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Post by Iron Kaiser on Jun 17, 2014 19:00:54 GMT -8
This thread is for the character snippets that you'll be posting prior to taking part in the story proper. Character snippets are 500-1,000 word mini-stories that really just serve to share with us what you will of your character. For example, you might try to get across your character's basic personality, or her goals, or his talents. Whatever you can fit in that somewhat short amount of space. If you also want to attach some "character sheet" -esque information (basic facts listed out, like height, hair color, fears, etc.), then I guess you could do that, too, though I advise you to fit what you like in the character snippet and leave the rest for future story contributions or leave it up to the others' imaginations.
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Post by Cyphir on Jun 17, 2014 20:59:48 GMT -8
Name: Westle Gossey Age: 34 Gender: Male Nationality: Amaranthian Player: Cyphir
What's In A Name?Wordcount: 1,000
The cool of night had long since fallen, with only the dying flickers of his campfire to provide light. He didn't need it to know he was being watched. Head tilted against a small fiddle, he scanned the dark forest as he cut away an evenly-paced melody and started to sing,
"Oh, save me a fortnight,
T'sing you a song,
Listen to my story, 'n then I'll be gone." There was a crunch ahead of him - twigs or leaves, no doubt - but he made no motion to acknowledge it. No sense in rushing the inevitable. Not when he had plenty of time. He had just transitioned into the humming relief of the final verse when something poked at his shoulder. He drew away the bow from his fiddle and looked up. Three faintly-illuminated figures stood in front of him, the one in the middle leveling the long, hollowed barrel of a rifle towards his face. Tenderly setting down his fiddle, he flashed his best smile to the newcomers. "'Allo, gents and gentess. My name's Janner Allbrecht. Can I 'elp you with somefin'?" "Inspection," the one pointing the gun spoke first, shifting slightly. He saw something. There was a glint off the soldier. A small, silver medallion was pinned to the soldier's chest. Some spiraling, twirly sort of thing vaguely resembling a bird, colors of the cold moonlight above and dying flames below seemingly dancing off both of its wings. It was of quaint construction, but there was an undeniable, charming, transfixing sort of-- "Sir?" He snapped his attention away from the medallion. "Yes, yes, g'on." The soldier nodded slowly before beginning, "I need to ask you a few questions, Mr. Allbrecht, though I promise that your assistance in this..." He nodded politely as the soldier spoke, but he had already drowned the words out. Quietly reaching behind himself, he glanced once more at the twinkling, silver medallion. 'Twas a pretty little thing indeed. Then he gripped this hilt of his knife and sprung forward. ~~ "What do you think you're doing?" He turned to see a thin, mustached man tromping towards him across the garrison square and through the open doorway of the study. A captain of some sort, judging by his outfit. Primly-pressed and practically drowning in gaudy medals, it told mostly of idle days spent behind the safety of garrison walls, with only a faint dirt stain to suggest any kind of field action. "Sir?" "You're not supposed to be here," the captain said with a look of skepticism, "unless you happen to be here on my orders, which I'm sure you're not." "Oh, I'm sorry, sir. Must have lost my way," he said, straightening out his loose-fitting shirt and adjusting the medallion pinned to his chest. "I was tryin' to find Lieutenant Davidson, but I was told he had left for Winbellow days ago, then I thought I could find Captain Periwether by the supply room, only to learn--" "Stop, stop. Enough," the captain said briskly, regarding him carefully. "What's your name and division, private?" "Oh." He looked up and gave a wide grin. "Private Dawson Edenburrow of the 13th Infantry Division, or at least--" The captain suddenly reached over and pulled at his collar. "Is that... blood?" "Oh, yessir," he admitted, rubbing at his arm. "Y'see, I got up extra early today, freshened myself up all proper like. But then my pal told me I forgot to shave, and by this time the floors were sort of wet, so--" "Just," the captain interrupted, "be sure to send it by the washmaids later, hmm? It's unsightly." The captain moved forward to the desk, and began scanning the strewn papers. "What were you doing in here, anyway?" He hadn't heard. His eyes were fixed on the captain's pocket, and the glint of gold that sparkled within. All he could see were patterns. Etched, deep, golden and beautiful. "These... these are confidential schematics. Private! Why are you--" The captain was interrupted by the sound of the door clacking shut. No sound escaped the building. ~~ He stared at it as it flew up and down from his palm. The golden watch was heavier than he thought it would be. Still, it was no blight on its beauty. With a satisfied smile, he pocketed the watch into his trousers and turned off the forest path. He ignored the crunch of twigs beneath his feet, and began whistling. "'Old your pace or I'll pin it wit' me arrer." He stopped and held out his arms to his side before spinning around on his heel. There was a woman a few paces to his side. About his age, stubby brown ponytail, clear blue eyes, with a bow pulled taught and an arrow aimed at his heart. He waved. "'Allo there, Issa." A moment passed, then a look of shock crossed her face. Her bow lowered. "Westy?! Is'at you?" She ran forward, throwing an arm over him in a tight hug. "I thought y'died last spring! How've ye been?" She pulled back and frowned. "And why are y'dress'n that?" He grinned and began digging in his pocket. Drawing a roll of paper up, he held it out to her. "Y'might want'a feast yer eyes on this first." Her eyes froze on the paper. "Is... is this?" He nodded and held it to her. Her hands trembled as her fingers looped around the parchment. She drew it to her chest as if it would suddenly disappear. "This..." Her words fell, and she looked up to him, her head shaking with disbelief. "Thank ye, Westle," she said softly, reaching forward and grabbing his hand. "Y'don't know 'ow much good'll be done 'cause o'ye." She then smiled and gave his hand a tug. "C'mon, there'll be plenty who'll want'a see ye!" Pulling him forward, the two began running into the depths of the forest. "Ev'ryone! Lookit who came to visit from beyond th'grave! It's Westle Gossey!" Westle smiled a broad smile. |
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Post by Drahcir on Jun 19, 2014 19:25:42 GMT -8
Name: Aether Harrow
Age: 29
Gender: Male
Nationality: Dashalian
Player: Drahcir
Stepping From The Shadow
Word count: Over 9,000!!!
... or closer to 1,007... Any journey between the realms of Dashale and Amaranth tended to be better then most in other parts of Talland. The vast open plains that joined the allied provinces held little in the way of hiding places, which bandits might use for ambush or hidden encampments. Forests and mountains were more the correct fare for that sort of thing. As such, Aether’s walking flight from his home city seemed to confirm the very principles he set out to test against his father’s assertions. So too, his approach to Amaranth meant stepping finally into a world where, he hoped, he would no longer have to contend with his father’s reputation--somewhere he could make his own mark, set his own standards and change the world. The route he strode along was one of those long but well worn paths that connected trading towns. The gently flowing hills and open flats allowing for a great range of vision on the road ahead. Dressed as he was, in the garb of a Dashalian officer, he had decided to remove his coat of office in the heat of mid-day, draping it over the handsome, black horse that served as his mount and carry on his trip. The coat, a long, jet black trench coat that ended at the knees and held a great deal of embroidered silver decoration, would have caused a fuss and a half had anyone from the high command seen it. Slung carelessly over the neck of a horse, it gave no regard for the honour and status it afforded the bearer or itself. But it wasn’t something Aether prized, and he felt it would be foolish to sweat in the suns greatest moment of heat, purely out of pride. The rest of his uniform was similar in its colouring: lots of black with silver trim. His black boots still retained part of their polished gleam, despite their use in his travels. He also wore a crisp white shirt with its sleeves rolled to the elbows and a campaign sash with any number of medals, that weighed Aether down like a set of iron chains. He would have slung this too over the horse, had the sash not also served as a carry-all for his smaller field supplies. In Talland, out on the road, it was best to wear the supplies you couldn’t do without. The horse was a horse after all. Despite his affinity and many years with the beast, it was only as able to resist its desire to fly in the face of unknown dangers as it instincts were weak. But that was more Aether’s basic training rolling around in his head then his true outlook on Talland. After all, the world, Aether thought, was basically a decent place. Reasoned argument and a deep sincerity were the only weapons he felt he needed to wage a campaign of peace in a land that wanted only for a little guidance. From the simple farmer who cheated those who bought his crops, to the great kings, lords, parliaments and so on that decided the fates of many under their care. All could be swayed. All could embrace the enlightened, empathic sentiment in which Aether bathed. This feeling was indeed analogous, in Aether’s mind, to walking in the sun. The warmth washed over him and filled him with contentment. There was a distinct feeling of rightness. He was so very sure. So sure that he might as well be staring wide eyed at the very star in whose light he felt so assured, blinding himself to any further thought of the rays of idealism burning his bright blue eyes. Despite his nearly suicidal view of human nature, Aether was at least prepared to defend himself if the worst were to occur. At his belt hung a sword, sheathed and practically decorative. He knew how to use it, but his actual practice with it was just that: practice. So too, the lever action rifle, slung across his back was hardly used and had only ever been fired on a training range. Field experience held no ground in the life of an officer that had been elevated to an office job above more qualified or deserving men and women, because his father was his father. The stray thought aggravated him again slightly, bringing a slight flush of anger to his pale face. Indeed, his skin looked as it had barely seen the sun, having only been travelling a short time and previously cooped up like a child, grounded and forbidden from seeing the grass, the sky and people who made up the population. The souls of Talland. Brushing his shoulder length, dirty blonde hair out of his eyes, he managed to hitch a smile back onto his decently handsome face. Patting his horse, who had been dubbed ‘Raven’, Aether took a deep breath and wore with conviction the mask that he vowed never to remove. “A positive attitude, a smile about the face, a gentle hand and endless self sacrifice,” he recited, out loud, his mid-range voice carrying the weight of his intent, despite its softness. Raven, although a decent horse, was nevertheless predisposed to being unable to understand his master. Therefore he contented himself by continuing to walk where led and watch the natural goings-on around him with focused disinterest, so as to better be ready to obey should his master have need of swift hooves. Had he any ability to reason, some modicum of sentience, Raven might have elected to leave his master at his first opportunity. Aether’s idealistic view, his assurance in his ideals, though noble and well to wish for, could very well get him mugged or stabbed. Perhaps both. Still, for the moment, the sun was warm and the road was easy. Those that dare to dream have glimpses of unbridled sunlight, so long as they dare to step out of the shadow. |
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Post by Aquinas on Jun 20, 2014 15:56:12 GMT -8
Name: Sylvester Millingville
Age: 25
Gender: Male
Nationality: Amaranthian, raised in Dashale
Player: Aquinas
An Affecting Revelation
(Word Count: 796)
“You wanted to see me, father?”
Herbert Millingville turned his face away from the window which had occupied his attention for the last half-hour. He flashed his son an aggressive smile, doing his absolute darnedest to conceal the uncharacteristic butterflies wreaking havoc in his stomach. “Sit down, m’boy. Your mother and I have a few things to discuss with you – isn’t that right, Patience?”
“Yes, dear.” Patience Millingville was as demure as her husband was demonstrative. Her light, fluttering speech patterns contrasted squarely with his good-natured bluster; the fact that they were so obviously, rabidly in love only sharpened the dissimilarity. Herbert was fond of remarking that he and his wife went together like oil and sparks; whether the odd simile was meant to extend to their son was a point of debate among Dashalian high society.
For there was little about Sylvester Millingville that suggested a blazing fire. Possessing an average build, average height, and almost worryingly average features, the one thing that kept Sylvester’s appearance from being completely nondescript was his bushy, lovingly sculpted mustache, in which he took an almost childish pride. Stepping carefully in his slightly overlarge shoes, eyes downcast in apparent shame, he took a seat by the fireplace across from his mother. His father walked over to join them, bestowing a slightly awkward pat on his son’s shoulder before taking up a spot behind his wife’s seat. But before his father could begin, Sylvester raised his timid voice.
“If you don’t mind, I would like to apologize for my error, here and now. Poor Mr. Flickworth was, I regret to say, not very well acquainted with the workings of a steam engine. The fact of the matter is that his… embarrassing incident was entirely due to a lack of coaching on my part. I accept full responsibility for the loss of his support and submit myself to your punishment.”
His father waved a thick hand. “No need to get worked up about that, son. I didn’t call you to talk about the business.” Sylvester looked surprised and rather relieved; his father, less so. His naturally red face was a shade darker than usual as he began to pace up and down in front the fireplace.
“You, son, are a man.” Sylvester nodded appreciatively at this seemingly self-evident statement. “And being a man, you are entitled to the, eh, shall we say, full spectrum of knowledge regarding your …personal history.” Sylvester nodded again, but this time with far less certainty. “Fact is, son, the subject of our talk pertains to your birth.”
“My birth?”
“Oh yes, quite.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Yes, yes.”
“…Indeed.”
Mr. Millingville, realizing that the necessity of improvisation was once again upon him, searched desperately for the correct words. “As it were, your mother and I have deemed it wise… isn’t that right, dear?” Mrs. Millingville nodded encouragingly, “…Your mother and I have decided it’s high time that you know certain details pertaining to your birth. You see, it so happens that there were unfortunate and unforeseen circumstances.”
“Unfortunate?”
“Very.”
“Oh my.”
“My indeed.”
“Indeed?”
“Quite so.”
“Oh my.”
Patience, knowing that her husband would be quite content to carry on like this for the better part of an hour, interjected herself into the conversation. “Back when we lived in Amaranth, just a few days after you were born, we received a visit from a Knight of the Second Oracle. This particular knight made a prediction that was completely and utterly nonsensical!” Herbert, relieved that his wife had taken the lead, muttered affirmatively, “Completely nonsensical, couldn’t have said it better.”
Sylvester tilted his head in astonishment. The effect was pathetically similar to that of a puppy which had just been accidentally clubbed with a frying pan. “And what was the prediction?”At this, his parents immediately burst into nervous laughter. Herbert’s face in particular seemed to be attaining a hitherto undiscovered shade of red. “Oh, you wouldn’t believe us if we told you. The man was a raving maniac, completely nonsensical.”
The laughter died out as Sylvester’s small voice piped up again, a curious thread of stubbornness running through it. “No, I… I’d like to hear it, if you don’t mind.”
Patience bit her lip. Herbert smacked his lips. Finally, words managed to crawl out of his voicebox. “He… his words were… that you would grow up to be the world’s most powerful and malevolent sorcerer, and that you would plunge the land into a darkness never before dreamed of.”
And in the glowing light of the fireplace, the meek body of Sylvester Millingville seemed to retreat still further into obscurity. Just when the silence seemed to be interminable, a low squeak pierced the air like a dropped pin. “I-I think I would have preferred t-talking about the business.” |
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Post by Mishael on Jun 22, 2014 14:15:01 GMT -8
Name: Kamina Reede
Age: 24
Gender: Female
Nationality: Amaranthian
Player: Mishael
Going Home
Word Count: 732
Large white clouds drifted lazily in the sky, skirting the sun and covering the ground with great patches of shadow. Shifting the pack off her back, Kamina Reede moved to the side of the road and settled wearily on a boulder jutting up from the well-traveled path. She welcomed the breeze which ruffled the wisps of her blond hair that stuck out from under her wide-brimmed hat. A sudden gust nearly blew the hat from her head, and she jerked her hand up to keep it from tumbling to the ground. Another cloud covered the sun, and she removed her hat to her lap, squinting her bright blue eyes up at the treetops around her and the sky beyond. The air felt nice and cool against her pale skin. Closing her eyes, she breathed in the aromatic scent of the forest and allowed herself to relax. This felt so much better than the Dashalian town where she had been living for the past year. It wasn’t that she didn’t like her students there, as she had grown attached to them; she just wasn’t a Dashalian, preferring the more rustic life she had grown up with in Amaranth, before her guild days and before her move to Dashale. She had not traveled alone, but the rest of her party wanted to go into the city. Desiring to see her parents before anything else, she told them to go on ahead. She knew her way to the small village of Moreton where her parents still lived. While she was away, she made sure to keep in frequent contact with her parents. She hadn’t heard from them since she told them she was coming home, but that was probably because they didn’t know if their letter would reach her before she left. She knew they must be as excited to see her again as she was to see them. Her decision to leave Amaranth had been rash, she admitted, but she needed some time away from— Shaking her head briskly, she forced the memories away. Despite all her effort to forget what happened, she found herself dwelling on the pain of the past a bit too often. She was looking forward to going home and refused to allow that to dampen her mood. To distract herself, she reached for her pack sitting on the ground beside the rock where she rested. She had packed some food before she left and was feeling a somewhat hungry now. As she sifted through the items in her pack, a glint caught her eye. Reverently, she pulled out the emerald essence crystal pendant her parents had given to her some years ago. It was surrounded by sparkling sapphire and aquamarine essence shards. The pendant was bound to a beautifully hand-crafted silver circlet; a matching bracelet and necklace to which the pendant could be fastened lay wrapped and hidden deeper within the pack. As her fingers traced the crystal and its shards, she thought back to the day her parents had given it to her. They had saved for years, ever since Kamina had expressed an interest in quintessence and a determination to make it into one of the guilds. Tears burned her eyes as she thought about all they must have sacrificed to purchase this extravagant gift. Her parents had always been so kind and supportive of her. Their family was not rich, and sometimes that fact stood out when she was at the guild in the capital city, but she didn’t care. She valued excellence from the hard-working hand, something that her parents demonstrated in their simple yet fulfilling life. Some of the young people from wealthy families that she worked with in the guild did not understand this sentiment. Seeing the ugliness of their arrogance mixed with ignorance only served to solidify the value of honest, hard work in Kamina’s eyes. Her parents were some of the wisest people she knew. She couldn’t wait to see them again. With great care, she placed the circlet on her head. A rush of energy flowed through her as everything around her seemed to glow with life. She smiled. A moment later, her hat was on her head again. She pulled an apple from the pack before hoisting it onto her back once more. Straightening her green-grey cloak, she started walking. Only about an hour more and she should be home. |
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Post by mk on Jun 25, 2014 15:48:35 GMT -8
Name: Edelreich Lenzen
Age: 24
Gender: Male
Nationality: Vehrian
Player: MK
I Stink at Titles
Wordcount: 1,000 (plus 57)
“I didn’t call you here to kick you out – necessarily,” Professor Aram said, “Sit.”
Edelreich Lenzen sat. The chair creaked.
Professor Aram didn’t speak immediately. In Dashale, a student did not speak to a mentor unless spoken to, so Lenzen had to wait. As he did, he glanced at the eerie shadows that the single lamp threw on the dingy walls around them. He thought that the university’s Honors Emeritus Professor would’ve kept up a better workspace.
Finally, Professor Aram set down his pen. He picked up three stacks of papers and slammed them all down in front of Lenzen with enough force to make him wince.
He fixed his eyes on Lenzen, “You write a lot, Edelreich,” he said. In his Dashalian mouth, Lenzen’s given name sounded flimsy and tinny.
“Call me Lenzen,” Lenzen said reflexively, looking down. The top stack of papers was something he’d written for the class Professor Eleonara had tried to get him kicked out of a year ago. She'd written a note on the cover page: “In fair warning.”
“You write a lot about crystals especially,” Professor Aram said, “not a very popular subject, considering our neighbors.”
Lenzen nodded. He’d already been warned multiple times about the dangers of writing about KM model crystals, so he’d instead focused on Vehrian magical crystals. Only anyone with any knowledge of crystals knew they were essentially the same.
“It is impressive,” the professor said.
“Thanks,” What a hard word to say. Such soft sounds. Lenzen could hardly wrap his Vehrian tongue around it, “And?”
“And I need your help,” Professor Aram said, “I would rather someone with more experience, but you are the only one besides me who dares to study them,” The professor slammed another stack of papers down, "Then again, I suppose a Vehrian who receives funding from three different Dashalian societies should be bright enough."
This stack was significantly thicker, made from the enchanted negative paper that cost a year’s tuition for a single ream. They were valued because they only revealed their contents to the eyes of their owner.
“These are stolen blueprints of the standard KM2 Model,” Professor Aram said, “Yes – the Assassin Model. Our military has discovered that it would take almost fifty men, fully armed, to take down a single one. Given recent concerns, our government has decided that it would be prudent to take countermeasures in advance in case of the worst.”
Lenzen blinked dumbly down at the blueprints, “M-my help?” he stammered.
“Try to keep up,” Professor Aram stood up in his chair and put his hand out. He smiled, “I think this should work well. Needless to say – if you refuse you shall be promptly removed from this university and sent home.”
Lenzen blinked, “You’re – giving me an ultimatum?”
Professor Aram raised an eyebrow. “Is that a problem?”
Lenzen scrambled up and grabbed the professor’s hand with both of his.
“Not at all.”
Five years, two months later...
“Lenzen.”
Lenzen went from dead-asleep to on his feet in two seconds. He’d learned what that tone meant.
“What now?” He fumbled with the prototype gun in his lap. They were finally able to sleep after Dashalian’s military had locked the two in a fortress and told them to sit tight until who-knew-when. Supposedly, they were safe now.
“They stopped talking,” Aram said.
Lenzen wiped his eyes. Maybe he wasn’t as awake as he’d thought, “Who?”
Aram pointed to the doorway to their suite, which had been triple-bolted outside and inside. When Lenzen had fallen asleep, it had been to the sound of several hushed conversations outside. Now all was silent.
“Them,” Aram said. He lifted a finger and crept to the doorway. Cautiously, Lenzen followed him. Nervous, he pulled the prototype out of its holster and yanked open its barrel. One of the things he loved about the final product was that it looked like a standard steam-pistol, and an old one at that. It was only once one flipped open the barrel and displayed its fine-tuned guts of shaven crystal and Vehrian silver that anyone could tell how special it was.
Not that it would be any good against anything other than the first three KM models. The worst it could do to a human would be make them uncomfortable. Honestly, Lenzen thought that all this trouble for such a limited weapon was rather overrated. Then again, it wasn’t his empire in danger.
“Maybe they just went to bed,” Lenzen offered, shutting the barrel.
“Lenzen,” Aram said. He glanced at the gun, which Lenzen was still fidgeting with, “you’re really stupid when you try to talk.”
Clack.
Lenzen felt as though he’d jumped out of my skin. Aram had remained completely still. He had bags around his eyes. Despite being on the run for the past two weeks, Lenzen doubted he’d slept. He walked all the way up to the door. He felt around the edges, looking for a weakness that would allow us to open it. Lenzen also knew that he was also taking in every other detail about the wood; the type, age, how well the boards fit together – everything a true engineer would attend to.
“Anything else?” Lenzen asked in a whisper. Their surroundings had gone silent again.
Aram shook his head and backed up a moment, frowning at the door. He put his ear to it.
Lenzen heard the whirring half a moment too late. He opened his mouth.
The door exploded. Something hot and sharp knocked Lenzen off his feet and slammed him into the stone wall. He fell forward to the floor, deaf. In fact, all his senses seemed turned off – everything except his sight, which was extremely blurry. There was a lot of fire.
Lenzen clambered up, scrambling for his prototype. There was only one thing that could’ve smashed the door off its handles like that. He’d studied the blueprints enough to know.
Lenzen looked to the right. There was no trace of Aram’s body. There wouldn’t be; the focused crystal energy beams were designed to leave no trace when aimed at a biological target. Aram was gone, right down to the traces of his body.
Three KM2 models walked stiffly into the room. Unlike the KM3s, these were not designed to look humanoid at all. They were made completely from metal and crystal - cold, deadly, and undefeatable.
Until now.
Lenzen lifted the gun and fired.
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Post by Iron Kaiser on Jun 25, 2014 17:04:42 GMT -8
Name: Chres Harwick
Age: 30
Gender: Male
Nationality: Dashalian
Player: Iron Kaiser
Hindsight
Wordcount: 1,250 (Please don't kill me!)
Four years ago, somewhere in the Ryn Desert Deep in the heart of a lost temple, long buried in the sands, a young Chres Harwick searched for artifacts. As he attempted to brush off some of the dirt from his navy blue Dashalian army uniform, his eyes fell upon a small ornamental box. The intrepid explorer reached down to the tool set on his side to retrieve a pair of delicate archeology picks, pushing aside the sniper rifle slung across his back as he did so. The sniper rifle was standard army issue. The picks went back further, to his treasured university days. Carefully, he pried open the small box. “What do you see, Chres?” his partner asked. Using the picks like a pair of delicate pliers, Chres pulled out a silver medallion. Placing it in his free hand, he tenderly examined the ancient device. After removing some of the dirt off of the medallion, he finally replied to his partner, “‘May the light of sun and moon guide the guardian.’” Chres read aloud. “Wait, there’s more… ‘In the third year of our King, Sin-Belain.’” He flashed a smile towards his partners as he pulled out his journal to sketch the artifact. “Max, Ana… no one’s ever found any relics from the time of Sin-Belain. Do you know what this means? This is... completely uncharted territory!” As Chres sketched the medallion, Maxwell Walken and Anavaile Galereaper each examined the antechamber for themselves. Maxwell had been Chres’ comrade for nearly as long as he could remember. They had grown up together in the same little town in Dashale, went to university together, and now were in the same battalion in the Dashalian army, trying to repel the invasion of Morwin Kennis and his robot army. Chres felt he could trust Maxwell better than almost anyone. Indeed, that’s why Max had sneaked out of camp with Chres for this rendezvous in the middle of the desert. Max didn’t even care that much about the old ruins himself, but he and Chres had been partners for life, and Chres certainly cared. “The boys back at Oxleigh would love to see this, eh Chres?” Max said. “I wonder how much that medallion would go for…” “For far too little, Maxwell.” Anavaile replied, “The shrouded merchants can rarely claim the same appreciation for our history as men like Chres can.” Anavaile was a native of the Ryn. About three weeks after they had arrived, Anavaile’s tribe was attacked by Kennis’ troops, but Chres and Max’s battalion was nearby and repelled the attack. Ever since, Anavaile had been informally aiding the battalion as a local contact and scout. She had proven to be a surprisingly adept warrior, and Max had come to realize that the scimitar that hung about her waist wasn’t simply for show or local custom. She and Chres had spent a lot of time together over the last eight months, and the attraction between them was palpable. She had been the one to suggest that a buried temple might be found here, and predictably, Chres had come running days later. Sure, they might get into trouble with Lt. Palle, their battalion commander, but Anavaile and archeology was simply to alluring a blend for Chres. “It’s their loss, Ana.” Chres replied as he pocketed the medallion. “Hey, Chres, Ana, come over here.” The two walked over to Maxwell, who was intently staring at part of the anterior wall. He held the lamp up against the wall, revealing a small cavity previously hidden by the darkness. “It almost looks like… it’s the same size as the medallion.” Chres said. With some trepidation, he pulled out the device and inserted it into the wall. A small click sounded several feet away, and a secret door swung open. The three carefully stepped into the room, bathing the shrouded room with the light of their lamp. “By gad…” Max exclaimed. Before them lay piles of artifacts and treasures. Golden coins, ancient scrolls, and marble statuettes littered the room. Max darted over to a nearby chest and flung open the lid, revealing a small fortune. “Chres, you devil, you’ve done it! This is a fortune!” he said, tossing the coins glibly in the air. But Chres didn’t hear Max at all. His attention was drawn to a small pedestal, upon which lay a pair of bracers. They were elegantly crafted, with what appeared to be amethyst engraved along the wrists. But Chres knew better. He could sense it. They were essence crystals. “These… these must belong to the guardian,” he said, turning to Anavaile. He noticed a playful smile cross her lips. “I bet you’re right,” she replied. As she spoke, the truth suddenly dawned on him – She had known all along. She didn’t think there might be a temple buried here, she knew. This was her secret, and she had shared it with him. “They’re yours,” she said, gesturing to the bracers. “Mine?” Chres replied, shocked at the notion. “Ana, I can’t…” “You’ve done so much for my people. This will help you.” “Well, Dashale and the Ryn stand together in the fight against Kennis and his robot army. I-“ Anavaile laughed. “No, Chres Harwick. I mean you. Right now, warriors from all over the world are fighting here, to decide the fate of my people. But only you understand. Only you have a Ryn heart.” She walked over to the pedestal, took the bracers, and held them out for him. “Once upon a time, we needed a guardian to defend us and our culture. Maybe the priests are gone, and the kings are gone, and the Ryn aren’t who we once were… but we could use a guardian.” Staggered with awe and emotion, Chres reached out. But rather than take the bracers, he took her hands. Try as he might, he couldn’t find the words to respond. He couldn’t speak. He simply clutched her hands within his own as the tears began to pour down his face. He couldn’t speak, but he didn’t have to. She knew. She had always k nown.
The Present Day, Milltown, Dashale
“And Sin-Belain was the last of the Kings of the Light. Any questions?” Four years had passed, and things had changed. The young, clean-shaven, uniform-clad Sgt. Chres Harwick had grown up, sported a beard and a tweed jacket, and completed his doctorate in archeology. Still, “Dr. Harwick” didn’t quite sound right to him yet. Maybe, if he was able to join the faculty at one of the prestigious universities, as he hoped… then it would sound right. But for now he was simply Mr. Harwick, the local schoolteacher of sleepy little Milltown. A small hand went up. “Mr. Harwick,” a young girl asked, “where’s the Ryn guardian today?” “Ah, Nance, well… the Ryn kingdom disappeared several generations after Sin-Belain’s reign. Today, the lands the Ryn kingdom once ruled are… part of Kennisalia.” At that moment, the school bell announced the end of the day, and muffled the last of Chres’ reply to his student: “There is no Ryn guardian anymore.” Moments later, all the children had poured out of Chres’ classroom. “Now, remember: homework – chapter three!” he called after them, fruitlessly. The roar of stampeding students was replaced by silence and, for Chres Harwick, the somber song of memories. Collapsing into his chair, the young teacher pulled open a small desk drawer, revealing a pair of gauntlets, wreathed in what appeared to be amethyst. No, there is no Ryn guardian, Chres thought as he closed the drawer, and there is no changing the past. His adventuring days were far behind him.
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Post by Lenor on Jul 2, 2014 18:27:39 GMT -8
Name: Amaya Brandia Dolson Age: 30 Gender: female Nationality: Kennisalian (half Ryn) Player: Lenor Lady Brandia, Kennisalian AristocratWord count: 1,150-ish [okay, no––this edited version is slightly longer] The elegant, gowned figure of a woman stepped down from the coach and onto the front steps of a majestic town home, fingertips resting in the hand of her manservant. As the courtyard gates swung shut, a pair of automatons on night patrol marched past on the street. Such late comings and goings at another house would have necessitated their investigation, but Lady Brandia Dolson was a woman above suspicion, favored for her late father’s service. And tonight, she was only one of several aristocrats returning home late from a banquet at the Archengineer’s palace. Lady Brandia watched the coachman as he drove toward the stables. “We’ll discuss this more, and decide on a plan.” Her words were distinct, but low enough to be heard only by the man beside her. After a moment’s pause, she brushed a swoop of dark hair off her forehead and glanced up at him. “I need you to go out with me tonight. I’d hoped the banquet would end sooner so I’d have more time, but as it is, we’ll need to share the work." He nodded, the stalwart expression of his face a fit match to the solidity of his wiry frame. “As soon as you’re ready, bring our things to my room. I’ll tell Cler the news while I change.” ~~~~~
A minute later, Lady Brandia pushed open the door to her candlelit chamber. “Hello, Cler.” Cler, seated on a sofa by the opposite wall, greeted the other woman with a tired smile before turning back to her work, winding a rag strip around some tiny object in her hand. “Dinner parties have no business lasting till three in the morning––especially the night before tax collection.” She dragged the loose edge of her little parcel across a candle drip, pressing the wax into the cloth for a seal. A sudden frown curved her lips. “You know, you’ve only a few hours left till dawn. I guess Gyldan’s going out with you?” She tossed the vaguely disk-like bundle, only slightly larger than a man’s thumbnail, into a heap of similar objects. Brandia laid her party cloak over a chair. “Yes. The money ready?” “With all the time you gave me?” She bobbed her head. “There’s extra for next time. I’ll split it after you’re changed.” Cler closed the lid of a large wooden box sitting next to her. It’s contents chinked with a metallic sound. Rising, she pushed her brown curls behind her shoulders. “What’s the trouble?” Even in the wavering light, Cler clearly saw the anxious arch of the other’s eyebrows, an expression only ever revealed in the private company of Gyldan and herself. Brandia unlooped a long strand of pearls from around her neck and flung them to her bed. “Fresh material for gossip and speculation tonight.” She turned for Cler to start unfastening the many buttons running down her back. “An Amaranthian courier arrived in town yesterday afternoon bearing a missive from Prince Artor.” Cler’s fingers clutched the third button and went rigid. “Not war.” “No! Not war.” Releasing an unsteady breath, Cler continued unbuttoning. Brandia fingered her hair away from her brow again. “He’s offering rewards to fighters who’ll help with the Ridgewood monsters: two hundred guilders a head, and a hundred thousand to the one who ends the attacks.” Cler remained quiet, confused as to where the conversation headed. “Where the Kennisalian army would never be allowed, individual warriors are invited. Thanks to the usual excessive drinking tonight”––a wry smile passed over Brandia’s face––“I heard several incautious remarks. Kennis has found in Ridgewood his longed-for gateway into the rest of Talland. He’ll leak his best fighters in under guise of adventurers and mercenaries, and when the monsters are quelled, there’ll be a new threat in their place: the Archengineer’s invaders.” The eyebrows arched a bit more. “They’ll be unified under an intelligent mind, which is more than can be said for the beasts.” “But the bulk of the army is in the automatons,” Cler said, draping the gown over a chair. “How could Kennis manage getting them through Dashale?” The question implied no doubt of Brandia’s information. Brandia had spent years familiarizing herself with the speech, actions, and motives of her fellow aristocrats. Her statements came from a lifetime of analyzing. “Armond Dray is preparing for a short-notice, longterm trip, and an inner circle member mentioned his name in relation to Amaranth.” Brandia pulled a tunic mottled black and dark grey over her head. “Military officers are trained to give the automatons orders, and any repairs are done by engineers on a lower skill-stratum than Dray, but someone with his advanced knowledge of automatonical technology would be necessary to reassemble smuggled parts.” “So no one will know the automatons even entered Ridgewood until they’re released.” “I watched Kennis at the banquet tonight; you could see the schemes whirring past behind his eyes.” “What schemes are going ‘round in your head?” “Gyldan and I talked on the way home,” Brandia said, peeling off a silk stocking. “Espionage and sabotage could keep the Kennisalian force in Ridgewood weak.” “Are you going to slip the information to the resistance groups?” Brandia shook her head, pulling a pin from her hair. A cluster of ringlets slid down her back. “They fight on and for their own land; they wouldn’t go to Amaranth. Nor should they. Anyway, a large group of fighters would only add confusion to the battles in Ridgewood. An individual elite warrior would have better chances of thwarting Kennis’ plans without contributing to the chaos.” “By an elite warrior, do you mean a Ryn Shadow?” The corners of Cler’s mouth were frowning in concern again. The last few pins slid out, and Brandia started a tight braid. “I don’t know how elite I am without the use of essence, but yes. Possibly.” “Brandia, Ridgewood is running over with monsters. That’s far and away above what you do here.” A light rap sounded on the door. Since Brandia was tugging a boot onto her foot, Cler turned and let in Gyldan. Like Brandia, he now wore dark tunic, trousers, and boots. The hilt of a scimitar showed over one shoulder, and he held long twin knives in one hand. “Amaya, are you ready?” Unless they were in public, Gyldan addressed Brandia by her Ryn first name––the one her father stopped using fifteen years before; to Gyldan’s tongue, ‘Amaya’ was more familiar. “Yes,” she said, combing her fingers across her scalp with one hand and taking the knives from Gyldan with the other. She glanced at Cler. “Nothing’s decided yet.” Lips tight, Cler nodded. Brandia strapped the knives––for tonight’s work, just a precaution––to her back, she and Gyldan wound masks about their heads, and Cler split her pile of minuscule packages into two haversacks. A few minutes later, the Ryn and half-Ryn slipped out of a hidden exit at the back of the property. They parted ways in the street, each bearing dozens of coins in their bags. Thanks to Cler’s candlelit work, those coins made no sound. When the sun rose, they’d discuss Kennis and Ridgewood, but until then they’d prepare the capital city of Kennisalia for the arrival of the Archengineer’s tax-collecting automatons. |
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Post by Docboy on Jul 6, 2014 17:43:45 GMT -8
Name: Victor Thresh
Age: 31
Gender: Male
Nationality: A secret-ish for now
Player: Docboy
Word count 1153 (SORRY!!!!!!)
The Wayward Archer
Victor was already on the wall when the alarm went off. It was his turn on the watch, and though the attacks were rare and never amounted to much, unlike the rest of the group he took his job seriously.
If he was honest with himself, he had to admit he appreciated the excitement of this attack. He used to dread them, since they took him away from both his studies and his work. But life was boring at his post, and as much as he tried to throw himself into his work and study, it didn’t grab him anymore. He had once stood with some of the strongest men and women he had ever known, keeping the world safe from a danger many didn’t even believe still existed. But when they told him of a post where the work would be easy and he would be free to both study and pick up any trade he chose, he grabbed it. Opportunities like that didn’t come every day. He never regretted it; he loved both his work and the evenings he spent buried in books. But a little excitement would be nice. He missed the thrill.
Victor decided to leave his bow, since it was highly unlikely he could pull off his move with such an obvious weapon, and jumped off of the wall. He retained his knife however, as well as his bracer. The knife was expendable, he reasoned, and without the bow he would certainly need his bracer should it come to fighting. Of course it wasn’t the bracer so much as the crystal it held. The crystal itself was about an inch in diameter and half an inch tall, and though its color appeared pure silver on first glance, if you watched closely you could see wisps of blacks, reds and greens swirling through the rune. A small leather flap folded over the stone, presumably to protect it, as well as to conceal its constant glow, should stealth become necessary.
The wall surrounding the monastery was an eleven foot drop, and Victor winced as he began to walk.
“That hurt worse than it should have.” He thought to himself. “I need to stay looser.”
Victor stopped a couple hundred yards from the edge of the woods where the torches were glowing. Nobody knew those woods like Victor, and nobody really wanted to. While an amateur raider might think the trees would conceal the movement of his men, Victor knew they concealed something far more powerful. Most of the rangers thought he’d been sent to guard the monastery, but only two other people knew that his real post had been outside the walls, concealed in the trees that nobody dared to cut down.
Victor struck a light and waved it back and forth, signaling a parlay to the brigands in the trees. One of the torches waved back in reply, and soon a horse carrying a lone man trotted out to where Victor stood. As was custom, the man dismounted while he was still fifty yards out and walked the rest of the way. From his stride, Victor decided the man was former military, probably looting the area with a band of fellow deserters. This was unfortunate, Victor decided, since attempts to frighten off seasoned troops were rarely effective. He would have to play this one by ear.
The man stopped about fifteen feet from where victor stood and lifted his left arm above his head, uncovering the sword for a moment before he slowly drew it out with his right, and then dropped it out on the ground. Victor smiled to himself. The civility of the parlay right before the brutality of a battle always pleased him. Men could kill other men savagely enough, but at least they weren’t animals. Victor raised his left arm in reply, showing his own belt devoid of weaponry. The two men closed the remaining distance.
“What’s the price of peace?” Victor asked.
The man smiled briefly before reaching into his pocket.
“A token from my commander. The price of peace is one of the same.”
The man handed Victor the coin, larger than normal. Victor looked at it closely. It had a tree stamped into one side, with the sun and moon both in the sky above, on the left and right of the tree. On the opposite side, there was a single arrow. Victor’s brow furrowed for a moment before producing an identical coin from his pocket, and handed it over. The man examined it for a moment before making eye contact again with Victor.
“Watchman Thresh.” It wasn’t a question.
Victor’s head dipped slightly in affirmation.
“I was sent out to find your post a week ago.” The man continued. “It’s apparently a closely guarded secret. Too close, actually; both people who knew it were killed.”
Victor’s eyes narrowed at that. “Who needed to know?”
“We did. We’ve got problems. Big ones.” The man grimaced. “Too big, actually. We had an attack at the Fissure a couple weeks ago. More creatures than anyone had ever seen. Had to be at least a couple dozen. No idea how they pushed so many past the Ward, but they did. More than we could handle. And while we were busy pushing them back, we lost some. Five actually. Three we hunted down and killed. The other two were huge. We couldn’t stop them. One was headed this direction, but isn’t hitting any of the towns along the way. We figured it was headed to you.”
“And the other?”
“Headed toward Ridgewood.”
Victor’s stomach knotted. “They’re targeting the posts.”
“That’s our best guess so far. Ridgewood’s got a pretty good garrison, we’re hoping they can handle it. We were sent to give you warning, and a hand if you needed it.”
“Nice costumes.” Victor gestured toward the men still hiding in the trees. “I’m guessing the road was just too easy?”
“We figured it would be easier to hide a group of brigands than a group of Rangers. We don’t want people to get too scared. We’ve not lost a beast for the last two hundred years, and as far as everyone else is concerned we still haven’t. We can’t blow cover on the posts yet.”
Victor nodded his head. “Probably a good call. Are your men ready to move, or do they need to study their eyelids?”
The man smiled in response.
Victor nodded. “Thought so. Let me get my things, I’ll meet you here in a couple hours.”
The man nodded and walked off. Victor returned to the monastery, assured the people inside that he had bargained for peace, retrieved his bow from the wall and went to his home to pack.
For the first time in two hundred years, a monster from the Fissure had broken through. Not just one, but two. And apparently it knew where the posts were.
Victor was worried.
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