'O Darekened Embers Light My Soul...

[Elthas_Belthasar]

(Closed to Venessian, doods!!!)

(This is the recruitment thread (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?23218-The-Olde-Ones-Return...%28Battle-Recruitment%29) thank you very much)

(Open to any one challenger of ANY level)

Guardians of Ruild, where have you gone?

Where are The Ancestors of my forefathers? Where are the guardians of our blades, the buffers of our shields?

The world, drunk in it's own gluttonous darkness has cast a vast shadow upon the ebb of life. No longer was there a balance in the eternal flow of things, nay, since the rise and fall of Xem'Zund, my people knew one grave matter.

The Elders were not with us.

The Spirits were angry.

I knew this to be the truth as war threatened to consume the world, end-times were upon us. It was only a matter of time. I looked upon the fathomless tomorrow with a great sense of doom in my heart. The doom of all lands of Althanas, and an evil darker than even the cold-heart of Xem-Zund himself. Something watched over Althanas, I knew this, and that something was pissed off at all of us.

Woe to all who stood in the way of it's vengeance.

"Master Belthasar?" Came the voice.

The voice was that of one of the monks of the olde order. Elthas was day-dreaming again, an act that he found himself performing quite oft. Like the performances of theocracy guild. Elthas oft dreamed many fancies, the mind of an Elf a powerful matter. When he finally did come to, he'd been laying his head on the table, he saw the stern face of the olde monk. Elthas sighed. He was not a novice to The Citadel, and he was certainly not a novice to the job of Adventurer.

Elthas turned to look at the monk with a grin on his face.

"Is it time?" Elthas asked, his dark voice was deep. Coming from the depths of Ruild.

"The hour is upon you. The Chamber is ready all that is lacking--"

"Is a foe." Elthas completed the Monk's sentence.

With all the elegance of his people, Elthas stood up. He shook the monk's hand and then made his way to the combat arena that was prepared for him. Elthas was a Bounty Hunter of The Syndicate. There was a funny story behind how all that came to be. But at that point in time, there wasn't a bounty to collect, only training to be had.

Elthas found himself staring at Combat Arena Number 35. It was a third Citadel floor arena. He had not requested a Battle-Arena, but rather, specified that the Monks may make an arena of their choice. Elthas readied his combat daggers, and made his way past the gates that would hold his destiny. Elthas smiled as the light of the monk's magicks consumed him. He closed his eyes and waited for the effects of the arcane forces to take their grip on Elthas's mind.

Already,

His heart raced as he waited...

(Open to ONE!!!)

[Rocher]

((Heeyyy, sorry. I meant to PM you with this character. It was the one I said I was planning on using in my recruitment thread. If you had your heart set on fight Ven, I really don't mind re-typing this post, but if not, here goes!))

The southern-most stretches of the mountains that divided Alerar and Raiaera were home to a small clan of dwarves, young as a culture, divided from more prominent dwarven clans several hundred years ago. It was those stretches of mountains that Rocher had once called home, but no longer.

Truly, he detested those bearded folk, and every time his thoughts turned to them, he rubbed his clean shaven face agitatedly. Not that there was anything unique about his distaste for his own kin. There were many things that left a sour taste in the grumpy old dwarf's mouth. Like boats. Specifically the one that brought him to the isle of Corone, with its inebriated lurching and salty planks, slick with brine and the vomit of those who did not yet have their sea legs. Rocher's own contributions had consisted mainly of ale and cheese; a practiced diet for many, many years.

But that was all behind him. His first steps on the war-torn land were gracious. He hugged the dirt and kissed the wooden docks with his full lips, promising never to leave the solid soil again for as long as he lived. It took nearly a week for the pallor of his maritime illness to leave his cheeks, and when the healthy flush did return, he had put the metropolis of Radasanth far behind him.

Rocher was not an empathetic being. He didn't care for the strife of humans or elves, or even dwarves for that matter. Their war was a problem of their own making and troubled the wanderer nary a blot. Rocher fought only for the betterment of himself, and perhaps it was that mentality that brought him to the steps of the colossal Citadel.

“Warms yer 'art donnit?” Rocher asked no one in particular. “That somewhere in this big ol' stone box, there's a person, or monster, or sumtin in between, waitin' just fer me to give it a private beatin'.”

And the gold!

Tavern-talk in Radasanth had lead the uncouth dwarven fighter to the impression that there was gold to be had for those who were successful in the walls of the Citadel - Music to the stocky miser’s ears.

His first impression of the Citadel monks was a bland one. They seemed almost soulless in their manner, speaking in affirmatives and a gruff, simple way that the dwarf rather enjoyed. All too often the denizens of Althanas were long-winded and tiresome, but the Ai'brone initiates were all business, and lead the eager dwarf to his battleground with haste. As the dwarf turned to give his robed guide an uncommon “thank you,” the fellow was already down the hall, seeking his next charge. With a shrug, the powerful dwarf muscled open the set of granite double doors, and forced his way into the room, and frowned as he took in his surroundings.

A cavernous chamber, a hundred feet in diameter and nearly as high to the ceiling, stretched out in all directions. Rocher was no magic-savant, and it perplexed him how the doors he entered had deposited him in the center of the room. He turned around, realizing that the doors themselves had vanished entirely.

“No turnin' back then? Ha! Too bad for whatever sorry body's waitin' fer me in 'ere. Come out, come out, where ever you are...” The dwarf called out mockingly, but with a hint of caution.

Glowing, many-pronged, blue crystals jutted out from the floor of the cavern, with razor edges that promised pain to those who met their keen exterior up close. They were also the only form of illumination in the whole place, and were big enough to conceal a person of man-size or smaller. Rocher began to stalk about, looking for his opponent, with a scowl on his face.

He had left the mountains just to be dumped back under them. The citadel monks had an odd sense of humor indeed.