Mortal Reality

[Axeheart]

Sometimes, people of immortality do not treasure just how precious life is. The fact that they can never die of age warps their sense of value, and life seems like one long undertaking after another.

But there comes a time when this value is tested...when a supposedly immortal person realizes just how much of a treasure life is. And they awake from their dream to realize the mortal reality of life. -Unknown

Clang

The sound resounded as Mac parried his opponent's attack, quickly following it up with a sweeping slash towards the man's lower body while he was off balence. The blade struck true, cleaving the man in twain. Mac turned his attention to another foe, this one a fast dagger wielding person. He probably would need some help againsst him, as he was carrying such a heavy weapon, which would make him too slow to hit the guy.

Mac brought the greatsword up, preparing to bring it crashing down on his opponent's head, as the opponent ducked low for leverage. Just as the two were about to make their respective strikes, they noticed an arrow shaft protruding from the man's back. He fell to the ground, where he would never again rise from.

Mac turned to where the arrow had come from. "Goo' shootin', Kish. Now train tha' bow over on one o' those guys surroundin' Shen." He shouted as he dashed over to where he had been refering to. Once again, he prepared for his attack, drawing back his blade for power. He heard the sound of wood bending somewhere behind him...like that of a bow pulled back for the shot. A blur of dark color flashed by him as the arrow struck one of the men attacking. Another two fell, the other brought down almost simultaneously from the sheer force of the attack.

He assumed a defensive stance, ready to block and parry any incoming attacks. "Shen! If you plan on doin anything, now's the time!" he shouted to his other companion, an elf-blooded sorceress of sorts. She was very powerful...the proof of which was shown yet again as two more were engulfed in flames, the girl's power unleashing itself upon them. "Way to go, Shen! Just two more to go!" he said, clutching his side in pain as a mace collided mith his armor, bruising the body underneath.

The remaining two were taken care of quickly, another arrow striking one, and one of Shenjara's Torches blasting the other. The battle was over, and while they hadn't been unscathed, they were lucky enough to come out without anything bad. Kishurin had taken a few scratches, from what Mac had seen, and Shenjara had managed to avoid the attacks long enough for help to come. Mac had taken a nice blow to his side, and a small gash on his left arm from where a sword had grazed it. But other than that, they were for the most part, fine.

Panting, Mac called out to his companions, "Oi! Some fight, eh? I wonder what that was all about? Well, what ever it was about, they weren't very good at fighting, it would seem. What do you think?"

[hamnat]

She was very tired. She had thrown several Torches, and needed to rest badly. She rarely used up so much energy. Ugh...that's what they get for such vile acts. I feel so violated.. she thought. The memory of what happened to cause the battle was one that repulsed her.

"Hey, sweetheart, come on over here with us. We're a little lonely and could use some, ahem, company," one of them had said. She quickly refused and started walking away when he grabbed her by her waist and started to pull her forcefully into an alleyway. She had turned and slapped him, only to be repayed with his vile kiss. She had followed it up with a knee to his groin, temporarily incapacitating him. As she had turned to run, the man whistled and a group of men started to chase her down the street.

Apparently she had run past Kishurin and Mac, because as soon as she was out of the town, they showed up to help her. After that, hostilities were exchanged, and the fight began. Ten men had chased her out of the city, eight of which had fallen in the fight. The other two had run like cowards when Mac unsheathed his greatsword.

Wiping her lips to remove the man's vile presence, she looked around. Just to the west was the town they had been in. The houses and shops therein were all constructed of wood from the Red Forest not far to the South, the edge which she could see from here. The ground was covered with grass of a lovely green color, almost as dark as her robes, but more natural, more clean. It tickled her feet, which she never covered in any way. She had walked far in her travels, and had never worn boots or slippers or anything of the sort in her lifetime.

The three of them were traveling from the Coronian capital of Radasanth, where they had heard that powerful mages resided in Raiaera, the land in which they now journeyed. They were headed for Eluriand, where she hoped someone would be willing to help her learn how to control her power more effectively, so that she could begin practicing with more compicated spells than Torch, Chill, and Blast. They had traveled on a merchant ship to a port on the coast now far to the east of them.

Shenjara looked around once more. The eight bloody and burned bodies showed no sign of movement. Some, she figured, would survive and let all their friends know that half-elven travelers were not to be underestimated. She had been suprised that none of them had insult her half-blooded heritage, as usually in her travels, people looked down on her with hate and contempt. A few times she had been called a "pointy-eared dog," as well as other labels, some not as offensive, and a few unforgivably profane.

Mac and Kishurin were the only two she traveled with. She had met them long ago, and the three had overwhelmed a group of bandits. She still remembered how Mac had squirmed whenever she had tended the injury he had sustained in that fight. It had left a very profound scar, which Mac seemed very proud of. It was hard for her to understand how men thought, and she was sure she never would.

Shenjara remembered just how tired she really was, and slumped to the ground. She said soflty, "I need some rest. Shall we go back into town, guys? I'm pretty sure you two are fairly tired, yourselves." She was exhausted and a good long sleep would do her good. Besides, it was late in the day. The sun was setting behind the mountains to the west, and the wind blew softly through the grass. It looked as though a sea of green was laid out before her, the grass rippling in the wind like waves upon the water. But for her, she was too tired to enjoy the beauty of the world around her. Sleep was the only thing she could think of. And sleep she would get.

[--Red]

The day was beautiful, blue skies with an assortment of clouds dotting the pale blue canvas with wisps of white. Below was the sea, the lapping waves brushed over one another stirred by a light breeze, which filled the sails of a small boat that held two passengers. One sat at the helm, while the other sit across from him, the broad sakkat or straw hat that covered his head shielded his eyes from the sun, and against his shoulder rested a travel worn staff that looked rather flimsy but the marks against its body argued otherwise.

From the boat he saw land his prime objective was an attempt to recall memories. His once frail body, now at the apex of physical conditioning, as far as he could recall it couldn’t get any better than this, even now he still recalled the pain that over took his weakened body when he found himself in the company of the monks. On reflex the fingers on his right hand curled, and flexed muscles within his wrist. Lips parted as he let out a calm sigh, the water churned under the boat rocking it from side to side in natures own musical sway. His travels mainly took place on the little vessel he had procured after a daring rescue of the boat man by local bandits.

These few moments of travel as the boat coasted with the aid of the wind, and the water to amble it forward, were a sort of reprieve from the dangers of his helpful life style. At the moment all that could go through his head was what would happen next. The salty sea spray moistened his face, and broke him from his doldrums; reminding him of the blessings that have graced his path prior. With that added reassurance he felt a bit better, but still not a whole lot. He grunted as the boat landed on the sandy shore. A youthful hand pressed against the wooden edge of the boat as he clambered out onto the sand, which sifted oddly under foot. Staff tucked under his right arm like a walking stick, head inclined forward, and wisps of black hair drafted from their perch atop his head.

“This is where we part.” He gave the boat man a kind smile, doing well to keep the upper half of his face hidden under the wide brim of his hat. With that he walked west, his feet touched the sandy ground with little disturbance; in other words he left no foot steps. His hands were brought behind his back, his staff still tucked under his right arm as he strolled casually through sand which soon turned to grass, which soon turned into a mixture of dirt and gravel. The sun was a fair judge, which told him he had been on the move for at least three hours, he moved through the bustling town, moments before the ten man ruckus. Truth be told he would have intervened but the woman was already on the run.

Though he did follow and in the midst of the ruckus he probably went un-noticed. He was marveled at the skill of one of her companions with the sword and almost awestruck at the time it took for him to take down the group. Though he could have done he same thing in probably a fourth of the time it took the sword slugger, it was a good show nonetheless.

“Bravo, bravo…” He jeered from his seated position on the grass. Reclined and looked rather content. Akai contemplated the choices he had at this moment, to start a fight of his own, or travel with the troupe on their journey and make a few acquaintances. Whatever shall he do?

Red

[Kishurin]

Kishurin walked around, gathering all the arrows he'd used up, to which the count came to at least 15. He hadn't gotten much practice with it in the short time between now and when he'd incarnated. He would spend some of the time in which they were camped to get some practice.

Mac's question brought up a wierd feeling in him. He answered the question, "I daren't pass judgement on the dead, in any form. That these unfortunate souls lived as such, they must have had sad lives." He looked over at Mac and continued, "I will pray for those of them that won't survive to find peace, and those that will survive, to find happiness." He looked up to where he thought the star of his home would be when the dark veil of night finally fell over the world.

His thoughts were disturbed by some clapping and laughing nearby. Someone else was here. He looked over and saw a man of average height, wtih black hair and black clothes. He felt slightly angry that someone was enjoying watching others be hurt. "You there, I request that you not cheer for us. Killing is an art for murderers. We have done this solely to protect our own, and I do not request that our actions be commended."

He believed that killing someone was wrong and should never be done unless absolutely necessary. Unfortunately for him, he was too unskilled with his weaponry to simply incapacitate them. He prayed for the souls of all those he'd ever killed every time he went to sleep. It was the only way he could think of to atone for those deaths.

[Axeheart]

Mac always thought Kishurin was very well-spoken, though maybe a bit too hard on himself. Anytime he killed someone, whether in defense or not...almost always in defense...he always became gloomy. "Aye...ye haf ta get use' t' death one o' these days, Kish. I's a nat'ral part o' life, even when i' happens prematurely."

Mac heard the cheering man not far behind him. He turned around, bearing his weapon still, and sized the man up and down. He looked like he might hold his own in a fight, unlike the 10 idiots they'd faced. Kishurin was obviously upset by this man. Mac didn't bothering to hold his two cents back, either, "Although I don't min' death as much as this one, I've go' t' say he's right. Death is no' somethin' t' be happy about. Now, t' bus'ness. Who're you, wha' bus'ness do ye have wi' us, and are ye a friend o' these thugs who we've jus' felled?"

Mac wasn't going to give this guy any yield if he was hostile. However, if he was a friend, then he wouldn't mind kicking back and talking combat techniques. Although the man was frail...at least in comparison to himself, he looked like he knew a trick or two about fighting. It was always a pleasure to meet a fellow warrior, and even between rivals, respect was always shown.