Page 2 of 2 FirstFirst 12
Results 11 to 19 of 19

Thread: They've All Forgotten You

  1. #11
    Member
    EXP: 10,755, Level: 4
    Level completed: 36%, EXP required for next level: 3,245
    Level completed: 36%,
    EXP required for next level: 3,245
    GP
    454
    Les Misérables's Avatar

    Name
    Phyr Sa'resh
    Race
    Drow
    Gender
    Male
    Hair Color
    Grey
    Eye Color
    Azure
    Build
    6'1" / 153 lbs.

    View Profile
    From an arctic tern’s lofty perspective the dire wolves racing along Sulgoran’s Axe were grains of sand in an upturned hourglass. The pattern in which they fell made little difference.

    With the west ice wall of the pass towering overhead and driven snowflakes stinging his eyes, Phyr clung to the saddle’s low pommel like a tree in a landslide. The baritone throb of fatigue ran a chromatic scale the length of his arm. His stump, with the reigns still strangling it, played an erratic pain, sharp and twanging. His back ached and his eyes watered but still he forced himself to watch over the wolf’s steaming muzzle, searching the horizon and glacial walls for an escape route.

    They cannot be far behind, I heard the baying when they sounded the alarm. He lost focus at the last moment before escape and as a result he was pursued. But his mount had the benefit of a short rest in the barn, and a much lighter rider than it was used to. The beast almost seemed to enjoy itself as it powered up inclines and churned down slopes. Phyr found his attention pulled to the arctic animal’s clawed feet, fascinated at how they found traction on the hardest ice and in the deepest snow drifts. There is something to be said for a beast’s natural ability to survive.

    There!


    Through wave after wave of icy flakes Phyr’s old eyes spotted the signature of a village on the horizon. And on his left, boring a hole in the Axe’s smooth east wall, a river ran too fast to freeze. White porous ice lined its banks and massive drifts of snow eddied just beyond reach of the water, gathered against sheer cliffs. The opportunity Phyr needed presented itself, and he reacted as fast as his old bones allowed.

    Gripping the saddle with his knees the drow unsheathed the heavy bayonet he’d found. Dull as it was, a single slash from the long blade opened a shallow gash on the dire wolf’s flank. Trained for combat, the beast barely reacted.

    I’m sorry my love, I thought we’d be together forever...

    Phyr jerked on the reigns mightily, forcing the stolen steed to turn and prowl along the rebellious river’s bank. Wrapping the reigns around the pommel and freeing his half-arm, the drow inhaled deeply and leaned backwards until he fell out of the saddle.

    Seconds later he sat up, buried to the chest in snow and gasping, winded from the impact. His hip felt badly bruised but otherwise the drift had caught him softly, and more importantly the dire wolf had kept on running. Besides plowing a clear path through the thick powder it also left a telltale crimson spatter every couple steps.

    No hunter can resist a trail with fresh blood on it. At least he hoped the Salvarians could not. The image of wounded prey might just be enough to stop them from considering it a false trail. Walking sideways so his footprints would seem at home amongst the trampling of the small army which had used the pass hours earlier, Phyr limped back to the west wall. There the whining wind had blasted the ice almost clean of powder. With a concerted sigh Phyr threw himself forwards into a sitting position and slid, gaining speed on the gradual grade towards Keepswatch.

    His heart dropped into an acidic stomach when he failed to stand at first. His hip locked up tighter than the Keep had ever been, refusing to co-operate with overtaxed leg muscles. By the time he had wedged a hand into a crevice in the glacial wall and levered himself upright, he could hear his pursuers riding along the Axe in his wake. In minutes they would see him.

    Removing the hardwood stick from the folds of his cloak where it remained miraculously unbroken, the old elf leaned heavily on it and moved. It felt more like propelling himself with willpower than walking, but he made it to the first line of buildings.

    It seemed the night’s chaos had taxed the villagers of their normal bustling energy. No one but his complaining body challenged Phyr’s slow invasion of Keepswatch. In that small community where the only perceived threat came from the far North, few of the dwellings even had locks on their doors. The old drow’s system for staying hidden was simple; he limped to the first house without smoke billowing from the chimney, ducked inside, and slammed the door behind him.

    The interior of the one-room domicile still hugged its heat, welcoming the invader as he deposited his walking stick beside the doorway. The hearth yawned darkly but a small brazier in the middle of the room held leftover coals from the last fire. They glowed invitingly and emitted a fresh scent Phyr could not place. The resident had sprinkled some sort of incense into the metal pot to make their home more pleasant. The smell coupled with the hard pallet bed in the back corner threatened to seduce his tired bones, but he forced himself to traipse to the opposite front corner instead, leaving a snowy trail on thickly layered animal hides which composed the shack's floor.

    An uneven oaken table stood wedged against thick sod-and-clay walls, bearing a plate full of stale biscuits and a sturdy iron hip flask. Like a child discovering a long lost toy Phyr snatched the flask and thumbed off the cap. The slosh of liquid as he brought it to his lips and sipped carried all the comfort of a mother's lullaby. The nameless spirit tasted little better than prison grog brewed in the forges of Devil's Keep, but it's alcoholic content kicked Phyr's liver liked a spooked mare. The resulting ache in his guts felt right, and the warm rush of thinned blood through his brain may as well have transported him home.

    Stowing the foul moonshine in the folds of his cloak, Phyr selected a biscuit and brought it to his mouth. The first bite crumbled the rest of the hardtack - it turned to powder and cascaded to the floor like snowfall. Phyr grunted in frustration, steeled himself against the sawdust flavor and chose a second biscuit.

  2. #12
    Member
    EXP: 21,990, Level: 6
    Level completed: 29%, EXP required for next level: 5,010
    Level completed: 29%,
    EXP required for next level: 5,010
    GP
    1946
    Christina Bredith's Avatar

    Name
    Christina Amanda Bredith
    Age
    26
    Race
    Human
    Gender
    Female
    Hair Color
    Blonde
    Eye Color
    Silver with blue flecks
    Build
    5'8" / 130 lbs
    Job
    Corone Ranger (Deputy Marshal)

    The snow had quieted somewhat over the past hour, but from the high back of a fast-moving dire wolf, it felt more intense than ever. As quick as they were peeling across the landscape, the softly-falling snowflakes pelted her face like bullets. She would have pressed closer to the wolf’s rider to take advantage of the protection afforded by his girth, but the Gorum’Fael had a rather... unique odour, like fish and manure and wet dog, that burned the nose even from a pace away. So bad was it that she had to hold herself as far away from the thing as she could without throwing herself out of the dire wolf’s saddle.

    But that was unimportant next to the task ahead of them: to capture this escapee before he reached an unsuspecting settlement and started doing real damage. Well, that was the thought she comforted herself with, anyway; in the long run, one escapee would hardly be a significant threat, even with a dire wolf. But there was a principle behind all this: they had fought to keep those prisoners from getting away—she had even let herself get dragged into a conflict that didn’t concern her for that end—and it had come to nothing. But this prisoner was still in their sights. If they could stop him, then at least they had stopped someone. Without killing them, anyway.

    Time ceased to be relevant. It was cold, and the snow battered her mercilessly. Her entire body was sore from the wolf’s awkward leaps, much less comfortable than a good horse. She recoiled into herself, focusing all her energy on keeping warm and alert, when suddenly something changed ahead. There was a commotion from the other wolf-riders, and the wolves themselves were baying. Had they finally caught sight of the prisoner? That meant they were gaining on him, which could only mean—

    “Blood!” her own wolf’s rider grumbled. Well, at least they spoke some Tradespeak! She glanced down at the snow blurring past beneath them and saw a trail of ruby-red droplets staining the unblemished white. Either the wolf or the prisoner was leaving them a trail right to him! But something seemed off about this. Something... it was so cold, too cold to think! There was blood... which meant the prisoner or his wolf was wounded... and yet...

    Suddenly, it came to her. “No, don’t follow it!” No good—the rider didn’t understand her, and the others were too far ahead to listen. She pounded on the Gorum’Fael’s back as if that would somehow breach their language gap, but the dire wolves had the scent of blood and nothing but their riders could deter them from its pursuit. “Listen!” she screamed, voice hoarse from breathing the frigid air. “He’s trying to misle—!”

    The wolves suddenly lurched, bounding into a turn that would take them east along the riverbank and right after the blood trail. Pounding in her message as she was, Christina was not nearly holding on tight enough to her escort, and she was thrown from the wolf’s back; she landed with a painful thud and rolled almost right into the river. There she lay for several exhausted moments before clawing to her feet. The devil hadn’t even noticed that she had fallen off, or if he had, he hadn’t bothered to stop and pick her up. It was just as well. They wouldn’t find anything that way: this pass was completely uninhabited, so there was nothing that could have wounded the rider or his wolf but the rider himself. She would have bet Rosebite against a wooden dagger that the trail was a false one.

    “Well, he’s a clever bastard, I’ll give him that.” Christina pressed her hands to her hips and struggled to get breath back into her lungs which felt both winded and frozen solid. She began to pace, head down, toward the river, and made her way for the small snowy bridge that was its only crossing. There wasn’t much hope of her catching the man now. He was on foot now, if her guess was right, which put them on even ground, but one person trying to find another in a snowy wasteland like this might as well have been searching for a fish in the ocean. And not just any fish.

    There was nothing more for it but to head back to Keepswatch. She continued to move in that direction, sucking in deep sharp breaths whenever she could manage it. There were footprints in the snow beneath, most of them now beginning to fill in with fresh snowfall. She sighed; Ranger or no, she wasn’t a good enough tracker to trace the prisoner’s path by his footprints in this scramble. Dozens of villagers had thrown the entire trail into chaos just hours before. There was no hope of it. She would just put it out of her mind.

    But wait. There was something odd about that set of footprints. The direction was right in line with the hundreds of others, but they were deeper, as if the snow had not yet had time to fill them in. That was strange enough to pique Christina’s interest, but if she did not entirely miss her guess, there was something else unusual about the tracks: they belonged to a simple pair of cloth shoes rather than the sturdy boots that no citizen of Keepswatch would be caught without. The shape was different and the step a bit lighter, but he had obviously walked backwards or sideways in order to make it look like his footprints fit the scene. “Clever, clever bastard.”

    She moved with renewed vigor now. There was some hope of catching this convict after all! She lumbered across the snowy plains, clutching her thick cloak around herself, willing herself to ignore the bitter chill that seeped further into her bones with each step. If she could just bring this convict to justice, she could spend the rest of the night in front of a warm fire drinking ale until her bladder burst. How far she had fallen that that was her idea of heaven right now!

    Before long, Keepswatch appeared in the distance. It must not have been far now, if she was able to see it through the snow. The town was like a tensed spring: the action had long since left, and now the people who remained were simply waiting to react to anything that came their way. The footprints she was following, therefore, became fresher and fresher, and less obscured by other tracks. They led to a small, dark shack on the outskirts of the town, clearly abandoned in the chaos; its occupants had likely moved toward the core of the city where it would be safer. That had, evidently, been a wise choice. Within her cloak, she gripped Rosebite’s handle—her own muscles felt tense, as well—and kicked open the door.

    It was dark inside, but Christina’s eyes adjusted quickly; between the clouds and the falling snow, there had not been much sunlight outside to begin with. She saw a rake-thing Drow helping himself to whatever provisions the house’s owners had left behind. Rounding on him, Christina pointed Rosebite in his direction, eyes sharp. “Freeze!” she said and, perhaps because of the extreme cold and her own fatigue, forgot to laugh at her own joke.
    Last edited by Christina Bredith; 02-09-11 at 10:33 PM. Reason: Final edits before submission.
    And she was fair as is the rose in May.
    ~ Geoffrey Chaucer

  3. #13
    Member
    EXP: 10,755, Level: 4
    Level completed: 36%, EXP required for next level: 3,245
    Level completed: 36%,
    EXP required for next level: 3,245
    GP
    454
    Les Misérables's Avatar

    Name
    Phyr Sa'resh
    Race
    Drow
    Gender
    Male
    Hair Color
    Grey
    Eye Color
    Azure
    Build
    6'1" / 153 lbs.

    View Profile
    The door burst open and bounced off the earthen wall, a dull note of warning. The valkyrie who followed it inside leveled a longsword at the escaped convict as she swooped around the swinging portal, a command for obedience her battle cry. Golden hair flew wildly about her head and shoulders, lapping at the armor and bloodstained cloak which marked her as a professional - a warrior - a bounty hunter.

    Phyr crumbled the biscuit in his palm and flung the powder at her eyes, forcing her focus aside for an instant. He attacked the opening like a crazed prospector spotting gold through solid rock.

    The space between them shrank and vanished as Phyr charged the smaller fighter, bulling her into the door so it slammed shut once more. His forehead buffeted her jaw as she tried to shout again, silencing any incantation or cry for help. She skipped sideways with the speed and grace of a Raiaeran Bladesinger, unfazed by the desperate assault. But he crowded her against the wall and stomped at her knee as the hardwood stick tangled her legs, and in their fevered momentum both tumbled to the ground.

    Never stop.

    Phyr scrambled on top of the woman warrior and straddled her chest. One bony knee pinned her sword arm like a fallen oak crushing a neighboring yew. A wounded wildcat, her claws quested for his face and ivory teeth gnashed at his throat. Phyr managed to maintain position and lifted his superior weight, then dropped it forcefully on her sternum. This angered the wildcat further, but she quieted as if tranquilized when he produced the double-barreled flintlock and jammed it cruelly in the hollow of her collarbone. She was fully trapped by three facets - his weight, the matted pelts around them, and the lethal firearm pressed against her throat. Her heels scuffed the carpets incessantly, failing to find the traction to move him.

    “I suppose you know,” he gasped from the effort required to hold her down, “that a single pound of pressure is enough to trip this trigger and end your life?” She nodded marginally, her eyes a boiling geyser of rage. He could see an internal struggle beneath the anger, and waited wisely. Seconds later her mental dam burst.

    “Bastard!” She spat the word like a mouthful of sawdust biscuit. “You're dead once the others get here, you know that? Go on. You better shoot me and run like the coward you are, while you've got the chance.” Phyr displayed stained teeth in an unfamiliar expression of glee which seeped into his eyes so they sparkled like ocean waves. Although he'd won the swift exchange, her steady breathing and blood-drenched cloak suggested she'd have bested him in any other arena. A few dirty tricks are better than a master swordsman, nine times out of ten. He'd heard that phrase in the military and lived by it after his arm rotted off in hell. It seemed no one had ever taught the girl that lesson, and he suspected the learning process was what made her so mad.

    “Those oafs followed my false trail then? They’ll not return for some time my lady. An orc is nothing more than a hound when he catches a waft of blood.” Phyr found it difficult to inflect words in the coarse common language, but poured a double measure of egotism into the barb. Her reaction rewarded the effort.

    “You don't have a chance,” she growled around grinding molars, “They know who you are Sa’resh, and they know you’re the one who--” her mouth snapped shut as she realised his intentions. The resolute line her lips formed told Phyr no amount of cleverness or even torture could earn more information. The concept of questioning her melted like snow in spring, draining through the crags of his mind as the closeness of their bodies and the warmth of hers affected him. How long since I encountered a female of any kind? I know not... The woman’s face glowed scarlet as the scented embers, her cheeks turned to rose petals by the Salvic chill and urgent struggle. The nearby pallet bed called to him again, in a wholly different carnal context.

    A plague on my name! Can so much time alone make a noble elf a scoundrel?

    Tears softened ancient azure eyes as Phyr identified the scent rising from the brazier.

    Flowers.

    What purpose is there in existing when one forgets the smell of life? Suddenly he felt trapped again, and more disgusted with himself than the grog brewed in the Keep. Shame strangled him. He needed to escape once more, to flee the confines of that unfortunate shack and never look on Sulgoran’s Axe again. Stowing the pistol beneath his cloak, he gathered the collars of hers and clenched them in a stone fist, then slowly shifted his hips forward and drove his knuckles to the ground. The tough fabric of the woman’s cloak closed around her neck, constricting the arteries feeding her brain without cutting off her airway.

    As blood flow dwindled her eyes lost their wrath and stared passively through him, lips slightly parted as if looking on a fond memory. Those lips still had a mauve hue left over from hours of arctic chill. They looked pert and full, soft yet strong, youthful and human but with the same coloring as any Aleraran beauty. The caress of Annelle's purple lips always sent him to a castle on a cloud where nothing could go wrong. Such a charm could deliver me from this wasteland...

    “My lady, would you withhold your favour from the hero who broke the walls of hell?” Did his hand vibrate from strain, or did she shake her head no? Impossible to tell the difference, and a shake was as good as a word for the silver-tongued Phyr Sa’resh. He leaned down gently and, just as Christina Bredith slipped into unconsciousness, claimed his first kiss in thirty years.

    *

    Phyr stole from shadow to lengthening shadow, navigating the alleys of Keepswatch like a shark in underwater canyons. The days ended early during the Northlands’ long winter. The seasonal lighting suited his needs. He had stuffed the rusted, unused keyhole of that shack with scraps from his cloak and powdered hardtack, enough to compact the mechanism on all sides. The golden haired valkyrie would have to destroy the door in order to follow him, and somehow Phyr knew that she would follow him. Despite the complications it created, the old drow welcomed her wrathful pursuit. It felt more like someone caring for him than anything he'd experienced in a long, long time.

  4. #14
    Member
    EXP: 10,755, Level: 4
    Level completed: 36%, EXP required for next level: 3,245
    Level completed: 36%,
    EXP required for next level: 3,245
    GP
    454
    Les Misérables's Avatar

    Name
    Phyr Sa'resh
    Race
    Drow
    Gender
    Male
    Hair Color
    Grey
    Eye Color
    Azure
    Build
    6'1" / 153 lbs.

    View Profile
    The sun winked like a demon's eye as it fell behind icemold clouds. Those lancing rays had long since lost any hint of heat, but in dying the great star paid tribute to the slaughter in Sulgoran's Axe, washing the town of Keepswatch with its crimson gaze. Those dying rays were not enough to capture Phyr Sa'resh, though. The ancient drow limped as if caught in the snares of slow-time magic, barely distinguishable from the wooden slats which comprised the exterior of the building's straw bale walls. The odors finally reached his tortured sinuses - hay, sweat, manure - but the old elf had found the stables by the sounds of the animals. Even well trained wolves would howl to welcome the moon.

    Phyr's guess that the villagers would not bother latching their doors, made in such haste originally, held true with the stables. The drow sniffed as if cheated - locks were simple mechanisms when compared to those he designed, and after the frustration of the heavy damascus bars in the Keep he'd anticipated a few easy victories.

    I suppose if one is given a dire wolf, one shouldn't reach into its mouth...

    He slipped into the stables and eased the door shut with his shoulder, glad for something to lean on. He was a whole lifetime away from lying down and quitting, but the bruise in his hip sawed at the bone relentlessly. Alone with the softly snuffling beasts, Phyr allowed himself a moment of soundless, fitful laughter. The memory of sailing out of that poor wolf's saddle set him off, and then his nerves betrayed him. A one-note animal cackle tore itself from his tired lungs. And in the moment of silence that followed the forcible entrance of his hand into his mouth, a heavily accented voice reached his shriveled ears.

    "Dijja' hare that? Ah' tell yeh' Julaio, I cannae go wich'ya. One oh' mah wolves be sick."

    Phyr left the door as if it had burned him to the bone. He scanned the dark rows of stalls within the stables and clambered over the first empty one he found, sprawling in the hay and submerging himself in its try musk as the stable door banged open.

    The first pair of boots stomped heavily across filthy straw strewn floorboards. Phyr identified them as belonging to the man with the strong accent. He couldn't place the sound exactly, but associated the stress on vowel sounds with nomadic tribes who lived in Salvar, Berevar, and the mountains between. He had seldom heard those broken dialects spoken aloud, and listening to a Salvic nomad speak common entreated his ears. The man who made each step a statement gained Phyr's immediate approval, for he highlighted the outrageous nature of Tradespeak with each syllable.

    "Ah've got yeh on both sides, auld man. Ah've only got thray oh' me beauties in-stable at tha' moment, an' Moondare is nawt fit tah' carry a man yore size, lettalone that great devil yer' takin' which'ya. Mark mah words Julaio, yeh're tauntin' death takin' a journey with'at one!" The nomad's boots stomped down the row of stalls and the distinct click of a gate unlatching preceded Julaio's entrance.

    The second pair of boots Phyr saw through a small crack in the gate belonged to a rider, not a worker. Not a soldier either, unless he practiced walking pigeon-toed for fun. A messenger, then. The fellow's slim boots were shiny enough to reflect the light of the lantern he carried, and they shifted about like an impatient child's.

    "But really, Feargus, I never expected to make the trip alone with -" The messenger's reedy voice dropped to a frightened whisper "with one of them. But I received word through his emergency conduit... explicit instructions Feargus, to the word! If I arrive in the Edge without one of the Gorum'Fael I could lose everything!" Julaio set the lantern down, which did not seem a wise choice in a building constructed entirely of combustibles, and his boots carried him out of Phyr's limited range of vision. The hay really was everywhere. Phyr covered his nose and breathed through his mouth, and listened so intently his shriveled ears quivered.

    "Wale then mah auld man, yeh'd best make yer' choice; yeh' can have two mounts tonight or find yerse;f a new employer." The nomad chuckled darkly and the messenger ejaculated his lungful of air.

    "Don't make such poor jokes Feargus. Saddle them with bags and full rations and bring them to the south pass. And hurry, I'd prefer if no one saw us, and even Keepswatch can't stay this quiet forever." The muffled clatter of a coinpurse exchanging hands filtered through Phyr's blanket of hay, and the Nomad chuckled with real humor.

    "Did Ah aiver tale yeh' how much yeh worry Julaio? More'n is fit fer' a man wi'such fancy boots, ha!" Feargus' laughter echoed throughout the stables as Julaio retreated, slamming the door but leaving the lantern. It shuddered, and Phyr nearly jumped out of his cover, thinking it would fall.

    His pulse slowed to a normal rate as he listened to the Nomadic Stableman crisply saddle first one wolf, then a second, and then strangely, the third. He held his breath as the familiar heavy boots trundled past, followed by eight clawed paws. Once the wolves had exited, the boots stomped back in and the door fell shut. The nomad stumped over to his last remaining steed, the one he had called Moondare, and scratched fondly at her fur. For an instant Phyr wondered if he had invaded a moment of affection between master and beast, but then Feargus' voice rang out, harsh even when cooing at his pet.

    "Thare yeh' go, mah bonneh lass. Yeh're probably all a'wundrin why Ah tauld auld gold-fer-brains out thare yeh're ill when yeh're actually mah strawngest beast. Wale Ah couldn't abide tah' take yeh' all tha' way daown south, nawt in his company." The boots landed directly in Phyr's field of vision once more, stirring a cloud of dust. "Of caurse, naow yeh're askin' me anuther question with yer' big bay-ootiful eyes darlin, arren'cha? Yeh're askin why Ah've gone an' saddled yeh' with a day's worth of food an' drink in bag? Wale mah sweet..."

    The tone of the Northerner's thick voice changed from friendly to something so soaked in bitterness, he could not have been talking to the wolf.

    "Ah naiver did care much for those mountain-devils. Thay kelled mah brahthers fore walkin' on frae land, and they always sent mah beasts back wimperin' an' fearful. Just like yeh, Moonie, I was happy when Ah haird most oh'thay mutants got kelled. An Ah' just thought mah dearie, if'n some noble creature happened tah need a faithful steed tah help get 'im home, then yeh'd be just the beast tah get'im thar, and Ah'd be honored tae know Feargus Stonewolf could be of sairvice."

    The door slammed shut, distinctive footsteps receding as the strident voice clucked to his two beasts. But Phyr could not move - a single thought echoed throughout his being like a paralyzing mantra.

    I'll never take a blade to a beast again.

  5. #15
    Member
    EXP: 10,755, Level: 4
    Level completed: 36%, EXP required for next level: 3,245
    Level completed: 36%,
    EXP required for next level: 3,245
    GP
    454
    Les Misérables's Avatar

    Name
    Phyr Sa'resh
    Race
    Drow
    Gender
    Male
    Hair Color
    Grey
    Eye Color
    Azure
    Build
    6'1" / 153 lbs.

    View Profile
    The wind on the open tundra slashed through Phyr's garments. Without the protection of the Gorum Mountains his thick cloak seemed woefully inadequate. If not for the waves of heat radiating from his steed's neck and the beast's confident, ceaseless strides, the drow felt certain he would have perished from cold or delirium.

    Moondare kept a pace as steady as a drum sergeant, her misty breath torn away by the vicious wind. The wolf followed the ice road with her nose to the ground, inspecting the paw prints of her stable mates. The short conversation he'd overheard had given Phyr lots to think about, and he struggled to keep his mind on task to distract himself from the biting chill. He had long since given up on the reigns or the pommel, instead laying as flat as possible on Moondare's thick neck and keeping his one hand tight against the beast's throat, safe from frostbite.

    The road stretched farther than the old elf could see, and the way the moon reflected off the never ending ice and snow threatened to blind him if he tried. He knew where it led, though. His journey east along the southern slopes of the mountains would end in the town of Sularik Lake, named after the great body of water it sprawled beside. Every military map of Salvar Phyr could recall had Sularik Lake circled thrice, marking it as having the highest population density north of Knife's Edge. More people meant exploitable resources, and enough anonymity he might just elude the skillful human bounty hunter. While she had demonstrated considerable prowess in tracking Phyr through the pass, a city - or even a large town - would put the drow in his preferred element.

    The fact that Julaio and his Gorum'Fael escort were also headed to Sularik Lake was both convenient and predictable. The only other path to Knife's Edge led through the vast expanse of open tundra which was divided into fiercely defended Fiefdoms by small-scale militias. If they had braved the wastes Phyr might have followed out of curiosity, but the unseemly traveling pair chose the drow's favored route, and he followed their trail through the night.

    As the next day dawned Phyr threw back his hood in spite of the wind which threatened to maim his old ears. The sun rose in front of him, over the East Mountains. Its golden rays kissed his cheeks, a welcome embrace from a long-lost friend.

    Don't weep old elf, your tears will freeze.

    As the town became visible Phyr urged Moondare off the road, cutting south so he could approach from a less obvious direction. Fatigue threatened to pull him out of the saddle but the wind, and the understanding of his great luck, kept him alert.

    It seems that warrior maiden's kiss truly charmed my path.

  6. #16
    Member
    EXP: 21,990, Level: 6
    Level completed: 29%, EXP required for next level: 5,010
    Level completed: 29%,
    EXP required for next level: 5,010
    GP
    1946
    Christina Bredith's Avatar

    Name
    Christina Amanda Bredith
    Age
    26
    Race
    Human
    Gender
    Female
    Hair Color
    Blonde
    Eye Color
    Silver with blue flecks
    Build
    5'8" / 130 lbs
    Job
    Corone Ranger (Deputy Marshal)

    “Rise and shine, soldier!”

    Who was shouting like that at such an ungodly hour? Surely Christina had a few hours more to sleep. After all, who was this, expecting her to rise with the sun? Her father? No, that wasn’t the voice of her father... but it did sound familiar. Gruff but fair, commanding but caring. It seemed like something out of a dream—a warm, pleasant dream, the kind you wished to go back to after the unending horrors of battle. But who?

    “That means now!”

    Slowly, the girl opened her eyes, squinting against the morning light streaming between her open curtains. She didn’t recognize the room she was in, but attributed it to the haze of drowsiness that was steadily beginning to clear from before her. It was small and wood-paneled, plainly decorated, with a small wood stove in one corner. That was clearly not lit as the room was bitterly cold, and Christina shivered as a chilling breeze blew through the open window, drawing her woolen blankets more tightly around herself.

    “Just a few more minutes,” she mumbled, and turned over.

    Her eyes snapped open when the window slammed shut with behemoth strength, and Christina bolted upright, nearly throwing off her blankets. The morning drowse vanished completely, but she still did not recognize her surroundings in the slightest. A crystal vase filled with roses decorated one table beside her bed, and the other held a quaint little oil lamp, also unlit. She was dressed modestly in a silk shift, but still found herself reaching to draw the covers back up again. It was a feeble attempt to protect herself from the unfamiliar surroundings, but it was all she had.

    Over by the window was a tall, graying man with a commanding presence. He stood proudly like the statue of an ancient warrior, arms folded behind his back, gazing out at the white-blinded scenery through the heavily-frosted glass. He looked familiar, and put together with his voice, recognition slowly dawned on her.

    “M...Marshal!” she stuttered in complete shock. Gripping her head at the sudden onset of a dizzy headache, she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to remember. She had been somewhere cold—well, she still was, judging by the world outside—but… it was somewhere far away from home, and… “How did you get here…?”

    Letho turned to look at her, fixing her with a strong gaze. He studied her for a moment through those deeply brown eyes before saying, “It looks like you took a harder beating than I thought.” He smirked.

    “Yeah, I… I guess I must have.” She finally opened her eyes and removed her hand as the throbbing stopped. He came over to sit on the edge of the bed, and she looked over at him with a slight smile. Her eyes were still adjusting to the light; she must have been out for a very long time. He waited for a few moments before finally speaking.

    “The doctors said you were attacked. Strangled, from the look of you when they found you.”

    Her hands immediately found her neck, and then fell away: the skin was tender and bruised all around. She could remember… someone… throwing her to the ground. He was poised over her… it was a blur and any attempt at remembering was like grasping water with her bare hands. “I… I’m sorry to cause you so much trouble, Marshal. I’m not usually so careless.”

    The older man laughed, shaking his head. “I’m just glad you’re all right, Christina. It was a nasty affair, that—”

    He was cut off when Christina, barely taking in a word, suddenly threw her arms around him. “I’m so glad you’re here, Marshal! I don’t remember any of what happened, but in those last moments, I… I was sure I’d never see you again. I’d never felt so cold and hopeless in all my life.”

    He seemed stunned, but patted her on the back for comfort. “Really, Christina,” he said at last, when he had found the words. “We’ve seen each other through worse scrapes than that. Didn’t we promise to always have each other’s backs?”

    Christina smiled, feeling all the chill of the winter morning air melt away. Even here in the farthest reaches of—of wherever she was, it was good to know that she could still count on the Marshal to be there for her. There was no one else left in the world more important to her. “Sorry, Marshal,” she said with a laugh. “I just interrupted you. What were you saying?”

    “Oh, well,” he continued, “just that I don’t hold it against you. That siege was a nasty business.”

    Her brow furrowed in confusion, and the pulsing returned. “Siege…?” No, that didn’t sound right. There had certainly been a lot of fighting, though: her muscles were still aflame from it all. She remembered a sea of enemies, but… not a siege. It was more like…

    “Yes, the siege,” Letho responded in surprise, dashing her concentration. “The siege of Radasanth, of course. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten that much!”

    The siege of Radasanth! No, impossible: she was nowhere near Radasanth, or even Corone. The throbbing returned with more fury than ever. She couldn’t even hear her own thoughts for the blood pounding in her ears. Consciousness began slipping away from her, and she sank back onto her pillow, eyes rolling up into her head. Her last vague memories were of Letho calling her name and then for a doctor, but by then, she was already gone.
    * * *

    Christina’s eyes opened again to a room much different than the one she had just been in. It was dark and musty, and a haze of cold frost permeated the air. No quaint little woodstove sat in the corner, stoked or otherwise. The dirty window was indeed frosted but not open, and through it, she could see a dark sky outside brightening toward dawn. She had been asleep that long? She bolted upright from the ice-hard floor, looking around frantically.

    “Where… but I was just…” And then, a sudden recollection took her: “Marshal!” She started, looking around the room from dark corner to dark corner, but saw nothing but shadow all around. “Marshal…” No one. She was alone. Letho was not here, and there was no sign that he ever had been. She was lying on the grubby floor of a wooden shack that appeared to have been abandoned for quite some time. It had all been a dream. Her body was perfused with cold, but she ignored it with the effort of trying to remember what had happened.

    She was in the village of Keepswatch. She had come here to avoid the reach of the empire for a while, let them think she was dead and thus call off the bounty on her head. While she was here, there had been an outbreak in a high-security prison built into the glacial wall of Sulgoran’s Axe, and she had chased an escaped prisoner on dire wolf across the snowy plains back to the city. She had followed him into this house where she confronted him, and…

    “Son of a goat’s mistress!” she growled, dragging herself to her feet using a nearby dining table. “I can’t believe I let myself get taken like that.” The prisoner—he was a Drow, now that she remembered—he had been as savage as a cornered animal, throwing himself at her with a strength that should have been impossible for someone so scrawny. Mercifully, he hadn’t used the gun he had turned on her. He had… done something. The details were fuzzy and hard to recall, but she could definitely feel his hands clawing at her throat, constricting, cutting off her breath…

    No, wait. Not hands. His hand. He had only the one! He must have taken advantage of her surprise, knocked her out and run. The little bastard was as scrappy as he was clever, and after what he had done to her, she wouldn’t rest until he was locked up in a pillory on the highest peak in Salvar until he was frozen solid.

    There was no more time to waste. She snatched up Rosebite from where it had fallen; the blade’s hilt was still warm despite having lain in the cold for so long. She wondered whether that prisoner bastard had tried to take it for himself; the thought of it searing through his palm at the attempt gave her great comfort. Moving toward the door, she tested the handle. Locked. She fussed with that until she nearly tore it off the door, but it wouldn’t turn, either. The little prick must have jammed it somehow! Feeling fury welling up inside her, she leveled a well-aimed kick at it. The door didn’t budge. Gods-damned Salvarans and their sturdy craftsmanship!

    Pacing in a quick circle, rage boiling barely-contained beneath an outwardly calm exterior, Christina planted herself about a dozen feet from the door and pointed her sword at it. The blade quite literally crackled with anticipation. “Scream, Rosebite!” she howled, and the blade roared to life, firing off a blast of energy almost as fast as the deafening boom that came with it. The door exploded outward, shattering into several large pieces which clattered against the building on the opposite side of the alley.

    As Christina stomped out into the snow, ignoring the way the wind blew her cloak about, she was soon surrounded by curious townspeople wondering what on earth had just happened, and staring at the hole where a door had once been. It was unfortunate that the door had been destroyed so thoroughly—there would be no way of living in the house now until it was replaced, not in this cold—but she consoled herself with the fact that she was not responsible for that. The door was completely useless thanks to Sa’resh’s tampering and would have needed replacing anyway.

    Still, she tossed a small pouch containing two dozen gold pieces onto the kitchen table for the owners to collect. That should more than cover the cost of the repairs, and she would just make sure to take it out of the prisoner’s hide when she caught up with him.

    “Someone bring me my things!” she barked, cutting across the confused crowd with a withering glare. “I’m going to string that bastard up if it’s the last thing I do!”
    Last edited by Christina Bredith; 02-09-11 at 10:52 PM. Reason: Final edits before submission
    And she was fair as is the rose in May.
    ~ Geoffrey Chaucer

  7. #17
    Member
    EXP: 10,755, Level: 4
    Level completed: 36%, EXP required for next level: 3,245
    Level completed: 36%,
    EXP required for next level: 3,245
    GP
    454
    Les Misérables's Avatar

    Name
    Phyr Sa'resh
    Race
    Drow
    Gender
    Male
    Hair Color
    Grey
    Eye Color
    Azure
    Build
    6'1" / 153 lbs.

    View Profile
    The story of Christina and Phyr continues in Another Day Colder.

  8. #18
    Member
    EXP: 5,950, Level: 3
    Level completed: 24%, EXP required for next level: 3,050
    Level completed: 24%,
    EXP required for next level: 3,050
    GP
    1,525
    Lord Anglekos's Avatar

    Name
    Richard Elric Anglekos.
    Age
    Sixteen.
    Race
    Flamebound.
    Gender
    Male.
    Hair Color
    Black.
    Eye Color
    Azure.
    Build
    5'7", 160 lbs.
    Job
    None.

    I want to first start off saying that I truly enjoyed reading this thread. From start to end, the burgeoning tale of Phyr and Christina had me wrapped around its little finger, and even as I paused in between posts to get something to eat or drink I couldn't help but wonder just what would happen next. And as I came to the conclusion of the thread, I was left with that same feeling; which, in this case, twas quite the good thing.
    So here it is; the judgment of They've All Forgotten You. If you have any questions or comments, you can reach me via private messages.

    Story: 8
    To start off, I wish to say that Les Mis, you wrote an excellent introductory post; as I read it, I could see the prison rise up in the visionary part of my mind, like some ominous portrait in a dramatic movie. With that vision came a sense of beginning, and was inflected with just enough mystery (the at-the-time unnamed drow, the solitude of the prison, the existence of the "devils") to catch my attention and draw me into the rising story of the escapee known as Phyr. As the thread moved into the second post, Christina's, I was pleasantly surprised as the perspective moved into the opposing end, and with it came a small, but carefully placed sense of rising action at the very end of your post; I found myself just as entrapped as the silent villagers by the Salvic man's almost incoherent outburst. The fact that Christina understood little Salvic made it that much more dramatic and enticing. Impressed as I was by the strong introduction, I was almost equally impressed with the gradual rising action that led up to Phyr and Christina's eventual meeting. You kept the pace steady but strong, easing up on the action when it culminated in someone's death or domination and flowing well into the next piece. However, I was a little disappointed in the actual climax of the story - the meeting of Phyr and Christina - as, compared to the almost overwhelmingly strong rising action and introductions, it felt weak and thin (mostly for reasons I will mention later). As the climax melded into the conclusion of the thread, however, I found myself once again eagerly wanting to read the next part of their story; what path would Phyr take in his quest for vengeance? How would Christina, the Javert of this story, take into account Phyr's past and her own as she chases him down? A cliffhanging conclusion, but one well written.

    Strategy: 7
    I honestly would have scored this higher had it not been for some confusion I had with some of Christina's actions early on in the thread. I didn't have to read her character sheet to understand her capabilities and profession, per se', but like Phyr that knowledge came with eventual reading, leaving me sometimes unpleasantly pondering several aspects about her. As I said, eventually I completely understood just both whom Phyr and Christina were (especially with the dream sequence with Letho), but in Christina's case it didn't come soon enough.

    Setting: 10
    One of the strongest aspects of this thread, from both of you, was the setting. I really could not find anything that I disliked, and at no time was I ever confused as to where (and when) the two characters were. Excellent job, the both of you.

    Continuity: 9
    Other than my pondering about Christina at times when I felt I shouldn't, this was another excellent score. While I didn't understand immediately just where & when Phyr and Christina were or why they were there, after the thread was finished I had no doubts in my mind whatsoever. The thread breathed Althanas, from the descriptions of the thick, Salvic accents to how Christina noticed that Phyr had naught the build of the the typical Salvic man, which I thought was a nice little touch. As I said before, excellent job.

    Interaction: 7
    Truth be told, at some points I found the interaction to be rather lackluster and not befitting of the characters that I had come to know at that point; for example, despite the fact that Christina was physically smaller, I would have thought she'd have managed to broken free of the former officer's lock somehow, or at least seen past the powder trick. Still, I know that some things are necessary for story's sake, and even despite the slightly lackluster interaction at times this was still better that quite some things I've read before.

    Character: 9
    I was in no doubts about the personalities, hopes, and dreams of the duo; they were so real, so vibrant to me that I could have imagined either as real beings. However, while Phyr's physical appearance and body when compared to others was never in doubt to me, I often found myself wondering Christina's physical identity, which to me was slightly odd. The closest I came to picturing her from an outside perspective was when Phyr pinned her down in their interaction in post 13. Still, you both did very well when it came to this; obviously you have a clear sense of whom your characters are.

    Writing Style: 8
    In all honesty, I don't have much to say here. I liked both of your styles; Phyr had a pseudo-first person perspective thing going on that would have easily made a wonderful true-first person writing style, and Christina, I lacked how you described even the simplest of movements and touches with extravagance. There were times where the word usage didn't make sense to me, but those were rare and far in between from both of you.

    Mechanics: 9
    You obviously put a lot of effort into this one, from all the edited posts I saw, and that effort was well spent. I found nearly no technical errors as I read through, save a couple words where the spacing had melded them together into one word and a run-on sentence or two. Still, a job well done.

    Clarity: 7
    While on the whole I understood everything and what was going on, there were a couple posts where I back-tracked through a few paragraphs just to make sure I was reading it correctly. For Phyr, the thick accent of the stable man, while respectably applicable, made it hard to understand just what the post was about in the first place, which docked some points. Also, while on the overall note the dream sequence with Letho was well written, there were a couple points where it threatened to interfere with my sense of continuity.

    Wildcard: 10
    As I stated in the beginning, I truly, truly enjoyed this thread. Well-written, with the beginnings of a beautiful plot line and decadent relationship... I hope that, once the next part of the story is done, that you request me to judge it, for I will do so with joy.

    Final Score: 85/100
    Les Misérables gains 2000 EXP and 250 Gold!
    Christina Bredith gains 2500 EXP and 350 Gold!

    "Some things they never tell you
    While you're riding the assembly line
    Like who'll be the hands to hold you
    And what's their state of mind?
    Well, hell I'm not much bigger
    Than a pointed index finger
    But who am I to lay the blame?
    I'm only here to cause some pain."
    ~The Autobiography of a Pistol, by Ellis Paul






  9. #19
    Screw You, Andy.
    EXP: 233,561, Level: 20
    Level completed: 0%, EXP required for next level: 0
    Level completed: 0%,
    EXP required for next level: 0
    GP
    20,768
    Silence Sei's Avatar

    Name
    Sei Orlouge
    Age
    26
    Race
    Mystic
    Gender
    Male
    Hair Color
    Orange
    Eye Color
    Blue
    Build
    5'11'', 172 lbs
    Job
    Protector of Radasanth.

    View Profile
    GP-Exp Added.
    2011 Althy winner for Best Comeback, Most Helpful Moderator, and Best IC Odd Couple (With Enigmatic Immortal). 2012 Althie Winner for Mr. Althanas, and best Bromance (also, with Enigmatic Immortal). 2014 Althy Winner Best Battler for Forrals Fortress.

    Gisela Open Winner (First Year), Lornius Cooperate Championship 3rd Place Winner (1/2 of 'Don't Blinke!', 2nd year).

    (21:41:22) Sulla: If you kill god, Nihilism fills the void, you need the ubermensch to take the place of god. Sei is the ubermensch.

Page 2 of 2 FirstFirst 12

Posting Permissions

  • You may not post new threads
  • You may not post replies
  • You may not post attachments
  • You may not edit your posts
  •