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Post by Mabbz on Feb 10, 2015 5:22:09 GMT 12
"That was my thinking too," said China. "You mentioned earlier that one of the translations stated 'only those who walk the sacrificial path can complete the ritual'. I assumed a magical bridge wouldn't work near the runes, since they're draining the essence, which led me to consider that there might be a way near the bottom, below the reach of the essence drain. I thought, maybe a spell would cause someone that jumped into the abyss to not only survive, but reach the other side. A leap of faith. Of course," she added wryly. "I'm not going to be the one to test it."
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Post by Ravager Zero on Feb 10, 2015 11:31:58 GMT 12
Back in town, Murtan, Aliss, and China had gone straight to the town hall, stopping at a bakery only long enough to share a small loaf and some savouries. Aliss kept urging them to hurry. Everyone in Dalton knew of the performance Bethany’s troupe would be giving. They didn’t want to be late. Only a few seats were left, near the back, and they each took one, somehow winding up next to Darius.
“Some show it’s going to be,” he nodded at the stage. “I can feel the illusionists working from here.”
Aliss could feel them too, skeins weaving through the air around the stage. Everyone present fell silent, and a hush fell across the hall as a single figure walked onto the stage. He wore all black, and spoke with a voice deep but not loud; a voice that carried throughout the hall.
“The heroes of Vidan are a legend amongst the peoples of the north, and here, in this play, we hope to do them justice.”
The air around the stage shimmered and rippled, and in the great distance were visible the shifting, shadowy forms of small buildings, long since abandoned. An air of dread seemed to fill the place. Eight figures trudged through the snow, looking around warily. Blurry shadows rose from the ground, their outlines wavering and indistinct. One of the group spoke, female, blonde.
“Looks like my sister knows we’re here.”
“We’ll keep you safe,” the ranger replied, drawing his bow and striding forward.
The massive warrior drew his hammer, and beside him a doughty figure—perhaps a Dwarf—drew a pair of axes. The runesmith unslung his rifle, while next to him the red-haired healer withdrew a pair of wickedly curved daggers from her robes. Rikashi Khanji. The other warrior, a scout, drew his short sword, and the woman that had spoken first held a dagger, point down. The last man, a mage, drew no weapons, but something shimmered in the air behind him.
The shadows attacked, and the massive warrior swung his hammer, connecting with thundercrack blows, the shadows dissolving into nothing. The Dwarf slashed through anything he missed. The ranger fired three shots, pulled his arrows into his shooting hand, and ran up the side of the nearest building, pinning two of the shadows to the ground with arrows as he went. The runesmith fired twice, then hit another shadow with the butt of his rifle. Behind the mage something large crashed to the stage, and a ghost bear plowed into what was left of the shadows.
The fight was over, and the heroes had won it easily. Too easily. The stage changed, and the buildings pushed out towards the edges, the action centering on the runesmith. Towards him walked a single figure. Slowly, with great purpose. Each stride left a black mark to corrupt the snow. The figure drew a blade, and watching in the audience some saw flickers of red hair beneath a blackened helm. The figure gave the runesmith a mocking bow.
The runesmith dropped his rifle, returning the salute with his blade. The figure attacked with lightning speed, a high strike blocked by a rolling guard turning into a plunging stab countered by a half-sword blow riposted by a backhand strike that scored sparks from a runic breastplate. The black figure smiled. All this had taken no more than two seconds. Stray strands of red hair fell from the helmet, and the black figure stepped back, its voice altered by an illusionist nearby to a sonorous and sibilant echo.
“Nemesis finds you worthy.”
Then Nemesis split its blade into two, a sword in each hand, and attacked in a blur. High cross meeting diagonal guard followed by a low sweep from the runesmith and rolling strike from a blade that glowed with sunfire. A single line of gold seemed to flower along Nemesis’ breastplate. The black figure attacked again, a low strike and a rising cross met by a solid crossguard and a savage kick, driving Nemesis back. The runesmith threw something on the ground at his feet, and the snow changed from blackened corruption to purest white.
The runesmith attacked, a fury given form as his blade clashed with that of a principal daemon. Time and again his blade found purchase against the daemon’s armour. The Nemesis dropped and spun, planting one foot squarely within the pure snow. Everything turned black as the daemon stabbed the runesmith in the back, withdrawing a blade crackling with energy. The runesmith coughed, and then laughed.
Chains erupted from the snow, lashing Nemesis to the ground. The lines carved against its breastplate glowed with sunfire. The runesmith stood, placing his blade point first against the daemon’s chest.
“The old gods are done with your kind.”
Nemesis shrieked, the air rippling and swirling around the stage, disrupting the illusion for a crucial second. The black clad figure rose, driving the runesmith back with a rain of blows so fast and furious it drew sparks from their blades. The runesmith turned to run. Nemesis began the chase, unaware of the air rippling behind it. Something… else… stepped through the portal. It followed Nemesis at an implacable walk, striding through huts and shacks as if they didn’t exist.
The runesmith turned, firing his rifle at Nemesis. The daemon looked down, unconcerned. Until silver began to spread across its armour in fine webs, slowing its progress. The runesmith dropped the rifle, drawing his sword once more. He closed with menace on Nemesis, ripping the daemon’s helmet off. The face was black, with eyes of blue balefire, but through the illusion they could see red hairs crackling with thunder.
“Ananatasamma Unikohzat!” And with that invocation the runesmith drove his sword through the heart of the daemon. Lightning blasted apart the illusion, knocking the runemsith back, destroying his armour and shattering his blade. As the runesmith picked himself up, and Nemesis rose—Bethany in costume—the stage cleared, and the man in black made another announcement.
“And that was the first true battle of Vidan, how the heroic Runesmith destroyed the daemon Nemesis. Elsewhere, the Warrior and the Dwarf faced a horde of enemies, seemingly endless, to distract them from the Ranger and the Sister.”
The air around the stage swam into a view of snow and carnage, black corpses piled high around a massive warrior and doughty Dwarf. Each was breathing heavily, hewing into the horde of wolf-like shadows, forming a battering ram of flesh and steel, thunder echoing with every strike. While they plunged through on the ground, the ranger helped the sister move through the shadows, firing shot after shot at any of the lesser daemons the warriors ahead might have missed. Up ahead floated a woman wearing black, her robes flowing to the ground, swirling into a ring of shadowy warriors serving as her honour guard. The ground shook, and seemed itself to come alive.
The necromancer rose higher and higher, shacks and huts falling from the ground she was raising, so high now that the warriors and the ranger were invisible on the ground. She now rode the shoulders of an onyx golem, and its eyes showed the black fire of a disciple of Morrde. So did hers. On the ground the warriors broke through the ring of black guardians, the Dwarf surging forward while the massive warrior stopped, resting his hands atop his upturned hammer, offering a short prayer to his patron goddess.
He stepped forward, shouldering past the dwarf, and stood his ground against the golem in front of him. He hefted the hammer in both hands, sunlight seeming to glow from inside the weapon. He lifted the hammer in a slow, deliberate arc over his head, accelerating as the golem’s leg came closer, slamming the hammer into its shin. The black rock exploded outwards, blasting them all back, and the golem fell to its knees. The warrior stood and struck again, shattering the golem’s leg.
Suddenly they were surrounded by hundreds of shadowy wolves. Massive, shadow-bound wolves. They attacked, ripping and tearing at the warrior, leaving him bloody and ragged. The healer tore through the wolves from behind, whirling like a dervish, her twin blades dispatching them in a furious assault as the air around her shimmered and turned to gold and green. Blow after blow rained against her, but she felt nothing, rolling forward and slamming her hand against the warrior’s chest. Gold fire surged through the massive warrior’s body and he stood, a halo glowing about his figure.
He lifted the hammer high above his head, and as the shadowy wolves closed in on them all, he struck with enough effort to shake the earth. A burst of power and a crack of thunder loud enough to deafen the audience and an impact hard enough to bounce them from their seats—they had to admire the creative use of geomancy for that. The stage cleared, and the announcer once more walked through.
“And as the Runesmith fought Nemesis, so did the Warrior and the Dwarf fight the Necromancer’s minions, saved by the Healer at the final moment. Beyond that advanced the Ranger and the Sister, shadowed by the Scout.”
The illusion rolled once more across the stage, and the ranger strode forward, the scout on his left and the sister on his right. What they approached was a wall of perfect darkness, a seeming impenetrable barrier. But as the trio approached, the darkness shifted and rippled, congealing into thick shadows of magick and chaos. Black sorcerors unleashed a barrage of magick unlike any seen before, power exploding in bursts of inky blackness, driving the trio back, forcing them to take cover. The sister’s face shadowed the entire stage, a serene smile on her lips, made larger than life by masterful illusionists.
“I will be safe, ranger. You must let me lead now. I know what I must do.”
The sister rose from where they were taking cover, striding forward slowly. The black sorcerors turned their attention to the sister, ignoring everything around them. She continued to walk forward, taking a step left, a step right, ducking once, turning on the spot. Whenever the dark magicls approached, she simply wasn’t there. It was unnatural and unnerving, some magicks coming so close as to whip her hair or ruffle her clothes; but still none hit her. She was the perfect target, striding so slowly through the chaos, and yet, she was impossible to hit.
The ranger and the scout followed in her wake, unleashing a storm of arrows, taking down or staggering every daemon mage they could see. But still those daemons concentrated on the sister. They were beneath the daemon’s notice, slings and arrows of fortune nothing compared to the spear of destiny that was the sister. Then the black wall broke, and out strode the necromancer, unholy magicks in her hands. Her first impaled the sister with a spear of bone, pinning her to the ground.
The second flew straight at the ranger, but there was time enough for the scout to throw him aside, blasted backwards by the power of the spell. The ranger took up his arrows, and fired at the necromancer, his shots glancing from a shield of pure darkness. He ran forward, firing again and again, black magicks tearing into his flesh, but he failed to notice them. He fired again—his last arrow—and drew his sword, leaping to run the necromancer through.
She leapt back, avoiding the blow. A single shot rang out as the ranger stumbled, finally seeming to succumb to his wounds. The necromancer looked down—a great red stain seemed to blossom against her chest, dark magicks unable to maintain her vigour. She fell to her knees, but before she could fall further dark hands buoyed her up, suffusing her with the strength of Morrde. As the rest of the daemons closed in around the ranger and the sister, the illusion fell away, revealing an empty stage, save for the announcer.
“Thus the Sister, the Ranger, and the Scout so weakened the necromancer. She fled, but not far before she encountered the Warrior and the Dwarf. The Heroes of Vidan had the great evil surrounded. The Runesmith and the Summoner appearing at the hour of need, and the Healer giving everything of herself to keep the Heroes fighting.”
The warrior turned and swung his hammer, a black sorceror caught on the full, slammed into the wall of a hut. The Dwarf strode forward at speed, plowing into group of wolf-like shadows, sending them tumbling across the snow, ripped through by his axes. Then the necromancer appeared, blood staining her chest, flinging dark magicks in every direction as she fled. The warrior bashed them aside with his hammer, a shield of sunlight seeming to surround him.
He strode forward, catching up with the Dwarf. Minions of darkness surged from the shadows of the buildings, but the warrior’s hammer struck with great claps of thunder, decimating the daemons by scores at a time. A swarm of hellish bats fell from the sky, engulfing the warrior and the Dwarf. Flashes of gold could be glimpsed inside the swarm. The runesmith appeared in the distance, wearing only ragged trousers, blood covering his chest, and armed only with his rifle. What he said wasn’t audible, but it drove the swarm away, relieving the warrior and the Dwarf for vital seconds.
The ranger approached from another avenue, bearing the bow of the fallen scout, arrows in hand. He fell to one knee, his arms shaking with effort as he took aim at the necromancer’s back. The arrow flew straight and true, lodging in her back between her shoulders. The runesmith braced his rifle against his shoulder and fired. Another bloom of red appeared on the necromancer’s chest.
The necromancer responded in kind, a massive surge of magick blasting the ranger in to the wall beside him, and a second blast driving the runesmith to the dirt, a great furrow torn through the snow around both of the heroes. But now the warrior was close, and his hammer struck with such force that the necromancer was hurled back a hundred feet, slamming into a building at the end of the street.
From behind the warrior came the healer, her robes in tatters, red hair flying behind her as she ran. She leapt and placed a hand against the warrior, his injuries fading. The Dwarf stood tall when the healer’s hand touched his back, setting his shoulders. Across the street the healer sprinted to the ranger, stumbling, falling to the snow. Slowly, she rose, placing both hands against his chest. Soon the injuries were gone. Something flickered around the healer, and all the injuries the other heroes had taken seemed to appear on her. She staggered, trying to run for the runesmith.
The necromancer’s black magick stopped her dead in her tracks. Suddenly strange hands were lifting her, and the summoner stepped fully through his portal, urging her on. From the portal behind the summoner stepped a djinn. The summoner pointed at the necromancer. The djinn attacked in a ball of fire, fiery streaks marking its slashing attacks, burning through the necromancer. A lance of pure darkness shot from the earth, impaling the djinn.
The creature hardly seemed to notice, enraged beyond measure at being so injured, its ichor leaving a blazing trail in the snow. The necromancer whispered a single word, and reached out to touch the djinn. Her hand burned, but the djinn stilled, falling sideways in the snow. But now the heroes had their opening, and all of them attacked. Arrows, shots, axes and swords. But it was the ranger that struck the final blow, his sword plunging deeply through the necromancer’s chest, the blade snapping with the force behind the blow.
The necromancer staggered, falling backwards.
Throughout the hall there was silence, the illusion persisting just a few seconds more. Then the veil fell and the actors, their hands empty, were greeted with uproarious applause. After the applause had died away, the black-clad announcer once more took the stage, making the final proclamation.
“So the Heroes did slay the Necromancer, and the world was saved from the darkness that so threatened to consume it.”
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Post by Mabbz on Feb 10, 2015 12:15:39 GMT 12
China applauded with the rest of crowd. As a rule she preferred quieter and more intellectual forms of entertainment, but the battle was a truly monumentous occasion that would likely be remembered for centuries. History deserved her respect, and in any case the performers had done a superb job in reenact the event. Still, one question remained lodged in her mind.
"I wonder where they all are now?"
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Mkoll
Junior Member
Posts: 67
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Post by Mkoll on Feb 17, 2015 7:03:42 GMT 12
Murtan watched the show with interest. He'd heard the tale before of course, as he'd told Aliss, but this was the first time he'd seen a visual representation of the tale. He had to hand it to them, the illusionists were clearly incredibly gifted, and their source was clearly someone close to one of the Heroes.
"Well, I don't know how" he said to Aliss as he applauded. "but they've got their information pretty spot on. Impressive."
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Mkoll
Junior Member
Posts: 67
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Post by Mkoll on Mar 9, 2015 13:19:21 GMT 12
With the show over the crowd broke up, some heading straight for the exit, others gathering in small groups to chat. As Murtan was remarking on the accuracy of the tale Aliss disappeared under a massive hug and a loud squeal of "YOU MADE IT!!!". Somehow the little geomancer stayed on her feet despite the speed of the surprise hug and, after realising who was responsible began a conversation with the newcomer at a similar pitch.
As Aliss had her fun Murtan noticed the newcomer wasn't alone. With her were 2 men, one looked well travelled, a hunter perhaps, the other less so, definitely more accustomed to city, or at least town, life.
As the commotion died down, partly due to the stares the high pitch was receiving from other audience and cast members introductions were made.
"Aliss, this is Jason" pointing to the hunter "and Talon" Bethany said
"A pleasure" said Aliss politely "Guys, this is Murtan. Murtan, this is Bethany, the dancer I was telling you about"
"So, Murtan," Bethany asked "you enjoy the show?"
"Loved it" he replied "I was just saying to Aliss, the accuracy and the detail was incredible. I heard the tale from a close source myself, but I was sworn to keep it quiet. I've never seen a retelling hit the mark so thoroughly. How did you do it?" he asked.
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Post by The Man They Call Jayne on Mar 13, 2015 5:41:06 GMT 12
As the people talked and celebrated the success of the show, Aliss had wandered off and found a copy of the local news sheet. She was deeply saddened to read of the loss of one of her favourite childhood authors. The paper said he had died bravely, in an epic battle, wielding a sword forged from star metal against a dark beast said to steal the memories from your very mind. Other people had said that they had seen the specter of Death himself welcome the man like an old friend.
Aliss only hoped that he died knowing how much joy he had brought to countless people.
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Narric
Junior Member
Posts: 97
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Post by Narric on Mar 13, 2015 10:11:40 GMT 12
"I definately did enjoy the show." Jason replied to Aliss, when the lady returned after spontaneously walking away to read a paper. "The tales told in the Inns I've stayed in do the tale no justice. I do regret my choice of seating now, as I'm sure a closer seat would have made for a more up close experience."
"I'm a Hunter by trade and practice. Though I have had my share of bodyguard duties." Jason nudged Talon in a playful manner. "What is everybody digging around here? I'm sure Talon mentioned it, but I've only just thought to ask what the big deal a hole in the ground can be."
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