The Assailed Resident

[Damion Shargath]

Damion stood, his vision wavering and blurred, the elf’s words hammering into his head, “I’ll give you a good reason…”

He paused, fault of the intoxication, set a foot forward and regained composure. He stood flawlessly in combat stance, it was almost completely natural for him, nevertheless the question was if he would even be capable of executing a flawless attack to follow.

“A good reason why I would be able to fell you…” Damion snapped his halberd outward, retracted it and readied for the momentum to spring forward, “I’m not a single of those things you mentioned. I’m a mongrel, a fault-bred bastard of a beast they couldn’t control. A war monger, thirsty for the blood of my fanatic creators…weak, pathetic, so called religious…by all means no more than filth. They awoke something they couldn’t possibly hope to contain. Don’t…test my rage, it’s what fuels every fibre of my body to move.”

Damion clenched his teeth and hissed “Thayne” below his breath. He glowered at the intruder before him, the short moment of non-motion he was given granted him the time he needed to weigh out his opponents position and his possible reactions to an attack.
The halberdier launched forward and barged in with a probably unexpected defensive manoeuvre. His weapon, with blade pointing to the ground on his left, crossed his body diagonally. The close quarter would allow him to quickly twist

The two contenders engaged in another brawl. Towards the end of what was almost not more than an elevated push and shove, spiced with some sloth-like evasive manoeuvres, Damion managed to bury his elbow into Aerendir’s stomach by ducking underneath and past the swipe of a guan do. More stumble and luck than calculated precision. As the elf contracted in pain, his elbow landed on the back of the human’s head in return. Though for a moment it seemed that both of them would be earthbound any second, they used one another as levers to vault themselves into standing again.

They glared at each other, uncertain of the worth to engage another clench, uncertain of the will to fight under these conditions, only certain of their endangerment.

“You…fuck…” Damion cursed profanely, the lack of creativity proof that the Byoffnovoff was still coursing through his veins in roughly the same amount as blood, “It must be something toward morning, and since days I haven’t shut an eye. Then I finally manage, and you barge in and disturb what fickle peace finally reached my distorted mind. You know what? There are about 16 bedrooms somewhere in this lump of rock, begone and take one of them will you…just stop pissing me off…and tell me why the fuck you’re here apart from stupidity, if I might mention that wandering around outside with this weather is a little dull…”

Damion wavered over to the chair he had sat on, frowned at the mess of broken glass and scattered ashes, making sure to keep one eye on his opponent. Though he lacked the patience to engage another push and shove, smack and jab he refused to loosen the grip on his weapon being just too unsure of what awaited him as an answer.

[Ranger]

The high elf continued to keep the façade of cool collection set firmly in place. Some made emotional defiance a mask that they could wear at will, whether to offer the appearance of metal stability to an otherwise unstable situation or grant their opponent no satisfaction in toying with the placidity of their physical appearance. Aerendir did nothing of the sort with his drawn yet composed face. Inside he was a picture of serenity and calm, never would that diminish in the face of adversity. His prowess with the arcane arts gave him a confidence that only the greatest of warriors and mages of Althanas’ past could hope to claim. His physical state was weak, but his psychological continuity was always intact.

“You curse the Thayne as I do, curse any supposed gods that grace the idealistic view of the heavens and the home of the so called immortal creators. You take the words from my mouth, and yet spit them at me with a venomous taint… my words thrown against me. It is as if you think that I have opposing views of that which you hate. Nothing could be further from the truth.”

His millings came with a price, a moment’s hesitation in the futile attempt to disarm and dissuade his opponent from further conflict. The two were back at each other’s throats with their equidistant advantageous pole-arms, their fists and elbows, and their bodies alike. The mage moved, ducked, weaved and counter-attacked whenever the opportunity presented itself. It was a rare occasion that an opening formed, for either side, but the opportunity was never overlooked. Instead of the elf or the human – for lack of better understanding on Aerendir’s part – killing one another they leaned on each other and locked eyes.

The snake and the mongoose looked at each other, both worn and tired from their conflict and outside circumstances, and paused. Two combatants equally matched, two complete opposites made to kill the other, they were on level ground and neither could gain the advantage to score the final blow. It was apparent that the inebriated state of the man was enough to give the bone-chilled elf an equal footing, but neither aspect of their diminished wherewithal would last forever. If one of them did not speak first to quell the fighting it would drag on and a victor would be pronounced only after the internal issues passed.

Aerendir felt the man shift his weight, felt his own supported weight being left without a crutch to lean on. His knees nearly buckled and his unsure footing was compromised giving him a wobbling and crooked approach to the nearest door frame. The smooth wooden frame was masterfully created; his hand could feel the perfectly sanded work that had been put into it. A time long since passed he had been a member of the infamous group known as the Gol’Bron, commonly referred to as the Red Hand. No carpenter within the group of merchants and tradesmen had ever produced something so magnificent, yet the thought of his former allegiances was a fading and distant one.

“Such brusque dialect,” the high elf sighed under his breath. The man before him very well might have been someone who had stood toe-to-toe against gods, deities, and their zealous followers alike… but his tone showed him more of a barbarian with an elite status in the frozen tundra of Salvar. Outside of his home, where the real powers of Althanas roamed, Aerendir held little doubts that he would be just another suit of metal pushed around like everyone else. There was promise though, but the realization of that promise would have to be dealt with at a later time. “I’m going to put aside the fact that you have engaged a half-frozen wander on your own instead of simply allowing him passage and room for the time. The simple fact that you would rather fight anything that comes into sight is, in and of itself, a mere matter of mental instability. Get your rest, small ogre, I shall find a room on my own. When we wake I shall tell you of what brought me here, hopefully without hostilities being expressed.”

Aerendir sighed as he finished speaking at the man, a conversation impossible with one who was so absorbed by the alcohol flowing through him. His sharp eyes rested on the chair that his ungracious host occupied. The human was mostly concealed by the leather furniture, only his hand and the tight grip on his halberd were visible. The high elf did not approach him, did not want to engage in another lackluster and potentially pointless fight. Wounds were already budding across his body, welts and bruises were rising in any place that the man had landed a hand, elbow, or strike with his weapon. The Raiaeran wanted to rest, but craved the spirits that the man had so thoroughly enjoyed before his arrival.

He turned away from the man, peering about the hallway and doorways the lined it. There was no sign to tell him which way the liquor was stored, a house made for the owner alone without any heed to who may arrive. Aerendir felt the sinking feeling of being an outsider in a xenophobic setting, unwanted and intruding. His lips moved twice, opening and closing, the words on his tongue tangling every time he held his breath to speak. Should he ask about the location of the spirits? Would the man scoff and ignore him, or offer a roar in anger instead?

“A simple minded creature, give him his sustenance and be done with him. I could care less if he is opposed to offering of his precious spirits to myself, the illusion of warmth will assist my body in procuring warmth and in turn helping me sleep. I will deal with the monster in the afternoon.”

Aerendir turned back to the human and took a step forward, confident enough to pose the question. His words began to form in his mind, fell to his tongue; he opened his mouth just as the man spoke instead. The human did not turn from his well-maintained fire; his gray eyes never sought the green counterparts of the intruder. Instead his voice was low, slurred, and broken with attempts of his mind to catch up to his words. “Looking for… something?” He asked, as if reading the mind of the high elf. “There’s food in the kitchen, down the corridor… to the right and down the stairs. Storage and cooling room is down there too. Alcohol, fresh ale from the dwarves, aged wine from Raiaera if you prefer that.”

Without thanking the man’s unexplained generosity or open hand, the mage turned away from the open room and its frosted windows. His booted feet were silent as he walked, the sound muffled by the intricate rugs that lined the entirety of the hallway. As he parted ways with the man he noticed the difference in temperature. The fireplace in the main room at the entrance was emitting enough heat to fight back the chill from when he had opened the door, but did not extend through the rest of the house. He hoped whatever room he found had a fireplace as well, with wood stacked and prepared. That would all be a concern after he found the artificial warmth that he desired.

[Damion Shargath]

Damion wandered along the sizeable length of the living room toward the doorway the intruder had burst through, “Brusque dialect…I wonder how he does after what he just claimed from the storage…”

The slowly sobering, twisted version of a hermit grabbed the Door by its edges. In a rough manner he fidgeted it around in angles. Then, with a grunt and a push he bent the hinges back to where they were meant to be and shut the door. Yet he drew a frown regardless of his success in crude reparation. The door now pulled a draft through the room, resulting in a defection of the living room heating. He frowned at the carelessness of the stranger in his home, and cursed his stupidity once anew below his breath. The heating wouldn’t sustain the warmth should the days become colder. Frost would attach itself to the fibers of the carpet, returning heat would liquefy it, subtle warmth would – in the worst case – rot the carpet. And again he cursed the Elven intruder. He knew he’d have to order a group of Dwarven carpenters from the south to install an entirely new double door, stronger hinges, and a sturdier lock, what he didn’t know is how to get a message through to them any time soon.

“Of all the things they could have saved resources on, it was the door…” The resident sighed, turned, and started toward the kitchen, “…A little predictable, my friends.”

He had meant that no one would probably care to rob a being who keeps a battle axe beneath their pillow. In all the diversity of races roaming Althanas, it was only the dwarves that had managed to gain Damion’s complete and almost oblivious sympathy. He couldn’t explain why, but he enjoyed their company and even found liking in their lifestyle and ideals. Not to mention that they did in fact brew the best of ale’s…

-The Next Morning-

Damion walked out of the kitchen, his halberd already leaning in wait at the living room chair. His steps were muffled by the thick carpet. He was barefoot, comfortable, and somewhat serene. The weather had cleared hours before sunrise, in coherence with the Salvic’s consciousness, and slowly a warm glow pushed itself past the window. The mess from yesterday had gone as did the broken bottles and tipped table - things of the past. With a tender sigh of satisfaction Damion let himself down in the chair and crossed his ankle across his knee. He placed a glass of lemon tinted water on the small table to his left, and set the plate he carried beside it. Following that he rested his head on his right hand and stared at the landscape beyond the window.

The sun was slowly rising, shifting from an orange taint of the sky to a blinding white with time. It illuminated the landscape below in marvelous glints and reflections playing back and forth between the weapons on the wall behind Damion and the outside world. The air was cold, the snow was dry, and gusts of wind brushed across the fresh layer of powder and carried clouds of sparkling dust through the sky. Minutes later the sun began to shine in full brilliance and revealed the splendor that Salvar was.

Outside the mansion's window laid a landscape of absolute and pure beauty. Rolling white hills stretched far beyond the horizon, without a speck of civilization in sight. In every direction chains of mountains darted skywards and pierced the clouds, the specks of snow settled on more subtle descents made it seem like an ocean of stone – dark waters lined with motion foam. And though even during such fascinating lighting the mountains of the northern plains loomed over the land like fierce and dark behemoth sized hellhounds, chained to the ground by eternal ice, they ever searched for a match in refinement and grace. It was the point of view that added to Salvar's diversity of faces.

The only manmade constructions were Dwarven signal fires at the peaks of the most important mountains about, but for centuries they had been dormant. Though centuries in this case was simply a lighter word for what seemed like millennia’s. It was long ago that any dwarves, let alone humans were seen in this barren and hostile part of Salvar. The only trails snaking up through the fiercely jagged mountains of the northern plains had been chartered by the Dwarven frontier many years ago.

Here and there stood fortresses, armed but unmanned blockades, embedded into the mountains, concealed for the untrained eye. Those structures simply melted in to the magnificent scenery, they were part of it, and they had melted and mixed with what nature was putting on display. And it was the interplay of pure and unsoiled white with the darkest of gray’s that underlined the surreal appearance of the landscape, and added to its almost mesmerizing mannerism.

“There’s more of that in the kitchen…” Damion gestured at the plate from within his chair, “Marinated and fried chicken strips, with diversely spiced scrambled-egg, adding cocktail tomatoes is a choice of personal liking…just to answer a question which possibly might have arisen any moment posterior to my offer.”

He could hear the Elf taking a breath for words to follow and almost immediately interrupted, “...before you enjoy any nourishment, though, let us press the matter at hand and have you tell me why you've come here.”

[Ranger]

A quarter of the way to mid-day, the elf finally fought up the will to disengage from the luscious bed he had found in one of the rooms on the second floor. His body was sore, worn and weary from travel and careless combat with the human. Rotating his arms, he attempted to gain full movement of his shoulders and upper arms. It was a morning and nightly ritual that he had passed over before falling into the plush bed after his encounter. The hoops that protruded from beneath his collar bone and through his shoulder blades were fiery red with the aggravation they had received fighting the man. It would take all day to recover to a point where he was not cringing with every outstretched arm.

He adjusted his boots and pants, his hands moving over his lean legs and honed muscular physique that he had inherited with the change of bodies. Straightening his short, cropped hair in the small mirror across from his bed he was pleasantly pleased with his appearance and exited the room and made his way to the common room where he assumed the human would still be slumber. After a night of drunken fiasco’s, combat in a half-sleeping state, and the blows that he had received Aerendir doubted he would be in a state that would be close to awake and prepared.

Light from the morning sun filled the room, showing the mage the depth and size that he had underestimated in the darkness. His attention had been on surviving and exchanging blows with the unsavory host, never had he used his elven eyes to scan his surroundings and gage the wealth and majestic beauty of the common room. Without an aggression fueled by spirits directed at him, he was welcome to view the dwelling that he had thankfully stumbled into.

Across from the ember filled fire place was a massive window that stretched the entire length of the room, one solid piece of glass without a mar on it; either inside or out. The hail that had harried him the entire night passage had not affected the smooth surface, as far as he could assume from his position. He let his eyes move from the glass to the walls. Surreal paintings of intriguing subjects lined the walls next to the door that stood opposite the length of the room, broken by the wall opposite the window, before the gallery continued to the walls that were to either flank. A small name was imprinted on the very bottom corner of each and every one, Archon Blightwel was the creator. How the human had amassed so many paintings by an artist that was highly regarded even in the former lands of Raiaera shocked the high elf, but he left the musings to concentrate on the wall of weapons surrounding the fireplace. After considering the wealth, power, and dominating experience that the human would have need to gain so many tools of war he stepped into the room and towards a smell that filled the air. The morning meal that his host was partaking in was succulent and nearly hypnotic. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it, not sure what to say.

Aerendir took a step towards his completely changed host, eyeing him with suspicion and caution. The unsophisticated predator from the night before had changed dramatically with the passing of hours and a bit of rest. He was a refined gentleman, the face of nobility that the high elf would not have suspected he would be. “If you had been so kind enough to inquire to that matter this morning, instead of rising to action and attempting to kill me, I could have avoided these bruises and this pain. Instead you took your sloppy anger and directed it at me. We should talk about my interest in this place now? Though you may have changed appearance, your assail first query later form of thought is most un-encouraging.”

“You're not in a place to judge. You, Elf, are the one who disturbed my rest and threw yourself through my door without an invitation," the human scratched his chin and took a calm breath, "If you were to awake to the sound of an unwanted, armed guest in the dark, the hail thundering against your window like war drums, would you set a kettle of tea on the stove? ...After all, it was lastly I that did not refuse you lodging. Food and drink, and roofing over your aching head, and bedding under your sore body for the night. Elf, you are certainly not in a place to accuse or denounce."

“Before I could issue a word—“ The high elf was cut off by the man with a sharp wave of his hand, dismissive and rude. The former bladesinger’s mouth was half-agape, his response an alleviation of his slightly growing tension against the man. It was not allowed though, and instead of throwing the fuel away, it was tossed into the budding flame of discontent for the human. "Excuse my manners of interrupting you again, but do not avoid what is inevitable and spare my time with your wash-woman's blather. Why are you here?"

“I can see that your ability to comprehend the needs of another are lost for whatever reason. I will excuse your manners, this time, but I would appreciate if you would allow me the chance to fully explain myself and my situation instead of bluntly pushing to that which you alone are interested in.” The mage balled his fists and wished he had the smooth wooden shaft of his guan-do to grasp instead of having the perfectly maintained nails of his dig into his palms. If he believed in the Thayne still, had faith in their infallible wills, he would have cursed them for putting him in the situation he had before him. However, he knew that the gods above were nothing more than petty, powerful children pushing others by means of their influence only to gain some form of entertainment. “I am Aerendir, formerly a high elf bladesinger of Raiaera, and I came to this bitter land to remove the influences of the Thayne. They cursed my former life, took from me the final solace that all humanity seeks, and instead threw me to the undead necromancer that has overrun my homeland. It was but an accident that I found this place, when the winds of the tundra and the skies opened up to rain down upon me I was fortunate that I found this place to escape to.”

“Intriguing. The reason why you are here was to escape the storm, which is believable enough - yet too much of a coincidence. Lacking faith, I lack trust in fate. What brings you to the heart of Salvar, from such a distance afar, Elf?"

“I do not need to explain then that belief in faith is little more than lack of the ability to trust in yourself? My faith has been lost when I opened my eyes in this mortal trap.” Aerendir unclenched his fists and let his soft palms run part of the length of the scrolls that hung from his shoulders. His hands moved down the ancient scrolls, and then gently back up to the adamantium, seamless loops that pierced his shoulders. “Northwest of here was once a place of legend, a monument to Jomil and her forged humility. The Icehenge was my undoing, the tool in which the Thayne used to kill my former body. I have traveled this land from the shattered serenity of Raiaera and destroyed it, so that they can no longer wield false promises against those that so ignorantly follow their petty wills.”

"My name is Damion Shargath. Treat yourself to a meal..."

Aerendir nodded in the man’s direction when he turned back to his meal. The scent of it was overpowering, tempting enough to make the high elf’s mouth water. He had not had a decent meal since his rations had become scarce, the day of his symbolic departure from the Thayne’s wills. The days since, wandering through the wilderness, he had survived on carcasses of frozen animals. Tough, days old meat was terrible, but only slightly worse than the salted meats and stale bread he had brought with him from Raiaera and picked up during his quick journey.

The tone of the man’s speech told him that he was dismissed to the kitchen to gather the morning meal on his own. The mage did not take offense to the curt way that the conversation came to an end, instead taking what little confidence in his host could be offered by it with him. Damion was a truly interesting individual, someone that in the former life as Ranger the high elf would have loathed and had revulsion towards. He was a different person, in a different shell of mortality though, and his passions were placed in other directions of interest. The name meant nothing to him, but the way he acted spoke volumes for who he was at heart. A possible friend and ally, Aerendir allowed a smile to cross his sharp elven face when he turned away and walked across the massive common room to the kitchen.

[Damion Shargath]

~The Nightmare Begins~

The day had passed its climax and was now descending. The setting sun painted the Salvic Mountains in fiery hues of red and orange, turning the winter domain into an ocean of flames. A chilled breeze rolled over the mountains like the gentle hands of a lover over the body of his mistress. Despite the barren, icy, and hostile nature of the Northern Plains, in the right light even this speck of land in Althanas became a peaceful sanctuary. Its seemingly sheer endlessness calmed the mind, and resituated those lost in thoughts back to the most fundamental beginnings. A menial account of flakes dropped from the skies every now and then, sailing to their gathered brethren below. Silence but an occasional bird of prey dominated the ambience.

“The view.” Damion began as he budded out a cigarette in the snow gathered on his roof, “It’s wonderful isn’t it? So simple, serene, and glorious. Yet so unforgiving, harsh, and minatory.”

Yester’s Elven intruder - turned guest - remained quiet, ignoring if it was a gesture of impoliteness or one of equal fascination of the scenery the human resident continued, “Aerendir, Bladesinger of Raiaera. I hope you don’t mind my naming you. Lastly it is your choice on which level I am to address you on.” Damion paused in wait for any denial or acknowledgement. It was long ago that he had the urge to address someone with such politeness, but what he believed he saw in Aerendir didn’t let him doubt a second that the effort was vain or unnecessary.

The elf stepped to the edge of the building, nonchalantly staring into the landscape beyond, his voice even and devoid of any vivid emotions, “Simply Aerendir is fine, further titles are not necessary. My title as a Bladesinger was a designation that was attached to the soul that once housed this body, never my own. I have not gained recognition as anything more than a fallen prophet. If my ties to this world deepen and I have the opportunity to assume a label, I would not force that formality on those who are close to me either way.”

“Very well, thank you. If you would please accompany me, there is something I was hoping to show you before you might decide to take leave again. It may very well be of interest to you.” Damion replied in a likewise even and controlled tone, his obverse reacting with a complying nod of his head.

A chilled wind suddenly swept up the mountain, disheveled the hair of both men standing atop the main building’s roof, and gave them their cue. The two men turned and made their way through what must have been a countless number of corridors to Aerendir, until finally they reached a large wooden double door. It was hinged and inlayed in rough and unhandled stone, just like the mountain exterior. They were located at the far side of the mansion, on the southern wall. Damion reached into the two circular handles towards the middle of the gateway and twisted them outward. Then with a grunt and a forceful tug the Salvic stepped back and the doors swung open.

A narrow, levitating walkway led intro a rather astonishing version of a library. Although an open room, it consisted of two circular and rather tall levels, at least a hundred paces in diameter. The upper was the enforced glass walkway which hung from steel bars drilled into the granite ceiling, and circled the entire room. The lower had ten small desks aligned in a circle around a large center desk of heavy, dark, polished wood. Small, tainted-glass capped lights flooded the room in a soothing warm light, touched with a slight green hue. A chandelier dangled from the ceiling above the center desk. The floor below consisted of simple, yet perfectly arranged cobblestone that proved not the slightest uneven link. Yet, it wasn’t the gold and silver linings of lamps, nor the intricately adorned desks or figurines that made the room what it was.

There was no wall in the common sense; moreover the wall consisted of bookshelves. Ones which encircled the room and towered to the ceiling. The only gaps consisted of the entrance area and a poorly lit hallway opposite of it, which could only be accessed through the upper level walkway. On the lower level the hallway ended in an alcove with another desk, a mess of books picked from their shelves and stacking upward from the floor. An image resembling a moment in Damion’s past, one he would never forget. Unstirred the human continued down a set of steel framed and glass filled stairs circling down either side of the walkway.

“This, Aerendir…” Damion began, spreading out a myriad of sepia tinted maps on the center desk, and the more he uncovered the more a menacing grin began to draw itself across his face, “…This explains itself without many words I believe. Take your time, if brief or several minutes, and draw your conclusions.”

[Damion Shargath]

The High-Elf mage looked not at the maps, but more pointedly at the human’s wide grin. It was a predator’s grin, one that reminded Aerendir of a wolf glaring down upon a lamb stuck in the mire. He mirrored the toothy expression, feeling at ease despite a sense that something was not altogether sane about his opposite. His emerald eyes finally pulled away from Damion and turned to the maps. They held a key to the world of mutual enemies.

“Sway, Thayne, shrines and temples,” the high elf seethed through a set of thin, tightly pursed lips. It was a gift that made his heart flutter and his breath rapid. “Targets. Key holds of both false religions. These maps could be paramount in the destruction of the Thayne and their hold on Althanas. With these we could tear down the influence of the Sway as well, remove them from Salvar completely.”

“Not only from Salvar,” Damion’s gaze slithered over the maps like a venomous snake, “Salvar is merely the beginning.”

“The beginning of what? You have a devious smile that settles within those gray eyes. I expect that whatever it is that you have in the recesses of your mind will offer something just as fulfilling. What plans have you laid out that would make use of these maps?” Aerendir’s soft hands gently stroked the edges of the maps, hovering over the parchment like an eagle in search of prey. Finally his eyes fell upon Jomil’s broken artefact, settled in the Northern tundra of Salvar. A finger circled the small mark, his smile widening as he noticed that the landmark had already been marked as derelict. “This is where I had ventured from… through Salvic hail and winds, to come here. A pleasant coincidence.”

“The lustrate process.” The words came in a tone of such wicked and vile delight only found in the hearts of those too dark to be considered humane in their methods, “Too long have those pitiful religions plagued the soil we grace with false ideals. The time has come to root them out, to sever the ties between them and existence, to exterminate the parasite, to rid Althanas of the sickening and repulsive ulcer that they have become.”

The human then detached his eyes from the maps and levelled them with those of the elf, a distasteful and grim stare settling in his face before he continued “I only dare suppose, and thus I need your verification of my estimations of who you side with. My cause is no just cause. There is no such thing as justice in my world, only retribution to be dealt. My retribution is revenge, and the brutality I carry it out with is my mercy. I do not spare lives, and I will encounter many. I eradicate what hinders me on my path, a path I alone have chosen. There will be oceans of seemingly endless bloodshed. The beings I am bound to face have forfeited their right to live. I ask you Aerendir, do you wish to devote your cause to the destruction of this wretched, broken, and weak world?”

The high elf was not one to view the world with such disdain as the menace of a man before him. He regarded it as more of a place filled with the weak minded and simple, people that were too mundane in their way of thought as well as their belief in own personal divinity. Aerendir was different by far; a man whose past had led him to face gods and immortals, though his faith was only placed in himself. No other was stronger than a person who knew who they were and what they desired.

“Destruction of the weak minded is a personal devotion of yours. You have my hand and my strength, but I do not see it as black and white a cause as you. I may follow in your belief regarding the plague that has continuously spread. Since man first walked the world, unsure of where they were and what their purpose was they have followed a self-imposed prison of thought known as a higher power that makes them appear weak but yet gives them hope. Justice in this matter does not pertain to courts and officials of the state, but to those strong enough to take up a cause and stand against it. Let us take up the war path.”

Damion smiled wryly, somewhat amused “It is not merely black and white, nor right or wrong that I mean. Moreover it is a decisive battle between those weak, and those strong, with figures unknown yet to side. I will though, not deny that you give the chaotic and hateful mess within my heart a clear voice. It is my strength that is my weakness at times. I am their abomination, one they have failed to contain, a force that lusts for the blood of the world infused in my own blood. I am glad to see you on my side, Aerendir, ally.”

[Ranger]

Aerendir let the words of his companion linger on his mind, absorbing them. The man he had happened to stumble upon was a schemer unlike any that the high elf had seen in the past, one that was without equal in his ambition and hatred alike. There was darkness in his heart, mind, and consuming his soul. As the first person that the newly imprisoned elf had truly cared to talk to, he was happy to call him an ally and friend. It would not be often that two twisted souls would meet under civil circumstances that would offer them companionship, but the mage was happy for the meeting of chance no matter what way it came about.

“Do you propose any target to begin with? There are many to choose from, and multiple that are left without guard or concern, they would not be a challenge.” Aerendir turned his eyes to Damion and then back at the map. Countless dots spotted the weathered parchment, a numerous portion of them were based closely to where the two were already. In a week they could usurp the power that had for too long been prevailing, lay it to rest and remove it completely from Salvar. “However, I assume that you are in the same mindset as me, looking for a challenge. What purpose lies behind the eyes of the zealous but to teach the world their desires in a truly dominant spectacle?”

"Very insightful..." Damion's finger hovered over the maps, twitched buried ones out from the pile. Suddenly his hand clapped down and the human grinned.

The map was as old as the first, but held a territory that the high elf was not familiar with. On the western edge of the map was the landmass known as Salvar, which extended north to the point of a mountainous region. It split the landmass of the known world from the unexplored world of Berevar and what rested past that. A large mass of land that connected to the eastern edge of Berevar continued into the far east, completely open land with a single stamp across it’s center: Keribas. If land existed beyond the mainland and the northern-most known region known as Berevar, it was something that Aerendir was completely unaware of. He touched the region with the tip of his finger and stroked it, awe showing in his eyes but not extending to his emotionless face.

“What is this place?” He questioned as he traced its outline and noted the small dot to the south-eastern shoreline. A black circle was placed at the center of a massive lake, the blue streaks of crusted paint showed a shallow inlet from the sea that absorbed the entire southern portion of the map. It appeared to be shallow enough to allow water in, but far too shallow for any sort of naval vessel to pass through. “Is this a place that exists?”

"Another experiment of those weak minded fools, and I've decided that I won't be their only regret. The location is, as you can see, situated inside the lake. It is a mountain, and it's unlikely that you've seen something like it before. The mountain holds a cloistral fortress at its peak, a town at its foot. A huge wall encircles the entire island. The only entrance is a rickety, weathered pier." Aerendir listened intently as Damion talked about the area as if he'd spent his entire life there.

"The Church of the Ethereal Sway colonized the island with that town. They don't let anyone leave the island, only missionaries and high ranking officials of the church change shifts every year or two. The sole purpose of that despicable ulcer is to demonstrate how well a populous grows under a firm, religious rule. How impenetrable and strong such a society becomes...nevertheless, I think you understand where this is going. Back to the important matters once more. This fortress is invincible, if led right. It holds resources most cherishable in a war. You've noticed that probably no war ships can enter through the ocean inlet, and that the fortress is on a mountain surrounded by water. To add... to my knowledge, it is also out of reach of any known artillery which could be set up on the shore. Taking this fortress serves the reaching of two goals. Damage to the festering ulcer that is the Sway and a most valuable tactical position for us to act from..."

Cancerous growth that it was, it was of paramount importance to the Sway in their colonizing of the unknown world to the east. The landmass was void of any known settlements; the inhabitants would undoubtedly be nothing more than clan dominated governmental structures with a fair amount of those nomadic in nature. A perfect place for the two self-designated warlords of anti-religious fervor to claim as their own. It would prove that the church of Salvar was weak when faced with adversity, remove their would-be dominant society from plaguing a land filled with easily converted barbarians, and serve as a bastion of the new derisive decadence that the duo would have following in their wake. “So we remove our enemies from their high thrones, cast their bodies to the waters surrounding this fortress, and claim it as our own. Not only do we claim the candelabra from which their frivolous, benevolent light is cast, but also the candles and their flames. I do not know of this world, Keribas, but I am at your side in this endeavor. We can, from this vantage-point, strike back at the known world and truly establish ourselves in the unknown.”

"I see you understand. Neither do I have doubt in your anxiety in our uprising. A symbolic burning of the veil they hide behind, resulting in the physical destruction from their core to their most far reaching extremity. What better place to begin from than their unknown. We will infest them like a parasite, damaging them from the inside. They will with time know of our presence when our doings eat away at their cells like a necrosis, they will fight us, but they will not and can not win. It should be entertaining..."

[Amaril Torrun]

Limited Commentary was asked for. Since this seemed to be focused mainly on building a strong storyline, that's where my commentary will be focused.

The Assailed Resident


STORY

Continuity ~ 8 The focus of the story, creating the building blocks of a plot to cleanse Salvar and beyond of the religious views deemed unnecessary by your two characters, remained strong throughout the entirety of the thread. Ranger’s introduction was very much needed in order to let the reader know why there is a new character in the fray. The first post on your part read very much like the synopsis and updated history for Ranger/ Aerendir that I’d find in a profile update.

Setting ~ 7 There are areas of the setting that seemed a bit more textbook than literary material, such as when Damion wrote “… which posed to have a diameter of roughly six and a half feet and a depth of four feet.” While this gives an exact description of size of the pit, it takes away from the interactive focus the reader feels when reading the rest of the pit’s description.

Pacing ~ 8 Your pacing was done very well, but was hurt slightly during Damion’s and Aerendir’s battle scene. The entire thread read like it was written by a single person, each of your posts mingling with each other’s flawlessly to create one solid story and one solid goal shared by the two. During the battle scene though, the thread took a somewhat jarring change into two writers. While this isn’t always a bad thing, the way the rest of the thread was written, especially at the end, made this particular scene stick out like a sore thumb.

CHARACTER

Dialogue ~ 7


Action ~ 8


Persona ~ 6 The sudden change of heart from Damion toward his intruder wasn’t explained very well and left me wondering “Who is he really?”

WRITING STYLE

Technique ~ 8


Mechanics ~ 6 There are a fair amount of typos, mostly in Damion’s posts before Ranger’s arrival.


Clarity ~ 8

MISCELLANEOUS

Wild Card ~ 8 For a thread that is simply introducing a much larger piece of the story, you guys did a very good job.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

TOTAL ~ 74 Very solid score.

EXP Rewards

Damion Shargath receives 4500 times 2 for FQ = 9000 experience.

Ranger receives 2250 times 2 for FQ = 4500 experience.


No rewards are granted as requested, with a larger spoil coming in the future installments of this storyline.

[Tainted Bushido]

EXP added!

Ranger is now level 6!

Damnion Shargath is now Level 5!