The Assailed Resident

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It was during the pitch black darkness that enshrouded Salvar this night. The clouds had been so dense not to let the moon cast upon the icescape a single glint. The cold and barren wasteland was not of its usual plain white purity, but of a burying darkness which transformed it into a lightless grave for those who wandered it. Many a traveler would find their bitter and untimely end tonight. Countless would be forced to their knees by the biting frost, numerous struck down by the fist-sized hail, and a myriad were to be lost to the panic enforced by their disorientation.

The Salvic clouds threw their ice down into the howling and shrieking wind, leaving it to be thrashed upon the earth below. Many a dwarven mountain-peak-torch had been deconstructed by the brutal weather already, and if not even some of the finest craftsmanship and architecture could withstand the battle with Salvar one could imagine what a layman’s construction would look like posterior to natures rampage. It was everything but silent night, tonight.

If one believed in a higher force lying within the will of nature, and if one thought of Salvar as a land to abide only with the strong – the following could possibly be an interpretation of the storm: It was an act of reshaping, an act of cleansing the land of the weak who did not deserve to walk upon its harsh, yet glorious face.
And upon it stood three fractions of creatures…Those who were the undoubtedly strong enough, those who had adapted and prepared themselves, and those who should have left the country during a prior day.

…

It was amongst all the chaos about that it took its place.

Standing upon the north faced ledge of a mountain overruling most others around in size, there rested an impressive edifice. It was a mansion of massive material, most likely chiseled from the very mountain itself. The building’s western wing connected into the mountain in an astonishingly fine crafted work of art. Giant hands of massive dark grey rock clutched the western wing before their fingertips became one with the domicile.
The truly extraordinary thing about the mansion was that it possessed only three inlets for light. A humongous double-glazed window stretching across almost the entire ground floor offered an awe-inspiring view of the Salvic landscape beyond. Despite the fact that it was one single gigantic glass pane, positioned and anchored only at its edges without a single supporting steel grid, it posed not a single crack or deformation – withstanding the constantly pelting hail. It doubtlessly made the spatiality within, behind the window, the most impressive.

The entire main building, counting the section concealed within the rough mountain exterior, posed to be two thousand and three hundred feet wide.
To enforce this construction’s majestic position, another building stood atop its roof, shorter and thinner - of roughly one thousand feet in length, half of it concealed within the mountain, and five hundred feet in depth. It almost disappeared in the night, as not a light shone from the headband-like glass façade near the top of the building. If one stood close enough, the finely crafted sculpture work on its northern wall could be deciphered. At least a dozen torsos crept out from beneath the gigantic hands which clutched the building. Their faces writhed in agony, stretched with battle-cries, or squeezed in acrimony as their muscular arms forced forth weapons of all sorts. It seemed they fought a war against an unseen enemy, a losing battle whose continuation was upheld only by their immortal petrification.

And it was below this building, at the foot of the mountain and the very plains that sprouted from it, that a million endless wars and battles were being fought. The bodies of those fallen, their faces twisted in gruesome manners, dueling forever with death, their souls locked into an icy dungeon they couldn’t escape.

Thunder crashed and snapped onwards throughout the night as the clouds blanketed the country in darkness. Relentlessly the hail flew about, tossed back and forth by the glacial wind. Not a single mountain-peak was to be distinguished through the dark foggy nebular which hung thicker in the sky than any ocean’s fog. If one had ever wondered what the ninth circle of hell was to look like, an excursion to the scourged heart of northern Salvar would answer their curiosity.

Somehow this natural pandemonium seemed not to discommode the male figure, in somber stillness, standing at the bottom of a large luthern on the first floor. Occasionally, if granted a gap between both hail and snow, a miniscule dot of orange would intensify its color before disappearing in an inert gust of grayish smoke. The tranquil action continued for an estimation of about five minutes before the light did not return and the figure vanished from the window.

Silently, with calm breaths, a tired head rested itself upon a large pillow. The knocking of hail against the window sounded like the crude war drums of a brutish army. Slowly a pair of gray eyes fell closed, chanted to sleep by nature’s morbid lullaby. At the southern wall of this light bereft room stood a bed almost twice as long and five times as wide as the lone embodiment which occupied it. What followed five steps toward the window was a round pool embedded in the floor. A body of lukewarm water mingled inside the smoothened marble pit, which posed to have a diameter of roughly six and a half feet and a depth of four feet. It radiated comfort, presenting not a single sharp edge in its simplistic entirety. The mild heat of the gently gliding water floated into the room and created a pleasant temperature.

Dwarven engineering. A boiler pipe sat in-between the two floors of the house. Not to mention the entire sanitary system in the rather sizeable abode was of exceptionally high-standard.

…

…

The fiery curtain behind him drew closed, gusts of heat waves blowing at his back as he walked away. He left behind the scent of burnt flesh, pillars of black smoke ascending to the stars, and the weeps of people grieving their loss. With this violent decision, he left behind everything that would bind him to anything but his own will. Far behind he left those who wouldn’t understand his cause, who wouldn’t understand what was brewing beneath, above, before and behind them, around them. The transience of his former command had become exposed; the weaknesses of the Church of the Ethereal Sway had been exploited. Their true fear was finally given a name. And the shadow, vanishing into the mountains beyond the fire, had sworn to deliver them to it.

His steps were muffled by the sound of collapsing houses. Fire ate away at the structures and forced them to their foundations, echoing through the chasms and cliffs. The armored warrior slithered up the mountain paths, his armor glinted like a drop of quicksilver in the moonlight, his walk: fluid and determined. He hadn’t cast a single glance over his shoulder. What was following him would either side with him or die in the process of resistance.

“They’ve taken you.”

The man ascended further up the mountains trails. He passed several cliffs, chasms, ledges, and far below stars shone on the breastplate of a fallen soldier, its bearer inanimate, crushed, with several limbs broken, but well preserved by Salvar’s chilly winds. A gust slid over the mountains face, howling as it passed through cracks and chasms about. Here night sky was perfect; there was no obscuring fiery ambience to disturb the starlight above, no billowing smoke to cover the view. The air was clearer here, devoid of death-stench, and no choking likeness of ash hovering about one’s nose. Just the chapel ahead caused a disheveled picture of the scene. To Damion, it wrecked perfection, in its own attempt to tame the wild perfection of nature. Aeromancers played a large role in Salvar’s Church. Damion had always despised them, and with the revelations only come to loathe them even more.

“They have possessed the insolence to cage you.”

The large wooden door of the chapel flew open at the push of an armored hand, the rest of Damion followed.

“I have come to save you.”

The man with the halberd trailed all the steps he had already once taken. Past the benches, through the mess hall. He took a fleet of stairs, snaked around the altars, then disappeared in the dark hallway again. With slow but assured steps he made his way through the darkness, one hand on the wall, trailing of the cobblestone, guiding him up the circling stairs. His ears followed the subtle buzzing noise, and the faint dripping of mountain trailed water. He passed through the hallways of the dome like a homing beacon.

“And for what they have done, I will punish them.”

A faint light grew stronger and stronger the further he advanced. The light was brighter than last time, and it revealed that the narrow corridor leading to the sepulcher had actually been a bridge. A soupy matter of green and blue hues swirled in the depths beneath. It was magnificent. It stopped the armored figure dead in his tracks. The walls were at least thirty meters in every direction, the splashing noise below vibrating back and forth from them. His grey eyes reflected the colors, mutating for as long as he stared into the glowing liquid below.

“They will bleed by the force of your…of my…of our retribution, and they shall cry the bittersweet tears of chastisement.”

The man’s face emotionless, but his fist clenched tightly.

“Mother…”

Suddenly a voice tore him from his tranquility.

“You’ve made it this far, lunatic! I won’t let you get away with what you’ve done.” The voice charged a blank face, a plain stare, and a monologue began, “I am not letting you get away with this…I will not go easy on you. Don’t expect this to be as easy as your last murder. I’ve served in the same army as you. You think you’re something better, stronger, because you’re a Purifier? You blindfolded lot! All you do is follow, without thinking! It’s time I brought you to justice. I am ending you before you inflict any more harm upon innocent people…I will keep you a life away from my daughter…your life…”

The man brandished a short blade. This battle would not be a long one. Whoever slipped first would be cast into the pits below, and the halberd wielding ‘lunatic’ was certainly the one with the advantage. Their gazes met, a crazed stare of utter frustration met that of absolute listlessness. There was no further hesitation, the man charged. Metal collided and sparks darted into the air. The man had attempted a stab, but the halberdier deflected at a long reach. Staggering at the edge, the main fidgeted to regain grip on his weapon. By the time he had wrapped his fingers around it firmly, something caught his foot. Truthfully he had expected to be kicked from the edge, but instead found he was lying belly up at the center of the bridge. Bereft of his weapon though, which was sailing into the depths, he had no further means of defense.

The clash of metal still reverberated from the walls, only slowly being swallowed by the body of liquid. Silence had ensued between the two combatants, until the man on his back finally spoke, slowly pulling his arms close and propping himself up by the centimeter.

“So you do have a sense of hono-” A halberd rushed through his throat, turning words into a mess of gargled vowels. The man clasped at the gap in his throat, blood spilling onto the bridge and soaking his clothes. His eyes met the distant, emotionless gaze of the man above him. After his head catapulted backward receiving a forceful kick, blood began to spray profusely. His body twitched a few, miniscule, spastic, last times before it finally breathed its last sigh. Peacefully streams of blood made their way through the cracks between the cobblestones, until trickling from either side of the bridge.

Damion left the man to die alone. His armored figure stood before the door at the far end of the sepulcher. He leaned his halberd against the wall to his left, and affixed a firm grasp on either side of the stone protrusion in front of him. Minutes passed as he tugged and pulled and pushed. His anger grew noticeably as grunts protruded his mouth. The stone wouldn’t budge. Lips pressed together, eyes fixed on the arcane carvings that he could now decipher as “Vitaria, the Damned”, he tried again. The hours he had spent in the library only few days ago made so much crystal clear. The arcane signs throughout the chapel, the dome that followed, as in the sepulcher finally made sense. With a sheer utter frustration rising up in him, his force grew in proportion. Suddenly the sound of grating stone could be heard. Small shards of rock tumbled to the floor as his fingers dug into the stone. With a grunt the granite barring slipped aside and crashed to the ground.

Instantly the unarmed combatant spun around and swiped his arm at the flat of an incoming blade. It was a heavy, broad two hander. The assailant stood baffled in shock, how could Damion have heard the blade among all that noise. Contributing to his puzzlement was the glance at eyes, once pale gray now a mucky pitch black. Split seconds later Damion lunged himself at his attacker. It was a dark haired man with a light leather buckler. An armored hand picked him up by the collar, instantly slamming him into a tilted grave, again, again. The man somehow managed to place a boot on Damion’s chest and kick himself free. He tumbled backward down the stairs but had managed to grab his sword in the go, which he likewise used to stop his descent. A halberd plunged down at the man from above, barely deflected by raising his sword across his head just in time. Weapons locked. Sweat trickling from his forehead, he squinted his eyes as he rose. The halberdier quickly retracted his weapon. The sudden void of resistance against his sword caused the man to unexpectedly shoot upwards, at which point the butt of a halberd was already rushing for his stomach. He tensed to lessen the pain and was thrown to the very bottom of the stairs.

Knowing he would have to expect another blow soon, he scrambled to his feet as fast as his body allowed it. A blade glinted as it shot for his torso, hastily he dragged his sword in its way and shouldered forward. He landed the attack in Damion’s stomach, stalling the crazed brute for a moment. But it was that moment that he used to drag his sword forth in an upward maneuver. Sparks flew as the blade’s tip dragged across the stone floor. The halberdier lodged his polearm in a crevice between the cobblestones and used it to launch himself backward up a couple of stairs. It was just far enough to avoid getting his face diced, nevertheless not far enough to evade the attack completely. Yet the murderer didn’t flinch as the blade tore through the flesh of his left cheek, before parting ways with his face just mere centimeters from his left eye. His gloved hand clutched at the wound and smudged the blood all over. With a growl the armored combatant raged forward.

Their weapons collided in repetition, and bursts of sparks illuminated the dimly lit room. The speed of their battle was intense, but almost even monotone – if a metronome would be fast enough it could have measured the pace. With a shout and a block the swordsman jumped back and, breathing heavily, reaffirmed the grip on his sword. He held it out before him in a diagonal slant, hilt lowered. Until now it had been an even fight, and it amazed him anew how well Damion was handling the halberd in close quarters. For all the years he had been fighting by Damion’s side he had been thankful not to stand against him…

“Why are you doing this, Damion?” The swordsman asked as they parted with a loud clash.

“You wouldn’t understand…, Feirther, you dull minded puppet.” The halberdier answered in mockery, lightly stepping towards his opponent as if the fight had only just begun, his pitch black gaze affixed on his former subordinate.

“I understand that you’re up against the Church of the Ethereal Sway,” The man began, trying to make sense of what was happening.

“You know nothing.”

“It would be my guess that you’re redeeming them for their injustice. Do you really think I support their ongoing oppression of this country’s people?”

“Injustice!?” Damion boomed in a blazing fury, “What, fool, do you know of injustice!?”

A relentless series of blows was unleashed upon the swordsman. He managed to parry or evade the attacks, but only found the other end of the weapon speeding towards him as a result. The sparks of clashing metal almost doused the room in continuous light. As Damion’s adversary managed to duck away under a horizontal swipe, he shot his sword forward at a low level. The armored halberdier hopped, then immediately dashed his feet down onto the blade. In the same movement he ran the butt of his halberd from behind his head down into the side of Feirther’s head. A crack repelled off the sepulcher’s walls. A trail of blood dashed through the air. It spattered across the floor, the crimson’s scent mixing with the must air. The sword remained at Damion’s feet as its wielder was sent rolling toward the room’s entrance. Feirther’s body was limp. He was either unconscious or killed by a spinal trauma that resulted from the bashing.

The halberdier’s anxiousness probably saved the man. He turned and walked up the stairs, his eyes growing into a pale gray again, his steps becoming slightly heavier the further he advanced. Occasionally he would reach his hand up, wipe the blood from his eye that was pulsing from the gash in his face. The almost invisible pain was slowly stepping into appearance, nevertheless this wound wasn’t fatal. High pain tolerance, and the ability - if under the ‘condition’ - to blend out any pain. A side-effect of what had been done to him over the decades. A blue hue emitted from the entrance he laid free. Blue soaked into red, letting the bloody stream on his face appear as a black chasm. It was as if it was eating away at the green hue of the sepulcher and replacing it. The buzzing which radiated through the room grew louder ever since the massive stone door had been slid from its place.

Steps pattered up the stairs prior to the sepulcher. They grew faster, they were light, and then there was another pair of heavier footsteps following those. There was shouting. Then a single pair of footsteps followed up to the glistening blue light. With a thud, a body rolled backward down the stairs, and a figure rushed to its side and picked the unconscious thing up. A blonde haired, young, handsome boy carried the body of a girl away and sat it against a wall. Slowly the youngster placed a kiss on her forehead. He turned to pick the sword at the foot of the stairs up. With minor hesitation he then brought it up into the air. With it raised in front of him, he began to ascend up the stairs.

“Ah, it’s you.” Damion greeted the youngster, “I’ve been wondering when you’d show up you little ragdoll. I’m sorry about Feirther, you might want to go look after him he doesn’t look too healthy.”

“Your riot ends here…” He solemnly returned, a taint of a quiver in his voice.

Damion laughed, almost hysterically. The youngsters gaze fell upon the apparatus shadowing the halberdier’s figure. Pipes spread all about the room, bowls with the same blue muck as beneath the bridge ran its liquid into the pipes, all leading to a magnificently detailed statue of an angel. Its abdomen was a radiating blue globe, its breasts of marble perfection, its face a true depiction of beauty. It had high cheekbones, sensual lips, and a perfect nose. A blue glint shot from its eyes. Its legs were long and smooth, running together towards the feet. Wings connected it to the walls of the vicinity.

“She was perfect.” Damion began, his eyes widening as a twisted grin drew itself across his face, “And they destroyed her…What else is left but for me to punish them for it?”

The irritable calmness he spoke with frightened the younster, the grip on his sword growing tense. Damion turned, and the boy shifted his feet. The armored combatant stopped for a second, then continued several seconds later. Gently he caressed the angel’s face, until in a violent outburst of tension tore the mask from its place. It revealed pale blue flesh, fading flesh, protruding veins. Beautiful features were still recognizable, but only to a certain extent. Torn lips, a crippled fang from each corner of the mouth, horn stumps from the forehead. Cords and vials ran through it, its complexity alone, the complexity of the entire intricate pipe and vial system in the room had proved that this was no construction of Salvic standards.

“Yes, marionette, to a certain extent from the south.” Damion dubbed the youngster, pointing out also a partial origin of the ‘construct’.

With a grin Damion reached into the figures glowing abdomen, retracting from it a black, fist sized ball. It was glossy, like polished marble, but parts seemed clouded with a grey hue that slowly blew across its surface. The blue light of the room faded slightly the longer the ball was being held from its place. “Do you know what this is?” Damion paused, then chuckled and continued as if speaking to a child, “Of course you don’t, you silly little puppet…”

“You’ve gone insane…”

“Insane? I wouldn’t exactly call it that. Moreover, to par your poetic genius, I would say I have been allowed to imbibe my aridity of knowledge with the elixir of revelation. You do recall our minor incident in the estate library, do you? So much knowledge…so many lies lifted, so many weaknesses exploited, and you are one of them. You know nothing, and I don’t expect you ever will.” Damion spat his last words with utter distaste.

Stepping forward he slid the globe into a satchel he had bound to his left. The room had almost gone dark by now, the green hue had retaken its foremost position as an illumination, and the young soldier was growing increasingly unnerved. A malicious smile cracked on the halberdier’s face as he advanced toward the swordsman.

Then suddenly the youngster launched himself forward and caught Damion on the chin with his hilt, a misplaced swing. With a grunt the usurper of the Church staggered back and brought his halberd around, fending off an incoming vertical to his left just in time. Instantly he drew the butt of his halberd into his opponents chin. The soldier twirled back at the strike, fighting to regain composure. Damion booted the youngster against the wall and jabbed his halberd’s blade only centimeters from his face. The soldier rolled along the wall and came out of his contraption with an upward slanted swing. Damion ducked to the side, the butt of his halberd jabbed at the blade and sent it flailing upwards. Instantly the halberdier spun his weapon around and trailed the blade down his adversary’s chest. The cut was deep, didn’t reach any organs, but was vast enough to create a sizeable and painful gash. A sword tumbled to the floor, leaderless it landed in the darkness. In agony the boy fell to the floor and clutched his wound. He was bleeding strong, but he probably wouldn’t die from the wound. And for some reason, despite having the chance, Damion didn’t care to kill the boy. Armored boots stepped past the blonde youngster, descended down the stairs and disappeared in the distance.

Snow had descended upon the region by now, the sky hid behind a curtain of thick gray pillows. It crunched and squeaked as a pair of boots stepped into the thin white blanket around the chapel. A halberd thumped into the ground, speckles of blood followed from both blade and wounds. A hand disappeared in a pocket and fingered out a pack of Salvic Superiors. It led the crumpled box to a pair of blood streamed lips which plucked a cigarette from it. Accordingly the box was replaced by a match, and with a deep drag the tobacco stick went ‘aglint’. The match fell to the floor and went out with a hiss. Damion didn’t cast a single glance back at the ‘chapel’ savoring the moment, his hand on the satchel at his side as he trailed further into the Salvic mountains. Eventually he disappeared into the shadows of the chasms and trails beyond.

“I’ve rescued you…with time I will learn to synergize our power.”

…

...

Perhaps it had been his indifference. He had attained what he had come for. Perhaps it was something else though, a feeling of familiarity he couldn’t quite pinpoint even today. Though, perhaps, it didn’t even matter. The boy either managed to crawl from the sepulcher, or died there. He didn’t know. It really didn’t seem to matter, he concluded, and cast the thoughts to the wind.

Slowly a set of eyes opened. They stared bleakly through the dormer, into the darkness of the Salvic thunderstorm. Trailing the room, from the dormer across the pool of water unto the closets in the distant corners of the room, the eyes finally wandered to an extent that they forced the head to follow. A wooden stand with armor dangling from it stood in the corner closest to the door. The body propped itself up, rose from the bed and walked along the wall towards the door. A hand ran gently over a halberd affixed to the wall, then, reaching its middle picked it from its place. The door opened and Damion disappeared into the hallway.

The carpet running through the mansion hallways were thick and soft, dark red in color and framed and ordained with filigree gold fabrics. The walls were of dark, sturdy, but finely adorned wood about half way up. Above it, separated with an adorned border, the either taupe or blueish-gray wallpaper ran to the ceiling. All throughout the house oil-lamp-based chandeliers hung from it. The light system had been another gimmick of dwarven engineering, slightly copying alerarian light systems connected with switches. Wires ran through the stone walls of the house, if activated in the main boiler room, they would emit an immense heat and illuminate the lamp wicks. Nevertheless even the emergency case had been covered by torches hanging at either end of a hallway, if the dwarven technology should ever fail.

The halberdier, for once not clad in osmium but only a simple shirt and a loose pair of trousers, made his way through countless corridors. A myriad account of paintings hung from the walls, sculptures and busts occasionally in the spaces between them. Over half of the paintings depicted gruesome battle sceneries. Armies barged down hills in some, countless men falling victim to an almost limitless amount of barricades, others being trampled by their frenzied comrades. Man stood against man in another, their faces writhing in agony, pain, or malicious victory. Others blushed as tears burst from their eyes, plunging their swords into what seemed to look like their twins under another banner. Others showed few, or sole survivors in the midst of countless slain bodies, the snow around them drenched red with blood, their faces grim and dark with battle dust.

One in particular stood out of the crowd. An entire hallway of ten meters was clothed in approximately just as much canvas. On one end stood an army, thousands if not millions of men brandishing their swords and spears; bowmen at their rear, war machinery at theirs, arch mages at theirs, all eyes affixed ahead at the several meters of canvassed salvic landscape. The level of detail in this painting was awe inspiring. One believed to even make out single strands of hair. As a more peaceful contrast posed the scenic paintings placed here and there. From the barren, frosty wastelands of Salvar to the tropic forests of far distant borders, over the baking deserts of Fallien and through the boggy swamps of the Tular Plains – everything could be found. Every painting carried the branding of the same artist, a slick “A” flowing into a steep and narrow “B” slightly beneath.

It had taken Damion years to create what hung from these walls – all under his alias, Archon Blightwel - but he had certainly possessed the time when returning from travels, or trapped in his home throughout bad weather periods. The actual difficulty was transporting the paintings into this mansion, but somehow he had managed, one of the few things that innocently pleased him. He passed down a set of dual stairs, on the left hand side. They swung around in a large arch. A truly gigantic chandelier illuminated the room that posed as the building’s main staircase, and it was the one closest to any of the many guest or social rooms. Any private rooms had been kept in close quarters around Damion’s bedroom. A dark velvet carpet lined the stairs and bordered the marble flooring at the bottom of the stairs. The marble flooring spread throughout the entire ground floor, from a sizeable kitchen through the unoccupied servant’s quarters, to probably the most impressive room of the mansion. The living room stretched almost over the entire ground floor of the exteriorly visible part of the mansion. Several chandeliers were needed to illuminate the room, of which none had been lit. There were elaborately adorned lounge chairs scattered about the corners of the room, a huge, dark, wooden dining table at one end, and a thick but slender rug running from one end to the other. A large bookshelf towered near the door to the entrance hall, but nothing in comparison to the mansion’s basement situated library.

All of it was pure luxury, not to mention the black marble fireplace on the north wall of the room. It was situated perfectly in the middle, radiating a warm glow into the room. Yet its purpose was more aesthetic than practical. The marble floor itself had a warm touch to the feet, needless to say, once again another gimmick of dwarven engineering. One could come to believe that Damion took a liking in the stout, hard headed, unbending shorts. A gallery towered above the living room. It hovered in a rectangle around the entire ground floor, though devoid of stairs in order to save the aesthetics. Several doors led from it into the second floor.

Though none of it, not a single thing, was as awe striking as the mammoth sized window. It stretched even above the gallery, and along the entire length of the living room. It must have been at least several hundred paces long. Damion made his way along it, his eyes peering into darkness of the frozen wasteland beyond. The storm had a fair success in darkening the scenery. It kept his sight from the sky and even the land below: The barren wastelands which stretched from the foot of the mountain, and the path leading up to his home. Thus the mansion stood in absolute solitary, and if one didn’t know of it, there would be no fair chance in finding it in the weather’s shadow. The orange glow of the fireplace was drowned beneath the snow and hail, being but a distorted glint in the distance. Possibly an elf could spot it, but his eyesight wouldn’t do him much good with his frail body exposed to Salvar’s weather.

Damion settled himself down in a comfy lounge chair, situated in a way that it faced the window with the fireplace behind it. At its left stood a small round table, an ashtray in its center. A sudden flash of lightning illuminated the room and revealed the only yet undisclosed living room wall. At least fifty meters left and right of the fireplace the wall was plastered with weapons. Anchors affixed in the wall held on display blades, axes, hammers, sickles, spears, halberds, of all sorts. Scimitars to spiked clubs, rapiers to war hammers, even the most exotic weapons of sorts to a simple throwing axe, they were all there – hundreds of them. Every single one unique, glinting fiercely in the sudden light, every single one a different shape. If one stood close enough they’d notice the unceasing scent of blood still mingled about them. The Salvic had leaned his weapon of choice against the side of his chair. Out of all, it was probably the most fearful. It would take something more than a force of nature to shatter its full osmium body and blade, added the serrated edge of black diamond it had to it.

He took a deep drag from his cigarette then waited a moment. The smoke slowly sifted from his mouth. It trailed smoothly across the features of his face. Then he reached for a bottle he had picked up on his way through the kitchen.

Would the Church of the Ethereal Sway survive the war raging in Salvar? Would they possibly even prevail victorious? Even if they would be rendered defeated sooner or later, shouldn’t it be to Damion’s satisfaction? Possibly not as he resented them so much that he wanted the Church all to himself. The war would not be a light one. For hundreds of years the people have been oppressed by the monarchy, their hate brooding for the same amount of time, and having grown to a giant ulcer - bound to explode. He came to the conclusion that in their time of need he would have to side with them. He would sustain their life, so that he could take it. The problem, though, with blind fanatics was; that rather than preserving themselves they would choose to hunt and destroy their exiles, of which he was one. It quickly ruled itself out as an option.

Another option would be to sabotage the forces opposing them. This option would result in the redundant and the increasingly boring task of eliminating every liberal fiefdom in Salvar. Not only that, but the decimation of the Lord’s entire forces. Then there would be the infiltration and misguidance of the Lord’s forces and the fiefdoms, the more subtle but far more nerve-wracking one. The constant dealing with unmatched idiocy, self proclaimed kings and messiahs, believed masters of war. Needless to say, Damion wouldn’t make a final choice over the third bottle of Biovyonoff Salvic Clear – Triple Distilled for Maximum Purity and your pleasure. (B(ee)yoff-yonn-off). Although right now an unaccountable massacre sounded just fine.

Not even with his unnatural dexterity could he avoid feeling the effects of three Biovyonoff bottles. Gradually he was losing composure, sinking further and further into his chair. Sluggishly he lit another Salvic Superior. He inhaled. Another gust of smoke crept from his mouth. It snaked around his head before disappearing into the room. The hail bashed against the panorama window before him. Damion only recognized a dull, repetitive thud. Occasional flashes of lightning rendered him blind for half a minute, his eyes too drunk to adjust. His mind began to wander, trying to think of something that made him happy. He tried to think of something satisfying that hadn’t to do with bloodshed or revenge. It took hours, and just as he thought he had grasped a moment fom his past, just as a friendly smile began to draw his face his eyes hovered from half-mast to “closed-for-maintenance”.

The macabre dance of wind and hail wove its deadly chant across the landscape of Salvar, a tune that only the fool-hearty could withstand and only the insane would attempt to. The wail was deafening and dominant, the cry of the frozen tundra like the howl of a pack of bloodthirsty wolves. Overhead the sky was blanketed by heavily laden clouds, raining their burden upon the hapless lands below. Snow and sleet mixed with hail as it plummeted through the swirling gusts; Salvar was lost in a violent maelstrom of winter’s heavy hand. A haphazard traveler passing through the blizzard would find themselves disoriented, guideless, without the light of the waning moon. They would be fighting for survival amidst the relentless weather of the tundra. Only two courses could be followed to relieve oneself of the one sided fate; to die and be buried beneath the snow and wind, or to force a stalemate as long as one could and hope for redemption in whatever form it appeared.

For Aerendir the obvious discord of the gods, in all their vain and petty glory, was attempting in all ways to find the elven man and offer no quarter. A standstill against the wills of the Thayne was something that was not to be. At his hands he had broken the thinly veiled façade of the dominant religion, casting his former beliefs to the whims of fate. Those powers above, below, and all around him were in a fit of rage at his usurping and facetious nature. Aerendir, high elf of the broken lands of Raiaera, resurrected by force of will from the emaciated grasp of death, had spat in the omnipotent faces that had given him new life.

Weeks prior the man had been known as another, a man as zealously devout in his belief in the Thayne as the faith of the fanatics of Xem’zund. He had been called Ranger Nailo, prophet of the Thayne, Second of the Red Hand clan, and Tel’Amnrach* of Ithermoss. The man known as a prophet had tilled his plow alongside humble members of the clan, had followed the wills of the gods, had fought against the Bazaar with the Red Hand, had gone to war with numerous allies, and had fought against the upheaval of democracy in Corone. Ranger had been known and beloved, a father, friend, and brother. All the accomplishments, all the pain and pleasure that had found the man throughout years of life had been all for naught.

In an underhanded act the Thayne’s wills had caused the death of the once loyal prophet, and his insurmountable and undeniable claim to final peace was not granted. The voices of the gods had come to him and talked to him after death, had given him the direct contact that he had longed for his entire tutelage in the firmament. That eternal slumber and the lasting memory were not to be his prize though. Forced into servitude instead of accepting it humbly, the soul was cast into a fallen body of a bladesinger from Raiaera and resurrected. After fighting against the powers of the Forgotten, Xem’zund, he had taken flight back to Salvar. It was in the icy wastes of the north that had been the site of the vain god’s insurrection, he returned to the monument built to the goddess Jomil.

In a fit of rage the man attempted to return to the circle, an act forbidden by the powers that underlie its mythical status. His futile attempts for retribution, for acceptance by those that had turned their backs to him became little more than a self-inflicted punishment. The Icehenge on the border of Salvar and Berevar threw him out of its circle time and again, until all that was left of the former will that guided the last slivers of Rangers character was a fury fueled by uncertainty. With the power of his new body he had torn down the cursed idol, cast aside his will to follow false gods forever more. The monument had rejected his new body, and his new mind had rejected what it stood for in turn.

The lost, helpless eyes of the high elf scanned the sea of snow as far as his elven enhanced vision would allow. The racial boon was of no use, the proximity of the sleet and torrent far too thick to view through. Fist sized hail rained around him and struck him at times, jarring his bare shoulders and nearly sending him sprawling into the ground after every other step. No armor covered his small frame; no shirt clung to his thin chest. Instead the inscriptions of the Tap hung from thick metal loops that pierced through his shoulders. An unwanted gift, the tattered scrolls were bound to him forever more, a guide to the history and use of the Tap, as well as a pertinent reminder of the time he spent in the capture of the Forgotten One. His twisted visage belayed the anger he could not ignore at being caught and helpless to the whims of the weather. Every step was forced, his momentum halted by an uphill struggle and the compounding depth of the snow around his hidden leather boots. The capped end of his guan-do was used for leverage and assistance, a weapon turned walking staff. Shelter was a fleeting hope.

“Retaliation for my faults? Are the Thayne so petty they would resort to killing me for my lack of compliance?”

The thought was one that strengthened with every step he strained to take, his dwindling reserves of resolve nearly obligating him to accept his defeat. It was with his strained emerald eyes that he caught sight of possible restitution, possible survival. On the edge of the close horizon he spied the flickering light of a fire, barely being moved despite the whirling winds. It was a meager hope to believe that it was not an illusion, but the already disillusioned elf was not without his tenacity. Renewed confidence, whether ill-placed or otherwise, spurred him forward. It could have been the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel, but as he grew closer he realized it was not his own death that was forthcoming but safety from the biting cold and grizzly death.

Only a few hundred yards from the light and he let loose what little magic he could command in his weakened state, satiating the onslaught around him for just long enough to reach the frame of the great mansion in the mountain. His control over the weather was a new strength he had at command, as were multiple others he had yet to fully realize. With a smooth hand he pushed aside the soft wooden door, not caring if the owner of the household would welcome the intrusion or not. The complacence of the person who lived in the construct was ignored, as the owner was quite obviously either expecting company or haphazardly left the door unbound for any who happened upon the place.

The warmth of the home reached out from the opened door, hugging Aerendir in a loving embrace. He closed his eyes as he inhaled slowly and with deep breaths, allowing the warmth of the inside to battle the frigid atmosphere that had seeped deep into his lungs. Ice crusted his chin and hair, clung to his clothes and the entire staff of his polearm. Ecstasy and relief finally flooded his mind and allowed his worn muscles to slump beneath his frail frame. The door remained open, a battle between the warmth of the fire and the winds of Salvar raged around the mage as he fell to the floor. Staff clattering away from him on the rug, he closed his eyes as if in slumber and waited for the landlord to find him or his strength to return enough to venture further.

Out of Character:

((This takes place after my solo, hence the new body and other new things. The solo will be posted and worked on soooon.))

A sound shuffled it’s way into Damion’s alcohol muffled auditory canals. His eyes were weary, burning as he opened them. The difficulty wasn’t adjusting to the darkness as his eyes opened, moreover it was the excruciating headache that stampeded over his brain in surges. Damion glimpsed over at the table to his left and moaned in acknowledgement as his eyes trailed the bottles emptied mere hours before. The drunkenness had long not worn off and he’d have at least another ten hours to go to sober up completely. Slowly he regained posture in his chair, his eyes staring bleakly at the massive window beyond him. It required some concentration to blend out the thrashing hail, as it seemed to pelt against his mind more than the outside world. A dropped needle would have made Damion cringe.

“Good liquid…” He remarked ironically, though he wouldn’t lie that he did enjoy the beverage if even the after effects were mostly somewhat fatal in the amounts he enjoyed it in.

Then it crept back into his mind. He had awoken from a noise. The hail outside was relentlessly hammering it’s crude serenade upon the landscape, and he awoke from a noise. It seemed a little awkward a thought. The thunder cracked and lashed, blinded occasionally, and he awoke from a peripheral noise. Shaking his head he gave in to the notion and turned his head to the left; The table, the bottles, the ashtray, his halberd, the distance to the kitchen. After affirming that everything was in order, he slowly turned his vision rightward; The distance of the room, rug, the bookshelf by the door, an open door, a cold breeze. He sighed in expectance of the hinges having loosened anew.

Damion fought himself to his feet and dragged the halberd out from behind the chair in a rather unrefined manner, crashing the contents of the tabletop to the floor in the go. Bottles and ashtray sailed through the air, across the border of the rug, onto the marble flooring. With a bash they smacked to the ground. The maelstrom of noises forced him to squint, Damion felt as if a thousand needles were being pricked into his brain. He stumbled from the edge of the carpet to the marble floor that outlined the room, lucky enough not to step into the shards of glass. His stare remained on the origin of the cool breeze, the door was wide open. There were several possibilities, but they soon all ruled one another out as his eyes trailed across a lump in the darkness. It certainly hadn’t been the wind on a loose hinge.

The room was large, even beyond large, and the lump was a comfortable – or uncomfortable, depending on the point of view – twenty meters away. The door, thus, an additional rough ten beyond. Damion grabbed the halberd a little below midway with his right hand, pointed the blade rightward and started. The further he advanced the more he began to make out the figure lying on the ground. Everything else became peripheral noise as his mind tried to focus on the more pushing matter. The soft touch of the rug to his feet disappeared, the freezing touch of the cold dissipated, and the mild scent of tobacco vanished. Damion’s perception of his own path was a straight line, though it resembled more of a snake to any other observers.

Finally having stepped in length of the shadowy lump on his carpet, he forced forward a kick. He aimed for the head, but missed valiantly, and squared his foot on the shoulder of the creature. Damion caught a glimpse of pointy flesh where there should have been ears as the thing went rolling over and over. His mind was fixed, but his vision blurred, and thus he missed the weaponry towards which he had vaulted the figure. Metal rings protruding from its shoulders thumped into the carpet as it rolled. Still drugged by the Byoffnovoff, the assailed resident wasn’t quite sure what to say, and thus followed his harsh greeting yet another kick, this time to the thigh.

The clash of steel rings protruding from the elven shoulders with the far wall was more audible than the slight grunt that escaped his nearly blue lips. The stiff fingers of the man rose to his collar bone, gripping the tender skin that surrounded the pierced, obligatory shoulder piece. Retaliation was not his first concern, but was forcefully pressed to the forefront of his thoughts. By the time the second boot caught the thigh of the pointed eared intruder he had rolled over and was half glaring, half fighting to keep his eyes open.

In a lackluster attempt to relieve him of the constant aggression, the elven creature lashed out. A firm foot pressed against the wall and a free arm put him to his wavering feet. A shaky arm was thrown forward, missing the drunken resident’s jaw by inches. The elegant fingers of the elf could not close, the cold locked them long ago, and their recovery was yet to show. The intruder swung nonetheless, hastily the distance between the drunk halberdier and the wildly swinging mage grew. Haphazard swings were forcedly thrown, one catching the man in the shoulder, followed almost instantly by one that connected with the bottom jaw. Damion’s head jerked the slightest bit, but the wavering world around him was already disconnected. Balance a long since forgotten concept, the human dropped to the plush carpeted floor with a thud.

The rug was comfortable, smoother than a lesser noble’s bed, but his instincts urged Damion awake. He pushed on the ground with his feet, messily rolled backwards and came to a staggering halt soon later. His vision was blurred and he could only vaguely make out the shape of his obverse advancing. With a grunt his switched his handing on the halberd, and lashed out with his left. The halberd drew a half circle, horizontally, through the air. A thud of it’s shaft against flesh interrupted it’s gently glide. His blade was far beyond the elf’s body already, but at least he had swung in time to hit with something. The intruder dropped to the side, his figure forming a mould in the rug.

Damion retracted his weapon and stumbled forward. He forced another flailing kick into the direction of the newly downed figure, missed, slipped, and fell to a kick at his legs. In more luck than cunning, he had managed to shift his weight and direct his fall away from his assailant. Before he knew it though, the elf was upon him, his fists bashing relentlessly at the Salvic. Both grunted like animals as they struggled against one another’s strength. Smack, bash, boom. The frozen fists crashed into Damion, it’s stiff fingers cracking back into place the more blood pulsed through them; punches becoming stronger the warmer the fists became. Each landed swing at his head numbed him even more, creating but a fuzzy distortion of what he saw. He struggled to keep focus as the alcohol weaved it’s detaching threads of confusion. As he finally succeeded in bringing up his arms to guard off some swings, things began to slip back into place. Slowly the sting of impact crept into Damion’s drugged brain, as did some sane thought. His head was thrashing left and right, rebounding off the carpet like rubber ball, something was wrong about that.

Opportunity was in his favor. The man upon him was feeble beaten by the frost, Damion was simply numb. It was an advantage that he would lose in the long run. Acknowledging this, the halberdier drove one fist across the elf’s face. It was a direct hit, and the smack of his fist against his attacker’s cheek resounded off the walls. With glee the Salvic immediately followed up with a rough jab at the man’s stomach, forcing a grunt from his frostbitten lips. After repeating the process of pummeling his fists into the chilled body upon him, he levered himself free of his contraption by digging his knee into the elf’s side. Quickly Damion scrambled to his halberd, scurrying like a disorientated rat across the floor. Slowly he urged to rise, wedging the halberd against the floor as an aid. His vision was still blurry, and the throbbing in his head was growing louder and increasingly painful ever since a pair of cold fists had violently reminded him that, yes, he was awake.

“Whatthefuck’s your…” Damion paused, the slur of words he was uttering even to him a noticeable mess, “What is…whoareyou…nevermind, I don’t give a Skaven’s shit, I will kill you.”

Aerendir’s face was contorted with a mix of pain and the thrill of fighting. In his past life he had been a warrior by trade, at first forced upon him by his Aleraran birth, later embraced by him as a member of the powerful Red Hand. Since his rebirth, the new body he had been forced to accept was not given a true chance to be tested in battle. Though the battle was nothing more than a lackluster skirmish, it was one that he relished. The high elves fingers were slowly regaining their warmth with every stinging strike; every blow landed upon whatever surface he could find was another burst of warmth. Thin fingers were throbbing, blood pumped in them a boon and a curse. Aerendir’s face was contorted with a mix of pain and the thrill of fighting. It was not long before the fists that struck his face, chest, and stomach slowly brought the flow of blood to the budding bruises as well.

Finally the denizen’s onslaught slowed and the sloppy man stumbled away, regaining his halberd. The forsaken bladesinger closed his eyes and rolled his neck back and forth, attempting to fight back the vicious budding headache. It was doing little to help him focus, barely noticeable until the human slid away. Aerendir lifted his still cold hands to his flushed face. Cheeks burning, he listened to the man talked. The slurred words were those of a drunk, a revelation that was not exactly unexpected but one that still came as a surprise. For being as adept at fighting as he had been, the man before the elf was obviously a fierce warrior and one that would have easily killed Aerendir had it not been for the intoxication.

“My life was once one of strife and conflict,” he responded with a cough and a wince. One hand fell to his ribs, a sharp pain pulsing through him with every unsteady breath. He, for the first time since his rebirth, wished for an old spell to heal what was undoubtedly a cracked rib. Instead of dwelling on the wound he gripped the staff of his guan-do and pushed himself to his knees. “Mortal and Immortal alike have tried to kill me. Defenders of Corone attempted to impede me, the greatest of Althanas’ criminals and the once glories General Thoracis have endeavored to bring an ends to my life, countless others have stood before me and fallen. The Thayne themselves once sought to slow my advances, as have immortal demons of times long forgot. If the greatest of this petty world fell to my past strength, and the very deities that supposedly watch over and protect this world faltered in their futile quest to destroy me, how is it that you believe you are remotely capable of doing what even the gods cannot?”

He stood from his crouched position and rose to his full height, a meager five feet and six inches. It was not a means of intimidation by way of physical power that was at the command of the high elf however, it was his magical prowess that demanded respect. Aerendir brought his polearm before him, holding the solid wooden shaft with a white knuckled grip. Muscles screamed against further aggression, tense and wavering in their bone-chilled state. His upper chest and shoulders twitched uncomfortably, the large metal rings that bound the unraveled scrolls had moved too much. They were still very new to him, still very much an inconvenience and annoyance more than anything. Around both holes on the front, beneath the collar bone, and both holes on his back, through his shoulder, the area was reddened and throbbing.

“If you will for nothing more than to kill the unlucky passerby who happens upon your solitary abode while wandering this frozen waste, so be it. You are not without your reasons for disgust and necessity to defend this home. I, however, will not leave a place of comfort without ample reason… or improbable death.” The high elf stepped away from his drunken assailant and leveled the black blade of his weapon at him. “Whichever you decide to be right, I will have no qualm with. A fair warning, if you should attempt to engage further in your intoxicated and reckless course, this house can just as soon be lost to you and become my own.”

Damion stood, his vision wavering and blurred, the elf’s words hammering into his head, “I’ll give you a good reason…”

He paused, fault of the intoxication, set a foot forward and regained composure. He stood flawlessly in combat stance, it was almost completely natural for him, nevertheless the question was if he would even be capable of executing a flawless attack to follow.

“A good reason why I would be able to fell you…” Damion snapped his halberd outward, retracted it and readied for the momentum to spring forward, “I’m not a single of those things you mentioned. I’m a mongrel, a fault-bred bastard of a beast they couldn’t control. A war monger, thirsty for the blood of my fanatic creators…weak, pathetic, so called religious…by all means no more than filth. They awoke something they couldn’t possibly hope to contain. Don’t…test my rage, it’s what fuels every fibre of my body to move.”

Damion clenched his teeth and hissed “Thayne” below his breath. He glowered at the intruder before him, the short moment of non-motion he was given granted him the time he needed to weigh out his opponents position and his possible reactions to an attack.
The halberdier launched forward and barged in with a probably unexpected defensive manoeuvre. His weapon, with blade pointing to the ground on his left, crossed his body diagonally. The close quarter would allow him to quickly twist

The two contenders engaged in another brawl. Towards the end of what was almost not more than an elevated push and shove, spiced with some sloth-like evasive manoeuvres, Damion managed to bury his elbow into Aerendir’s stomach by ducking underneath and past the swipe of a guan do. More stumble and luck than calculated precision. As the elf contracted in pain, his elbow landed on the back of the human’s head in return. Though for a moment it seemed that both of them would be earthbound any second, they used one another as levers to vault themselves into standing again.

They glared at each other, uncertain of the worth to engage another clench, uncertain of the will to fight under these conditions, only certain of their endangerment.

“You…fuck…” Damion cursed profanely, the lack of creativity proof that the Byoffnovoff was still coursing through his veins in roughly the same amount as blood, “It must be something toward morning, and since days I haven’t shut an eye. Then I finally manage, and you barge in and disturb what fickle peace finally reached my distorted mind. You know what? There are about 16 bedrooms somewhere in this lump of rock, begone and take one of them will you…just stop pissing me off…and tell me why the fuck you’re here apart from stupidity, if I might mention that wandering around outside with this weather is a little dull…”

Damion wavered over to the chair he had sat on, frowned at the mess of broken glass and scattered ashes, making sure to keep one eye on his opponent. Though he lacked the patience to engage another push and shove, smack and jab he refused to loosen the grip on his weapon being just too unsure of what awaited him as an answer.

The high elf continued to keep the façade of cool collection set firmly in place. Some made emotional defiance a mask that they could wear at will, whether to offer the appearance of metal stability to an otherwise unstable situation or grant their opponent no satisfaction in toying with the placidity of their physical appearance. Aerendir did nothing of the sort with his drawn yet composed face. Inside he was a picture of serenity and calm, never would that diminish in the face of adversity. His prowess with the arcane arts gave him a confidence that only the greatest of warriors and mages of Althanas’ past could hope to claim. His physical state was weak, but his psychological continuity was always intact.

“You curse the Thayne as I do, curse any supposed gods that grace the idealistic view of the heavens and the home of the so called immortal creators. You take the words from my mouth, and yet spit them at me with a venomous taint… my words thrown against me. It is as if you think that I have opposing views of that which you hate. Nothing could be further from the truth.”

His millings came with a price, a moment’s hesitation in the futile attempt to disarm and dissuade his opponent from further conflict. The two were back at each other’s throats with their equidistant advantageous pole-arms, their fists and elbows, and their bodies alike. The mage moved, ducked, weaved and counter-attacked whenever the opportunity presented itself. It was a rare occasion that an opening formed, for either side, but the opportunity was never overlooked. Instead of the elf or the human – for lack of better understanding on Aerendir’s part – killing one another they leaned on each other and locked eyes.

The snake and the mongoose looked at each other, both worn and tired from their conflict and outside circumstances, and paused. Two combatants equally matched, two complete opposites made to kill the other, they were on level ground and neither could gain the advantage to score the final blow. It was apparent that the inebriated state of the man was enough to give the bone-chilled elf an equal footing, but neither aspect of their diminished wherewithal would last forever. If one of them did not speak first to quell the fighting it would drag on and a victor would be pronounced only after the internal issues passed.

Aerendir felt the man shift his weight, felt his own supported weight being left without a crutch to lean on. His knees nearly buckled and his unsure footing was compromised giving him a wobbling and crooked approach to the nearest door frame. The smooth wooden frame was masterfully created; his hand could feel the perfectly sanded work that had been put into it. A time long since passed he had been a member of the infamous group known as the Gol’Bron, commonly referred to as the Red Hand. No carpenter within the group of merchants and tradesmen had ever produced something so magnificent, yet the thought of his former allegiances was a fading and distant one.

“Such brusque dialect,” the high elf sighed under his breath. The man before him very well might have been someone who had stood toe-to-toe against gods, deities, and their zealous followers alike… but his tone showed him more of a barbarian with an elite status in the frozen tundra of Salvar. Outside of his home, where the real powers of Althanas roamed, Aerendir held little doubts that he would be just another suit of metal pushed around like everyone else. There was promise though, but the realization of that promise would have to be dealt with at a later time. “I’m going to put aside the fact that you have engaged a half-frozen wander on your own instead of simply allowing him passage and room for the time. The simple fact that you would rather fight anything that comes into sight is, in and of itself, a mere matter of mental instability. Get your rest, small ogre, I shall find a room on my own. When we wake I shall tell you of what brought me here, hopefully without hostilities being expressed.”

Aerendir sighed as he finished speaking at the man, a conversation impossible with one who was so absorbed by the alcohol flowing through him. His sharp eyes rested on the chair that his ungracious host occupied. The human was mostly concealed by the leather furniture, only his hand and the tight grip on his halberd were visible. The high elf did not approach him, did not want to engage in another lackluster and potentially pointless fight. Wounds were already budding across his body, welts and bruises were rising in any place that the man had landed a hand, elbow, or strike with his weapon. The Raiaeran wanted to rest, but craved the spirits that the man had so thoroughly enjoyed before his arrival.

He turned away from the man, peering about the hallway and doorways the lined it. There was no sign to tell him which way the liquor was stored, a house made for the owner alone without any heed to who may arrive. Aerendir felt the sinking feeling of being an outsider in a xenophobic setting, unwanted and intruding. His lips moved twice, opening and closing, the words on his tongue tangling every time he held his breath to speak. Should he ask about the location of the spirits? Would the man scoff and ignore him, or offer a roar in anger instead?

“A simple minded creature, give him his sustenance and be done with him. I could care less if he is opposed to offering of his precious spirits to myself, the illusion of warmth will assist my body in procuring warmth and in turn helping me sleep. I will deal with the monster in the afternoon.”

Aerendir turned back to the human and took a step forward, confident enough to pose the question. His words began to form in his mind, fell to his tongue; he opened his mouth just as the man spoke instead. The human did not turn from his well-maintained fire; his gray eyes never sought the green counterparts of the intruder. Instead his voice was low, slurred, and broken with attempts of his mind to catch up to his words. “Looking for… something?” He asked, as if reading the mind of the high elf. “There’s food in the kitchen, down the corridor… to the right and down the stairs. Storage and cooling room is down there too. Alcohol, fresh ale from the dwarves, aged wine from Raiaera if you prefer that.”

Without thanking the man’s unexplained generosity or open hand, the mage turned away from the open room and its frosted windows. His booted feet were silent as he walked, the sound muffled by the intricate rugs that lined the entirety of the hallway. As he parted ways with the man he noticed the difference in temperature. The fireplace in the main room at the entrance was emitting enough heat to fight back the chill from when he had opened the door, but did not extend through the rest of the house. He hoped whatever room he found had a fireplace as well, with wood stacked and prepared. That would all be a concern after he found the artificial warmth that he desired.

Damion wandered along the sizeable length of the living room toward the doorway the intruder had burst through, “Brusque dialect…I wonder how he does after what he just claimed from the storage…”

The slowly sobering, twisted version of a hermit grabbed the Door by its edges. In a rough manner he fidgeted it around in angles. Then, with a grunt and a push he bent the hinges back to where they were meant to be and shut the door. Yet he drew a frown regardless of his success in crude reparation. The door now pulled a draft through the room, resulting in a defection of the living room heating. He frowned at the carelessness of the stranger in his home, and cursed his stupidity once anew below his breath. The heating wouldn’t sustain the warmth should the days become colder. Frost would attach itself to the fibers of the carpet, returning heat would liquefy it, subtle warmth would – in the worst case – rot the carpet. And again he cursed the Elven intruder. He knew he’d have to order a group of Dwarven carpenters from the south to install an entirely new double door, stronger hinges, and a sturdier lock, what he didn’t know is how to get a message through to them any time soon.

“Of all the things they could have saved resources on, it was the door…” The resident sighed, turned, and started toward the kitchen, “…A little predictable, my friends.”

He had meant that no one would probably care to rob a being who keeps a battle axe beneath their pillow. In all the diversity of races roaming Althanas, it was only the dwarves that had managed to gain Damion’s complete and almost oblivious sympathy. He couldn’t explain why, but he enjoyed their company and even found liking in their lifestyle and ideals. Not to mention that they did in fact brew the best of ale’s…

-The Next Morning-

Damion walked out of the kitchen, his halberd already leaning in wait at the living room chair. His steps were muffled by the thick carpet. He was barefoot, comfortable, and somewhat serene. The weather had cleared hours before sunrise, in coherence with the Salvic’s consciousness, and slowly a warm glow pushed itself past the window. The mess from yesterday had gone as did the broken bottles and tipped table - things of the past. With a tender sigh of satisfaction Damion let himself down in the chair and crossed his ankle across his knee. He placed a glass of lemon tinted water on the small table to his left, and set the plate he carried beside it. Following that he rested his head on his right hand and stared at the landscape beyond the window.

The sun was slowly rising, shifting from an orange taint of the sky to a blinding white with time. It illuminated the landscape below in marvelous glints and reflections playing back and forth between the weapons on the wall behind Damion and the outside world. The air was cold, the snow was dry, and gusts of wind brushed across the fresh layer of powder and carried clouds of sparkling dust through the sky. Minutes later the sun began to shine in full brilliance and revealed the splendor that Salvar was.

Outside the mansion's window laid a landscape of absolute and pure beauty. Rolling white hills stretched far beyond the horizon, without a speck of civilization in sight. In every direction chains of mountains darted skywards and pierced the clouds, the specks of snow settled on more subtle descents made it seem like an ocean of stone – dark waters lined with motion foam. And though even during such fascinating lighting the mountains of the northern plains loomed over the land like fierce and dark behemoth sized hellhounds, chained to the ground by eternal ice, they ever searched for a match in refinement and grace. It was the point of view that added to Salvar's diversity of faces.

The only manmade constructions were Dwarven signal fires at the peaks of the most important mountains about, but for centuries they had been dormant. Though centuries in this case was simply a lighter word for what seemed like millennia’s. It was long ago that any dwarves, let alone humans were seen in this barren and hostile part of Salvar. The only trails snaking up through the fiercely jagged mountains of the northern plains had been chartered by the Dwarven frontier many years ago.

Here and there stood fortresses, armed but unmanned blockades, embedded into the mountains, concealed for the untrained eye. Those structures simply melted in to the magnificent scenery, they were part of it, and they had melted and mixed with what nature was putting on display. And it was the interplay of pure and unsoiled white with the darkest of gray’s that underlined the surreal appearance of the landscape, and added to its almost mesmerizing mannerism.

“There’s more of that in the kitchen…” Damion gestured at the plate from within his chair, “Marinated and fried chicken strips, with diversely spiced scrambled-egg, adding cocktail tomatoes is a choice of personal liking…just to answer a question which possibly might have arisen any moment posterior to my offer.”

He could hear the Elf taking a breath for words to follow and almost immediately interrupted, “...before you enjoy any nourishment, though, let us press the matter at hand and have you tell me why you've come here.”

A quarter of the way to mid-day, the elf finally fought up the will to disengage from the luscious bed he had found in one of the rooms on the second floor. His body was sore, worn and weary from travel and careless combat with the human. Rotating his arms, he attempted to gain full movement of his shoulders and upper arms. It was a morning and nightly ritual that he had passed over before falling into the plush bed after his encounter. The hoops that protruded from beneath his collar bone and through his shoulder blades were fiery red with the aggravation they had received fighting the man. It would take all day to recover to a point where he was not cringing with every outstretched arm.

He adjusted his boots and pants, his hands moving over his lean legs and honed muscular physique that he had inherited with the change of bodies. Straightening his short, cropped hair in the small mirror across from his bed he was pleasantly pleased with his appearance and exited the room and made his way to the common room where he assumed the human would still be slumber. After a night of drunken fiasco’s, combat in a half-sleeping state, and the blows that he had received Aerendir doubted he would be in a state that would be close to awake and prepared.

Light from the morning sun filled the room, showing the mage the depth and size that he had underestimated in the darkness. His attention had been on surviving and exchanging blows with the unsavory host, never had he used his elven eyes to scan his surroundings and gage the wealth and majestic beauty of the common room. Without an aggression fueled by spirits directed at him, he was welcome to view the dwelling that he had thankfully stumbled into.

Across from the ember filled fire place was a massive window that stretched the entire length of the room, one solid piece of glass without a mar on it; either inside or out. The hail that had harried him the entire night passage had not affected the smooth surface, as far as he could assume from his position. He let his eyes move from the glass to the walls. Surreal paintings of intriguing subjects lined the walls next to the door that stood opposite the length of the room, broken by the wall opposite the window, before the gallery continued to the walls that were to either flank. A small name was imprinted on the very bottom corner of each and every one, Archon Blightwel was the creator. How the human had amassed so many paintings by an artist that was highly regarded even in the former lands of Raiaera shocked the high elf, but he left the musings to concentrate on the wall of weapons surrounding the fireplace. After considering the wealth, power, and dominating experience that the human would have need to gain so many tools of war he stepped into the room and towards a smell that filled the air. The morning meal that his host was partaking in was succulent and nearly hypnotic. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it, not sure what to say.

Aerendir took a step towards his completely changed host, eyeing him with suspicion and caution. The unsophisticated predator from the night before had changed dramatically with the passing of hours and a bit of rest. He was a refined gentleman, the face of nobility that the high elf would not have suspected he would be. “If you had been so kind enough to inquire to that matter this morning, instead of rising to action and attempting to kill me, I could have avoided these bruises and this pain. Instead you took your sloppy anger and directed it at me. We should talk about my interest in this place now? Though you may have changed appearance, your assail first query later form of thought is most un-encouraging.”

“You're not in a place to judge. You, Elf, are the one who disturbed my rest and threw yourself through my door without an invitation," the human scratched his chin and took a calm breath, "If you were to awake to the sound of an unwanted, armed guest in the dark, the hail thundering against your window like war drums, would you set a kettle of tea on the stove? ...After all, it was lastly I that did not refuse you lodging. Food and drink, and roofing over your aching head, and bedding under your sore body for the night. Elf, you are certainly not in a place to accuse or denounce."

“Before I could issue a word—“ The high elf was cut off by the man with a sharp wave of his hand, dismissive and rude. The former bladesinger’s mouth was half-agape, his response an alleviation of his slightly growing tension against the man. It was not allowed though, and instead of throwing the fuel away, it was tossed into the budding flame of discontent for the human. "Excuse my manners of interrupting you again, but do not avoid what is inevitable and spare my time with your wash-woman's blather. Why are you here?"

“I can see that your ability to comprehend the needs of another are lost for whatever reason. I will excuse your manners, this time, but I would appreciate if you would allow me the chance to fully explain myself and my situation instead of bluntly pushing to that which you alone are interested in.” The mage balled his fists and wished he had the smooth wooden shaft of his guan-do to grasp instead of having the perfectly maintained nails of his dig into his palms. If he believed in the Thayne still, had faith in their infallible wills, he would have cursed them for putting him in the situation he had before him. However, he knew that the gods above were nothing more than petty, powerful children pushing others by means of their influence only to gain some form of entertainment. “I am Aerendir, formerly a high elf bladesinger of Raiaera, and I came to this bitter land to remove the influences of the Thayne. They cursed my former life, took from me the final solace that all humanity seeks, and instead threw me to the undead necromancer that has overrun my homeland. It was but an accident that I found this place, when the winds of the tundra and the skies opened up to rain down upon me I was fortunate that I found this place to escape to.”

“Intriguing. The reason why you are here was to escape the storm, which is believable enough - yet too much of a coincidence. Lacking faith, I lack trust in fate. What brings you to the heart of Salvar, from such a distance afar, Elf?"

“I do not need to explain then that belief in faith is little more than lack of the ability to trust in yourself? My faith has been lost when I opened my eyes in this mortal trap.” Aerendir unclenched his fists and let his soft palms run part of the length of the scrolls that hung from his shoulders. His hands moved down the ancient scrolls, and then gently back up to the adamantium, seamless loops that pierced his shoulders. “Northwest of here was once a place of legend, a monument to Jomil and her forged humility. The Icehenge was my undoing, the tool in which the Thayne used to kill my former body. I have traveled this land from the shattered serenity of Raiaera and destroyed it, so that they can no longer wield false promises against those that so ignorantly follow their petty wills.”

"My name is Damion Shargath. Treat yourself to a meal..."

Aerendir nodded in the man’s direction when he turned back to his meal. The scent of it was overpowering, tempting enough to make the high elf’s mouth water. He had not had a decent meal since his rations had become scarce, the day of his symbolic departure from the Thayne’s wills. The days since, wandering through the wilderness, he had survived on carcasses of frozen animals. Tough, days old meat was terrible, but only slightly worse than the salted meats and stale bread he had brought with him from Raiaera and picked up during his quick journey.

The tone of the man’s speech told him that he was dismissed to the kitchen to gather the morning meal on his own. The mage did not take offense to the curt way that the conversation came to an end, instead taking what little confidence in his host could be offered by it with him. Damion was a truly interesting individual, someone that in the former life as Ranger the high elf would have loathed and had revulsion towards. He was a different person, in a different shell of mortality though, and his passions were placed in other directions of interest. The name meant nothing to him, but the way he acted spoke volumes for who he was at heart. A possible friend and ally, Aerendir allowed a smile to cross his sharp elven face when he turned away and walked across the massive common room to the kitchen.

~The Nightmare Begins~

The day had passed its climax and was now descending. The setting sun painted the Salvic Mountains in fiery hues of red and orange, turning the winter domain into an ocean of flames. A chilled breeze rolled over the mountains like the gentle hands of a lover over the body of his mistress. Despite the barren, icy, and hostile nature of the Northern Plains, in the right light even this speck of land in Althanas became a peaceful sanctuary. Its seemingly sheer endlessness calmed the mind, and resituated those lost in thoughts back to the most fundamental beginnings. A menial account of flakes dropped from the skies every now and then, sailing to their gathered brethren below. Silence but an occasional bird of prey dominated the ambience.

“The view.” Damion began as he budded out a cigarette in the snow gathered on his roof, “It’s wonderful isn’t it? So simple, serene, and glorious. Yet so unforgiving, harsh, and minatory.”

Yester’s Elven intruder - turned guest - remained quiet, ignoring if it was a gesture of impoliteness or one of equal fascination of the scenery the human resident continued, “Aerendir, Bladesinger of Raiaera. I hope you don’t mind my naming you. Lastly it is your choice on which level I am to address you on.” Damion paused in wait for any denial or acknowledgement. It was long ago that he had the urge to address someone with such politeness, but what he believed he saw in Aerendir didn’t let him doubt a second that the effort was vain or unnecessary.

The elf stepped to the edge of the building, nonchalantly staring into the landscape beyond, his voice even and devoid of any vivid emotions, “Simply Aerendir is fine, further titles are not necessary. My title as a Bladesinger was a designation that was attached to the soul that once housed this body, never my own. I have not gained recognition as anything more than a fallen prophet. If my ties to this world deepen and I have the opportunity to assume a label, I would not force that formality on those who are close to me either way.”

“Very well, thank you. If you would please accompany me, there is something I was hoping to show you before you might decide to take leave again. It may very well be of interest to you.” Damion replied in a likewise even and controlled tone, his obverse reacting with a complying nod of his head.

A chilled wind suddenly swept up the mountain, disheveled the hair of both men standing atop the main building’s roof, and gave them their cue. The two men turned and made their way through what must have been a countless number of corridors to Aerendir, until finally they reached a large wooden double door. It was hinged and inlayed in rough and unhandled stone, just like the mountain exterior. They were located at the far side of the mansion, on the southern wall. Damion reached into the two circular handles towards the middle of the gateway and twisted them outward. Then with a grunt and a forceful tug the Salvic stepped back and the doors swung open.

A narrow, levitating walkway led intro a rather astonishing version of a library. Although an open room, it consisted of two circular and rather tall levels, at least a hundred paces in diameter. The upper was the enforced glass walkway which hung from steel bars drilled into the granite ceiling, and circled the entire room. The lower had ten small desks aligned in a circle around a large center desk of heavy, dark, polished wood. Small, tainted-glass capped lights flooded the room in a soothing warm light, touched with a slight green hue. A chandelier dangled from the ceiling above the center desk. The floor below consisted of simple, yet perfectly arranged cobblestone that proved not the slightest uneven link. Yet, it wasn’t the gold and silver linings of lamps, nor the intricately adorned desks or figurines that made the room what it was.

There was no wall in the common sense; moreover the wall consisted of bookshelves. Ones which encircled the room and towered to the ceiling. The only gaps consisted of the entrance area and a poorly lit hallway opposite of it, which could only be accessed through the upper level walkway. On the lower level the hallway ended in an alcove with another desk, a mess of books picked from their shelves and stacking upward from the floor. An image resembling a moment in Damion’s past, one he would never forget. Unstirred the human continued down a set of steel framed and glass filled stairs circling down either side of the walkway.

“This, Aerendir…” Damion began, spreading out a myriad of sepia tinted maps on the center desk, and the more he uncovered the more a menacing grin began to draw itself across his face, “…This explains itself without many words I believe. Take your time, if brief or several minutes, and draw your conclusions.”

The High-Elf mage looked not at the maps, but more pointedly at the human’s wide grin. It was a predator’s grin, one that reminded Aerendir of a wolf glaring down upon a lamb stuck in the mire. He mirrored the toothy expression, feeling at ease despite a sense that something was not altogether sane about his opposite. His emerald eyes finally pulled away from Damion and turned to the maps. They held a key to the world of mutual enemies.

“Sway, Thayne, shrines and temples,” the high elf seethed through a set of thin, tightly pursed lips. It was a gift that made his heart flutter and his breath rapid. “Targets. Key holds of both false religions. These maps could be paramount in the destruction of the Thayne and their hold on Althanas. With these we could tear down the influence of the Sway as well, remove them from Salvar completely.”

“Not only from Salvar,” Damion’s gaze slithered over the maps like a venomous snake, “Salvar is merely the beginning.”

“The beginning of what? You have a devious smile that settles within those gray eyes. I expect that whatever it is that you have in the recesses of your mind will offer something just as fulfilling. What plans have you laid out that would make use of these maps?” Aerendir’s soft hands gently stroked the edges of the maps, hovering over the parchment like an eagle in search of prey. Finally his eyes fell upon Jomil’s broken artefact, settled in the Northern tundra of Salvar. A finger circled the small mark, his smile widening as he noticed that the landmark had already been marked as derelict. “This is where I had ventured from… through Salvic hail and winds, to come here. A pleasant coincidence.”

“The lustrate process.” The words came in a tone of such wicked and vile delight only found in the hearts of those too dark to be considered humane in their methods, “Too long have those pitiful religions plagued the soil we grace with false ideals. The time has come to root them out, to sever the ties between them and existence, to exterminate the parasite, to rid Althanas of the sickening and repulsive ulcer that they have become.”

The human then detached his eyes from the maps and levelled them with those of the elf, a distasteful and grim stare settling in his face before he continued “I only dare suppose, and thus I need your verification of my estimations of who you side with. My cause is no just cause. There is no such thing as justice in my world, only retribution to be dealt. My retribution is revenge, and the brutality I carry it out with is my mercy. I do not spare lives, and I will encounter many. I eradicate what hinders me on my path, a path I alone have chosen. There will be oceans of seemingly endless bloodshed. The beings I am bound to face have forfeited their right to live. I ask you Aerendir, do you wish to devote your cause to the destruction of this wretched, broken, and weak world?”

The high elf was not one to view the world with such disdain as the menace of a man before him. He regarded it as more of a place filled with the weak minded and simple, people that were too mundane in their way of thought as well as their belief in own personal divinity. Aerendir was different by far; a man whose past had led him to face gods and immortals, though his faith was only placed in himself. No other was stronger than a person who knew who they were and what they desired.

“Destruction of the weak minded is a personal devotion of yours. You have my hand and my strength, but I do not see it as black and white a cause as you. I may follow in your belief regarding the plague that has continuously spread. Since man first walked the world, unsure of where they were and what their purpose was they have followed a self-imposed prison of thought known as a higher power that makes them appear weak but yet gives them hope. Justice in this matter does not pertain to courts and officials of the state, but to those strong enough to take up a cause and stand against it. Let us take up the war path.”

Damion smiled wryly, somewhat amused “It is not merely black and white, nor right or wrong that I mean. Moreover it is a decisive battle between those weak, and those strong, with figures unknown yet to side. I will though, not deny that you give the chaotic and hateful mess within my heart a clear voice. It is my strength that is my weakness at times. I am their abomination, one they have failed to contain, a force that lusts for the blood of the world infused in my own blood. I am glad to see you on my side, Aerendir, ally.”

Aerendir let the words of his companion linger on his mind, absorbing them. The man he had happened to stumble upon was a schemer unlike any that the high elf had seen in the past, one that was without equal in his ambition and hatred alike. There was darkness in his heart, mind, and consuming his soul. As the first person that the newly imprisoned elf had truly cared to talk to, he was happy to call him an ally and friend. It would not be often that two twisted souls would meet under civil circumstances that would offer them companionship, but the mage was happy for the meeting of chance no matter what way it came about.

“Do you propose any target to begin with? There are many to choose from, and multiple that are left without guard or concern, they would not be a challenge.” Aerendir turned his eyes to Damion and then back at the map. Countless dots spotted the weathered parchment, a numerous portion of them were based closely to where the two were already. In a week they could usurp the power that had for too long been prevailing, lay it to rest and remove it completely from Salvar. “However, I assume that you are in the same mindset as me, looking for a challenge. What purpose lies behind the eyes of the zealous but to teach the world their desires in a truly dominant spectacle?”

"Very insightful..." Damion's finger hovered over the maps, twitched buried ones out from the pile. Suddenly his hand clapped down and the human grinned.

The map was as old as the first, but held a territory that the high elf was not familiar with. On the western edge of the map was the landmass known as Salvar, which extended north to the point of a mountainous region. It split the landmass of the known world from the unexplored world of Berevar and what rested past that. A large mass of land that connected to the eastern edge of Berevar continued into the far east, completely open land with a single stamp across it’s center: Keribas. If land existed beyond the mainland and the northern-most known region known as Berevar, it was something that Aerendir was completely unaware of. He touched the region with the tip of his finger and stroked it, awe showing in his eyes but not extending to his emotionless face.

“What is this place?” He questioned as he traced its outline and noted the small dot to the south-eastern shoreline. A black circle was placed at the center of a massive lake, the blue streaks of crusted paint showed a shallow inlet from the sea that absorbed the entire southern portion of the map. It appeared to be shallow enough to allow water in, but far too shallow for any sort of naval vessel to pass through. “Is this a place that exists?”

"Another experiment of those weak minded fools, and I've decided that I won't be their only regret. The location is, as you can see, situated inside the lake. It is a mountain, and it's unlikely that you've seen something like it before. The mountain holds a cloistral fortress at its peak, a town at its foot. A huge wall encircles the entire island. The only entrance is a rickety, weathered pier." Aerendir listened intently as Damion talked about the area as if he'd spent his entire life there.

"The Church of the Ethereal Sway colonized the island with that town. They don't let anyone leave the island, only missionaries and high ranking officials of the church change shifts every year or two. The sole purpose of that despicable ulcer is to demonstrate how well a populous grows under a firm, religious rule. How impenetrable and strong such a society becomes...nevertheless, I think you understand where this is going. Back to the important matters once more. This fortress is invincible, if led right. It holds resources most cherishable in a war. You've noticed that probably no war ships can enter through the ocean inlet, and that the fortress is on a mountain surrounded by water. To add... to my knowledge, it is also out of reach of any known artillery which could be set up on the shore. Taking this fortress serves the reaching of two goals. Damage to the festering ulcer that is the Sway and a most valuable tactical position for us to act from..."

Cancerous growth that it was, it was of paramount importance to the Sway in their colonizing of the unknown world to the east. The landmass was void of any known settlements; the inhabitants would undoubtedly be nothing more than clan dominated governmental structures with a fair amount of those nomadic in nature. A perfect place for the two self-designated warlords of anti-religious fervor to claim as their own. It would prove that the church of Salvar was weak when faced with adversity, remove their would-be dominant society from plaguing a land filled with easily converted barbarians, and serve as a bastion of the new derisive decadence that the duo would have following in their wake. “So we remove our enemies from their high thrones, cast their bodies to the waters surrounding this fortress, and claim it as our own. Not only do we claim the candelabra from which their frivolous, benevolent light is cast, but also the candles and their flames. I do not know of this world, Keribas, but I am at your side in this endeavor. We can, from this vantage-point, strike back at the known world and truly establish ourselves in the unknown.”

"I see you understand. Neither do I have doubt in your anxiety in our uprising. A symbolic burning of the veil they hide behind, resulting in the physical destruction from their core to their most far reaching extremity. What better place to begin from than their unknown. We will infest them like a parasite, damaging them from the inside. They will with time know of our presence when our doings eat away at their cells like a necrosis, they will fight us, but they will not and can not win. It should be entertaining..."

Limited Commentary was asked for. Since this seemed to be focused mainly on building a strong storyline, that's where my commentary will be focused.

The Assailed Resident


STORY

Continuity ~ 8 The focus of the story, creating the building blocks of a plot to cleanse Salvar and beyond of the religious views deemed unnecessary by your two characters, remained strong throughout the entirety of the thread. Ranger’s introduction was very much needed in order to let the reader know why there is a new character in the fray. The first post on your part read very much like the synopsis and updated history for Ranger/ Aerendir that I’d find in a profile update.

Setting ~ 7 There are areas of the setting that seemed a bit more textbook than literary material, such as when Damion wrote “… which posed to have a diameter of roughly six and a half feet and a depth of four feet.” While this gives an exact description of size of the pit, it takes away from the interactive focus the reader feels when reading the rest of the pit’s description.

Pacing ~ 8 Your pacing was done very well, but was hurt slightly during Damion’s and Aerendir’s battle scene. The entire thread read like it was written by a single person, each of your posts mingling with each other’s flawlessly to create one solid story and one solid goal shared by the two. During the battle scene though, the thread took a somewhat jarring change into two writers. While this isn’t always a bad thing, the way the rest of the thread was written, especially at the end, made this particular scene stick out like a sore thumb.

CHARACTER

Dialogue ~ 7


Action ~ 8


Persona ~ 6 The sudden change of heart from Damion toward his intruder wasn’t explained very well and left me wondering “Who is he really?”

WRITING STYLE

Technique ~ 8


Mechanics ~ 6 There are a fair amount of typos, mostly in Damion’s posts before Ranger’s arrival.


Clarity ~ 8

MISCELLANEOUS

Wild Card ~ 8 For a thread that is simply introducing a much larger piece of the story, you guys did a very good job.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

TOTAL ~ 74 Very solid score.

EXP Rewards

Damion Shargath receives 4500 times 2 for FQ = 9000 experience.

Ranger receives 2250 times 2 for FQ = 4500 experience.


No rewards are granted as requested, with a larger spoil coming in the future installments of this storyline.

EXP added!

Ranger is now level 6!

Damnion Shargath is now Level 5!