Along The River's Edge (Solo)

[Ebivoulya]

Clear blue stretched above waving tufts of green, which whipped into a frenzy before settling back into their gentle sway as the wind rolled further down the plains. Disorientation and surprise brought a muscled man up from the grass to rest one elbow on a knee covered in the stained brown cloth of his worn pants. He rubbed the bleary burn from his eyes with a gloved hand, and wiped a few dark strands of hair aside before sharp blue eyes gazed up at the sky. The cool wind, so fresh after a good rain, brought his senses awake as it brushed against his bare arms and face, rustling his dirty cloak. His peace was interrupted when the familiar smell of old leather and blood wafted to him. In a flash of memory the young wanderer reached for his dagger and whipped his head around frantically. His hand found nothing but an empty sheath, and his eyes found nothing but empty grass, billowing like the fur of some great beast. The young swordsman inhaled deeply, focusing on the earthy scent of wet grass and soil. Slowly calm returned, but the fear was sharp and sudden, and it did not subside. When he thought on the cause of his missing dagger and the comforting pain in his leg, he was amazed to have escaped with his life.

Flashes of desperate gulps of air under a sea of writhing storm-clouds roiled in his mind, an impossible escape from a man hurling lightning itself; the mage would not likely appreciate the hired help running off with the prize. The distrust and suspicion had sprouted quickly between them, and the young wanderer's careful plan had still ended in a stand-off. Waves of green buffeted his shoulders as he sat amid the endless plains of Alerar, and his cracked lips stretched into a yawn. The brown bootprint of civilization squatted in the grassy expanse to the south; a village he must've missed the day before. Despite the exhaustion sapping the strength from his arms, the young half-elf known as Nyadir rose slowly from the soft embrace of his grassy bed. He adjusted the dirty black cloak draped over his shoulders while his worried eyes scanned the horizon to the west for any sign of a man on horseback. The mysterious leather folder that had been their goal shifted inside his vest, and he thought it such a trivial thing when seen through the lens of life and death.

Despite the whipping winds, the young wanderer pulled out the worn folder and carefully unwound the string holding it closed. The diagrams and hastily scribbled notations covering the wrinkled pages within were a mystery to the tall barbarian. After a bit of study, he decided it was some kind of air ship; definitely an item worth his time and effort. Stark blue eyes glancing up again to the scattered patches of cloud marring the sky, the swordsman re-tied the folder and tucked it back into his vest. As he lowered his gaze, he spotted the glint of his greatsword laying in the grass nearby. Reaching one gloved hand up to his chest, the half-elf was not surprised to find the familiar strap of his blade's sheath missing. He thought back to his duel the night before; despite anchoring his thrown dagger with a spool of copper wire, the mage's lightning had still arced off to strike the steel plate on his right heel. His chest wedged tight with the mage preparing another bolt, his only choice had been to release the strap on his sheath to escape. With annoyance, he put it out of his mind, sinking within himself to determine the extent of his exhaustion. The burn on his heel he could deal with, but the two scab-covered gashes in his left leg were definitely going to break open again.

As his eyes slid closed, the rustling grass and faint worker's cries jumped suddenly closer in his mind. The solemn swordsman ignored these as he turned his attention toward the core of his body. The lingering pain from the burn in his heel was not serious enough to bother with, and its constant presence was somehow reassuring. Amid the dark and warm recesses of his body he found his exhaustion to be more extensive than expected. Fingers flexed in leather gloves as he studied the stores of energy he had available. The majority of it was repairing the damage to his body from prolonged exposure to his enhancement technique. The wind rose to a low howl over the plains, a familiar sound after a few months living on the streets of Ettermire, and the young wanderer's stomach rumbled quite loudly; another familiar sound from the last few months. He intended to be well-fed and comfortable this evening; he just had to find someone to buy this damn folder first.

With annoyance, the half-elf concluded that he could not afford to heal any of his wounds if he wanted to get back to the city quickly; he would have to deal with it. Something about narrowly escaping death the night before made his patience scarce, and he spent a minute stretching and cursing before picking up his sword and resting it lightly on one shoulder. The crawling sensation of eyes on his back led him to turn around, but the plains held nothing but grass. Even after months of such paranoia, he still had to look. He tried to clear his mind, but the feeling remained. Ignoring it, he prepared to head back to the city. With only a few moments of silent meditation to enact his physical enhancement, he opened his eyes yet again to this world of deceit and greed, and with a cynical smirk Nyadir began to jog back to Ettermire. The pulsing warmth worming its way through his body grew the first few minutes, and after a solid hour of jogging at a steady pace the young wanderer still had stamina to spare.

[Ebivoulya]

Over the rushing wind he could hear the rumbling of his stomach, but he could do nothing but imagine the meals he would eat after he managed to sell the documents he carried. The constant rhythm of steel-plated boots slamming into soft soil can lull the mind into a void, a reprieve which the worried wanderer relished. Whether or not he found a buyer for the documents, he needed to leave Ettermire the same night he arrived. Risking another encounter with his ex-employer would not be wise, and despite the secret joy he found in the throbbing pain in his leg, he hoped to leave the city without a fight.

The dark-haired swordsman kept his breaths deep and even as he ran, a plan forming in his mind. Though he did not know to whom the documents were owed, he knew a rather shady dwarf by the name of Lamion who could probably help with that. It had been he who had helped the young half-elf find his first 'job,' after he had wandered into the city stealing food just to quiet his stomach. Though he had only known the stout and street-wise Lamion for about half a year, there was a certain honor about the dwarf. A flicker of movement in the distance caught the wanderer's eyes, and he watched for several tense seconds before dismissing it, and retreating to his thoughts. Though the concept of trust was rather laughable to the cynical swordsman, he still held some measure of it for the dwarf, and decided to seek him out upon entering the city.

His unshaven face twisted in a grimace of disgust as he suddenly recalled the intoxicating screams of the Raierian soldier from the previous night, and how completely fascinated he had been with the pain he was causing the man. His thoughts were wandering, and he soon found himself in the part of his mind he avoided with fear. He felt a longing to hear those screams once more, to feel that pain. Nearly staggering to a halt, the taut arms of the young wanderer quivered with tension as he gripped his knees tightly, gasping for breath and struggling against the sharp onyx waves that crushed his mind. Moments stretched while his disoriented vision cleared and his heart-rate slowed again.

Decidedly unsettled, the half-elf absentmindedly checked his belt and empty dagger sheath, then continued jogging toward Ettermire. Clouds passed and daylight waned as the young wanderer's feet continued plowing the ground towards his singular goal. Not long before the end of the day, Nyadir's enhancement technique finally gave out. He managed a faint squeal as he went from jogging at a steady pace to skidding through a muddy roadway on his face. With the bitter taste of muck, and cool mud covering him, the young half-elf sat up sourly. He spat out the mud and wiped his face with his already grimy cloak, though he was certain he only smeared it around; a brilliant disguise, perhaps.

A tall youth in plain wool absently carrying a hoe came running from a nearby field, but the young wanderer waved him away with annoyance before the lad even reached the packed road. It took nearly five minutes for the swordsman to rise to his exceptionally sore feet and stretch his back out. He continued to breath heavily as his body tried to recover from being pushed so hard. It was the work of another few minutes to stand on stable legs while the sun steadily lowered behind him. He wiped the mud from his sword onto the edge of his boot, and slid it under his wide leather belt. With his mind so exhausted, the young wanderer thought it a mere passing cloud when the world before him seemed to dim.

Roiling waves of black pierced his mind yet again, and in his exhaustion he was almost overcome. With strained focus he maintained his sense of self, a crumbling lighthouse amidst a writhing obsidian ocean. The balance shifted in his mind, and a pressure grew behind his eyes, an odd sensation that lightened the world around him to pulse a vibrant crimson. Vague hills covered in grass leaped toward him, heavily contrasted and a sharp red, as though slathered in blood. For many moments this strange vision wavered, distances shrinking then expanding again until he finally found some stability. With awe he noted that flecks too distant to make out flew toward him to become rabbits when he focused.

He experimented with his new-found vision for a moment, spotting the walls of Ettermire to the east, but soon the pressure grew too great and he couldn't maintain his mental balance. Rather than slip into the painful dark, he emptied his mind to release the strange sensation, and was relieved when it receded. He did try to memorize the feeling, though; such a thing could prove useful, especially when fleeing for one's life. With great weight and finality the weary wanderer placed his boot down one step closer to the city of Ettermire, and with a great exertion of will, he managed the feat again. After an hour of steadily increasing steps the ground found the half-elf's feet more easily, and before long the walls of the city were within view, spurring him on with the hope of a quick sale and a warm meal.

[Ebivoulya]

Low over the open plains stretched the shadowy fingers of sunset to envelope the city of Ettermire. They wrapped around soot-covered chimneys that spewed ash to sprinkle down and coat the hands and faces of the populace. They crawled up steep stone walls, pushing travelers into the city before the fall of night. Two dark-skinned guards in matching black leather armor scanned their keen eyes warily over the crowd of dirty people pouring through the city gates. The peasants all coughed into stained kerchiefs, and occasionally glanced up at the blanket of smoke and smog hovering over Ettermire like a wrathful storm cloud. Amidst a sea of dirtied workmen and beggars strode the muddied half-elf, and in his stride a limp was evident. The throbbing from the two slash wounds on his thigh had grown worse once his enhancement technique dissipated. Though they weren't bleeding, he found himself gripping the torn and blood-stained cloth over his leg as he paused to ease the weight from it. Hard-packed earth turned to cobbled stone as the wanderer entered the city of industry, and the eyes of the guards lingered on him only a moment before returning to their duty; a brilliant disguise, indeed.

Other eyes gazed upon him from nearby faces in the crowd, however, and their concern was understandable; with the large steel blade of the half-elf's greatsword dangling awkwardly from his wide leather belt, he did draw attention. Uncertainty and suspicion rising like ethereal specters in the mad-man's mind, a few quick steps by leather boots brought him swiftly but casually into an alley. Dimly lit walls of grime greeted the exhausted wanderer, and the stacks of boxes and questionable substances coating the cobblestone brought relaxation. The sensation was alien, insignificant a change as it was; he had not truly relaxed for many years. The wanderer glanced down in disgust to find whatever he had stepped in, but was unable to identify it and continued through the alley.

The wearied swordsman relied on his cursory knowledge of the city to get him to the tavern known as El'inssring, the sounds of machinery growing ever stronger as he entered the industrial section. The half-elf almost paused when he thought he heard a soft foot-fall behind him, but he concealed his surprise and continued walking as smoothly as he could with his sword constantly shifting at his waist. His unshaven face cringed when the tip of his blade scraped loudly against the corner of a building as he left the alleyway. He was cursing to himself and adjusting the sword as he walked when he stumbled into a woman at the exit of the alley. He knew he should've apologized to the plump, older woman in a worn dark green dress he had bumped into, but looking into her disapproving eyes he felt the last of his patience snap, and overwhelming annoyance and anger overtook him.

He used to have so much patience, but that was taken from him years ago by the same barbarian bastard by the name of Balenthal who had led the attack on his home and village that had left many dead, and the rest enslaved. To have died a slave would've been far better, but instead the deranged barbarian 'king' decided he had found a son in Nyadir. The madman decided to perform a magical experiment on himself and his 'son' that had already killed hundreds. Even on that first day afterward, the young half-elf got into a minor argument and woke to find the entrails of the kitchen staff strewn about on all the food. Despite growing more practiced at keeping his mental balance throughout the years after his escape, the young wanderer knew to maintain careful control of himself at all times. He did not need to wake up to piles of gore, and get chased out of another city.

[Ebivoulya]

He pushed the plump old woman aside before his body had time to respond to the powerful need to slowly cut her throat, and it was a struggle to keep his hand on his sword-hilt without stabbing the short man who nearly bumped into him, or the younger lad of darker skin and near-white hair that spilled his cart directly in front of the young wanderer and forced him to walk around. As the dim cobblestones stretched to meet the tall young swordsman's steel-plated boots, he shifted the large hilt that was pressing into his side and tossed his head to the side in a casual glance backward; nearly everyone was minding their own business, except for two white-haired men of darker skin who were looking directly at him.

He did not let his eyes meet theirs, and only lingered on the clattering cart-wheels of another delivery boy in grimy brown for a moment before continuing into the next alleyway. As he neared the intersection, he turned the corner and glanced back toward the street once more; the two white-haired pursuers were stumbling around a drunken beggar who kept gripping their fine black shirts. A lunging leap brought the wanderer closer to escape as he briefly picked up speed, but the hilt of his greatsword shifted at his belt and slipped free. Steel-plated boots slid on grimy cobblestones as the wanderer bent to grab the blade, thankful of the thick leather glove protecting his hand. His other caught the lip of one wooden crate in a stack of several, and with surprise sharp blue eyes glanced up to see a wooden avalanche.

A swift shove threw him away from the pile, but as his feet returned to cobbled stone his gaze darted back to find his two pursuers staring at him with anger over the top of the fallen crates as they rounded the corner. The burned heel he sported from his clash the night before throbbed in time with the cuts on his leg, but with gasping breaths the cornered wanderer threw himself down the alley, bare blade forgotten in his leather grip. He skidded on the wet stone, and one cloaked shoulder slammed into the thick wooden support beam where the alley split. With a grunt the swordsman shrugged off the pain, pushed himself off the wall, and sprinted down the next corridor.

His rapid footfalls slapped the wet cobblestone and adrenaline coursed through his veins, but the wounds in his leg broke open once more, letting the delicious life-blood of which he found himself in reverence flow freely. The sensation brought him such comfort he was almost distracted, but the clatter of boxes behind him reminded the young mad-man of his predicament in time for him to dart into yet another alleyway. His pumping legs continued to devour the dirty stone as he tore through one alley, then another, in a haphazard pattern that hopefully increased the distance between them. He had no intentions of being caught before he even did anything worthy of being pursued.

[Ebivoulya]

The blazing sun disappeared below the horizon while the tall swordsman slowed his escape, and exited onto one of the larger streets long enough to get his bearings. He ducked back into yet another alley, this one filled with people, all gazing up at him solemnly. His adrenaline-drowned annoyance disappeared completely as he saw their faces. None of them even bothered to ask him for anything as he walked past them, and his mind grew quiet as he concentrated on finding the right way through the maze of alleys. The reminder of the problems infesting the world helped him to forget his own for a time, and he drew ever-closer to The Great Tavern. The place was exposed and popular, two things he did not need with a pissed-off lightning mage looking for him, but he could think of no other place to go. He had heard of a smaller, shadier tavern during his time in the city, but never actually saw the place, and he didn't know where it was.

In less than an hour's time, with stars popping out amidst the deep purple horizon, the young wanderer finally found the tavern he sought, and adjusted the sword at his belt. He looped the belt once around the blade before buckling it back, and though it still shifted and swayed unexpectedly without his gloved hand resting atop it, at least it wouldn't slide out easily. The young barbarian's son checked about his person, noting with disdain his blood-caked leg peeking out from the two slashes in his dirty brown cloth pants. He had seen worse clothing in his years as a slave, but it was not the garb of the pompous or wealthy, to be certain. Luckily enough, those weren't the type of people he was looking for.

The swordsman walked up to the imposing three-story building and noted the coating of somewhat-fresh paint. Despite the vain attempt, the walls were slipping back into the grime and grit that coated every other inch of the 'city of industry.' Two laughing men white of hair and with fine clothes stumbled out into the street, spewed from the building in their drunken stupor by a very large man with scars covering his face and bare arms; the rest of the man was barely contained by a tight-stretched black shirt and pants. The two merely staggered, gripping each-others fine dark clothes as they tried to catch their balance. Despite the evasive efforts of the tall, young half-elf one of them managed to slam into him hard enough to throw them both back a pace.

It was a struggle to contain his annoyance at the drunken fool, especially when the man glanced up and laughed his apologies before wobbling away to infect the rest of the city. The disheveled Nyadir pulled a few stray locks of his dirty black hair out of his face and strode up the well-lit steps while breathing slowly to calm himself. The muscular bouncer eyed him from next to one of the flickering torches on either side of the open doorway. Smoke and music poured out of the popular tavern, and the bouncer nodded to the younger man of nearly equal height. The horde inside began bellowing a jovial song in time with the three-man band on the raised platform at one end of the main room.

It struck a sour note in the half-elven madman, and he walked over to a nearby wall with distaste and a slight grimace on his stubble-covered face. The singing drunks and swaying serving girls, all laughing and enjoying the music, conjured up sharp flashes of a silent common room coated in gore, and blood inches deep around his ankles. The blacksmith's son found himself tapping a finger impatiently on one of the arms crossing his chest as he scanned the crowd looking for any familiar faces, anyone who could find Lamion and get him away from this enraging din as soon as possible.

[Ebivoulya]

As two blond men identical enough to be brothers rose from one side of the room and left, the young wanderer spied a familiar bearded face low to the worn wooden table and laughing as he scooped up a pile of coins after a particularly good dice roll. Rising and taking a few steps toward the jovial dwarf, the young wanderer had to stop as a dark-haired serving girl strode past him carrying a tray full of wooden mugs. He had to stop again when one of the local drunks fell backwards in his chair and nearly knocked the dark-haired swordsman into another table. His gloved fist clenched as tight as his teeth to avoid the urge to violently dismember everyone in the room.

Finally, he made it to the table and caught the attention of the three remaining. "Lamion," the young wanderer said once he'd caught the eyes of the robust dwarf, and those bushy eyebrows rose as they caught sight of the half-elf. "By the gods, you look terrible," the stout Lamion exclaimed. "What happened; did you get tripped into a pigsty?" The other two chuckled quietly, and Nyadir spared them a mocking smile that more resembled a snarl. The shorter regular of Ettermire gathered his winnings and hopped down from his chair, heavy boots thudding on the wooden floor while his chain mail shirt scraped against his breastplate in an unpleasant way. "...I'm under cover. We need to talk," the younger but taller man said, nodding his head toward the open doorway. "Under whose covers?," the dwarf asked, and the half-elf just gestured violently toward the door. The relief as the disgustingly up-beat music faded into the sounds of the street was profound, and the two paused just inside an alley not far from The Great Tavern.

The much shorter warrior and man-of-the-streets had to crane his bearded neck to look the tall, young wanderer in the eye, and the half-elf stared at the dwarf who had helped him find work in his few months living on the streets of the city. He quickly and quietly summed up his chase of the spy, the inevitable confrontation between himself and his employer, and punctuated the end of the tale by briefly drawing the worn leather folder from within his vest as proof. Lamion only whistled and glanced around uncertainly before saying "I can see why you'd be in a hurry to leave the city, with that one after you. You know the Bottomless Pit?" The young wanderer shook his head, and the street-wise dwarf gave him hasty directions to the place, and told the young swordsman to meet him near the front in an hour.

Without further ado, the short warrior disappeared into the still-thriving streets well-lit with torches, and the wanderer paused a moment to glance up at the black sky with uncertainty. He could see no stars piercing the cloud of smog hovering over the great city, but noted flashes of lightning on the western horizon; he thought of the mage and shuddered. With a sigh and a scratch of his stubble-covered chin, he wandered out into the street, sticking to the main roads as he followed the complex directions given to him by his shorter comrade. The hissing of steam and intermittent peals of machinery soon enveloped the murmuring chaos of the crowds in the streets. Grime-covered cobblestone passed steadily beneath him, and he continually glanced over his shoulder.

The disheveled Nyadir spent half an hour ignoring the many drunk citizens wandering the streets, and occasionally catching the eyes of a passing member of the city guard as he walked. Finally, the dark-haired swordsman stood across the street from a festering, wooden welt swelling with unpleasant things and nestled securely in the nether-regions of the city; it seemed like the place. He spent several minutes waiting impatiently and constantly scanning the nearly-empty street from the safety of a dim alleyway. In that time, the young wanderer had borne witness to no less than three fights, and twice that number of patrons being unceremoniously hurled out into the dirty streets;. He struggled to restrain his impatience, and glanced up to the flickering western horizon, counting the minutes until he could be free of this city.

[Ebivoulya]

The dark sky rumbled in anger, spewing violent winds that tore at the smoke belched forth by numerous forge-fires dotting the darkened city of Ettermire. The cobbled streets were empty of the normal citizens and workers of the day, now filled with the thugs and denizens of the night, waiting in dark alleys to prey on unsuspecting drunkards. Bathed in shadow, and with sharp eyes glancing, the ever-impatient and paranoid Nyadir stood with his black cloak wrapped about him in the darkness between two buildings and glanced again toward the pitch-black sky. A few flickering stars had dotted the horizon several hours before, as the sun sank in the west, but no light could pierce the hovering cloud of industry that brought any bird brave enough to dare it choking back to earth.

The skittering rasp of steel on stone brought the wanderer's deep blue eyes down to his side again with surprise, which was quickly replaced with annoyance at his missing sheath. The worn and thick leather belt held the blade well enough at least, looped once just below the smooth steel hand-guard of the sword, which curved out to either side to end in rounded knobs with a skull engraved in each. One gloved hand rested fondly on the handle of the blade, and the young blacksmith's son thought back to the moment he had reached up to unbuckle the sword's sheath from his back, choosing escape over the original home of his blade. He entertained almost hopeful thoughts of attempting to find it again while another burst of wind tore at his hair and nearly wrenched the thick black cloak from his grip.

The young half-elf found himself thinking back to his first meeting with Lamion. He had tried to rob the battle-hardened dwarf, and after an intense fight the stout dwarf claimed the victory. Rather than striking the young swordsman down, he offered a meal and a bed for the night in exchange for the young wanderer's help on a job. It was a simple matter, but he ended up waiting on the dwarf for a few hours. The lazy Lamion was never one for punctuality, and the already soot-covered Nyadir assumed he'd be waiting quite a while this time as well. Despite his annoyance, the young swordsman would never berate someone who had saved him from so many predicaments. He just had to keep his patience...

That became difficult, as before long the already imposing hour of waiting had grown to nearly two. In that time the young wanderer had settled into a light meditative state, eventually focusing on the stores of energy he could feel within his body. Despite his exhaustion, he had regained some vitality since he had entered the city, enough to at least enhance his body once. He thought back to his collapse in the mud after the last technique had worn off, and hoped to avoid such a reaction this time. Still, he could think of nothing but the problems as he resisted the sharp wind that gusted down the street in front of the tavern known as the Bottomless Pit. For the last half-hour he had been trying to maintain a state of mind just on the cusp of activating his enhancement technique, just in case.

The task had proven as difficult as reigning in his annoyance at the very late Lamion. His mental grip on the writhing energy within himself kept slipping and shifting, and he'd nearly activated the technique by accident three times. He was preparing himself for another attempt when he noticed the bearded and armored dwarf he sought strolling down the street, scanning the scarce faces who braved the torrential winds that ripped down into the city in bursts. The young swordsman didn't move from his shadowed alcove as he watched the dwarf, and scanned the street behind him out of suspicion. No familiar faces caught the sharp blue eyes of the paranoid wanderer, though his gaze did linger on a pair of white-haired dark elves in slick black shirts and pants. They weren't the ones who tried to ambush him, but just the sight of their white hair made him instantly suspicious.

As his focus shifted back to the stout-jawed face of Lamion, the dwarf locked eyes with the young Nyadir for a moment, and then turned back to the mostly empty street of grimy cobblestones before him. The young wanderer waited a few moments cloaked in darkness, checking his leg to find that the slow bleeding had finally stopped. The unwanted screech of his loose blade against the stone wall next to him brought more mumbled curses to his cracked lips. The tall blacksmith's son stepped out into the street and immediately found himself struggling to stand; he stumbled slightly as he made his way out into the flickering torchlight of a nearby building. Soon enough he was walking steadily, though, and he fell in behind the cloaked dwarf, who didn't even turn his head to acknowledge his younger companion.

[Ebivoulya]

The weary Nyadir released his cloak to tear behind him with an unfortunately timed gust of wind, and rolled his right shoulder a bit. He tried to work out the soreness of slamming into a wall earlier as he made his escape from the two dark elves. Though he was not prone to it normally, he found himself glancing suspiciously at any pale hair framing a dark face, and was growing even more anxious to be rid of the folder tucked within his vest and out of the city as soon as possible. The soft whispers of paranoia were stifling, and the outstretched hands of the lightning mage loomed closer by the moment.

After a few minutes of nothing but the footfalls of the two partners-in-crime and the howling winds of a storm nearly upon them, the stout dwarf finally turned into an alley between two warehouses. The following half-elf noted that the several-story tall buildings cut the wind fairly well as he turned down the same alley, one hand resting on the hilt of his blade despite what he thought might be trust for the well-traveled dwarf. They walked past soot-covered boxes and down the alley, the young wanderer gagging slightly as they stepped over some highly questionable puddles. Before long they reached the back entrance of one warehouse. The leaning walls of the alley opened up, and the swordsman glanced around as thunder rumbled in the distance.

The area was several paces on either side, with multiple alleys darting off into the choking darkness of the city; a good spot to escape from, but also a good spot for an ambush. The stout Lamion echoed the young wanderer's suspicions, saying "I don't rightly like this place, but this was the best I could do on short notice. Besides, we can probably take 'em." The battle-hardened dwarf's laughter was punctuated by a particularly loud peal of thunder, and the young Nyadir began focusing on his stores of energy again while the two waited. It was only a matter of minutes before he spotted a pair of cloaked figures approaching from one alley. The older dwarf noticed them shortly afterward, his gruff voice echoing slightly as he said "Ho, now. That'd be them."

The sharp blue eyes of the young half-elf kept glancing down other alleyways, looking for signs of a trap, but as the two drew closer and the wind ruffled one of their hoods, he spotted a tuft of white hair. The young wanderer immediately reached for his sword and pushed all of himself into completing his enhancement technique. A thought flickered across his mind that he was being illogical, assuming these were the two who chased him earlier in the day. In spite of that, some sense of foreboding emenated from deep within him, and he found himself without doubt as he pushed the last of his energy into the technique.

The stout Lamion turned his eyes to the young wanderer questioningly, and found those blue eyes wide with surprise as a sharp pain in the dwarf's leg brought his gaze down to see a thin glass rod sprouting from his thigh. The tall Nyadir could say nothing as the sweat began beading on his skin from the enhancement; his blood was coursing with adrenaline, and the need to move and act was almost overwhelming. His very skin itched with that need, but he could do nothing as he watched one of the lithe dark elves snap the end of the glass rod off into Lamion's leg, and nimbly dodge the dwarf's enraged axe swing.

It was indeed the same pair from earlier that day, but the speed of the dark elf had been shocking. The tall barbarian's son wondered how he had managed to get away last time, but the clatter of metal on stone brought his eyes back to the present. The battle-hardened Lamion was on one knee, gripping the bleeding wound in his leg; he was desperately trying to dig out the broken glass. The young Nyadir was still in shock as he glanced from the downed dwarf to the pair of dark elves a few paces away. Fury began building within the young swordsman, along with guilt and an unfamilar desire to protect the street-wise warrior.

[Ebivoulya]

"You don't have long now," one of the white-haired bastards said as he rejoined his companion a few paces from the mismatched pair. Rage rolled over the half-elf's mind as he took in the hard eyes and condescending smirks of the two, and he tore the greatsword from his belt, all his anger bent towards skewering the both of them. Their dark eyes rose in surprise, and laughter leaped from their mouths as the young wanderer paused, enraged and holding his heavy blade above his head one-handed. He felt the distinct sensation of his cloth pants sliding swiftly down to settle around his ankles.

His all-engulfing rage forgotten for a moment, the tall barbarian's son glanced down to find his thick leather belt cleanly sliced, and his already grimy pants soaking in a puddle that didn't look like rainwater. The trembling hand of Lamion gripped the young swordsman's calf just below his white cotton small-clothes, and the dwarf simply shook his head at the half-elf's questioning glare. The young wanderer angrily kicked his leg out of the Lamion's grip, and bent to grab his pants in one gloved hand. A few drops of rain finally fell from roiling clouds, mixing with the blood pooling below the kneeling dwarf.

The enraged swordsman rose from his crouch into a sprint, his heavy greatsword held out to the side in one hand, The other gloved hand firmly gripping one edge of the young wanderer's disgustingly soaked pants. The beads of sweat covering his bare arms and face made him look drenched, as though the rain fell on him more than anyone else. He crossed the distance between them with as much speed as they had shown, and in a flash he was there and swinging his massive blade.

The surprise in their eyes was evident, but both easily dodged the wide swing of the half-elf's large sword. The one to his right only managed to raise one arm in surprise as the young wanderer reversed the force of his swing with only one hand. Solid steel slammed into the thin black cloth covering the white-haired assassin's arm, but instead of the glorious spray of blood the sword-swinging madman hoped for, the thin arm merely snapped. The force of the swing threw the lithe dark elf stumbling into the side of one warehouse, and the grinning Nyadir brought his eyes to the other just in time for them to widen in shock.

The other dark-skinned assassin stretched one arm gleefully toward the prone barbarian, and the same jagged glass rod reached for his flesh. Only an unusual twist of his torso kept the probably poisoned glass from reaching skin. On instinct the young wanderer released his pants and snapped a quick steel-plated jab into the dark elf's face. His hand caught his pants again before they fell, and he quickly back-pedaled to get some room. The first dark elf rose coughing blood from the grimy alley, and the second dropped his glass rod and reeled backwards, clutching his bleeding face. The enraged mortal madman was losing himself in the swelling tide of anger and hate in his mind. He pounced on the first opportunity he saw, quickly darting after the one he had punched in the face.

Though the swordsman's grimy plated boots slipped on the wet cobblestone, he still crossed the distance to the dark elven assassin before the other could reach him. To his anger, a surprisingly quick dodge got the recovering white-haired bastard out of harm's way. The young wanderer could see the second one closing the gap, fine silver rapier already drawn and ready. With strained muscles and a painful pull the young swordsman reversed his swing yet again with one hand; his arm was screaming with the pain of managing such weight and force. The dark elf got his thinner blade up in time to block, and the young wanderer almost laughed, picturing the flimsy sword snapping upon impact.

[Ebivoulya]

For a second time the fool-hardy Nyadir's expectations were shattered, and the thinner blade survived the encounter, though the much thinner dark elf was thrown back a few feet. The young wanderer grunted in exasperation, then quickly glanced down to see what he had stepped on as he solidified his stance. The thin glass rod glittered atop grimy cobblestone, and as he was shifting his heel off of it a sickening crunch brought his attention back to the world around him. The dark elf he had just thrown back crumpled to the ground, his back bent at a grotesque angle as Lamion's heavy axe clattered to the stone behind him. The young swordsman looked into the dwarf's eyes, surprised to find him still conscious, and found those eyes looking behind him.

Droplets whipped off of raven locks as the young swordsman snapped his head behind him to find the remaining dark elf charging quickly, blade poised to strike, and he released his grip on his pants. They slid down as he brought his blade down into a double-handed grip, and only through the added speed and strength of his enhancement technique was he able to block the strike and throw the assassin back once more. He swiftly bent to pull up his pants again, drenched in sweat and the steadily increasing rain, and he closed the distance swiftly. He brought his blade lightly across the elegant rapier of the dark elf three times, never putting much force into the swing, then finally threw the dark-skinned bastard's sword down to the side for just a moment.

The young wanderer's other hand flashed from his side just once before the dark elf jumped back, and Nyadir widened his stance to keep his pants from falling completely down. The white-haired bastard glanced down to see a long gash along the back of his hand, just below the strange black cloth that had defeated the blade of the half-elf. His glinting eyes widened in horror as he saw the thin glass rod gripped in the young wanderer's other hand, its jagged tip dripping blood. Without a word the dark-elven assassin turned and took off running down one of the many darkened alleys, and in that moment the young wanderer realized that he didn't have the strength to pursue.

As soon as he finally relaxed his technique disappeared like a popped bubble. Several stumbling steps led him shoulder-first into a nearby stack of crates, which tipped but mercifully remained upright. The heavy greatsword slipped from his suddenly weak grip, and the young wanderer's entire right arm exploded in pain as he found out just how much he had pushed himself. For several moments he leaned against the grimy crates, hair plastered to his face from the rain that was growing to be nearly a downpour. He managed to stand, though wobbly at first, and left the glass rod sitting on the crate as he walked unsteadily over to the prone Lamion.

Before he approached he knew, and as he flipped the dwarf over onto his back he looked into glazed eyes staring up into the rain. The young swordsman knelt in the grime and blood next to the stout bearded warrior and closed Lamion's eyes to this world of death and betrayal. Surprisingly, the wanderer felt what he thought was guilt at the death of the hardy dwarf, and remained for many long moments staring at his bearded face. As he thought back to the many times Lamion had saved him, the wind picked up and wailed an eerie lament to the dwarf who had once taken pity on a starving young half-elf.

[Ebivoulya]

Rain fell on a sea of soot-spewing metal towers that rode the waves of technological progress, trickled down grimy gutters and flooded into rank sewers. It vainly tried to wash away the stain of blood and sin from the cracked cobblestone alleyways that writhed behind buildings and between roads. Exhausted and drained, the young half-elf Nyadir stood still clutching his dirty and blood-soaked pants. A subtle scrape brought his eyes back to the downed dark-elf in surprise. The white-haired bastard was trying to crawl away, legs dragging uselessly through the grime and rainwater beneath him. The young wanderer took a few weary steps and flipped him over with a solid steel-toed kick to the shoulder.

A quick green flash brought the gloved hand of the barbarian's son up in time to catch the assassin's wrist, and his other palm instinctively struck the blade from dark fingers. The disheveled and angered Nyadir stepped hard on the dark-elf's other hand, and twisted the arm of the white-haired bastard up behind his back; then he looked at the knife. The smooth blade had a metallic sheen to it, along with a strange green tint, but the swordsman's eyes grew wide when he noticed that drops of rain didn't slide off the blade; they actually soaked into it. After a moment, the sunken-eyed Nyadir turned his mind back to the man whom he was making very uncomfortable, with a wary glance toward the other grime-covered alleys.

The crunch and snap of the bones in the dark elf's hand were hidden behind the rain, but the young wanderer could feel that hand twisting under his steel-plated heel. Tiny streams running down his arms changed course as he bent down and casually put his extremely sore and stiff right arm on the white-haired bastard's shoulder. The young barbarian's son stopped grinding the assassins hand into the cobblestones, and the dark thing glanced up over it's shoulders. "Why?" the wearied wanderer asked simply, and after a moment of silence prompted a response by continuing his efforts to reduce the hand to pale red mush.

The pain elicited a short gasp from the already crippled dark elf, and in that moment the swordsman noticed a few drops of rain fall past bloody teeth into the bastard's mouth. Just the thought of what a vile taste that would be made him nauseous, and he gave the assassin another chance to answer. After a few short gasps the dark elf finally obliged, the bitterness obvious in his voice. "We saw you leave the city yesterday..." The assassin paused with a groan, and coughed up blood; obviously that axe had done more than just snap his spine. "We...stole what you were after, but..."

At this point the young wanderer cut him off with a sharp twist of the arm, and after wiping some of the stinging rainwater from his eyes asked very clearly, "What is it that I'm carrying?" Thunder rolled in the distance as the gods clashed, and after a few gasps the assassin answered, "Plans...airship plans. We were going to...sell them to the Raierians, but they betrayed us." It wasn't hard to make the connection, and the young wanderer found himself thinking aloud. "So, you're the reason those Raiaerian troops were there."

The dark elf nodded, continuing. "Yes...When we saw the lightning user, we knew you would return with the plans...We weren't going to..." Another fit of coughing wracked the dark elf, and the young wanderer surmised that he would not survive the night without medical attention. "We weren't going to attack you, until we saw that you were alone...It was too good of an opportunity." The young wanderer thought on this for a moment, painfully lifting his right arm to wipe the rain from his face. Then he asked another question. "Who were you going to sell it to?" After another session of coughing the dark elf managed to speak. "Damrin, up in Knife's Edge...he works for The Company...supposed to...meet him at The Third Boar."

[Ebivoulya]

Now that he had all the information he would likely get, the still angered half-elf released the assassin's hand long enough to punch him hard in the back of the head; he was out cold, and hit the cobblestones with a wet smack. The young wanderer searched the dark elf, and found a purse with a few gold coins in it. He eyed the thin black belt around the tiny thing, but decided it wouldn't fit; he almost considered taking his strangely blade-resistant shirt as well. With a sigh, the bruised wanderer moved solemnly over to Lamion's body. Somehow, searching through the dwarf's belongings felt wrong, but the young swordsman needed whatever he could find to get as far away from this city as quickly as he could. He found much more gold on the stout dwarf, maybe even a few hundred pieces, and a wide brown leather belt.

Trying on the belt, he found that it fit fine, and then tied on the heavy purse of gold, along with his empty dagger sheath on the other side. Glancing down to the puddled alleyway floor, he found the green dagger glinting in the dim light next to a questionable puddle, and stumbled over to pick it up. The blade felt somewhat heavy in his hand, which he assumed was from the absorbed water, and the smooth green-tinted metal almost looked slightly porous. The simple black guard and handle fit his hand easily, and it seemed to be balanced to include the weight of the absorbed water. Blade as long as his hand, he found that it fit nicely in his dagger sheath, but a small loop at the end of the handle made him curious.

After searching the unconscious dark elf again he found two things he hadn't noticed before, and one of them was a spool of wire hooked onto the thin dark belt. He recalled a similar spool of wire he found on one of the Raierian dark elves. Instead of copper, this wire was made of a much stronger silver metal, possibly steel. There was also a small metal cap and clasp that only opened when pushed inward, and fit the small loop at the end of the dagger's handle perfectly. He also found a hollow, leather-wrapped tube with a sealed leather cap at one end hanging from one side of the assassin's belt. The swordsman immediately thought of the glass rod sitting in a puddle not far from him.

He didn't want to open the tube to find out lest it get wet and become useless, but from the weight and the way it shifted there was probably another poisoned glass rod inside. It seemed like a useful thing to have, so he unclasped the simple leather-wrapped tube from the dark elf's belt and attached it to the left side of his. It sat opposite his dagger and spool of wire, nestled up against the fat purse of coins. The half-elf rose and walked slowly to his greatsword, the burn on his left heel was just a dull ache, but his pants were too soaked to tell if the gashes in his leg had broken open. He looped his belt around his blade once again, steel dangling next to his purse and catching on the black cloak now wrapped around his shoulders.

[Ebivoulya]

With gritted teeth and an uncertain step the cloaked wanderer of dark paths disappeared again into the city, blending in with dirt covered beggars and stumbling drunkards as he made his way north. He stopped only twice, spending some of the gold he'd found on a few days worth of supplies and a new sheath for his greatsword, along with a fresh change of cloth pants. After only around an hour two city guards found themselves staring down the bloodied and foul-smelling half-elf, with the hilt of a blade sticking up over one shoulder and a leather satchel of supplies strapped under one arm. They let him through without question, probably to be rid of the stench, which clung to him despite the rain.

A great dark plain stretched before him, the sky flashing ominously and rumbling in anger. He followed the winding dirt road north for several hours, and the rain seemed to thicken shortly after he left the city; perhaps the smog actually thinned it out. The young wanderer found his right arm to be exceptionally stiff after such strain, and the dull ache in his shoulder wasn't going away either. The two gashes in his left leg, and the burn on his heel would need to be mended eventually. He could tell both were affecting his ability to focus, and he was certain one of the gashes had gone deep into the muscle. He barely had the strength to stumble down the muddy dirt road, though; he would need to rest.

Mercifully, he noticed a large copse of trees only a few hundred feet off the beaten path. His steps faltered, his heart suddenly filled with dread. There was no way he'd be able to stay awake and meditate as exhausted as he was. That meant he had to sleep, and that inevitably brought on the nightmares, the splintered memories of his past crimes. Lately, those had been leaving him with some sense of loss when he woke, as though the dark was taking pieces of him. It was not a pleasant thought. The sore and soaked swordsman managed to make it without collapsing, but once he felt sufficiently hidden by the brush all strength drained from him, and he slipped into the foreboding darkness.

-----------

The rustle of leaves and panicked breaths flew past rotting logs and under low branches wrapped in the shadow of a new moon. The forest rose up in defiance at every turn, until finally the desperate flight stumbled to a halt as dim woods became a solid wall of rock bending off in either direction. Moments later torchlight and screams burst into the small clearing, bathing the hunched figure of a tall swordsman with dark hair in bright light and even brighter hatred. The writhing mass before him was made not of men and torches, but suspicion and anger.

They wailed and yelled things he didn't understand, shaking their weapons until one stepped forward, silent and stern. Without word the blade plunged into the outcast swordsman's gut, and a familiar feeling enveloped him as he fell further from himself, but the darkness didn't come to shield his eyes this time. He felt his grin widen until it hurt, and watched his arm reach up towards the now uncertain hand gripping the sword in his stomach. As it touched, skin turned black and flaked away into dust, crawling up the arm of the one who had stepped forward. The blade still within the sociopathic swordsman's stomach began to flake away into black dust as well; thats when the screaming began.

[Ebivoulya]

A brilliant light stabbed in from the outside world, along with the sharp and dissonant calls of several very annoying birds. The foul-smelling wanderer rose blindly and angrily from his slumber, left hand searching desperately for a nearby rock. As soon as his gloved fingers wrapped around a nearly fist-sized stone, he immediately flung it up into the trees above him with an angry yell, scattering the birds. Slowly, he blinked away his senseless anger and allowed his eyes to adjust to the light of mid-day. The young swordsman very gratefully removed his boots with only his left hand, and then his crap-covered pants in favor of the fresh pair in his pack.

He didn't even try moving his right arm until after he was sitting comfortably in clean pants, with all his supplies ready at his side. The pain was quite surprising, and very relaxing, so he spent a few moments discovering that he could only move it an inch or two in any direction. He no longer questioned the comfortable familiarity he felt towards pain, he just enjoyed it, and lingered for a few minutes relishing the sensation. He then looked inward, toward the energy he felt within him, and noted that he still didn't have quite as much as normal. He knew he should deal with the wounds he still had from his battle with the lightning mage, though, and first focused on the gashes in his leg.

Over the course of a few seconds warmth enveloped them, and he could feel the dirt, dried blood, and scar tissue being pushed out of the wounds as muscle and skin knitted themselves back together. He then focused on his burned heel, and after a few moments of intense itch burned muscle and skin were replaced with fresh tissue. He stood and stretched his legs gratefully, glad to be rid of the dull ache, but he wasn't exactly sure how to relieve the bruise to his shoulder, or the soreness of his strained arm. He had always dealt with more predictable wounds, and had never had an occasion to heal such minor things. Rather than try, he decided to maintain what energy he had left in him to enhance his stamina as he headed north. The mad barbarian exited the copse of trees with his pack slung over his shoulder and already sweating from his enhancement.

After taking a brief moment to check that the leather folder was still tucked beneath his vest, he took off towards the north at a solid run. After a few minutes he settled into a more comfortable jog. He could maintain this pace for hours at a time, and within the first day the sparkling stretch of water snaking its way down out of the mountains appeared over the horizon. He always camped somewhere a bit off the beaten trail, and occasionally snared a rabbit or some other small game to stretch out his supplies. By the end of the fifth day he made it to the mountains, and began following them north towards a pass leading to some woods outside of Knife's Edge. The wanderer soon came across a decent-sized village, and restocked his supplies before continuing toward Salvar. He still caught what game he could, and was walking back to the place he wanted to set up camp with two rabbits in his hand and the mountains looming behind him when he came across a half-dozen barbarians covered in furs.

Without thinking he began focusing what little energy he had left into one desperate enhancement. Flashes of his childhood as a slave to barbarians from this same mountain range rose to mind unbidden. He had been dreading something like this ever since he came in sight of the mountains. It was the main reason he didn't try to cross them directly, and instead traveled days further north to the much larger pass. Despite his hopes, every single one of them recognized him. It seemed his escape was famous, and his description well-known. It also didn't help that the blue stone he'd kept around his neck since he was a child happened to be laying outside his vest, either.

The group yelled and rushed him just as he completed his enhancement technique, but he was forced to backpedal as he remembered that his blade was sticking out over the wrong shoulder. Thinking quickly, he undid the clasp of the sheath's strap across his chest and let it fall as he backed up; he almost tripped over the damn thing. The guard of his greatsword kept it caught in the hole in his cloak, and he threw his right shoulder down and forward as he jogged backwards facing down a half-dozen angry barbarians. The handle dipped low in front of his right shoulder, and he reached across to draw the blade, finally stopping his retreat. Grass flew from his steel heel as he burst into a sudden sprint forward that caught a few of them off guard.

[Ebivoulya]

The difference was immediately obvious, and the sword felt much heavier in his off-hand, but his enhancement pumped adrenaline through him constantly. He didn't waver as he closed in on the group and then changed direction at a surprising speed to pass by the outermost barbarian. The large man in layered hides had his massive axe up high to attack. He could not bring it down before the spry half-elf darted past and left his ribcage sliced wide open. Favoring hit-and-run tactics, the nimble wanderer turned his impressive momentum sharply a few paces beyond the still-startled group. He dashed back toward the backs of the two barbarians nearest the one who was just now dropping his axe and trying to stop the bleeding.

Two steel-heeled boots slammed into the back of one of the ambushing bastard's heads, snapping his spine in the process. The other turned his head just in time to see the gleefully grinning wanderer swing his greatsword one-handed and cleave the surprised barbarian's head in half. The mere thought of the pain he had wrought on them was delightful, and as he landed he caught the top of the barbarian's skull with his right hand as it fell, still with a bit of blood and viscera in it. Despite his enhancement, his right arm still felt weak. While staring at the closest barbarian to him, he held the skull-top up and took a small sip from it, proffering the bloody scalp-cup toward the other barbarians. "Thirsty?"

Needless to say, they didn't want any, and the long-haired madman threw down the piece of skull when the closest barbarian approached with a predictable attack; that's when the quite insane Nyadir made a mistake. He reached up casually to block the incoming axe, but his arm reverberated when the blades collided, and his lesser-used left hand lost its grip on the blade. He was quite surprised to see his greatsword fly out of his hand and off to the side, but the large axe about to cleave him in two caught his attention again. He instinctively stepped back a few paces, his weaker right arm raising up to the sheath of his dagger, and all his joy and confidence was now replaced with uncertainty.

The closest barbarian smiled, revealing rotting teeth behind his thick beard, and began slowly approaching while the two still alive behind him fanned out to either side. Shocked back to reality by the sudden turn of events, he remembered the glass rod hanging at his hip. He reached down with his left hand to feel the opening clasp as he kept an eye on the three advancing. He was already half-way through his enhancement technique, and he didn't have enough energy left for another. The young madman knew he had to do something decisive, and finally pulled open the cap on the leather-wrapped tube and pulled out the thin glass rod. He also drew the odd green dagger from it's sheathe at his right side, though his arm barely had the strength to swing. Without waiting for their reaction to his new arsenal, the young wanderer darted forward towards the first barbarian, who began a powerful sideways swipe as the smaller warrior drew near.

[Ebivoulya]

The blond barbarian just past the left shoulder of the one attacking had his weapon down at his side. The young wanderer nimbly turned before he reached the swinging blade and sprinted toward the light-haired one. This fur-covered man wielding a greatsword had little time to think, and immediately swung in a desperate upward swipe. The swordsman slowed down just enough to avoid the blade, and then nicked the exposed knee of the startled warrior with the glass rod in his left hand. He flicked the blood off of it as he turned sharply to come back at the group from behind.

A large axe nearly took off his head as the third barbarian turned to catch him, and he nimbly backed away and distanced himself from the three again. He could feel his energy slowly draining, and he had about twenty seconds to finish the fight before he was severely disadvantaged. The barbarian he had nicked with the glass rod suddenly dropped his axe and began stumbling. It was amazing how quick the poison took effect, Lamion must've had an impressive tolerance to have lasted so long. The dwarf's face flashed in his mind, and he slowly forced the guilt down as anger rose in its place. The other two barbarians glanced at their companion, then at the glass rod held casually in the wanderer's left hand. They exhibited two very different reactions, one rushing forward in anger, while the other immediately turned to flee.

The blood-drunk Nyadir was infuriated that one of them would try to escape, and coldly aware of the consequences if word of his location reached the barbarian king Balenthal. He weakly lifted his right arm, and strained through the pain to throw the odd green dagger as hard as he could at the fleeing barbarian's back. It flicked past the approaching barbarian, who flinched away from the knife, and fell several feet short of the sprinting barbarian's back; he had even dropped his greatsword. Curses spewed from the young wanderer's mouth, and he instantly dashed forward. He was determined to catch up to the fleeing coward, and entirely annoyed at the one who was charging him head-first. He nimbly side-stepped the huge man's swipe, and left a thin gash on the underside of the bastard's arm. The dismayed Nyadir continued sprinting towards the fleeing barbarian, but he knew he wouldn't make it.

Before he made it much further than his knife had, all his exuberance and vitality suddenly disappeared like a burst bubble. He stumbled to a stop just as the fleeing man disappeared behind a copse of trees. Startled by the thought, the young wanderer turned suddenly to locate the last barbarian, but the fur-covered man was already on his knees and breathing hard. The dark-haired young man walked back to the barbarian, picking up his thrown knife and sheathing it, along with the glass rod. As he approached, the man on his knees started laughing, then sputtered out "It's too late, now. He will hear of this, and next time you'll be facing an army." The comment annoyed the young wanderer for the truth of it, but his spiteful retort was preempted when the warrior dropped face-down in the grass.

[Ebivoulya]

The billowing wind of a sudden storm surged across the northern plains, and dark clouds swallowed the pinpricks of light in the sky like the wind swallowed the desperate breaths of the fleeing Nyadir as he jogged between copses of trees not far from the foot of the mountain range. He was reminded of his flight from the paranoid lightning mage less than a week prior, and his mind turned to dark thoughts as he followed the line of copses north. He was so exhausted he couldn't maintain the pace for long, and frequently had to rest for several minutes, desperately dredging up what little energy he could to keep running.

Some time in the middle of the night the young wanderer noticed movement a few hundred paces from him, toward the mountains, and he crouched low in a copse to hide. A few moments later he saw it again, but couldn't make out what it was. The young madman reluctantly reached into his mind to find the strange enhanced vision he had noticed when first returning to Ettermire. He struggled to maintain control of himself for a few moments, and when he finally found his mental balance he peered into the distance. Trees and grass jumped closer, their detail heightened by some pale red tinge that covered everything.

He could barely make out several men in black carefully spreading out and searching the copses, their eyes constantly checking for movement. As the young wanderer watched them, he noticed some of his energy reserves returning, and continued tracking their movements. Two of the half-dozen moved further south, back the way he had come, and two of them did the opposite, turning to the north. That left the remaining two coming toward his general direction, and he knew he would have to kill them to get away. He slowly released his strange vision enhancement, and to his surprise felt enough energy within him to enhance himself. That brought a smirk to his stubble-covered face, and he sat in the copse waiting with the strange green dagger held ready to throw.

It took a few minutes for one of the cloaked figures to draw near enough, and with a cringe he rose his still-sore arm and flung the dagger straight for the man's neck. It dropped more than the young wanderer had anticipated, but buried itself solidly into the figure's chest. As the body fell quietly to the ground, the young half-barbarian pushed half of his remaining energy into an enhancement technique. Sweat immediately popped out all over his skin. He darted forward as quietly as he could to retrieve his dagger while checking on the location of the other near-by barbarian. The man hadn't seen him, and he ran as stealthily as he could up behind him. Just as the cloaked figure turned, the sprinting wanderer drew his greatsword and cut the man clean in half with a powerful two-handed swing. He continued running past the falling corpse, re-sheathing his sword and vainly trying to re-create his enhanced vision; he couldn't maintain the concentration while running, though.

[Ebivoulya]

He stopped every hundred feet or so and peered around the red-tinted plains for a few seconds before moving on. After a few minutes of this he noticed movement again, and stopped to confirm two more dark figures searching the copses. Thunder rumbled in the far distance, the ancient gods banging hammer against shield in approval of the bloodshed. As the young swordsman quietly approached the first assassin, he hooked the spool of wire to his dagger, and spun it a few times beside him to get a feel for the weight. He felt confident he could take the man out at a distance, and launched the green-bladed knife to land handle-down on top of the man's head. With a curse the young wanderer burst from the copse and slew him with a single swing, annoyedly spinning the small crank at his belt. He sheathed his dagger, but left the wire attached to its hilt as he continued on.

The clouds rolled in, and soon the sky was filled with a crackling light show and booming percussion. The young blacksmith's son killed the next assassin at a quick run with his greatsword, not wanting to repeat the embarrassing mistake with the dagger. He still needed to get used to the wire, but tonight he could waste no time with practice. He had to kill and evade until he escaped this quickly-sprung trap. For the rest of the night he traveled north in this fashion, occasionally stopping to check for movement, and quickly dispatching anyone he found as he continued his extended run. By dawn he hadn't seen an anyone for several hours, and his legs were quite sore from running for so long. Initiating his enhanced vision no longer granted him any energy, and he finally ran out of steam as the sun came up. Collapsing into a copse, he immediately lost consciousness.

-----------

Red marble stretched into endless black, and the thousands of large standing mirrors framed in ornate dark wood threw the light of a single torch off into the distance. In every direction the puzzled reflection of the dark-haired swordsman turned his head in search of what he knew he would find here, but all he found was himself. A single footstep echoed in the great expanse, and then another as the wanderer found his stride and began his search. Every time he caught the eyes of one of his reflections, they seemed somehow off, but he dismissed this as mere fancy.

As the tall young madman passed one mirror, its reflection turned its head to watch him pass, and he stopped immediately. As soon as he stopped, every other reflection he could see turned it's head to face him, and his skin crawled. A tingling in his fingertips brought his sharp blue eyes down to widen in shock; the leather of his glove had turned black and began to flake away. As he watched, the skin underneath turned black as well, and he tore off his glove in horror. His hand continued to crumble into ash, and when he reached for his dagger with his other hand he felt his fingers flake and drift away as they touched the handle. His reflections began laughing in unison, and he could feel the darkness closing in again. Somehow, he knew he would not return from that black void.

[Ebivoulya]

Once the blinding rays of day finally woke him, he began running north again and didn't stop until another dawn rose; he didn't see a single soul. He noticed the curve of the mountain range changing, and expected to reach the pass into Salvar the next day. He felt excited to have escaped as he sat down to eat some of the little cheese he had remaining. His sleep was plagued with visions of the dead, as it often was. He awoke in a sour mood, and out of caution chose not to run, but instead approached the pass slowly. He was well aware that this was the most likely place for the babrarian king to lay his ambush, but the young wanderer had little choice. He walked for several hours and finally entered the pass as the sun began dropping in the west. He stopped every few minutes to check the area with his enhanced vision. The young swordsman didn't notice anyone until he was deep within the pass and the sun was flaring as it began to drop below the horizon.

Hiding up against one side of the winding pass, he enhanced his vision and seven figures leapt toward his eyes. A half-dozen fur-covered barbarians stalked warily through the pass, and a smaller man dressed in black walked casually behind them. They almost spotted him, but he ducked back behind the rock and began to think of a plan. Somehow, the smaller man in black made him uneasy, but he focused on preparing an enhancement technique. Over nearly half a minute he focused until he managed to contain and utilize twice the energy of his normal enhancement, leaving him with half his reserves drained. As soon as the technique began, sweat began pouring down his face and he was nearly consumed with the all-encompassing need to move; standing still suddenly became the hardest thing he had ever done. He drew his greatsword as quickly as he dared, careful of making too much noise, and held it uncertainly in his left hand.

As he darted around the corner he was surprised by his own speed, now roughly four times his normal capacity. He quickly turned his mind back to the task at hand, though, and got within thirty paces of the group before the man in black noticed him. Suddenly the ground just in front of the group erupted in a swiftly-rising wall of stone the width of the pass. With a mighty leap the nimble Nyadir soared up to a smooth outcropping roughly ten feet up, and with another push-off he made it over the wall as it continued to rise. His sense of time was stretched, and he calmly looked down toward the group as he angled his feet to catch the underside of another outcropping. The smaller man yelled to alert the others just as the young wanderer pushed off back toward them, but the confused barbarians didn't have much time to react.

The large steel greatsword of the mad barbarian's son dove down through the shoulder and chest of one of the barbarian ambushers as he landed with a loud impact just in front of the earth mage. With a smile on his face he snatched the dagger from its sheath at his waist as he swiftly rose to his feet and slashed through the short man's throat. His right arm showed no signs of soreness or weakness in his current condition. Not wasting a moment, the young wanderer twisted around, the greatsword in his left hand arcing over him and down through the ribs of another barbarian. The wire was attached to his dagger, and he halted the momentum of his sword and flung the knife viciously into the neck of the large man behind the falling corpse. He spun again, and the lower half of the first barbarian he had killed still tottered on its knees.

He dashed past it with his left shoulder forward and his blade down to his side, and with another mighty swing the swordsman cut yet another of his would-be assailants in half. The man's feebly-held blade could not stop the force of the blow, and it flew off down the trail as the young wanderer grabbed the wire running between him and the dagger planted in the still-gurgling barbarian's throat behind him. He darted around his latest victim as he pulled the wire to sling his dagger forward. The first of the remaining fur-covered men had his large blade up in a vain attempt to block, and the other immediately began a wide horizontal swipe as soon as he caught sight of the dark-haired blur.

The young wanderer slung his dagger forward, and the wire caught on the barbarian's blade, the green wire-bound knife whipping around towards his face. The muscular man flinched back but still got a nasty gash along one cheek. The young swordsman's greatsword dove into the distracted barbarian's chest cavity, and he reached up with his other hand to catch the pale-green blade as it swung back toward him. Almost easily he ducked the powerful swing of the last barbarian with just a quick glance. The blood-drunk Nyadir spun in his crouch and brought his blood-covered blade around to cleave the last attacker's head from his shoulders. The hunted young man finally paused, and heard three bodies drop almost simultaneously with a satisfying thud. The pass grew quiet, and as he looked further down it he noticed figures in black emerging from crevices above him all along the rocky walls of the mountain pass.

[Ebivoulya]

The dark-haired young man was gone before the ground he was standing on erupted into a shower of stone, but immediately he was ducking granite spikes that stabbed out from the walls of the pass, and narrowly avoiding the occasional swirling ball of flame. The path ahead of him writhed as parts of the trail fell away to form sudden pits, and solid pillars or spikes of stone shot out from the walls or the ground. He sheathed his greatsword as he leaped over a suddenly widening gap, and slammed into a pillar of stone that rose up before him. With desperation he clawed his way atop the pillar, then leaped off to avoid the pressurized stream of water that sliced through it a heartbeat later.

Spikes grew from the stone outcropping toward which he flew, and with a quick thought he let go of the dagger in his right hand and grabbed the wire at the spool. He pulled more wire from the spool as he raised his hand above his head. The mortal madman managed to swing the dagger once haphazardly before launching it toward one of several tall spikes that had sprouted from the ground. The spool spun furiously at his waist as the wire slid through his gloved fingers, and he gripped it tightly just as the dagger passed the spike. The wire snapped taught, and the young wanderer nervously eyed the sharp stone stretching out toward him as the blade quickly spun several times around the thinning pillar. The screech of metal on stone filled the pass, and the young wanderer groaned as the wire cut into his hand, even through the leather glove.

He kept his right arm locked while the wire redirected his momentum; he barely avoided a painful landing. The wickedly-sharp stone spikes left twin gouges down his left arm as he swung past, however. A thick stone pillar quickly shot out in an attempt to take his head, but he managed to duck it as he switched hands with the wire, and reached down to release the spool from his belt. His eyes darted back in surprise when the wire suddenly went loose, and he saw the spike dissolve out from underneath it. He quickly jerked the dagger back toward him with his left arm and began spinning the crank on the spool furiously. He released the wire as the dagger neared, and caught the thick metal thread again a few feet below the handle. The relieved swordsman let the momentum of knife carry it into an overhead spin as he continued spinning the small crank at his belt to retract the wire back into the spool.

He re-sheathed the dagger just before landing roughly, and scrambling toward a nearby lip of earth as the ground fell away beneath him. The strained swordsman blinked away yet more sweat as he climbed up and darted past another impromptu pillar. He continued down the pass like this for a few long minutes. It seemed the ambush had been centered at that point, though, and there were soon no more mages hurling the elements down from on high. He could feel his energy draining fast, and came to a sputtering halt off to one side of the pass, nervously glancing over his shoulder as he struggled to catch his breath. His enhancement finally ended after only a few moments of rest, and suddenly the soreness in his legs built up from days of running came crashing back, along with an awareness of the pain in his left arm.

[Ebivoulya]

While still gasping for breath, the young wanderer quickly focused on the twin gashes in his arm, both of which were leaking a fair amount of blood. The pain was comforting, but he knew he wouldn't last long with those wounds, and after several agonizingly slow moments he managed to seal them. He was jogging down the path again before he had even caught his breath, and in his paranoia he attempted to enhance his sight. He always felt dirtied when rubbing his mind up against the dark dwelling within him. He expected no results, but to his surprise the path before him suddenly jumped closer and turned a pale tinge of red. He felt a bit of his energy being restored as well, and jogged at a normal pace for a few minutes while constantly checking behind him. He had gone through that gauntlet so fast he wasn't even sure how great a distance it had been; perhaps they wouldn't be able to catch up to him for a while.

After another few minutes of occasionally slipping out of his state of enhanced vision and having to work his mind back into it, he had built back up enough energy for his normal enhancement; he hoped he could escape if there was another trap waiting for him ahead. His suspicions were confirmed not long afterward, and what confidence he had faltered. The trail was much wider here, as much as thirty paces in parts. From one end to another he could see many small groups of barbarians, far too many to kill alone. He also spied a few men in black lining the steep walls of the pass, though not quite as many as the first trap he had avoided. He slowed down to a stop and began focusing on his energy. Thanks to his vision, he had spotted the ambush even though he was still too far away to be seen clearly. After a few seconds sweat popped out on his skin again, and the same overwhelming desire to move overcame him as he reached up to draw his blade. The air was colder up here, and for a moment, he savored it.

One of the barbarians spotted him within thirty paces of them, and a badly-timed ball of fire exploded in front of him. Without hesitation the young barbarian leaped through the dispersing flames, and looked up in time to duck one stream of water just as another sheared a patch of skin off of his left forearm. The pain brought a delighted grin to his face, and he darted forward without pause. Vines sprouted suddenly just ahead of him, and he veered to avoid them in time to narrowly duck another fireball thrown with much better accuracy than the first. Within a few moments he met with the first group of barbarians and the elemental attacks ceased.

A heavily swung blade reached for his face and was easily ducked, but another slashed down to cut off his path, and he was forced to divert to the side underneath another powerful swing. His sword came up through the ribcage of the one who interrupted his progress, and lopped off the arm of another before he ducked between two confused warriors further into fray. He dodged and ran, severing anything that got in his way with a twisted glee. In several chaotic and bloody moments he broke free of the swelling pustule of barbarians only to be stopped by a very unexpected sight.

[Ebivoulya]

About thirty paces behind the barbarians was another, very similar group several ranks deep, and the entire pass floor between the two groups was a twenty-pace deep pit with plenty of spikes at the bottom. With only a quick glance to both sides of the pass, the young wanderer slipped his blade through his belt and took off along the back edge of the first group toward one wall. His first leap brought him to a rounded outcropping, and he quickly calculated the angle before springing off onto another outcropping several feet higher and a fair distance away, A few spikes shot out in front of him and he quickly scrambled up them like ladder rungs before grabbing the edge of the outcropping and crawling up. He found another viable landing spot and leaped a moment before the area he was in sprouted spikes like weeds. Ducking a fairly accurate ball of flame, the soaring swordsman twisted out of the way of a pressurized jet of water before haphazardly bounding off of yet another outcropping.

A sudden explosion of stone from the nearby wall bombarded him with several fist-sized chunks that pushed him off course. One of them connected solidly with his head, and his vision went fuzzy for a second as he spun uncontrollably toward the lip of the pit on the opposite side of the pass. He dizzily locked his eyes onto the edge of the pit and twisted just enough to reach up and grab it as he slammed into the sheer side. His greatsword clattered against the stone, and nearly slid out of his belt. The battered half-elf managed to start pulling himself up, despite two decidedly broken ribs, when a square pillar extended from just below the edge of the pit to push him in.

In an adrenaline-fuled haze he threw his right elbow up onto the pillar as it extended into his chest. He managed to get one foot up to scramble up over it and into the waiting arms of a good three dozen barbarians. Blood streamed down one side of the young wanderer's face, he could barely move his right arm, and every breath was a pain, but he ran towards the seemingly endless sea of fur-covered warriors none-the-less. These were ready for him, and he desperately ducked and twisted as he dove into their ranks, often barely blocking or parrying an oncoming blade. He still managed to get several gashes on his legs and arms before he got close to the edge. He twisted to avoid one blade, then ducked another and twisted in his crouch to continue running, but as soon as he rose back up to his feet a sudden impact on his back made him falter, and he stumbled.

He could feel the hilt of the knife resting snugly against his back, and he could tell one of his lungs had been punctured; it was quickly filling with blood. Another blade suddenly sprouted from his stomach, and his sword clattered to the stone when yet another dove into his torso. Memories of waking up to piles of dismembered corpses suddenly sprang to mind as his vision grew dim; the malevolent spirit dwelling within him desired to protect its host body. Numbly, he wondered if the faces of these men would one day haunt his dreams like those of so many others, but he no longer had the strength to fight and slipped quietly into a silent sea of black.

[Philomel]

Thread Title: Along The River's Edge (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?25080-Along-The-River-s-Edge-%28Solo%29)
Judgment Type: Full Rubric
Participants: Ebivoulya

Many apologies for the lateness of this judgement.



Plot: 21/30

Story- 7/10

The story itself is heavily reliant on tension, fighting and personal relationships, which in itself is told well. From the opening few posts in the bar, to the fighting and then ending with a major battle with the Barbarians, a tale is told of personal achievement and desires, wherein Nyadir and Lamion seem to establish a stronger relationship. Here is some character development, which is always good in a story - however, there is also slightly too much reliance on battle. With little dialogue and lots of action, this story tells a tale of two wandering fighters (or one, depending on perspective) who get into fights after hearing some men talking in a bar. What it lacked was some interest into more personal thoughts, perhaps, a break to explain how Nyadir and Lamion got to know each other, more about them themselves, a background or two. This would have told us where they were coming from, rather than just what they did and where they are going. That being said, your ending was fully immersive and dramatic, with the reader definitely feeling the, “silent sea of black” through your action, tone and words, which was more or less done brilliantly.

Setting- 8/10

In terms of Prose, Setting is easily your strongest point here. You set each scene with good writing technique, from the opening to the end, describing people in each one, colours, atmosphere and even sound (“eerie lament,” post 10). With a lot of posts you open well, with a good grasp of description to open your settings, and then continue to describe them as you go through. Often an easy issue is to more or less forget setting but as you have a lot of action within your piece, and you have the characters interact with said scenery, you continue to remind the reader of where this scene is set. Around the middle of the thread you do tend to get carried away with objects and weapons rather than the grass, light etc that was your strong point at the beginning of the piece, so encouragement here to just have a good continuity in your strength of scene dressing. Particular points of highlights are definitely the opening of post one, where you describe the swaying of grass in a gorgeously mesmerising way, and the final closing battle.

Pacing- 6/10

Overall pacing was good. The story did not get too ahead of itself, with the various fights and scenes happening in a clear believable order under good timing. The fights themselves did not seem too rushed, and who was winning was definitely clear. Perhaps the largest issue, however, in terms of Pacing, that effected the overall power of your story was your paragraphing (please see Mechanics for more comments). Your paragraphs were all of equal balanced size, which is a good technique to have, showing that you think visually - however for particular moments of absolute tension, it would have been good to lengthen these, to separate out some sentences from the larger paragraphs and build up the rise in tension for more effect. There are parts where a sentence could easily have its own paragraph, for instance, the last paragraph of post 10 could be broken up, and also the final ending. This would not only help to improve your rise of action, but also help to leave more exciting deneumonts. Overall, however, paced out well in terms of writing.



Character: 17/30

Communication- 4/10

For this thread, your character development and general attributes lacked when compared to the other sections of this rubric. Communication, on the whole, was almost non-existent, with what little there being hidden inside large paragraphs. Post 6 has the first bit of communication, but by other characters, along with post 16; “It's too late, now. He will hear of this, and next time you'll be facing an army.” Indeed, the latter example does give a good tension starter, with hints of a darker future and more excitement, but in terms of Nyadir it would have been good to see some elements of how he speaks/communicates. Indeed, there are parts in post 11, but they are really the first things he says. Indeed, he may not talk much at all, but people can speak to themselves, speak to inanimate objects, use sign language, develop a style of habitually communication or similar. Even indirect speech (i.e. “He said that he was not happy” etc) is not clearly visible here. There is something of a madness in your character, but perhaps use this and communication to perhaps push your character further. Also, in terms of Lamion, there feels like there should have been more communication between them. By writing more clear communication you will improve your writing.


Action-7/10

Action was much better done that communication. Through harsh violent actions of indecision and curiosity-like natures, you paint a picture of someone who is determined and strong, but almost mad, which is really well laid out and shown through your words. Particular strengths lie in scenes when Nyadir is interacting with others who have no direct association with him, but rather who are there for the story. Your very minor characters also, such as the “plump old woman” from post 4 are used as clever tactics in your writing in his rushing and the general action, to reveal more about him and his haste. Characters such as “Lamion” are integral to the story, and you do make more of an effort with Nyadir to establish a stronger relationship with him, through actions such as looks between the two, more than the plump old woman, which is really what you want. Actions in general were written well, though a weak point is in that you rely too heavily on larger fighting, and forget sometimes the subtleties of minor ones that can have great consequences in the future.

Persona- 6/10

A persona is present in your piece concerning your character. Emotions such as “anger” and “exhaustion” are present, which you discuss at times, and elaborate on with great skill (please see Prose before, especially Technique) and are also used in interaction with other characters. A great amount of eye contact is used, which has been often said to relay a thousand words, and you describe well different looks, which is important and effectively done. Weaknesses here are mainly within internal thought - with such an interesting character as yours, who seems to have either a slight amount of insanity or anger control problems, you have the potential to really bring them to life with internal dialogue. This can be used as italicised words and sentences that show what your character is thinking to themselves. It would also help, here, your communication.



Prose: 22/30

Mechanics- 6/10

Ideally, Mechanics was near perfect, with very little in the way of spelling errors, punctuation mistakes or sentence structure. You have a firm grasp of how the English language works, which is excellent and a firm good base. What stops you, however, from getting full marks here, is the simplicity of what you use. There is no real experimentation with alternative punctuation, which would especially help with your pacing and rise of action. As mentioned in Pacing you have a very defined way of paragraphing, which is laid out visually very neat, however you most definitely could try to play around with things such as ellipses - “...” - and semi colons, which would help perhaps to assist the reader in feeling more of the action and tension in a better way. Punctuation is a tool used to communicate how the writer feels about the piece and his/her characters in their times of turmoil and trial, and also joy.
One note - you might want to think about placing each line of speech on a new line. Every new speaker should have their own paragraph, and this rule is broken in posts 6 and 11. Also, however, extending from this it helps in terms of neatness to have every new part of speech on a new line, without other action. The former point is more or less a rule, and this has gone towards your final score here, however the latter one is just a suggestion.
Through this, and the other suggestions, your writing will improve.

Clarity- 8/10

Clarity is, for the majority, in this piece very well done and simple. There is little to say other than that there is much joy for the reader to be able to read every sword stroke and rebuttal of said strokes, in clear defined language. Your use of language is extremely strong, and you have a good grasp of what can be used and how it is used, in terms of punctuation, word choice, terms of phrase etc. There is little chance to get lost in your piece - apart from perhaps in paragraphing where large paragraphs with a punchy tension ending might lose their clarity with the size of them. Overall, however extremely well done.

Technique- 8/10

In some ways, overall use is a little cliche, with many words and terms of speech coming out in a familiar and unadventurous fashion ... This aside however, your technique itself is extremely powerful and dramatic. From the opening scene you describe very well, with great rise and fall of changing in tone, moving from description in the piece to a part of action enacted by the characters. Your opening is essentially one of the strongest openings this judge has read this side of the new year, and as mentioned in setting you have a really good way of manipulating language. Overall, perhaps, it would have been good to see a little more metaphor, but you have a firm set of imagery and thus, points here for this.



Wildcard: 5/10

Wildcard points here go to a story well told, wherein fighting is the main concern but it is told in a way much like a folk tale, with every precise and acted out well. Everything in this thread is somewhat believable and connects to the reader, which is always wonderful in a tale.



Final Score: 65/100

Ebivoulya (http://www.althanas.com/world/member.php?64-Ebivoulya) receives:

2480 EXP!
290 GP!

Congratulations!

"Use a picture. It's worth a thousand words." Arthur Brisbane

As always, please PM me if you have any questions.

[Hysteria]

xp and gold added!

Spoils: plynt dagger comes to 75 GP and the steel wire to around 75 GP also, deducted 140 gold (5% spoil discount) from gold awarded.