View Full Version : Charms
This is a solo quest.
Tel'Han was a small community. It numbered only a few hundred people, and most of them were bent on an ambitious quest to become the greatest mage in the village. The magic came in many varieties. Some preferred pure magic, while others used it to imbue weapons. Some could shapeshift. Some could read minds and communicate telepathically. But even these serious, devoted people found ways to have fun through sport and competition. In one of the larger buildings in the village, such a sport was taking place at that very moment.
The small group of applauding fans cheered the competitors on, urging each to greater heights. Atzar, however, didn’t even hear them. His mind was elsewhere.
The game was called Charms. Each player stood on opposite ends of an enchanted table, hands gripped tightly around the two metal handles protruding from each side. Through these handles, their magic essence flowed into the table, which effectively became a battlefield. While his hands gripped the metal handles, Atzar embodied a tiny figurine on the battlefield. He saw what the fighter saw, he felt (albeit to a lesser extent) what the fighter felt. If he wanted to dodge to the left and duck, the fighter dodged to the left and ducked. If he wanted to hurl a rock at his opponent with his mind, his little mage hurled a rock at its adversary. The table was also, in essence, an invisible cage. Nothing, be it fighter or fireball, could penetrate the invisible barrier that surrounded the arena on all sides. Atzar, inhabiting the body of one of the fighters, viewed his surroundings.
The table appeared fairly ordinary to the spectators, perhaps ten feet long on each side. To the minuscule fighters, however, it was vast. Each side appeared to be at least several hundred feet long, and the environment was incredibly diverse, allowing the fighters to use nearly any type of magic they wished. Precisely in the center of the arena rose a large mountain, packed with snow and ice. At the base yawned the mouth of a sizable cave, overflowing with boulders and debris for earth-users. Atzar knew from experience that there was a small pond on the other side of mountain, fed by a river that ran from the mountain. There were numerous lit torches placed sporadically around the landscape as tools for those who wished to use fire. Air, as always, was present all around them. In short, it was an elemental paradise for the mage-in-training.
Atzar looked upward, squinting to see the massive shadows that loomed over them. The mage knew them to be spectators, undoubtedly chanting and cheering them on. The strange environment, however, muted all outside noise, rendering the landscape strangely silent. In addition, the lack of strong light in the room made the arena dark and shadowy.
The fighter’s attention returned to the world in front of his eyes. His task now was to find his adversary, a considerable feat in itself given the sheer size of the battlefield. But it wasn’t likely to accomplish itself, and Atzar decided to go look for him.
Taking his first steps, Atzar approached the icy mountain in front of him. He preferred to fight on the mountain; it was a large stage with lots of cover, and the mage was fairly confident with his ice magic in relation to the rest of his arsenal. Reaching the base of the imposing peak, the mage started the tiresome hike into the frosty crags.
Where could he be?
Atzar had been traipsing over the mountain for awhile now, and still he hadn’t seen any trace of his adversary.
He had reached the other side of the peak. Sitting on a nearby ledge that was free of snow, he gazed out with weary eyes towards the lake below. He knew he was fooling himself. It was much too dark, and he was much too far away to actually be able to see his foe, even if he had been by the water. But he was so tired and frustrated that he didn’t care. He just wanted out of this fight.
Sinking his head into his hands, the weary mage started to think back to previous fights. He had fought many battles in several arenas, but he didn’t remember having any like this. It was frequently a vexing chore to seek out his opponent, but Atzar didn’t remember having any rounds that were quite this bad. It was ridiculous. He heard a snap to his left, and Atzar came back to his senses with a start, eyes darting in the direction of the noise. A torch, flames licking merrily, was stabbed into the ground a short distance away. Groaning audibly, the mage’s head sunk into his hands once again. That’s all it was. A torch. Abruptly rising to his feet, Atzar turned and stalked off down another trail, past the still-crackling torch. He no longer gave any thought to stealth or caution. He no longer cared. The mage just wanted the battle to be over.
The trail led back down the mountain, and Atzar’s toes were jammed further into his shoes with every step. He winced. Tel’Han was in the center of a fair-sized mountain range, and Atzar had been on a few excursions into their depths. He knew how much the blisters from a downhill trek hurt, and this knowledge was enough to make him grateful that damage done in Charms didn’t carry over to reality. The mage progressed most of the way down the mountain, eyes straying only rarely from the path in front of him. Even in a surreal world such as this, it still wouldn’t be a fun experience to trip on a patch of ice and roll all the way down the mountain.
Atzar continued his weary, irritated trudge down the side of the frost-riddled mountain. Suddenly, he stopped.
A noise. And it wasn’t a torch this time. In fact, Atzar couldn’t see any torches anywhere.
Strange.
There. The noise sounded again, a steady crunch that rang over the mountain at steady intervals. The sound was unmistakable. Footsteps.
Immediately, Atzar crouched down to try to avoid being seen, all ire pushed from his mind. His eyes scanned the mountain below him. Yes, it was definitely coming from that direction. Probably, Atzar guessed, around the steep wall of ice and rock on the right side of the trail.
The steps grew louder, and Atzar began to see the glow of flames reflect dimly off of the ice and snow into his eyes. Yes, his opponent was definitely coming. There was no need to search for a weapon. The mage knew where he was, and he knew what was around him: ice, snow, and rock. The first two would be Atzar’s tools.
The glow of the flames got brighter, and Atzar edged up against the side of the mountain face next to the trail. The later his opponent noticed him, the better of a chance he stood.
Brighter still. Atzar tensed up in preparation for the coming explosion.
His foe rounded the corner. He was slightly shorter than Atzar, but considerably more muscular, and his face wore a beard to compliment his short hair. He carried a bundle of three torches in each hand. Atzar scarcely knew more than the man's name: Brugo Molas. His choice of ammunition, however, made his strengths obvious to all. Fire vs. ice: Atzar already had a disadvantage. Brugo advanced further up the trail, blinded somewhat by the light of his own torches. He still hadn’t noticed Atzar lurking in the shrinking shadows. Remaining crouched, the mage looked to his sides. There. Reaching down slowly, Atzar grabbed a chunk of ice that had probably fallen off of the mountain face. There were a few more similar pieces scattered in the same area.
Time to strike.
Atzar stood up suddenly and drew his arm back. He let the chunk of ice fly at his prey with the strength of his arm, and then suddenly kicked his magic into play. Defying the laws of physics, the ice chunk suddenly sped up on its way to its destination.
The ice rocketed into the chest of its target with the stunning force, shattering on impact and knocking Brugo back several feet. The torches flickered as Brugo instinctively milled his arms to keep his balance. The surprise and pain was clear on his face. No time to think. Atzar grabbed another piece of ice and employed the same tactics. He tossed the projectile at his foe and then pushed it along with his magic to boost it.
Bad shot. Where the previous attack had hit him in the chest, this one only glanced off his side. And now it looked like Brugo had finally recovered his wits. He stabbed each of the torches in the ground in a semicircle. It didn’t take Brugo long at all to respond after that.
All of a sudden, each of the torches began spewing flame in Atzar’s direction, filling the air with heat and flame. The incredulous mage, seeing all of the fire heading his way in a wave of pure hell, had one thought:
Run!
Atzar ducked and turned on his heels, hearing and feeling the wave of fire pass over his head in a crackling blaze. The idea needed no consideration. He had no intention of being roasted. His feet pounded into the shallow, light snow under his feet, powering him into motion back up the slope of the mountain. Brugo’s fire had limited range, and Atzar reasoned that he would be relatively safe if he got far enough away.
His theory was wrong, and he realized that as soon as he heard the crackle directly behind him. Suddenly, he felt considerable heat on his back. Inhaling sharply in pain, the mage immediately struggled to remove his smoldering shirt. He kept on running as he pulled the gray, nondescript cloth over his head and cast it to one side. By now, he had put nearly fifty feet between himself and Brugo. Surely that was enough. Atzar chanced a glance back. Brugo didn’t move, but rather just stared up in his direction, a grim frown set upon his face.
Why doesn’t he follow?
As he ran, puzzlement over this strange tactic collided with burning pain in a battle for his attention. The former finally triumphed. What could be gained by not pressing his advantage? Was Brugo really so arrogant that he felt he didn’t need to exploit it? Atzar was confused.
The trail made a slight turn to the left, and Brugo was lost behind the imposing wall of ice and rock that flanked the path. Atzar, panting now, slowed to a halt and put his hands on his knees to rest. The burn reasserted itself to the front of his mind. The mage scooped a handful of refreshing snow to place it on his burn. The cold was shocking at first, but the dulling of the pain was soothing.
Atzar continued up the trail. Perhaps he could ambush Brugo again when the fire mage finally gave pursuit. Guerilla tactics; hit and run, whittle away at the enemy’s strength. It seemed a lot more attractive than a face-to-face showdown with a wizard of superior talent. His burned back flared briefly in pain, as if in agreement.
The wall of ice on his left side gradually descended to meet him until finally it became level with the path he followed. This observation caught in Atzar’s mind. Stopping and gazing at the wall of ice at his feet, he doubled back, walking along the clifftop as the beaten trail dropped away beneath him. At the very least, Atzar surmised, I can keep track of Brugo. The higher ground will give me that much. Luckily, the ice beneath his feet was mixed with enough snow that traction wasn’t particularly treacherous. Still, he didn’t stray too close to the edge as he walked; to tempt fate was just stupid.
He neared the bend in the trail where he had first ambushed Brugo, and the cliff suddenly dropped away in front of him, leaving him standing on a fairly wide peninsula in the middle of a sea of nothingness. A dazzling view of a great portion of the arena spread out before him.
Even in the mediocre light, Atzar could see much of the battlefield in front of him. The rolling hills at the foot of the mountain were mere mounds at such a distance, and the lake could only be described as a dark blue blotch on a predominantly green canvas. Atzar’s attention, however, was focused a little closer to home.
Below him, Brugo had barely moved. The six torches had since gained a seventh companion from somewhere, and they were now arranged in a complete circle around him. Brugo himself was firmly entrenched in the center, watching the area around him. A false sense of security. Atzar had played on this battlefield many times before, and his experience had taught him that the safety that the flames seemed to exude was misleading. While it illuminated everything nearby, it completely blinded him to anything outside of their glow. Atzar was surprised by the foolish mistakes of his opponent. He had seemed so brash and confident before. The moment when he had challenged Brugo to a match sprang into his mind:
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”Good round,” he complimented the younger mage politely after a round of Charms. “You’ve gotten a bit stronger, but a large part of being a mage lies in knowing when to use your magic. Instead of meeting me around lots of ice where I had the edge, you should have let me follow you into the cave where you could have beaten me. Strategy is important.” The pupil blushed and nodded furiously.
Just then, the door banged open. The menacing figure of Brugo jaunted into the room, followed by two of his friends. “Playing again, are we, children?” he mocked condescendingly, an arrogant grin pasted to his rough face. “Why don’t you just live in that game?”
Atzar balked slightly. “We’re practicing, Brugo,” he replied quietly. He had always secretly been a little intimidated by the bigger, stronger man.
“Why? You’ll never be strong in reality if your only practice is in a game. If you die there, it’s ‘oh, I messed up, let’s try again.’ Out here, you don’t get that second chance,” the big fire mage proclaimed, the same condescending tone in his voice. Atzar kept his silence, wishing for the confrontation to pass as smoothly as possible.
His pupil, however, apparently had other ideas. “That’s not true!” he piped up boldly. “If you think I’m weak, then I dare you to play me. I’m not the pushover you think I am!”
Brugo stared incredulously at the small boy for a second before bursting into a dint of side-splitting laughter. “You?” he spat, still roaring with mirth. “You couldn’t touch me, boy! Now go home before I give you a spanking!” His gleeful roar redoubled at his own joke.
Atzar’s face, however, bore no trace of amusement. Instead, he stared through troubled eyes at the boy, who seemed no more than a child. You’re not afraid? What do you have in you that I lack? he mused. Suddenly, even though he had soundly defeated the youngster in a battle, he began to feel like the pupil. He began to feel as if the boy was teaching him, not the other way around. An admiration sprung up in his heart for the courageous apprentice.
If Atzar was the pupil, what better test was there than this?
His eyes shifted back to Brugo, who was still enjoying his chuckle. A new steel formed in the previously-cowed mage’s heart. “No, that’s unfair,” he asserted firmly. “Fight me instead; I’m closer to your skill.”
Brugo began laughing again. “Ooh, baby got a backbone now?” he asked derisively. Suddenly, all mirth dropped from his countenance as he stared Atzar down grimly. “Alright, kid, I’ll accept your challenge,” he growled. “In fact, I’ll make you a bet. If you win, I’ll give you one of my Fire Stones.”
Atzar’s eyes took on a questioning light. Stones were only gambled in an actual, formal battle. If Brugo was really wagering a magic Stone, then that meant-
“Yes, a real battle. Been in one before?” Actually, Atzar hadn’t; it had all been practice and fun in the past. “And for your part… the humiliation you’ll have to face is enough of a prize for me. Two nights from now, then? Don’t be late,” Brugo snorted and whirled around to head back out the door.
Atzar leaned back against the wall behind him, his knees trembling and his forehead covered in sweat. What had he just gotten himself into?
Suddenly, he felt a small hand on his. He looked down to see his pupil staring up into his face earnestly. “You’ll beat him, Atzar,” he said encouragingly. “I know you will.”
Atzar forced a smile onto his face, but inside the words did little to comfort the boiling in his stomach. He had no chance.
He was going to get roasted. He knew it.
Yet so far, he hadn’t. In fact, it looked as if Brugo’s pride had given Atzar the edge.
Brugo had camped at that bend in the path, automatically assuming that Atzar would return only to get thrashed again. Atzar, however, had no intention of ever moving any closer to him than he was at that moment. It would be far easier to pick his opponent off from afar. But what could he use from this distance that would have enough power to end the fight in one blow?
How about an avalanche?
Exultation flared in Atzar’s mind. All he needed was a good chunk of ice. And the edge of the cliff seemed to fit the condition perfectly. It had even gone one step further; stress fractures were already cracking a large portion of the ice from the rest of the cliff face. All it took was a good shove to send it crashing down on his oblivious opponent.
Can it really be this easy?
Atzar inched carefully up to the weak ice, probing it experimentally with a foot. Even from that weak pressure, he heard several cracks as the ice tried to give way. Perfect. It wouldn’t even take a huge effort.
Atzar willed his magic to the surface. It didn’t even really need direction. All he did was try to coax the cracked ice away from the face. His power wasn't great, but this face was so fragile that a child's power could have easily crumbled it. Gravity did the rest. A large portion of the face crumbled away with loud snaps to fall rapidly towards the figure only about fifty feet below.
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Brugo was worried.
This Atzar was more devious than he had thought. First, the gutless mage had ambushed him while he was gathering torches. Brugo had driven him off with little difficulty, and the weakling had run away. Now, however, he was nowhere to be found.
His torches surrounded him in a circle, lighting up their surroundings. That, however, was only half of their purpose – they, along with him, were waiting for Atzar to finally develop the stones to confront him again. Then the flame would assist him in purging the battlefield of the timid mage’s incompetence.
But something wasn’t right. Atzar still hadn’t developed the guts to attack him again. Brugo had, at first, shrugged it off as cowardice. Then, as time passed, he began checking the path behind him occasionally. Perhaps the mage was trying to pull a fast one and double behind him to attack him in the back. Still, no Atzar.
He had the feeling that he was missing something. He had watched one of Atzar’s spars in the past, and the mage had shown nothing special. He had only a weak connection to the elements, with the possible exception of ice. His strength didn’t increase with ice, but it seemed like his creativity did. He got a lot more inventive with it.
A gnawing feeling began in Brugo’s stomach. Atzar was strongest around ice, and here he was, camped out on a bloody mountain full of it. In front of him, ice. Behind him, ice.
Above him, ice.
The gnawing feeling in his core increased tenfold. Just then, it dawned on him. Just then, he noticed the rumbling over his head. He looked up.
Half of the bloody mountain face was tumbling straight down on top of him. There was no time to react, and he knew it. He just stared.
Of all the bloody……
Thud.
The crowd howled and clapped in glee, patting Atzar on the back and congratulating him for a cunning victory. One man in the room, however, did not join them.
Damn it! Brugo bellowed, enraged at his defeat. “Of all the bloody cheap shots I’ve seen in a battle, this is the worst!” He wasn’t taking his loss too well at all.
Atzar only smiled, a response that seemed to infuriate him all the more.
Brugo had died in the game, so the two of them had been removed from the game and placed back in reality. Atzar and Brugo, while mentally tired, suffered no ill physical effects from the encounter.
The burning fire mage continued. “You don’t have a brave bone in your body, you cowardly little rat!” Get out of here!”
Suddenly, Atzar realized that his fear of the bigger man had vanished with his triumph. “No, I think you owe me something. This is a ‘real battle,’ my friend,” he reminded him firmly, a hint of iron in his voice. He decided to add a barb of his own. “You… do know the rules of a real battle, right? Have you been in one before?”
The victorious mage thought Brujo was going to explode in fury at having his own jibe cast back in his teeth. Suddenly, the big man thrust a hand into his pocket, whipped out a small red gem and hurled it at Atzar before storming out of the building and slamming the door behind him. The crowd jeered and laughed heartily at the spectacle, and more praise was bestowed on the victor.
The errant throw had sailed over Atzar’s head and bounced off of the wall, only to bounce and roll back to Atzar’s feet. He bent and picked it up, admiring its flawless beauty.
It was indeed a Fire Stone, as promised. Brilliant red, perfectly spherical and about as half as wide a his palm, it sparkled and shined with an internal glow. When a person’s magic was channeled through the little gem, it was amplified to previously-unobtainable heights.
Atzar grinned tightly. He had to try it out.
The mage held the little gem between the fingers of his right hand, turning it this way and that to admire the glow. It really was a pretty little stone, and Atzar would have been glad to have it even had it not had amazing magical properties.
And it was time to test those out.
It was the day after his win over Brugo, and Atzar was sitting by a fire in the cold, rugged Comb Mountains. The weather, however, was almost meaningless to him now. After years of exposure and adjustment, Atzar was indifferent to all but the most bitter of days.
The fire in front of him was sizable, much larger than necessary if he were only camping. The whole purpose, after all, was to test the limits of that small stone. Atzar focused, cupping the stone between both palms to concentrate. He could feel the stone suddenly get warm, and he opened his hands to find it giving off a radiant red light. This light, however, dimmed when his concentration wavered. Shaking himself, he refocused.
Now was the time. Atzar channeled his magic through the stone at the leaping blaze in front of him and released.
The results were as he expected. The entire blaze was lifted off of its base and hung in the air. Atzar split it into five smaller flames, spinning them around each other in a dazzling display of lights before pushing them outward. The smaller fires fanned outward at astonishing speed before eventually dissipating.
Atzar looked with amazement down at the now-dull red stone. It hadn’t been as he expected. It had been better than he expected. Now, however, the energy of the stone had been depleted. He would have to refill it with his own energy before he used it again.
“That was amazing!” An outburst from behind him sounded out eagerly. Atzar jumped and turned around.
The kid that he had battled before he had challenged Brugo stood there, amazement shining in his eyes. Atzar smiled modestly. He had to agree with the boy.
“What’s your name?” he asked politely.
“I’m Aseri,” the apprentice said with the same enthusiasm. Atzar’s smile grew. It was nice to see that kind of enthusiasm on a kid’s face.
“I’m Atzar,” the mage returned. “Well, Aseri, how about another game of Charms?” he offered, knowing what the answer would be.
“Yeah!” the boy answered with, if possible, even more vigor than before. Atzar got up and followed the energetic kid back to the arena.
Reward:
Fire Stone: A small stone that gives a short, intense rush to one's fire energy. Must be recharged IC after each use.
AdventWings
10-27-06, 08:12 AM
Sorry to tell you, but the 10-post minimun for quest judgment and spoils is still in effect. I will have the staff notified of the missing post minimum in our Rules/FAQ Page.
Therefore, there will not be a formal judging with the Althanas Rubric. You would not be receiving the Fire Stone for spoils as well - I will get back to that in a moment.
I will, however, give you a breadown of your strength and weaknesses I saw in this rather short solo. This should help you advance your writing skills somewhat for future quests and battles.
Setting: There was not a whole lot I could go by when it comes to how the arena, or even the room it was held in, felt. I could not feel it by just reading visual descriptions and sporatic physical ones. You could try interacting with the surrounding a bit more, like smelling the dry flavor of burnt cloth left from the close brush with becoming torched. Or how the snowy peaks made your hair stand on ends. These will help spice things up a bit as well, just remember not to overuse it.
Pacing: It went by like the wind. Too fast-paced in my opinion and it left me wondering what just happened. You could have easily added a good two or three more posts to this had you slowed down the overall pacing of the story. This is a note for the future, then. Slow things down where needed - you don't have a lot of issues with much else.
As consolation, I will give you 200 EXP for your efforts. I will not be awarding you the Fire Stone as spoils, however:
Soon afterwards, as Atzar got up the next morning, he discovered that the prize from his first real battle had gone missing. The Fire Stone had disappeared during the night and he had no idea where it could have gone to. There was a possibility that the Stone could still be inside his home, but so far it had been elusive. Atzar would have to search for it again some other time. For the time being, it would remain hidden somewhere safe...
Cyrus the virus
10-27-06, 05:57 PM
EXP added.
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