Dark Rain 2.0  |
| The Gate of Anguish | |
|---|---|
| Topic Started: 11 Oct 2009, 13:52 (86 Views) | |
| Hydro14 | 11 Oct 2009, 13:52 Post #1 |
Fanatical Roleplayer
|
It was on the fifth day of the New Year that they came. From a distance their silhouettes were indistinct in the fading light but Nathaniel Darke could feel the magic even at this distance. It felt like a fistful of needles were being driven into the back of his neck. As they drew closer the dark shape separated into four and through the dull pain he heard the thunder of horses’ hooves on the cobblestones. He had always been able to sense magic for as long as he could remember, but it had never been like this before. In the past it had always just been a faint twinge or itch at the back of his head. Though he still couldn’t see much of the approaching figures Nathaniel could be sure of one thing: it was powerful magic that approached. At first it seemed as if four loose horses were racing down the road towards him, but he swiftly dismissed the notion: horses that were loose didn’t stick to the pathway so firmly. Nor would they come to a stop in front of his house in so orderly a manner. Leaving the hammer and nails he had been using to fix the shutter on one of his windows on the sill, Nathaniel crossed his meagre garden - if indeed the inauspicious collection of overgrown vegetation could be called that – in three strides. Were the circumstances different, Nathaniel might have been curious about the bizarre circumstances which had brought these four horses which seemed to be almost bleeding magic to his door. As it was the feeling on the back of his neck, like a swarm of angry hornets, made him want them gone, irrespective of their reasons for being there. “How far to the town?” Nathaniel froze, his hand hovering over the gate at the foot of the garden that he had been about to sweep to one side on his way to send the horses onwards. He didn’t know who had spoken the words, there was no-one in sight. The voice was firm, sharp; the kind of voice that suggested the speaker was used to getting an answer without delay. As his eyes sought out the source of the ethereal inquisition, Nathaniel noticed the air over one of the horses appear to shimmer, like light reflecting off a crystal clear lake, as his approach brought it into line with the sun. Shielding his eyes and glancing away, his gaze fell upon the shadows of the four horses. Each one, according to the shadows, had a rider, and yet Nathaniel's eyes told a different story when he looked up at the beasts once more. Hesitant, he took a step back. Laughter broke the silence, not caustic or mocking but a warm, reassuring sound that immediately made Nathaniel's apprehension melt away. "Don't be afraid," a woman's voice chided gently, "We're not here to hurt you." "If we were, you wouldn't have known we were here." another voice chipped in. The threat was too credible for the words to be humorous as the speaker had clearly intended. One of the horses shuffled sideways as if the rider had reacted to a wordless signal from one of the others. So they could see eachother even if he couldn't; that would be worth remembering. Unbidden, a memory popped into Nathaniel's mind of something he had overheard on the other side of Merghang 'Khar mountain range, about beings called Shadredin. He hadn't been able to distinguish much of what was said, there had been several burly shoulders between himself and the people speaking, but from the hushed voices he had been able to determine that the pair whose conversation he was listening in on were fearful of these Shadredin. From what he could tell they possessed some kind of magic, but the pair of mercenaries had been silent about what kind, as if both of them were already aware that the other knew of it and no words needed to be said. Nathaniel had been left unsure if these Shadredin were man or beast, but with the four apparently rider less horses before him he had a good idea. "You are Shadredin?" he asked, wondering as he did so why he gave words to the question that was nagging at the back of his mind as it was sure to delay the invisible people from passing on and taking with them whatever magic was hooking its claws under the base of Nathaniel's skull. One of the horses edged closer. "You've heard of us?" All the warmth had gone from the woman's tone to be replaced by a sinister edge. Nathaniel couldn't understand why, it had seemed an innocent enough question, but he recognised that he was walking on very thin ice. "Just a few words here and there." he answered evasively, picking at a loose thread on his tunic. "I travel around a fair bit so I hear a lot of things that don't make a lot of sense to me. I'm a trader." That at least was the truth. His answer appeared to have placated the four Shadredin, for the horse edged away again, back into line with the others. "How far is it to the to the town?" It was the first voice again, now in a more assertive tone, "Don't make me ask again." "About an hour's ride." Nathaniel answered, pointing down the rough cobblestone road in the direction the horses had been going. Without a word, the horses sprung forward and raced off up the road at a gallop. Nathaniel noticed as they went that the beasts were reacting as if to reins and a bit, even though he hadn't seen any when he looked at them. He briefly wondered why it was that the horses were not invisible too, then dismissed the mystery. The finer workings of magic were an enigma to him and he was quite content to allow them to remain that way. In his experience magic was nothing but trouble, and he wanted nothing to do with it. In silence the four riders continued down the road. Not a word had been spoken since they had passed the small cottage on the road to Evenholm but Andreas knew what was on the mind of his three companions for it was also on his mind too: how had the merchant known about them? At last able to bear the silence no longer, he gave voice to his thoughts. "One of our number hasn't cleaned up after themselves." Andreas spoke with faintly amused tone, as he so often did, but the severity of the situation was not lost on him. When events happened around people that they couldn't understand they tended to ignore them or forget about them; give those events a name that could be attached to them - a name like 'Shadredin' for instance - and rumours started spreading. They could afford no rumours of what they were about. Sarah turned to look back at him, a ghost of a smile on her face. For the tenth time that day Andreas caught himself wondering what colour her hair was; as with all Shadredin when he looked at her all he saw was a blue outline from which it was hard enough to read facial expressions, let alone hair or eye colour. "Why do you think that?" she asked, "It might have been one of the wizards." "A wizard without a tongue was telling people about us?" Andreas pressed incredulously, he hated having to disparage Sarah's suggestion but it was important that they got to the bottom of this. He gave a lopsided grin as he spoke, hoping that it would take some of the challenge out of his words. "Wizards don't need a tongue to tell people about us." The grim voice from the rider beside Sarah was that of Damien, the leader of their group. Andreas' grin faded and he fell silent; he knew better than to argue with Damien. "Andreas is right though," Damien continued, "it couldn't have been one of the wizards. After they finished their work it was erased from their memories." Andreas' eyes widened, he hadn't known about that. He hadn't, for that matter, known that such power even existed. A question was forming in his mind, but Sarah got there first, "Why did they have their tongues cut out then?" Damien glanced across at her, from where he was riding Andreas couldn't read his expression. "To make a point." he answered cryptically. No more questions were asked. The town of Evenholm was smaller than Andreas had expected. Small houses with sloping thatched roofs had been built against the outside of the stockade, rendering it useless as a fortification; it was clear that the town had grown beyond its original size, but it was still barely a significant settlement. Andreas thought that if they counted in twos, the four Shadredin could have counted the inhabitants on their fingers. The wooden gates stood open, allowing the occasional wagon or group of people on foot free passage. Without pause, Damien rode straight through the gateway, the others following closely behind him. His gaze drawn by the sound of scurrying feet, Andreas spotted a man rushing up to them, clearly thinking that four loose horses had just wandered into the town and trying to make a few copper pennies out of the opportunity. Damien saw him too, his foot snapped out and connected with the wrist of the man reaching towards his horse's nose. "I'll thank you not to touch my horse." he said coldly. Andreas and Sarah shared a look of amusement as the man backed off, looking as if he'd just seen a ghost. The crowd they had drawn by the time the four Shadredin reached the well in the centre of the town that stood before the manor was larger than Andreas had anticipated. He realised that Evenholm had to be the centre of commerce for a large number of surrounding hamlets and while it was getting late in the day, many of the visitors come to sell their wares had not yet gone home. The four of them had dismounted as the streets got narrower and were leading their horses. The crowd was making space for them out of a mix of curiosity and fear. More for the entertainment of bewildering one of the traders than anything else, Andreas dropped a few copper coins onto the stand belonging to a man selling dried strips of meat and took one of the products. He grinned as the vendor tried to work out how it was possible that the air had just thanked him and murmured a mystified 'don't mention it' in return. "Stay with the horses." Damien instructed in a clear voice as the stood before the manor. It wasn't a very large building but it was larger than any of the surrounding houses and that alone made it stand out. Made in much the same way as the other dwellings, the manor had walls of pale plaster with stone for the foundations and windows shuttered with wooden panels beneath a thatched roof. "It only takes one to deliver a message." Andreas wasn't even looking at Damien as he spoke, he knew that the instructions were not for his benefit. He glanced instead at Drakkar, the fourth member of their team. The big man was checking that his weapons were clear in their sheaths and could be reached at a moment's notice. Without a word, he followed Damien up the steps to the manor. Only one pair of footsteps could be heard from the well cut stone. |
| My loyalty is a double edged blade: I will stand by you while what you do is right and just, but I will never support you when doing so would force me to betray what I believe. | |
 |
 
|
| Arius Daemonis | 11 Oct 2009, 18:25 Post #2 |
Beneficent Overlord
|
The sweet scent of roasting meat wafted up into the chill air of the evening. Balian breathed deeply of it as he rotated the skewered suckling pig above the fire. He was stripped to the waist and the shadows cast across his torso by the crackling flames emphasized his well-muscled physique. He watched the wispy tendrils of pale smoke wind lazily into the air, coiling about the branches of wide-brimmed trees planted about the edges of the manor courtyard. Beyond those a warm light spilled through stone columns from the chambers within, casting shafts of golden light along the vibrant green grass and artfully lain stone paths. Five days had passed since Balian's return and still he could not shake the feeling of nostalgia at being home after so many long years. Everything was how he remembered it since his days as a lad; the hospitality that radiated from the well furnished rooms, the cosiness of grand fire places and the subtle beauty worked into the stone architecture of his father's manor. It had been too long since Balian had enjoyed the comforts of a true home. For the past ten years he had been in training as a squire for the Order of the Crown, an honour afforded him through his father's title. However, that luxury assured him acceptance to be tested worthy of becoming a Squire alone, and no more. He had still had to endure the hardships of the preliminary trials and then ten years of gruelling routine and questing under an austere master. It had been by no whim of his heritage that had seen him pass each of the challenges set before him, until finally, he had been accepted as a Brother into the most prestigious Knightly Order of the land. His Knighting ceremony had been one of the most joyous days of his life. His father had even left the town of Evenholm to attend the ceremony. Balian had been touched at the pride in his father's eyes when he had arisen a Knight. Following much celebration, Balian had been allowed respite during the festivities of the New Year before his duties would officially begin. Together with his father he had returned home to Evenholm to see his family again after a decade. There had been much rejoicing and Balian felt it was well deserved after an exhausting training period of ten whole years. Now that things had calmed down, his mind had begun to stray back to matters of a more serious note. Soon he would ride to the Capitol as a Knight and join his Brothers in arms. There he would be tasked with his duties in protecting the King and his subjects. That was the charge of the Order of the Crown, to protect the King at all costs and the people over which he presided. They had a glorious history of three-hundred and seventy-eight years of service and Balian could think of no greater honour than to have been selected to join their ranks. He did not know if he would have been able to face rejection and admittance instead into the legion of serfs which waited hand and foot upon the knights. Balian felt the shame of it would have driven even him into suicide or, failing that in cowardice, insanity. As of late though the King had drifted from his loyal Order of Knights, taking up a new body in favour of his personal protection; the Shadredin. As a Knight fresh to the Order Balian knew little of this mysterious group, save their potent magical abilities. Since then, the duties of the Order of the Crown had shifted more and more towards protecting the people and even though that was an honourable enough disposition, there was much unspoken hurt amongst the Knights at the Kings decision. Although he was new to the Order, Balian shared the chagrin of his brothers at having been so casually replaced. There was much suspicion within the Order of the Crown that the King saw the magics of the Shadredin as better protection than the cold steel and iron will of his Knights. Ever since then Balian had grown distasteful of everything magical, despite the wondrous views of it he had harboured as a boy. His thoughts were derailed as a firm knocking echoed out into the courtyard. Balian looked up from his cooking. He knew there would be servants to attend to whoever was at the door, but he never could resist. 'Terrian, would you be so kind to mind the roast?' Balian said, addressing a servant who knelt in the shade of a tall tree. 'Of course my lord,' replied the servant curtly and Balian made his way from the courtyard, snatching up his tunic as he went. He entered the lobby from the back, in between two flanking staircases which led to the upper floors of his father's manor and strode across the lacquered wooden floors to the great oak door. As he pulled it opened Balian laughed inwardly as he caught sight of a servant hurrying down the steps, mortified that his master should have to answer the door. Balian froze as he peered out into the square. A considerable crowd of people had gathered there but their attention seemed to be on four horses and not the manor. Yet, despite the oddness of the scene that was not what disturbed the young Knight. The cause of that lay in that there was no one at the door. |
  | |
|
|
|
| Wildcard | 12 Oct 2009, 13:48 Post #3 |
The veil is thin.... I'm coming through!
|
"That'll do, Dusty. Come on in and have some supper," Called Esmerelda Taverly, the wife of the innkeeper Dusty worked for. The young lad, though at 17 considered a man, nodded but kept on distributing sawdust around the floor of the stable he was in. 'Esme' sighed dramatically, though with a smile and went back into the inn. Dusty took his job seriously and having lived on the streets of Evenholm for a year, he had learned to ignore hunger. Only once he was satisfied that he'd done a good enough job did he dust off his hands and return to the building proper, though one of the horses saw fit to test out the sawdust with a long piddle before he'd got inside. "You spill it, you clean it up," He muttered to the horse before going in and closing the door. While he worked and lived at the inn, he was not related to the owning family. He had never known who about town was his father, or if his father was simply someone passing through. His mother had a reputation for being 'something of a floozy', a polite way of saying a prostitute. She'd often worked passing caravans at the 'Rearing Mare' inn, the very place Dusty worked and lived now. She had died of an unknown illness when Dusty was nine and with no house nor wealth to her name. None of the acquaintances she had around town would take Dusty in and he was left to live in the streets. He survived that way for a year, no easy thing, before the owners of the Rearing Mare could stand the thought no longer. He got a sack of hay for a bed in a small room at the back of the inn and for helping around the business, he was fed, clothed and housed. Now, he was considered by Esme and her husband Tom to be a son and despite his mother and his childhood, they welcomed the awkward, glittering sparks of romantic affection between Dusty and their daughter Amber. He had proven his character over the seven years he had worked and lived with the family and they saw the future of their bloodline and business in him. Inside now, he walked down a short hall between the main room and the back door. Inside, the tavern was beginning to pick up with the people who couldn't or didn't want to cook and could afford to pay for the meal and those who were starting their evening drinking. After dinner, Dusty would be required to watch over the tavern room to remove any trouble makers. With force if necessary. He wasn't much of a fighter but drunks were rarely great challengers themselves. The young man sat at a table, his slender body and narrow face, topped with a mess of brown hair gave him the appearance of a rodent doing a very good impersonation of a human. Esme brought him a bowl of broth and a few pieces of yesterday's bread. He thanked her politely and had just begun eating a piece of broth-soaked bread when Harold Smith pushed the door in. "Folks! There's a couple'a strange horses walkin' through town. Headin' for the manor. Right spooky feelin' to 'em too!" Harold announced before disappearing back out into the street. "Esme, you and Amber stay behind the bar. Rat (His nickname for Dusty), you make sure things stay calm in here. Folks come in causing trouble, use the club how ye see fit. Ye know the rule, though," Tom said as he headed around the bar for the door. "A dead man don't drink but a cripple still does," Dusty quoted as he rose from the bench, then carried his supper to the bar and received the wooden club from Amber who had collected it from under the bar and offered it to him with an odd kind of reverence. Dusty sat at the bar and continued his supper with the club close to hand as Tom left and went to see what the scene was. |
 I am a brother to dragons, and a companion to owls. My skin is black upon me, and my bones are burned with heat. - JOB, Chapter 30, verses 29-30  Take the Magic: The Gathering 'What Color Are You?' Quiz. | |
|
|
|
| ElvenSlurpee | 15 Oct 2009, 04:59 Post #4 |
Regicidal
|
"Horace. Horace. HOR-ACE!" Yelled the wizened wizard, his arms shrieking in the air as he tried to stir his assistant from a deep, late-day slumber, "damned boy, I'll curse the day I decided you were ready to become a journeyman... All you do is sleep! Lazy... For noth..." Through his muffled mumbling and with a flick and flutter of his fingers, the old spell caster conjured a thumbnail sized flame onto Horace's left eyebrow allowing it to slowly burn the short hairs into dust and smoke. The flame ate its way through no more than a third of the eyebrow before Horace, mid-snore, shot awake. His snore morphing seamlessly into a full yell as he slapped his hand to his forehead desperate to put the spark out, "Ah, you're awake," the wizard responded to Horace's rousing. "Master!! Next time, just call my name. No need to practice the pyromantics on my face!" Horace said while stroking the bald spot above his left eye, where eyebrow used to be, with his finger. "Oh, I'll remember that for next time..." The boy's master responded while gathering up some wares from the tables distributed around them. The master and his journeyman assistant had traveled to Evenholm from the neighboring hamlet of Fernsmouth, as they did every week, to sell potions and other magically inclined products to the people of Evenholm. The old wizard placed unsold potions into a crate before placing the crate into the cart behind their stand, "Horace, mind fetching the horse? I'd like to make it back to Fernsmouth before my bones ache me to sleep..." Horace nodded, now on his feet unlatching their homemade sign from the table, it read "Ignus's" and in smaller letters beneath the name, "Magic Wares and Devices." After removing the sign and placing it in the cart also, Horace draped his robe around his shoulders and hurried over to the stables, making sure he had a few copper pieces in his leather coin-purse to pay the stable-keeper. Rubbing the hairless spot above his eye, as he made his way, Horace pouted lightly at his master's insensitivity. How was he ever to make a respectable impression on someone with a portion of his eyebrow singed off!? He imagined he looked lopsided and ugly, he frowned at the thought and pulled the hood of his robe over his head praying it would cast a shadow over his eyes. He made a mental note to check for a simple spell to regrow the missing hair once back in Fernsmouth; thinking to himself, he wondered if a simple healing cantrip would do the trick. Holding the palm of his hand over his left eye, he muttered incoherent phrases under his breath while still walking. Shaking his head and restarting whenever he made a mistake, he was having trouble remembering the exact wording of the spell from memory - it had been ages since he used the simple incantation. Nearly at the stables, Horace walked across the road leading to the manor and noticed a congregation of citizens crowding the area. Horace turned his head right towards the manor, and said the last word of the spell simultaneously and he felt the warm bath of energy tickling his cheeks as the spell took effect, immediately besmirching his luck. He successfully redirected the spell to only the corner of his eyebrow with the shift of his head and was left with a finger width bald spot in the middle, too distracted by the crowd nearby to reattempt the cantrip, Horace drifted towards the manor craning his neck and sliding the hood off his head to get a better look. Making his way to the fringes of the crowd, Horace stood on his tip-toes and braced his hands on the shoulders of others to get a look at the commotion, but all he could see were a few horses. Squinting and shouldering his way through the crowd, Horace tried to glimpse the extraordinary happenings that could garner such a crowd. Edited by ElvenSlurpee, 16 Oct 2009, 14:56.
|
| |
|
|
|
| 1 user reading this topic (1 Guest and 0 Anonymous) | |
| « Previous Topic · Fantasy · Next Topic » |
1:56 AM Dec 9
