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Each character nominated has up to three sample posts. Happy voting!
Comments are MOST welcome.
Gramsil - Sacred Realm (Old Man)
3 posts
[Post #1]
Gramsil felt like he had slept for a hundred years. For all he knew, he might have. His last memory was an encounter with a dead elf, a Chosen one. He had drained the elf's magic, and suddenly he had heard whispers and seen visions. Then all went black.
But now he was awake once more, the bright sun shining on his face. All around him were strange trees, and the air was heavy and moist. He stretched to his full height, turning cautiously to look for any other beings. He could taste magics, some small and some large, some harmless and some less than kind. Reluctantly, he set out in the direction of the smells. The startled shriek of some foreign bird was more proof of others, and Gramsil needed answers. Carefully clipping a path through jungle with razor-sharp diamond claws, he at last reached the edge of the trees, and the start of ocean. Humans, elves, and other creatures? He paused, shrinking back almost out of sight. The last time encounter with elves had resulted in some very unmasculine squeals soon followed by dangerous spells. The behemoth doubted others would react any less kindly, and there were some very potent magics emanating from a few of the beings.
[Post #2]
Gramsil saw an opening with the unusual woman's words. She didn't believe in magic? Perhaps she could try to explain him away. He strode forward into their midst, ignoring the looks of fear or astonishment. M...A...G..I..C. I..S...R..E..A..L. Bah, the mysterious mage with the staff already beat him to it. He rose from the words now gouged into the sand. If only they would begin to attempt to acquire some vessels, instead of just repeating the need for them.
Silently, Gramsil turned his gaze to the horizon. Somewhere out there lay answers. Perhaps someone could tell him what he was, even if they couldn't explain why. He let his arms hang from his sides, diamond-tipped fingers catching the sunlight and refracting beams of color onto the earth. 600 years, and he seemed further than ever from discovering his purpose. Or creating one.
The others all had something to return for. Kingdoms, lovers, who knew what all? Slowly, very slowly, a thought, a hope, wormed its way into his mind. Perhaps I can help these..somehow. And someone summoned us all here. For a purpose. He had to find out what they were brought together for. Who brought them, and why.
[Post #3]
Gramsil had seen the dark-skinned elf gazing skyward, and had sensed a distant, yet malevolent magical power at work. Another reason to distrust the assassin. Looking over the group, he realized that very few looked fit to do any amount of rowing. And he doubted that those who could would last very long, not including the only current volunteer. Said volunteer had made sense when he dismissed the idea of a trek to the village. Gramsil doubted that the villagers would help anymore than they already had. And what help they did offer was with great reluctance. Besides, the gift of canoes was a not-so-tactful suggestion to leave as quickly as possible.
It was decided, or at least for Gramsil. Ignoring the dark elf, he stepped up to another rough dugout and very carefully clambered in. The canoe rocked, but didn't sink. Perhaps they were better-made than they looked. He gave an experimental swipe in the water with one cupped fist, causing the canoe to bolt forward and strain against its mooring-rope. And almost capsize. Ah, well. It looked like Gramsil would be of some service out on the water. Unless they should hit a storm, but he didn't even want to think about that. And how far down the ocean floor was. The disadvantages of being stone.
Xarw - Sacred Realm (Curunir)
3 posts
[Post #1]
Xarw had already sprung into action to kill him as he threw his a dart towards Cyznul`s stomach as he prepared to finish him off with a rapier.
"Not clever enough..."
He muttered yet at that moment few shocking thoughts went trough his mind and the words of Menor rang trough his mind.
Trust no one
Every little thing can be a collosal trap
Xarw quickly spun behind a column and began looking for the key, his fingers got a hold of it and his hand was already extended into a throw as it the spells within it were set free. They were triggered by the death of Vushaz and apparently the ones that placed them, had wanted to get rid of Xarw too after he would have finished Cyznul or that the spells would have taken them both.
Luckily for his life he had realized the trap in time, unfortunately for his face and hand he had realized the trap too late. An explosion mixed with acid and fire sent a shock wave, throwing him back in pain, the spells burned his face and his right hand. When it ceased Xarw laid on the ground with some parts of his faces and hand burned, he grinned in pain and bit his cheek trying hard not to scream. Now he could only wait for Cyznul to end his life for the treachery or if not him then someone else, didn`t matter. He had been out witted in his arrogance and his years of experience seemed nothing now.
[Post #2]
At the first sight of the wyverns descending from the skies, Xarw whipped out his crossbow into his left hand whilst the right moved to a holster of crossbow bolts by his side. When one of the riders simply demanded surrender or death, the drow had made his choice and loaded the nimble bow. When the whole beach seemingly turned into a battlefield Xarw lunged towards the woods, knowing he the wyverns would have trouble reaching for him. However he stopped as his path was cut off by two wyverns and their riders, a slight grin appeared on Xarw`s face.
Yet then again how many times had he stared death in the face and laughed at it? How many decades had he survived in a world where every step might be your last and behind every turn there is a blade bared at your throat. He might have grown more subtle in his way of dealing with things in the world above, but at least he had not forgotten how to kill like before. The string snapped, sending a bolt right into the wing of the other wyvern, where it was left sticking out. The the other one charged and forced Xarw to lunge at his right, but then only to notice, that the other had recovered and was coming forth. Xarw discarded his crossbow to the ground, he used magic to create a ring of darkness around himself. The wounded the wyvern and it`s rider still charged forth ferociously, ready to rip him apart despite the sudden obstacle.
As the beast rider swooped into the darkness and slashed wildly in an arc with his weapon the motion was stopped, suddenly he felt something pull the weapon. At that next instant as the wyvern exited the ring of darkness, Xarw had already mounted the creatures back and sunk his longsword into the chest of the rider. Now it would be only a matter of time before the wyvern would be dead as well, the poison coursing trough it`s veins was hopefully taking in an effect. However Xarw was not willing to rely on, that as he threw the dead rider down from the wyverns back and still held onto the spear of the rider with his left hand. The beast aware of what was happening went wild, trying to shake off the masked `man`, that was now hanging onto his life. Xarw had to admit, that it had been a reckless move of him, but at least it might do some good.
With a sudden glance he spotted a former threat approaching as the other wyvern rider approached him with the intention of knocking him off the beast he was dangling on. It was a far cry for a kill, but he quickly raised the spear above his head and sent it flying across the air at the enemy. The foe simply moved out of the way of the badly aimed throw, but at least it had bought the drow sometime to prepare for a crash landing. The poison was in fact working as the beat of the wyverns wings became ever slower and they were losing altitude with great speed. Xarw grinned widely as he grabbed the reins and pulled hoping to direct the beast into the right direction.
Both he and the wyvern crashed near the shoreline, where the water was the lowest.
[Post #3]
The cursed sun burned bright above him, teasing him and making him sneer at it for cursing him. Quietly he grasped the final bottle of water, which he had still left on this journey and hoped, that it wouldn`t be the last bottle of water he would ever grasp to. Sand, endless mounds of sand enveloped him and surrounded him to every direction on the horizon. Maybe splitting up from the mage had not been the best choice after all, he had a stubborn and not to mention vicious character yet he did have his uses. At least he might have had way to cover them from their wretched weakness under the giant ball of fire and even got them off the desert in a matter of moments. These the the thoughts and regrets of Xarw Meldi, an outcast drow trampling across the sands of Calimshan, alone due to an unfortunate set back to his last enterprise.
Apparently authorities at Calimport, a rotten den of thieves and rats all tough people preferred to be use the moniker `city`, had not taken too kindly having a drow operating in the region. For a while he had worked as an anonymous, masked assassins, but alas he just had to get greedy in all things. Not that he was poor or anything of the sort, but he had found something profitable than taking out thieves from rival guilds.
"Oh by Vhaeraun and Mask what I`d do to for an oasis"
He uttered from the bottom of his heart and dry throat, to his gods, which he had come to `worship`. Where others might have seen religion as some kind of a conduct for atonement or simply just some kind of respite or even power, Xarw saw an avenue for profit. After all the gods he served were the patron gods of thieves, drow and human, thus it seemed more than logical, that trough their religion making money would be seen favorable. However when you set up a small shrine for one of those gods and tend to make some money out of it whilst on the side involving yourself in slavery and assassinations, people tend to get envious. Also being an independent and mysterious entrepreneur in the big boys backyard, you are just going to invite the fangs of their dogs to bite you.
So in the end, he had set up a small slaughter party in his shrine for a number of thugs and assassins, needless to say, who walked out alive from that place. However as fate, a backstabbing *beep*, would have it his dark heritage was discovered at that time and knowing how much his head would fetch on the market, Xarw made a run for it. Yet the thieves of Calimport are rather well known for either their stupidity or stubbornness as they had not waited for the desert to claim him. Thanks to them he lost a number of his provisions and supplies, even his *beep* camel, but at least in return he had the cold satisfaction of chopping them up into little pieces. Of course except for one, their leader, whom he had nailed into the smelling carcass of the dead camel with poisoned crossbow bolts. It had been a laugh, but when you kill one man in such a method it just stops being funny after a while.
The man would die a slow and painful death, even, if anyone were to find him alone screaming in the desert for aid. Yet a merciful person would just thrust a blade into the poor thieves heart. A merciful god would give him a miracle and save his life, but alas he did not believe, that those two where nowhere near forgiving. Xarw casually tossed away the last, dry bottle of water before stopping for a while to gaze around. One moment his vision started to blur and he felt dizzy, he blinked his eyes as he tried hard to remain on his feet yet even they gave away against his will. Falling face first to the sand, he cursed and spat some out of his mouth.
He breathed heavily and brushed sweat off his obsidian dark forehead before stumbling up. One blink of his eyes and he was back on his feet again, but not where he had fallen. Beneath his feet there was sand, indeed, but this was not desert sand, it was that of a beach. For a moment Xarw gazed around at the ocean, which suddenly had appeared to his side and the waves, that splashed against his feet. Xarw managed to force a few words out of his dry throat as the situation all together seemed ridiculous to comment even to himself.
"Not what I had in mind"
Either he had gone insane, which would have not been a surprise to him at all or the gods had answered his calls yet in a very, very ironic way. Xarw felt like slapping himself across the face, but restrained himself and gazed behind him from where he heard sounds. Sounds, that unmistakably were speech and one`s that worried him, humans no doubt.
Out of pure curiosity, he approached and saw a rather varied mix of people gathered there on the same island as him. Yet he remained at a distance from them, examining. At least he had his hood on and he was cloaked in black clothes all together, even his studded leather armor was black and brown. Hopefully no one would pay attention to this strange, obsidian skinned elf.
Dante Salone - Phantom Grey (Fencing Maiden)
2 posts
[Post #1]
Before that recreant whelp had only halfway finished defending himself, Dante had already started stumbling, wrathfully blind, to get his hands around that all-too-deserving neck. He stopped, almost more in shock than anything, when he thought he caught a vague glimpse of a man standing in between him and that bloody Kjan, but his eyes were still glaring holes - numerous ones in fact, - in the back of Kjan's greasy head.
In a matter of seconds however, his rage had returned full force; and using a few choice words that would have made said girl in question wince, he clambered onto the rope after him.
"You aren't going to run away from me this time, you ba-"
Not exactly as thin a man as the wiry Kjan, the twine strained beneath his weight, and gave one last discontented wheeze.
Snap!
A powerful current, which made the cold wind above feel like the seaside, greeted him. All at once Dante remembered why he hadn't wanted to cross the river, and also why he'd stopped chasing the squirt Kjan around everytime he ruined yet another perfect day for him.
It just wasn't beneficial.
[Post #2]
The dwarven market buzzed with rough sarcasm, haggling women, and the not-so-rare pick-pocket. Shoving his way through, he followed closely behind Kjan, scowling angrily at anyone who glanced with mild curiosity at their odd group. The air swam with a hundred scents, some violently strong, some elusively seductive. Dante coughed loudly and grumbled under his breath.
"It's gonna give me a bloody headache. Mind you, I've got no complaint against being drug around in a crazy dwarven city... but can't Pha- The Phantom send you to do it and let us have a rest?" His head was turned and attention diverted for a moment by a grisly old dwarf with a beard that might have passed for a fowl nest. He had kegs of strong liquor sitting out on his booth, and was grunting out their attractiveness. Though he'd never been a particular one to consume a lot of it, Dante felt as though it might be a good time to start now. On this fool mission to get the - what was the thing called? Heartshard?
Kjan's attention, however, was elsewhere. Dante trotted after him, and another long stream of complaints began to formulate themselves under his breath.
"We're all going to die. Either the dwarves'll through us back in that stinkin' hole and let us rot, or we'll freeze to death, or get ambushed by one of 90.5% enemies that you have out there in the world. Oh yes, and now we can all look forward to exploding on some glorious relic legend. And I'm hungry. Don't you people ever think about eating?"
Dyr'a ke Tamach - Wyrmlord's Ascendancy (Valera Elenhathel)
3 posts
[Post #1]
Dyr'a's lips tightened, in frustration as well as annoyance. "Of course I know what I'm doing," she snapped back at Illaria.
She thrust another pick into the garden door's lock and cursed as it slipped out. Her hands were shaking, slick with sweat as she fumbled on the ground for the needle-thin pick. She put it down to shock. Sure, her father had trained her well in the finer points of silent violence. Applying it in a melee setting was a completely different story. And she had a spectator, which she never enjoyed.
This wasn't working. The apprentice was too high-strung and too nervous for the calm, stoic challenge of the tumblers.
Right, then. There was more than one way to play this game. Not as pretty, perhaps, but effective.
Laying her hand on the planks around the lock, she let the feeling of the wood grain seep into her fingers until they became the wood, fiber and weathered sap. A tightly-focused burst of sheer concentration wrenched the wood out, leaving a six-inch-diameter hole around the lock. She pulled it out, and the door swung free, clearing the way out of the castle to freedom.
No guards yet. From the deep shadow of the wall, Dyr'a waved at the group emerging from the kitchens, motioning them to hurry.
[Post #2]
At the cry of "Run!" Dyr'a scrambled for cover, no questions asked. As the enormous black shadows swooped low, obsuring the dying sun, she found a space behind a boulder that offered reasonable shelter while she strung her recurve bow. Nocking an arrow to the string, the sorcerer's apprentice drew it back to her ear, aiming for the chest of one of the half-human monstrosities.
She reconsidered. Taking the reptilian hide into account, her arrow would probably just bounce off. Dyr'a retargeted, sighting on an eye, and loosed. Her arrow hung from the eye, dangling like a splinter with pretentions to lethality. Bad.
Now what? She couldn't give her arrows any more force than was in her bow and arm .... Unless... Dyr'a squinted through the clouds of cliffside dust that the creatures' wings had raised. Drew, fired, at the eye again. With a thought, she ripped open the air in front of the arrow, straight to the eye. The weapon rushed forward into the vacuum ten times as fast as it had traveled before, the air behind filling with a small thunderclap. The arrow dove into the eye.
Dyr'a didn't see what happened next. The half-elven woman screamed something about power - she had somehow ended up further down the cliff - and most of the company scrambled to hear her. Dyr'a was about to follow, but her plans were interrupted.
With a feral wail that must have wakened the dead in six nations, another of the dragonspawn dug its talons into her exposed back. It had made its dive while her attention had been elsewhere, and now she screamed, loud and long; half in sheer pain, half in absolute terror, and completely in surprise as the ground dropped away, the creature's claws buried in her back.
[Post #3]
Dyr'a was pacing back and forth now, her impatience clearly showing. "There's no one in control of this area, either, unless one counts a treacherous Guildmaster - who knows who all of you are." Her glance flicked away from the vampress to the others. Did she have to spell out the logic for them? Apparently so.
"Giving that ring to the druid was the last thing Master Gorm did before dying. It would seem that taking this thing to Ammarindar is slightly important. Add to that the fact that he was killed in combat on our behalf, against the Guild, and one gets the idea that he knew a lot more than he ever told us. If the Guild leadership has turned and this Wyrmlord has risen, Gorm may have been playing for large stakes - larger than any of us could dream of." The shvat paused for a minute, unconsciously brushing her fingers along the dark lines of the tattoo on her forehead. She had dreamed of something - something about that ring, she realized now - but mentioning it would only distract from her point. "If Cirron is going to bring this token to the fortress, then I shall go with him - providing my master agrees," she added, looking at the elf with a flat expression, neither begging nor defiant.
<center>Thank you for reading and voting!</center>
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