The Assailed Resident

[Ranger]

The macabre dance of wind and hail wove its deadly chant across the landscape of Salvar, a tune that only the fool-hearty could withstand and only the insane would attempt to. The wail was deafening and dominant, the cry of the frozen tundra like the howl of a pack of bloodthirsty wolves. Overhead the sky was blanketed by heavily laden clouds, raining their burden upon the hapless lands below. Snow and sleet mixed with hail as it plummeted through the swirling gusts; Salvar was lost in a violent maelstrom of winter’s heavy hand. A haphazard traveler passing through the blizzard would find themselves disoriented, guideless, without the light of the waning moon. They would be fighting for survival amidst the relentless weather of the tundra. Only two courses could be followed to relieve oneself of the one sided fate; to die and be buried beneath the snow and wind, or to force a stalemate as long as one could and hope for redemption in whatever form it appeared.

For Aerendir the obvious discord of the gods, in all their vain and petty glory, was attempting in all ways to find the elven man and offer no quarter. A standstill against the wills of the Thayne was something that was not to be. At his hands he had broken the thinly veiled façade of the dominant religion, casting his former beliefs to the whims of fate. Those powers above, below, and all around him were in a fit of rage at his usurping and facetious nature. Aerendir, high elf of the broken lands of Raiaera, resurrected by force of will from the emaciated grasp of death, had spat in the omnipotent faces that had given him new life.

Weeks prior the man had been known as another, a man as zealously devout in his belief in the Thayne as the faith of the fanatics of Xem’zund. He had been called Ranger Nailo, prophet of the Thayne, Second of the Red Hand clan, and Tel’Amnrach* of Ithermoss. The man known as a prophet had tilled his plow alongside humble members of the clan, had followed the wills of the gods, had fought against the Bazaar with the Red Hand, had gone to war with numerous allies, and had fought against the upheaval of democracy in Corone. Ranger had been known and beloved, a father, friend, and brother. All the accomplishments, all the pain and pleasure that had found the man throughout years of life had been all for naught.

In an underhanded act the Thayne’s wills had caused the death of the once loyal prophet, and his insurmountable and undeniable claim to final peace was not granted. The voices of the gods had come to him and talked to him after death, had given him the direct contact that he had longed for his entire tutelage in the firmament. That eternal slumber and the lasting memory were not to be his prize though. Forced into servitude instead of accepting it humbly, the soul was cast into a fallen body of a bladesinger from Raiaera and resurrected. After fighting against the powers of the Forgotten, Xem’zund, he had taken flight back to Salvar. It was in the icy wastes of the north that had been the site of the vain god’s insurrection, he returned to the monument built to the goddess Jomil.

In a fit of rage the man attempted to return to the circle, an act forbidden by the powers that underlie its mythical status. His futile attempts for retribution, for acceptance by those that had turned their backs to him became little more than a self-inflicted punishment. The Icehenge on the border of Salvar and Berevar threw him out of its circle time and again, until all that was left of the former will that guided the last slivers of Rangers character was a fury fueled by uncertainty. With the power of his new body he had torn down the cursed idol, cast aside his will to follow false gods forever more. The monument had rejected his new body, and his new mind had rejected what it stood for in turn.

The lost, helpless eyes of the high elf scanned the sea of snow as far as his elven enhanced vision would allow. The racial boon was of no use, the proximity of the sleet and torrent far too thick to view through. Fist sized hail rained around him and struck him at times, jarring his bare shoulders and nearly sending him sprawling into the ground after every other step. No armor covered his small frame; no shirt clung to his thin chest. Instead the inscriptions of the Tap hung from thick metal loops that pierced through his shoulders. An unwanted gift, the tattered scrolls were bound to him forever more, a guide to the history and use of the Tap, as well as a pertinent reminder of the time he spent in the capture of the Forgotten One. His twisted visage belayed the anger he could not ignore at being caught and helpless to the whims of the weather. Every step was forced, his momentum halted by an uphill struggle and the compounding depth of the snow around his hidden leather boots. The capped end of his guan-do was used for leverage and assistance, a weapon turned walking staff. Shelter was a fleeting hope.

“Retaliation for my faults? Are the Thayne so petty they would resort to killing me for my lack of compliance?”

The thought was one that strengthened with every step he strained to take, his dwindling reserves of resolve nearly obligating him to accept his defeat. It was with his strained emerald eyes that he caught sight of possible restitution, possible survival. On the edge of the close horizon he spied the flickering light of a fire, barely being moved despite the whirling winds. It was a meager hope to believe that it was not an illusion, but the already disillusioned elf was not without his tenacity. Renewed confidence, whether ill-placed or otherwise, spurred him forward. It could have been the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel, but as he grew closer he realized it was not his own death that was forthcoming but safety from the biting cold and grizzly death.

Only a few hundred yards from the light and he let loose what little magic he could command in his weakened state, satiating the onslaught around him for just long enough to reach the frame of the great mansion in the mountain. His control over the weather was a new strength he had at command, as were multiple others he had yet to fully realize. With a smooth hand he pushed aside the soft wooden door, not caring if the owner of the household would welcome the intrusion or not. The complacence of the person who lived in the construct was ignored, as the owner was quite obviously either expecting company or haphazardly left the door unbound for any who happened upon the place.

The warmth of the home reached out from the opened door, hugging Aerendir in a loving embrace. He closed his eyes as he inhaled slowly and with deep breaths, allowing the warmth of the inside to battle the frigid atmosphere that had seeped deep into his lungs. Ice crusted his chin and hair, clung to his clothes and the entire staff of his polearm. Ecstasy and relief finally flooded his mind and allowed his worn muscles to slump beneath his frail frame. The door remained open, a battle between the warmth of the fire and the winds of Salvar raged around the mage as he fell to the floor. Staff clattering away from him on the rug, he closed his eyes as if in slumber and waited for the landlord to find him or his strength to return enough to venture further.

((This takes place after my solo, hence the new body and other new things. The solo will be posted and worked on soooon.))

[Damion Shargath]

A sound shuffled it’s way into Damion’s alcohol muffled auditory canals. His eyes were weary, burning as he opened them. The difficulty wasn’t adjusting to the darkness as his eyes opened, moreover it was the excruciating headache that stampeded over his brain in surges. Damion glimpsed over at the table to his left and moaned in acknowledgement as his eyes trailed the bottles emptied mere hours before. The drunkenness had long not worn off and he’d have at least another ten hours to go to sober up completely. Slowly he regained posture in his chair, his eyes staring bleakly at the massive window beyond him. It required some concentration to blend out the thrashing hail, as it seemed to pelt against his mind more than the outside world. A dropped needle would have made Damion cringe.

“Good liquid…” He remarked ironically, though he wouldn’t lie that he did enjoy the beverage if even the after effects were mostly somewhat fatal in the amounts he enjoyed it in.

Then it crept back into his mind. He had awoken from a noise. The hail outside was relentlessly hammering it’s crude serenade upon the landscape, and he awoke from a noise. It seemed a little awkward a thought. The thunder cracked and lashed, blinded occasionally, and he awoke from a peripheral noise. Shaking his head he gave in to the notion and turned his head to the left; The table, the bottles, the ashtray, his halberd, the distance to the kitchen. After affirming that everything was in order, he slowly turned his vision rightward; The distance of the room, rug, the bookshelf by the door, an open door, a cold breeze. He sighed in expectance of the hinges having loosened anew.

Damion fought himself to his feet and dragged the halberd out from behind the chair in a rather unrefined manner, crashing the contents of the tabletop to the floor in the go. Bottles and ashtray sailed through the air, across the border of the rug, onto the marble flooring. With a bash they smacked to the ground. The maelstrom of noises forced him to squint, Damion felt as if a thousand needles were being pricked into his brain. He stumbled from the edge of the carpet to the marble floor that outlined the room, lucky enough not to step into the shards of glass. His stare remained on the origin of the cool breeze, the door was wide open. There were several possibilities, but they soon all ruled one another out as his eyes trailed across a lump in the darkness. It certainly hadn’t been the wind on a loose hinge.

The room was large, even beyond large, and the lump was a comfortable – or uncomfortable, depending on the point of view – twenty meters away. The door, thus, an additional rough ten beyond. Damion grabbed the halberd a little below midway with his right hand, pointed the blade rightward and started. The further he advanced the more he began to make out the figure lying on the ground. Everything else became peripheral noise as his mind tried to focus on the more pushing matter. The soft touch of the rug to his feet disappeared, the freezing touch of the cold dissipated, and the mild scent of tobacco vanished. Damion’s perception of his own path was a straight line, though it resembled more of a snake to any other observers.

Finally having stepped in length of the shadowy lump on his carpet, he forced forward a kick. He aimed for the head, but missed valiantly, and squared his foot on the shoulder of the creature. Damion caught a glimpse of pointy flesh where there should have been ears as the thing went rolling over and over. His mind was fixed, but his vision blurred, and thus he missed the weaponry towards which he had vaulted the figure. Metal rings protruding from its shoulders thumped into the carpet as it rolled. Still drugged by the Byoffnovoff, the assailed resident wasn’t quite sure what to say, and thus followed his harsh greeting yet another kick, this time to the thigh.

The clash of steel rings protruding from the elven shoulders with the far wall was more audible than the slight grunt that escaped his nearly blue lips. The stiff fingers of the man rose to his collar bone, gripping the tender skin that surrounded the pierced, obligatory shoulder piece. Retaliation was not his first concern, but was forcefully pressed to the forefront of his thoughts. By the time the second boot caught the thigh of the pointed eared intruder he had rolled over and was half glaring, half fighting to keep his eyes open.

In a lackluster attempt to relieve him of the constant aggression, the elven creature lashed out. A firm foot pressed against the wall and a free arm put him to his wavering feet. A shaky arm was thrown forward, missing the drunken resident’s jaw by inches. The elegant fingers of the elf could not close, the cold locked them long ago, and their recovery was yet to show. The intruder swung nonetheless, hastily the distance between the drunk halberdier and the wildly swinging mage grew. Haphazard swings were forcedly thrown, one catching the man in the shoulder, followed almost instantly by one that connected with the bottom jaw. Damion’s head jerked the slightest bit, but the wavering world around him was already disconnected. Balance a long since forgotten concept, the human dropped to the plush carpeted floor with a thud.

The rug was comfortable, smoother than a lesser noble’s bed, but his instincts urged Damion awake. He pushed on the ground with his feet, messily rolled backwards and came to a staggering halt soon later. His vision was blurred and he could only vaguely make out the shape of his obverse advancing. With a grunt his switched his handing on the halberd, and lashed out with his left. The halberd drew a half circle, horizontally, through the air. A thud of it’s shaft against flesh interrupted it’s gently glide. His blade was far beyond the elf’s body already, but at least he had swung in time to hit with something. The intruder dropped to the side, his figure forming a mould in the rug.

Damion retracted his weapon and stumbled forward. He forced another flailing kick into the direction of the newly downed figure, missed, slipped, and fell to a kick at his legs. In more luck than cunning, he had managed to shift his weight and direct his fall away from his assailant. Before he knew it though, the elf was upon him, his fists bashing relentlessly at the Salvic. Both grunted like animals as they struggled against one another’s strength. Smack, bash, boom. The frozen fists crashed into Damion, it’s stiff fingers cracking back into place the more blood pulsed through them; punches becoming stronger the warmer the fists became. Each landed swing at his head numbed him even more, creating but a fuzzy distortion of what he saw. He struggled to keep focus as the alcohol weaved it’s detaching threads of confusion. As he finally succeeded in bringing up his arms to guard off some swings, things began to slip back into place. Slowly the sting of impact crept into Damion’s drugged brain, as did some sane thought. His head was thrashing left and right, rebounding off the carpet like rubber ball, something was wrong about that.

Opportunity was in his favor. The man upon him was feeble beaten by the frost, Damion was simply numb. It was an advantage that he would lose in the long run. Acknowledging this, the halberdier drove one fist across the elf’s face. It was a direct hit, and the smack of his fist against his attacker’s cheek resounded off the walls. With glee the Salvic immediately followed up with a rough jab at the man’s stomach, forcing a grunt from his frostbitten lips. After repeating the process of pummeling his fists into the chilled body upon him, he levered himself free of his contraption by digging his knee into the elf’s side. Quickly Damion scrambled to his halberd, scurrying like a disorientated rat across the floor. Slowly he urged to rise, wedging the halberd against the floor as an aid. His vision was still blurry, and the throbbing in his head was growing louder and increasingly painful ever since a pair of cold fists had violently reminded him that, yes, he was awake.

“Whatthefuck’s your…” Damion paused, the slur of words he was uttering even to him a noticeable mess, “What is…whoareyou…nevermind, I don’t give a Skaven’s shit, I will kill you.”