the vellum.
"Exalted lord, please..."
More sweat. Salted pork, fetid in the cold chamber. The Shadower Lord's nostrils wrinkled. Elven olfactories. What an inconvenient curse. It might have aided his tree-hugging cousins in their traipses after woodland goats, but it certainly didn't help him here. Not when all there was to smell were disintegrating bones and melted candle wax. Speaking of which, his candle was almost gone. He flipped a page in his spellbook and continued writing. Scratch, scratch, scratch. Ugh. Was the piglet melting?
The spellbook slammed shut. "Dry your armpits. Then tell me what you want."
He hadn't turned around yet, but he knew, as soon as the acolyte started blubbering, that the former portion of his instructions had been ignored. "The Chosen, my lord. The Chosen of the - "
"Gods do not exist here. Kindly proceed."
The acolyte swallowed. "The... uh... girl. Yes. The girl has arrived. She brings a mage and a woman. The mage might annoy you... slightly... but she - the woman, that is - doesn't appear to be - "
A skull scraped across the Shadower Lord's desk, and the acolyte jumped. This he heard by the thump of padded soles against stone. But it was only a scrying bowl, a human skull carved out at the top and flooded with water from the ocean outside. Black tentacles of waves curled along its sides, groping to escape the white brim, before settling at the bottom, right below the eye sockets. The nose slits and the hollow at the base of the mandible had been stoppered with clay. The candlelight stretched what remained of its teeth, also filled in, into a contorted grin.
"Chosen, you claim. Is this the Chosen you're referring to?" He waved a hand over the basin, the hem of his black sleeve trailing over its contents. The mists swirled, then consolidated into an image. The acolyte peered in, and the Shadower Lord saw what he saw: A girl, a slip of a girl, with tangled hair and frightened eyes. She stood beside her friends in the Citadel's dark courtyard, and yet she looked so very alone. Poor girl. Poor Chosen. The Shadower Lord did not laugh. Someone of his prestige should never laugh, even at something so irresistably laughable.
"You see. We have nothing to fear." Another wave of his hand, and the image was swallowed by haze. He made as though to return to his spellbook, but reconsidered before opening it. He tapped a slender finger against his chin. "However, to cease your worrying, perhaps we can take precautions. Open the gate."
"My lord?"
Stupid, stupid piglet. "How many gates exist in this tower? The one. Open it."
"Yes, my lord." He scurried away, and the Shadower Lord leaned back, satisfied, in his seat. He pictured, in his mind's eye, the lake.
Its waters would stir. And from its depths, the dead would be awoken.
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