Darigaaz
01-02-15, 10:43 AM
Closed. After the events in What Lies Below (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?28500-What-Lies-Below&p=241586#post241586)
Dry air heaved over the desert like a sickly child. Cresting gusts of sand-riddled wind offered no respite as they met the handful of survivors stranded atop the white dunes. Hateful sunlight bored down on the elves as they crawled in vain toward the distant spires of Ettermire. "So close," rasped one voice. "They will save us."
The sands beyond the greatest of all cities in Althanas were a brutal, unforgiving avatar of the Dark Elves own will. Vast, scattered with ruins of ancient civilization and failed ingenuity alike. Littered with the corpses of those who could not adapt. Beyond the glories of its technological triumph, Alerar was a glorified wasteland. "Water," hissed another, pained voice as the dying elf smeared blood across white sand in his wake.
Reality had shattered for them. A confluence of ancient power had torn at their minds and left only delusion to take solace in. Hollowed eyes sunken in their pained faces stood eternal testament to their plight. Among their broken band, three had already fallen victim to the dispassionate desert. The few left soldiered toward Ettermire with little true hope of success. One among them, cradled in robes of inky black, walked seemingly unaffected.
"You saw the things beneath the surface," Asric, the Elven Anthropologist spoke to the robed figure softly, "was it worth this? Was any of it worth the loss we incurred?"
Twin streaks of orange fire found the deep, searching blues of Asric, and the grayed elf felt his shoulders sag. Something impossibly ancient touched his mind briefly, then flickered away like a candle blown out. "Nothing ever is," came the hushed reply, a dry and cracking voice marred by disuse. Asric bit his lip to stop a pained outcry. "Civilizations since the dawn of time have dabbled and toiled with powers beyond their understanding. Their reward," ghostly pale hands stretched out toward the husks of broken buildings that reached skyward from beneath the sand, but fell woefully short. "Is evident."
"Cynicism is the reward for those who survive," Asric mused without humor. He watched the dark man walk past, a black stain amid the desert of broken dreams. "Does the heat not slow you down?" he asked in admiration. "The rest of us are dying."
"Heat is life," came a bitter reproach. Darkness twisted as the figure rounded on Asric and bent close, face to face with the aged elf. "All the races of the world knew that once. They embraced it, welcomed it, and loved it." The low growl that accompanied the lilting voice now seemed... unattached. It crackled like flame. Asric fell back a step in surprise, and the figure righted itself. A withered, white hand went to its head. "I do not remember," he admitted at last, "why this infuriates me so."
"Ettermire is a day's walk, or more," Asric told the man in black. "I may not make it home alive, but I will walk beside you for a time. I am called Asric," he introduced himself.
When the orange gaze settled on him again, Asric realized the man was in thought. "Once," he muttered, "I was called Darigaaz."
Dry air heaved over the desert like a sickly child. Cresting gusts of sand-riddled wind offered no respite as they met the handful of survivors stranded atop the white dunes. Hateful sunlight bored down on the elves as they crawled in vain toward the distant spires of Ettermire. "So close," rasped one voice. "They will save us."
The sands beyond the greatest of all cities in Althanas were a brutal, unforgiving avatar of the Dark Elves own will. Vast, scattered with ruins of ancient civilization and failed ingenuity alike. Littered with the corpses of those who could not adapt. Beyond the glories of its technological triumph, Alerar was a glorified wasteland. "Water," hissed another, pained voice as the dying elf smeared blood across white sand in his wake.
Reality had shattered for them. A confluence of ancient power had torn at their minds and left only delusion to take solace in. Hollowed eyes sunken in their pained faces stood eternal testament to their plight. Among their broken band, three had already fallen victim to the dispassionate desert. The few left soldiered toward Ettermire with little true hope of success. One among them, cradled in robes of inky black, walked seemingly unaffected.
"You saw the things beneath the surface," Asric, the Elven Anthropologist spoke to the robed figure softly, "was it worth this? Was any of it worth the loss we incurred?"
Twin streaks of orange fire found the deep, searching blues of Asric, and the grayed elf felt his shoulders sag. Something impossibly ancient touched his mind briefly, then flickered away like a candle blown out. "Nothing ever is," came the hushed reply, a dry and cracking voice marred by disuse. Asric bit his lip to stop a pained outcry. "Civilizations since the dawn of time have dabbled and toiled with powers beyond their understanding. Their reward," ghostly pale hands stretched out toward the husks of broken buildings that reached skyward from beneath the sand, but fell woefully short. "Is evident."
"Cynicism is the reward for those who survive," Asric mused without humor. He watched the dark man walk past, a black stain amid the desert of broken dreams. "Does the heat not slow you down?" he asked in admiration. "The rest of us are dying."
"Heat is life," came a bitter reproach. Darkness twisted as the figure rounded on Asric and bent close, face to face with the aged elf. "All the races of the world knew that once. They embraced it, welcomed it, and loved it." The low growl that accompanied the lilting voice now seemed... unattached. It crackled like flame. Asric fell back a step in surprise, and the figure righted itself. A withered, white hand went to its head. "I do not remember," he admitted at last, "why this infuriates me so."
"Ettermire is a day's walk, or more," Asric told the man in black. "I may not make it home alive, but I will walk beside you for a time. I am called Asric," he introduced himself.
When the orange gaze settled on him again, Asric realized the man was in thought. "Once," he muttered, "I was called Darigaaz."