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Schism
Posted: 04 Jul 2005 11:38 PM |
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An Icy Reception
Posted: 08 Sep 2005 11:59 PM |
With a loud creak the gates of the Icy Vale parted. Sir Markus Mortriety, Paladin of Midor marched out the gates, his mind troubled with the possible future. In step with the Paladin four others followed. A unit of Righteous Swords, their gleaming red armor, the very essence of their march diametrically different to that of the one who was leading them on patrol. Markus loosened his jacket revealing his brilliant gold and silver, it armor glittered from the sun’s reflection, from the sky, off the snow. A white cape billowed in his wake. The entire procession had the unnatural drama that a bard might use to describe the start of the telling of a tragedy.
Markus’s mind drifted as he passed the gates, back to a time years ago.
It was a day from the Academy, not a normally common occurrence with the exception of high holidays. He was with his father that day. They strolled side by side down one of the winding side paths that led to Paws, neither talking much. Finally Markus decided to announce that he’d been recommended to be in the Lion Chapter upon graduation.
Sir Ethan Mortriety’s experience lined face turned grim.
“Son, I do hope you don’t take to heart the ideal of the Chapter.”
“What do you mean, father?” Markus asked in reply, stopped walking, looking up at his father’s eyes.
Ethan stopped, and looked down at his son. “The Chapter of the Lion is not made of ordinary soldiery, Markus. No matter what some might say. We are much more than that,” Ethan paused there to level his hardened gaze on his son’s eyes.
“Our Faith, our Will to follow The Code is what makes us more. It will.. it is what makes you more than the common soldiery. Can you recite the code to me, Markus?”
His son swallowed, and placed his knuckles to his lips as he thought. Finally, Markus began to recite the code, as he remembered. When he finished Ethan placed his hand on his son’s shoulder.
“Now, son, take those words and place them in your heart. Lock them there safely so that you will never forget,” Sir Ethan placed his own hand on his own heart, “it is the source of bravery… the heart of love,” he chuckled, a tensionless chuckle.
“I will do so, father, I promise,” Markus placed his open hand over his heart, beaming with pride, his eyes open wide brimmed with tears of pride at his father’s words.
Ethan’s expression softened, his hard lined face looked down at his son, with the only kind of proud love a father could have.
Markus felt as if he was being watched, he stopped to scan the area. The Righteous Sword Enforcer, Lieutenant Salsen stopped at his side.
“What is it,” it was not a question.
“I feel as if we’re being watched,” Markus answered, “let me scout ahead.”
The Enforcer gave a curt nod in acknowledgement.
Markus began to advance, he quickly glanced over his shoulder to see that the Swords were holding their position. They were. He pulled his longsword free from its scabbard as he came to the first bend in the canyon walls.
The Mystic assigned to the unit nodded subtly to the air.
His sword glittered brightly from the light reflected off the snow. Markus raised the blade, holding it in a common offensive grip.
“Be at peace, Sir Markus, a cool voice disrupted the Paladin’s surprisingly aggressive thoughts. He couldn’t help but feel that it sounded familiar, something in the tone made it one he could trust. The Paladin lowered his weapon, and stepped around the corner. His eyes took in the source of the voice. A man, not much shorter than Markus himself, stood there in a long, vacuous brown robe. Pale blond hair tied into a pony tail snaked its way over the man’s shoulder. His murky green eyes stared at Markus, a reserved stare that revealed non of his thoughts or emotions. It took a few moments, but recognition finally settled in Markus’ mind.
“Sir Lindsay,” Markus acknowledged. He met Lindsay’s gaze, and found himself having to turn away from the other man’s stare, the obscurity of his eyes made Markus feel somewhat uneasy.
“What are you doing here, sir Lindsay, shouldn’t you be in the woods?” he asked.
Lindsay shook his head, pulling back his hair tail. “No, the path has brought me here.”
“You’re in danger here, sir Lindsay. You should leave quickly,” Markus said firmly.
“We are all in danger here, young Markus, you especially.”
The Paladin shivered, there was something in the uniformity of the Druid’s voice that lay the truth bare.
“There’s a unit of Righteous Swords just ten paces behind me, if they find you…” Markus didn’t finish his words, he felt that they both knew what could happen. Lindsay studied him, nodding in silent response.
“So.. you’ll go now? Go somewhere else, I’ll make sure we don’t move quickly.. you’ll be able to make a fare distance from us.”
Lindsay tilted his head to the side listening, then looked back to Markus, who in turn looked around to see if he could spot anything. When he looked back, Lindsay had already disappeared with the fleetness and stealth known to the elves. He began to sigh in relief, the sigh was cut short by a bolt shooting across his field of vision, quickly followed by a second. The Paladin’s gaze shot over to the ridge where the shots originated; an orc stood there, its attention focused on rearming its crossbow. Markus turned away, and strode back to where the Righteous Swords were waiting.
“There are orcs,” he reported, “to arms!” he added, pulling his sword swiftly free of its sheath. Turning his back to the unit, the Paladin charged in the direction of the orcs. The Swords blazed in his wake, their weapons free in their hands…
…Sir Markus Mortriety, Paladin, son of Ethan Mortriety, stood at the edge of desolation. He nudged at the corpse of an ice orc over the edge of the top canyon wall. The corpse dangled on the edge for the briefest of moments, its previous, precarious position now compromised. It fell. A heavy thud sounded, the lifeless body hit the icy canyon floor sending freshly powdered snow scattering.
Should have stayed with Lillian. He mused. The rest of the unit that followed him fulfilled their duty. They were inspecting the other bodies for remaining life.
It's cold... colder that it ever was, I think, if that were possible. Markus thought, as a brief, cold shiver crept down his body, beginning at the stem of his neck, down to the tips of his toes. He wrapped his arms around himself pulling his fur lined coat tighter, but it gave no more warmth. His action to pull it closer to himself was more of a natural reflex. In truth he'd only worn the jacket for a superficial appeal. It was very stylish. The jacket itself gave no real protection against the cold, and only meager ly shielded him from the icy winds. It was white, lined with equally white fur, enclosed around him over his armor. His cape was atop it all, its gentle flapping in the breeze giving the Paladin a natural authoritative animation.
"Sir," a voice broke Markus' train of thought. He turned slowly to its source.
"Lieutenant Salsen," Markus replied, in the same precise tone. He noticed the Enforcer's rigid stance.
"At ease," the Paladin added. Salsen's stance did not change, there an undeniable tension.
Maybe it's just the cold. Markus thought to himself.
"We should be moving onward, Sir Mortriety. All the orcs are accounted for," Lieutenant Salsen reported. Markus nodded in thankful acknowledgement. A proud expression formed across Markus' face, despite his wish to keep a stoic look. He reflected on the victory, brimming with confidence. Completing his turn so he faced the other Righteous Swords, he brought them to attention.
"We're moving on," he ordered.
With uniform, with order, the Righteous Swords assembled, Sir Markus Mortriety taking his spot in the formation’s head.
They moved as one to the Icy Tundra. The Tundra was seemingly endless, and as snow-swept as the rest of the cold lands. Its winds picked up flakey snow, obscuring nearly everything, except vague shapes. Shapes like those of the mammoths; giant, shambling things in the far distance.
The Paladin, Markus, kept striding, five and a half paces, and one quarter paces of the number Twenty Two. Twenty Two minutes since he'd brought Justice to the orcs. Two hours and Two minutes since he had left the Icy Vale with his unit on patrol. His gut twisted, and he felt his hairs pull, something, the others weren't in step.
Markus heard the clicking sound of bolts being fitted into place in their crossbows... |
CHOO CHOO!
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Bereil Yadashem.
Markus Mortriety, Herald of Novus Aristi. |
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Schism: Beginning of a Herald
Posted: 25 Jan 2006 03:14 AM |
Today
With a start, Markus Mortriety woke up. Sweat poured down his face, and his hands frantically searched his body for the wounds that were inflicted in the dream. Such a lucid dream, he could have sworn it were real.
The nightmare did not end though, as his fingers ran over the multitude of scars. They burned hot now at his touch, and even though it was dark he could see their redness. He shuddered.
Why! …Why…why… The question continued to encircle his mind, even though the answer was obvious. Penance, for charging into the ruins, ruins that he much later found out were actually a temple. A penance for not being there when Lindsay was in need.
“The Cycle demands sacrifices from all living things. Sooner, more often than later, we all find our final rest.”
But not from you…he thought mournfully.
Markus sat there, curled with his knees to his chest, and hands over his face, his profile looking very pitiful. The only solace in acting like this was that he knew he was alone right now.
~*~
Yesterday
Heavy boots sending what can only be described as a harmony of thuds, each footfall being placed orderly and distinctly one after another. A brief shuffling ensues after a minute, followed by a snapping sound. The boots continued moving through the darkened halls.
A figure, tall, clad in a glamorous suit of armor, painted black, and plated with gold filigree. Similarly a black cape flowed in his wake. And like the polar opposite, the two-handed sword in the man’s hands glowed with something of a pure white-candescence. Broken shapes of what might once have been men lurched in Markus’ path.
His weapon swung in short horizontal arcs, his feet unsettling the dust underneath them, and his cape dancing along to the tune of combat. Gangrenous, already-decayed limbs and parts fell to the floor, sizzling and hissing. Undead don’t scream in pain, or give a final death cry, they just fall. Their remains littered the ground.
He didn’t open the crypt’s doors; he sent them flying open with a kick of his booted leg, followed by a defensive feint with his sword. This one led to a large room, one larger than the rest. Except it wasn’t dark, there was a dim red glow. He could see that the glow emanated from four red pillars of light. But he didn’t give them much thought, because the undead in this room were as volatile as the others.
They rushed at him, a mass of rotting flesh sporting bony fists, and the remains of fingers disturbingly filed to resemble claws. Markus’ sword flashed, swathing through them, a blazing white fire trailing with the blade. Claws clinked on the stony floor; he looked up to see a larger beast.
It had the height of a demon he’d once fought, its head nearly scraping against the ceiling. Wings of drooping flesh sprung from its back, from the way they fluttered they would never be used for flight. The abomination had a massive body, and two thick arms flaunting the talons that made the ends of each of its fingers.
With a swing of its arm it tossed one of the lesser aside, its arm swung back as it charged. Dropping into a crouch, Markus avoided the swipe, pushing back up as the arm sailed high he swung his sword up, slashing a hot line along the demon’s chest. It emitted no sound, nor recoiled from the attack; its only response was to press forward, trying to overcome the Paladin with its brute strength.
Sir Markus circled around the mad swinging creature, sweeping his sword backhandedly; the tip of the blade gouged the thing’s ankle. The abomination found itself at a loss of balance and tipped towards the floor. A systematic thud and crash were the sounds Markus was waiting for. He finished his circle and leapt onto the thing’s back, his sword brought to bear on its now vulnerable position. Markus stepped away from the remains of the undead he’d smote.
Turning around, he advanced on the rampart that descended further into the ruins.
A bard once told him that it’s common knowledge amongst adventurers that the deeper into a cave, crypt, or dungeon you go, the more dangerous it will be and the less likely you’ll leave alive. He took that into account, he wasn’t an adventurer, but the law of location still applied. With that knowledge he slowed his pace, preparing himself for what might lie ahead.
~*~
About a Month before the Battle of the Plains
His body ached, there was no strength left. When he opened his eyes all he could see was a blurred image of a cave, a flickering light which must have been a fire, and a thin figure, with what might be a brown cloak draped over it, and blond hair framing its face. Markus groaned.
“You’re finally awake, it is a start,” a flat voice spoke. The voice was from the brown cloaked figure, it moved closer.
“…Mom?” Markus’ voice croaked in question.
“I am not your mother, young Markus. My name is Lindsay.” There was a pause of silence.
“…Mom?” the younger man’s voice tinted with humor this time.
“My name is Lindsay,” the voice repeated, seemingly infinitely patient. “Bless the Mother you are still alive.”
The figure moved back to tending the fire. Markus’ head rolled back onto the rolled up fur that was his pillow. He thought: Mother? Elbereth.
Llin’syl’vandyen, named more simply Lindsay Descartes, druid and shepherd. They had spoken before.
“What happened?” he asked, putting a hand to his temples as an ache shot through his skull.
“You fell a very long way,” Lindsay said, his voice stoic, and monotone.
The young paladin sighed, memories of what happened flooding back to him. He’d been charged with sedition, and heresy, therefore sentenced to death. It was then he failed to confront the Righteous Swords that had supposedly been his command. He fled, and was eventually caught up to by one of the knights. They dueled at the edge of an icy precipice, when the others caught up Markus realized he would lose. A strike sent him reeling dangerously close to the edge, at which point he slipped…
The Righteous Sword Knight stood over Markus, raising his double-bladed sword over his head.
“Midoran’s Will Be Done!” the tempered voice said with the passion of a zealot.
Markus had let go of the edge, and plummeted as the blade arched down at his head.
~*~
As Markus stepped to the bottom of the stairs – the stairs began where the descending ramp ended – he found himself in a large chamber, two bridges connecting over a pool of bubbling fire. There weren’t many other details that he could pick out because at that point a heavy set skeleton wielding a two-handed sword of its own, and another that was wrapped from head to toe in cloth bandage charged towards him.
At least, the skeleton charged: the bandaged one shambled slowly – but deceptively held its weapon masterfully – Markus wouldn’t underestimate these foes. He parried the skeleton, and used the flat of his sword to shove it aside. Just in time too, because another pair of skeletons materialized, charging at him immediately.
Sir Markus Mortriety met them blow for blow; he feinted left, but dug his foot in the ground and launched the other way, his sword leading to his intended target. One of the skeletons’s topped over, skull-less. Flowing with his own inertia he lifted the sword in time to parry, and shoved, decimating the skeleton’s defense. Literally kicking out one of its legs, and dividing the rest with his sword.
By this time the other skeleton was at its feet, it launched at him with the combined effort of the mummy. Markus reeled back; sweat began to form over his brows. Two more of the abominations similar to the one he’d seen above lumbered towards him.
I have to finish this quickly, or they’ll overrun me.
His thought scattered with the dust, as he dodged around a pillar, trading blows with the much faster skeleton. With a flash of light his sword disarmed the skeleton, the sound of steel and bone clattering to the ground echoed loudly. The next swing took out the final skeleton’s legs from under it. When Markus turned, the mummy had the abominations on either side of it, and they approached him in a coordinated manner. He steeled his grip on his sword, and steadied his breathing.
~*~
He woke to the smell of cooking. His eyesight had returned, and he saw Lindsay stirring what seemed like stew in a small cook-pot.
“I didn’t know you were a chef,” Markus remarked.
“We learn to live off the land while keeping the balance in place,” Lindsay’s flat tone replied.
“What’re you making?”
“Badger stew. You do not have to make that face. It is healthy.”
All Markus could do was clear the repulsed look from his face, and nod acceptingly.
“How long has it been?” he asked finally.
Even when he was awake, Lindsay rarely spoke unless spoken to. Even then his answers were short, and concise, unless you brought up nature, or Mother Elbereth. Sometimes the quiet was welcoming, other times frustrating. Markus preferred to talk, especially in the presence of someone who looked like they were listening, and didn’t interrupt often.
“Two weeks, five days, and nine hours,” was the reply, in the same monotonous voice.
Markus smiled; the preciseness of the time reminded him of Lillian.
“The food is ready.” Lindsay separated the stew into two wooden bowls, giving young Markus the larger portion.
“Thank you, sir Lindsay.”
He took his first spoonful of the stew, it didn’t taste as bad as he thought. When he bit down he felt a crunch between his teeth. Something extremely spicy spilled into his mouth, and his eyes watered in response.
~*~
The Paladin ran past the bodies.
His armor was covered in a number of scratch marks, bits of it loose. It would take care of itself, and even as he reminded himself that the loose chinks of armor formed to where they had been, and the scratches faded. A gift from the Lady Archmagess Shihaya’zad. Before him stood a small dais, with a throne perched on its center. On either side two spirits, both emanating a malevolent red shook angrily. Lined in front of the throne were a few more of the lesser undead.
Twin purple beams lanced from the two red spirits towards him. He dodged the first, the second swept across his armor leaving a smoking line. Markus lanced them both as quickly as he could with his sword, its divine fire devoured both spirits. The hairs on the back of his neck pricked, there was something more here. Dispatching one of the remaining visible undead with relative ease he barely had time to turn as something sharp dug into his armor and tore open the flesh on his side. His sword swung through empty air; and a second time, this time through his shoulder he felt something pass into his flesh, withdrawing as quickly as it pierced him. He swung, hoping to meet it. Blood flowed freely, soaking the clothes he wore underneath.
He backed up. Movement flashed again, he met it, this time with an open hand. Markus’ hand hit a dark, solid mass that had the shape of a man. Light enveloped his hand and he forced it into his target. The light flowed from his hand, and dissipated against the darkness that was the creature. He jerked back and struck it with his sword, it nicked the darkness, but it was already past Markus’ defense and sent him stumbling back with a blow to the head. There was nothing to do now but retreat: so he did, quickly.
Sir Markus reached the top of the stairwell, and heard something behind him; he spun, swinging his weapon with his turn. The flat of his blade swatted aside the zombie’s attack, his weapon sparked as it hit the stone wall, and he turned his weapon and swung back. Blade cleaved in two the decayed body, striking the wall, chipping the blade. Markus didn’t notice, he stepped over the body and continued his retreat.
It’s not undead. What is it! He thought. Discipline slowly seeped from him along with his blood, leaving red prints to follow his path.
It was two more steps, two strides later that the world exploded in pain; darkness overcame him.
~*~
Markus prodded at the fire with a stick. They’d removed the bandages and splints this day. While his limbs were sore, he felt whole.
“What do you think I should do now, sir Lindsay?”
“I believe you know the answer,” Lindsay replied, absolutely without a change of tone.
“I believe I have to leave, I have to return to Lillian… to Lady Blanche. To commit myself to the rebellion,” Markus said thoughtfully.
“They were preparing for an offensive when I left for the Cold Lands.”
The young paladin looked to Lindsay in surprise; it was the first time the man volunteered information.
“Then I can’t wait, I have to go now.”
Lindsay simply nodded.
“I’ll see you again some day, Lindsay, I don’t know how else I can thank you other than to…” Markus paused, and looked up from the fire to the druid, “Thank you.”
A faint smile flickered across Lindsay’s features, but was gone so quickly that Markus might have imagined it.
“Take care, young Markus.”
“I will. You take care too, sir Lindsay.”
The druid nodded, and remained seated as the younger man stood, bowed, and left the cave. As he watched him go, Lindsay knew that Markus would find his bearings soon enough and be on his way to where he belonged.
((With special thanks to Fictrix for editting and approval. *wave cheerfully*)) |
CHOO CHOO!
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Bereil Yadashem.
Markus Mortriety, Herald of Novus Aristi. |
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Schism: Beginning of a Herald (pt. 2)
Posted: 02 Feb 2006 07:08 PM |
This Morning.
All that was left of the campfire were embers and ash. Markus prodded at them with a stick, and tossed a few twigs over the fire’s remains. It was a warm night on far side of Gladden’s farmlands. The memory of the cold lands still fresh in his mind, he played with what he’d heard over, and over in his mind.
“I to myself run and you from yourself flee.” The melodious voice said.
I’m not running from anything.
“Mirrors inside reflecting mirrors outside.”
Mirrors? What Mirrors? She’s talking in riddles… I’m really bad at riddles.
She gave me the hair. Looking at it now I wonder how it was worth all the effort… it’s a hair. It’s going to help me; somehow, this hair is going to get rid of these scars.
Markus’ tied the pouch back up, and tucked it away. There was no sense losing it after all the trouble it took to acquire. That left three things on the list. But they could wait. He had to return to Ladriel. Duty beckoned him once again.
A Few Nights Ago.
Markus spotted the silver gleam of polished armor. He knew he had to find out who it was; who wore the armor. He found a young man, who could have been around his age. Blonde hair framed the youth’s face, and he wore a suit of silver and grey armor.
Sir Trent Kelten: He’s young, not much younger than I am though. Sir Trent graduated the academy earlier than most people. I spoke to him; he had a lot of questions. I answered them as best as I could, and told him about my quest. I have to say he’s skilled with a blade, and shows a lot of promise. Around others he was respectful, but quiet, and let me do most of the talking. I’ll make sure both Lady Blanche and Sir Byron know of him – even though they know him already – they need to know he shows interest in Aristi, and the Code.
Two knights crossed the desert, one wearing hauntingly dark armor lined with gold filigree; the other in a more simple silver and grey. They didn’t encounter much trouble on the way, to which Markus was thankful. When they arrived at Brandibuck a halfling lady greeted them. Sir Trent knew her; Sir Markus didn’t, not yet anyhow.
Lady Claudia: She’s a halfling, very short. I don’t know what it was about her, but she readily agreed to help us find a fey. I believe she’s of a good heart to help a stranger. Sir Trent said she could take care of herself when I told her we’d protect her. I later found out that she’s a powerful spell-caster; but power doesn’t make you invincible. Lady Claudia said she was Sir Byron’s adopted sister. When I heard that I understood why she would help me… anyone who felt so close to Sir Byron would be pure in heart. She’s patient, and I think is wiser… but keeps her wisdom reserved unless asked directly. It reminded me a bit of Lindsay, or maybe it’s because she doesn’t really know me. Did I mention she’s beautiful? … If only she was a lot taller…
Lady Claudia led Sir Trent and Sir Markus to Elbereth’s Tears. Markus always liked the place, it held a sort of tranquility that was hard to find anywhere else. He could only compare it to two other places: Lake Ladriel, and Ferein. The latter making much sense. They made their way up the grassy hill, arriving to the plateau on the top. A small lake composed the middle of the plateau, its waters crystal clear. It was the kind of lake that was there to see, to make the scenery, to provide ambiance, and it would be complete blasphemy for anyone with two legs to swim in it. Markus noticed a figure on the far side, and decided to approach it.
The dryad at Elbereth’s Tears: I didn’t really know what to tell her, or how. So I told her the truth. She was beautiful… but hurt. Her ailment I knew came from the troubles in Ferein, and what the druids are experiencing… and why Lindsay is dead. I could tell that she was genuinely compassionate to everything alive, that being like that was her nature. She and her tree were sick, and although I didn’t get the hair I needed from her, I did help her, and I’m happy that I could.
Sir Trent was surprised, and Lady Claudia curious as they watched as Markus lay his bare hand, which wasn’t spared from the scarring, to the side of the dryad’s head. A light glow emerged from his hand, and transferred itself to her through his touch. Her ailment faded a bit, and she smiled. Sir Markus took his hand back, and shared the smile.
They bid their farewells. That was where he informed them of his next destination: the Cold Lands, where they would find the rare Yuki-On-Na of the blizzards. He didn’t mention that he’d hoped to find someone else there.
Lady Aurelya: First I have to say that Lady Aurelya is beautiful, and a great woman, but I’d never consider her more than a friend… and I’ll explain why. When she’s around Juylina they both look jealous, angry, and insult each other. It makes sense because Lady Aurelya is devoted to Helkris, the Arbitress of Time, Queen of everything Cold and Beauty. And Lady Juylina is devoted to Naruth, Mistress of Fire, Fury, and Beauty. I don’t really understand all the problems there, but I think it’s something a lot of siblings go through. It makes me wonder if everyone who worships the Three Sisters is related somehow. I’m getting sidetracked though. Lady Aurelya is cold, tempered and strong. It’s not just the kind of discipline you get from years of military training, there’s more to it, but I’ve never really asked her why she’s like that though. She thinks I’m handsome, and agreed that I should be cured of these scars. She’ll follow me anywhere, and I go to a lot of dangerous places. I’d never extend our friendship to anything more than…well… a friendship. Besides I was always told that good friends that you can trust are important. She’s the one I hoped to see at Icy Vale that day, and I did.
It was on the way to the cold lands that they encountered Lady Grace. As she was when Markus first met her, Lady Grace was bedecked in a finery of black and gold armor not much different that what Sir Byron wore, but hers was designed with a woman in mind. Sir Markus made introductions then, and the usual pleasantries were exchanged. Now four, they continued on their journey. Grace was bound for Gladden which on the same path.
Lady Grace: She’s nice, but I can’t shake the feeling of how different she is compared to a lot of other people I know. Nothing is ever the way she says she remembers it, and she’s completely amazed by the simplest things for example - she stared at a lamp hanging from a post for a good five minutes with wide eyes. It makes me wonder if she’s an avid smoker of Winky’s tobacco. Not that there’s anything wrong with that… entirely. As long as she doesn’t do it while on duty. She also said that I should speak to the Priestess about my scars - I believe I’ll take her advice.
Markus felt colder even as they were entering Mineath. The cold certainly reached everyone as the exited the cavern into Wipsnade pass, and soon after Icy Vale. It was there that after a brief respite from travel they bid their farewells to Lady Grace. Even as the Paladin left a blizzard began to form. Claudia excused herself to change into more acclimated clothing. It wasn’t soon after that Markus and Trent saw shapes that seemed to dance with the falling snow. Movement up the hill of the Divider Chain alerted Sir Markus Mortriety of… something. His intuition took hold of him, and he set up the slope with a determined gait, explaining very little other than he in fact saw movement.
Yuki-On-Na, mistress of the blizzard: I don’t know if my breath was labored because of the cold that beset me, or if it was her entrancing beauty. She seemed to dance along the snow drifts, taunting, alluring… it’s the only way to describe it. And led us into danger that I’d dare not face alone, and makes me very thankful for Lady Claudia and Sir Trent’s help. Mischievous, riddle-speaking and grinning constantly. We were forced to stalk her; to play her game. But the chase kept me warm, the moving, the combat, and eventually a spark of anger in me at how frustrating it was to keep in pace.
The weather showed no remorse, as the blizzard raged and swirled around the three heroes. They marched obstinately onward, despite it all, following the mischievous smiles and laughter of the Yuki-On-Na. Markus kept on calling out words of peace to the nymph, thinking at first that it might be afraid. Tauntingly the nymph would dance, crook a finger, and wink at them. As it moved further on across the divider chain, Claudia caught Markus’ cloak with a small, deft hand.
“To follow blindly will be our end,” she said, voicing the wisdom that the Paladin had clearly put aside.
“She's playing a game. Let’s make sure we win,” Trent said agreeing.
Nodding, Markus agreed to be more cautious, although his voice was reluctant at first.
And with that, the lady halfling made a series of gestures, magic flowed from her fingertips to entwine both Trent’s and Markus’ swords. Then a different set of gestures to apply more concrete protection for herself. From there they continued in their chase of the blizzard nymph.
Lady Claudia, Sir Trent, and Sir Markus trailed the Yuki-On-Na to a small pass, and the nymph danced through. They paused in caution though, spotting a small sign, although frozen over - to the point of being unreadable. It bode no good omen. Claudia explained to them that the pass led to a settlement of barbarians. After a quick discussion over the details of the danger they went on.
The pass led to a small open valley between hills. Pine trees decorated with snow dotted the area with scarcity. A stone platform lay in the center of the valley, tall rib-shaped pillars lining its side. Snow still fell thick, but even that could not blot out the frame of a giant lumbering towards them threateningly.
“Wither thou goest? Hie along home… Children should not wander, So far from home.” The Yuki-On-Na said in a singsong voice as she danced away, fading away into the snowfall.
Her words faded away as well, replaced by the sound of a boulder being hurled through the air. Trent and Markus dodged to each side, and a massive rounded boulder crashed in the vacant space where they’d been standing, sending an impressive cloud of powdered snow into the air.
As one they drew their swords, closing in side by side as they charged the giant. Just as they reached it an expanding green mist gripped the giant, halting its own advance. Swords swept swiftly through the air, and red splashed on white. The giant fell, dead.
From the blinds of snow shapes of wolves closed in on the two knights. Markus and Trent divided targets automatically. Even as they closed with the wolves the shapes of a hunting party appeared close behind the animals.
The two armored men clashed with the wolves, sparing parries with the barbarians’ axes. And it quickly turned into a melee.
Markus spared a glance over his shoulder to see to lady Claudia’s safety. She was clearly concentrating on magic. He turned back to the axe swinging barbarian.
Claudia extended her arms and a flurry of fiery darts flew from her fingers, each one expanding to the size of a bolt. The fiery bolts flew to their targets, each one striking one of the attackers precisely and squarely in the chest. Burning cries rose from them, but were silenced as quickly. Sir Trent and Sir Markus taking the opportunity to finish the targets mercifully.
With the battle drawing to a close, Markus stepped onto the stone structure. A small square near one end of it was risen like a small plinth. It was there that the Yuki-On-Na appeared, smiling coyly.
Markus spoke first, not bothering to hide his irritation at the long winding chase “Have you finished your games.”
“Have you finished yours?” She replied, red lips curving into a grin.
Her voice sang in riddles, leaving Markus in a state of deep thought, and finally yielded a sing long hair. He thanked her as she vanished with the dying blizzard.
Leaving was the best suggestion and agreement that came to them then.
The three returned to the Icy Vale, and entered the warm inn to rest. Fire and rest were on their minds.
Sir Markus was the first to excuse himself. He thanked his new friends, exchanged farewells, and left to find a room.
This Morning.
Markus reflected back to his conversation with Lady Aurelya. He’d met her on the way to the rooms in the Icy Vale inn.
Two places where I can find the ice gem, she told me. I hope she contacts me.
As he thought he pulled a gold dagger from its sheath, and began using it to chip the black paint from his armor.
Trolls. I’ll have to go find the troll. I want my armor silver again… the black… it doesn’t feel entirely right. Maybe I’m not used to it. I hope that’s just it. Wonder where Sir Trent is? Sir Byron shouldn’t be so hard on him. And Lillian…
Markus laughed out loud.
You’re definitely not my mother. He lowered the dagger as he continued laughing. Ah! I can’t believe she said that, I’m going to cry laughing.
Lady Lillian: I think I’ve known her as a friend longer than anyone else I’ve known. Probably because we attended the Academy together, and then were always assigned to the same unit afterwards. I would never think of her as my mother, even if she thought it, more like an older sister if anything. Haha! I wish she would lighten up more though. She’s just been getting harder ever since we’ve left Midor. Willom’s right, she needs a stiff drink and a good night. Maybe. I know it’s just a way for her to keep distanced from everyone because she’s scared of loss… like what happened with Lindsay. Why…
I’ll never stop respecting her. Or trusting her. Not because of that. Not because of anything.
Sir Byron: He’s slightly taller than me, has blond hair that’s cut longer than most military men have theirs. And strong. He doesn’t have much sense in fashion, but then I’ve only seen him wearing armor. I don’t really know him very well otherwise. Lady Claudia is his sister, but not through blood. Sometimes he seems like he has all the compassion and wisdom in the world, other times he looks like he’s a sword pure and simple. Lady Blanche has a lot of faith in him, and I have faith in her, it extends to him as well. He’s a good leader for the most part, I think. But there’s something about him that’s different, not the same kind of difference that I see in Lady Grace, or Sir Tonan. He just… is a leader. Even if he didn’t receive the same education we – Paladins born in Midor – have.
Sir Markus brushed away the last chips of black paint from his armor. Now he’d have to polish it. With well versed movements he worked away, making sure his equipment remained in top shape. A chuckle escaped his lips after a while, accompanied by the thought: That’s a good joke, I’ll have to tell it sometime.
((Thanks to the DM-you know who you are-who took care of well... everything and stuff, and Trent(WA) and Claudia(Glor) for joining, it was tons of fun.)) |
CHOO CHOO!
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Bereil Yadashem.
Markus Mortriety, Herald of Novus Aristi. |
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Re: Schism: Beginning of a Herald (pt. 3)
Posted: 19 Feb 2006 06:12 AM |
Our way is one of outcomes. Destinies realized. Time is frozen and set in its ways. It follows immutable laws.
*** ***
Markus woke, it was late; already midmorning, and he could see the sun peeking over the treetops. The previous day still fresh in his mind. He sat up, and looked around.
Smoking cinders were all that remained of the fire from the night. Any morning dew had already dissipated from the sun’s increasing warmth. He also realized that he was alone. Again.
It seemed the thing to do. He relit the fire, and sat there waiting for warmth to return. Warmth. It wasn’t even a memory. Only a word with a definition. A thought.
My first dream every night for the past two weeks has been the same. Every time the same. I can never remember what it is, only that it was frightening. Until last night. I had the nightmare again, but I wasn’t afraid. The dream… knew that as well.
All I ever remember is darkness, and fear. I would wake up in a cold sweat, realize it was just a dream and then return to sleep.
I still woke up this time too; I opened my eyes, and then closed them again. I somehow know that Dana is having the same dream. I still could not remember it. So I went back to sleep.
But there’s one thing I know for certain…and that the dream is always the first.
The previous day.
To some it’s a familiar sound; the sound of metal sinking into flesh. A heavy splash sounded bare moments after. Sir Markus Mortriety withdrew his sword from the fallen troll, soon followed by the wrenching sound of Dana removing her axe. What could he do but smile as he waded deeper through the swamp? The swamp troll’s body, hacked and burned was already sinking under the murk, and in time it would be a part of it true and true.
It wasn’t too long before they spotted the ruins. Stone walls, remains of them in any case, standing on harder ground. Various parts of the wall were crumbling, vines, and moss grew and slithered over the remains. The plant life was not the only thing that slithered amongst the ruin though. There were also snakes. Snakes, Markus thought, aren’t very menacing… it’s their poison that makes them dangerous. Some of the serpents here though were large enough to coil around a grown man.
So the two took to caution. Well… as much caution as an orc-raised woman and a heroic paladin would have in the situation. Muck and blood (of at least four different hues) slathered weapons swung, slashed and hacked quickly disposing of any threat.
Inside the crumbling walls; a courtyard with the remains of a tower. The courtyard itself was overgrown with various weeds and long grass. By a toppled pillar was a patch of spotted mushrooms. They had both been here before so it took them little time for them to make their way to the tower ruins. A stone staircase descended into a dim underground structure.
Markus kept his thoughts focused on the task at hand. Moving swiftly through the halls, disregarding the decayed flesh of the long since dead and the alien portraits and mosaics on the walls. Turning a corner, boots thudding heavily on the stone paved floor. He was almost eager as if he could feel his goal within reach. Turning one more corner brought them to a flooded stairwell descending into darkness. Going down the stairwell led to a dank cavern. The only light there was their own.
Long limbed shapes lumbered in the far tunnels of the cave. Sir Markus led the way, making no effort to hide his presence from the cave trolls. He stopped at one section of the cave wall. Here would be a hidden entrance to another chamber…
Click.
The hidden door opened and they stepped through. Stepping past two draconic lizards that acted not much different than guard dogs. Markus stopped at a gate with Dana just a pace by his side.
“Hello?” He called up through a gate.
An armed reptilian woman; a guard appeared at the gate, staring at them with serpentine contempt.
…
The morning.
Sir Markus Mortriety set a small tin pot to boil with water from the stream. Stripping down to the waist he takes mechanical strides to a small pond. What he does there is kneels, and gazes at his own reflection. Two eyes stared back at him, cold… vacant. He turned his head from side to side to catch his profile – steel, expressionless. The scars stood out, even in the water’s poor reflection, a swathe-work of them from head to toe. Markus cups some of the water and splashes it over his face. He describes to himself it as cool, refreshing, and that washing in the morning feels good. That’s how it always was.
The second dream was a nightmare. I wasn’t scared then either.
I was in a vast body of water, and I was swimming towards… something. In my dreams I never have the horrible scars. All I knew is that if I got to it everything would be okay, everything would be right again. Crashing waves wouldn’t… couldn’t slow me down. As I swam though the water grew colder, and colder. I noticed that ice was forming on the surface, so I tried all the harder to reach the place I needed to be.
My muscles began to fail me as the cold crept through my skin, penetrating me to my very mind, heart, and soul. I know I’ll lose it now; I don’t want to. I scream in protest and my mouth fills with the icy water. I swallow the water and try to cry again, but the frozen water fills me, my mouth, and my lungs. I’m drowning. A voice seems to whisper from the depths of the gradually freezing water – the voice also seems to echo in my head and all around me.
“It’s nothing you needed.”
I slowly sink, staring up at the sky, hopelessly trying to reach for it. I can barely feel anything now it’s so cold. I shouldn’t feel anything. The water turns to ice around me, encasing my body, the water in my body freezes to ice too. And now I can’t feel anything.
That’s when I wake up. I’m not sweating, although it’s a nightmare. When I wake up… I’m just cold. And the only thing I can think about is I want it to end.
Previously.
In his hands it was something he would treasure. An alien looking container – a vial, simply – filled with the blood of one of the most unique and possibly nearly extinct type of troll. The third part of the cure, and now it was his.
Sir Markus Mortriety tucked the vial into a protected pocket of his armor. Donning his helm once more.
It still needs to be purified. He thought to himself as he marched out of the secreted chamber, Dana following, still at his side.
Will she still like me when I’m cured of the scars?
A few steps out of the secret door, and a grey shape launched itself at him, swinging a long arm ending with a club. Markus was surprised to say the least, and pray thankful for having the helm. The blow landed squarely on his protected head sending him reeling.
Aaugh! Troll!
From the corner of his eye he saw it turn its attention to Dana, who had her weapon clear, and from the gleam in her eyes ready to use it. But that wasn’t something he was ready to risk, not when she was clearly unprotected with her magic.
Reflexes took control, his sword gleamed in the dim light, and he charged.
Aim for a leg, and then clean off its head.
A low swing cleaved through the troll’s right leg, toppling it down. Markus’ feet shuffled, and his arms worked the weapon into a counter-clockwork swing that cleaned the troll’s head. His eyes quickly swiveled to see if his partner was okay – she was, to his relief.
They left the cavern, the ruins, and the swamp behind them.
Time spun its way.
Their footfalls crunched on the snow. A fur-lined winter cloak kept itself wrapped around Lady Dana, keeping in her warmth. Markus marched, his own black cape pulled around himself, a lapis lazuli amulet wrapped around one gauntleted hand.
This hunt for a cure will end tonight. Markus thought determinedly. He was resolute, and nothing would stop him now.
The pair shouldered their way up the first slope of the Divider Chain, and turned, walking across that first slope. It wasn’t long before they arrived to an open gorge. A thin trail, dotted with sparse pine trees and other winter vegetation encircled the gorge – everything there was, of course, covered with a fine layer of snow. At its center was a circular lake, its surface near crystal in complexion.
Spirit Lake, except… it doesn’t have any spirits living in it or around it. None that I’ve seen, anyway. I wonder why it’s called that. Lady Aurelya didn’t tell me. Maybe it’s a secret.
There was a cave. Naturally, they entered it. Ice covered everything, and lining the walls of sparkling ice were people, or what might have been people. They seemed incredibly realistic, but encased in so much ice that they must have just been made of ice. Markus just wasn’t too sure.
“Don’t touch anything,” he warned Lady Dana. One never knows what kind of dangers or defenses the place might have. He did know where he was going. Lady Aurelya had shown him the place… oh so long ago. Stepping onto a strange and alien platform they were whisked deeper into the cave.
The Ice Palace. There are far from few ways to describe the place. Cold would be a good start. Frozen would be the next, as nearly everything is made out of ice. Beautiful, in the intricate and un-touched by time kind of way, dust avoided the place like a plague, and everything gave the faint glow of illuminated ice. Moving through a pair of gates came to a fairly large chamber with a number of doorways on each side. Those were just minute details to the alien ice crystal sculpture that lay in the middle, just rounding it, at its base, was an altar. One of the likes Markus had seen before, albeit briefly in the areas inhabited by the frost giants within the cold lands.
Kneeling at the altar was Lady Aurora, Priestess of Helkris: Arbitress of Time, Goddess of Beauty, Vanity and Cold.
Lady Aurora’s hair was snow white, and her skin nearly equally as pale. Markus easily decided that she looked a lot like Lady Aurelya, or perhaps it was the other way around. Beautiful, rounded in all the right places, and with a frigid expression that coupled with intense patience and wisdom. Right now her skin was frosted over, and icicles hung from her. She could have been kneeling there for days, even weeks.
Slowly she opened her eyes, and rose.
“You came,” she spoke, her voice was soft, but she did not turn around to face them.
Today.
Markus stirred the ladle that rested in the small pot that sat atop the fire. The smell of preserved foods being broiled with a bit of pure spring water wafted from the cooking container. He raised the tin cup, it let off its own steam that smelled faintly of coffee, or mud, to the untrained nose.
Breakfast is said to be the most important meal of the day. Markus lived on it. There was something about breakfast that was lively, especially out in the wilderness where it was just you, your wits, and your rations. Eventually it just became his own tradition, because when you were your own authority for most of the time - you found the time to have a decent meal.
The third dream came way too soon. I didn’t want this one, not the way I was now. But there was nothing I could do…
I was at the Academy again. It felt like it’s been years since I’ve been there; it hasn’t even been one. Anyway… I was walking through the halls, and I came to one of the windows that overlook the courtyard. Dreams lead you, you get these overwhelming feelings in them that you have to do something – so you do it. I looked out the window… and I saw my father. He was standing there, talking to someone, an old friend maybe.
I felt cold, but I ran to him, non-the-less. When I burst out the door that led to the courtyard there he was… my father…on a stake, smiling down on me. I approached him slowly, and I knew that I had no expression, my jaw was worked tight, and my heart beat no quicker, my blood didn’t warm, my mind didn’t scream like it did so many other times.
The heavens flashed. I didn’t have to look up to know what would happen now. And I can only say it like this. He burned. It was almost instantaneous this time, in the other dreams he had time to scream.
I woke, and opened my eyes. The flash of the fire still flared over my vision, but faded until all I saw were the stars and the moon in the night sky. Cry. I thought to myself. Cry! My thought rang in my mind, but it was a hollow word to me now, and so no tears came.
*** ***
And now it is time to go. The sands tell us these things in their own way. All things in time are pre-ordained. All possible futures and outcomes frozen.
((Special thanks to Fictrix for.. well.. pretty much everything, and to Dana(Vulpina) for the great company, and the help)) |
CHOO CHOO!
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Bereil Yadashem.
Markus Mortriety, Herald of Novus Aristi. |
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Penance
Posted: 24 Feb 2006 03:26 AM |
1: an act of self-abasement, mortification, or devotion performed to show sorrow or repentance for sin.
*** ***
Heat rolled off the volcano’s rocks in constant waves. Lava flows flowed and bubbled, following their snaking paths down the mountain. Ever present; the smell of burning sulfur, and ash, clung to the air. The barren landscape of rolling hills and smaller mountains left a bleak impression in the world. It wasn’t devoid of life, but most life there tried to avoid being seen.
Sir Markus Mortriety kneeled on a ridge, his hands resting easily over his knees, and eyes closed, facing the barren land. He wore plainclothes, a bluish-grey cotton tunic, native Artio-styled arm and wrist bands, and earthen dyed cotton leggings. Windswept hair, and skin discolored from ash and dust. The dust though did nothing to hide the scars lining his face, throat, and bare arms. His sword lay on the dry stone ground in front of him within easy reach.
Always be prepared to perform proper penance for misdeeds. It felt like it had been years since he'd heard that. A whisper in the Academy. Where did it come from?
This is penance. Forgive me, father, for I’ve sinned. I’ve been blind... selfish with my desire to cure these scars. It’s almost over now though. Selfishness and desire. These two words felt alien to him as he thought them. He knew what they meant, and looking back on his memories – seeming only pictures in black and white now – they were the right words.
The sun made its slow crawl across the sky. Not unlike his Vigil, Markus remained where he was. His location though was unlike that of Haven. Heat blasted him from the sun, from the lava flows, any sweat that gathered on his open skin evaporated as soon as it did. Only a slight blessing that dry heat isn't as dangerous as when the heat is humid.
Inside so cold… He could feel the weight of the ice gem in its pouch. It’ll be over, I’ll be warm again. He reminded himself.
Just over a day’s worth of food, and just under a day’s worth of water. Four days penance. One for each week. I don’t know how long I’ll be here past that. Have to ration it then. Thirsty.
Markus unconsciously licked his dry lips as he made the calculations of rationing his supplies.
Facing an opponent, equally armed. Keep in circle with them. Draw weapon. Drop into standard defensive stance. Left foot forward, right foot; close the distance. Turn hip, slash one, step, turn hip, and slash two. Defense stance three.
In his imagination he conjured a blank opponent, the perfect sparring partner for a mental exercise of basic swordsmanship stances.
A wall. It’s cold. Solid. Impenetrable. There’s something behind it? It’s ice. Moving. Something is behind it. What is it?
By the time the sun began to reach the end of its journey Markus’ skin was dried and cracked. If he opened his eyes he would have been greeted by the fieriest sunset as to be seen anywhere else in the world. A globe of the purest red, reaching out with its final beams of light; a collage of reds, oranges, and yellows across the cloudless, dimming sky.
This is only the first day. Cold, emotionless, the thought, like all the others. |
CHOO CHOO!
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Bereil Yadashem.
Markus Mortriety, Herald of Novus Aristi. |
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Dreamtime
Posted: 27 Feb 2006 11:21 PM |
The wind whipped his hair in every which direction and the sun shone on him. A radiant smile played across his features as he flew through the endless skies. Clouds of various colors: pink, yellow, green, and fuchsia drifted out of his way. A bright, warm blue was the color that painted the sky.
Sir Markus Mortriety, Paladin, and Herald of Aristi flapped his arms, and laughed with joy. He was cured; all the scars were gone from his body. Most of all the coldness, that frigid layer of ice over his heart and mind had melted with the sacrifice of the ice gem during the ritual.
This, this was freedom.
Cured! I’m flying! And I’m cured! And flying! He thought exuberantly.
Now, downwards he dove towards the ground. Hugging his arms to his sides as he made the freefall. Eyes squinting through the blast of wind in his face, and the ground rising to meet him. Except it wasn’t the ground below him but a vast lake, its surface shimmering with the sun’s reflection.
With suddenness impossible in reality he was diving deep into the lake water with a smooth splash, his entrance sending ripples along the calm surface. It was cool, refreshing, yet not so much that it was uncomforting because there was some warmth to it. And it was only now that he realized he was in the nude, but it didn’t matter. Kicking his legs he somersaulted in the water. He began to swim, not so much swim as go through the actions of swimming, but he was propelled forward at a languid pace.
Ten minutes later, maybe more, Markus arrived at a spot where he stopped his forward crawl through the water, and shot up to the surface. Water splashed as he was lifted a few feet out of the water, and then landed on it, gently, with both feet. He stood there, on the water, dry as if he’d never even entered the lake. A massive wall of flame appeared several yards in front of him. It gave off heat in waves, but it didn’t turn the lake into steam, and the water like-wise didn’t put out the fire.
Markus strode across the water towards the wall of fire. It was still hot as he neared it, but it didn’t burn or blister his skin. So, without any other consideration he passed through it.
Trees surrounded him now. He was deep in the woods, at least it seemed that way. The vegetation constantly shifted, and the tall trees swayed from side to side to music unheard. A dandelion shuffled over his feet, and disappeared, swallowed by the brush.
There was no sound anywhere, no birdsong, or rustling of leaves and branches. Only peace.
Something growled.
The Paladin turned towards the sound; it seemed to have come from all directions and one at the same time. What he saw was a white doe, similar to the ones found in the Holy Grove of Ferein. Except it had a humanoid face, and had two luminous, yellow lupine eyes.
Hello?
“An imaginary trout, you can’t eat it,” rumbled the doe.
Pardon? ... Markus knew it to be a dream, but it puzzled him still.
He turned from the doe to find himself face to face with a prismatic dragon. It was peering at him; scrutinizing him. The dragon’s long neck curved upwards and twelve feet up it touched the rest of its massive bulk. Multicolored scales reflected the greenish glow of the woods, and its two wings were tucked in on its back.
The dragon hissed at him, its tongue flicking out of its maw of a mouth.
With haste Markus leapt into the air, his arms held protectively in front of his face as he crashed through leaves and branches. His jump had launched him clear of the forest canopy with an explosion of leaves. Like green feathers they fluttered down peacefully from his body back to the ground below.
He landed softly on his feet on the mountaintop. The world of Vives spread in all directions around, only the horizon, and the fact that the dream representation of the world was covered in a mist prevented him from seeing everything. Still he took in the sight, amazed, awed by it. As he turned he noticed someone was on the mountain top with him. Darkness coiled around her. Tendrils of it waved in every which direction. Each wispy tendril of darkness ended with a curved talon, or a small mouth filled with gleaming sharp teeth.
Markus centered himself, his hands at his sides in closed fists. He could feel a fire burning in his veins. Fury, pure.
Leave her alone! His mind roared at the darkness.
Slowly he approached with the marked stride of fearlessness. His face a set mask of determination.
Protect the weak, for who else will defend them?
… Never allow anger to rule your judgment.
His blood cooled, but he did not stop his approach. Slowly he reached out to her, as he neared the darkness shrank back, repulsed by his presence. Then he was there, and wrapped his arms around her in a warm embrace. Markus’ attention though was still focused on the retreating darkness. It danced back from his stare, took form of a large carnivorous butterfly, and fluttered away.
With gentle care he brushed aside some of her fiery red hair, and a passed a careful smile. No words passed between them, but his eyes must have said something, because she stepped away. He nodded, and ran to the edge of the mountain, leaping off it. Pursuing the darkness. Markus didn’t fall off the mountain though – he flew.
The Paladin landed. His black and gold armor seemed to form a shell over him. And now he had the familiar weight of a sword at his hip.
Haven? What am I doing here?
Markus realized he was at the entrance of the Hush Tunnels. Inside the dim interior he saw a glimpse of familiar platinum blond hair. Without second thought he ran after it.
Lillian! Wait! Where are you? …Where are you going?!
He was in the tunnels now, another glimpse of shoulder length blond hair, he dashed towards it, and turned the corner where it’d disappeared. Again, he saw the figure duck around another corner, and again he gave chase.
There she was, standing, facing a stone wall, a dead end. Her back was to him. Markus approached slowly, with care. Mentally he formed a wall, a wall of ice around his heart. Feelings, emotions that had blanketed him froze, and were stopped.
Lillian. You’re not going to try to run, still, are you? It was a question that had the same tone of someone asking if the sky is blue. It should have the simplest answer.
Slowly she turned to face him… and the world fell into darkness. Now he approached to where she was freely. Without conscious thought his hand was resting on the hilt of his weapon.
Lillian?
He was close now, he could feel it. In fact, he could see her outline in the darkness. A few more steps now…
Markus could hear the faint hissing of her breath. Hissing?
“Markusss,” hissed the form, the person in front of him who he thought was Lillian. With a hand he reached out.
… Lillian? The ice melted, his thought was hesitant, and an old fear sent a chill up his spine.
His hand touched scaly flesh.
*** ***
Markus woke up. Wide eyed and frantic. His hand gripped for his belt where his sword was resting in its sheath. He closed his hand around the familiar hilt, and pulled it close. Bright eyes darting around the darkness, and tongue flicking over his dry lips.
“Just a dream,” he said aloud. Just a dream…
((I wanted to write something really fun, instead of the linear This Happened In Game stuff. And like many dreams there are many interpretations. :: If you haven't seen Markus yet, those malicious red scars are gone - if you didn't know about them it's because I forgot to tell you. :: A special thanks to Fictrix (Again!) for the fun of the questing, and being patient. Patience... err. Right. And a special thanks to Lady Juylina (Xerah) for the ritual, and the great RP. Oh. And thank you coffee, and Covenant, your music is what inspired this post, believe it or not.)) |
CHOO CHOO!
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Bereil Yadashem.
Markus Mortriety, Herald of Novus Aristi. |
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Song of faith
Posted: 21 Mar 2006 12:17 AM |
Cape swirling in his wake, Markus stormed from the raining dredge that is Port Royale. Exiting the city the midday sunlight shone, reflecting off his shining silver and gold armor. A dark cloud thundered over his head; his face baring a turmoil expression of anger, and determination. He was determined to mend what he’d done.
Port Royale! Argh! I really don’t like that city. I shouldn’t have gone there to talk. To Jessup! What was I thinking!? I hope that woman, Lady Adams got away safely. At least she won’t be in the hands of that... – that monster!
The armor he wore felt heavy on him, but he jogged in it non-the-less. He’d considered changing into plainclothes, but he felt a bond with the armor. And, strangely he felt it had a bond to him. It wasn’t just how it was a gift from Lady Archmagess Shiha’a’zad. That it magically repaired itself or even that when he polished it clean every day it really shone as if it enjoyed the attention.
Across the coast he went, not pausing to admire the scenery, and into the humble town of Buckshire. Something made him slow as he approached near McGuillicutty’s Watering Hole. Inexplicably a thought emerged in his mind, a piece of wisdom voiced to him not too long ago.
There’s always time for simple pleasures.
With that, he picked out his water canteen, unscrewing its cap, and poured out the water within. A passing guard raised a brow at him. Empty canteen in hand he entered the inn.
“Doctor, could I have this filled with hot chocolate, please?” he asked. A bright smile already on Markus’ face, he held out the canteen to the inn’s owner.
Odd things happen fairly regularly at the Watering Hole. Often enough that Dr. McGuillicutty just gave a nod, and did as was asked.
Markus paid his bill as he was given his canteen back. It felt very warm with the drink inside. Now, canteen in hand he left, and continued his quick cross-country trek.
First stop: Tower Ladriel.
By the time he arrived at the tower his anger had long subsided, left behind to settle someplace in the natural heat of the desert. He sat down at the first floor and scrawled a quick note, and gave it to the messenger there. Pausing only to refill his canteen with water this time, he left.
Next stop: Ikarian Bay.
Ikarian bay was chilly. Markus was above it, on a ridge of cold rock. He surveyed the area as he had so many times before. But this time there was a wariness to his search. Markus’ hand stayed by the hilt of his weapon. His eyes followed the strange rock formations that seemed to have grown over the area. Stone hands that hadn’t been there before; that he’d only noticed when he first chased Esmeralda when the skull went to the bay. His gaze fell on the tunnel, at least, where it should have been. There was nothing there.
Markus Mortriety rubbed his eyes, thinking it an illusion. When it didn’t go away he felt his heart jump in exhilaration.
“Yes!!!” he exclaimed in relief.
I can’t believe it… it’s a… a miracle!
Or some sort of magic of the place.
I believe it must be both. He concluded.
Something pulled at him, so he slung the from his back and nestled it properly in his hands. His brows puzzled for a moment as he plucked a few strings, and turned the knobs at the lute’s head, tuning it.
The lute itself looked like it was painted by someone who’d seen the depths of Nethar’u and returned, mentally scarred and utterly insane. It had nightmarish creatures painted on it, devils, demons, and strange other occultist things. Primary colors of the pictures in various shades of red, ochre, and black. One thing on it stood out though. Freshly embossed on the front in platinum silver the word “irony” in plain letters. Obviously the new owner has a sense of humor.
After receiving the lute, Markus had given it a thorough look. A thought had then come to him - Maybe I should stop accepting gifts from mages…
The Paladin readied his fingers, strummed repeatedly a loud, joyous chord, and sang.
“Don’t lose hope, don’t lose faith.
Let others know, just saith!
Oh Haven you are a savior.
Removing from the bay this cave ‘ere!
It was the Black Hand who wrest the truth from me.
Threatening a pretty lady who was innocent to some degree!
One day they will discover what they’re doing is wrong.
Maybe they’ll learn it from a simple song.
Repent ye evil for the greater good will last.
Repent ye evil for your time has past!”
Markus Mortriety stopped his hands, freezing the chords, and listened to the last echoes of his voice as he gathered his breath. He smiled, his faith bolstered, and he’d learned an important lesson.
Something was still amiss. If he’d reflected on what had happened earlier in Pickston & Jessup’s Wild Tours he would have known how deeply he’d been tricked into confirming what the crime lord had heard.
“I’ve never seen her before!”
If he reflected on that one thing he’d said he’d dawn on two facts: She wasn’t part of the Novus Aristi, and she wasn’t the innocent, forced woman she appeared to be.
((I’m not sure what’s more fun and frightening. Discovering that your character has been manipulated, or knowing that you have to let your character be manipulated.)) |
CHOO CHOO!
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Bereil Yadashem.
Markus Mortriety, Herald of Novus Aristi. |
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Fallen Down
Posted: 16 Apr 2006 05:11 PM |
With the last vestiges of the sun Markus left the tower of Ladriel. The brightness in his eyes dimmed with the waning light. He weaved his way over the main path, through the trees, the path leading to Brandibuck. His boots left heavy prints in the soil, a testament to a weight, a burden, which had settled over him. Turmoil clouded his mind, and a path once clear was clouded as the sky above.
Change, it all caught up to him in the end. Things that were transparent were now very much opaque. An oath broken, a Code that was a pillar in his mind had begun to crumble. Once he stood so tall; now he’d fallen down.
* * *
It was a shock to him, and he was speechless. Markus thought he knew what he wanted, had thought he’d gone through it with a clear conscious. That was a lie, of course.
“You must be Sir Markus?” the man asked, his eyes partially glued to his hands that were right now leafing through papers on a clipboard.
“That’s correct, Sir…?” he left the question standing, unfulfilled.
“Sir Kaprensky, Michael, I’ll be your CO from this point on.”
Sir Michael Kaprensky, easily said to be in his early thirties, that being bared by the maturity of his expression, and the heavier set formed by his age. His overall features were hardened over the years, and somewhat belie the compassionate light of his light hazel eyes. Auburn, curly hair, cut in a strict military short completed the image of the unarmored man who stood only an inch or two shy of six feet.
“Now, have you come here to report? If not, how may I help you?”
Markus quickly realized that the words he’d thought to write were sticking to his throat, and so he just spat them out.
“I want to resign, the Novus Aristi, the Alliance, all of it, Sir.”
The Paladin raised an archetypical questioning brow at Markus.
“For the record will you state why?” the tone of the question was crisp, and direct.
“I…” Markus’ voice faltered, “It’s what I want… sir.”
Michael leveled his gaze on the young man before him, who, at first arriving at the tower appeared in all appearances like a boy who’d lost his mother in the market and was trying to put up a brave front in spite. Now that image altered, and the boy was simply lost.
“That’s not reasonable, Markus. Have you thought about this at all?” he asked, taking on a softer tone. Against reason though, he continued to speak, not letting the young man to continue.
“It isn’t. You obviously haven’t thought this through and realize what you’re saying. As well you will be breaking the Oath you took when you became a Herald,” he paused, both to take another breath and to let the words sink in.
“In light of this I will take your request under consideration.”
Michael controlled his expression, keeping the compassionate air. There was more to this, outside influences most likely, and the boy wouldn’t talk about it with him, that much was obvious.
“You will, though, report back here, tomorrow, at this time. I’m going to have you see a Priest for counsel.”
“What about, Sir?”
Michael spread his hands with his shrug in the common gesture of not knowing.
“That,” he left the briefest of pauses to suck in another breath, “is between you and the Priest.”
* * *
The next day Markus arrived at the tower, miraculously on time. He’d had a long night.
Sir Michael was there, waiting for him, arms folded and with an impassive expression.
He couldn’t help but feel a bit anxious, nervous, and even afraid. It was his choice after all.
“Good day, Markus,” Sir Michael smiled as he spoke, “Report to Brandibuck Coast, you’ll be escorted from there.”
With those words, Markus bowed, and left for the coast at an ample jog. When he finally arrived he received an unexpected greeting.
* * *
“Your weapons, any extra equipment and supplies are to be left outside the room,” the Herald told Markus, as he led the young man to one of the many tents. Markus did as he was told.
He was left in a small, square tent that was set up quite simply to all appearances. The tent entrance hung open slightly, and let a triangle of sunlight beam in, casting a golden light. In the center of the tent stood an empty table, and on either side of it sat two chairs. The triangle of sunlight at the moment shone on the center of the table.
Markus took a seat on the seat to his right. There he sat, and waited.
Time filtered by, and the light crept its way to the other end of the table, to the other chair.
For a brief moment, Markus considered moving to the other seat, so he’d be sitting in the warmer light. But just then the tent flap opened.
A man stepped through the doorway. Aged, and standing at a fair height for someone of his apparent age. His growing signs of age were easily apparent, with brown, but graying hair, baring two silver wings flaring from each of his temples. Thin framed spectacles rested on the bridge of his nose, magnifying two crystal blue eyes, and furthering the wizened look of his face. The older man carried himself with the distinct shuffle of a priest going about his duties. Spaced, deliberate, and each step paving the way for faith, set on the back of serenity. No show, no absolute flare, and only a plain woolen robe tied closed by a rope at the waist.
The priest took a stand by the empty chair, and looked down at Markus, his eyes traveled slowly over him, as if trying to unravel a ball of string.
Finally he sat down, setting his hands together on the table. He gazed across the table at the young man sitting opposite to him.
“I am,” his voice had an edge, the rasp you would expect from a longtime smoker, “Father Zaus.”
A warm, inviting smile spread across the priest’s expression.
“You may simply call me Zaus, if you prefer.”
((Put off posting this for a while, but since I've managed to flesh out more of what's happened here it is. It is Part One.)) |
CHOO CHOO!
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Bereil Yadashem.
Markus Mortriety, Herald of Novus Aristi. |
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The Priest
Posted: 18 Apr 2006 03:34 PM |
Previously
Are ya sure yer a paladin?
Tell me everything about the Novus Aristi.
I’m leaving the Novus Aristi, the Alliance… all of it.
I am reporting you as unfit for duty.
Apparently I am here to counsel you.
* * *
Light filtered through the tent flap, layering onto the Priest. With the natural light Father Zaus glowed, it seemed to gather on him, become stronger, until it was something more than just light from the sun. Silence pervaded, as the general sound of work and movement outside slowly filtered away into the background. After his brief introduction, the Priest went silent. Markus didn’t know what to say, and kept his silence as well.
A minute later Father Zaus excused himself; he returned soon after with a small paper folder. Once he reseated he began to leaf through the papers, tilting his head up, or nodding gravely as he read.
The whole scenario, Markus felt, built up tension, he could feel it filling the room with the silence that was only broken by the turning of a page. He shifted in his seat as anxiousness began to settle on him, and the tension continued to build in his nerves. But he kept his patience, and withheld himself from saying anything.
Finally, Father Zaus closed the folder. With it, he closed his eyes, and picked up one hand to rub them. The priest then opened his eyes, his gaze immediately settled on Markus. Then, he stood up, and made a start to leave.
“Wait, where are you going? I thought you were supposed to help me?” Markus burst out.
Zaus stopped, and turned.
“So, you believe you need help.” he said, it was never a question.
Markus found himself trying to avoid the priest’s searching gaze.
“Y-yes… yes, I do.”
“There is no shame in needing help; you do know that, don’t you.”
“I do,” Markus replied, “it doesn’t make it any easier though.”
The priest with care, returned to his seat, and listened. His whole expression showed that, the willingness to listen with warmth, and acceptance. Still, Father Zaus felt that he had to start the conversation, to reveal what had begun this ordeal in the first place.
“This here,” he said, indicating to the folder, “is a summary of your actions that you’d reported and relayed to here. It also contains a briefing, meant for myself of course, of your background, and status.”
Markus raised his gaze, but his eyes didn’t reflect any interest, yet. Zaus opened the folder, and skipped ahead a number of pages.
“All facts, some rumors, really, put together by someone with enough time, and with enough ears. I am very curious though, as it mentions here that you’ve been influenced by outside sources.”
Father Zaus lifted his eyes from the paper, across from him the young man sat impassively.
“Would you care as to tell me who you associate with?”
The young man nodded, and the priest smiled to him, showing his ready ear. Slowly Markus began to speak, with a hesitance that didn’t appear entirely in his character. He listed names, described the people as best he could, briefly over some, lingering over others. Father Zaus listened, keeping his expression controlled, clear of anything other than serene attentiveness. Zaus nodded to some points, asking about Markus’ feeling on a particular subject, but never objecting, or pursuing.
Finally, the priest held up his hand for silence. He set his hands together, and let the quiet roll back over the interior of the tent.
“Thank you, Markus,” he said finally. “I believe that will be all for today.”
He clasped his hands together, and leaned forward, even with his slighter stature his physical expression was somehow more dominating, controlled.
“I would like you to reflect on what we’ve spoken about today. Think about how these people’s actions, their words, affect you.” Zaus paused, to gather a breath, and offer a warm smile.
“Often times, when we are away from our homes, our families, we forget what it is that connected us in the first place, the unconditional love that binds us. Others struggle to understand how beliefs come so easily to us. It is that, our steadfast belief, our faith in each other that we raise to the occasion. It is also then that we realize that we are not alone.”
Markus collected the words; he knew that he’d heard them before. When? He tried to remember, but the memory seemed vague, and far away.
The priest rose to his feet, gathered the folder, and crossed around the table. He put a gentle hand on Markus’ shoulder, and then left in the peaceful quiet that followed his words.
Sir Nicholas was waiting for Markus as he exited the tent. Nicholas smiled, that same reassuring, uplifting smile they sometimes passed to each other and others in the Academy. The deep, thoughtful, and yet wary, careful expression on Markus’ face filled him with sympathy. He stepped forward to his one time friend.
“Markus,” he said in a friendly tone, “Sir Michael and I were planning to spar later on. I was wondering if you’d like to join us.”
“I would like that,” Markus replied, he didn’t meet Nicholas’ gaze; instead his eyes were fixated on the clouds that sat on the horizon.
((Second installment.)) |
CHOO CHOO!
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Bereil Yadashem.
Markus Mortriety, Herald of Novus Aristi. |
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