Shadar
02-19-08, 08:54 AM
She sang like the first birds of morning, high and sweet though it wasn't more than a hum. She even looked softer, her ruby locks less fiery, her amazonian face less dire, as she cradled Shadar's head on her bosom and embraced him in her wide eagle wings.
"I'm sure he's here," Shadar whispered, waking slowly. The song lilted in curiosity, but didn't stop. "The imposter, or-" The words dropped off, either from sleep or his unwillingness to voice them. He remained silent and motionless for a great while longer as Brigitte hugged and rocked him in the alcove of the great stone hallway.
Eventually, an interruption came. "Shadar," said one of the Pagoda monks. It was more a demand than a greeting. Brigitte looked up with a face equally as disdainful.
"It's okay," the half-elf grumbled from within her protection, and she pulled her wings back to her sides promptly, though unhappily.
Shadar stood from the floor looking like he had woken up behind a tavern, his short silver hair matted and flattened on one side, and his clothing holey and blood stained. He still managed a glare for the three robed monks, just because he saw the smugness in his eyes. Numerous times, he had told them that only Brigitte could heal him, though he didn't care to bring up the mechanism of it, and they still scoffed like it was nothing but childish grandstanding. Ai'Brone are all the same, Citadel or not, he thought with all the heat wasted in his gaze, for it washed off their backs pointlessly. Such righteous, impassive stones, the monks of illusion.
The lead monk nodded as if to say, "Of course it's okay," but he spoke in a diplomatic, almost infuriatingly polite tone. "We have judged that your opponent was the victor in the last battle."
Shadar's eyes smoldered, Brigitte stood hurriedly with her defiant nose in the air, and a rough voice laughed in the air around them. "Well, duh! He dove right onto a metal toothpick!" No one paid any mind to the disembodied speaker, for the half-elf and the harpy knew he only wanted attention, and the monks had endured stranger.
"However," continued the monk as if he hadn't stopped talking, "There is a vacancy within the rank of Master. You will fill it instead of suffering a demotion. A challenge already awaits." The speaker and one of his followers nodded curtly and floated down the hall, while the remaining monk waited to guide him to the arena, feigning uninterest despite his drifting, inquisitive eyes.
Brigitte wrapped her wings over her bare breasts. She probably would have hissed, too, had Shadar not leaned in close with his shoulder to her's and his mouth to her ear. "Thanks. I'll try not to get as beat up this time," he whispered, somehow combining appreciation, annoyance, and a hint of shame into the span of three seconds. With an encouraging nod, she watched him leave in the monk's shadow.
He walked leisurely, forcing the monk to shorter steps, and did a good job of making it look unintended as he repaired and cleaned his clothing. A touch from his long, inky gloves was all it took to drink the stains into the Void and rebuild the torn fabric over his heart. With the evidence gone, he didn't want to pound his last opponent's face in... as much.
"So, any scruffy guys hang around the high class section of this place? Any who look like bandits?" he asked with false enthusiasm when he finished preening.
"You will have to advance to see," the monk droned, a standard textbook response if there ever was one.
"Yeah yeah," Shadar sulked. He should have been angrier, but a healing from Brigitte left him too damn relaxed sometimes.
~
His arena fixed that in the few seconds it took his shoes to fill with water. In the time it took to spit "Bloody hell!" he had levitated over the ankle deep puddle and began absorbing the unnecessary moisture from his footwear.
"Hah! Same rank, crap accomodations," laughed the disembodied voice from earlier as it manifested before him as a were-jackal, and just as lightweight as you'd expect a humanoid jackal to be. But, the dream demon had a style to make up for it. From the insidiously purple fur, to the princely robes, and the thick diamond embedded above his eyes of fire, he was anything but non-threatening. It varied, though, whether the threat was to a person's health and safety or just their perspective on the natural order of things.
Shadar didn't respond. He didn't need to. Baring the creative use of slang, the mental demon was absolutely right. Compared to his old arena, that lovely cube of death, this was... well, literally the basement. Dark, molding stone stretched away to give the room some size despite the low ceiling, but the open space was broken every few strides by thick vertical pipes. They each bore red pressure knobs like trees had boughs, overkill on the designer's part. However, the design seemed to have bigger problems, hence the puddle from wall to wall. Somewhere, the guilty drip could be heard, but it was visibly lost in the unsteady light of glowing orbs plastered to the ceiling.
"They need repairs," Shadar said with an odd smile. He couldn't help but imagine the entire Pagoda sinking into a pool of its own fluids. It made it a bit more bareable to be levitating just over the waterline, keeping his long black coat out as best he could, in the building's bowels. Or wherever this was.
"They need a door," added Jackal, equally as pleased, but only because he liked what prisons did to mortals. He too hovered over the waterline, making it look like nothing but reflective carpet.
Shadar glanced about, though he didn't doubt it. His opponent would arrive through the same teleporting doorway that he had, stock Ai'Brone decor that it was. "If we're gonna wait, could you at least knock off the self-illusion? It looks bad enough in here already," he grumbled with a hand massaging his temples.
"Nope," Jackal chirped. When Shadar looked over his hand, Jackal licked his chops, savoring the half-elf's annoyance like sweet sweet candy.
"I'm sure he's here," Shadar whispered, waking slowly. The song lilted in curiosity, but didn't stop. "The imposter, or-" The words dropped off, either from sleep or his unwillingness to voice them. He remained silent and motionless for a great while longer as Brigitte hugged and rocked him in the alcove of the great stone hallway.
Eventually, an interruption came. "Shadar," said one of the Pagoda monks. It was more a demand than a greeting. Brigitte looked up with a face equally as disdainful.
"It's okay," the half-elf grumbled from within her protection, and she pulled her wings back to her sides promptly, though unhappily.
Shadar stood from the floor looking like he had woken up behind a tavern, his short silver hair matted and flattened on one side, and his clothing holey and blood stained. He still managed a glare for the three robed monks, just because he saw the smugness in his eyes. Numerous times, he had told them that only Brigitte could heal him, though he didn't care to bring up the mechanism of it, and they still scoffed like it was nothing but childish grandstanding. Ai'Brone are all the same, Citadel or not, he thought with all the heat wasted in his gaze, for it washed off their backs pointlessly. Such righteous, impassive stones, the monks of illusion.
The lead monk nodded as if to say, "Of course it's okay," but he spoke in a diplomatic, almost infuriatingly polite tone. "We have judged that your opponent was the victor in the last battle."
Shadar's eyes smoldered, Brigitte stood hurriedly with her defiant nose in the air, and a rough voice laughed in the air around them. "Well, duh! He dove right onto a metal toothpick!" No one paid any mind to the disembodied speaker, for the half-elf and the harpy knew he only wanted attention, and the monks had endured stranger.
"However," continued the monk as if he hadn't stopped talking, "There is a vacancy within the rank of Master. You will fill it instead of suffering a demotion. A challenge already awaits." The speaker and one of his followers nodded curtly and floated down the hall, while the remaining monk waited to guide him to the arena, feigning uninterest despite his drifting, inquisitive eyes.
Brigitte wrapped her wings over her bare breasts. She probably would have hissed, too, had Shadar not leaned in close with his shoulder to her's and his mouth to her ear. "Thanks. I'll try not to get as beat up this time," he whispered, somehow combining appreciation, annoyance, and a hint of shame into the span of three seconds. With an encouraging nod, she watched him leave in the monk's shadow.
He walked leisurely, forcing the monk to shorter steps, and did a good job of making it look unintended as he repaired and cleaned his clothing. A touch from his long, inky gloves was all it took to drink the stains into the Void and rebuild the torn fabric over his heart. With the evidence gone, he didn't want to pound his last opponent's face in... as much.
"So, any scruffy guys hang around the high class section of this place? Any who look like bandits?" he asked with false enthusiasm when he finished preening.
"You will have to advance to see," the monk droned, a standard textbook response if there ever was one.
"Yeah yeah," Shadar sulked. He should have been angrier, but a healing from Brigitte left him too damn relaxed sometimes.
~
His arena fixed that in the few seconds it took his shoes to fill with water. In the time it took to spit "Bloody hell!" he had levitated over the ankle deep puddle and began absorbing the unnecessary moisture from his footwear.
"Hah! Same rank, crap accomodations," laughed the disembodied voice from earlier as it manifested before him as a were-jackal, and just as lightweight as you'd expect a humanoid jackal to be. But, the dream demon had a style to make up for it. From the insidiously purple fur, to the princely robes, and the thick diamond embedded above his eyes of fire, he was anything but non-threatening. It varied, though, whether the threat was to a person's health and safety or just their perspective on the natural order of things.
Shadar didn't respond. He didn't need to. Baring the creative use of slang, the mental demon was absolutely right. Compared to his old arena, that lovely cube of death, this was... well, literally the basement. Dark, molding stone stretched away to give the room some size despite the low ceiling, but the open space was broken every few strides by thick vertical pipes. They each bore red pressure knobs like trees had boughs, overkill on the designer's part. However, the design seemed to have bigger problems, hence the puddle from wall to wall. Somewhere, the guilty drip could be heard, but it was visibly lost in the unsteady light of glowing orbs plastered to the ceiling.
"They need repairs," Shadar said with an odd smile. He couldn't help but imagine the entire Pagoda sinking into a pool of its own fluids. It made it a bit more bareable to be levitating just over the waterline, keeping his long black coat out as best he could, in the building's bowels. Or wherever this was.
"They need a door," added Jackal, equally as pleased, but only because he liked what prisons did to mortals. He too hovered over the waterline, making it look like nothing but reflective carpet.
Shadar glanced about, though he didn't doubt it. His opponent would arrive through the same teleporting doorway that he had, stock Ai'Brone decor that it was. "If we're gonna wait, could you at least knock off the self-illusion? It looks bad enough in here already," he grumbled with a hand massaging his temples.
"Nope," Jackal chirped. When Shadar looked over his hand, Jackal licked his chops, savoring the half-elf's annoyance like sweet sweet candy.