AC 2021 - Final - Storm Veritas

[Storm Veritas]

Soft, warm light woke him as he floated, drifting in air on what felt ethereal. Fortunately for the traveler, he knew himself not to be in the afterlife, but rather being carried across the Tular Plains. The rancid odor of sulfur overwhelmed him, snapping him from a pleasant rest. He struggled to open his eyes, the sun now high above them, and noticed he was being carried in netting that was very comfortable, almost a hammock. His mouth was horribly dry, tongue feeling coated with stone dust. His entire body ached terribly, a countless barrage of sharp pains screaming for attention from all of his extremities. In front of him, a large, lithe, athletic figure was marching, ebony skin shining in the sun as he silently strode ahead.

Elf?

Indeed, the dark elves were moving him. Was he assumed a co-conspirator with the dwarves? Being carried off to execution? The possibilities flooded his brain as he attempted to gather information. To his left, debris and wreckage; plumes of soot-heavy smoke twisting harmlessly to the skies. To his right, another elf, this one very familiar.

“Cazri!” His voice was weak, his attempt to call out muffled as though through a thick mask. Her eyes caught whomever or whatever was carrying the back end of the hammock, and returned to the wizard with a very telling shut up don’t say a word type of gaze. Fatigue hung over her like a veil; she, too looked dusty and battered, but could walk.

“Rest, human. You’re lucky to be alive. You’ll have answers to provide at camp.” The carrying elf marched ahead, speaking in a baritone voice that lacked empathy.

Saddened, confused, and still very much aching, Storm felt the sting of tears at the corners of his eyes. Perhaps the complete ringer of fear and regret he had just endured simply broke his spirit. Perhaps the embrace of death, followed by survival, and now near-certain death, was the end of the road.

You’re alone. We saved the gods-damned world, and now I’m being carried off for slaughter.

Silently the electromancer suffered, his body screaming and spirit broken. He prayed to the gods his parents had once taught him of, long before the gifted mage had been blessed with talents that rendered the gods typically unnecessary. At some point in the silent march his body yielded once more, plunging him into a deep slumber that offered him very needed rest.

[Storm Veritas]

Everything had come together far too quickly, and Storm felt violent tugs from within regarding a lack of planning. This wasn’t poker or some boardroom negotiation; no clever calculations on return or reading of his adversary’s eye would bely right from wrong. This was a simple matter of raw instinct. Had he stayed the plan, there was a very real possibility that he, Sorian, and Elite Optic could have quelled the demon uprising, and possibly driven them back into the gate, leaving the dwarves without the numerical advantage they would have relied on to overthrow the elves and tip the balance of power.

Or, Elite and/or Sorian get a taste for the power and enjoy it, rolling through Ettermire.

Hell, or YOU do.

Like alcohol or nicotine, power was a dangerously addictive drug. Storm didn’t trust himself with it; certainly not in the vast quantities the dwarves were talking. His thoughts flashed back to Shinsou near dead in Tylermande, or the ashes of Whitevale, a city leveled to cinders under his watch. Power was something he had sought his whole life, until he had it.

It was a few more moments of riding slowly when the adventurer realized how cold it was tonight. He had been sweating in the rush, adrenaline driving his heartbeat as the dwarves had momentarily come in firing range. Now that they were lost (for now), the cold air rolled across the plains and cut through him, the beads of sweat burning cold.

“Easy boy. Smooth, quiet, easy.” Storm rubbed the neck of his horse, whose name he hadn’t learned. He had taken well enough to “Boy”, and broke easily for the wizard, listening well to commands and driving forward dutifully. Had he not needed the speed, the graying electromancer would love to release the horse, sending him back north to the dwarves, and relative safety.

His nose still burned from the sulfurous fumes here, he couldn’t enjoy the pleasant odor of tobacco as he lit his pipe and moved slowly. The little orange flicker remained within the pipe – an advantage afforded to pipes when trying to move stealthily. Riding forward, there were still moments where the starlight failed them, and the wizard was forced to conjure white light from his hands to guide the path. He tried to be judicious; with each little cast he expected a torrent of trebuchet fire.

Not yet. Not till we reach the gates, or damned near them.

He was going to draw the dwarves to the gate, and make them fire upon him and the demons alike. It would trigger war, likely razing the demon gates and hopefully obliterating the uprising of demons, decimating the dwarf army in the process.

A perfect plan except for the stupid asshole in the middle.

He had resolved himself to die here on the plains tonight. It was a sad form of actualization, but an inevitability he was forced to embrace. His story would go untold, and unknown, but remain impactful all the same. The smooth taste of tobacco filled his mouth as he enjoyed what may be his last smoke.

“You’ll be off as soon as I see them, boy. Let you ride home, let you out to stud somewhere. I made this bed; you deserve better.”

[Storm Veritas]

“Good, you’re awake. Here, sip slowly and listen, don’t talk.”

Cazri, the beautiful dark elf, sat at the flank of his bed. She laid a small tray of chicken broth at his side table, steam pouring ever so faintly as she offered him the first spoonful. She whispered with her deep, sultry voice, her gorgeous appearance marred by a litany of bandages and myriad stitches, scrapes, and salves. It was good to see her clean again; the sexy glow of her dark skin surprisingly healthy with all conditions and considerations in play. Storm didn’t remember her being so ravaged from the carry here, but then most of the details felt fuzzy.

“Forget what you think happened. Don’t say anything to anyone until our story is etched in stone together if you want to survive.” She smiled as she leaned over him, gently brushing his cheek as a lover would. They were in a burlap-wrapped tent, and from the metal trays and instruments about him, it was a mobile hospital of some sort.

“We wanted to take the sword. You were paid a handsome bounty by the Radasanthian Council to retrieve the sword from the Demon Gate, and I was your liaison. Together, we marched with Emi, Leoric, Elite Optic, and Sorian towards the gate, but were met with countless demon bands, that separated us all.”

Her whispering was broken by a kiss on his forehead, as a tall Ettermirian soldier came to check on Storm’s bandages. One check on a bandage about his head, the affirmation that he had received broth. A shake of his left leg that responded with a horrible yelp, the splinted leg obviously broken in an injury from which Storm had literally no recollection. A temperature check and assessment of his eyes. With all the pleasantries of a crocodile, the elf turned and left the bed, pushing through a hanging strap of leather that separated each mobile bed area.

Quite the welcome wagon. Gods.

Cazri was unfazed, opting to continue to whisper to Storm.

“Sorian and Elite were some of the lucky ones, best I can tell. I was told they cut through the entire eastern front of the demons, with Elite using a mystical helmet to overwhelm and dominate the demons. It was destroyed in battle, but both survived. They boarded the large boat that you all arrived in, leaving behind the smaller vessel for you when you clear your name.”

Sons of bitches!

“We were caught in a terrible crossfire; dwarves from the north, and demons returning from their march to Ettermire and Etherea on the other side of the gate. A terrible battle, with virtually no survivors. We were both buried alive in the rubble of the great demon gate, felled by the mighty war machines of the dwarven soldiers.

“Had they not so bravely sacrificed themselves, we’d surely have been torn apart by those savage demons. Sadly, virtually all the dwarves, and every single one of their war machines were destroyed in the battle. The elves rode north hard and fast to pinch in the remaining demons, driving whatever dwarves remained back north to the mountains.”

What?

Puzzled, Storm glared at the elven guide, pleading with her to tell the truth of what happened out there. His head throbbed terribly, a familiar pain. How long had he been enduring the concussion? What had actually happened on the battlefield? How much of this was delusion and dream, and how much was reality?

“Cazri, what the hell are you talking about?” His dilated pupils suggested a terrible injury, one that doctors would later explain to him could very well create severe hallucinations as the brain tried to heal. Still, hallucination would better explain the incredible luck, the wild visions, and the untold power he had never before experienced.

Her eyes softened, looking at him with what appeared to be either sadness or pity. Brushing his hair behind the bandaging, she spoke again in low tones.

“I’ve already told you what happened. You were brave, and we were lucky. But this is the tale I will tell anyone that will ever ask me. With no other survivors following the fall of the Demon Gate, there simply is no other truth beyond the babbling, selfish hysterics of a brain damaged old wizard. One who would suggest I could betray the elves, which is of course objectively absurd. A wounded old man who would claim he single handedly saved the world. Best of luck with your tale, my friend.”

With another kiss on the forehead, Cazri rose and left the tent. Pulling at a seam of leather by his head that marked the tent wall, Storm watched her mount a beautiful little auburn horse and ride away. As he released the fabric, a terrible ache resonated from his right thigh, where matted blood was pushing through the cotton bandages that he hadn’t noticed. A second bandage covered his otherwise bare flesh, a long ruddy color staining the clean white cloth.

The wizard Storm Veritas had not claimed the sword. He was isolated now, with a spectacular story that no one could corroborate. No money, no friends, and no path.

He had saved the world, and things had never looked worse.

[Preston]

Judgment: Storm Veritas

Congratulations on getting to the Final’s of the 2021-2022 Adventurers Crown! I am excited to read your submission and compare it with your peers in this solo based round. If you have any questions, concerns, or would like to reach out to me please feel free to do so!

Plot - 21

The overall plot of the thread was solid. It made sense and flowed well. I think the highlight was the pacing you set, which was very smooth. I chose this as the highlight of the overall writing for this section because of the instant ability to follow your combat based posts. It is rare that back and forth action flows so well. The overall setting was relatively well done as well.

Character - 23

You have a knack for understanding Storm’s character and writing it fluidly. There are certain characterizations that come through with your narrative that work very well. Additionally, the dialogue that he has is fitting - though at times comes off as a little cliche, but kinda fits the character.

Prose - 23

There were a few errors here and there with sentence structure, tense agreement, and general misspelling. The posts were very clear and easy to read. The only negative I have for this is that the writing felt a little flat and matter-of-fact. There were certainly portions of the writing that were given life, but at times it felt toneless.

Wild Card - 10

Score: 77

Rewards
5365 exp | 2700 gold

[Taskmienster]

Exp and GP added.

As discussed, the following item has been awarded. You can rename it, but if you would like to change the properties, please let me know for review:

Demonic Mount Trinket: Storm was able to keep a memento ((you can decide the object)) from his interaction with the demonic mount. With it, he can summon the creature to him once a day or once a battle. It will remain with him for up to 10 hours, unless it is destroyed during combat. If slain during its summoning, the creature cannot be summoned for a full day. The demonic mount is X feet tall by X feet long, weighing X pounds and can run at a speed of 30-40 mph.