Helm_Ortega
10-28-10, 04:37 AM
((Closed to Sabatykos))
"Kraft..." The paladin muttered the name of the man who had inflicted the malady on him.
Even as he climbed the stone stairs to the Citadel, Helm could feel the burning in his muscles and the acrid feeling in the pit of his stomach, like a night of heavy drinking without a sound sleep to pass time through the rough parts.
It had been two weeks since the Greyguard had used a powerful 'geas' to send Helm away to mainland Althanas. The young knight knew only that his objective lay in the city of Corone, but the paladin had been given only the vaguest instructions, and every day that passed, he felt the toll of the geas being taken out of his health and stamina. His imagination terrorized him with thoughts of what was to come if he did not complete his near impossible task. For now, he seemed to be on the right path, enough so that his curse was not crippling.
"I don't even know what I'm looking for!" the youthful combatant thought to himself in frustration as he ascended.
Helm had spent the last few days in discomfort, living out of a small hostel in the city's core. He had no supplies, was running low on funds, and his search had turned up practically nothing. The only tidbit of information he unearthed was the fact that many adventurers in the city oft turned to a massive, dated stone citadel when seeking answers to spiritual and seemingly unsolvable questions.
Arriving at the staircase's pinacle, the knight was greeted by an orange-robed monk with a thin twine necklace sporting fist-sized orbs of wood, equally spaced around the monk's muscular neck. Helm regarded the older spiritual man with a degree of suspicion before speaking.
"So... We fight now? I guess?" the paladin asked, noting that the monk was unarmed, then eyeing his own sturdy warhammer doubtfully.
"Nay, persuer of knowledge. I am but a visionary guide of Ai'Brone. We are the architects, creating a pallet and venue with which souls craft a dominion to reflect both one's desires and fears," the monk responded patiently, bowing low.
"Well I know that, obviously, but... what do you ACTUALLY do?" Helm replied, trying to veil his ignorance in the face of the brightly-clad man's superior linguistics.
The monk smiled, ever patient.
"I make arenas, shaped by the thoughts of men and women such as yourself. Tell me what sort of theme or setting appeals to you, and I will create for you a battlefield," the monk stated evenly.
"Seriously? That's awesome!" Helm responded growing excited and temporarily shrugging off the weight of the geas. But then, a sobering thought occurred to the warrior. "These fights aren't, to the death, are they?"
"No," the monk began slowly which was beginning to agitate the paladin. He was not known for his equanimity. "All will be as it was before you began your battle, save whatever valuable life experience you gai-"
"Sweet, got it. So I want a room that..." Helm cut off the elderly old monk, leaning in and whispering his loosly forming idea. "Can we do this?" and "Wait, can I..."
---------
The paladin stood in the center of the cavernous cavity. A bead of sweat rolled down his chisled, tanned cheekbone, which he whiped off with a gauntleted hand. The intense dry heat assaulted him with wisps of smokey vapor that smelled mildly of eggs.
His perfectly straight, luxurious blonde hair waved defiantly in the heat, immune to such elements. He projected a combined air of eagerness and nervousness in his shiney steel breastplate, warhammer drawn and at the ready. He strained his jaw, barely concealing the excited chattering of his pearly white teeth. Any minute his opponent - he was told it could be anyone from vile demon to blessed archon - would walk through the archway before him. The ominous, black, stone doubledoors were twenty feet tall, framed by detailed stone carvings in ebony and alabaster of criss-crossing arms, seemingly in distress. It was creepy in a way that motivated Helm to be on guard.
Helm thought back to every horrific or romantic tale that began here, at these gates. On the portal was written a chilling phrase, which stood out in Helm's mind as ironic, for it was Helm's opponent who would enter through them.
The holy-warrior took a few long strides across the cavernous floor of hell itself - thick with heavy vapors of yellow and grey - and read aloud the inscription on the collosal, arching gateway.
"Abandon all hope, ye who enter here."
"Kraft..." The paladin muttered the name of the man who had inflicted the malady on him.
Even as he climbed the stone stairs to the Citadel, Helm could feel the burning in his muscles and the acrid feeling in the pit of his stomach, like a night of heavy drinking without a sound sleep to pass time through the rough parts.
It had been two weeks since the Greyguard had used a powerful 'geas' to send Helm away to mainland Althanas. The young knight knew only that his objective lay in the city of Corone, but the paladin had been given only the vaguest instructions, and every day that passed, he felt the toll of the geas being taken out of his health and stamina. His imagination terrorized him with thoughts of what was to come if he did not complete his near impossible task. For now, he seemed to be on the right path, enough so that his curse was not crippling.
"I don't even know what I'm looking for!" the youthful combatant thought to himself in frustration as he ascended.
Helm had spent the last few days in discomfort, living out of a small hostel in the city's core. He had no supplies, was running low on funds, and his search had turned up practically nothing. The only tidbit of information he unearthed was the fact that many adventurers in the city oft turned to a massive, dated stone citadel when seeking answers to spiritual and seemingly unsolvable questions.
Arriving at the staircase's pinacle, the knight was greeted by an orange-robed monk with a thin twine necklace sporting fist-sized orbs of wood, equally spaced around the monk's muscular neck. Helm regarded the older spiritual man with a degree of suspicion before speaking.
"So... We fight now? I guess?" the paladin asked, noting that the monk was unarmed, then eyeing his own sturdy warhammer doubtfully.
"Nay, persuer of knowledge. I am but a visionary guide of Ai'Brone. We are the architects, creating a pallet and venue with which souls craft a dominion to reflect both one's desires and fears," the monk responded patiently, bowing low.
"Well I know that, obviously, but... what do you ACTUALLY do?" Helm replied, trying to veil his ignorance in the face of the brightly-clad man's superior linguistics.
The monk smiled, ever patient.
"I make arenas, shaped by the thoughts of men and women such as yourself. Tell me what sort of theme or setting appeals to you, and I will create for you a battlefield," the monk stated evenly.
"Seriously? That's awesome!" Helm responded growing excited and temporarily shrugging off the weight of the geas. But then, a sobering thought occurred to the warrior. "These fights aren't, to the death, are they?"
"No," the monk began slowly which was beginning to agitate the paladin. He was not known for his equanimity. "All will be as it was before you began your battle, save whatever valuable life experience you gai-"
"Sweet, got it. So I want a room that..." Helm cut off the elderly old monk, leaning in and whispering his loosly forming idea. "Can we do this?" and "Wait, can I..."
---------
The paladin stood in the center of the cavernous cavity. A bead of sweat rolled down his chisled, tanned cheekbone, which he whiped off with a gauntleted hand. The intense dry heat assaulted him with wisps of smokey vapor that smelled mildly of eggs.
His perfectly straight, luxurious blonde hair waved defiantly in the heat, immune to such elements. He projected a combined air of eagerness and nervousness in his shiney steel breastplate, warhammer drawn and at the ready. He strained his jaw, barely concealing the excited chattering of his pearly white teeth. Any minute his opponent - he was told it could be anyone from vile demon to blessed archon - would walk through the archway before him. The ominous, black, stone doubledoors were twenty feet tall, framed by detailed stone carvings in ebony and alabaster of criss-crossing arms, seemingly in distress. It was creepy in a way that motivated Helm to be on guard.
Helm thought back to every horrific or romantic tale that began here, at these gates. On the portal was written a chilling phrase, which stood out in Helm's mind as ironic, for it was Helm's opponent who would enter through them.
The holy-warrior took a few long strides across the cavernous floor of hell itself - thick with heavy vapors of yellow and grey - and read aloud the inscription on the collosal, arching gateway.
"Abandon all hope, ye who enter here."