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Post by Shyl on Feb 25, 2009 0:05:04 GMT -5
The mornings here are different than that of my homeland. Not as cold as I remember them being when I was a child. Here it is warmer. The birds sing praise to the newborn day, the ground I sleep on is not hard and cold, but soft and moist with the morning's dew.
I enjoy sleeping in the wilderness. I wish I could enjoy more nights like this past one. Dreams of memories from a childhood long gone. I relish nights like that. They are a stark contrast from the nights of torment I have come to accept as the norm. The pain and suffering…I've yet to figure out who is worse off, the poor unfortunate soul whose pain I feel or myself.
Zanforth of Feralin clears his head as he rises from his slumber. He knows this is a moot point, as he awaits the inevitable vision that will come to him. That is what keeps this once ruthless assassin awake at night.
Berg Darak Za Noth. Honus vi Bate, Fadim vi Duth. Val Redete, sarak mi.
This is the oath of the Feralin Clan and are the words tattooed to Zanforth's face. Inscribed upon him at an early age and meant to guide him on his journey through life. It has been quite some time since he has heard a voice speak the language of his people.
Feralin Clan of the North. Honor in Battle, Freedom in Death. Valley of the Dead, welcome me.
He hears the gentle snoring of his companion and wonders what thoughts the little bard keeps that allow him to sleep so soundly. He shrugs away the thoughts and kicks his tiny friend in the leg, drawing a stir in the Halfling's slumber, but nothing more.
Zanforth turns away to pack his gear and grabs the blade that has saved his hide more times than he can remember, the Scimitar called Night's End. He remembers the dwarf, Olin Hammerstrike, who had forged the sword for him from pure Lithirim and silver. The Lithirim, oddly enough, had been metallurgical concoction of Olin Hammerstrike, stumbling upon its unbreakable strength by accidentally mixing two types of metal. He had been one of the first to appear to Zanforth in his visions. Olin had fallen out of favor with a local baron and had been accused of selling the baron defective weapons. Well, no self-respecting dwarf takes kindly to insults, especially to his products, and so, Olin challenged the baron.
The forge of the dwarf runs cold And soon his life shall pass The Hammer's quest has been told Ride East, ride hard, ride fast
In response to Olin's challenge, the baron simply turned to his men and ordered that the dwarf be arrested. Olin's hammer did its share of damage that day, and in the end, Olin had killed six men, including the baron's brother. Enraged, the baron had ordered Olin to death by hanging only to be saved by Zanforth some days later.
"I wonder what became of that foolish old dwarf?" Zanforth wonders to himself. "We would have made a pretty formidable team." Zanforth makes a mental note to seek out old Olin sometime in the future, if for nothing more, to see what wares the blacksmith has to offer. "He did have some interesting equipment."
As he looks back to the halfling, he feels his temper rising, as he notices that Hadrial has not yet awoken, but remains sound asleep. "Get up halfling, or you shall have an eternal sleep once I am through with you" he scowls.
"Ruthless assassin indeed" he thinks to himself. It seems almost a lifetime ago and it might as well be. "I am not that person anymore." No, he is not, he agrees with himself, more to convince himself of what he is not, than to realize what he was. No longer does he kill for money or fame. What he has become is even harder for him to comprehend. He is still as fierce of a warrior as he was back then, only now he is different. He does not shed blood for money, but rather, for those who cannot defend themselves. "What then does that make me? A champion for the weak? Liberator of the damned?" This is not the first time he has struggled with this concept, and certainly will not be the last.
Hadrial the Wanderer, the clever bard, whose song is sometimes sharper than his sword, stirs from his sleep at the sound of Zanforth's yelling. He welcomes the new day filled with the possibility of new adventures to sing. "Many thanks for your gracious awaking. I can only hope to return the favor someday," he says to Zanforth with a slight tone of sarcasm and a rigid stare. Zanforth , who knows better than to trade wits with the sharped-tounge bard, ignores the comments, and continues to pack the tiny makeshift camp.
***
Such a strange union in a stranger land A tattooed giant and a tiny man He helps the needy and saves the weak Whilst I sing his song and down my drink He seeks a cure for his damnable curse I seek an audience to fill my purse With the mighty Faruq, his trusty steed We travel together, what a sight indeed.
Our travels have led us on a southern trail A new place for us, and maybe new tales. But first some drink and then some food Maybe some women, but I won't be crude.
Zanforth leads the fiery Faruq, by the reins, as the group reach the entrance to the town. The last line of Hadrial's song brings a slight smirk to his face. As Faruq grunts, he is reminded of the first time he saw this magnificent creature, for it was through a vision filled with despair that the name Faruq first came to be heard. The vision had been brief and had shown him only a red horse, tied to a carriage being led by animal traders. The men who held this steed captive knew not what a beautiful treasure they had in tow. For them, the horse had been nothing more than coin in their purses, or perhaps their next meal.
Follow his travels, or where they may take him The Golden footprints cannot be mistaken. And whence you find what you truly seek, It is the carrier of the sickle that should be freed.
His focus shifts back to the town. It is a bit larger than some of the smaller towns they have passed through. There are people all about, which have caught the interest of Hadrial. Hadrial turns to Zanforth, and with the wink of his eye, Zanforth knows that he will meet up with his companion later. "Try to stay out of trouble this time, Bard. Time spent outside of the local jail is time well spent."
"Bah, its my coin that will be well spent!" he shouts back as he weaves into the crowds.
Zanforth continues to walk with Faruq, when he is approached by what appears to be a member of the local militia.
"Well met stranger, don't believe I've seen you before. What brings you to our fair city?" He is a burly man, wearing a gray tunic and carrying a shield with a falcon crest in the center. Zanforth observes the man guide his hand toward the hilt of his sheathed sword; a crude blade, but a blade nonetheless. "Well met sire, simply passing through the city in search of food and drink. It's been a long ten-day trek for my horse and me. Looking forward to some rest." Zanforth had hoped that the man had not seen him and Hadrial walking together.
Seeing the soldier massage the hilt of his sword made Zanforth's mind start working. "I look forward to enjoying the hospitality that the city has to offer, my kind sir" he said to the captain, while loosening the strap around the Scimitar secured underneath his cloak.
"I am the Captain of the guard and second-in-command of the Red Falcon." Zanforth had heard of this Red Falcon brigade before. Some sort of mercenary-force-for-hire that had made its name by protecting a city to the south from a band of marauders. They had grown significantly throughout the region, but were mostly confined to areas surrounding some of the larger towns.
While the captain continued speaking, Zanforth contemplated the various ways in which he could slay the guard and break for the gates with Faruq and escape with his life. He didn't worry about Hadrial. He knew the cunning halfling could take care of himself, if not with his steel, then definitely with his song. He would meet up with his companion elsewhere, which didn't really matter to him right now.
The captain continued, "You are more than welcome within the city gates, so long as you remain peaceful during your visit." Upon completing the sentence, he gave Zanforth an awkward glance as if to say, "and based on your appearance, your stay here will be short lived." This almost made Zanforth smile. He had already decided that if the guard, or any locals for that matter, had recognized him from his dubious past, he would easily sever the man's head from the rest of this world with one flash of the mighty scimitar, Night's End.
"You may find food and shelter in town, as well as room for your steed at the stables across town."
He would then go for the throwing knives concealed in his cloak to take out any other would be heroes that would soon join their decapitated leader.
"Be sure to keep your nose clean, and you shall enjoy your stay." With that, the Captain bid Zanforth farewell and was off to greet another group of visitors that had just walked through the city gates. Zanforth felt relieved that the Captain had not proven to be your run-of the-mill mercenary looking for an ego boost. He was sure that this city would not have been too keen on him removing one of their top defenders from his post, permanently.
***
Hadrial the Wanderer, or the Tune, as he is known in some parts, finds himself at the Red Gryphon Inn, which he instantly concludes is in need of some laugh and cheer. Who better to provide the favor, than the best bard in the region, or at least in his opinion.
He hops onto a stool at the bar and calls the attention of the bartender.
Jus' fill me with ale or drown me in meade And a nice soft bed so I can sleep But the open road is the place for me Riding hard and fast and living free To seek out glory and live like a King Or pick out a tune for all to sing I'll tell you a tale, be it true of false Decide for yourself while I get sauced And if the drink is on the house Then I promise not to sing of your spouse!!
The short tune brings some jeers from the patrons who are enjoying their drink. In practically no time at all, Hadrial has managed to gain the favor of the crowd, but more importantly, the bar owner.
He drinks his ale, gulping down full loads of the cold brew. Slamming his mug into the table before him, he breaks into song.
A tale like this has yet to be heard So listen closely my dear friends For what I say is true to the word Please hold your applause 'til the end!
I sing of bravery and valor and life And all of the wonders they bring. Of battle and death, and sorrow and pain These are the things of which I sing
In a land far off, not much different than this Where Great Dragons rule the skies, Of enchanted rivers that cast mysterious mist And where crystals dazzle the eyes.
A particular crystal of life was borne To one who would be called The Prophet And to him a great warrior was sworn, Though it is argued that he did not want it.
For, you see, The Prophet had quite a gift The ability to see ahead, And believe you me this is no myth, As his companion left many men dead.
And those that died had one thing in mind To covet his precious life stone But their greed must have made them go half blind Because they always came alone!
For many moons he lived his life A Seer of many wondrous things He helped a great king choose his wife Knowing full well she would have a fling
He even made a deal with a dragon For he saw many jewels and gold But in the end, the dragon ate him Or so the story was told
And so the lesson learned is well And remember it in times of need, Even this great legend was felled So don't believe all that you see.
For what he saw before his untimely death Were crystals and jewels abound But he didn't realize until his final rest That inside the dragons belly Were the shining jewel mounds.
As Zanforth approaches the entrance to the Red Gryphon Inn, he can hear the finale lines of Hadrial's song and the loud cheer that follows. He enters to find the Halfling surrounded by men and women alike, drinking and laughing. "Different town, same routine" Zanforth says to himself.
As he sits down at a table, suddenly the room seems to come to a pause and the voices around him begin to fade in and out. He can see the room around him spin, yet he does not feel dizzy. Then in a flash, a man appears to him. He recognizes the man as one of his marks some years ago. The image is replaced by a woman, weeping as she is lead into a dark chamber. He hears nothing but the man's voice:
Not far from you, the maiden awaits Doing the bidding of others Seek her out by placing the bait Beware of shallow waters Now in your hands lies her fate Be steady along your path Find her foes and make no mistake Free her debt with your wrath…
Zanforth awakens some time later, with Hadrial looking curiously at him. "Had another vision, Eh? You've been at it for hours. Who are we off to rescue this time?"
To which Zanforth replies, "Come my friend, we have much work to do".
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Post by Shyl on Feb 28, 2009 11:19:02 GMT -5
As he sat in the loud and boisterous pub, the little Dalimarnian bard thought back to the tiny village he used to call home. The dark wooden stool creaked as he shifted his weight on the unsteady seat, emptying his brown leather purse onto the unsteady weathered table, sending gold coins and small shiny stones scattering across the carved wooden top. Counting the gold he had netted from his most recent performance, he silently smiled, thinking to himself, "One of my better performances, if I do say so myself." The tiny Halfling reached for the metal mug that held his drink, and as he gulped down a mouthful of the lukewarm ale, he was reminded of the place he once called home
The village of Northern Sel'Arom did not have much to offer those with an adventurous heart. Inhabited by farmers and fisherman, the tiny village consisted of small dwellings made of dried clay and treated wood, tin roofs and glassless windows. A small port provided a wharf for the weary fisherman to dock their small, handmade fishing boats, and the farm lands were proportionate in size to the tiny men and women who cultivated the rich land. Hadrial vividly remembered the days when as a young Dalimarnian, he would disappear into the nearby Yerling Woods in search of excitement, while his friends and family worked about the village, farming the seasonal crops and tending to fishing nets and herds. "Yes indeed," he said to himself, fully aware that there was something different about him. Something that separated him from his kin. The thought of home brought a familiar tune to his mind:
Across the land and sailing the seas Adventure and glory are what I seek. I come and go and do as I please And sing a new song every day of the week. Some say I am crazed for leading this life I tell them be quiet and go home to your wife For if I should get there before you do She'll be thinking of me when she says she loves you!
"Ha!" he laughed to himself. The Halfling truly lived for excitement. He was well aware that it would be the end of him someday, but as long as he was still alive, there was no reason to worry about it. He had no cares about tending to the livestock or worrying about the upcoming crop. He cared for only two things, adventure, which more times that not resulted in coin for his purse, and his song, which oddly enough, also resulted in coin for his purse. Though he did miss his home from time to time, the irksome scent of fresh fertilizer and steaming animal manure quickly pushed the thought of returning to Sel'Arom far from his mind. And so, when the mysteriously hooded woman approached him shortly after his performance at the Red Gryphon, he knew that, right or wrong, he had made the right decision to follow his adventurous heart.
***
Though the corridor between the two stone buildings had been cluttered with metal containers, wooden boxes and other trash, it still provided enough open space for the sorceress to move about and retaliate against her wicked attacker. He had emerged from the shadows without warning, stepping out into the open from a cleft on the side of one of the buildings. She could not see his face and knew nothing of her attacker. The black hooded cloak he wore did a masterful job of hiding his appearance. The cloak itself seemed magical to the sorceress, as it shimmered in the night. She had no doubts that the cloak had aided the faceless assassin in springing his trap. What she did know was that he was very fast and had surprised her. For one brief moment, he had held an advantage over her. However, she was determined to turn the tables on this hooded thug. Almost as if by instinct, the sorceress, clad in her exotic-tinted robes and small leather tunic, assessed her bearings and focused on the dark assailant before her.
"Solurus Flamis Astorin" chanted the powerful woman, as the elaborate staff she held tightly in her grasp crackled to life. As the magical incantation gracefully rolled of off her Elven tongue, from her wooden staff shot a burning arrow that seared through the dry air, a reddish-orange streak lighting up the dark night and leaving a black trail of smoke in its wake until it met its target with a muffled thud. With the sizzling arrow protruding from the right side of brown leather vest that covered his torso, the dark hooded figure, armed with a double bladed knife that curved up and down to its point, grasped at the arrow with his free hand, and fell to his knees. As he knelt, the magical projectile turned a translucent color, slowly becoming less visible, until all that remained was the grey smoke emanating from the burning wound that had been left behind. A second later, he crumbled to his side and hit the ground on his back, lying motionless on the gravel floor.
The sorceress approached the fallen figure cautiously, stepping slowly through the debris along the passageway. She held her powerful staff with both hands, pointing it in the direction of her enemy, maintaining a defensive posture as she approached him. She had named the mighty staff Rosin, an honor she had bestowed upon the staff as tribute to her mentor and teacher in the art of magic, Ulagarthio Rosirin. Following his graceful passage into the afterlife, Sidria wept for many days as she mourned the loss of the man she had considered a second father. She had been sure to take possession of his death crystal after the disintegration of his mortal form. As a means to protect the crystal, she called upon the power of the stone and joined it to the wooden staff. In doing so, she not only bestowed a great magical force upon the weapon, but was also able to harness some of its great power and increased her own magical acumen as she too absorbed the energy within the crystal. It wasn't until many years passed that she realized she could communicate with the soul of the deceased wizard Ulagarthio, the mighty staff Rosin providing the cross-dimensional connection between her world and his.
Intensely focused on the body lying motionless on the ground, she did not want to be deceived by this unknown assailant and fall into a trap. His first barrage of knives had caught her off guard, and had narrowly missed their target, taking with them some of her flesh and tearing through her thin robes as they whizzed by. Although not seriously wounded, the wound did sting, which was a steady reminder to the danger she faced.
Using the mighty weapon Rosirin, she prodded at the hooded man's side and took a few steps closer. She wondered who this attacker was, or who may have sent him. She tried unsuccessfully to recall any signs or hints that would have helped in revealing the source of the attack. She did have an idea as to why she had been attacked, as her powerful staff was no mystery in these parts. She knew that there were many in the region that considered her crystal-adorned staff a mighty weapon, as well as a trophy. Ironically enough, she thought, was the fact that she had come to own this beautifully crafted weapon in the same manner. However, up until this moment, she had not gotten hurt during these encounters. Either she was starting to let up on her defenses, or her assailants were getting better.
As she contemplated this thought, she failed to notice that her assailant's left leg had twitched, ever so slightly. With a kick from his heavy boot, he had caught the pondering sorceress off guard, planting the heel of his leather boot in her midsection, sending her reeling back gasping for air. As she fought desperately to breathe, she could not believe her eyes, as her attacker leapt to his feet and within what seemed a few seconds was poised to strike at her again, the double-bladed weapon firmly in his grasp.
With the little strength she had regained, she swung the edge of her staff in a semi-circle angled at her attacker's head. His quick reflexes had allowed him to duck away from the sorceress' weapon, avoiding what could have been a fatal blow. However, in the process, one of the embedded crystals on the enchanted staff managed to catch a part of the attacker's hood, swinging past his head and pulling the hood down, revealing a most frightening scene.
The yellow eyes of the Dargonite stared eerily at the sorceress. The greenish reptilian skin on his face seemed to almost dance in the pale moonlight. His nostrils flared with every breath he took in as he licked his thin wiry lips with a long pink tongue. With a gasp, the sorceress had suddenly become quite frightened of her attacker. She had of course heard of the reptilian race before through stories and tales, but had never seen one with her own eyes. The Dargonite, realizing that his appearance had surprised the sorceress, formed a sinister grin across his face and pressed on with his attack. He twirled the knife around, holding it in a downward manner and slashed from right to left, the blades cutting through the air as the sorceress skillfully dodged the attack. He then twirled the knife again, grabbing it in an upright position and swung the curved blade in a slicing motion, hacking at his victim unsuccessfully, as the experienced sorceress deftly parried her attacker's blows, swinging her staff left, then right to counter his attempts.
The sorceress' talents had begun to frustrate the assassin, who had considered her an easy target. Recklessly, he thrust the exotic blade forward, its sharp edges intent on tearing open the woman's abdomen. The attack was easily blocked to the left, leaving the Dargonite's right side fully exposed. Immediately, the sorceress twirled her body around, away from her attacker and brought the thinner end of her staff directly into his exposed ribcage. The reptilian creature let out a howl as the blow to his side crushed bone, causing him to drop his weapon.
The sorceress noted the dark greenish blood that had appeared on the edge of the Dargonite's mouth and knew that she had inflicted serious damage on her dangerous attacker. The thought of this brought some relief to the exhausted sorceress, as she was beginning to feel the fatiguing effects of using her magic. The Dargonite had appeared stunned by the blow and staggered back a few steps, gnashing his teeth together in pain and snarling at the woman. The sorceress despised the idea of being engaged in this barbaric hand-to-hand combat. However, she knew better than to resort to her magic with the enemy in such close proximity to her. Not wanting to prolong this encounter, she twirled her staff around, bringing the thicker end of the staff above her head, and spun the wooden staff in a circle, gaining the momentum and speed she would need to deliver a blow strong enough to end this conflict.
Without notice, as she was about to strike down on the wounded Dargonite, her attacker threw up his cloak with his left arm. In one fluid motion, his right hand had produced three small razor sharp blades that came humming in the direction of the sorceress. With a skillful spin to her right, she was able to twirl out of the way of two of the small knives he had thrown at her, her flowing robes reaching out and encompassing the projectiles. However, as she came out of her spin, the third knife plunged deep into her leg above her knee, tearing the precious ligaments that supported her slender frame, causing her to fall to the ground on all fours.
As she looked up, she found the Dargonite standing above her menacingly, greenish blood dripping from his chin and his haunting yellow eyes eerily focused upon his prey. A powerful kick sent the weakened sorceress sprawling across the ground. In a raspy, slithery voice, he said, "Know this witch, your staff shall fetch a mighty bounty, and your life crystal will hang gloriously from my neck." Just as he had finished speaking, he brushed aside part of his cloak, revealing a jeweled scabbard made of dark leather.
It had been rumored that the fearsome Dargonites carried weapons forged by their people, made from molten lava and blackened steel. A savage race throughout the Northern Lands of Volanta, they had been systematically wiped out over time, to the point where now, all that was left was a dwindling race that had taken to the mountains for protection. When the Dargonite drew his sword, the sorceress could see the magnificent weapon that her attacker had kept hidden. On the metal hilt of the sword there sparkled a rare, large ruby the color of Blood Red and the size of which she had never seen before. The blade itself was truly remarkable, as it seemed to be of almost a reddish metal that glittered despite the lack of direct light, causing the sorceress to wonder if it was red from blood, or from some unworldly evil. As the sword slid out from its covering, a hissing sound could be heard, as if the sword itself had let out a sigh of relief in being released from its confines.
The Dargonite raised his sword above his head slowly, preparing for what would be the final blow of the battle. As the sorceress glanced up at her would be deliverer, she wondered how she could have been beaten so swiftly and easily, and jarringly caught her reflection in the red-tinted blade of the Dargonite's weapon. Accepting the inevitable end, she closed her eyes and could hear the voice of her old mentor Ulagathrio ringing in her ears.
***
The Red Gryphon Inn was alive and boisterous with music and laughter as its patrons drank their ways to the bottom of their mugs. Debauchery and cheer were two common traits of the renown Inn, drawing visitors from both near and far, and offering a unique melting pot of strange and exotic people from even stranger backgrounds.
As Zanforth came to his senses, he was quick to scan his surroundings. He was still seated at the same sticky wooden table he had been at when the vision had started. A quick hand check revealed his sword to be securely by his side as his hand glided over the smooth hilt of Night's End, and his wooden crossbow was still strapped to his leg. He could hear the indistinct drunken voices of the patrons drinking the night away, which was mingled with the sounds of laughter and cheering. He was glad that Hadrial had been by his side when the visions had past, but was in no mood for any of the Halfling's concoctions. Waking from the visions was never pleasant as it always resulted in his feeling the misery of the person he was supposed to seek out. The eagerness in Hadrial's voice concerned Zanforth for many reasons, but mostly because when Hadrial became this excited, it usually involved some idiotic scheme which always cost them more than they would get out of it.
In his hand Hadrial held his Meshgorn, the elaborate musical horn he had purchased many years ago. The musical horn was that of an Ersker, a fierce animal in these parts. The large predatory animal resembled a feline grown to preposterous dimensions. The creature was known for its beautiful fur coat, and was feared for its ferocity. The Ersker had fangs that slid out from the sides of its mouth, and were as long as they were sharp, not to mention the short ivory horn that protruded from the center of its massive head. There were not too many who had been granted the opportunity to come across an Ersker and live to tell about it. The horn was quite a piece of workmanship, adorned with jewels and the like. Hadrial had once tried to affix a life crystal to the horn, but was unsuccessful. He had long sought for assistance from those that favor the art of magic to help him in his efforts. According to the Halfling, the horn was capable of magical abilities and was rumored to be capable of calling upon the beast from which the horn had been removed. This however had yet to be seen.
Zanforth focused his attention back to Hadrial, but more importantly, to the company he had in tow. Zanforth could now see a robed figure following Hadrial, and instinctively placed his right hand over the polished silver hilt of Night's End. As he watched the cloaked individual approach, zanforth couldn't help but notice the rhythmic sway of the person as it walked towards his table.
"Zan" Hadrial said, "I was sitting by the bar singing to the crowd when this beautiful woman came over to me…"
"Woman?" Zanforth thought.
"…told me that she knew who we were and that we would be coming to this particular inn. You hear that! She's heard of us!" Hadrial beamed with excitement with the thought that someone had heard of them. He knew, without a doubt, that it been his song that had preceded them to this town. Zanforth however, did not share his enthusiasm.
"Halfling" Zanforth calmly, yet sternly started, "Do not dishonor my name by referring to me by some silly moniker. My name is Zanforth. You would do well to remember it, or shall I give you reason not to refer to me otherwise!" Zanforth knew well that Hadrial was aware of the pride of the Feralin Clan. To refer to one of their people by anything other than their name was as much of an insult as cursing the day they were born. He glanced behind the Halfling, but could not get a clear look at the face of his new friend.
All he could make out were the purple-tinted robes that figure wore. For all intents and purposes, Zanforth now knew that this robbed figure was a woman, but his instincts told him not to dismiss the fact that she could be an enemy. He had known many ruthless women in his time, many of which would be quick to slice the Halfling's throat for no reason other than to see the expression of surprise on his face. "As for your new friend, I have warned you about the dangers of leading strangers to me. My past is of no secret amongst many circles. You know as well as I that our travels have left many with revenge in their seething hearts and the bitter taste of vengeance on their tongues." He could see in Hadrial's clear blue eyes that his words had fallen on deaf ears, as the little man continued to beam with excitement.
Before Zanforth could continue, the woman stepped towards him and removed the hood that covered her delicate face. Both men stared in amazement at the beauty that had been hidden by the woman's hood. She had the sharp features of an Elven woman; the pronounced cheeks, the pointed ears. Her skin had a tanned tone, which was odd for an Elf, and looked to be as smooth as silk. Her almond-shaped eyes were a captivating violet hue, and along with her blue-black hair, made her appear quite exotic. Her facial features were accentuated by the small piercing on the nose. In her hands she held a yellow-green crystal, which she twirled around her fingers.
"My name is Sidrial Ailemae of Quaroan. I am a sorceress from these parts. Do not be threatened by my presence, as I mean you no harm." As she spoke, she tossed the crystal to Hadrial. "Your reward for keeping your end of our agreement. Take special care of that particular crystal little one. That is the life crystal of a Dargonite."
Hadrial's eyes opened wide as he stared at the precious crystal. A rare crystal indeed, the thought of what magical abilities the crystal could unleash made Hadrial's mind wander. He had never before seen one quite like this. Sidrial hid a smile as she glanced at the Halfling. She knew well that there would be no interruptions or distractions from the little Bard.
"What is it that you seek, Sidrial Ailemae of Quaroan?" Zanforth interrupted. "We have no business with you, nor have we inquired for your assistance." Zanforth, intrigued by the woman's beauty, was still alert of his surroundings. He would not allow himself to be blind-sided by this mysterious visitor.
"You and I share something," she said softly to Zanforth with a long, penetrating stare, "Desire. I have a desire to gain something of particular importance, and you have a desire to be released from the grasp of something you do not fully understand. Something that has led both you and I to this place tonight." Her melodic voice was so soft in tone, it had almost been soothing to Zanforth's ears. He had felt a bit entranced by the woman's voice and the gaze of her violet eyes. A quick glance at Hadrial told him that his Halfling companion was useless in this encounter. "That is the first time I have ever seen him at a loss for words" Zanforth said to Sidrial, "You must truly be a powerful sorceress." He silently said to himself, What did this sorceress know about me? More importantly, how did she know? Was she cursed as I am? Curious to know more about this woman and why she had approached them, Zanforth resigned to the Sidrial's will. "Well met sorceress. Sit if you will and tell your tale. But know this, I am here with purpose and will not be deviated from my task. If there is treachery in your heart, leave now, lest it lead you to the tip of my blade." He was hesitant to test the woman's tolerance, but for the safety of himself and his companion, he had to make sure that this woman did not have ulterior motives.
Sidrial gracefully took a seat at the table, sitting directly opposite of Zanforth and looked deep into his eyes. "Your purpose for being here has yet to reveal itself to you fully. Only patience will guide you to the true purpose of your presence here." As she sat, she revealed an elaborate staff that she had kept hidden underneath her flowing robes, planting the staff firmly at her side, and showing Zanforth that the she was by no means intimidated by him, which subconsciously made him smile.
Zanforth found the Sidrial to be a beautiful woman. The slender robes she wore allowed enough of her figure to be seen so as to captivate those who saw her. Zanforth could see the woman's bare midsection through a part of the robe she had brushed aside when she sat. He took notice of the green emerald pendant that hung from her neck by a thin gold chain. The precious stone seemed to almost dance with her every move, as it playfully swayed across her tanned skin above her curvy chest. He found himself wondering what the woman's true intentions were, and at the same time, didn't care.
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Post by Shyl on Mar 8, 2009 17:02:52 GMT -5
With a sudden jerk, Zanforth sprung from the makeshift bed he had been laying on. A sound beyond the door brought the weary warrior to his senses, his hand on the polished hilt of Night's End. His eyes darted around the small room. The wooden door was closed and locked, the once large wax candle burned steadily, emitting a soft orange glow and unbothered by the breeze that swept in from under the door. As he scanned the room, his ears picked up the faint snoring from his tiny companion. With his free hand he wiped the sweat from his brow. He remembered when he used to sleep with the peace and comfort that his Halfling friend enjoyed. Releasing his grasp off the mighty sword, he laid back down on the small cot. His eyelids felt heavy, but they would not close. In his mind's eye burned the image of the unfortunate soul whose life he was to save in order to stop these dreams. He could see her crystal blue eyes. He could feel her despair. He even tasted her tears. He fought to put these thoughts and images far from his mind, knowing very well that his efforts were in vain. With a sigh, he turned on his side and laid there, sleepy eyes starring at the flickering candle flame. There would be no rest for him tonight. There never was ***
As the afternoon sun settled above the small city of Windspear, Zanforth and Hadrial made their way through the busy streets of merchants and shops that littered the marketplace. Hadrial's interest in the various local wares that the shop owners and street vendors peddled to the two as they walked provided a constant distraction from the purpose of their stroll. Zanforth, however, showed no interest in the goods that were on display. As Zanforth continued through the crowd, his keen ears listened intensely for any information that would lead them to the woman in his vision. As the companions walked past a cart manned by a short, round blacksmith, the ever-curious Hadrial stopped to admire an exotic weapon that lay across the front of the poorly made wooden cart.
The weapon itself had three curved ivory blades that joined in the center, resembling a three-pointed star bound by leather, the blades being coated by a crystalline powder. Picking up the weapon, Hadrial turned to regard the stout blacksmith and said, "This is quite a peculiar weapon my good sir…uh, what exactly is it?"
"Humphrf," grunted the port man, who himself appeared a bit exotic and could possibly have been a foreigner in Windspear as well. Short and round, the man stroked his handlebar mustache, his hands dark from dirt and grime. Wearing a black tunic with a leather tool belt, the blacksmith's attire was covered with soot and had a few charred ends. "That there is a powerful throwing weapon, my half sized friend, and a rare one at that. Those talons were taken from a green Dragon and are diamond-crusted."
Taking the weapon in hand, the man placed one talon in between his middle and ring finger and continued, "You can sling it through the air and wait for it to come back ya."
Hadrial glanced at the man's other hand and noted that the man only had three fingers remaining, which caused his right eyebrow to rise inquisitively. "It, uh, takes a bit of practice, if ya know what I mean," the man stated, followed by a hearty howl of a laugh, tossing the weapon back onto the cart.
Picking up the weapon from where the blacksmith had placed it on the cart, Hadrial became filled with excitement at the thought of the slaying of a great green Dragon. " Zanforth, take a look at this, it might come in handy down the road." Irritated by this Hadrial's continues interruptions and distractions, Zanforth held out an open palm for the weapon while still scanning through the crowds, his eyes darting through the myriad of faces while his ears listened intently for any information that would help them on their task of rescuing the woman from his visions.
As the exotic throwing-weapon was placed in his hand, the sounds that entered Zanforth's ears became muffled and distorted, their pitch rising at first, and then dropping. Glancing around, the marketplace seemed to be stuck in place, as Zanforth's surrounding slowly began to blur. Looking down at Hadrial, he watched as his companion's face began to move, slowly swirling, forcing Zanforth to shut his eyes in an attempt to minimize the dizziness. Eyes shut and head spinning out of control, Zanforth reached out for Hadrial, staggering forward, hoping to grab hold of his companion for whatever support he could provide. Before crashing into the sandy ground, Zanforth could hear Hadrial mumbling incoherently, his ears faintly picking up Hadrial's echoing voice, "Don't worry Zan, I got youuuuuu…"
Suddenly, the sound of his voice was replaced by a scream in Zanforth's ears and was followed by the image of a heavily wooded grove lit by torches. All around the image were hooded figures chanting in a foreign language he could not understand. The air was humid and misty, as tiny raindrops stung his bare skin as if it were acid. Then the image flashed from the hooded figures to a woman. The woman. Just as she always appeared in his visions, she wore a silk white gown that ran down to her knees, her hands and ankles bound by chains. As the woman was lead to the center of the grove, one of the hooded men raised his left arm and revealed a weapon similar to the one Hadrial had taken from the blacksmith. Holding the weapon in hand, the dark figure began to chant louder than the others, his words echoing loudly in Zanforth's ears. Zanforth felt his teeth clench at the pain in his ears. Clutching his ears, he continued to watch the ceremony taking place before him.
Through the burning sensation in his eyes, Zanforth watched the dark figure extend his free hand and drag the weapon across his own palm, drawing a line of blood. Confused and disorientated, Zanforth could not believe what he saw next. The woman whom he was supposed to save from these fiends extended her hand as well, to which the dark figure slowly proceeded to slice in similar fashion. Suddenly, Zanforth realized what he had been watching. This is no vision, he thought to himself, Its a Sangrae Retanga ceremony, a clandestine ritual reserved for sacrifices.
The thought stayed with him for a few seconds. This was not a ritual for any normal sacrifice. The Sangrae Retanga, or Purifying of the Blood, as Zanforth knew it to be in his native tongue, was reserved for god-like sacrifices, usually involving demi-god followers and fanatics seeking powers beyond this world. Never having witnessed the ceremony before, Zanforth had heard myths pertaining to the sacrifice, in which the blood of the person being offered would be drawn and presented to call upon the presence of the deity. Once blessed by the appearance of the god, the officiator of the ceremony would offer the body of the sacrifice to be consumed, and in return would receive supernatural powers, both physical and mental.
What had struck Zanforth as odd was the calmness of the woman in his vision. It had been rumored that the person being offered as the sacrifice would experience excruciating pain as his or her body was consumed by fire. It was often suggested that this was how the ceremony received its name, as the spirit of the god would purify the blood of the offering by burning it and cleansing it of any impurities.
Feeling a burn across his hand, Zanforth glanced at his palm to see a line of blue blood drip slowly down his wrist. Glancing back to where the man and woman had been standing, he realized that all of the hooded figures before him were now starring in his direction. The one with the weapon slowly approached Zanforth, who felt paralyzed by the blood red eyes that peered from the figure's dark hood. Holding the weapon high, the man flung the weapon at Zanforth. Zanforth could see the blades of the weapon spinning towards him in slow motion, but could do nothing to move from its path. Inhaling deeply, his mind captured the scent of Juniper Orchids, as his eyes followed the spinning blades coming towards him and piercing his chest. Oddly, he felt the puncture wound in his torso, but felt no pain. Slowly, his vision became darker and darker, until all disappeared under the shadow of night.
***
As Zanforth came to, the sound of music penetrated his ears. Indistinct conversations carried through the air mingling with the sound of cheer and song. Through the shroud of fog that had settled in his head, Zanforth felt a relaxation he had not experienced in quite some time. What sort of dream is this, he wondered to himself.
"Will he awake soon?" said an unfamiliar and impatient voice, "I must be on my way to prepare and have no time for delay."
Startled, Zanforth realized he was in no dream, but awaking from the most recent empathic episode. Cursed be that damned witch, he swore to himself.
"Soon enough," replied Hadrial to the guest at their table, "It usually takes him a while to recoup from the visions." Zanforth realized that they were no longer at the marketplace and had no idea how long he had been under the vision's control, be it hours or days. As he lifted his head, he felt the nauseating effects of the dizziness he had experienced earlier. Through blurred vision, he attempted to focus on the figure before him. "Ah, at long last, the beast awakens," said the person in front of him, his voice deep and raspy. As his eyes regained focus, he was met with the unsightly features of a short, balding gnome. His large round nose throbbing with every breath he took and his bushy eyebrows falling over his bulging eyes, making it difficult to discern who he was looking at. "Do you stare at all of your guests in such a manner, or would you prefer I shapeshift into something more appealing," said the agitated gnome.
Unarmed, as far as Zanforth could see, and somewhat unkempt, the little creature was dressed in a purple-tinted tunic. Zanforth noted the gold-laced crest that hung from the gnome's neck, the symbol bestowed upon high-level advisors. "What business do you have with us, little one?" Zanforth questioned. Though still groggy, he fought desperately to appear in full control.
Hadrial turned to Zanforth and began speaking, "His name is…" but was unexpectedly cut off by the little gnome. "My name is Rasal Dergaines, loyal aide to the Great Sorceress of Quaronae, Sidrial Ailemae!" As he finished replying to Zanforth, Rasa turned to Hadrial and held a vicious stare at the Halfling, arching his left eyebrow.
"Well, that was certainly rude of you," said Hadrial, who had taken offense to the manner in which Rasa had interrupted him. The short time that Rasa and Hadrial had spent together waiting for Zanforth to recover had taken its toll on the normally cheerful Halfling. As an advisor to the sorceress, Rasa found the environment around him to be beneath someone of his stature, which he had no problem conveying to the usually affable Hadrial The offended bard continued, "Your demeanor is as ugly as the wart infested nose on your face…" As Rasa and Hadrial bickered to one another, the name that the little messenger had mentioned brought new life to the former assassin. Three nights had passed since their initial encounter at the same Inn, the Red Gryphon. Thoughts of intrigue on the mysterious woman that had befriended them brought many questions to his troubled mind. The sounds of Hadrial arguing with Rasa broke his focus on the alluring sorceress and he shifted to regard Rasa. "What news do you bring from the sorceress, friend?" said Zanforth.
Rasa cleared his throat and threw a disparaging look at Hadrial, then turned to Zanforth, "My lady requests the presence of you and your companion for tribute to you for your services and to wish you well in your travels. I should inform you that your presence is mandatory and I shall return at nightfall to accompany you to her home."
Insulted once again by the tone of Rasal's voice, Hadrial began to reply, "Why you worm-eating, little…", but before he could continue, he was cut short again, this time by Zanforth."We shall await your return dear gnome. I have many questions for your mistress and look forward to our next meeting." With a short curtsy, Rasa bowed, flipped the hood of his cloak over his lumpy, balding head, and quickly turned exited the lively Red Gryphon Inn.
Turning to regard Hadrial, Zanforth could see the irate expression clearly across his face. Better to not provoke him Zanforth thought. "How long was I out?"
"Never mind that zan, I came across some news after you blacked out at the market" the Halfling stated less enthusiastic than normal. "I figured that the weapon triggered a vision, so I asked the blacksmith, who by the way, had some amazing trinkets in his cart. I managed to bargain for a piece of…"
"Hadrial!" Zanforth sternly called, having to raise his voice over the sounds that carried through the Inn. "I don't care for trinkets. What news did you hear?"
"Well, like I was saying, after you hit the ground, I asked the blacksmith where the weapon had come from. He said he bought it from some travelers that had passed through town two nights ago. You wouldn't believe what he said!"
"Let me guess," said Zanforth, with a concerned look upon his face, "Shallow Waters."
Hadrial leaned back in his chair, "So what now?"
"I had another vision when I touched that weapon. I saw the girl again, I also saw a man, or something holding that same weapon."
Sliding his small hand into his cloak, Hadrial produced the weapon that they had been referring to and placed it on the table. "Well, I thought it might come in handy, so I bought it just in case. When do we leave?"
"Once we see and hear what the sorceress has in store for us I presume," to which Hadrial smiled and replied, "I can't wait." The little bard failed to recognize, or accept the fact that Zanforth did not share in his excitement. "It would be wise to exercise caution with that woman little one. Her intentions are unknown." Hadrial, an expression of cynicism across his face, replied, "I hardly think we have to worry about her, we have no reason not to trust her."
"We know absolutely nothing of her, where as she knows entirely too much of us," Zanforth replied, to which Hadrial rolled his eyes and stood from his wooden seat, turning towards the bar, his metal pint in hand.
Weary, Zanforth picked up the three-clawed weapon that Hadrial had left on the wooden table and placed it within his tunic. Glancing around at his surroundings, he took in the scene within the crowded inn. The Red Gryphon served as quite a relief for its patrons, offering them a place to drink, smoke, sing and dance. It allowed all who entered the chance forget their worries and revel in the pleasures that the establishment had to offer. All except for one, Zanforth knew. He would experience no song or dance. He would simply wait. He would seek answers come nightfall.
***
Through the magical portal that had been opened, flashes of light coursed through the hazy vision displayed before him. Rasal could see the sorceress, Sidrial Ailemae, sitting lavishly on plush red cushions. The light from the surrounding candles playfully flickered across her tanned skin, casting shadows upon some of her fine features, and accentuating others. With a bowed head, Rasa spoke, "My dear lady, they have accepted your invitation and will accompany me back to the cave after nightfall." Upon hearing his voice, Sidrial looked up and regarded the mirror, which sat in front of her, her gateway to her trusty servant. "Be sure to say nothing to them that would jeopardize our plans Rasal. To do so would be most unfortunate," she said with a smile, to which Rasal nodded his head unsteadily. "Wait until nightfall to return with them, and ensure that you are not followed." Rasal closed his eyes and bowed respectfully, knowing fair and well the responsibilities that had been bestowed upon him. Small by any measurable means, his abilities far exceeded his stature, even for a bumbling gnome. "Our moment is quickly approaching Rasal. Be vigilant and we shall see a return to better times." With a wave of her hand, the mirror before her reverted back to its reflective surface, casting the image of the sorceress back to herself.
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