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~Eleven~
Posted: 09 Jan 2005 03:14 PM |
History of the Eleven
A thousand and twenty years ago, or so the legends tell us, two brothers came into existence. Feeling blessed by the birth of twins, for that is what the two boys were, their parents named them Mavrik and Aordo; ancient nomadic names, with to each their own respective meaning. Aordo stood for friendliness, compassion and bravery, and in the newborn's eyes all of those aspects could be read as if they were a saga that knew not its equal. Mavrik's eyes told a different tale: one of both intelligence and charisma, both of a clear, open mind and a stubborn one.
As paradoxal as Mavrik himself was, so appeared the two brothers to be in respect to one another, also. Always, they seemed to argue, and never did they immediately agree on anything. Their bond was an unconditional one, however, for one brother complemented the other and the sum of the two was far greater than the two as individuals. They spend their childhoods always together, always as one another's comfort, best friend and closest relative.
No thing is meant to last an eternity, however, and these times of peace and safety were no exception to that rule, that one cruel rule.
Some thousand years ago, a terrible terrible plague struck the lands of where the two brothers lived. Their parents had both died of old age and a life of hardship already, yet the two had struggled to continue their existence and had succeeded -- in fact, they were more prosperous than their parents had ever been. Alas... as said, it was not meant to be.
Amongst the people who caught the marks of the terrible disease was Aordo. Not long after the first sighting of a little pink mark on the back of his hand, his body was covered in them. Soon, his skin blackened and his lungs were devastated as he coughed up more and more blood. Pain... horrid pain, both physical and mental, for not many people dared to come near one who had been struck down by the plague. The only face Aordo saw each and every day, was that of his brother Mavrik as he tried to ease Aordo's pain, and locate some kind of cure.
Despite the never-ending nights of torture, and the dark days that followed, neither one of them gave up hope. Mavrik continued to search for an antidote to the evil poison that had entered his brother's body, yet continued to fail in his quest. Despair ensued... would it ever come to a good end?
It is here, that the tale of the two brothers intertwines with another: that of the appearance of the clergy of Midoran. They were holy people, spreading the word of their god: All, who had been affected by the plague were sinners that had somehow offended Midoran, the Just One. The only way by which the souls of these individuals could be redeemed -- the only cure -- was death.
And so it became.
It is said that Mavrik's temper, his anger and hatred, that they rose even higher than the flames that raged up into the skies, fuelled by the pile of corpses on which Aordo's lifeless body had been laid. Had it truly been a just cause? The answer to that question has been forgotten over the centuries. Only true followers of Midoran survived, and they renamed the city of Aristi to a name that would remind everyone of the one, true god: Midor.
For one survivor, the name of Midor was not that of righteousness and justice. This man wielded an intense hatred against all that wore Midoran's symbol; Mavrik. It is unclear why he had not been struck by the plague, despite of his mind being so far away from everything that Midoran stood for -- like that of Aordo had been. One thing is clear, however: it was during this period, that Mavrik discovered and indulged in the teachings of Menarok.
With his charismatic presence even further greatened by his fury, Mavrik soon succeeded in finding ten other like-minded individuals, to rise against Midor and to bring everything associated with Midoran to a crushing fall.
~~
The sound of the massive wooden doors slamming shut resembled that of the thunder, ripping apart the skies on a cold winter's eve. And then, a soft screech as the iron of Mavrik's gauntlets released its grip on the doors' handles. His heavy footsteps resounding through the hall as he made his way to the gigantic, stone round table, surrounded by eleven large chairs -- ten of them already taken by various individuals, all clad in black armour. Engraved in the center of the table, a symbol: two crossed longswords, with to their right a single jagged bastard sword in a vertical position.
His lips curled up slightly, in a smirk -- not having thought to be able to achieve what he had already -- while giving each face present a brief glance. He rested his palms onto the table as he leant forward.
"Welcome. Welcome, all of you," Mavrik spoke with a voice that revealed no emotion, before slowly sitting down himself.
"You all know why you are here, at this present day," he began. "You all know it of one another as well, presumably."
A slight arc of his right eyebrow as he yet again glanced around the table, analysing the ten others. Zephir, to his immediate right; disciplined, controlled and deadly. Then came Faril; cold as winter itself, with the massive scar decorating his face. Faril's sister Melana, having the same blue eyes as her brother and a seductive smile always adorning her lips. To her right sat Cedrick, a former rogue having turned to more serious matters as a blackguard. Kyfter, master of scimitars. Talic, the barbarian from the east, with furs draped around his black metal shell. Novhar; seventh son of rich nobles and the very reason they had been able to afford their current shelter. Gravad, the one eyed marksman and a former ranger. Toril, the necromancer, and last, to Mavrik's left: Lyvirra, the beautiful yet often emotionless healer, and one of the two only women within the eleven.
"Justice... they call it," Mavrik continued. "Their precious Midoran is the only true god, they preach oh so ignorantly, after He has saved them from the ravaging plague." The leather of Mavrik's left gauntlet creaked softly as he clenched his fist, the furious glimmer in his eyes clearly visible to all present. Talic gave a small but meaningful grin, before Mavrik continued.
"No... they shall uncover the truth very, very soon. And I am... pleased... that you have all chosen to help me with that."
To Mavrik's left, Lyvirra smiled ever so slightly and softly laid her hand on Mavrik's fist, much to the dismay of all others but Mavrik himself. "Of course, Mavrik... and our lord Menarok shall feed us with power... all the power you..." she said, before pausing and glancing around, "... could ever desire."
"Hmm," began Faril as he drew a finger across his scar, that ran over the full width of his forehead before plunging downward towards his right cheek area. "So how do you propose we begin then, Mavrik? You, with all the smarts and wits, would know." Melana nodded at her brother's words.
Mavrik merely grinned, widely, before leaning forward and speaking in a soft tone of voice... whispering. It is said that his words were so malicious, that the world did not want to remember. The plans of the eleven have been lost in the centuries that have passed, and not much is known of what happened to the group right after they had formed, as several versions of the story have been passed from mouth to mouth. The most popular one is, that the eleven -- partly due to their creed of having no official leader besides Mavrik, who had merely brought them together -- consumed themselves in their hatred and desire for power. Internal struggles would have taken place, and would have taken their toll. Not a word was heard from the eleven again. |
<WickedArtist> I'd imagine a baby as a REALLY BIG kidney stone |
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Cursed
Posted: 09 Jan 2005 03:15 PM |
It was at his thirteenth birthday, that Malahan had been abducted from his home and family in Port Royale, by a group of slavers. Ruthless mercenaries, willing to perform many an evil deed, purely and solely for their own, one cause: fulfilling their infinite greed.
Malahan was sold to a rich, unscrupulous merchant to serve but one purpose: to serve without question. Here, being constantly belittled and mocked for the slave he was, the then young boy picked up both his accent and his affinity for hatred. The feeling of wanting to stand up for himself, to tell his master he belonged not to another… the feeling of wanting to free himself. A desire for cold blooded vengeance; a lust for his master’s death.
It was from the beginning of his days as a servant, that Malahan developed these emotions. As years passed by, their power and their grip on Malahan’s soul increased. His time would come, he thought. If begging for food and grovelling before his master’s feet would keep him alive for now, then it would serve a greater purpose after all, for Malahan needed to be alive to be free, ultimately.
As years passed by, Malahan unwillingly gained the favour of a god, known to some mortals as Menarok. The young slave showed an unearthly patience to let his plans unravel, waiting for the right moment to strike. Every night, Malahan dreamt about it: the pain he’d cause to his master, twisting the dagger around in a display of sheer cruelty.
Cruelty was not the word Malahan thought of, however, for during these dreams he was haunted by whispers of an unknown origin: were they from within his mind, poisoned by years of enduring hardship? Were they merely an illusion? Or were they the deepest desires stemming from his heart, in which Menarok now firmly existed?
His pain will be just… his torture will be your freedom… Freedom, Malahan…
And every night, Malahan would wake up with beads of sweat covering his forehead, bathing in uncertainty. It was no longer a matter if it would happen; what mattered was when it would.
On the coldest of winter’s nights, Malahan – now eighteen years old – struck. A sharp knife, which he normally used to cut and prepare meat, was now used as a tool of his will. As he plunged the silver metal into his master’s heart, a flood of thoughts struck Malahan in turn. Hatred, lust, greed, envy, mercilessness. Twisting the weapon to inflict more pain, it was as if he turned the key to his soul: all that had been built up, was now unleashed.
He remembered smiling at that very moment. Warmth, as if being loved by someone. Something. In that very instant, one single drop in a rainstorm when compared to the time he had suffered, Malahan decided that the remainder of his life had now received a purpose. Menarok had given him both freedom and an obligation to serve yet again. |
<WickedArtist> I'd imagine a baby as a REALLY BIG kidney stone |
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Shadowy Whispers
Posted: 09 Jan 2005 03:16 PM |
Times have changed. I can feel it in the air, as the wind howls through trees and as the red sunset makes way for liquid moonlight. Like a cold winter, its many snowflakes slowly but surely covering the lands and icicles forming their icy cold grip on every thing alive, malice will spread. Coldly, without a conscience. Patiently, like the end of the year that approaches.
It is said that the ancient underground hall in which the ones known only as 'the eleven' once held their meetings has put to use again, recently. Rumours… floating freely throughout those places the light cannot reach, like a whisper spoken in a language most do not wish to know. |
<WickedArtist> I'd imagine a baby as a REALLY BIG kidney stone |
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