Dark Rainian Arrival [Open to all!]

[Lord Synical]

I hate Thunderstorms.

The thought echoed in Lucien's head amidst the crackle of its namesake, the Crown-Prince eyeing the blackened clouds above with distate as he trudged upon sodden earth, the grass in the clearing stretching on into the wall of trees that surrounded it, the forest itself a collection of towering oaks and pines, all meshed together in what would be called a vivid display of greenery, were the weather more hospitable.

Bitterly regretting the inescapable call that drug him to the dismal world, Lucien halted in the middle of the clearing, pointed ears twitching slightly whilst his left hand rested on the pommel of Silthrim, crimson eyes giving a faint velvet glow from the eye slits of his silver-blue helm. I can feel it close by. His feet carried him slightly to the right and forwards, before he pivoted and peered at the ground before him, lowering to his left knee so that the hilt of his longsword, which at current rested upon his left hip, was easily accesible.

Hand still gripping his blade for comfort, the Crown-Prince immolated his hand and curled it into a fist, slamming the grassy earth with it in a practiced manner, white flames tinted red lacing out along the ground in shimmering veins of light before they erupted upwards and coalesced into a nova of fire; the inner nexus of magical energies crackling around the prince in swiftly vanishing bolts of reddish-gold energy.

Ignoring this strange phenomenon for normality, Lucien cleared away the scorched earth and dug out what was now more or less ash, his breath catching as something glimmered faintly in the ground. Moving his left hand from Silthrim, the Prince hefted a lavishly adorned wooden chest from the earth, brushing away specks of dirt from the gilded lid and examining the chest for a moment before flipping the latch in the centre; grimacing at the drops of rain as he hunched over it, blinking at the contents in surprise.

A wooden figurine sat snugly in silk-padded walls within the chest, intricate runes in a scrolling language collapsed into one another, birthing other runes as the pattern traversed the entirety of the carving. Examining the bird-like appearance and the jagged, almost fiery edges that seemed perpetual and made with purpose, the Crown-Prince could only deduce that the thing - whatever it was - was a Phoenix totem.

Peering about him, Lucien reached into the chest and grasped the totem... which immediately sent a resonance through his body. Frozen in shock, the flameweaver listened as a phantasmal voice drifted through his conciousness; detailing the tournament of champions and the cabal's request for his attendance upon their sacred grounds.

Shocked, Lucien barely had time to think before instinct threw him to the right and a lance of darkness shattered the trunk of a tree; the explosion drowned out by the thunder above. Manipulating his momentum, Lucien rolled half a meter away and used the last of the force to 'roll' into a kneeling stance, Silthrim flashing out and igniting with a blaze of inner light, crystal blade illuminating the darkness of the clearing where the flashes of light from the raging storm did not. Red eyes sweeping the area meticulously, Lucien grasped the hilt of his Longsword in his right hand, a ball of white fire appearing in his left as he watched.

By some godly luck or primal rection, the Elven warrior shifted his position as another bolt of crackling darkness splintered a tree behind him, showering Lucien in wooden shrapnel. Snarling, he hurled a small ball of flame into the direction of this attack... just in time to see the dark shape of his attacker rush towards him. Training kicking in, Lucien stepped forwards and danced the forms, a sweeping upwards-left slash supported by a straightened and pushed-back right leg correspondant to a slightly bended left knee impacted Ilythyrii steel, marking his enemy as one of the Exiled. Pulling a balanced three-hundred and sixty degree turn of his right foot, Lucien criss-crossed his legs and aimed a brute-force cleave towards his slightly shorter enemy's neck; grunting at the block supplied by the dark-skinned betrayer.

Throwing his weight behind the deadlock, he swiftly un-tangled his legs and jumped back with the aid of his foe's strength, having been pushing against Lucien's blade the entire deadlock. With an evaluating glance, the Crown-Prince grimaced under his helmet and darted forwards again, leaving his stomach wide open for reprisal. Taking the bait at face value, the assailant plunged into a stab with his blade... and hit thin air. Blinking in confusion, the dark warrior was lost to momentary shock before he stumbled and looked down to the shining transparency that was the blade of Silthrim; the tip protruding from his chest without even the slightest hint of a bloodstain. The fiend had been duped; his quarry had used the infamous point-to-point teleport to get behind him and plant his crystal blade in his back before he had time to react.

Channeling fire through the amplification of the crystal in Silthrim's makeup, Lucien burned the Dark Elf from the inside out whilst his screams were drowned by the thunder above; blade firmly lodged until all that was left were blackened ashes that scattered to the winds. Peering around him, the Crown-Prince kept a firm hold on his sword as he moved to where he had dropped the Phoenix totem and picked it up, eyeing the remarkably spotless surface of the ornament before he glanced around one final time, murmuring something and vanishing once more.

Lucien re-appeared at the foot of a colossal red war machine, its chest-mounted cockpit waiting as the Crown-Prince latched onto a lowered zipline and sent a ripple of kinetic energy up to the pulley, which retracted and allowed him to drop into the cockpit, pulley and zipline vanishing into the folds of the machine as the Eletharii steel that composed the cockpit door folded in, panoramic monitors lighting up within for the Crown-Prince as a DNA, retina and vocal array of tests confirmed his identity; the virdian eyes of the machine lighting up in a flash of power.

Hands on the control, Lucien murmured some words he knew not the meaning of and spoke in a quiet voice; "I'm ready."

Light blinded him.

--

Blinking away the spots from his vision, Lucien examined his surroundings through the eyes of the Alex-NT. Plants of exotic natures forced a unique contrast to the multitude of swirling portals placed with expert precision within the large courtyard. Peering about him warily, the Crown-Prince eased the machine into the massive courtyard, crimson eyes expecting enemies to leap from every direction as he slowly allowed himself to remember back to the events that had lead him to this climax, slight confusion apparent as he attempted to make sense of it all. Was he the first of many? Or the last?

Settling himself to wait, Lucien reached out and began to reconfigure the operating system of his machine to match the slight temporal and gravitational shifts in this new world, taking the apparent lack of attack as a sign he was welcome. All he could do now, was wait.

Only time will tell, I suppose.

[The Whistle]

With a creaky, agonizing scream, the heavy wooden door slowly arced inwards on its rotted hinges. Although it had doubtless once been incredibly high quality, ravenous time had taken its inevitable toll on it; the mahogany it was likely composed of, once a deep, shining brown, was now a repulsive dark matte black. The worn golden handle jiggled when it was grasped even lightly. Near the top of the curved door was a poorly drawn design; it had been etched into the grains of wood with a dagger, or some other bladed utensil. The design closely resembled a skull, of the dead variety.

But the decay did not end there. The door itself was mounted into a cobblestone hallway, which, Corem noted in abhorrence, had allowed an abundance of dirt, water, and grime to form a repugnant mixture akin to green slime. The ooze hung limply from the walls, reveling in it horrible existence. The cobblestones themselves covered not only the floor, but also made up the walls and ceiling as well. Despite the hardy nature of the material, chips and whole stones had begun to fall from the aged wall.

Corem, who had opened the door and had taken the time to observe his surroundings before plunging into the unknown, was a rather large man. He was dressed in all black, save the deep crimson belt that wrapped tightly round his waist. His hair followed this trait, and was jet black. It hanged down almost halfway to his broad shoulders. Although it wasn’t imprisoned in any particular hairstyle, it wasn’t necessarily unruly; the thick mop that covered his head was innately straight. Although no weapons adorned his figure, the man seemed somehow… deadly. Also of note was that he had no instrument with which to illuminate his journey; a pair of piercing grey eyes forged a path through the darkness, rendering light unneeded.

As Corem strolled through the door, his footsteps echoed off the cracked walls. The resulting ricochet was eventually amplified to a rolling crescendo of thunder, symmetric to the raging thunderstorm that lay sprawled on the surface. The stale air within the tunnel seemed to fight the torrential noise, however, and Corem could hear every individual footstep fade away. It made the corridor even eerier. Corem cleared his throat, to see the effects on a different noise; it suffered the same fate as his footsteps had, echoing into nothingness. Unperturbed, Corem continued into the underground structure.

It wasn’t long until the man came to the end of the hallway, and was now faced by a door similar to the one he had previously passed through. This one, however, showed no apparent signs of age. Its unmarred appearance contrasted sharply with the cobblestones that framed it, and seemed only to intensify the emphasis of its freshness. Corem gave the door a push, expecting for the hinges once again to become raging banshees; instead, they opened slickly and allowed him swift passage. For an instant, Corem wondered by the door had decomposed… He quickly banished the thought from his mind as he pushed through the portal.

Inside, the room followed closely the architecture of the corridor outside its perimeters, but was more closely related to the door. The room seemed very new, an odd occurrence for a thing that should have been untouched for ages. The curious man took slow, cautious steps into the room, closing the door behind him. In the center there was a small table, softly illuminated by a sputtering candle. Corem stalked towards the lone furniture. He reached up to his face and applied a small amount of saliva to his thumb and forefinger, then used the moisture to douse the lonely candle; it was messing with his dark vision. He blinked a couple times, to reassert his sight, then took a closer look at the room; it did not seem to hold any hidden meanings, and was for all intents and purposes a dead end. Corem gave a heavy sigh. He had been lost in the maze for quite a while now, and longed to once be surrounded by nothing but fresh air…

Corem turned to the door and prepared to leave, to retrace his footsteps and attempt to find another path, when he noticed a small note left on the table. He reached out and grabbed it, careful not to fold it in any way. He inserted his fingers into the folds of the envelope and slowly pried it open. The noted contained there in was neatly folded in half. ‘To, Corem’ was prescribed in large letters on the outside. Corem’s mouth opened, as if he was about to say something, but then shut as he remembered he had no companions. The remark instead held terrible gravity in his head. He hastily opened it.

The letter explained that he had been formally invited to participate in the Tournament of Champions, a tournament held in another realm. It then explained the rewards of winning. Though normally uncorrupted, greed began to bubble up from deep within the man’s character, and all of a sudden he yearned to win the tournament. He folded the letter back up and placed it in his pocket, questions rushing through his head. The last, and most prominent, was, “How am I going to get there?”

No sooner had the thought concluded than a deep, raspy breath was pulled into a set of disfigured lungs. The noise came from behind him, and Corem quickly spun around to meet the potential threat. The beast behind him appeared to be some sort of huge beast that had been crammed inside a tiny suit of armor. Spikes of bone and ragged scales jutted out from any cracks in the armor, and the thing lacked a helmet; a twisted face gave him a malevolent grin. Two small horns poked out of its forehead, and directly below those was a set of deep red eyes. “At arms, my kin!” the demon bellowed as it drew a sword from its sheath. Without any further warning, the beast lunged at him, the cracked black blade seeking to liberate Corem’s organs from their fleshy residence.

Corem rather liked his organs where they were, however, and so his first action was to sidestep to hasty lunge. He moved quickly to the right, waited for the blade to pass by him, and then shifted his weight back to where he had been a moment ago. This movement back to his original spot displaced the sword, bringing the beast’s arm with it. Corem took the opportunity to attack, delivering two quick jabs and a heavy cross to the demon’s nose. The demon stumbled back, giving Corem a little time.

Corem used this time wisely. He clenched his fists, and without much effort they began to radiate a strong aura. Although the dark energy that emanated from Corem’s hands wasn’t technically visible in his dark environment, one could practically feel where the energy bursts were. The energy expanded, surrounding his hands. In the light, it would look a lot like black fire. He brought his hands up to bear in front of him, and waited patiently for his opponent’s next assault.

If the demon was impressed by Corem’s prowess, he didn’t show it. The only emotion residing on the demon’s face was a grim sneer, which suddenly turned into one of all – out rage as he came at the man. A quick backhand slash, followed by a follow-through forehand. Neither seemed to connect, however, as the bounced off of… something. Like the energy that rolled about his fingers, the barriers of dark energy that Corem had put in place camouflaged perfectly with their surroundings.

Deciding to punish the demon’s aggressive fighting style, Corem retaliated with a swift right hook. The darkness surrounding his fists flared as he connected, and left a large hole in the demon’s cheek. As the demon opened his mouth to scream in agony, Corem delivered a left uppercut. The force of the blow knocked the demon’s now-open mouth but shut, cracking a couple teeth. The magic aura associated with the blow left a large black stain on the demon’s chin.

With his opponent now reeling, Corem stepped forward to deliver the coup de grace. His right hand shot out, connecting with the demon’s face. His palm was open, however, and as he struck the beat, he closed his fingers over its features. Muscles bulging, he lifted the heavy thing off the ground. For about five seconds, the energy surrounding his hands grew darker and darker, delivering a large amount of energy to the demon’s head. With swift strikes, the energy was transferred very quickly. When Corem grabbed the demon, the energy was released continually.

After a few more seconds of pacification, the demon’s body slumped and went limp. Corem released it, and it fell to the floor; hand – shaped holes had been burned into its head. The skin had fallen away and part of its skull was visible. Corem turned away from the grisly scene. He once again pulled the note out of his pocket, meaning to skim through its contents again. Instead of the message he had been expecting, the paper now read, “Congratulations!” An instant later, he was gone.

Almost instantly, his surroundings had changed from a dark, dank room deep beneath the ground. Now, he was enclosed in a small clearing, trees spurting from the ground all around him. The sun smiled brightly at him, illuminating the forest with its grace. Corem squinted his eyes, peering at the edges of the clearing. There was nothing remarkable, just stereotypical forest stuff. Soft grass grew beneath his booted feet. He wiped the traces of demon blood from his fingers, giving them a quick shake to ascertain they were clean. After another quick second of thinking, “Where the hell am I?” Corem boldly blazed a trail into the woods.

[Aralak Mogra'thir]

The orc held a chipped greatsword, a good four feet in length, in a firm grip formed by two moss green hands each lacking their fourth finger. His stance was too narrow, his calloused feet too close together to gain good purchase on the sandy arena floor and his centre of gravity too high, impairing his balance. The blood rage was in his eyes already. 'Too soon,' Aralak thought to himself as he faced his foe.

The orc came at him: a blur of green skin, crimson stained mail, and hate. He was stronger and faster than Aralak, and would be until his rage abated, so the warcheif made no attempt to match him blow for blow, instead he fell back and to one side as his assailant leapt into the air, bringing his sword over his head. The mighty blade threw up a cloud of sand as it embedded itself in the arena floor, but its wielder wasted no time in wrenching it free and sweeping towards Aralak once more, his blade arcing forwards in a brutal uppercut.

The warcheif jumped back, narrowly avoiding being eviscerated by the point of his foe's greatsword, but his footing had been compromised and recognising this fact, his foe rushed him. Aralak took the pommel of the orc's sword in his gut, and the sweeping slice that followed carved through one of the iron plates of his makeshift armour suit, leaving a deep gash across his chest. The full force of his foe's charge caught him head on and he was thrown backwards onto the sand. The gathered crowd held their breath as the orc gave a bellow of triumph and swung his sword down towards the warcheif.

It had been nine days since he had awoken to orange sunlight oozing through the horsehide tent above him. The coarse bear pelts that made up his bedroll were rough against his skin, but an orc disdained comfort for it bred weakness just as so much rotting carrion draws vultures. Even so early in the day it was stiflingly hot inside the tent, just as it was stiflingly hot outside. The air on the wastes was always hot, and with the heat came tiny particles of clay and sand that stung the eyes and irritated the skin of those unused to it. Aralak had risen quickly, garbed himself in a coarse spun tunic of grey wool, and called for water to wash his face. It was only as he turned to leave that the warband leader spotted the leather satchel hanging from a spearhead hammered into his doorframe.

It was always the manner of the shaman caste to send their messengers in the middle of the night. It mattered not how many sentries a warcheif posted, the messenger was never seen or heard. He would never wake the recipient of his missive, no matter how much noise he made attaching the scroll to his door, and he would never be seen leaving either. With a brutish, meaty hand Aralak ripped the rusty spearhead from the splintering timber and reached into the bag, pulling from it a scroll. The papyrus was stained by the sun and beginning to rot in one corner where the reeds had not been dried properly, but none the less most messages came scrawled in blood on a scrap of fabric; this was clearly important. Aralak tore apart the fibres of animal tendon and sinew that bound the scroll, noticing as he did so that a black raven feather was fastened to the binding. That wasn't a symbol he'd seen before, and doubted that it was one anyone knew.

The message itself was inscribed in brown ink made from ground clay, water and the foul smelling juices of a black mushroom that the shamans used to make incense. Using a greater number of long, flowing words than Aralak thought was strictly necessary, the missive detailed that the orc nation had been invited to participate in a grand tournament spanning this world and many others. To be sure that the champion they sent would bring pride and honour to the whole orc populace and their god, the shaman caste had arranged their own tournament to choose who would represent them. Whether or not to compete was not a difficult choice for the warcheif. He was preparing for a campaign against the humans and their fortresses of stone that protected the edges of the wastes and the prestige that this would bring him would allow him to expand his warband even further. 800 was a large group for an orc army, but against the thousands that the humans could field he would need more.

Stepping out of the tent to be greeted by a panoramic vista of fine sand, cracked red stone and the blazing sun, he announced to his warband that he would be leaving to win honour and glory in a tournament the likes of which had never been seen before. His decision unquestioned, he took his armour from within his tent and lifted the powerful battleaxe that he had dedicated his life to wielding with as near perfection as the orc could reach. Accompanied by a resounding cheer from his warband, he set off on foot across the wastes for the home of the shaman caste. The journey would take him five days.

The first few rounds had gone by as if in a dream, his foes had barely managed to scratch him. In the fourth round he had met a shaman, drunk on the idea of glory, who had managed to get through the earlier rounds with a few well placed lightning bolt spells. He had clearly not done his research on Aralak Mogra'thir, however, for when a bolt that should have killed him merely inflicted a heavy electrical burn, the weedy orc screamed in terror. For that show of cowardice Aralak forced the shaman to yield instead of dying, denying him the honour of death in combat. Now it was the final, and he had come too far to fail now.

As the greatsword descended, Aralak let out an ear-splitting war cry, calling on the blood rage that made orcs so fearsome in combat. He snatched his axe upwards, using the head to block the falling blade as the shaft would not have been strong enough. Before his foe could strike again, the warcheif kicked out at him. The orc's poor stance betrayed him and he was sent sprawling, giving Aralak the chance to rise. When his foe regained his feet, Aralak noticed he was moving sluggishly and was having difficulty lifting the greatsword, his rage had burned out as the warcheif knew it must do, now he had the upper hand.

The crowd roared out their approval, a mass of guttural orcish voices raised in awesome clangour as Aralak rushed his foe and swept forth with his axe in a pair of horizontal arcs. The first fell short, but the second connected with the greatsword that had been hastily raised to obstruct it. The blood rage could not be so easily denied, and the superior force of Aralak's blow smashed aside his foe's guard, the axe head burying itself in the meat of the orc's right shoulder. As his foe cried out in pain, Aralak closed the remaining distance and brought the haft of his axe upwards into his foe's jaw. The orc stumbled back, but not far enough to escape the vicious spike on the end of the axe handle which the warcheif thrust at him, sundering the chain mail that he wore and impaling his body. Aralak twisted the axe, and then pulled it free.

Aralak raised his arms in triumph, swinging his axe about his head, and issued forth a cry of victory that resounded around the arena before being echoed back by the crowd. "Aralak! Aralak!" they chanted.

There was one errand left to perform to complete his victory.
"Last words?" he grunted, standing over the dying orc.
"Blood," the orc choked, and with tremendous effort cleared the black liquid bubbling from his maw, "and honour."
Aralak nodded and brought his axe down on the neck of his fallen foe, "Divine warlord find you worthy." he prayed as he took up the severed head. "A knife!" he called to the crowd and someone in the front row threw a thin bladed hunting knife to the bloodstained sand at his feet. He took up the blade and was about to begin etching 'blood and honour' into the bone, when he saw other words scratching themselves into the skull's forehead. They read 'Well done, champion of the orcs.'

In the moment that he read those words, the world seemed to melt away around him. Faces among the crowd mingled into an indistinct sea of green and the sand beneath his feet became not sand, but simply yellow. As paint is mixed on a palate, so did the colours of the world blend together before him and he knew not if he was standing or falling. Directions held no meaning, up and down were inseparable and left or right merely a matter of perspective. Here became the same as there, and time immaterial. Finally the colours began to separate once more and reason blended back into his perception of the world. Aralak felt the thin blades of grass between his toes and the sea of inks before him arranged themselves into images of trees and other vegetation. This was no place he had been to before, the humidity of the air was alien to him, but he knew that his greatest test was just beginning. He would not be caught unprepared by it, and so he found a thick fallen tree trunk to sit on and set about sharpening his axe.

[noodleguy]

I'm looking for a partner too, just F.Y.I. PM me if you're interested ^^

A goblin never fights alone. As brutish or ugly of creatures as they are considered by some, goblins have an excellent ability to work together, and tend to always fight in a group, or, better yet, a horde. This is perhaps a natural defense of the species. A goblin does not have extraordinary strength, or speed, or intelligence so the species must rely on what it does have. Many goblins. But like any conglomerate of creatures, there must always be a leader.

Oh, yes, there must always be a leader. Lice Grumalth thought bitterly. Oh, Lice, it will be such an Honor for you to lead the group. Oh, Lice, there will be so much Dignity in the post.

In Lice’s experience, if there were folks at home using words like Honor and Dignity and singing patriotic songs it was likely as not it was some other bloke out their getting killed.

Lice was of average height and weight for a goblin, that is to say, fairly small. What armor he had fitted him fairly poorly, but it didn’t really matter to him. He avoided wearing too much of the metallic stuff lest it should slow him down even a little. His symbol, that of a half covered trident head, was painted crudely on his chest. His arms and legs were obviously somewhat muscular, but not in the way that a warriors limbs tend to be. No, Lice possessed the scrawny sort of power that is only available to the true coward. Lice enjoyed thinking of himself as a coward. Cowards were the ones who made the world go ‘round, cowards were the ones who survived.

If anyone had been watching Lice at the moment, the observer may have disputed his proud claim to cowardice. Then, after watching as he shoved his trident into the enemy in front of him, pulled it out, spun around, and shoved forwards again, tearing through armor like fine china and dropping his enemies ruthlessly, the intelligent observer might stop disputing him and go away somewhere else, very quickly, and probably without packing.

Lice was in the typical place that all goblin leaders must go, to show their supposed courage. The very front lines of the war. The battle that was raging was between Lice’s couple hundred goblins and a group of about half as many Corone Rangers. They were on the edge of the Concordia wood, battling for territory. The war between the Rangers and the Goblins was as old as any could remember, on either side, and Grumalths had been leading the front for generations. Grumalths had been dying on the front for generations.

Screwing up his face in a somewhat comical way for just a moment, Lice grinned with glee as a grey fire danced up and down the prongs of his blade. He jumped into the air and made a huge sweeping blow at the small group of Ranger’s below him, trying to catch their wooden bows on fire. He succeeded in a few cases, and those men hastily tried to put out the fire or to get the things off their backs hastily. A few goblins swarmed in and took them out easily.

The battle was not going well, Lice assessed. The enemy had spell casters as well, and although the goblins had the advantage of numbers they were underequipped and undertrained. Without looking too closely Lice touched and healed a goblin with a big gash in his leg. Lice nearly fell over from the exertion. His energy was getting pretty low now too, he must be operating at less than half capacity. What was that phrase though? It’s always darkest before dawn? Obviously written by some bugger that hadn’t ever had to stay up all night on sentry duty.

The Rangers appeared to be re-coalescing their formation in the opposite corner of the field from Lice. Shouting at a few of his officers, Lice sent a few squadrons to hammer at the Rangers as they were organizing, but their attempts failed. More goblins lost. Lice felt angry at himself for using his men that way, but there was no choice. Expendable that’s what goblins were, even to their own commanders.

Briefly Lice considered simply running away from the battlefield. He could disappear into the woods and flee twice as fast as anyone either side could possibly send after him. It was an attractive thought for a moment, but Lice shook it out of his head. A coward he might be, but not a traitor.

Well two could play at the formation game, Lice thought. Well, maybe not. A few minutes ago he had ordered his officers to get their men into squadrons. With dismay Lice examined the extraordinarily loose blob that was supposed to be a formation of goblins. Compared to the compact square of Rangers that sat across from them it looked even more pathetic. Oh well, military strategy was not what any goblin army was known for, Lice’s included.

Lice disliked ordering all the goblins himself, so he spoke to one goblin at a time, letting the word spread across the army. It worked, but resulted in terrible coordination. What resulted was the most haphazard advance in the multiverse at the time. Some goblins charged forwards immediately, screaming bloodcurdling cries at the top of their lungs and dying immediately at the enemy’s blades. Others, seeing the fate of their fellows, crept across the field as slowly as possible, therefore becoming vulnerable to the volleys of poison arrows unleashed from the Ranger bows. Lice could only heal so many, really.

Then things got a lot worse. The Corone spell casters emerged from the densely packed and started shooting lightning across the field. Show offs. Gauging their power Lice could see that they were at best of second rate magic skill. Unlike Lice, however, they had been resting the whole day and were full to the brim of magical energy.

Looking through the crowd, Lice saw the magic power of the enemy. Some were bright colored lights, yellows and purples and greens. Those were the arcane and elemental spell casters. But somewhere in the formation there should be…yes! A bright white light. Obviously a paladin, and judging from the size of the light probably a commander as well. Perfect. Chop the head off of these guy’s army and they’d be as vulnerable as babies…maybe. No need to think of that though.

Lice charged, trident held aloft, screaming the battle cry of the Grumalths and his fellows were heartened by this move. The goblins surged across the field with all the strength, and intelligence of a tidal wave, crashing on the enemy lines. Many died, on both sides, but at least Lice managed to carve a hole with his trident to reach the enemy commander.

The enemy commander was a six foot tall paladin, clad in a full suite of white armor. When he saw Lice he drew a greatsword from across his back. Lice sighed, for the umpteenth time that day. How predictable. Lice focused on increasing his speed again and jumped up over the human’s head, landing behind him. The paladin’s momentum carried him forward, although his helmeted head turned around to look at Lice. Lice liked to imagine the look of shock on the man’s face underneath that helmet as the goblin suddenly gained the upper hand.

“Come on, hasn’t your god got something better to send at me than that?” Lice taunted. The man did not respond. Obviously he was of the stoic, quite type. Lice hated the stoic, quite type.

Unfortunately for Lice, however, the paladin had a relatively good turn of speed even with his heavy armor. Equally as predictable as the charge, the paladin’s sword began to glow with white light. He was going to smite Lice, huh? These ones were all the same. Lice had been looking for just this opportunity. This time Lice ducked under the blow. He could practically taste the holy energy above his head. Lice stood up and soaked up the divine energy, using it to bolster his own strength and heal his wounds. That was more like it.

Feeling invigorated, Lice’s own weapon began to glow, a dull grayish green color. The trident’s head magnified in size as Lice infused it with energy. Thrusting it forward, Lice felt the strength in his arms increase as well, adding that much power to the blow.

As it happened, the paladin had been healing himself when the blow made contact. His divine energy merged with that of Lice’s weapon, and both began to flow up Lice’s arms into his core. Soaking up the energy…the power was…incredible. This was the goal that Lice had worked towards for years. The so called holy warrior, indestructible enemy of “evil,” the paladin, now was cowering underneath a supposedly pathetic goblin’s blows. Lice would remember it later as one of the greatest moments of his Lice’s life when he felt his trident plunge all the way up to the hilt, tearing through the man’s armor like the pathetic waste it was.

Looking down at the corpse, Lice wiped the blood off his weapon onto the grass absent-mindedly. Around him the battle raged, and Lice surveyed the field with a certain amount of detachment. Things were going poorly for the goblins. There were many casualties on the human’s side, Lice could see, but goblin corpses were littered so deep that you could not even see the ground in places. He walked forward, about to jump back into the fray again when his vision blurred and neon pink letters appeared in front of his eyes.

“CONGRATULATIONS. YOUR MAGICAL SKILLS ARE PARTICULARLY UNUSUAL IN TYPE AND APTITUDE. I HAVE JUDGED YOU TO BE WORTHY. YOUR ENTRY IS ACCEPTED.”

“Congratulations, what? My entry, where?” Lice said, somewhat dazed at this new development, but already the battle around him seemed to be more and more distant. Quickly it was replaced by…a garden? Yes, that was clearly what it was, at least judging by the foliage around him. Lice recognized a few of the plants in the area, but others were strange to him. It was remarkably quiet.

Slowly assessing his new situation, Lice briefly wondered if one of the enemies had put some sort of an illusion over him. That was not, however, possible, Lice thought with certainty. Lice had not seen any spellcasters approaching that level of skill in the enemy ranks. He would certainly have noticed. And besides, this was a remarkably strange illusion, if it was one. Normally enemies would attempt (and fail, Lice thought with a grin) to lock him in some sort of torturous hell. Not a nice little garden, with peacefully swirling portals lining the walls.

With a start, Lice realized that he was not alone in this odd place. There were a few other creatures scattered about the area. Lice recognized an orc, and an odd looking human…no that must be an elf. The others all seemed strange, and powerful. Lice had a sickening feeling that perhaps he was out of his league…but what was that thought? There didn’t seem to be any combat going on. In fact, Lice felt more safe here than he had been in months. There were no raids or enemy ambushes to worry about…for now.

Exhausted, Lice collapsed on the ground by a tree and slept for the time being despite his uneasiness about the situation. There would be time to figure out what was going on later, surely. And when he did find out Lice would want his entire magical potential ready for use, that was for sure.

[Lord Synical]

OOC: Lucien's actually in a 23 meter GUNDAM. Though he isn't going to be fighting with it. Inter-round entertainment.

Thanks for joining! I'll reply to everyone's arrival as soon as more people post. Cut off is the coming tuesday.

[noodleguy]

Since you mentioned him repairing it I thought maybe he was outside of it, but then again I have no idea how gundams work ^^
Anyway, that doesn't explain why Lice didn't see the gundam...ummmm....he thought it was a statue? Oh, never mind, I failed.

[Lord Synical]

Oh, no. He's modifying the Operating System because of Althanas' difference in gravitational and temporal energies.

[Syaoran]

Day fifteen

I find myself residing in a gorge in an unknown place. Curious how the flowers seem to grow in the rocks, void of soil and light. I have collected a sample and placed within this page to dry. Hopefully there is a botanist in the next town who may yeild and answer. These portals are more and more erratic each time I pass through them. As stated in my previous entries, I was able to predict the first few jumps, but the third brought me here, where ever it is. Predictions came from the calculations of colour, in comparison to the one on the invitation. It is my belief that the portal that will lead me to 'dimention zero' will be the same colour as the parchment. After asking a painter, this colour is 'orchid'. This parchment is in the index, next to the swatch of the colour from the painter.

I do relise I am repeating myself many times over the entries of this journey, but I have a fear that by going through these portals, sections of my mind may be left behind, therefore by going over the information, I can reinforce it in my intelligence, and, if worst comes to worst, by re-reading it, the memories will return.

On a second thought, while sitting here in the shade of stone, I have felt the movement of a family of what seems to be moles through the ground. The creatures could not be moles though, as the earth beneath me is comprised of granite, something too hard for a normal creature to burrow through. By looking at the walls of this crevas, it seems to be made of the same substance. This did not occur naturally. Why did the portal bring me here? Does it have a conciousness to even take me places? It could just be a doorway to set locations and I'm waisting time by wandering.

I end this entry with a sketch of the last portal I came through with a small sample of colour that it was.

Syaoran slowly got off of the rock he was sitting on, dusting his behind off as he closed the book, the metal clasp chinking as it locked shut. The metal claw let the book fall down to the side of the fox, the metal smacking on the metalic leg plating. He continued his journey through the unknown lands, the cloth of the coat falling beyond his paws, hiding them from the world it manipulates.

The sun went from morning to noon, the beast having navigated the strange terrain, ending up at a dead end. This was even more curious than the gorge's existance. Where did the thing that made it go? That was answered almost immidiately.

Slowly Syaoran turned around, a few metres away was a giant dragonoid like creature with no eyes. The creature was a deep purple with flat scales that ran from head to toe. The head was common with that of most dragons, minus the nose which was of a mole. It was all dirty from obviously burrowing through the granite. A mole draconian...there's always a first for anything. The beast was uneasy, was it friend, or foe? The draconian mole took in a deep breath, sniffing the beast's scent. It reared up and then shot its ugly head forward, roaring out at the scholar, spit flying and splattering on the straw hat. Charming.

The scholar reacted by pushing out his metalic paws from his sleaves. He whirled them around infront of himself as if around a sphere, air audiably being sucked into the area by the elementalist. This, the fox using his speed, only took an instant. He shoved the gathered air forward, a surge of air flowed through the tight gorge, pushing back the creature quite a distance. Syaoran did this often when he was surprised to try and give himself time to think, like this case, it usualy worked. The air...the air smelt like smoke...The draconian was to use a flame breath. The fox threw his arms forward sharply, thrusted them down, then upwards with palms to the sky. A rockwall shot up from the floor just as the flames roared forward, the heat causing the granite to turn red. The beast held his paws up, trying to help contain the flames behind the rockwall, should he remove himself from the equation, the rock would surely melt. Because of the rock's density, the beast could only muster a thin wall, barely big enough to hold the way. The whisps of flames licked around the rock, threatening to eat at Syaoran's fur.

Luckily the firestorm ended, the creature out of breath. Syaoran released the rockwall which promptly fell to pebble sized pieces, the flames having done its damage. This thing would not be reasoned with, it was too angry to be charmed using his abilities. It must die. A little piece of Syaoran cried out in joy but was supressed. The beast sharply stamped the ground with his front paw, doing and side front flip and restamping his foot down. The creatures face went from anger to surprise, its mouth falling open due to the thing granite spire sticking through its head. Syaoran slowly straightened himself to his tall state, fixing his hat and allowing his sleaves to fall beyond his paws. Orchid...the draconian was orchid. It was now dead.

Syaoran pulled on the chain on his belt, pulling up his book and opening the metalic clasp. He took the piece of charcoal from its spot and began to write on:

Day fifteen continued

I have just slain a curious creature I dub a draconian mole. Please see diagram for details. Upon examination of the scales to the swatch, I have discovered they are both one and the same: Orchid. Logically, this should be my portal. I shall gut the creature to try and discover more, if I find nothing, I shall have a nice meal tonight, I shant let this corpse go unwaisted.

Syaoran looked up to see that inside the gaping mouth was that similar swirling mass that was a portal, the same colour as the scales. The beast notorised:

Ps. After writing the above entry and looking up, the portal appeared in the mouth of the creature. I shall investigate.

Once more Syaoran closed the book with a metalic click, allowing it the clunk to his side. He walked forward, slowly entering the entrance way.

Everything felt like compression, very different to the ones before. It was like walking into a box in a vacuum, then stepping right out of it again. The fox looked about, finding a giant sentient being. No doubt it was animated by a powerful enchanter. It would be best to hide. The ground was soil...perfect for a divertion. The elementalist shaply pushed his claws out of his sleavesand then made sharp localized movements in a ball, soil rising from the ground and familiar sucking noise of air. After that almost instant moment, the fox released the blast. The localized area became inveloped in a temperary 'smoke screen' of dirt particles dispersed in air.

The fox then quickly, and silently, made his way to a hiding spot, not knowing if he were to find one.

[Lord Synical]

"Nova Core Settings at optimal levels, re-adjust left apogee alignment three degrees, insert quantum flux calculations and make amendments for transformation phases six through twelve. Calculate Catastrophe beam output and vector for cockpit attacks, reconfigure optimal funnel output to compensate for saber shortfalls..."

His mind was abuzz. Fingers dancing over the keyboard; Lucien Senus-Lytharih, Crown-Prince of the Eletharii Imperium, Duke of the Nether Reaches, King of the Elves, The Phoenix of Aelytha, Eternal Flame and Master of the Burning Throne of Illaria was engrossed in his work. His pride and joy; The Alex-NT, was a materpiece. Every inch of the Eletharii steel that made up the Core Hunter's basic framework forged and shaped to perfection with magic. The red, glossy coat that adorned the metalwork catching and reflecting the rays of the morning sun. In Lucien's eyes; it was perfection. Crimson eyes gleamed, freed from the near-stifling confines of his ceremonial battlehelm whilst the Prince endeavoured to align his machine's system to this new world. After all, it could end up that the Alex's considerable power was the only thing that saved him from a bloody death.

Abruptly, whilst in the middle of running over more revisions in his mind, the man's attention was drawn to something in his periphery. Frowning, Lucien turned to his left monitor and pressed two buttons on the control pad to his left, set into the left armrest - which was connected to the left wall of the cockpit - and the left wall itself, white brows ascending into his fringe as what appeared to be a... well, Goblin was staring at his Core Hunter... "What the hell is a Gob--" Before he could finish the sentence, he noticed two others he had missed; what was undeniably an Orc and some large, brutish human fellow with a red belt emblazoned about his waist. Quaint.

Scouring the rest of the area, Lucien turned the Alex's head in time to catch sight of the most preculiar creature he'd ever seen. It looked much akin to a Human, with metal claws and steel armour of a dull grey hue. Covering this appeared to be a green trenchcoat, and an odd straw hat on his veiled head. All in all, a strange individual. "I wonder..." He frowned a moment, glanced at the detached shield set to his right and then nodded in silent affirmation to some unknown thought. Taking The Phoenix Aegis and slanting it across his back, re-clipping Silthrim - sheathed still - to his left hip and sliding his hands to the controls, shifting the Alex-NT's kneeling position into a standing one and facing towards the... Gardener; the machine's hands shifted as it knelt again, one hand resting the back of its palm on the cement whilst the other was planted on the ground for balance.

Opening the cockpit, Lucien stood with his helmet donned, eyes glancing to the blue sky above before he returned them to the serenity of the Garden, exotic flowers caught on the edge of his vision even as he focused on the stranger. Stepping forwards, his plated boots thunked on the metal of the battlemech as he hopped forwards and landed on the arm, taking a balanced stance and 'surfing' down the arm to jump at one of the gaps and land in the palm of the construct's hand. Stepping down lightly and glancing at the others who were assembled, before refocusing on what he hoped was a denizen of the Garden; one brow raised behind the slitted visor covering his face.

"And who... or what... would you be, my friend?"

[Syaoran]

Syaoran had moved quickly to be away from the group, ducking and weaving behind florah and portals, trying to find a suitable hiding spot to think. The earth told him of what was happening, a large thump, the sentient was knealing and the hand extended. Once more Syaoran tried to burry his disgust for the un-natural life. As impressive the magic would have to be to create such a thing, it was entirely forbidden, at leased, where he was from it was. Nature is and will always be nature, such is magic, and so in no way should it be used to make or create a being not of flesh, for rock or metal can not contain true life. Many a time the fox destroyed guardians such as this one, not because of danger, but because of the monstrous way in which it was created.

Someone excited the sentient, most likely the sorceror whom created the thing. Who ever it was, he was powerful (it was quite clearly a man from the pheramon release, and the way in which he walked on the ground). A smell of metalic, a noise of clink and the extra weight gave the beast the idea of a full set of attire made of metal. No, this could not be a sorceror, sorcerors belong to chaos and power, this person thought of the defencive side, and can't be under the control of power. A friend of a caster then, or possible a battle mage of some kind. Either way, the magic needed to be feared. A humanoid would not pass favourably on the fox, no one ever did unless it gave them gain.

Suddenly, the elf was infront of him. The fox was too busy thinking to notice that he had just moved to be infront of the extended arm. The smoke screen seemed to be uneffective on the armoured person, completely ignoring it and just strolling right up to Syaoran. Right now, the stinch around the beast was horrendous. It was like a skunk's spray, but more compact and heavy. He was crouched down and so the double joints could visibly be seen, quickly the beast stood tall once more, trying to become as tall as the being. His left metalic paw moved back and gripped his waterskin , thumb popping open the flask.

"And who...or what...would you be, my friend?"

What a curious question...one that had yet to be answered.

"Who is anyone?" The voice was deep and cracked. The fox held his right metal claw half up, trying to make it seem relaxed but still ready to manipulate the water into a weapon should it be needed. Water was definately the element of choice...the very essence of fire seemed to experate from him, therefore the water could be used as an effective weapon against him.