Darion
11-05-06, 09:27 PM
“Damn it all!” A few heads turned in his direction but quickly resumed as they were, the eerie unnatural silence of the Radasanthian library maintained. Darion hadn’t intended to speak, but his head was pounding with a migraine born of frustration. In front of him lay the book. It was the only book that mattered, morghulis, it held everything he needed inside it but kept it from him. The silver letters flashed and danced across paper and refused to be still so that he may read them, it was changing often as not but today it didn’t cease. After the long hours it took to piece together a single page of the dancing and disappearing letters Darion could have doubled in power, but such was not his luck today.
“You seem irritable today,” whispered Pate, “what is that that you are reading?” Darion quickly slipped the book out of sight, and began to hurriedly clear the table at which he had been attempting to read. Pate was too nosey for his own good, but it would be dealt with later.
“Nothing,” replied Darion without lowering his voice, “tell master Orick I will be out for several hours, if he asks where tell him I’m browsing the markets for rare finds.” He finished stacking the books of maps and lands that he always had out to mislead the prying eyes of Pate, and made to leave.
“Tell him…,” Pate whispered excitedly, “but where are you really going?” His eyes and face betrayed the disinterest he tried to portray, Darion could just imagine how happily he would run to Orick and squeal Darion’s dark deeds and secret travels.
“To the Citadel.” The words were calm, cool, and true though the disappointment on Pate’s face showed his belief otherwise. He wouldn’t give him the chance to ask, but answered the question immediately, “because I am irritated.”
A short while later, Darion found himself inside of the imposing Citadel, it was no less fearsome this time than it was the first. Dark black stone formed its walls, each perfectly smooth and undamaged by time or weather and not a spot chipped or damaged, the stones themselves were enchanted with the eternal and unforgiving magic the monks wielded. Every time he thought about the walls it brought back one distinct memory. It hadn’t been more than a year before, but it felt very long ago, he had tried to sap the power from the stones and as soon as he began to break into it passed out. The monks said it took them a week to draw his deformed body out of the wall and another month to remove the stone and repair him.
All about him the usual crowd came and went, considerably more people than usual but recently the monks had been allowing spectators when both combatants agreed to it, so it was no surprise.
“Darion! T’is good to see you,” hollered Paul, “You come to go a round with the wall again, or do you wish to fight the moving?” Paul was always dwelling about the lobby directing fighters to their rooms and shouting in his booming voice to people he recognized. It was good to see his broad smiling face and shiny bald scalp, but he laughed the loudest about the wall merging and was all too eager to recall the story and loved to tell anybody the tale if they cared to listen.
“I’ll have a moving one, and I’d thank you not to remind me.” Darion tried to keep the scorn out of his voice, amiable as Paul was men that went sour of him found themselves paired against opponents they could never hope to defeat, “I want you to dump all the leftover energies from the past month of fighting into my arena, I’ll let you choose the shape of it as long as the energies are there, or my opponent can choose if you rather not.”
“Course I don’t got to remind you, some might say it’s carved into you,” boomed Paul with laughter, “Get it? Carved, cause you were stone.” He listened silent through the instructions and didn’t put up any objections against the unusual request, “Aye, I’m not allowed to choose though, t’is a shame but they nearly took my robe after I put a couple of fellas’ inside a whale. You’d almost think this robe steals your sense of humor, but just look at me!”
[I don't care for what the arena environment is like, but it'd be better if it wasn't natural.]
“You seem irritable today,” whispered Pate, “what is that that you are reading?” Darion quickly slipped the book out of sight, and began to hurriedly clear the table at which he had been attempting to read. Pate was too nosey for his own good, but it would be dealt with later.
“Nothing,” replied Darion without lowering his voice, “tell master Orick I will be out for several hours, if he asks where tell him I’m browsing the markets for rare finds.” He finished stacking the books of maps and lands that he always had out to mislead the prying eyes of Pate, and made to leave.
“Tell him…,” Pate whispered excitedly, “but where are you really going?” His eyes and face betrayed the disinterest he tried to portray, Darion could just imagine how happily he would run to Orick and squeal Darion’s dark deeds and secret travels.
“To the Citadel.” The words were calm, cool, and true though the disappointment on Pate’s face showed his belief otherwise. He wouldn’t give him the chance to ask, but answered the question immediately, “because I am irritated.”
A short while later, Darion found himself inside of the imposing Citadel, it was no less fearsome this time than it was the first. Dark black stone formed its walls, each perfectly smooth and undamaged by time or weather and not a spot chipped or damaged, the stones themselves were enchanted with the eternal and unforgiving magic the monks wielded. Every time he thought about the walls it brought back one distinct memory. It hadn’t been more than a year before, but it felt very long ago, he had tried to sap the power from the stones and as soon as he began to break into it passed out. The monks said it took them a week to draw his deformed body out of the wall and another month to remove the stone and repair him.
All about him the usual crowd came and went, considerably more people than usual but recently the monks had been allowing spectators when both combatants agreed to it, so it was no surprise.
“Darion! T’is good to see you,” hollered Paul, “You come to go a round with the wall again, or do you wish to fight the moving?” Paul was always dwelling about the lobby directing fighters to their rooms and shouting in his booming voice to people he recognized. It was good to see his broad smiling face and shiny bald scalp, but he laughed the loudest about the wall merging and was all too eager to recall the story and loved to tell anybody the tale if they cared to listen.
“I’ll have a moving one, and I’d thank you not to remind me.” Darion tried to keep the scorn out of his voice, amiable as Paul was men that went sour of him found themselves paired against opponents they could never hope to defeat, “I want you to dump all the leftover energies from the past month of fighting into my arena, I’ll let you choose the shape of it as long as the energies are there, or my opponent can choose if you rather not.”
“Course I don’t got to remind you, some might say it’s carved into you,” boomed Paul with laughter, “Get it? Carved, cause you were stone.” He listened silent through the instructions and didn’t put up any objections against the unusual request, “Aye, I’m not allowed to choose though, t’is a shame but they nearly took my robe after I put a couple of fellas’ inside a whale. You’d almost think this robe steals your sense of humor, but just look at me!”
[I don't care for what the arena environment is like, but it'd be better if it wasn't natural.]