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

[Morgeruat]

Yevaud

"And, oh! They have a drow too..."


The words of the guardsman, simple, spoken without care, tossed out as though that monstrous race was of no concern. Yevaud reeled, but the drow were all destroyed by the shadow giants, and even before that the rarity of their appearances made them little more than legend. A legend that certain guilds had a great deal of training to deal with, but still a legend. Distantly he heard Anarrima say something but the sudden realization that he wasn't simply fighting a berserk monster, or an insane mage filled with bloodlust made his blood run cold. He closed his eyes and took a step to steady himself as the gate opened. repeating the words he'd spoken to himself for decades. "I'm ready for this, I am the greatest swordsman that ever lived, no one could beat me in the practice yards, I deserve to be here, I've earned the right. I've earned the right..." He then looked around and saw both Anarrima, and the guardsman looking at him and he realised he'd spoken aloud. With a flourish the elven warrior marched through the gate as though he were on the parade ground displaying his discipline for the battlemaster clenching and unclenching his hands to try and stop the shaking that they had just begun.

[dplax]

Andrion Wilgor 5/5

Circling. Observing. Gathering information. It was all he could do now. He felt powerless in this owl form. He only had a shadow of his previous power and it was not a powerful shadow. Annoyed by this nearly powerless form Andrion only partially followed the events taking place below him. The elf and his companion entered the keep and some shrieks could also be heard. Then he remembered. The shadow mage. He had asked him to report back anything interesting.

"Master I have two things to tell you of. The tower of the castle has collapsed and there are two newcomers."

Andrion then proceeded to describe the events taking place below him and also gave a description of Anarrima and Yevaud to the mage through the telepathic link.

[dplax]

OOC: Ross asked me to post for Silt so here goes, trying to get the character caught up on all the events which had happened.

Silt 29/80

The staircase was long and winding in it's course towards the top level, towards which Larry and the one who had given his name as Morgeruat had gone. Even the elf, whom Silt was got winded before reaching the top. His injuries, although not life threatening did slow him somewhat. As he stopped to gather his breath he started hearing a strange sound. At first it was as if a great pressure had finally won and something was going to move very soon, but then the sound became nearly deafening and the staircase around Silt began to tremble. Desperately trying to find something to hold on to the elf tried grabbing at stones in the wall next to him, but the tower was trembling so strongly that he could not gain any sure hold on the stones. And then he felt a sharp pain at the back of his head and his vision blurred and for several minutes he did not know any more.

When his sight and hearing returned he stood up shakily and feeling the back of his head felt some blood, but not a lot. Around him several stones had been dislodged and looking up the staircase he could see that the higher levels had collapsed. Still with a somewhat blurred vision Silt took a shaky step down the stairs, as that seemed the only way to go now, but then froze before moving the next foot. A bloodcurling death shriek came from below and was closely followed by two more. It seemed that despite his injury to his leg the drow was still active and was coming after Silt.

The elf drew his sword and then slowly started to make his way down the staircase, listening for any sound of the drow's ascent.

[Cyril Darkcloud]

Elsewhere – A place terribly close to the Sky

Minutes. The law of breathing is stern and allows of no exceptions. While one can survive for weeks without food and for days without drink, none can endure more than a handful of minutes without the intake of air into the lungs. Never has he felt so small – to think a life so powerful as his own can be measured out in terms of a few snatches of bitter air drawn hastily into lungs that have begun to burn with the exertion of breathing. The wind has grown in intensity, as if it could sense the nearing of an ending, and there is a hunger about it as it lingers near the throats of man and giant and eagerly snatches away the air they seek to breathe. The exertion of the battle is telling and his gasping lungs find that there is no longer sufficient air for breathing.

Still he attacks without pause, striking violently with the great sword whose humming keeps ominous time to the gusting of the wind and the gasping of his lungs. The venom of the great gorgon has been wasted in the dirt of this barren place, and the deep gouges left by the blade in the soil give silent witness to the frustration of the giant. Still he attacks. The axes of the Hated have cut him deeply, especially that one whose head burns with the silver of lightning, the great enemy of shadow. Still he attacks, shrugging off the pain of his wounds, ignoring the burning of his lungs, and allowing this most clever opponent no time in which to think. It is a desperate gambit, this violent expression of rage, this unrelenting assault which tires himself more than his opponent. Desperate, yes. But not foolish. The Hated is not the only one skilled in battle or capable of expending life for the sake of victory. Let this bitter wind seize his breath. Let the axes cut him and let his blood soak this barren ground. It matters not, for he will strike all the same.

His fury becomes greater, increasing the speed and force of his attacks. The Hated is driven back.

Now!

One well timed blow is followed by another and the Hated has no choice but to leap swiftly to the left where he lands off-balance near the shadows cast by a jagged finger of stone. The aspect of berserk fury leaves the face of the giant, replaced by that of a cold, bitter and unyielding hatred. Panting, he steps himself into the shadow cast by the massing clouds overhead and emerges out of the shadows behind the Hated. Somehow the Hated begins to turn, but the blow is swift, sudden and sure, and its impact brutal.

* Natural 20. *

The hated falls forward, only to be snatched by a hand of terrible strength.

* Natural 20. *

The rage of the giant asserts itself once more and the Hated is flung violently against the jagged stone. As the giant gasps after breath, the body of the Hated crumples limply to the ground and lies still.

Still gasping, his fingers tighten around the hilt of the blade.

[Morgeruat]

Morguerat

“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 ......”

Words without breath, formed by magic placed in the tome, the dry words, so similar to wind passing over autumn leaves, or pages of parchment left to scatter, they imparted a smattering of hope. Perhaps Helm still had need of him. His dreams had been silent of late, but then again, he'd barely had a chance to sleep, let alone fall into the deep slumber that usually imparted such visions. Images appeared spurred on by the magical mouths of the book images form and "spoke" wordlessly a rush of information that echoed much of what Morguerat sought. Then the rune-engraved blade. Ardent Justice, A fitting name for the weapon of a knight. Then the vision was gone, leaving the man drained as though he'd run for a dozen leagues, a draining that dapped the strength from his body, but bolstered his spirit. The former knight slumped, direction had been given, and a new journey was before him. It would doubtless be a long and troubled road, fraught with danger and peril. But it would remove Larry from the hands of the Mod Mage, if he came with the fallen paladin. That alone made the task worth taking, having a greater tool to battle evil made it doubly worthy.

"Words from the past grant focus." the knight said, then looked at Larry and added "I've seen a vision, wrapped up in the words of this tome is a tale of a sword used by heroes past. I believe that this should be our next step. I have little in the way of arms to defend us, and frankly it would be nice if you could at least have a weapon to wield on your own, a warrior should not be forced to cower behind an ally, not when there's battle to be joined. Try as I might, I cannot be everywhere and I cannot guarantee an assassin will not have an opportunity to strike you down. Are you handy with a staff boy? A simple weapon but one that can be as deadly as steel in skilled hands." He looked again and noticed how intently the stranger was watching. "I thank you sir, if your heart be true, and your aim justice and truth, I invite you to join us. The danger will be great, and I can promise no reward, but you are welcome to join us, and keep a fair share of whatever treasure we find on our way."

[dplax]

Ramella Tarina

Nine hours sleep. It was the longest she had gotten since leaving her home town. But she was close to her goal now. She got up from her bed gently, not disturbing the deep sleep of Daniel. She took out a small mirror from among her possessions and in the dim light sifting through the curtains of the tavern room she started combing her hair, while her thoughts drifted off to the man she loved. She could still recall his features even after four years while she had not seen him. Four long years. Why had she waited so long? If only she had left three weeks earlier Plaxica would have still been a mercenary and finding him would have been much easier. But fate worked in strange ways sometimes.

Daniel moved in his sleep and Ramella paused, not yet wanting to wake the slumbering infant. As she watched him sleep she remarked how much he resembled his father. His eyes were the same as Plaxica's eyes and his hair was the same rich black. Ramella put the mirror down and a tear slowly ran down her cheek. She missed Plaxica so much. Four years may have passed, yet her love for him had never wavered. Daniel stirred again and this time opened his eyes. Ramella stood up and gently picked up the four year old child in her arms and sitting down placed him gently on her knees. Daniel started playing with a strand of his mother's long hair, but then noticed that Ramella was crying.

"Why are you crying Mummy? Has somebody hurt you?"

Another tear left Ramella's eye and she gently stroked Daniel's head.

"Mummy is thinking about Daddy now. You know that she misses him so much."

"But it is soon that we shall find him, isn't it?" - the boy asked somewhat loudly and enthusiastically.

"Shhh...!" - Ramella put a finger to her lips to indicate to Daniel that he should speak less loudly. "If all goes well we may see him before nightfall tomorrow."

Daniel jumped off of Ramella's knees and with a joyful smile on his face started dancing around the small room. Ramella started laughing softly and with her hand wiped the tears from her eyes. Daniel was the light of her life. He never ceased to amaze her. He was always full of energy and happyness. He was also much more mature than other children of his age. She had found this out a month prior to leaving her home town, when after seeing a dead bird in the middle of the road the little Daniel had explained to her that it's life had ended and it had gone to join it's ancestral spirits.

"Come here Daniel!"

The child after running round the room once more went to see his mother and then Ramella half helping him, half letting him do it, made him dress. When he was ready Ramella herself dressed and then she packed their belongings.

Going down the stairs of the small tavern she walked up to the proprietor, an old, bald man, who was extremely kind. She asked for a breakfast to take away and then payed the man, giving a little extra for his kindness.

Outside the tavern the mid-morning sun had already heated the air up considerably and it looked as if the weather was going to be beautiful during the whole day. Letting Daniel run a few dozen meters ahead she set out on what she hoped was going to be the last leg of her journey aiming to find her love.

[Morgeruat]

Yevaud

As he enterred the courtyard he began to try to push away his fear and insecurity, he would do this, he would not fail, not on his first mission away. Steeling his nerve he looked at the assembled men, trying to uncover friends and neighbors who'd been lost in the falling of the tower. They were dispirited, the highest ranking guard seemed to be the one who'd talked to them at the gate. And on top of that there was aDrow to deal with, a werecreature he was confident he could handle.

"You men, I'm taking charge since you've no leader, and danger is still present. After the imediate crisis is over you shall be free to go, but if you leave now, or operate without leadership many of you will likely die by the hands of whatever foul creatures are in the ruined tower." He pointed at a group of five guardsmen standing as if in shock. "You five, prepare your crossbows and aim for the door, don't fire unless you can identify the target as the Drow, the Mage, or the Werebeast, or on my command. You, over there," He pointed at a few men digging in the rubble, "take large pieces of timber, or shields if you have them and form a shield-wall. Anyone with pikes, halberds, glaives, glaive guisarmes, or any other polearm, stand behind the shield wall and prepare to skewer the villains if they appear. Ana, please tend to the wounded. You've skills beyond my imagination, and better equipped for saving lives than anyone else here."

ooc I think that should cover basic military guarding of the doors that are available. I'll also be scanning for any windows that weren't blocked off by the crash, and if they appear to be large enough for a humanoid to slip through, they will be watched.

[ 03-03-2005, 01:43 PM: Message edited by: Morgeruat ]

[Cyril Darkcloud]

Elsewhere – A place terribly close to the Sky

For the Modding Mage

There is a song of death upon the wind and a hungry vigor about its movement. The Scattering asserts itself in the bitter touch of the air, a touch ready to seize whatever life no longer has strength to breath. The air of this place is filled with the bitterness of the Scattering for the ending of life is at hand and life that is lost within the Scattering is life that is for ever lost within the vastness of Sky, torn to pieces and scattered beyond all hope of return. Not the Mage who has strangely been permitted to view this battle, nor all of his Modding Magic, nor that Shar who undergirds his power, nor any outsider god, nor Ziroc, nor Choc can recover that which is lost to the Scattering, for the Scattering is not a thing of IronWorks, nor is this place within the land of the Lord of the Forums game.* Silent and vast the Sky stretches over this place, terribly close and touching all with the heavy silence out of which the Scattering emerges and within which it moves.

Silent too is the flight of an owl, and once it was for some that the close silence of such a bird was a thing heavy, oppressive and bitter, for the nearness of an owl bespoke the coming of death. Once more the owl whose name is Whisper in the rude tongue of the outsiders flies close to the presence and lands on the stones beside him. And even as the gaze of the presence is fixed upon the mighty hand of a gasping giant and the great sword it holds, the gazing of the owl is fixed upon the presence.

* What takes place here is part of the LOF only in the sense that Terrakis, the Modding Mage and the Windbringer have all been involved in that game, but the events are taking place within the gameworld of the Windbringer, which is NOT IronWorks. The strange decision on the part of the gods of the Sky People to allow the Mage to remain is why the tale of this battle can be recorded here. Any who die in this place, including the Windbringer or this avatar of the Mage should he interfere or involve himself in any way, will be forever lost to IronWorks.

[Cyril Darkcloud]

Elsewhere – A place terribly close to the Sky

Terrakis

Despite the swelling of his lungs and opening wide of his throat, his breathing cannot keep pace with, nor match the strength of the aggressive movement of a wind that snatches air away from him by the lungful. Even had he not received so many wounds the simple struggle to breathe would have left him exhausted and weakened. As it was, his gambit of moving with violent speed even at the cost of breath succeeded only by the most narrow of margins. But it did succeed and it matters little that he stands so near to death himself when but a single blow more will tear the life from the body of the Hated. There is a hunger for death in the air, a hunger that chills even he who has so casually slaughtered so many, for this wind, it would seem, moves only to destroy the living and for no other reason, doing so not out of hatred, nor malice nor for any joy of killing, but simply because that is its only reason for moving at all. Even the Devourer who had adopted and raised him like a son was not so terrifying as this. His hatred for his opponent bursts once more into near rage.

To be humiliated to the extent that luck is required to defeat so small an opponent. To have to struggle even to breathe. To stand so long within the bitter embrace of this wind. To have been shown that real fear of dying exists within himself ........

He gasps out in his rage, unable even to complete a shout, and stepping forward swiftly closes the distance between himself and the place he had thrown his opponent. There is a hunger, a terrible appetite for death about the blade he swings with such terrible force. So great is the force of his strike that the stones are split and the earth is deeply scored, but there is no body to be struck. And when the blade is jerked free from the earth it holds not the stains of blood or sinew but a simple scrap of cloth that dances merrily in the wind.

[ 03-04-2005, 12:09 AM: Message edited by: Cyril Darkcloud ]

[Larry_OHF]

Anarrima 67/67

She was pleased to see Yevaud doing what he had been trained to do, though she could clearly see the signs of this being his first field experience, and not a training exercise.
She considered using a spell to bless him with extra courage or a feeling of inner strength, but changed her mind. For now, he needed to feel these feelings of doubt and fear and explore them...and conquer them on his own. Only then would this field work really pay off for him. She would hold off on any artificial blessings from the Goddess until it was most vital.

The team continued to look about the inner rooms of the castle, until they stumbled upon the battle scene, where the dead still lay.

She gasped in shock, even though she had expected it. Here many had died, and she felt such a heavy burdon on her heart for them. That is when she realized she needed to pray for them.

Walking over to the room's center, she began to pray to her Goddess, asking for her blessings to be poured out here to the mercy of these brave heroes. But she was surprised when the voice of the Goddess touched her thoughts with a simple command.

"Yevaud! Some of these men are to be revived! Their lives have not yet fulfilled their missions in the flesh, and I have been asked to bring them back to our aid. Keep me safe whilst I perform the necessary prayers.

This will take a while."

She looked at each man in turn, and then walked over to one of them, the one that she had been told to start with, and laid her soft hand upon his brow. Then she began to sing a prayer, which would become the spell needed to revive this man.

OOC>>>Ana has started a ressurrection prayer for Marcos. It will take some time to complete.