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The end?
Posted: 04 Feb 2006 04:39 AM |
*FLICKER*
A young elf, little more than a child, growing up on the streets of Port. Beaten and humiliated on a daily basis by the other urchins of that rough city, it was a harsh childhood, one filled with pain and brutal lessons. He learnt to fight, to survive, and he learnt not to feel the pain; not the physical ache of constant batterings, nor the emotional pain of solitude and separation...
*FLICKER*
The elf has now almost reached adolescence. It is a miracle he has survived so long, few of the children of the streets reach adulthood, never mind a lone elf hated by his peers, and hunted on a daily basis. His face and body carry many scars, and he has become almost an animal, relying on instinct and reflexes that have been honed by constant danger to surpass the norm for even his agile kin. Not that he knows of any "kin", he considers himself alone in the world, and he lives on anger, hurt, and sheer determination. Yet the day must come when the battle can no longer be won...and so it does. Cornered by a gang of human youths, no avenue of escape open to him; his antagonists all older and tougher than him, his scrawny frame trembles as he cowers beneath their insults, knowing the blows are soon to come and finish his tale. Slowly the fear leaves him, replaced by cold anger...fury. He rises slowly, his eyes scanning tthe gang of youths, so many of them. Balancing on the balls of his feet, he meets their hatred with a cold stare, and begins what he believes to be his final dance.
He moves with grace and simple efficiency, no concern for style or appearance, simple economical movements that end with vicious strikes...blood sprays, his opponents cries turn from mocking laughter to a mixed combination of anger and pain. And he dances on, dodging and ducking, using the press of his opponents to dodge back and forth, turning their numbers against them and landing blow after blow. His weakened frame does not provide much power to the blows, but the placing is perfect, he has learnt how best to hurt those who torment him so, and he uses that knowledge now, striking to kill without thought or emotion, guided by purest instinct. His dance continues, but as several youths fall before him, others fall back and the battle turns. Encircled, hit by large chunks of stone, and with bigger and stronger adversaries launching vicious blows of their own, he begins to weaken. His dance falters, and he is grappled and held in the vice like grip of a brutish thug, whilst blows rain in all over his body. He welcomes the darkness that follows, and so never sees the conclusion to his tale.
Never saw the human that watched all that transpired, the man who watched first with indifference and perhaps a tinge of...enjoyment. The indifference slowly turning to speculation and interest as the fight continued. And eventually, the interest turns to determination and resolve, as the young elf fell unconscious. From the edges of the battle, the observer draws forth components and mutters the intricacies of a powerful spell, unhurried, knowing that the elf will either live or die dependent on the speed with which the spell is completed, but nonetheless incanting at a regular cadence without haste or emotion. And the spell concludes, time slows to a crawl then seems to stop, and the man steps into the circle of battle. Firmly pulls the near dead elf out of the arms of his assailants, and carries him away, this man is used to having the final word, and has done so once more. The tale is told on the streets of Port for years to follow, the mystery surrounding the disappearance is never solved...
*FLICKER*
A young adult. Trained and honed. Two decades have passed, but that means little in the life of an elf. Once more surrounded by humans, but this time accepted and welcomed. The influence of his peers has greatly influenced the elf, he views life and the world through more human eyes, savouring each moment, learning with a speed and determination that exceeds that of his more patient kin. He is trained in the arts of killing, his natural grace refined and perfected, his skills honed to a deadly edge. Taught to strike from the shadows, and to make every blow count, his training is completed and he is welcomed into the night masks.
He still bears the scars from his past, emotionally and physically. Reserved and controlled, he knows little of social niceties, beyond what is necessary for him to end the life of his victims. He swiftly gains a reputation for cold efficiency, taking no joy in what he does but more in the manner in which he does it. Refusing the simple and petty tasks, he seeks challenge, determined to excel. And with every day, every death, he improves and betters himself, becoming more the accomplished killer that will never again be surrounded and beaten to the verge of death.
*FLICKER*
Uproar in Port. The night masks driven from their home. Their undoubted control of the streets ended with brutal sudden finality. They never saw it coming. Never suspected a new power would rise. The elf watched it all from the shadows, saw the futility of fighting, and fled the city with those few who recognised the end.
The masks were at an end. Scattered to all corners of Vives. Yet the elf was once more rescued from loneliness and solitude, by the same man, the same human that had rescued him once before. The man found him, sought him even. And told him a tale, a tale of a new beginning. And the elf listened, trusting his mentor, open to what he was being told. And when the talking was over, he agreed. Without reservation or doubt, and so he became one of the first recruits to a new beginning for the masks.
*FLICKER*
He had never realised how basic his training had been. The masks had been little more than thugs. The ending of a life, it carried such meaning, such power, such...beauty. And he had been taught it as a way to earn coin. When he viewed his past it was with mixed amusement and horror. He had had no idea what his life's purpose was, until he reached the isle where the night masks were to be created anew.
And now, his training done, he stood on unhallowed ground, in the darkest reaches of the isle, awaiting the ceremony that would complete him. Make him the breathstealer. The chosen of his new "clan", a disciple of Menarok and the first blade amongst those trained for one thing only...death. His heart raced as it never had before, the excitement filled him, he knew this was who he was. And he knew where he, and his brethren belonged. Port. It was more than a home, it was...right. Such a simple word. But there was something about the city, something beyond its streets and people, something that was just...right.
*FLICKER*
The homecoming. Prepared for over the past years. The Black Hand had risen in Port. The mockery of that filthy orc and his crew of misfits and rejects ruling where they did not belong would be ended. Ended in blood.
The battle was long. Harder than expected, the Hand used fools who knew nothing of what they were involved in, nor why. These allies swayed the battle in favour of the Hand, and to the amazement of the masks, they were driven back and then somehow the locale of their isle discovered. But the elf and his fellows, leaders amongst the masks, would not be caught unprepared this time. And so it was, that after blood saturated every inch of the isle, those that remained of the masks made good their escape...
*FLICKER*
The lesson learnt, too many, too powerful, simple force would not suffice. For Port to truly welcome them back, a spectacular victory was needed. One that left no doubt. No simple sniping from the shadows for years to come.
And so they planned and they plotted. They spoke with other clans in service to their dark lord. And they acquired the services of a deathsinger. One with a talent most believed only dark legend. The talent to wreak havoc and dismay with a single word, the talent to cause uprising and revolt in the most placid of cities given sufficient time. And Port had never been the most placid of cities. The singer, whose name had been sacrificed to her gift, was known only as "the whisperer".
Before she began to work her magic on the streets of Port, she had already enchanted the young elf. They had formed a bond, it was only fools that believed service to the dark lord prevented such feelings. They shared so much, so much pain in their past, so much devotion to their "art", so much determination to be all they could, and above all such conviction that the Hand were trespassers on unholy ground. An abomination that could not be allowed to continue.
And so the whisperer came to Port, accompanied by a shadow few ever saw. And her song began, the people responded, and without bloodshed the Hand began to falter and collapse.
The masks were home. Where they belonged. But then the unexpected happened...the one thing that could end their rightful claim on the city. The Hand itself changed, made decisions that would reverberate down the ages. And complete victory turned to despair.
The day came when the whisperer entered a tavern. And never emerged. When the elf followed to see where she had gone, anger thrumming in every vein if harm had come to her, he found she had vanished. And the conversation that was to follow, with the songbird and the Lady Friel, was to change everything for him...for all time.
*FLICKER*
And so they came. The Hand and their allies. As it was known they would. And they overcame, as the elf alone knew they must. And the final battle was fought, with words, then with blades and spells. The elf's mentor fell, fell to the blades of those who knew not what they ended, for the first time in his filled life he would not have the last word. The night flower, honour and darkness entwined in one fascinating package met her end. And then it was the turn of the breathstealer. He danced, oh how he danced. Foes fell beneath his blades. He relished the freedom of the battle, determined that this time he would meet his end with joy in his heart, and with hope...
And so he fell, a cold smile on his lips, the lifeblood of his foes fresh on his blades. The end he knew he would always find...
*FLICKER*
Light. Beauty. Happiness. A freedom he had never known. That is what awaited Virallax. An end...? Maybe. |
'The bond that links your true family is not one of blood, but of respect and joy in each other's life. Rarely do members of one family grow up under the same roof.' - Richard Bach, Illusions. |
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Re: The end?
Posted: 04 Feb 2006 11:51 AM |
Fri'el tapped her fingers on the desk thoughtfully, and then a slow smile spread across her lips. After a few moments, she exhaled... words forming on her tongue in an almost primal sigh of ecstasy...
“Perfect…” |
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Re: The end?
Posted: 13 Mar 2020 10:56 AM |
*bump*
Just pulling a few more pieces out that I want to find easily, perhaps to copy and keep for RP campaigns am running in other systems. :)
Cheers,
Sean |
'The bond that links your true family is not one of blood, but of respect and joy in each other's life. Rarely do members of one family grow up under the same roof.' - Richard Bach, Illusions. |
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