Arwen-Undomiel.com :: View topic - RPG Character of the Month (voting)

Arwen-Undomiel.com http://www.arwen-undomiel.com/forum/

RPG Character of the Month (voting) http://www.arwen-undomiel.com/forum/viewtopic.php?f=29&t=15625	Page 1 of 1

Author:	pirateoftherings [ June 23rd, 2007, 1:18 pm ]
Post subject:	RPG Character of the Month (voting)
Okay, due to my requiring a slight extension that LDM could not provide, I promised to set up this month's voting for her in exchange (since she's not here to do so). Pretty easy; read the entries, pick two, vote in this format: 1. (2 pts) 2. (1 pt) Elenya Connor walked slowly into the restaurant office where he worked, eyes on the floor. He walked past his coworker’s desk without realizing it. “Hey!” he looked up quickly, yanked from his own thoughts. “No ‘good morning’ today?” Randi asked him, her acrylic fingernails tapping on the desk. “Sorry.” he answered. “Good morning.” Connor started to walk towards his own desk again until Randi’s voice stopped him again. “Alright, what’s wrong?” She stared at him with exaggerated patience. “Nothing. I’m just thinking.” Randi kept staring at him, skepticism written across her face. Sighing, Connor glanced around the office. He and Randi were the only two there. Pulling a chair over, he sat down on the opposite side of her desk. “Do I seem…different to you?” “Besides you’re ignoring me, no.” “Randi, I’m serious. Do I seem different, or have I been acting different, or anything?” Catching his solemn tone, Randi shook her head. “Aside from today, you’ve been yourself. Why? Why are you acting so weird?” In answer, Connor drew in a deep breath, then focused his gaze on a stapler lying on the desk. A long moment passed. “Connor…” Randi said doubtfully, but he held up a hand, silencing her. He kept staring intently at the stapler. Suddenly, it jerked about an inch to the right, then another half-inch. Connor sighed and leaned back, slumping in the chair. “How… what was that?” Randi asked, staring at the stapler as if would jump up and attack her. “I did that… just by thinking about it.” His co-worker stared at him, green eyes wide. She opened her mouth, closed it again, the broke into a tentative smile. “This is some joke, huh? It’s your weird English sense of humor again.” “Scottish.” Connor answered automatically. Leaning back in the chair, he ran his fingers through his brown hair. “Look, Randi, I know it’s crazy, but it’s not a joke. For the past few weeks, it’s been weird. I’ve felt like I could move things just by thinking about them, like I’m wasting time by actually touching them. I’ve even been having dreams about doing that. Then this morning…” he trailed off. “What, this morning?” Randi prompted. “This morning I did.” He hesitated. “I was eating breakfast, and couldn’t reach the salt. It was silly- I don’t know why I even tried it, but instead of standing up to grab it, I just looked at it and… thought about it moving towards me. And it did.” Randi stared at him for a long moment. “Wait.” She finally said. “Wait, wait, wait. You’re telling me you can move things just by thinking about it? Like a superhero or something? That’s crazy, I mean…” she fell silent. Nodding helplessly, Connor answered, “Yeah, I can. I know it’s crazy and impossible, but I can.” The two sat in silence for a long moment. “How much can you do?” Randi finally said. “Can you lift things, or just move them, or what?” “I don’t know. Today’s the first time I’ve tried. To be honest, this scares me. I mean- telekinesis? That’s something out of a sci-fi novel, not real life. And it’s getting easier each time I try. It took a long time for me to move the salt shaker, but I tried again later and it was easier.” “Why not try now?” Randi twisted a strand of hair around her finger, a habit of hers when she was nervous. Connor hesitated, then made up his mind. Why not? He was probably crazy thinking about this, and if it didn’t pan out, he wasn’t any worse off than when he started. If it did work, though… he didn’t want to think about that. He focused his attention on a potted plant in the corner of the room and thought about lifting it. For several long seconds nothing happened, then it rose a half inch. They both stared at it as it hovered uncertainly in the air. Taking a deep breath, Connor lifted it another few inches, then more than a foot. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his hands were shaking with the effort. Suddenly the plant crashed to the floor and tipped over, spilling soil across the carpet. They both jumped, staring at it. Finally, Connor pulled his gaze to Randi’s face. Looking back at him, she said, “Connor… This is really weird. Maybe you should talk to someone about it- a doctor or someone. I mean, this definitely isn’t normal. What if it’s some weird disease or something and this is a symptom?” Connor shook his head vehemently. “No, Randi. I can’t tell anyone about it, besides you. And you can’t tell anyone either, ok? I don’t want anyone knowing.” Randi nodded uncertainly. “I won’t tell, Connor, promise. But… what are you going to do?” He sighed heavily and looked back at the spilled plant. Shrugging, he said, “I don’t know.” Nauriel Rochnur Hello, friend, acquaintance, enemy, or whomever you may be. My name is Threng, and yesterday was the most important day of my life. It started off as any other. I woke up on my cot with the dawn sun in my eyes. A cool basin of water refreshed my looks along with my mind. It was cold, I remember, a week before the coming of winter. I was glad for my forge: it would keep me warm through the snow and the sleet. Yes, I have my own forge. I’m a blacksmith, that’s why. Never wanted to be anything else, you see. The few coals that had held their heat through the night were dying, so I quickly built of the fire to a white-hot blaze. To day would be long: my lord had asked me to forge him ten new swords for his guardsmen. I had finished some yesterday, but still I had enough work to last me till mid-day. The sun was high in the sky when I delivered the swords to my lord. He met me at the door, and bade me to enter. After inspecting them carefully, he looked at me. “You are a fine blacksmith,” He said. “and it shows in your work.” I nodded thankfully. “Thank you, my lord.” Even as I said that, he handed me a money bag, full of the money he owed me for my services. “You are kind” I said. “Thank you.” “You are most welcome.” He said, staring me strait in the eyes. I found that slightly unnerving. I was a tall man, and was used to staring down at people. He was the only man I knew who exceeded my height. “Know that I will ask for your services-“ he was cut off as a guard stumbled into the room. “My lord” he gasped, trying to talk even though he was winded. “Rebels, those who would have your power, are in the fortress. They are few, but skilled.” Fear blazed in my lord’s steel grey eyes, but so did anger and vengeance. “You must go, Threng Blacksmith. He pulled back his dark hair into a tail, as was the fighting style, and reached for a sword. He was going to fight those that would kill him. “Nay, my lord.” I disagreed. “Find me a hammer, or an axe. I will bash in the skulls of these intruders.” My lord looked at me. The expression on his face was unreadable, like a parchment with no writing. “Battle is not a pretty thing.” He answered me. “It is not glorious, nor is there any honor. Battle is hungry and cruel, like a hungry tiger. She care not who you are.” “I believe you, my Lord.” I answered, bowing my head slightly. “Yet I still wish to defend you, who protects those less fortunate and governs our lives for the better.” My lord nodded. “You know the risks. Hopefully you will not know the pain of death.” He looked to the guard, and commanded that he relinquish his war mallet and give it to me. “You can’t be serious, my lord” he muttered. “You must run away and let us handle this.” The guard had collapsed onto a chair in his weariness, but he still sounded strong and convinced. My lord, however, was not to be bullied or convinced to do something he didn’t wish. “No, Barag.” He said, calling his guard by name. “I will fight. No ruffian will take my place.” And with that we left, jogging down the hallways. I did not know where we were headed, and I don’t believe my lord did either. That’s why, out of nowhere, an arrow streaked by my lord. We turned around and saw no one, but heard the scuffling feet and hushed whispers. My lord beckoned me to hide with him in a doorway. “I thought we would fight, my lord” I said. I tried to sound brave, even though my heart was in my throat. “It is folly to fight against them just yet. They outnumber us, you could hear that.” He paused for a moment. He must have heard something I didn’t because he spoke in an excited whisper. “My guards come. They number many, and we will be able to fight.” Sure enough moments later I heard running men come down the hallway. At that moment my lord stepped out of the doorway and shouted, raising his sword; “Guards! To me! To me! Let us run these rebels against the wall and sever their heads!” And then, an ill placed arrow, shot by a rebel who dared to peek around the corner down the hall, met my lord’s breast. He fell to the ground with a gasp, as though he couldn’t believe he would actually he harmed. I felt a fury work into my heart, and a fear. I bellowed a war cry that shook the halls. The guards arrived, and seemed surprised at my presence, but when they saw my lord dying on the floor with a rebel’s arrow in his heart, we all charged as one. We turned the corner, to see the rebels. The balked slightly at first, but quickly regained composure. “You killed my lord!” I cried, waving my war mallet fiercely as I ran. The first rebel fell under my hammer, his head crushed with a sickening crunch. Two more fell his way. The battle seemed to go well, and we were clearly winning. I raised my hammer high above my head, prepared to bring it down on the nearest rebel. I wasn’t prepared, however, for the stab of pain in my side. I tripped to the ground with a sword in my belly. I couldn’t move, the pain was too much. I could only focus on staying alive, but even that seemed hard. Black started to creep into the corner of my vision, and the world went fuzzy. I couldn’t see, but strangely enough I could hear, though the sound was warped and I couldn’t understand it. Slowly though, even my hearing faded, and so did smell, and touch, and the taste of blood in my mouth, until I was closed off from all senses. From that point, I don’t know, and will not know, the happenings of the mortal world. Yesterday was the most important day of my life. Yesterday was the day it ended. Meldawen The sun was setting in a blaze of color. With it came night, encroaching upon the eastern face of city Vryngard and contrasting sharply with the flash of brilliant vermilion on the horizon. Stars were just beginning to glimmer on the edge of the dark eastern sky, glinting like tiny suns of themselves as the large one sank into oblivion for another night. It was beautiful, a splash of vibrant color blanketed by luminous cloud. It was the gloomiest thing Merrin had ever seen. She'd disguised her despondency all day in a manner that, if not completely convincing, was effective enough to avoid question. Aye, the rap she'd given Kylera across the shins with a wooden practice sword had not been entirely accident, as Merrin had claimed – and been believed, the twenty-four-year-old page was by no means a favorite amongst the ranks of pages in general – but it was the only overtly noticeable sign of Merrin's unhappiness. And as she had expected, nobody had taken any particular notice anyway. The girl blotted her tears with the sleeve of her tunic. She should have waited to cry alone, she knew, but since the last time an irate Nyrrine had hissed across the dark dormitory for Merrin to be quiet – and she'd been crying as quietly as she knew how! – she’d abandoned the strategy of waiting until she thought they were asleep. Instead Merrin got her dinner and slipped up to an abandoned balcony to eat it in silence. Her sixteenth nameday dinner. At home it would have been grand, a rare roast chicken with fresh greens and potatoes steaming and soft, and presents afterwards. The food was not so different, and much better in the city; Vryngard was a major trade center and Merrin had come across a thousand kinds of food she'd never heard of before, let alone seen. But she would have far preferred to have ordinary food and be home, rather than even a feast here. You wanted this! You begged for this, dreamed of this, lived this every time you had a spare waking moment. Stop it! The last of the tears went and Merrin slipped down to dangle her legs between the ornate stone balcony railings and lean her forehead against their cool roughness. The sun was nearly gone now, just a faint flush on the horizon. Absently she wound a strand of hair around her finger. "Ah, I see my spot’s been usurped." Merrin nearly jumped out of her skin, rapping her forehead hard against the stone. She winced and turned halfway to squint at where someone leaned against the wide doorway out to the balcony, silhouetted against torchlight. He moved out to lean on the railing beside where she sat. "Sorry. Didn’t mean to sneak up on you." Merrin shook her head to indicate it was fine. There was a moment of silence. "Care to tell a man the name of his balcony-thief?" He was jesting, as was indicated by the tinge of amusement in his voice, but Merrin tilted her head to look up just in case. He was older than her, likely by more than a decade. Maybe thirty or so. Brown hair, let to grow slightly long, fell into genial brown eyes. "Merrin," she said, realizing she was staring. "Ah – Merrin of Riversmeet. The tanner's my da." "I see. I'm Tsorin Redglyn. And why were you crying, Merrin of Riversmeet?" He asked this very casually, looking at the fading light of the sun on the horizon, and Merrin was almost irritated. Almost. She didn't quite have the necessary energy. And Redglyn…that house had at least two representatives on the Council. He was a noble. However – "I wasn't," she said with as much conviction as she could muster, and rose to lean on the railing – she intended to keep far away enough from him to imply conversation would not be an ongoing circumstance, but did not quite succeed. He turned to lean his elbows on the stone behind, with his back to darkening sky, grinning. "You didn't answer my question." Merrin frowned down at the mountainside below, dotted with small balconies and lit windows as it was. Vryngard was built into a mountain, dwarf-made close to three thousand years before, and she examined the intricate art of it for as long as she politely could. "Well?" Why couldn't he just go away? "It's my nameday," said Merrin grudgingly. "Your -? Oh. Doesn’t seem reason for tears." Merrin concluded that all nobles must be prying busybodies. "And – and t’wasn’t remembered," she added. "I’m sixteen years today." "Surely your friends will remember, will they not? ‘Tis easy to mistake a day." She was silent a moment, and then with an only semi-successful attempt at nonchalance returned, "I…don’t have any friends." "Come, everybody has friends." The cajoling tone in his voice made Merrin instantly indignant. "S’pose I’m not everybody, then?” she demanded, turning to look at him. "I don’t have any friends. They all…they…I don’t." "All right, then, I believe you." He was regarding her almost curiously now, and reached to finger the miniature dragon embroidered on her tunic. "You’re a page? Young, a little, aren’t you?" "Sixteen," said Merrin, and knew full well it was young. "I…I came to be a rider. None of the others want to, they’re only pages because...they can be." "Because it grants them leave to go to balls and boast that they’ll become heroes, when that’s not what they want at all?" "Yes! They leave half their work undone and never practice, ever, and – gods, I don’t want to be a dragonrider any more if that’s what they’re like!" Merrin almost surprised herself with the outburst. He still looked at her curiously. "You’ve an accent…where are you from, Merrin?" She glanced sideways at him. There didn’t seem to be a trace of teasing so she replied carefully, "Riversmeet. South Havandor. Like as not you’ve never heard of it." "Like as not." The words sounded strange coming from his lips and Merrin realized belatedly that it was one of the phrases that’d earned her her title – peasant, little peasant girl. She almost thought he’d read her thoughts when he responded, "You wouldn’t be the one Kylera’s mentioned, would you? Little peasant - girl, she said?" His hesitation told her Kylera’s wording had not been quite so kind. "Aye, I’m the one. You…know Kylera, then?" "We’re betrothed. Married in a month." Merrin didn’t realize how openly she was gaping at him until he raised an eyebrow and she hastily removed her incredulous stare. Who would marry Kylera of their own free will? "I must say,” he muttered, “her description wasn’t at all accurate." Merrin eyed him obliquely for a moment. She didn’t want to know what Kylera had said. "Aye…well…that’s Kylera." "Care to correct it? So far I’m very confused. You’re a conundrum, Merrin." Merrin remained silent while he ticked off points on his fingers. "You’ve got no friends but you’re the first dragon-page I’ve met who merits the title, Kylera doesn’t like you – though that’s not a hard feat to accomplish – and yet you’re here. They must tease you with very little restraint." "I’m here because I couldn’t live with myself if I went home." The words burst out and Merrin found herself continuing almost against her will. "I dreamt of dragons for so long – years – and at home there was hardly a chance to see one, never mind ride…there was a dragon, a gold one, when I was thirteen summers. I only got to look but I wanted more so badly – I thought I’d die if I couldn’t see more, know more. Even touch one. Then there was another…and I talked to her, the dragon, and she told me such wonderful things! About battles and flying and all the colors dragons are, and then…she asked if I wanted to become a rider." Her voice fell low, above a whisper but just barely. "It was a dream come true, like a story. I was so…happy. It hurt to leave them all, Mama and Da and Jayen and T’mor and the twins…and Mama going to have a baby…but I thought…I thought it would be different." To Merrin’s disgust she found herself wanting to cry again. "I thought there would be people like me. But there aren’t." "Be different, then." Neither of them looked at each other – Merrin was staring miserably down at the stone railing and Tsorin off into the sky. "You’ll be a dragonrider Vryngard rarely sees, Merrin. Like no other." Merrin blinked several times to dam the flow of tears. She’d cried once already this evening. "How…how do you know?" "How do you think? I’m going to marry Kylera, don’t forget. Will she be a great dragonrider?" Merrin found the thought almost comical. "No," she admitted. "And are you like her?" "No." He smiled wryly at her vehemence. "Then logic dictates it, Merrin of Riversmeet." Logic dictated it? That she would be a great dragonrider. Would she, then? Merrin found herself imagining it, getting the old chills down her spine when she thought of having her own dragon, of riding one. She could smile at the thought. She couldn’t smile when she thought of going home. That meant giving up, accepting that her dream was just that – a dream. No. When she looked up to reply the balcony was empty. ----- When Merrin reluctantly expressed her good wishes as to Kylera’s upcoming wedding she found her awkwardly given felicitations met with stony, nonplussed silence. "I’m not getting married." Merrin faltered in dismay, glancing up from where she was folding the blankets of the pallet she slept on. "Not – to Tsorin Redglyn? He said – " When she looked up Kylera wore a lofty look that said Merrin was being an idiot. "He said you were," she persisted timidly. "What do you do, talk to walls? Tsorin Redglyn’s dead three years. I’m not betrothed." Kylera swept out with a toss of blonde curls and Merrin stared in perplexity at her half-folded bedding. Dead three years? Then how -? When she departed with her rapier for sword drills, Merrin looked up upon passing a row of open balconies and a familiar figure winked at her. She hardly noticed it the first time, but when she did a double-take and went to look again – there was no one. I’m wrong in the head! He was there, that evening! It was a voice in her head – but not her thoughts – that replied. The gods care for their chosen, Merrin. That evening you needed a friend. pirateoftherings “And where do you think you are going, young man?” Kjan winced and slowly looked up from preparing his horse. Young man. How he loathed that title. Yes, true enough, he was the ‘baby’ of the family, but when the ‘baby’ was nearing his twenty-eighth birthday and was quite obviously an adult, the title became, bluntly put, ridiculous. Going to plot a rebellion, Mother, he thought dryly. Delivering precious information to an organization that shall bring our beloved Regent to his knees, Mother. Disobeying you again, Mother. “I am going out with some friends, Mother,” he said out loud. “In this weather?” Kjan looked outside and cursed mentally. Of course it had started raining. It had to start raining. “It is a matter of utmost importance, Mother,” he insisted. That part, at least, was true. “Roskild just purchased a fine new stallion, and he is anxious for us to see it.” That part was technically true as well, though completely irrelevant to the first. “It cannot wait until tomorrow?” she asked dubiously. “No.” A moment of silence passed, and his mother let out that sigh-- the sigh that seemed to have been ingrained in all females from birth and automatically manifested the first time their own offspring did something stupid. The I-can’t-believe-this-came-from-my-own-womb sigh. “You are recalling that we are having company this evening?” “The thought had entirely slipped my mind, Mother,” Kjan deadpanned, leaving it completely up to her own judgment whether he had, in fact, remembered. It probably wasn’t wise, he reflected, to goad her on like this when he was trying to gain her favor. But he did so enjoy seeing that look of exasperation on her face. It made her look positively radiant. “Lord Grey and his family shall be dining with us tonight, Kjan.” There it was. “His son Phaerin, of course, shall not be attending, but in light of recent occurrences, the less you have to do with that man, the better.” Kjan fought back a smirk at the irony of that statement. “I wholeheartedly agree, Mother,” he lied. “And, assuming I am not to be further interrogated, I shall return within a few hours with plenty of time for supper.” “Looking presentable?” “My very finest,” he promised, kissing her on the cheek. “At least wear your cloak,” his mother requested in a rare display of resignation. “You’ll catch your death, riding in this weather.” In response, Kjan merely held up the dark blue cloak he’d draped over his arm and mounted his steed. “Farewell, dear Mother!” he cried, swirling the cloak dramatically around his shoulders. “I shall soon return!” Saluting sharply, he dug his heels into the horse’s sides and tore out of the stable at top speed. <center>------------------------------</center> The Phantom briefly scanned the piece of parchment handed to him by Kjan and grinned, folding it and tucking it away for later. "It's a pity you haven't found a pair of Regent's men in your dining room yet, too." This was, of course, how the Phantom had come to even have need of a hideout. A pair of casual dinner guests had turned out to be not-so-casual agents of the Regent, coming to express the Regent’s growing displeasure with the little band of rebels. Kjan smirked uneasily, then quickly changed the subject. "So," he commented with a casual grin. "I see the Keep has not yet collapsed to the ground or burst into flame or anything of that nature. I take it leading is going well, then?" "I've driven off three - no, four, counting Lord Eldin today - dignitaries in the last fortnight because they decided they preferred the Regent to my organization skills. Other than that, yes. Quite well. Oh...and I suppose you could count the fact that I forgot my last raiding party wasn't equipped with weapons..." Phantom paused here, grimacing slightly. "Didn't carry themselves off so well." "You need a second-in-command," Kjan suggested seriously. "Surely there are some in the Keep who have held some position of command before?" The Phantom looked to be considering this momentarily. "I might just hire Temrys," he suggested in all seriousness before grinning. "No, the one I might consider giving the job to unfortunately still has a standing as far as nobility goes." "Roskild?" Kjan asked uncertainly. "Claustrophobia," said the Phantom with a resigned expression. "Poor fellow." "Azmyth?" The Phantom shook his head. "I didn't tell you about him? Well, I was pleasantly surprised a few mornings ago to find he'd taken off with my sketches for the north mountain entrance. Location and all. Haven't seen him since." "Well," Kjan said awkwardly, shifting his weight to the other foot. "I'm sure you'll find one eventually." "Aye," agreed the Phantom amiably. "I might just tip off the Regent that there's a rebellious young man a few miles west of the Grey estate that needs taking in hand… Assuming, of course, you got out before he actually succeeded." Kjan grimaced. "Right...that'd work out just splendidly," he commented lightly, attempting to just laugh it off. "Let’s put Kjan in control of a bunch of people. 'You, stand over there. You, stack that wood in a perfectly symmetrical pile. You, sing Kytana's anthem backwards while standing on your hands and juggling fiery brands with your feet,'" he ordered, lowering his voice in mock-authority and pointing to imaginary men. "Honestly, Phae, you flatter." "Not at all," replied the Phantom in pretended indignation. "I happen to know you're very good yourself at singing Kytana's anthem backwards while standing on your hands." He paused thoughtfully. "Maybe without the fiery brands, though." "Aye, precisely why my talents are better spent in that realm and not in a position of authority," Kjan said quickly, steadily edging toward his horse and the exit. "Sadly, I cannot linger. We are dining with your lovely parents tonight, and I did promise to be punctual." "Really? I would send greetings to my lord father...except that I believe he's convinced himself I don't exist. Disowned me, too." He leaned against the doorframe, levity gone. "I could use your help, Kjan." "Perhaps one day," Kjan assented, more to appease his friend than to make any sort of pact. "As for now, I'm afraid espionage shall have to suffice. I have my family, Phae. My sister. Cerys would be heartbroken if I just disappeared into the night like so many others. Not now. Not yet." His foot miraculously found the stirrup without his eyes' assistance, and he hoisted himself up onto his steed. "Some day, Phae. Farewell!" <center>------------------------------</center> It had begun to lightly rain by the time Kjan rode back into the capitol, but the prematurely-dark skies spoke of worse to come. Urging his horse on, he finally came to his father’s stables, only to find them securely shut. Arching an eyebrow inquiringly, Kjan dismounted and went to investigate. He had not gone five steps when a hand grabbed his wrist and pulled him into the shadows. He whirled around, only to realize he knew the ‘attacker.’ “Cerys, what-” “They know,” Cerys said breathlessly. Cerys was the younger of his two sisters, only a year older than himself. She was a slender, pale thing, and, judging by her current condition, had run all the way to the stables. “Sister, dearest, you yet again confound me with your generalities,” Kjan said, slowly extracting himself from his sister’s grasp. “Who, exactly, are ‘they,’ and what, exactly, do they know?” “Everyone,” Cerys expounded impatiently. “They know of the Phantom.” “Cerys, they have known of the Phantom for several months-” “Shh!” His sister quickly put a hand over his mouth to silence him. “Not just of the Phantom, Kjan. They know of you and the Phantom!” “How-” “Did you honestly think that the Phantom was the only one with spies?” Cerys replied, shaking her head. “Someone told. The soldiers came not half an hour ago. When you weren’t here, they assumed you had already gotten word and fled.” “And Father?” “Papa and Aran are leading the hunt,” Cerys whispered. “Whoever turns you in will gain great favor with the Regent, and…” She trailed off uneasily. Kjan wasn’t sure which irritated him more: that his own father had turned on him in order to further his own position, or that he wasn’t surprised in the least. Not that he’d ever deluded himself into thinking for even a moment that his father would be on his side, but it would have been nice to be able to give him the benefit of the doubt for once. “Well, that does complicate things a bit,” he finally commented, trying to keep his tone light. “You have to get out, Kjan,” Cerys insisted, echoing the conclusion that Kjan had reached roughly two minutes ago. “I already took care of everything. Here is a pack; there is enough food for at least two days, just in case you should run into trouble. Your knives are right here. I even have my horse prepared and tied up right here. Take her; they’ll be looking for yours, and I certainly have little use for her.” Kjan hesitated for a brief moment. “Come with me,” he insisted. “They’ll know you helped.” “I’m a woman, Kjan,” she scoffed, her tone far more acerbic than anything Kjan could ever recall hearing from his tender, delicate sister. “And a sickly one at that. Such treacherous complexities would be too much for my poor mind to bear. Besides, they cannot prove anything…as long as you’re not caught.” “I could not ask for a better sister,” Kjan said seriously, kissing her on the cheek and gently embracing her-- he was always afraid that she would just shatter like glass in his arms, delicate as she was. “We will see each other again.” Cerys returned the embrace, then smacked him hard on the arm. “Go.” After a half second more of hesitation, Kjan resolutely turned and climbed up onto his sister’s horse. Kicking the animal in the sides as hard as he could, Kjan shot off into the night once more. <center>------------------------------</center> It was several hours later when a rain-soaked, frantic Kjan was admitted into the Phantom’s Keep. Thoroughly exhausted, he could only stand there and attempt to regulate his breathing as Phae- the Phantom entered the room. The rebel leader looked him up and down once, blinked, and commented, “Did you offend your lady mother perhaps once too many times, Kjan?" Kjan merely shook his head, sending water droplets everywhere. "I ask because I think she's forgotten where the servants need to fling their washwater. Towel?" Kjan accepted the towel gratefully and dried off his face and hair, leaving the latter sticking out at all sorts of interesting angles. “Phantom Grey,” he finally managed to get out, his expression and tone uncharacteristically solemn. “You have your second-in-command.” Turwaithiel Swann The sun has not yet reached above the trees and the dew is still on the ground in the forest of Mirkwood. The Elves of the Wood have not yet stirred…at least, most of them haven’t. One She-Elf sits near a fallen Rowan tree on her knees, which are covered in mud. Her clothes are still damp from the past night’s rain, yet her face did not need the rain to make it wet. Her own tears could do that job well enough. In her hands she clutched in a death grip a small idem of great value to her…the only thing that kept her from feeling like dying. As many know that Elves are immortal, but they also have weaknesses that could lead to death. One of those is a broken heart. Turwaithiel’s heart was in this way. In her hands she clutched a single dagger. It was kept in its sheath and its blade was short and silver and shining in color. Engraved in it, were the Elvish words: “I love you now and I will always, no matter what happens.. This is a gift. Use it well.” Turwaithiel’s looked at it now, and looked at the fallen tree. This was the tree that they first meet. This is the tree that held all there memories. She remembered that he used to say that no matter how withered and how broken this tree looked on the outside, inside, it was strong. He said that that was how she was. No matter how weak she looked or felt inside, he said that deep down inside she was strong, and there love was strong also. No matter if they were apart, there love was always strong. That is why Tur choose to mourn at this spot. Suddenly, a snap of a leaf breaking came from behind her, yet she did not move. “I felt you come.” She said, her voice weak from weeping. She did not look at the newcomer. He stepped lightly towards her and asked, “Dear sister, why do you weep so? Father is worried.” Turwaithiel turned now to see her brother, Veryangole, looking down at her. “Do you not know?” “Would I ask if I did?” Veryangole now knelt alongside his twin and he looked her in the eyes. “You have not wept like this in ages. What cause you now?” “A messenger came from afar yesterday, Veryangole…a messenger for me.” “What did he want?” Veryangole pressed on. For the first time, Turwaithiel looked willingly into her brother’s eyes. “He’s dead, Ver. They found his body lying by his fallen horse on the road towards Minas Tirith. His party was ambushed…by orcs. The only survivor said there was at least fifty orcs…the Elven party ran for it…but he stayed and fought. He…had no chance, no help at all!” She looked back down again. “I just received a letter from him yesterday. Our wedding was to be this spring. He was coming home in two weeks.” Veryangole looked at his sister and instantly his heart pulled toward her, as he reached to embrace her, and she wept silently in his arms. She loved that man more than anybody and this was one of the most important days of her life, coming up. She was going to start a family. Now…now, Veryangole knew what path she would take. Her father and her lover finally persuaded her to take the road down an easy life, without war, and bloodshed. They convinced her not to be a warrior, to settle. Now, nothing would stop her. She would become her father’s worst fear. She would become a warrior. Curunìr Crove the sorcerer, Crove the half-breed, Crove the exile. Such things I have been and become during the course of my short existence in this world. But one like you must ask himself, where did this Crove fellow start? How did this half-breed wild elf raised by the high elves, fairest of all races of Faerun turn into such a ruthless, self serving bast*rd of a sorcerer? Hah, such a foolish line of questioning don`t you think? My birth or creation was probably not intentional, most probably I was considered `an accident`, an unwanted child that was given to foster care of elves who apparently were unable to have anymore children of their own. Yet what do I know or remember about my parents? A little, very little, I only remember my mother, but even that that image is distorted and fuzzy..... ah feeling sad for me already are you? Do not, for I have no use for your pity. Yet in any case, whether I was a product of a rape or just a one night stand between a female wild elf and a human male it doesn’t really matter. What matters is what happened next. I was given away for some reason I have never come to discover and I was taken in by my foster parents, a high elven couple with two of their own children yet who had already grown to be independent of them. At the time I was around two or three years old, a mere child on the elven scale yet due to my human heritage I would grow faster than any elven child. The first years of my childhood were typical to an elf yet already by the age of 25 I was more than ready to begin proper studies in some arts that the elves practiced. The elves are such dreamers, poets, artists and bards, I could have been one, but I chose not to for I had discovered something completely else, gift from my human father, magic. The magic in question flows trough my veins and proves that my father had some other roots than human, dragon possibly from many generations past. Many of us, sorcerers are of such origins yet it isn`t all that sure of what that origin is. Yet I am trailing off, again and should not distract you with petty details of my kind. I discovered these powers in question by the age of 20 when I was out hunting in the woods with my step-brother, Olven, he was proud one and still is, the head of my `family` these days actually. He was considered an ideal elven warrior yet truth be told he is an arrogant fool and only stumbles on his pride. Of course this made his consider me as a `weaker` being and when one does that, he underestimates the capabilities of the opponent or whatever I was to him at that moment. He was angered by the fact that I had been clumsy and cost us our meal earlier on, so we had an argument, when he was about to punch me I did something remarkable out of pure rage. The bonfire beside us rose ablaze and his clothes caught on fire, but he of course as a skilled man managed to get them off. Yet when he rose back up and looked at me, there was no rage or hatred towards me, fear. He stenched of fear, ah what a thriving feeling of success and power that was and guess what? He has never dared to even try to lay his finger upon me and is afraid of fire, especially magical fire from my hand. Thus as you can imagine this event led me to making some research and I learned that some people who have magical heritage can utilize that. So when I was ready my foster father agreed and sent me to the mages guild to learn from the very best, I did quite well actually, but tended to get bored and that was not even the biggest of problems. They wouldn’t have allowed me to use my natural powers, but would have forced me into using their ways gaining my power trough learning and reading. But I was not willing to be oppressed like that so I began disobeying them and doing things my way. This of course angered my masters and made everyone call me reckless as I did not choose oppress my natural gifts. Yet as we all know, if there is a rebellion, there are always those to suppress it and so they did. I was thrown out of the guild and denied access ever again, such a harsh punishment from the peace loving elves for such a petty crime don`t you think? `Father` was so disappointed in me, he had imagined that I could have one day become the archmage of the guild with my talents, but he didn`t curse me for betraying his trust. Hmh, well a father must look after his sons and forgive them eh? And so I did have one last request from him as his son, gold to fund my travels. With a suspicious face he agreed to my request and so I washed my hands clean of my childhood home, no longer would I be bound to the elven hierarchy or the mages hounding my every step for what I was, for what I did not want to suppress. What was the point of my departure? Freedom? Hardly, I already had freedom, but it was power and knowledge that I yearned. So I roamed restlessly across Faerun, from teachers to another who were willing to teach me the ways of sorcery and not condemn me for it. Unfortunately the most dominant race of Fauerun was also dominant amongst my teachers, humans. I learned much from them and reached new limits in power, but in return I suffered what I had to, humiliation, even hate towards my elven heritage and poor living conditions. I was only a play thing to them, many only took me under their tutelage to see, if could survive their cruel teaching and humiliation. I was chained once more by my teachers yet only this time I accepted the chains and accepted what they were willing to give me in return. Yet in such cruelty lied a lesson for me to learn, power kept others at bay and bended them into your will that was if you had the power required. So I slowly began to understand how rulers and especially tyrants were able to keep power, fear kept their servants honest and power scared them. So by now I had already lived a human life, around 80 years old I decided that 40 years of humiliation would come to an end, that I was already strong enough to learn more on my own and a `homecoming` might be a perfect way to start on that path. One step towards the woods, One arrow flying trough the air and piercing my leg. So I fell, I fell in pain and shock. Why were my fellow elves shooting at me? Then they came, the mages and with them, a familiar face, Olven. I naturally demanded to know what the meaning of it all was and so they told me, my foster father had passed away and Olven had become the head of the family, but on top of that he had become the leader of the village. Next they exiled me for my vile ways, calling me a heathen, a half-breed and a disgrace for turning away from my elven heritage by learning sorcery from humans. Such brotherly love Olven showed me, stabbing me in the back when I returned and allying himself with my worst enemies. We had actually parted in peace and there had not been any hatred between us, but apparently he had been only willing to do so as he believed that I would depart forever. So I cried, I laughed out of joy and pain. I told them all that I no longer needed them. I spat in their face and told them that it was jealousy that drove them to their resolution; there was no true reason behind my exile, but jealousy and fear. Again fear had proven out to be a critical element in the course of my life and ah, I didn`t forget to repay Olven his `love` when he was about to leave. I lit him on fire, I set a high flame on him and enjoyed as his flesh burned, even today he bares the scares left by those flames. I never saw his face, but I could tell he was afraid to even look at my way or to even speak my name; I had become his worst nightmare. He would have surely die had it not been for the mages, but still they did not wish to kill me as elves are not `that sort`. No, they would cut you off from everything that is dear to you rather than kill you, such hypocrites, but in my exile they were not able to cut me off from my sorcery and so I survived. I survived and left for the sword coast, I arrived to Athkatla, the city of coin, the capital of Amn, a wealthy nation between the sword coast and the southern lands. Here I was fully aware that a certain organization would watch my every step should they ever learn of my powers, the cowled wizards who practically ruled most of the matters in the city. Deviants they referred us as, those that did not submit to their rule and cast spells without their authorization. I was fortunate to encounter one of the cowled wizards and slay him in order to get a certain wand in his possession, but that only angered the rest of wizards so I escaped them to the seas with the help of a certain other organization as the thought of Spell hold, an asylum for the deviants, wasn`t all that attractive. So now I had turned to the wide open seas and I was actually quite refreshing, I worked as a ship sorcerer for many years and gained a sizable fortune in the side all tough the fortune was lost in Luskan. And indeed, it was in Luskan that my fate was sealed as I joined on the pay lists of a thieves guild and began carrying out murders, thievery’s and smuggling of magical artifacts. `All in the name of coin and power`. A catchy phrase that I caught in the guild a while back and that principle has guided me on my thief magician career. All the way up to this, now I have been presented with a most daring career choice, I have everything to gain and lose. I have been tasked with disposing of a mage from the guild of Luskan, the guild towers are well guarded and mages are rarely seen alone in town in the night. It’s risky, but every plan has it’s merits and profits does it not? My future seems uncertain, but certainly Crove the sorcerer can defeat a petty mage and his defences can he not? Surely Crove the half-breed can outlive the humans of this cruel city and why couldn`t Crove the exile survive in a city built on cruelty and coin?

Page 1 of 1	All times are UTC - 5 hours [ DST ]
Powered by phpBB © 2000, 2002, 2005, 2007 phpBB Group http://www.phpbb.com/