Part 4>>>The Shadow of Love (an LoF adventure)

[Morgeruat]

Rodie

He felt cold, and then pain, as.. something... clawed at him, nearly blinded by pain he turned and tried to scramble down the stairs, the only thought on his mind was escape. Forgotten was the creature that had been hunting the bard in this new trial, for how could he fight that which he could not identify, let alone see.

[TAOWolf]

She catches the small feather in one gloved hand and tucks it into a pocket of her belt, as she turns to say thank you. About that time, an unearthly howl fills the air, and her hackles stand up (if in wolf form, you would see this) as her eyes glow silver. She looks towards the rooftop catching the Windbringer's daughters' words as she disappears, and holds them close to her heart.

The howling has a familiar ring to the sound, and she is confused. It is not one of her wolves, or the wolves that frequent this area. She stands in shock as the realization finally hits her as to exactly WHO the howl belongs to and her mind races...

Outwardly, the only sign of her distress is the gentle tapping of the staff upon the dirt in front of her, as she slowly but methodically carves runes into the soft ground around her and waits for the were to appear to her...

Storm clouds appear on the horizon, and she narrows her eyes briefly at this, thinking of another time and place long dead and closed to her because of the Modding Mage and the Devouring Wind. She feels but for a brief moment the exhale of the revival of the air of the Tavern Thread, but it is quickly closed to her as the Mage once again asserts his power over the forum, particularly to HER thread, and she growls softly under her breath. As she waits for the were, a small fast image flashes across her mind, and she smiles bearing her teeth as she feels one who she hates because of his beliefs (the aforementioned being a Paladin... she has as much hate for them as the Windbringer) emerge quickly from the thread before it is slammed closed again, and she nods imperceptibly...

[ 12-11-2004, 02:25 AM: Message edited by: TAOWolf ]

[Larry_OHF]

Dream sequence written by the most talented and beautiful, Mistral Freelight Silverfall.

For Larry

She drew closer to him, her dark brown eyes fixed upon his slumbering form, a motherly smile crossing her blood-stained, pale lips.

He was alright, was safe. For now.

He was her Larry. He had always been hers. For the keeping.

Why had she been so wilful? Why had she forsaken him because of a family curse?

No more words, she breathed softly to herself. No more words to torment you, my beloved.

How fitful he could turn in his sleep! How much more horrific ordeals had he come across thus far, in the hope of their reunion. She did not know, had not had the time to find out for herself. Only his loyal companions, those who had stuck through thick and thin with him despite all other worldly distractions, knew, and deserved to know.

She did not deserve him. Did not deserve mention in this epic adventure of his. She knew this, and hoped he would realise this, once and for all.

Goodbye. She mouthed the words, blowing a flitting kiss in the bumbling ranger's direction. The gods be with you, always.

Then, step by step, she withdrew. Back into the smirking embrace of the shadows...

[ArcadesSabboth]

[i]The werewolf Arcades ran and ran toward Kaylisa's position, his anger at being infected by the weregoblin continuing to fuel the beast, and only Arcades' depleating will was subtley guiding the direction of the werewolf.

After rounding the edge of the village near the One Eyed Wolf, the beast spys it's target and viciously fights with Arcades over it's hunger. The old dragon's spirit was strong, but he couldnt keep the wolf at bay eternally. It wouldnt be denied a meal forever.

The half-wolf form approaches the druid peering at her with golden eyes and keeping it's claws at the ready.

[Cyril Darkcloud]

For the not completely fallen Morguerat formerly known as "Sir" [img]graemlins/blueblink.gif[/img]

Myron Epimetheus

Much has happened in very little time – in so little time, in fact, that one must race to keep up with the happening of the things that have happened that they might not rush by in unstudied and unmeasured happening. Too little time! Always there is so very little time for the doing of so much that simply must be done. The dessicated skin along the edges of the little man’s mouth curls into a smile, for there is so very much to think about and the ideas which run along in his thinking are curiously bold and vigorous. His skeletal fingers reach out and grasp another stack of those little square napkins that are so wonderful for the writing down of things and he mutters happily as he scribbles yet another series of notes.

There is a small flash of movement within the glowing sphere upon his desk and the little man turns to look at the shimmering globe of force within which floats that most curious diamond - the diamond which that most excitable boy had given him when that last series of most unusual events had taken place. Deep within his lifeless eye sockets a small twinkling dances merrily as the little man peers intently into the shifting mists within the diamond. His mutterings change in their tenor taking on a quiet and sober tone and a powerful enchantment settles over the desk. The little man grows still, for even the sight that his use of the diamond has given him cannot fully penetrate that curious mixture of storm and shadow that has done so unexpected a thing in the borderlands .......

...... For some time the little man stares into the globe which contains the diamond filled with shifting mist, pausing only to mutter a few words and scribble a few notes. A most unexpected movement of wind and energy followed by a most curious thudding noise distract him, then, and the little man rises. His feet shuffle a fraction of an inch above the floor as he moves away from the desk. Once more his mutterings change tone and with an audible popping sound the little man is no longer within the treehouse, but is, rather, moving in a series of shuffling steps that do not quite touch the ground to where a large man seems to have fallen.

“Silly boy!” the little man’s voice rattles. “If one is to undertake so difficult a thing as to move from one reality into another, one should at least take the trouble to do it properly!” Reaching down he grasps one of the man’s bare arm with the lifeless fingers of his right hand. The man shivers at his touch.* “And improperly dressed for so stormy a time as this!” Helping the man to his feet, he continues, “Something warm to drink, yes, shivering as you are, you must have something warm to drink. Come with me, boy.” Not troubling himself to wait for a response from his disoriented visitor the little man mutters softly in an unusual language. There is a rustling in the air as if a curtain has been drawn and suddenly the pair are within the treehouse. Turning from his visitor, the little man shuffles to the table where he keeps his small kettle.

* Myron’s touch is not the damaging cold touch typical of a litch, but it is exceedingly cold with the chilliness of a body that is not alive.

[ 12-12-2004, 03:34 AM: Message edited by: Cyril Darkcloud ]

[Morgeruat]

Morguerat

The former knight stood shakily, feeling the icy touch on his arm. A chill that was of the grave, and a scholar obviously beyond the grave. And yet unlike most undead, there was no sense of menace, no lingering evil that kept his frame animate. The warrior follows the small man, and shook the last of the water from his thick beard. "This is not the thread I was in, is it? Nor is it the Lord of the Forums thread, for that bore little resemblence, and in any event concluded years ago. Where then, am I?" He took the seat and waited as calmly as he could for the tea, feeling an unfamiliar tugging within himself slowly building to a crescendo.

[Morgeruat]

Reaper

A storm had grown beyond nature's means, the fury was greater, and the power therein was second only to that of Modding Magic, the Wind Bringer must have been behind this. He quickly located his scrying orb and peered into it, trying to spot the one called Cyril who had fashioned the arrow that had made him. He had not scried long when a rift between threads formed, pulling parts of a thread long forgotten by most into this very one. He felt a terrible power unleashed, and a slamming "feel" as the rift was closed, and the other thread was locked, sealed off from future meddling by the modding power of the Shadow Mage.

Such a remote event need not worry the Reaper, but then there came a tugging from within, a sense that all was not right with the world, a sense that something troubling had come through the portal, something that could be his undoing...

[Larry_OHF]

For Plaxica, Vincent, and Silt.

Marcos sat in the room behind the red door and peered at the clock. It was showing that thirteen minutes had passed. Then came one man to the door.

Plaxica.

Silt and Vincent had not yet come into the room, as Plaxica was finding a place to take a seat, opposite the heavy oak desk that would serve as the Inquisitor's placement.

"We shall give those that travel with you another two minutes before I close the door and examine the evidence before me. If they do not show up, then they will be considered allies to the men on trial and will receive sentences of punishment for that alliance.
So far,,,only you have proven neutral to the situation...at least for the moment. relax for the time being...and have a chocolate if you wish."

The Inquisitor motions to a golden plate full of truffles.

[ 12-14-2004, 02:47 PM: Message edited by: Larry_OHF ]

[dplax]

Plaxica 70/70

Plaxica nodded when the Inquisitor offered him the chocolate and took one from the plate and put it into his mouth chewing happily. His mind was troubled however as he did not know what awaited him during this questioning. While waiting for the others he tried to make some small talk with the Inquisitor.

"I have never been in this region of the world. Who rules these lands around here?"

[Cyril Darkcloud]

Myron Epimetheus

The little man gives no indication of having heard the questions raised by his visitor as he busy himself with the heating of water and the blending of herbs and the choosing of a suitable mug. As he busies his dessicated fingers in the brewing of something warm for both himself and his guest the little man mutters quietly. The air within the treehouse grows warmer and the chill of the night air is replaced by a complacent warmth which, while pleasant, borders on being uncomfortable. Turning to his visitor the little man hands him a mug filled with steaming liquid. “Take it,” he says “for a bit of something warm to drink is just the thing for one who has taken so great chill as yourself. Yes. Yes, I believe that I shall join you, for I just cannot seem to shake free of this cold I have been feeling. One just cannot seem to remain warm these days.” The little man fills a mug for himself, pouring the liquid from a small kettle which seems to provide its own source of heat. “Still, I must say, that I do my best thinking with a bit of a chill within my bones – it keeps me alert, you see.”

“And as for you,” the sage’s tone changes suddenly and there is a striking fixity in his gaze as the tiny gleams within his sunken eye sockets meet the large man’s eyes. “Be not so sure of where it is that you are not!”

As quickly as it appeared, the intensity of the sage wanes and he turns once more to shuffle toward a small table – one of the few not covered with stacks of books and piles of small napkins covered with scribbled handwriting. “Yes, yes, we simply cannot let you wander about without proper clothing, for the wondering about of a man not properly clothed is likely to produce any number of unfortunate consequences and times like these are already filled such consequences and one hates to think about the effect of adding yet more to so great an accumulation of the unfortunate as we have today. However much a bit of chill might stimulate the thinking, we simply must make sure you are clothed.” From someplace near the table – precisely where is unclear – the little man picks up a moldering leather satchel and carries it to his guest. “Please sit down,” he says, “and look through this bag. I am certain you will find something suitable to wear.”

ooc: The beverage is surprisingly pleasant in taste, although what its ingredients are in not clear in the least. Within the bag – which is something like a bag of holding, although, again quite unlike any seen elsewhere on the boards – is a very large collection of clothes of various sizes that seems to have been collected from a number of different times, places and perhaps even planes. No armor or anything magical – just clothing, all of it well-made and in good condition.