Foresaken By War
01-30-07, 03:28 PM
(My first battle has not ended yet, but to show some time and character I pretended as though it has and will make some occasional refrences to it in the first couple of posts, but they will be vague.)
It was early in the mourning and the sky above Corone was peering down ominously, almost as though it was showing anger towards someone or something. It had been almost a week since his last sojourn at the citadel. He would have gone sooner, but there was something that he wanted either the next time he went back, or wanted to be learning while there. His last opponent as he was told was blessed with magical talent, and he heard that many possessed this magical ability.
Doing his research he realized that it was in his blood. Some of the most prolific mages in the world were Elves. He found one person that he heard some about, and he wanted him to teach him how to harness his own power. His name was Atzar Kellon. It wasn’t long after finding out about him that Aralian had left a message for him at a place that he normally frequented reading.
To One Atzar Kellon,
It comes to my attention that you are a mage. I have a proposition for you that would be best taken. Meet me in the citadel on following eve of the full moon.
Signed,
Forsaken
Many people think of fighting as pure chaos. What is Chaos? If you use the traditional meaning, it is a state of utter confusion, the lack in organization and order. Fighting has the tendency to have more order than most plays that you would see. Each move is a delicate and intricately planned move to remove of the person that has angered you.
Now the citadel on the other hand, it is no more than a theater for which people can come and amuse themselves. To some it is a mere building that stands for intimidation and barbaric chaos, and to others they crave it more than their body craves blood. That slight security knowing that they can achieve things in the citadel that the real world can not give them. They can train and hone their instincts when it comes to fighting, with out the consequences.
It was Aralian’s second time heading to this prized building. The very same building that probed at him in his sleep after the first time he was here.
“I remember everything about my first time,” he said to himself as he looked up at the building that towered above him. “I remember the first time so clearly, Vigo, his size, weight, coloration, weapons,” he paused momentarily, “Even my first taste of battle since the army.”
Aralian felt the top of his head where Vigo’s weapon had dented his skull. The monks had done a great job of healing the wound. There was only that small emotional feeling that had hovered in his soul. His mind moved on to other things, like making his way into the citadel. Without haste he stumbled up the steps and into the building, smelling the musty air as soon as he entered. Almost instantaneously he was greeted by a monk in a brown robe, similar to the one he was wearing. The monk peered around trying to peek into the darkness of Aralian’s hood.
Aralian turned his head swiftly as the monk tried to see in again, “I need a room,” his voice echoed loudly for his small stature. His tone was threatening, but polite for the time being. The monk tried to peer down into the hood once more before darting down the hall. Aralian had to move swiftly to even keep up with the hasted monk. Before he knew it he was breathing heavy and right behind the monk who was jogging down a long corridor. He stopped suddenly and Aralian ran into his back, his face hitting just around the middle of the monks back.
The monk started to walk away when Aralian grasped his arm tightly, causing a slight look of laughter to come upon the monks face, who knew he had to power to dangle Aralian between life and death.
“I want to be left with a mage named Atzar,” a coy look swept over Aralian’s face, even though nobody could actually see, it was still obvious he was up to something.
Upon entering the room, he was astounded. The room was completely different from the last time. This seemed to be a room that matched the feeling that the city of Corone would provide today. The skies in the room were dark, almost with a sense of hate. They seemed like they were ready to pound the dry soil under Aralian’s feet with barrage after barrage of water. The lighting was dim and natural and only gave compliments to the strange house in front of him.
It was an old place that had seemed abandoned for many years. Signs of death flowed through this room. A few dead rat skeletons lay on the dusty arid ground. Small dust clouds fled away from the ground as Aralian took a few steps forward to check out the small house. The side he was looking at that was immediately in front of him was collapsed. Most of the wall except for the corner was bed down on the dry soil. Chunks of wood and stone were stacked up on edge. On the front side of the house, or to the right of where Aralian was looking, you could still see a small place where a doorway used to be located.
His feet kicked up a small dust storm as he trudged in and around into the doorway. He peeped through cautiously until he was sure there was nobody home. The back wall stood mostly in tack, except where the chimney had fallen backwards and taken a few blocks with it. The last wall was much like the first, only this one had the skeleton of a horse sticking up out of the shambles. Apparently the creature had been tied to the wall there and never made it out of the debris. He exited the small home, releasing that this would be the only cover for as far as the eyes could see. The rest of the landscape was covered with the dry dusty soil, a few tufts of dying grass, and flat land. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to wait long for the monk to bring him Atzar.
It was early in the mourning and the sky above Corone was peering down ominously, almost as though it was showing anger towards someone or something. It had been almost a week since his last sojourn at the citadel. He would have gone sooner, but there was something that he wanted either the next time he went back, or wanted to be learning while there. His last opponent as he was told was blessed with magical talent, and he heard that many possessed this magical ability.
Doing his research he realized that it was in his blood. Some of the most prolific mages in the world were Elves. He found one person that he heard some about, and he wanted him to teach him how to harness his own power. His name was Atzar Kellon. It wasn’t long after finding out about him that Aralian had left a message for him at a place that he normally frequented reading.
To One Atzar Kellon,
It comes to my attention that you are a mage. I have a proposition for you that would be best taken. Meet me in the citadel on following eve of the full moon.
Signed,
Forsaken
Many people think of fighting as pure chaos. What is Chaos? If you use the traditional meaning, it is a state of utter confusion, the lack in organization and order. Fighting has the tendency to have more order than most plays that you would see. Each move is a delicate and intricately planned move to remove of the person that has angered you.
Now the citadel on the other hand, it is no more than a theater for which people can come and amuse themselves. To some it is a mere building that stands for intimidation and barbaric chaos, and to others they crave it more than their body craves blood. That slight security knowing that they can achieve things in the citadel that the real world can not give them. They can train and hone their instincts when it comes to fighting, with out the consequences.
It was Aralian’s second time heading to this prized building. The very same building that probed at him in his sleep after the first time he was here.
“I remember everything about my first time,” he said to himself as he looked up at the building that towered above him. “I remember the first time so clearly, Vigo, his size, weight, coloration, weapons,” he paused momentarily, “Even my first taste of battle since the army.”
Aralian felt the top of his head where Vigo’s weapon had dented his skull. The monks had done a great job of healing the wound. There was only that small emotional feeling that had hovered in his soul. His mind moved on to other things, like making his way into the citadel. Without haste he stumbled up the steps and into the building, smelling the musty air as soon as he entered. Almost instantaneously he was greeted by a monk in a brown robe, similar to the one he was wearing. The monk peered around trying to peek into the darkness of Aralian’s hood.
Aralian turned his head swiftly as the monk tried to see in again, “I need a room,” his voice echoed loudly for his small stature. His tone was threatening, but polite for the time being. The monk tried to peer down into the hood once more before darting down the hall. Aralian had to move swiftly to even keep up with the hasted monk. Before he knew it he was breathing heavy and right behind the monk who was jogging down a long corridor. He stopped suddenly and Aralian ran into his back, his face hitting just around the middle of the monks back.
The monk started to walk away when Aralian grasped his arm tightly, causing a slight look of laughter to come upon the monks face, who knew he had to power to dangle Aralian between life and death.
“I want to be left with a mage named Atzar,” a coy look swept over Aralian’s face, even though nobody could actually see, it was still obvious he was up to something.
Upon entering the room, he was astounded. The room was completely different from the last time. This seemed to be a room that matched the feeling that the city of Corone would provide today. The skies in the room were dark, almost with a sense of hate. They seemed like they were ready to pound the dry soil under Aralian’s feet with barrage after barrage of water. The lighting was dim and natural and only gave compliments to the strange house in front of him.
It was an old place that had seemed abandoned for many years. Signs of death flowed through this room. A few dead rat skeletons lay on the dusty arid ground. Small dust clouds fled away from the ground as Aralian took a few steps forward to check out the small house. The side he was looking at that was immediately in front of him was collapsed. Most of the wall except for the corner was bed down on the dry soil. Chunks of wood and stone were stacked up on edge. On the front side of the house, or to the right of where Aralian was looking, you could still see a small place where a doorway used to be located.
His feet kicked up a small dust storm as he trudged in and around into the doorway. He peeped through cautiously until he was sure there was nobody home. The back wall stood mostly in tack, except where the chimney had fallen backwards and taken a few blocks with it. The last wall was much like the first, only this one had the skeleton of a horse sticking up out of the shambles. Apparently the creature had been tied to the wall there and never made it out of the debris. He exited the small home, releasing that this would be the only cover for as far as the eyes could see. The rest of the landscape was covered with the dry dusty soil, a few tufts of dying grass, and flat land. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to wait long for the monk to bring him Atzar.