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| Welcome to Sectarians of Eliraihah.. We are a group of those striving to create a utopia for roleplayers and writers alike, and provide a shelter from the normal confines of society. On our behalf, enjoy yourself. Your friendly overlord, --Crimson Knight |
| The Balance: Fate's Shadow; Diablo Two short story | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Aug 7 2009, 08:42 PM (224 Views) | |
| Post #1 Aug 7 2009, 08:42 PM | Thunder God Bush |
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So this is a short story I'm in the process of writing based on a former RP I ran. It is a story about...well, you know what? just read it :P. ~~~~~~~~ Twenty years. Twenty years have passed since the fall of the Worldstone. Twenty years have passed since a band of heroes gathered together to travel to the gates of the Burning Hells and fight the evil that spawned there. The scars of the Prime Evils’ taint still lingers, but the Balance was preserved, and life has moved on in the world of Sanctuary. The archangel Tyrael’s actions, drastic as they were, saved the mortal plane, keeping it anchored above the seas of Heaven and Hell. Sanctuary was not consumed in the Chaos of the Eternal and mortals continued to live their daily lives, as the past became less and less important as the here and now demanded their full attention. Soon, the terror that had filled the world faded, until it was but a memory told by parents to their children. The heroes vanished from the stage of history, their names known to every man, woman, and child in Sanctuary. Good had triumphed. However, for there to be good, there must always be evil to oppose it… Deep within the desert cliffs of Aranoch, a shadow crosses the land, driving the creatures that call the arid planes their home insane. The desert is in turmoil, and the walls of Lut Gohlein, the Flower of the Desert, are besieged by sand jumpers and desert cats and all sorts of monsters. Raiders harass the trade routes and the seas swarm with serpents and beasts not seen since the fall of the Three. Yet these are not the strangest of events. The sands of time have been blown away, revealing many secrets of Aranoch. Sometimes the most dangerous evils are those most subtly hidden. The Balance has been restored…but at what cost? All sorts of warriors have answered the call of the Prince of Lut Gohlein. Heroes and farm boys, mercenaries and knights, magicians and warriors…all have come to test their blade, to defend the innocent, and perhaps to come away with a bit of cash in their pocket. The sands of time swirl and hide what must not be seen, yet now the shadow threatens to consume all and push back what should have remained hidden. The world once more hangs…in the Balance. ~~~~ The sounds of revelry spilled out into the night streets of the capital of the desert. Not even the recent troubles could calm the adventurers’ insatiable need for a good ale, a hearty tune, and a warm bed…perhaps with a warm woman to go with it. In fact, the troubles seemed to only increase the need. A figure, cloaked in a long robe, walked through an alley off the main road. The person’s face was indistinguishable, and only her gait marked the figure as a woman. She moved in the darkness, any markings on her robe hidden within the shadows. Everything but the dull lines of a single rune. The mark of the Kindred. The woman made her way through the alley, following the sounds of merriment to its source. Light spilled out into the alley through the open portal, blocked only by the giant body of a single man. He stood in the way of the young woman, guarding the entrance to the bar. His fair skin shone in the light from the fire inside, revealing him to be a foreigner to the city. His frame was large, and by his side hung two large axes, each sharp with ornate designs upon their hilt. “You have business at the Golden Viper?” He said, in the gruff, terse tones customary in the northlands. The woman said nothing initially, but the barbarian, Karask, stayed perfectly still; content to wait for an answer. Eventually, the sorceress spoke. “Indeed. I am supposed to be meeting with a friend. She suggested this…” In the darkness, the barbarian bouncer saw the hood move back, though the face was still hidden in shadow. It was obvious that the young mage was scanning the building. “…establishment.” Karask could not help but find her voice strangle melodic. Her accent gave the impression that she was humming at the same time as words poured from her mouth. Though she bore the mark of a sorceress, Karask judged from the way she held herself, the way she spoke, that she was either the best actor in the continent, or her motives were as she said. The barbarian nodded, the shape of his head visibly moving in the shadow. Without another word, he moved out from the portal, and the young woman made her way into the, surprisingly, well lit bar. It felt good to be, for all intents and purposes, invisible. Sure, the young Kindred could have chosen Atma’s Tavern or the Desert Rain, but those were both big and filled with those who would recognize her. No, they would not do. She required a place that was full of chaos, a place where a hooded sorceress wouldn’t be seen as unusual, a place where one could be in broad daylight, but nobody would see you. She needed a place a bit less respectable. The Golden Viper was perfect. Nobody could hear her as she moved through the small path created by the drunken revelers, the mercenaries and veterans of war who came to celebrate their strength or drown their woes. The sorceress kept her head low and her face covered, and moved to a table not quite in the back, yet not in the front either, and sat down in the chair. The noise level drowned out any sound farther then a table’s breadth away, which suited the young woman just fine. A barmaid made her way through the throng as well, appearing by the Kindred’s side in little time. “Can I get you anything, lord?” She asked. The sorceress smiled, but of course, the barmaid could not see it under her hood. Of course she was lord, not ma’am. What kind of woman would be so foolish as to come to this place without an escort? “Yes, please. I’ll take a glass of your finest white wine, preferably from across the sea. If you don’t have any from Kurast, well, I suppose whatever you do have will suffice.” The foolish wench couldn’t hear her accent amidst the roar, but the order was clear. She stared at the Kindred for a while. “Alright then, lord, I’ll be back with your drink shortly…” The sorceress could swear she heard the barmaid mutter “pansy boy-man” or something along those lines, before she turned and walked away, giggling falsely every time a patron got a bit too confident and reached for her backside. The young sorceress simply sat and enjoyed the songs that were being sung. They sang about the glories of heroes of the past, those who had fought the armies of Heaven and Hell, drove them from the mortal plane. They sang of magi like Horazon and Bartuc. They sang of the Worldstone and the glory of Sanctuary. The Kindred was content to simply listen and wait. Though it shouldn’t be too long now. After all, it was her contact that had picked the time and the place. A man with a long, white beard sat himself in front of the sorceress. His matching hair was still full despite his age. His blue eyes seemed a bit dull for their color, but the sorceress could see that behind them lay a fiery passion. The man appeared lean and hunched over, a very old man. Once more the young woman let herself release a hidden smile. “I see you’ve chosen your disguise well, your highness.” She said calmly, as the barmaid returned with her cup of wine. She casually brought the glass under her hood and sipped it. It was a good quality, not from Kurast, but the outlying regions. Better than she had expected. “Perhaps you were correct about your choice of meeting location. It seems that no one has seen you for who you are. Indeed, even I cannot tell who you really are. Funny, I was expecting someone who looked more like...well, like me.” The young mage pulled back her own hood, revealing her face for the first time. She was a young woman with light brown hair, held back with a bit of string she had bought from a passing merchant. Her hazel eyes sparkled in the firelight as she smirked at the prince across from her. “If I could, I would discard of my disguise as easily as you have yours.” Jerhyn, the Prince of Lut Gohlein said quietly, waving the barmaid away before she even approached. “If I were to do so, however, then all secrecy would soon be lost. Even so, I dare not risk staying here for too long.” The Prince leaned forwards, drawing closer to the leader of the Kindred, Kayla Cain. “Your grandfather had always given me advice during the days when the Balance was threatened by the forces of Diablo. It seems now I must turn to you to do the same. The Shadow is spreading, and my efforts do little to halt it. I require your assistance, Kayla.” The nineteen year old girl said nothing for a while, but Jerhyn noticed that she did not meet his eyes. Instead, she kept hers downcast, sipping at her drink every now and then. “Perhaps the old man spoke the truth…” She whispered. Before Jerhyn could inquire as to what she meant, Kayla raised her head and the Prince fell silent. “Very well, your highness, I believe I can provide the assistance your request. Even as we speak, destiny spins its web, weaving together the fates of many. I am at your service, your highness. Now, unless you have any other requests, I believe you should retreat, before your guards notice your absence. Tamesh can only distract them for so long.” The Prince said nothing, but he did not have to. They both knew the situation, how important it was that Jerhyn appear to be in control at all times. To have to approach the Kindred, well, that would leave certain factions in the city wondering if perhaps the prince was not the man he used to be. Jerhyn rose and left the tavern, neither quickly nor slowly. His back was bent as he made his way out, and few bothered to pay attention to the old man leaving the young female mage. Kayla swirled the wine in her glass, before she finished it. Dropping a few coins on the table, she too rose and pulled her hood once more over her face, before disappearing into the darkness of the night. Edited by Thunder God Bush, Aug 14 2009, 12:01 PM.
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| Post #2 Aug 11 2009, 02:29 PM | Thunder God Bush |
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“How many do you think there are?” The mercenary to Korzal’s right asked. The wizard looked at the pike man with bored eyes, though anyone who returned his glance would not recognize it. No, most people would not be able to get farther than the surface of his eyes. At a mere cursory scan of his face, an observer would find his eyes red…or an orange color…or light blue…or a deep purple…or a bright gold…If he took time to watch, he would notice that the colors seem to meld into one another, never staying the same color for long. It made some weak skinned warriors squirm. The man beside him didn’t even bother returning the look. He had known about his employer’s attribute before he had been hired. Few in the city did not know of the man, Korzal Lizoran. The Sand Wizard. “I’d say thirty, maybe forty, Namael.” Another mercenary answered. The Shadow Serpents were famed for their mercenary services, as well as some less legitimate services. Their origins were certainly less than noble, being known for centuries as a bandit clan. They terrorized caravans and those who traveled through the desert sands. Under the reign of one of their past leaders, the clan began to accept others into their midst, engulfing some of the smaller groups that plagued the trade routes. At one point, they were the bane of Lut Gohlein, the scourge of the desert. Traders would sigh in relief when it was simply demons they were attacked by, instead of the brutal raiders. Of course, times change, and with the rise of the Brothers and their ilk, it was no longer safe for any human, law or outlaw to be outside the walls without an escort. Soon traders and caravans sought out the bandits, offering to pay them for their services. It became more profitable to defend the caravans than raiding them, and it was not long before the prince of the city allowed the bandits turned mercenaries into the city. Under the current leader, a strong woman named Jade, the Serpents began to expand, incorporating other mercenary businesses, including those led by the aging Griez. I still don’t see why you needed to bring these pathetic, ignorant stick wielders. Perhaps if you were to let me handle this situation… A familiar voice chimed in from the back of Korzal’s mind. It was a deep voice, just a bit raspy, and unmistakably cold. Korzal chose to ignore the other resident of his body. The necromancer’s method of dealing with an obstacle was generally lacking in style and finesse. It also generally involved Korzal losing control of what was his body. The two mercenaries he had sent to scout climbed carefully over the dunes to the camp. “Did you see where they were holding the traders?” Korzal asked. A caravan had been a sennight late, an unsettling event in times like these. It was even more worrisome when a riderless horse arrived at the gates of the city, bearing the sigil of Westmarch upon its saddle. Its hide was marked with lashes of whips, not the kind used to spur a horse on, but ones used to tear the flesh off of their victims. The mark of a saber cat attack. “Yes, sir. We counted seven bodies tied together in the center of the camp. The other ten we were expecting were no where to be seen.” “They must have died in the raid. These felines don’t kill their victims right away. They’re sadistic beasts, who prefer entertainment to quick deaths. They will play with their prey, not letting them enjoy the peace of death until they’ve given everything up, even the hope of eternal rest. When they’ve finally broken their victims, that’s when they give the final strike, having reduced them to the lowest form of life…beneath even the unthinking animals.” Korzal’s voice showed no emotion through this speech, even as a few of the younger mercenaries squirmed. It was a disturbing thought, but Korzal still held his bored, disinterested visage. Nothing was said, as the twenty warriors watched the camp and the small figures move below. “We have few options, Lizoran…” The captain of the mercenaries, Karael, said. “We can push a hole into the camp, but that’s almost certain death for most of the men. I’d say our best bet would be to surround the camp as best we can and push them in.” Korzal didn’t respond, thinking over the suggestions. I would like to propose a third… The cold voice said, with almost a sing song quality. Perhaps the captain needs to be reminded exactly WHY we were asked to lead this operation. I believe it is time to show you exactly what it means to be a wielder of power. Step aside, boy, and let the master fix this mess. Invisible tendrils gripped at Korzal’s consciousness, dragging him back into the dark recesses of his mind. His face contorted in effort and concentration as he tried to resist the influence that was overpowering his mind, but it was to no avail. With a spasm, the mage fell the ground, his eyes clenched shut. His body jolted without his command, fingers forming a fist and his head rolling back and forth. Soon, he lost all control of his physical form, trapped within himself. Finally. The mercenaries exchanged glances between themselves. Something strange had occurred. Their employer’s voice was no longer the bored, detached voice. Now, it was full of passion, but it was a worrisome passion. It left them wondering if perhaps their employer was not so much better than the monsters they were here to kill. The mage rose from the ground, brushing the sand from his robe as he did so. Perhaps, captain, we can do a third option. Have you ever heard of a tactic called the hammer and anvil… Edited by Thunder God Bush, Aug 14 2009, 12:00 PM.
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| Post #3 Aug 13 2009, 05:21 PM | Thunder God Bush |
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Wilderness “I don’t know about this, Karael.” Namael whispered to the captain. It was obvious he wasn’t the only one feeling uneasy. Almost half of them were visibly uncomfortable. Sweat glistened on their faces, not from the heat of the sun. The camp lay below them, below the dunes. These mercenaries had seen their fair share of combat, but this seemed like suicide. Karael had told Lizoran that much. ”What the hell are you trying to do, Lizoran? Get us all killed? You want us to attack, head on, a group twice our size, while you try and surround them? By yourself?” Perhaps you misunderstand me, captain. I was not under the impression that I had to inform you of all the little nuances of my plans. I believe you and your team were hired for your skill with a pointed stick, not to question my orders. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my plan requires that I get into position. I…suggest…you do the same. There are worse things in this desert than a few saber cats. The look in Korzal’s eyes had ended all further argument from the captain. Unlike others, who would have cowered before the gaze, Karael stood straight, albeit silent, as the mage turned and walked away, and disappeared over the dunes. The captain fumed, but there was little he could do. Something about the mage was different, almost terrifying. The threat at the end was barely veiled. It was unlike the mage Karael had grown accustomed to. “Look, I may not like the man, but I have heard the stories. If half of them are true, then well just have to trust him on this. Now let’s just get this over with. Jortis, lead your group from the left, I’ll go down the right. Let’s go kill some cats.” A few of the men grumbled, but they obeyed their orders. They climbed down the rock and sand as quietly as they could. Korzal was no where in sight, though that was little worry. With a quick signal, the men split into two groups. One stayed close the rock cliff, hiding in the small shadow it provided. The other, the one Karael led, moved forward. “These cats want to flash their claws at us, let’s show them how it’s done!” He said, his voice reverberating across the desert, bouncing off what exposed rock there was…down into the camp. “Even the fiercest tiger fears the serpent’s bite…” Karael shouted, his men responding the way warriors about to die always do. They were on death’s ground, yet they would not go down weeping. They were not soft boys or craven fools who desired immortality. They were Shadow Serpents. “The swift hare cannot evade our grasp!” “Above the sands, we slide unseen!” “Beneath the dunes, we wait unmoving!” “We live in the shadows, hunt in the sun!” “Woe to those who tread above!” “Woe to those who crawl beneath!” “We are the bane beneath your foot!” “We are the bite that ends your life!” “We are the viper, the cobra, the legless masters of the hunt!” The individual voices joined as one as they completed the poem of their valor. The one line that defined who they were, what they were, and why they were there. It was the one thing that made them more than simply mercenaries. It was what made them fearless. “We are the Shadow Serpents, ever poised to strike!” The cats were almost upon them, charging up the sand pit they had camped in. It was a small comfort, but defense was defense none the less. The eleven men with Karael stood fast at the top of the sand, their spears pointed at the oncoming assault. The midday sun beat down hard on the pikemen, though they ignored the sweat. Roars and hisses arrived before the actual warriors that made them. It was not the cute sound of a little tabby begging for food, or even the soft warning of an angry male. These were the sounds of hunters who kill not just for food, but for the sheer blood. A few of the men looked like they were about to break, but a quick glance at their commander stayed them. His face was set into a permanent glare, a snarl forming at the ends of his lip. His eyes burned with a ferocity down the hill, and the men knew that they never desired their captain to look at them with that same face. It was enough to keep them rooted in their spot. “Hold!” Karael shouted. The saber cats were almost upon them. Twenty feet, fifteen, ten…then numbers did not matter. “Attack!” The first cats found themselves impaled upon the spears, their whips still raised, bearing to strike. The feline before Karael looked down at the red that stained her blue fur, before hissing fiercely. With a flick of her wrist, the whip came down hard upon Karael shoulder. With a quick grunt of pain, Karael pierced the cat once more, this time through the heart. One down. Many more to go. His shoulder was bleeding where the whip had ripped away his skin, yet he barely felt it above the adrenaline. More and more cats charged the mercenaries, fur and flesh mixing in the chaos of battle. “Fall back!” Karael roared over the din, as his men slowly moved in the desert sands, fighting as they moved back towards the cliff. Their discipline was their strength. They were professionals, unlike their barbaric foes. Blood stained the sand behind them, as the sabers’ attacks struck true. “Hold!” They were still not close enough to the cliff. A man had already fallen, dragged away by a small pack to finish off in private. Karael gritted his teeth. He would make sure these cats didn’t get a second toy. The men halted in their tracks, shifting once more into a strong, defensive stance. Vultures hovered above, giant scavengers casting shadows upon the sun baked desert, content to simply wait for the meal that was being so graciously prepared for them. Karael swore as the cats poured in faster than he could kill them. They were in danger of being out flanked, facing the enemy head on like this. “Turn right!” The ten men quickly shifted their positions, as best they could, trying to minimize the distance between them and the rock wall, angling themselves to the right. It was better. It wasn’t good, but it was better. Their left flank, however… From the shadows of the cliff came human shouts. The eight soldiers that had been stationed there moved out, positioning themselves at the edge of the battle field, making sure to keep the space between them and their brothers open. The unfortunate cats that had been moved around to the left found themselves squashed between the two forces, like a sword between a hammer and an anvil. Their death screams gave Karael a brief flash of pleasure before the small distraction was pushed out once again. The wizard had been right, though if that was all to his plan, then Karael would kill him if he made it out. The tactic was an advantage, though far from enough. Karael thoughts disappeared as he moved his head out of the way of a whip, a split second before it hit his other shoulder. Pieces of hair fell the ground beside him. All his concentration returned to the battle as he gutted the cat. A breeze blew across his face, the first all day. The wind grew stronger, picking up specks of sand and carrying them through the air. They swirled around the battlefield, more and more, a surrounding of yellow and brown. The small grains stabbed the combatants as it flew by. It was not long before Karael found himself blinded, unable to see more than a few feet in front of him. His men stood firm, despite the severe handicap. The saber cats reveled in the confusion, caught up in the bloodlust, attacking anything they could find in the storm, both their prey, and their pack. It was chaos and Karael struggled to maintain control. The shouts of his men were deafened by the howling of the storm. But even that was deafened by an inhuman roar. Within the storm, a shadow appeared. With great force, it tore through the back of the cats’ lines, smashing and pounding its way. The felines in the back screamed in terror, shoving their way forward…and into the pikemen’s spears. I believe it is time to let the hammer fall… The wizard’s voice echoed in the storm, though he was no where to be seen. The winds began to die down just enough for Karael to get a glimpse of the giant shadow. It was a golem. A golem composed entirely of sand. Its black eyes showed no life as it crushed a saber cat in its fist. Sand poured from its body, only to be reformed in an endless cycle. The whips and spears of the cats had little effect, as for every hole they left filled with sand. The cats were trapped as the mercenaries shifted, leaving the cats with a wall to their backs. Their shrieks filled the desert, until the last one was silenced by Karael’s spear. He was breathing heavily, as were what remained of his men. Of the twenty, thirteen remained, all bleeding and winded. But they were alive. With a dull roar, the golem melted away back into the desert sands. Karael said a silent prayer of thanks, before a figure, cloaked in sunlight, appeared on the dunes. His eyes were blue, then purple, then a bit gold…He dragged the corpses of four saber cats, and one human. Congratulations, captain. It seems you listened to my advice after all. The cats are all dead. Have your men gather the traders and their wares. I… The wizard suddenly stopped, though Karael could see no reason why. A quick twitch perhaps, but surely that was nothing. “I must thank you and your men for your assistance. It is regrettable that some had to die. I doubt my sister will be pleased to hear about the loss of her men.” Korzal’s voice said, the same indifferent voice Karael had come to associate with the wizard. “But I do believe it is time to return to the city. Let us go, captain. I do believe the traders are…eager….to see the walls of Lut Gohlein. |
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| Post #4 Aug 17 2009, 08:21 PM | Thunder God Bush |
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Diablo II - Lut Gohlein There it laid, the Flower of the Desert, the Jewel of the Sand, the Sanctuary of Aranoch: Lut Gohlein. It shimmered splendidly as the sun rested upon its throne, sitting atop the zenith of its majestic climb. The buildings sparkled, as though their tops were lined with gold, and in the cases of some, probably were. The walls stood high, shielding the gem within from the perils of the untamed desert. The Palace, the home of the Sultan and seat of all order in the desert, loomed above the lesser buildings, revealing to the barren desert the splendor of men. Capped with domes of gold, the building was truly a marvel. And yet none of that mattered to the barbarian. He stood before the gates of the city, knowing that this was but one more stop on his journey. His vengeance, his curse, the Silver Sun, all drove him to this land. Augustine stared at the ring he held in his hand, a silver band with a diamond sun. The desert light reflected off the diamond, but not into a series of pretty colors. The ring emitted a luminous, silver shine, dancing across the palm of his hand. It was all that he had left from his past, the only thing he had of his family. Augustine turned the ring over in his bare palm, and over once more, oblivious to the guards, who were shielding their eyes from the sun’s rays that reflected off of the barbarian’s armor. How could he stand in the hot sun wearing such heavy clothing? It was more suited to a paladin than to a barbarian from the north. Four plates, welded together to form one, adorned his chest, while a similar pair encased his feet. And yet, that was not all. His pants were made of blackened leather, with metal plates protecting his knees and ankles. By his side hung a slender blade, nearly ten spans long, covered by a scabbard wrapped in silk. It was a wonder to think he had crossed the desert in such array. Even the northmen, who seldom left their mountain top, had more sense when they reached the desert sands. The sheer abnormality of this man gave the guards pause. His face marked him as a barbarian, the hardness of his skin, the dark brown hair, tied back in a ponytail. But there was more to his visage than simply the northern aspect. His eyes shined bright silver, an unnatural color to all the races that called Sanctuary their home. Caravans brought and took with them tales of cursed ones, who looked and acted like every day mortals, but whose eyes revealed their true taint. As if that was not enough, upon his forehead laid a mark, a dark horizon to all who found their eyes drawn upwards. This man, this barbarian, obviously was tainted. “Welcome to Lut Gohlein, foreigner.” One of the guards said, his hand still shielding his eyes from the shining warrior. His voice, while not hostile, was far from friendly. No good would come of letting one such as this beyond the walls. “What business have you in the city?” He wished to add dressed like that?, or perhaps even bearing such a taint, harbinger of evil, but orders were orders. Certain etiquette must be given to all who arrive at the open gate of the city, to all those seeking shelter from the harsh desert. They must be given a chance to prove themselves, but the guard knew already what the verdict would be. The man’s response could only damn him more. The guard’s words brought Augustine back from wherever the ring had taken him to the walls of the city. “I have been on a search for many years, chasing a man from my past. I believe he past through here, not too long ago.” The two soldiers exchanged a quick glance, but said nothing to one another. That was all they needed to hear. One such as this would only bring trouble to the city. His evil would seep through the streets, no doubt. “Perhaps you can be of assistance to me. You see…” Augustine did not even finish, before two spears blocked the entrance, more of a message than a barricade. The barbarian knew that if he so desired, he could get around the spears that stood in his way, yet that would certainly lead to more trouble than it was worth. “Go back to where you’re from, beast. We have no need of your kind here. Tainted mongrel. Go back to your mountains. We have enough troubles without having to deal with a cursed one.” The guard said. His eyes were narrowed dangerously. The disgust he held for Augustine dripped from his words, almost solid to the touch. Augustine felt the seeds of rage that was his heritage plant themselves within his heart. No…control yourself. You must not give in! Augustine took a deep breath of the hot desert air, feeling the sand scrape its way through to his lungs. He detested this place, the hot sun, the dry air, the loose sand, all of it. Yet hate was an emotion he must also control, just like his anger. He could not afford to lose himself. “Please, gentlemen, you are making a mistake.” Augustine said, sighing. How he wished this was the first time he was met with irrational animosity, to be driven away from a town before he had been given a single chance to prove himself. He cursed his father for what he had made him, cursed the black cloaked man who had marked him forever. Nowhere was he safe. Nowhere could he find rest. Forever a wanderer, an outsider everywhere he went. His silver eyes were set with resignation, knowing that no matter how he hard he reasoned, he would find no rest, even in a city like this. He had hoped, of course, but perhaps even here, in this crossroads filled with various peoples, his curse would haunt him. “Quiet, beast! We gave you a chance! The filthy birds will feast well tonight.” The spears which had blocked his path now pointed directly at him, their tips a blinding white in the sun’s light. Augustine could only sigh once more. The two had left him little choice. His hands fell to the hilt of his sword, Lautitia, his fingers encasing the pommel, clutching the grip. The guards’ eyes were filled with loathing, having born witness to this abomination for far too long. Augustine’s held only regret, a feeling that they found not uncommon. He had no wish to fight these two men, yet their hatred forced his blade. He had little fear, knowing that Lautitia would not fail him, just as it had never before. Augustine began to draw the sword, preparing to spill the blood of men who he had no reason to hate. “Guards!” A feminine voice called out. The accent was strange to his ears, one he had never heard before. It was melodious, almost as though that single word had been an entire song. It was enchanting, calming, and quite pleasant to the ear. Augustine could not help but turn to the entranceway to the city. He needed to find the source of that beautiful sound. A young woman, no more than twenty one, stood beneath the gate, one hand upon a robed hip. She was clad in a blue robe, the color of the sea whose waves hit the sands of Lut Gohlein, with a hood attached, but not raised. Her eyes, her eyes were hazel and her hair a light brown, much lighter than his own, though drawn back in the same manner, a ribbon of blue keeping the long strands together and off her youthful face. “What manner of act is this, Arael,?” She spoke once more, in that same musical voice. The guards turned to one another, though Augustine could not fathom why. Who was this woman, his potential savior? Was she one of the city’s wealthy ladies? The Prince’s favorite concubine? The captain of the guards? The senior guard, the one addressed as Arael, cleared his throat. “Forgive us, Mistress Kayla, but this is far from your concern. This man is a danger to the city, and it is our duty to remove him, in any way we can.” He shot a look of hate towards Augustine. The barbarian did not respond, instead keeping his eyes upon the young woman before him. She smiled, but it was not a soft smile, or one full of viciousness. Augustine could feel this woman take control with that little smile. He could sense that his fate rested in her hands. “Perhaps, Arael, but he is also the one I’ve been waiting for. I must forbid you from…removing him.” Arael’s eyes narrowed slightly. His voice dropped a few degrees, losing the intensity they had before, yet none of the anger. “Tell me, Mistress, what gives the Kindred the right to interfere with the duties of the guards?” Augustine’s eyebrow shot up. The Kindred? He had heard little of this group during his travels, yet he had heard some. It was said the group was an order of wizards and scholars, built upon the ruins of the old Horadrim. Their pursuit was one of knowledge. In truth, Augustine had cared little about the dealings of magi, and the Kindred seemed to be simply another order, no better than the Vizjerei or the other lesser clans. All claimed purity of intentions, but few could resist the search for power and the arrogance that came with it. Still, perhaps it was best for him to hold his judgments to himself, at least for now. The sorceress’s, for that was obviously what she was, the sorceress’s smile never dropped. “I may as well ask what gives you the right to execute a man whose only crime is bearing a mark upon his brow…” “It is more than just the...the mark…” Arael interrupted. “Look into his eyes, you’ll see that he is nothing but…” His words trailed off as Kayla raised a hand. When he fell silent, she nodded, regaining the control, if she had ever truly lost it. “As I said, I may as well ask you, but I do not have the time to engage in such a philosophical debate as that would lead. Instead, perhaps I can convince you with this.” The young woman produced from her robe a ring. The guard stared at it, shocked speechless. Augustine felt no such emotion. It was a pretty ring, with a desert flower formed out of cut emeralds and sapphires, but he could not discern anything unique about it. It was simply a ring. Arael shook his head in disgust. “Orders are orders. I don’t know what the Prince was thinking, giving you that ring…you’re bringing trouble to us all, Mistress. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. With all the evil in the world these days…” Kayla’s hand rose to silence the guard once more. “Please, Arael, I am just as aware of the situation as you are. Undoubtedly more so. If you please, stand aside so this man may enter.” Her eyes turned to him, and he matched her gaze, unashamed. She was his savior, and for that he was thankful, but he would not lower his head. His blood was still a northman’s blood after all. Arael’s eyes never softened, but he did what he was asked. The Prince’s ring was as good as the Prince’s orders. “Come, friend, walk with me through the city. I’ll show you to your arrangements.” The sing song voice said, enticing him to follow. They walked through the gate into the city, without exchanging a single word. Augustine tried to sort through his feelings to no avail. Who was this woman, and why did she save him? She had said she expected him. Could she see the future? How could he thank her when he did not even know her? The unknown beat down upon his mind. The streets were a blur, buildings meshing into one another, the bright and dull streaks before his eyes. He watched the back of her hood, trying to pierce the cloth, trying to see into his rescuer’s soul. When they had walked quite a ways from the gates, he opened his mouth to speak, to ask the questions he had been harboring inside his heart. “Who are you, lady? How did you know I was going to be there?” The sorceress turned her head, smiling at Augustine over her shoulder. Her voice, he could just listen to that voice for eternity. “Because the roads of Fate are converging, and yours is on a course bound for shadow, wound around the paths of others. Others like myself.” Without another word, no explanation of what exactly she had meant, Kayla turned once more and continued to stroll down the busy streets. Augustine shuffled his feet to a stop, his eyes wide. People parted around him, as though he were a rock in a raging sea. He could hear their whispers, commenting on his eyes, his mark. Parents pulled children away, while others pretended he did not exist. Augustine was used to it. Prophecies and fates were a different matter. The barbarian held up his hands, and shook his head, confused. “Wait…What are you trying to say?” The sorceress turned around, this time with her entire body. The blue robe swirled at her feet. A playful smirk tipped her lips, and if eyes could laugh, hers were definitely doing so. Augustine had never met anyone quite like her. The prophets in the north were old women and men, always preaching about the doom of men and speaking in riddles that Augustine could never understand. The wizard, so he claimed though Augustine had his doubts, he had met with, a few weeks before he had set out, had spoken until the sun had set, going on and on about the ways of Fate and the dangers upon the path, but his words seemed to Augustine to be but empty, hollow, shells. Kayla though, he could almost accept that she indeed knew the future. Almost. “A great evil is spreading, corrupting all it passes over. Your path leads into shadow, shrouded in uncertainty.” Kayla’s smile began to wilt, and her eyes lost their caged merriment. “But then, perhaps this is the wrong place to discuss such disturbing tidings. There is yet business that I must complete, and the day grows short.” The young mage pulled the hood over her head, only a few strands of hair that had escaped from their tail visible to the barbarian. Augustine found himself focusing even more on her entrancing voice. “I must be going, barbarian, but have no fear. Our fates our crossed, as our paths will be once again.” Augustine could not find the words he desired, and stood there, mute, as the Kindred disappeared amidst the throng of the city folk. The silver eyed warrior shivered despite the heat. There was something strange about that girl. To believe in Fate, prophets, and all sorts of portents and signs was to deny what being mortal was truly about. Still, there was something about that sorceress that made Augustine inclined to trust her. The sounds of the city surrounded him. Augustine shook his head. It was all futile of course. The reason he was here, in this scorched city, the reason he continued, was all that mattered. The fate of the world, the Balance itself, could always wait. The sweat poured off Augustine’s body, a physical reminder of the unbearable climate. He’d heard of an inn along his travels, owned by a woman named Atma. Augustine looked in the direction that Kayla had wandered. The blue robe was no where in sight. It is getting late. A bed would be nice after such a long journey. |
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| Post #5 Sep 28 2009, 04:00 PM | Thunder God Bush |
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Diablo 1 Catacombs The sun had set upon the desert quite some time ago and the cold night air gusted through the city streets of Lut Gohlein, though that did not hinder those who called the dark their home. It was the hour of thieves, nightwalkers, drunkards, and those innocent folk who simply did not have the good sense to stay behind their closed doors. They were unfortunate. It was not the best of ideas to wander the streets after the City Guard shut their hall, and the protection of the city fell to the infamous Night Watch. They had the reputation of being scoundrels, little better than the vagabonds they arrested. No, it was better to be inside once the stars shined upon the golden city. The market district of the city was especially quiet. Only packs of stray dogs prowled the streets, looking for something to show their dominance against. A few torches burned, illuminating the way for anyone foolish enough to lose themselves during the darkness. Inside one of the nicer houses, not too far from the Great Market, a soft sound drifted from the open window into the street below. “Mmmm…yes…yes…” Calila could not help herself. The attention she was receiving felt so good, that it was all she could do to keep her voice from screaming. “Oh…yes…” She mumbled. It would not do to release her inhibitions the way she wished. What would the neighbors think to know she had relationship with this merchant? If word ever got back to Ariel, she would be cast out into the streets, if lucky. But Karas made her feel so much better than her husband that she couldn’t help it. She was almost there. Karas could sense it, and picked up his pace. She threw the silk pillow over her head, and screamed as softly as she could manage. Karas didn’t bother, and in her frightened, yet incredibly excited, state, his low grunts sounded like a lion’s roar. She almost cursed, but then a wave of pleasure washed over her, and her concern vanished. The two lay in the bed next to one another, panting and sweating. The breeze from the night air cooled their burning bodies. Neither said anything for quite some time. It was not necessary, and they had little to say to one another. The barking of dogs broke the silence. Calila stared at her lover. He was a merchant from Kurast, big and strong after years of lifting heavy crates of cargo. How she fell in with him, she couldn’t quite remember. Her husband was gone so often that it didn’t surprise her that she had taken to another man. Karas was everything her husband wasn’t. He was there for her, and so very masculine. Generous too… She thought, playing with the little trinket his ship had brought back from foreign lands. It was a little magic lantern, crafted by a rather clever sorceress. Karas had said as long as you put fuel in, the enchantments would let it burn. It was beautifully made, but she had to return it. It was too nice for her husband to not notice. “So I was thinking…” She began, before bolting upright in the bed, a look of mad panic across her face. Karas reluctantly sat up. “What is it?” He asked, yawning. Calila rarely was this nervous. She seemed to be sweating even more now than she had a few minutes before. She turned to him, her eyes frantic. “I think I heard someone downstairs. Quick, hide under the bed.” Calila jumped out from the sheets and shoved him, causing him to land on the floor with a loud thump. “Idiot!” She hissed, and Karas rolled his eyes. He knew better than to point out that it was in fact her fault, and silently crawled beneath the bed. Calila hurriedly crawled back under the silk sheets, hoping that her husband wouldn’t notice the smell of musk in the air. The steps seemed to be getting louder. Each thump seemed closer and closer. There was something not right. The air seemed cooler than it had a second before. Why did the hair on the back of her neck rise? The footsteps grew louder. Calila was almost cowering beneath her sheets, though from what she could not say. Her husband, that was all this was…her husband home early from a night of whores and wine. The footsteps stopped in front of the door. There was no sound. Not even Calila’s breath disturbed the silence. She couldn’t move. She needed to run. She needed to get out. She needed to run far away. She needed to…the door was opening. Why was it opening? She needed it to stay closed! A stranger stood in the doorway, hidden in the darkness. Total black surrounded him, hiding even the faint silhouette from her view. It was as though the man was shadow itself, absorbing the light to remain unseen. Not even the faint moonlight touched him. Only the sound of his cape, billowing in the evening breeze, gave any indication of the presence of this strange man. His footsteps began once again, each one lasting a lifetime, and the span between them even longer. Calila shivered. This man was going to kill her. She could sense it in his invisible gaze. She could feel his dark eyes observing her, noting her. Had her husband caught on? Had he hired this man to kill her and her lover? She gulped. “I…I don’t know how much he’s paying you…” She began. She had to bargain with him, make him cease his murderous mission. “…but I’ll pay you more.” The man said nothing, but stopped. He seemed to be listening, almost judging her. Calila was encouraged. “Name a price. I’ll do anything. Anything.” She repeated the last word, hoping he understood. She didn’t care at this point what he thought of her, what others thought of her. All that mattered was that she made it out of this alive. “Anything.” She said once more, pleading with the shadow in front of her. He began to walk again, slower than before. His voice filled the room. It boomed within her mind, dominating her thoughts. Nothing else was as important as what this man was saying. She couldn’t think. All she could do was listen. “Nae shall ye commit adultery … Ye has nae been as an ‘arlot, in that ye scorn ‘ire, but as a wife that commit adultery, which take strangers instead of ‘er husband! They give gifts to all whores: but ye give ye gifts to all yer lovers, and ‘ire them, that they may come unto ye on every side for yer whoredom. Amen.” Calila could not find the voice to speak. The words the man spoke were nonsense, meaningless babble from a man crazy enough to kill. Beneath the bed, she feel Karas shake in fear. All the two could do was cower in fear as their invisible assailant moved within the darkness. All light had faded. Calila could not see, blind to her own room. They had to run. But how can you run when you don’t know where you are? Where your death is waiting for you? “Please…I have a child.” Calila begged, her one last case to save her life. It was all she could do to hold back her tears. She was going to die and there was nothing she could do about it. Her pleas went unanswered. “If a man be found lying with a woman married to ‘er husband, then they shall both of them die. Both the man that lay with the woman…” The man began. From within the darkness, she could make out the sound of metal being drawn. This was the end. She could hear the blade cutting through the air, seeking its meal. A shriek sent chills down her back and made the hair stand up on the back of her neck. Calila could not help herself, moving automatically in her fright. She grabbed the trinket that sat by the side of her bed and tossed in a corner of her silk sheet, ripped in her fright. Instantly, the fragment of sheet burst into flame, illuminating the room. Blood was pooling beneath the bed, staining the silken sheets that touched the floor. The body of the man who had shared his warmth with her just moments before now lay before her, his body almost unrecognizable from the mutilation. But that only held her gaze for a moment, before it was locked onto the most terrifying sight she had ever witnessed. The man before her stood garbed in armor, stained with the blood of those he had judged guilty. His black hair covered part of his face, but his eyes remained clear, boring a hole into her very soul. They were black, black as an abyss. And they held no mercy. She was going to die. She was going to die. She was going to die. She was going to… “…and the ‘arlot. AMEN!” She was dead the second he said amen. The blade cut through her flesh, as she collapsed on the mattress, her mouth and eyes still pleading to live. The sword burned with a white flame, causing her final seconds on Sanctuary to feel like the fires of Hell had come to personally bring her down. Her blood stained her sheets, turning them a deep red as the liquid continued to pour from her wounds. Her killer just stood over her body, the shadow from the magical lantern dancing across his form, his face locked in emotionless judgment. Soft footsteps could be heard approaching. The man turned to the portal. There stood a child, no more than six or seven, holding a lantern. His eyes were wide as he saw the scene. “M…M…Mother?” He spurted out. His mother was sprawled out across her bed, and his Uncle Karas lay on the floor, but they both seemed to be covered in a red liquid. He couldn’t understand, why didn’t his mother answer him? Who was this stranger? The little boy began to shake, as tears rose to his eyes. “Mother!” He cried out, knowing that any second now she would wake up and make the scary man leave. She didn’t respond. Tears fell from the boy’s face as he sank to his knees. The paladin turned his eyes upon the child. “The Lord will by no means leave the guilty unpunished, visiting the iniquity of fathers on the bairns and on the granbairns to the third and fourth generations." His words were muffled by the tears of the child. The boy did not even notice the man raise his sword. He barely felt it touch his neck. Jonathan walked from the house of sin. It was despicable that people like those he had delivered justice to still drew breath. This city was filled with sin and iniquity, filled with those waiting to be judged. And he would judge them, as it was his role. He was the Judge Master. He was the Prosecutor, the Judge, and the Executioner, all in one. All would stand before him and receive judgment, and he would deliver justice to all those who were guilty. The paladin walked through the streets, as a breeze blew by, touching everything around Jonathan, but the man seemed to be untouchable. Clouds passed over the moon, shrouding the streets within total darkness. When they passed and the light shone down once more, the paladin was gone. |
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Kracka-boooooom
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| Post #6 Sep 28 2009, 06:32 PM | Azedos Sen |
| Ah, the introduction of the Defender of Justice. An excellent interpretation of my favorite character, much applause Bush. |
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