- Posts: 647
- Joined: Sat Jan 22, 2011 7:15 pm
- Location: New Zealand
Setting: Deep in the Wood of Sharp Teeth, beneath the ground nearing the heart of an underground orc hive two very different warriors - Lia'Dris and Boris - meet by chance at a crossing of tunnels and are set upon by worgs and warriors.
Lia'Dris Maendellyn (Player Name: jonez2610): A slender and small elflady with coppery skin, a pair of bright green eyes and a shade of caramel brown hair with strands of gold. She seems nimble and agile, swift on her feet and is most often clad in a suit of elven armor and equip with a spear and trinkets of similar light and minimalistic style, yet obviously high quality craftmanship that all attest to the fact she is a wood elf. She carries herself with a natural elven grace and seems to observe her surroundings with keen eyes and a cautious approach.
Boris Vyacheslav: Blackened steel armor encases every inch of this herculean knight's body. His physique is obscenely predatory - his musculature is exagurated by permanent transmutations - surely inflicted from a young age. It seems this man may have been engineered by wizards for violence. A Balor's visage is tattooed into his head - runes of pain and fear are tattooed on his sunken cheeks. His brown, kohl lined eyes seem cold and dead when he looks at you - though the perceptive may sense a deep seated hatred in his heart.
Boris Vyacheslav: "Need you any help there?"
Lia'Dris Maendellyn: "Hardly, they almost run in to the spear. Slaying orcs?" she snorts
Boris Vyacheslav: "Aye. That is the task."
Boris Vyacheslav: looked beyond the elf to the orcs firing then back to her. "What about some...friendly competition then?"
Lia'Dris Maendellyn: "What they lack in wits they add up for in stupidity." she mutters and drives the pole through he near death orc at her feet. "Hmm.. I do not know you, and I meant not to impede your hunt or steal your quarry. Merely culling the filth that dwell here."
Boris Vyacheslav: "Shall we deal with those cretins behind you?"
Lia'Dris Maendellyn: "Dim witted cretins indeed."
Battle is joined - the pair slay a warband of orcs and worgs.
Lia'Dris Maendellyn: "Alas, I shall not steal your sport, stranger. And will leave you to the.. exercise."
Boris Vyacheslav: the warrior thrust his sword hard into the baked earth. Taloned gauntlets clutch his visor and draw it off his head - revealing a perspiring face heavily tattooed and unhandsome.
Lia'Dris Maendellyn: she leans on the pole of her spear and observes him for a moment. "Curious markings." she cants her head and takes in his features
Boris Vyacheslav: "Before you go, sate my curiosity.... are you one of the elven village I hear rumored to be in this woodland?"
Lia'Dris Maendellyn: "No, I would not claim so. Have you quarrels with them?"
Boris Vyacheslav: leaned an elbow on his standing sword, helmet under his other arm. "Not any more, no. My former lords had a long standing hostility with them..."
Lia'Dris Maendellyn: idly traces a marking on the back of one of the slain orcs, resembling a poor depiction of a tree
Lia'Dris Maendellyn: "How.. intriguing. I can not say I am affiliated to them in any way, nor would I know any of their citizens by name."
Boris Vyacheslav: "I am Boris Vyacheslav, of Surthay in the far east."
Lia'Dris Maendellyn: she grimaces a bit as he nose wrinkles and her nostrils flare up. "That is further east almost than I hail from"
Boris Vyacheslav: "From where do you hail, then, she-elf?" a hairless eyebrow rises slowly.
Lia'Dris Maendellyn: she smirks and squints slightly at the man, hesitating a moment before smiling sweetly "Algarond."
Boris Vyacheslav: the corners of his cold lipped mouth turn up in a gargoyle smile, a low laugh rumbling out. "Algarond! Beloved neighbors, then, is it?"
Lia'Dris Maendellyn: "Something of the sort." a coolness to her voice as her mouth twitches. "My name is Lia'Dris, should such hold any value. Tell me.. to whom do you pay homage Boris?
Boris Vyacheslav: the kohl-lined eyes of the Thayan hardened, but gleamed like obsidian with his amusement. "Hail Lia'Dris. Homage ... Do you speak of the gods?"
Lia'Dris Maendellyn: "Gods, patrons there of.. lesser men with claims of equally grand notions. Your ilk has been known to differ little between gods and men, lest you've fallen off your pedastals of late." a faint snort escapes her and the coolness in her voice almost resembles hostility
Boris Vyacheslav: unlatched the strap of his pauldron and flipped it back to reveal where the orc sword pierced his chainmail and gambeson. He pours from a small glowing vial which sizzles in the wound bringing the filth and rust and blood out, sealing the meat messily. Boris flipped the pauldron back over and latched it himself as he spoke. "I was a lord of an estate in Surthay... It was in the last year utterly decimated. Before I left to war for it against the Rashemi, I was Knight-Commander of the Order of the Crimson Guard at the Thayan Enclave of Baldur's Gate. The Khazark at the time of my service was Kahanak Habdilof.
Before this, again, I served Thay herself in the military, and many a campaign."
rest again against the sword standing in the filth. The orcs about his feet ponged, flies quickly swarming the kills.
Lia'Dris Maendellyn: her intense elven gaze seems fixated on his markings rather than the wound. her expression sours visibly, the scorn in her voice reveals a prejudice deeply rooted in the elf. "Hollow words of would be corpses, ever the warmongering ilk. The Simbul would be glad to hear of your failures, for that is truly all your kinsmen can boast. Perhaps I have met you on the field of battle in the past, though he horrid visages that your helmets are often styled by would differ little from what I behold now."
Boris Vyacheslav: "You are far from Algarond, Lia'Dris... is it a desertion of duty? Are you quite secure leaving your borders unguarded?"
Lia'Dris Maendellyn: she chuckles softly, if briefly "Lest your superiors have found measures to melt the lower planes in to this, the Sorceror Queen shall be capable enough without my spear. Yet it is not desertion no, my duty is eternal and the nightglade remains unsullied by the hands of Thayvian mongrels and their filth. I have my own reasons for this voyage and not due to crueler men barking orders at me, or are you perhaps ascending from the depravity of your station?"
Boris Vyacheslav: the large knight left his sword standing and approached the hooded woman of Algarond slowly, his blackened steel sabatons crushing underfoot the tangled limbs of orc and worg. "I admire your spirit. Many a man of Algarond has fallen to my sword - but here, of all places, I never anticipated the ghosts of Thayvian war to follow."
Lia'Dris Maendellyn: a calm demeanor is evident, her grip of the spear pole tightens ever so slightly but her stance seems at ease, raising her chin she smirks "The ghosts of war follow us to the grave and beyond, perpetual is the struggles of the planes and no less so for those whom seek to enslave and opress others beneath the heel of their boots. I am surprised you are not met with scorn and mistrust, even here. For the deeds of your kin are widely known as transgressions against all things fair on Faerun."
Boris Vyacheslav: the giant approached quite near - so that the fire underlit his gargoyle face in a quite unflattering way as he looked down upon the woman, his face sterile of emotion but eyes glued to the elf with wonder. "I am met with scorn and distrust, as any coward meets a conqueror. The most ambitious empires will always be despised, Lia'Dris, but conquest is the natural order of life." He paused. "The great are hated by the small."
Lia'Dris Maendellyn: she pulls back her hood as caramel strands of hair fall freely on her shoulders, there is no trace of anxiety or fear in the elf and her features easily give away that she has seen her share of conflict and battle. she shoulders the spear, assuming a more casual stance as her eyes squint at the gargoyle faced man. "The most ambitious of empires fell to ruin in ages long forgotten by those who would proclaim superiority of others in the present. Your shall crumble to dust as well, in due time. Perhaps far sooner than you can anticipate.
Boris Vyacheslav: dull obsidian, shark like eyes shift slowly over the face of the veteran wood elf standing before him, taking in her features. He does not seem to have blinked since the conversation began, lending a strange intensity to the man. "Thay will never fall."
Lia'Dris Maendellyn: "And you would assume to be the first making such bold statements?" she seems slightly amused, a faint hint of a teasing smile crawls over her lips, her eyebrows raised as she shakes her head subtly. "As did the Netherese.. and before it, so did we."
Boris Vyacheslav: the upper lip of the fighter lifted to bare his teeth, his stare darkening at the teasing an amusement of the elf. His accent seemed to thicken. "You speak of the race of elves?"
Lia'Dris Maendellyn: "The Yuireshanyaar once thought as you do, as did all of the old elven empires. But in the wake of such notions of grandeur, war thrives and follows. Only the cycles of life and death is persistant in this flow of chaos we call existence. I speak of the races of all whom have set foot upon these planes, claiming to be its masters or stating the endurance of their rule. History is a lesson for the future, one ought not to ignore, Thayvian."
Boris Vyacheslav: the plated chest of the Thayan swelled, his great plated shoulders slid back and taloned gauntlets locked behind himself in a relaxed military stance. His bulldog jaw visibly flexed as the elf spoke, listening in silence.
Lia'Dris Maendellyn: her gaze idly averts to her hand, with open palm she turns it over and shakes her head as a brief sigh emerges from her pursed lips. "Blood washes off slowly, take the lessons to heart for each drop spilled, we are but fuel for this plane and the gods."
Boris Vyacheslav: eyes lowered to her hand at mention of the gods and history. "Unlike many of my brethren, I have not disregarded the folly and fall that occurred when my ancestors set themselves above the gods. You are a woman of faith?"
Lia'Dris Maendellyn: she chuckles softly and stiffles it only to respond with a tone full of sympathy and pity. "How peculiar and rare. I thought the mere accumulation of power and rise of station was the sole purpose to life, for a man of your.. heritage."
Boris Vyacheslav: "There are gods who champion such purpose."
Lia'Dris Maendellyn: "Tell me true, Thayvian. When last have you encountered one of the Tel'Quessir that did not pay homage to the divine? We are the children of Corellon and blessed with existance on this once lush and green plane, bound here to wither as all do, till Arvandor calls us home." a pride in her tone reveals a deeply rooted devotion and obvious reverance of the elven deities. Her hand drifts to the pendant around her neck, a crescent moon shaped piece of ironwood as she clenches it tightly
Boris Vyacheslav: his cold lipped mouth downturned at either end into a foul grimace, wrinkling the fine scars crossing his face from all directions. "Few elves speak with me - less as plainly as you have in this den of death, Algarondan."
Lia'Dris Maendellyn: "This perplexes you? Truly my kin are oft at prefferance by not wasting breath where words would fall on deaf ears. Yet I would know my enemies long before I grant them the release from this mortal coil. Make of it what you will." she smiles sweetly and shifts her weight from one foot to the other, nimbly and gracefully, her emerald gaze locked on his tattoos
Boris Vyacheslav: "I am not perplexed by the aloofness of an elf toward a man any more than I should be perplexed by the way a slave stands aloof of his master, until brought to heel." there was in the pits of his eyes a smoldering wroth. "You would grant me release? Then mark well my face and know me now." the warrior neared another step, a tower of plated steel and unnatural musculature. Veins surfaced on his bull neck and emerged on his brow and skull. "I know what lies beyond for me."
Lia'Dris Maendellyn: "Would that I could erase such unwilling memories, yet it shall haunt me in reverie till the sourness of your lips curl upwards in gratitude for the end of your deprived exsistance. But alas this is not the day you die, Boris of Thay."
Boris Vyacheslav: the nostrils of the auroch of a man flared, as if hungry for oxygen to feed his raging heart. His breath smelled stale of bitter wine at this proximity. "By the hand of Thay, Bane will crush Algarond - whether I live or die."
Lia'Dris Maendellyn: "We shall meet again." she glares at him briefly as she recoils from the man, seeking the shadows of the damp cave, an echo of her footsteps swiftly fade to an inaudible echo of dripping waters in the hallways beyond the room
Boris Vyacheslav: turned his back to the spear maiden and marched slowly back to where his greatsword stood.
- Posts: 647
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- Location: New Zealand
He was Bueroza. His reputation widely preceded him as an ultranationalist of Thay, yet a traitor of the Magi powers that be.
The knight paced along a disorderly line of unwashed northmen in tattered and varied garments, addressing them through the cruel mask visor of his ridged great-helm, clutching a large flail in his iron grip.
"The uncivilized man is low - he is a barbarian. He wants not beyond the lust of his flesh. He sees not beyond the needs of his stomach and does only what he must to secure his welfare.
There is no real power in him. To a higher calling worthy of struggle he is deaf. Too blind to perceive transcendence and cause worthy of striving in, too dull for any awareness of mortal destiny. He is by all means a beast.
You are beasts. Lawless men and rightfully pariahs from what is so-called civilized in this savage sprawl of coastland. To this day, is it not true you have made your living as predators on the weak and the civilian? But you are NOT the greatest predator to walk these blooded shores!"
The Banite halted sharply, siezed a man by the jaw by his taloned gauntlet and stared down at him in the face, domineering. He shoved him aside with disgust to resume his slow pace.
"There is not a budding city-state in this miserable realm that compares to the ancient grandeur and high order of the Thayan Empire; no roads of Thay have known banditry like yours in centuries.
That so called ethical objection of these Western rulers to enslave and utilize the lowest among themselves in honest labor leaves worthless men as yourselves rather to roam unchecked, using your freedom to range bloodthirsty and criminal throughout the realm and its communities.
I do not believe you are without an intrinsic purpose or value. Even the least of men in this, our Hierarchy, has an imperative part to play in the total. He has his place and his purpose. Each man stands before another according to his quality.
Until today you have not participated in the New Order to come.
But now you will. By Bane, you will."
Boris looked down from the height of the keep upon the training grounds where the same men he had welcomed that last ten-day were being put through their paces in basic militant drills. Each had signed his life in a year's contract and received brandings marking him as a soldier.
Black bear-furs decking Bueroza's wide shoulders were tussled by the wind, his iron jaw clenched and eyes alight and fiery in the harsh cold of the north. For a moment, perched as an eagle on the heights, he felt again a commander of men as he was in those armies of Thay and her Order of the Crimson Guard. But it was a fleeting vanity, and left in him a sore hollow.
Such days of glory were behind the fallen knight now. Marked a traitor by his own countrymen, whom he loved more dearly than his own life for want to serve, he was eternally isolated from his people and Empire.
White hot hatred cleared his mind and heart a fresh slate. It was scrawled on his soul; the Thayan Empire would rise and rise again, and know the glories of victory over the barbarian hordes of Algarond and Rashemen. This not by the repeatedly failing leadership of those many squabbling Zulkir - but rather by one hand. The Black Hand.
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- Location: New Zealand
Boris stood perfectly still - a statue in the heavy downpour that slicked his purple cloak to his black platemail. Kohl-lined eyes glared from the steel pits of his gargoyle faced visor. Only the rise and fall of his massive plated shoulders betrayed a life.
"I am alone."
"Prepare to die!" the Rashemite axemen bellowed from the bridge, frothing at the mouth with rage.
"So be it."
The knight was dismounted from his warhorse Xenubat on the well traveled rise overlooking the Boreskyr Bridge. A dark tower stood a silhouette against the travelling moon and its entourage of debris while further in the distance Dragonspear loomed, ominous and old.
Msciwoj the Berserker, near to death, slipped and scrambled clumsily up the steep muddy rise to Soubar as the rain poured down. Boris was immediately behind him in another powerful charge. Tossing aside his tower shield Boris came to stand overtop of the barbarian. He pressed a boot on the low of Msciwoj's back pinning his belly to the dirt and preventing his escape. Now, sword raised point down in both hands, he dealt death's knell; with sore wrath he drove it, pinning the man to the earth. The blade whined negative energy, satisfied at last. A twist of the blade, and then it was wrenched free, sending that barbarian's soul to whatever hell awaited him.
When his eyes opened they were vacant - shark-like. He was in a warrior's trance, reliving the bloodshed.
In grim silence his large hand lift and the talons unfurled. Kohl-lined eyes glared as the thick mud dislodged and slopped in clumps to the ground. The same gauntlet dragged down his staring face, opening the skin of his brow and cheek with its deadly claws, debasing his countenance with filth - in his minds eye, only dressing himself again by hands drenched in the blood of a hated enemy.
When he awoke again he arose with ease from where he knelt. The titanic monolith of blackened platemail ascended the battle-saddle of his Tyranturan steed and, with cruel vigor, drew the reigns and dug his barbed heels into the ribs of the muscled beast barking a cry of command. The equine reared up with an ungodly shriek in the still night air, casting horror afar. Falling onto its hooves it charged with abandon into the abyss of night, moonlight failing under impenetrable forest canopies of a lonely wilderness road.
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- Joined: Sat Jan 22, 2011 7:15 pm
- Location: New Zealand
Temple of Tymora, Baldur's Gate.
She sits, plucking up the deck.
"Would you accuse yourself of being a superstitious man, Boris?"
"To some extent, aye."
"I learned to do this as a child, from Magdalena. She is the one who gave me my first reading," she explains, as she idly shuffles the deck "but it was not until a year or two ago. I revisited Rhiannon, a changeling from Rashemen. She taught me how to use magic upon the deck. It... adds a bit more intent to the fold."
"Rashemi magick..." Boris muttered, unimpressed.
"Not Rashemi at baseline. But learned in Rashemen. Complete difference. This is a trick from all around the world."
She smiles gently, then continues to shuffle the deck. She sings some sort of song as she does so, soft and soothing; it resembles that of a chant.
Her shuffling hastens as she voice echoes, her fingers seeming to consider each card intentionally, though faster than one might normally wade through a deck. Eventually, four cards are placed horizontally upon the man, all face-down.
She motions to the cards, from left to right. "Let us explore what lies behind you, with you, and before you." Pauses dramatically, for any possible reaction to her theatrics.
The warrior sat upright in his chair, straight backed with shoulders wide. His gauntlets sat as fists on the table. Dark eyes watched the hands of the woman as she worked the kind of witchcraft, then raised to meet her gaze stoically, giving little to indicate what manner of expectation he might hold in his breast.
"First, we must analyze the past." She inclines her head - her eyes faded and smokey.
The first card is flipped: Knight of Swords.
This card depicts an armored man atop a white horse, charging in profile into battle. He holds a sword forward as he charges.
"Mmm. A man on a mission, charging to his goal. He is ambitious, dedicated, and so set upon his dreams that he will stop at nothing to accomplish them."
A twitch of his eyebrow at that.
"He tends to be quick to take action. He may be inclined to plan ahead, but he generally has a tendency to not plan far enough ahead."
The hands of the knight flattened out from their fists and came together, bladed fingers interlocking partially. His eyes narrowed on the card, reflecting on the words of the woman.
"... Does this imagery seem familiar to you?" she asked.
"Would you like to move on, or ponder this one further?"
"Please, continue..." Boris answered.
She inclines her head. "And with you; that which is happening, or in the midst of coming;" 4 of Pentacles was played.
This card depicts a finely dressed man with a crown, clutching a large golden coin. Two other coins are held under his feet, another atop his crown.
".. An accomplished man, though one affected by his ascension. He has earned much, but he clutches to that he has gained, intent on maintaining control of it. Strange, one might think. He may have reached such heights, but he spends so much time maintaining it that he may not have time to do anything else."
One hand lift and groomed down through his beard slowly, eyes on the card. A slow nodding. "So far your spell is true. Go on. What is my future?"
She inclines her head. "What is to come, yes."
She flips the third card; 5 of Swords. This card depicts a man holding two swords in one arm and a third to stand upon. He looks in triumph as two contenders depart, their shoulders slouched in defeat. Two swords rest on the ground before them.
"A time of falling out, or disagreement. The enemy leaves in disappointment, as if giving up. The one left finds victory in the moment. However, the storm clouds are coming in from the horizon. All is not well, despite perceived victory. This speaks of a time to come in which one must choose their battles carefully."
An ebony, sharpened finger nail hovers above the fourth card as her foggy gaze looks at the man. The fourth card remains face-down.
"And this last card... what does it represent?" the man asked.
"This card is the influence. The struggle. The strength. It could be many things, pertaining to the future. It is a card to ponder, and act accordingly. The past is already written, the present is unfolding, and the future is uncertain."
"Show it to me." Boris reclined back in his chair, expression as hard as stone.
She waves her hand, her gaze fading back to normal as the card unflips and slides to rest in front of Boris.
The card is Death.
She blinks and looks to the card, tilting her head. "Huh... Observe the imagery, interpret for yourself. Within the next moon, if you wish to discuss it, we may discuss it. This card is best interpreted by the one who is living the story, not the one reading it. All I can offer is, this card very rarely means its literal depiction."
"Portentous tidings you've dealt me, bardess."
"I believe they are hopeful."