Part 5>>>The Shadow of Love (an LoF adventure)

[Legolas]

For Anarrima and Yevaud

The watchman looked upon them with suspicion.

"Well, of course, but..." he began, relenting some before the man fortified his mind.
"We're closed up tight for now. No man or woman coming or going until the threat to the keep has been dealt with.

"Sorry, superiors' orders."
He quickly turned away, pretending not to hear the two.

[Larry_OHF]

Anarrima

She looked back at Yevaud and admitted her defeat at trying to help here with just a look to the elf behind her. With that attempt failed, and knowing that the Goddess would not have just led them here to wait around, she decided to explore the grounds of this place more.

"Come on, Yevaud. There must be some way into that place. Maybe around the other side."

She began walking in that direction.

[Legolas]

For Anarrima and Yevaud

Not half a second after, the priests instructions were followed by a "Hey wait!" from the guard.

Looking down nervously he offered: "But they're all dead now. No-one's really in charge..."

[Larry_OHF]

Anarrima

Ana glanced at her male swordsman with a hint of something in her eyes before addressing the human who had hailed her.

"It appears, good man...that you are now the one in charge. Therefore, we would offer our assitance to you if you would but accept it. The goddess has led me here to this human settlement for what, I do not know.
Maybe you could explain this?"

[Bozos of Bones]

Kynnen 57/85

Kynnen looked in the direction the guard pointed at, then looked in the guard's eyes again. The man looked like he has already soiled himself, but no scent betrayed it. ''Good, I offer you my thanks. You may go.'' Kynnen said, but the guard didn't move. Kynnen waved him off, and started to turn away, but quickly turned back with the halberd slashing at the man's stomach from right to left. ''.. go to the abyss!'' The guard's eyes went so wide that Kynnen thought they would shoot out at him. Clutching at his stomach, at the innsides already spilling out, the man fell to the ground, and continued to make a puddle of blood. Kynnen then noticed something weird. The other two guards did not move, they just stood there motionless, eyes and mouth opened wide. ''Well do something! Cry, fight, run! Anything!'' Kynnen ordered, and the men looked at each other, and decided to run for the nearest exit, a door at the end of a tight hall, it's walls, floors and ceiling cracked from the destruction. ''Ah, rothe...'' the blackguard let out disappointed that they opted for the choice to run. One of the guards nearly ran so fast down the hall that he had already reached the door. He would have opened it too if Kynnen's halberd didn't fly through the air, and through his chest. The weapon impaled him with such force that it also pinned the man for the door, the halberd's blade sticking a few inches through to the other side of the wooden door. The other guard reached him, and quickly shook him for a moment. ''Bill!'' he screamed, but the dead man gave no response, still hanging limply on the halberd shaft. The guard looked behind, and saw Kynnen moving towards him fast. He pulled the door opened and pushed himself through. Or he would have, if it weren't for the halberd. The end of the weapon stuck itself in a crack in the wall, and wouldn't allow the door to open any wider, and the guard found himself firmly wedged in between the door and the frame. His left hand stretched out towards the halberd, but it was out of reach, and he couldn't even pull himself back out any more, his armor being locked tight in place. He pushed at the door, his foot on the wall trying to push him through, but nothing helped. Half way out of the room already, half way out, and his eyes were looking longingly on the other side of the door, towards his would-be freedom, the safety from the psychotic drow. He turned back again, to see the drow standing right next ti him. Kynnen looked to the side, and noticed that the dead guard dropped his sword. He picked it up, and looked at the wide-eyed guard still clawing for his freedom. With his right arm, holding the sword, Kynnen took hold of the guard's left arm, the one on his side of the door, and raised it in the air high. This allowed the guard some more room, and he smiled thinking that now he would surely go through the door, but he couldn't, he only wedged himself tighter. Feeling his ribs through the arm-holes in the guard's chest plate, Kynnen took the sword from his right hand and touched a place between two ribs with the blade's end. He shoved it in, for one inch, two, three. He raised the hilt of the weapon, it's blade turning downwards in the man's body, and continued to chove it deeper, right below the man's heart, but through his lungs. The guard's clawing eased, and his mouth opened to scream, but no sound came out. Instead, a thin tracing of blood started flowing out the man's mouth. The guard's and the blackguard's eyes met, and the guard saw Kynnen's maniacal grin as he pushed the blade in more. Nine inches, ten, eleven. Kynnen let go of the man's arm, and gripped the sword grip with both hands, forcing the blade in with even more strength. Finally the blade erupted on the other side of the guard's body, right under the ribs, and reaching the armor on the other side, it stopped. The guard's vision darkened. He tried to breathe in, but only blood filled his lungs. Kynnen shoved the door against the guard as he unhooked the halberd from the crack in the wall, and pulled it out from both the dead guard and the door. The door opened, and the man with a sword in his chest fell to the floor. The door was open. His freedom, the room beyond, was just there, half if him was already inside it. With his last breath, the guard tried to pull himself into the room, into the freedom. He was weak, too weak to pull himself with any reasonable speed, but he was pulling himself in. He felt a tug, someone holding his leg. He felt himself being pulled backwards, out of the room, away from the safe place, from his freedom. He saw the blackwood door frame moving away from him, and then nothing, a dark haze, and blackness.

[Morgeruat]

Yevaud

Screams lingered in the air, arriving without warning, and gone again in a short span of moments. The tension of these men was a palpable thing, and despite his attempt to disappear within his travelling cloak Yevaud had began watching the guard intently as the death cries of the men filled the air. "It sounds like we've arrived just in time. Anarrima might be able to tend to your men, and it would seem my abilities would aid you in destroying this 'creature' as you've called her. What are we up against, and how many are not accounted for?"

Yevaud seemed almost giddy to be able to sound like he was in charge, although it was tempered by the immediate reminder of the danger of whatever fell creature hunted within the tower, apparently unphased by it's partial collapse. He also began fingering one of his pouches, and without noticing it seems to be holding a small ball of grey and yellow material.

OOC: guano and sulphur to be exact

[ 02-22-2005, 03:54 PM: Message edited by: Morgeruat ]

[Cyril Darkcloud]

Somewhere in......IronWorks???? Many miles from Castle Lesismoore

The Passerby

He sighs. This is getting stranger by the minute. First the armored man goes off by himself to begin scribbling with a feverish energy and then this other whose name would seem to be ‘Larry’ stands rapt with an apparent vision of some kind. ~ Perhaps he imagined he struck the iron wall much harder than I had thought ~ And now this puzzling welter of names. Lesis. Mage of Shadow – now that sounds interesting. Some fellow named Keldorn with an order of some kind, most likely some sort of officious and intrusive band of meddlers. Internet galaxy??? And finally, a name for this land. “IronWorks,” he says thoughtfully.

“Never heard of it.”

“How did I find you? That would imply that I had been looking for you.” There is a plain spoken and simple formality about his words and his voice is a curious mixture of the smooth tones typical of the educated and the rough notes that mark more common speech. He gestures as he speaks and his movements have an easy and graceful nimbleness about them. “Definitely not the case.” He smiles broadly looking at the young man, “Just passing by, I was. Just passing by. Be that as it may, I could hardly have missed you with all that yelling and running. Not to mention that group of hostile creatures. Or that series of absolutely amateurish rumblings in the fabric of the shadows.”

“Powerful, though,” he says thoughtfully. “Never felt anything quite like it. But sloppy, absolutely no sense of style.” He shakes his head and winks at the young man.

“Larry, huh?” He asks suddenly. “Just what the hell did you do to stir up all that?”

“Wait!” he interjects as the young man is about to speak. “Maybe it’s best I don’t know.” He pauses. “Still ...... it looks like I got myself involved in whatever this is whether I like it or not. I doubt I’m going to getting back home the way I came any time soon after all that. Go ahead.”

The young man begins to answer when he lets out a low and appreciative whistle. This is simply too good! And his full concentration is required to appreciate it. He ceases to concern himself with the appearance of himself that had stood conversing with that Larry fellow, leaving the form on its own to mime a semblance of generic listening and understanding gestures as the young man speaks. The concealing veil around his person melts away and he steps forward, his gaze studious, intent and absolutely captivated by that most curious display of arcane energy emerging from the pages of the that old journal. “Now that,” he says quietly, “is art!”

ooc: The form of the passerby will persist, acting the part of a listener to a conversation, whether or not conversation is actually occuring, for another 15 minutes before vanishing.

[ 02-23-2005, 12:50 AM: Message edited by: Cyril Darkcloud ]

[Cyril Darkcloud]

For the Morguerat formerly known as “Sir”

Writing is a curious thing, the scribing of symbols upon a page spaced in such a way that their meaning might become clear over the time it takes to read them. The spaces, in fact, are as important as the symbols for they mark the boundaries that define words. And just as writing takes place in time, so too does reading, for the eye sees not all words at once but moves from one to the next, a slight space of time intervening between them even as a slight physical space separates them on the page. The spaces bear as much meaning as the words at times, for it is in the spaces that one anticipates the next word and begins to construct understanding of what is written. When writing is done well, it is often the case that the spaces speak with a voice and power uniquely their own.

And so it is here that as the large man pauses a moment in his recording of the great rush of memories, that speaking emerges from between the marks of his pen upon the pages of the journal. Mouths appear between the words, scores of tiny mouths whose lips move as one. They seem to gather breath for a moment and then begin to speak in unison, their words having the cumulative weight of pages upon pages of words written through years long in the recording of thoughts, “Well done, boy! Your life shall become your own again only should you be willing to face it and find strength in your remembering. Know this, boy, you are not the first, nor your tale the most tragic ......”

Images rise then from the pages. The mouths continue to move but they speak not words but pictures. The pictures tell the tale of a good man, a faithful man brave in heart. A man who fell. And a man who forged both a great blade to be his surety and the even greater blade of clear-sighted discipline that made possible his own redemption. The dance of the images is subtle, compelling and brief. They are soon gone, their tale having been told, receding back into the tiny mouths which in turn vanish once more into the spaces between the former knight’s words.

Words, however, have been left behind in a beautiful and flowing script, as if a pen had danced along the page:

Many know the tale of Sir Alfred Karvad, the famed justiciar, whose integrity proved firm and true even against the corrupt monarchs he opposed, but whose temper and discipline failed him tragically one summer. Lured by his enemies into a delicate situation and manipulated by a cunning master of illusions he was tricked into the slaughtering of innocents in a righteous fury. His failure to discern the situation properly and his reckless anger cost him his status as a paladin and the esteem of those he was sworn to protect. Few know, however, that Alfred, having renounced his noble titles and lands, dedicated himself not to the seeking of what was lost, but to the service of a justice that would not be so easily blinded, nor so rash in its action. Other lands knew him only as Alfred for he refused all titles and shared little of his past. These lands knew him also as one whose judgment was sure for it was tempered with the sad and humble wisdom of one aware of his own mistakes; and as one whose protection was as sure as his judgment. His years of penitence and service sharpened his insight and he had spent the last of his fortune in the crafting of a tool to be both his weapon and his support, a great blade made of mithril alloyed with silver that bears the name Argent Justice. Fewer still know that after Alfred lay down his life driving away strange creatures of shadow that had fallen upon an out of the way farming village, that the villagers chose from their best land to provide him a fitting place in which to rest. That the blade was lain along side him. And that to this day, a light burns near that humble tomb, a sign of the gratitude of simple folk for one who had been their champion and protector and who wait for another to take up his blade and with it his cause.

[Legolas]

For Anarrima and Yevaud

The man spent various seconds sucking on his fingertips, glancing around uneasily.

"That's right. I'm in charge. Exactly. That's how it is. In charge. Is what I am. Me." he rambled.

"Twenty-five? Twenty-seven are missing, they're bound to be dead. That... thing and her helpers, they should be dead! But they aren't! You heard that too, didn't you? You heard it. It's like a werewolf, and there's magic, too. Shadow magic, I've seen the man cast it from his fingertips. I almost died on the spot! And, oh! They have a drow too, if... they freed the prisoners. We're all going to die so as..."

He stopped, looking around again to make certain.

"As the superior unpromoted officer in charge of... letting people in and out..."

There was a nod, as he affirmed it himself.

"I say we might as well let you in. If you kill us we're no worse off, right? But if you're not with them then it's your own death too! So you can still run. But you won't. I'll open the gates then, will I?"

He disappeared from view, and before long a heavy metal grate was sliding up the grooves in the stone gatehouse.

[ 02-23-2005, 05:27 PM: Message edited by: Legolas ]

[Larry_OHF]

Anarrima 67/67

Feeling sorry for the poor human male who was obviously pushed beyond his means to think clearly, she was however relieved that he still retained enough of his senses to allow her and Yevaud into the castle. The door was opened and now they had access.

She started to step in, but then realized what she was doing and turned back to her eager companion.

"Lead the way, if you would please Yevaud."

She smiled at him, knowing that he would probably swoon at the chance to prove himself here and now to her as a great bladesinger. She had to admit to herself that she was jsut as eager to see if he could live up to the name. A bladesinger works countless decades to even get good enough to want to fend against an opponent.