Arsenal of Echoes [IC]

Discussion in 'ROLEPLAY GRAVEYARD' started by Arcadia, Feb 21, 2016.

  1. [​IMG]

    The winds of fate howl and screech across Aeliatora. From where they originate, none can fathom. The birth of the world created the Fae’hathel, child caretakers to a primal nursery in it’s infancy, a place where the Fae’hathel watched over for generations of peace and prosperity. But with the morn comes the eve, and with the dying of the light came the Al’ras. Beings of oblivion, creatures of null existence, their presence created turmoil within the hearts of early humanity, the Fae’hathel powerless to stop this threat by themselves.

    So they did what they could. They rallied champions from every corner of Aeliatora, and the blacksmith Havenshire. Famed for his exploits with weaponry of magical origin, the blacksmith petitioned to the Fae’hathel to relinquish their freedom in order to conquer the threat. They agreed, and were sealed within legendary weaponry that conquered the Al’ras.

    But they did not win, for the Al’ras were not truly destroyed.

    This is where they story begins.

    Rayvin smiled. The hard work and toil of their profession could be seen by their scraped knuckles and their reddened, sweating face. They’d sent the letters to the corners of Aeliatora, to the new champions of the world. The darkness had receded in the generations since Havenshire I, and Rayvin smiled at the thought of their own achievement. They had kept the weapons of their forefathers, kept them in perfect shape and protected them at all costs.

    But it was time to give them to the next generation of champions, to let them become accustomed to the sleeping spirits within the weaponry, to let the Fae’hathel finally have their own peace of mind, and let peace itself run throughout the lands of Aeliatora.

    Rayvin sat, gazing at the embers of the forge, and smiled as they danced and flickered, slowly dying to the inevitable cold breeze that snaked with predatory delight across the halls of their house where the blacksmith resided, awaiting the day when the champions would arrive and begin the destiny the eons previous had laid out for them.

    To bring back peace and restore order.

    It was a destiny they would try to fulfil, once the champions arrived.

    @Red Velvet
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  2. It was a frosty early morning when the letter came.

    Of course the out-spoken ginger for whom the letter came was anything but cold. No, not with the warmth of the body beside him and the thick fur blanket that carefully covered them. Sojin had sat up slowly at the sound of the fluttering wings, his mossy green stare finding the large raven perched on the back of a wooden chair. A hand lifted to push back his copper hair from his eyes, the other rubbed tension out of his nape and shoulder.

    Even before focusing on the raven, he sat there a moment and reminded himself why the soft little blonde from down the road was currently in his bed. There'd been a hunt. Mead. The bard singing for their entertainment.

    And then the bard singing just for him.

    Sojin grinned as he gestured for the raven to come closer, far too lazy and warm to get out of bed just yet. When the letter was in his possession though, the grin faded, replaced by pure curiosity. The contents of said letter sounded like pure fiction, or perhaps just a destiny that belonged to anyone else but him.

    Him? A champion?

    Sojin Dastri had quite the ego but he wouldn't go that far. And yet... He'd been looking for a reason to leave town again, to get back out into the world and travel like he had just a year before. His auntie was even doing well again.

    He set the letter aside and stared at it for a moment longer. Then he turned and leaned over the bard and placed a sweet kiss upon the man's shoulder, his neck, his jaw and finally his lips when he turned over in drowsy awakening. "I'm leaving again," Sojin murmured. Maybe the beautiful man would stop waiting for him this time.

    It didn't take long to pack and wash and dress.

    It took much longer to find himself on the doorstep of the letter's address. Over a month in fact. It was a damn long walk and by the time the tall and lean ginger arrived, he'd grown enough facial hair to truly look the part of a citizen of Maldretchor. A sturdy fist knocked upon the door and when no answer came, he knocked again.

    And waited.

    And then promptly decided the summonee was tired of waiting for the summoner to stop being distracted and he let himself in. He swept the room with his gaze, deemed it safe enough, and dropped his traveling backpack with an audible THUD on the floor and his ass into the nearest chair.
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  3. Yae'thyr
    Alone for what felt like centuries after the horrific downfall of her old wielder, Yae'thyr lay patiently in the confines of her crystal prison waiting for someone to find her.

    She lay her hand against the crystal of her body, yearning to be a part of the world again. Yae'thyr wanted live, yearned to love and craved learning. So much of her life had been sacrificed for the fate of the realm and as time slowly reeled forward in the circle of life, she began to loathe her existence.

    Looking out onto the world she knew that the optimistic, young warrior she once was had perished and in it's place left an old soul, ravaged by the scars of war's wrath.

    It was soon that she would be reunited with purpose, in yet another attempt to stop the world from the ruin that beheld it.
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  4. The leggy gray and raven headed man was hanging upside down, sweat dripping down his body and salting his hair. His strong hands grabbed the bar he hung on and used his upper body strength to hold tight as he unfolded his legs. Core strength and balance held him there with his legs upright and then he flipped over himself - hanging to the bar and then dropping neatly to the floor. Just in time.

    "Vul! Vulres, you've got a letter!" One of the younger performers who used the public gymnasium ran towards the man off the polished wooden floors with the interspersed soft rugs and mats. She eagerly thrust the letter into the half-elf's face. He gave it a bemused look and gave her a copper for being such a good messenger.

    Fingers pushed gray-white hair out of his eyes, Vulres read over his letter - holding it with one hand as he combed his hair. If this letter was to believed... Then he had a duty that he was bound to. He wanted to crumple it up and throw it as far as he could away from him and the little life he had carved out of Fiosalroth; the city of trees. He was happy enough here for the first time in his life and now he was asked to leave. To find something new.

    It was so very far away too! It would be easier to take a boat around the coast and then walk inland than trying to travel by land. Vulres didn't want to leave his home but his sense of duty drove him. So Vulres left his comfortable life with his pipes and a couple set of clothes and called it done, closing up his little house and telling his hard-won friends that he'd be home as soon as he could.

    Vulres found himself soon enough on the doorsteps of whoever sent the letter.

    ~ ~ ~

    Somewhere Alasdair; the Fae'hathel of Thunder stirred in his sleep and pulled a metaphorical pillow over his head for the world to do something so terrible as disturb his 'beauty sleep'.
    #4 Saint Tribs, Feb 23, 2016
    Last edited: Mar 15, 2016
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  5. "When are you going to come back?"

    "I'm not." The craftsman emptied the last dusting of cobalt into the pot. Wiping his calloused hands on his leather apron, he looked over his shoulder at the young man hovering in the door of his shop. "I've told you this, Aldred."

    "But sir-"

    Aldred's voice died on his lips as the glass blower rose from his crouch by the furnace and stood up straight, bright grey eyes fixed on his visitor. Deoric Wald was a bear of a man; he'd inherited all of his grandfather's height and all the breadth of his father's kinsmen. Aldred had never met another half-dwarf, but if Deoric was anything to go by, they were an intimidating folk.

    "You don't have to address me that way," Deoric told him, with a stern but oddly reassuring frown. "I'm not your superior anymore."

    "You're really leaving for good?" Aldred's tone bordered on wheedling, like a child's voice rather than one belonging to a man of seventeen years. Than that of an Angel of the Choir. "But you're- you're a hero."

    Deoric's expansive shoulders rolled as the man released a heavy sigh. He shook his head, a bit of his long brown hair slipping out of the leather thong he'd used to tie it back. Aldred watched him move to retrieve a small tool from the wall and kneel over the furnace again, dipping it into the pot.

    "I've- never been that, Aldred," he said quietly. He put the tool (which looked a bit like the pennywhistle one of the other Angels, Ducat, played sometimes after dinner in the mess hall) to his lips and blew a puff of air into the mouthpiece. To Aldred's astonishment, it wasn't music that resulted; instead a brilliant and shimmering blue bubble formed at the other tip of the reed.

    "What are you doing?" he asked, curiosity getting the better of him. He crept forward, resting his hands on an oaken worktable and following the movements of his former Archangel with eager eyes.

    At first Deoric didn't answer. In two long strides, he crossed the length of the shop floor to the other end of the worktable, where a metal sheet lay. He pressed the blue bubble against the steel surface and began to roll it, over and over. It seemed to grow and grow like a living thing, as if by magic. Within seconds it had doubled in length.

    Finally, Deoric seemed to notice that Aldred was still waiting for an explanation. The craftsman pointed to the opposite wall of the shop. Aldred pivoted on his heel, gaze questioning. But he found what he was looking for at once.

    A familiar shape was mounted on the wall, though Aldred had never before seen just the empty frame. Bare metal strips, with complicated joints that Aldred didn't understand connecting the separate moving pieces. Normally they were inlaid with colorful glass panels. Every member of the Choir was granted a pair.

    Deoric was making an Angel's Wings.

    "...They're beautiful," he said slowly, eyes widening in fascination. Aldred couldn't help but go over and reach a hand up to stroke the framework, mentally filling in the gaps with blues and reds and other hues. They would be just like his when they were done, he thought. His fingers lingered at the apex of one of the pinions. It was cool to the touch.

    Something welled up in his throat.

    "You can't tell me you don't still feel a pull for the Choir," he blurted, his knuckles white where they gripped tight at the wrought iron edging. A part of him sank, despite his accusation, as he realized he truly believed now that Deoric wouldn't be returning; he'd never have spoken to his Archangel in this way. "The fact that you're making these- Sir, you must know you were the best of all the Virtues in the Choir."

    The shop was quiet but for Aldred's shaky, flustered breath and the crackling of the furnace and the rhythmic rolling of molten glass on steel.

    "There are other kinds of virtues, Aldred." Deoric bowed his head over his work.

    Aldred closed his eyes.

    A moment later, he pulled a creased envelope from the folds of his tunic and tossed it carelessly aside on the worktable.

    "Fine!" he snapped. "I guess you're not the man I thought you were! This letter came for you, showed up at the cathedral. But I think maybe they got it wrong after all. Since you're so sure you're not a hero."

    Aldred didn't dare look to see whatever expression Deoric's bearded, care-worn face bore at that moment. He didn't want to know. Didn't want to believe that the man he'd once admired would tolerate a dressing-down from a nobody, know-nothing Angel twenty years his junior. He shoved himself away from the empty wings on the wall, storming towards the door of the shop without a backward glance.

    But something held him back just long enough, froze his footsteps as they fell over the threshold.

    "...You don't have to try so hard to prove it to me," he added bitterly. Just a few hairs louder than a whisper. Deoric probably didn't even hear him.

    It was the last time Aldred would ever see the former Virtue named Deoric Wald.

    Weeks Later...

    In another workshop, not unlike the one which now belonged to the glassblower Deoric Wald... on the other side of the massive canyon which split Aeliatora in two... the spirit Irie stirred.

    Irie stretched and flickered inside their prison, eager to dance and touch and feel alive once more. Soon. The time was fast approaching. Irie could feel it. The person they'd been waiting for, for soooo long, was just outside...
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  6. [​IMG]

    The breeze blew the scent of pine through the open windows of Rayvin's forge workshop. A calming breeze, but a breeze that kept Rayvin alert nonetheless. It was the scent of the new day, of new oppurtunity. Of destiny. Rayvin toiled and sweated and bled for an hour until their latest order of weaponry to Phasrielian guards had been completed, just in time for their guests to arrive.

    As the blacksmith finished their duties for the noon, their guests arrived. Rayvin strolled somewhat with purpose to the living room, where a man of fiery ginger hair sat lazing on Rayvin’s furniture. “SOJIN DASTRI, I PRESUME?” The blacksmith stated with a muffled roar. “FOLLOW ME.” Rayvin exclaimed, guiding the redhead into their workshop. “Now wait there. I have your comrades waiting beck and call at the door to join us.” Rayvin bellowed, before heading at their own behest to the door of her hovel.

    To Rayvin’s surprise, they were greeted by what they would describe as “strapping gentlemen”. A man who seemed to radiate piety, that could only be assumed to be Deoric Wald, of the Stained Angel choir. The other was Afanen, a very sprightly elven man. “You may enter my abode. Follow me to my workshop, and we will see how the other pair fare when they find they are late to my home.” The blacksmith explained as the men were guided toward the forge room, where the fiery redhead would stand in anticipation.

    This would be a fine time for explanation, but with the latecomers it would have to wait until they arrived. Rayvin moved towards the weapons on their pedestals, Irie, Yae’thyr, Alasdair, and exclaimed to them through telepathic communication that they would not have to wait much longer. They would be free of Rayvin’s workshop, free to see new Aeliatora and it’s many wonders. They just had to wait a little longer.

    But Rayvin snapped out of the link with the weapons, and back into their gruff persona. “It seems we have two latecomers. Maybe their horse passed away from hoofrot or they forgot to rise by the sunrise. But we will wait for them.”

    @Red Velvet
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  7. The smell of pine was heavy in the air but Sojin's keen nose picked up on molten metal and smoke and fire. This was a blacksmith's abode if he had any wits at all in his attractive head. Which, thankfully, he did. The scent was so familiar, having passed by it every day back home, so much so that he could even taste the heat upon his tongue from the forge somewhere beyond that inner door without even having to step foot past it.

    Sojin drifted, tired from his traveling. His head rolled back on his shoulders, his eyes closing as he slumped down in the chair he'd claimed...


    The loudness of the voice startled the man awake and in one very practiced and fluid movement he'd drawn a dagger from his hip and had taken on a defensive stance, body tensed and ready to strike at the danger. Except there was no danger and as he realized this and the surge of adrenaline left him, he breathed out slowly and his pose relaxed. He put the dagger back in its holster and followed the blacksmith, pausing only to scoop up his pack and sling it over one shoulder.

    "You're a little strange. Don't you know not to startle sleeping mercenaries?" he teased, though he wasn't really expecting a reply. And while the blacksmith left the workshop and a troublesome man behind to go greet more guests, Sojin took to being just that: troublesome.

    He touched all of the things, picking them up and inspecting them. Well, only the ones that didn't look enchanted and dangerous as all fuck. Those things he left very much alone. There were spell components in the workshop and he wasn't surprised and he spent a good minute staring at the more...sightly ingredients. "Ewwwheh heh heh."

    He turned on his heel to face the newcomers as they entered the room though, a hand holding a jar of...something. The impishness died away from his features though as he noticed the blacksmith nearing something rather grand and Sojin's hand blindly managed to put the jar back on the shelf without breaking anything. He moved closer to the weapons, eyeing the great blade that shimmered with ice and wore the sea proudly on its features. "Sucks to be them," he muttered in regards to the later comers. "Wanna tell me why I'm drawn to this sword? You were annoyingly vague in your letter."
  8. Well this was something. There wasn't a lot of people and honestly like the redheaded man just said that the letter was so very vague. Vulres didn't know why he was there really because there must have been some mistake. Yes, he did a bit of guarding but as a volunteer. He was not a soldier. He was not a warrior. He paused there in the doorway, leaning on it and watching Sojin ogle swords and the other man? He wasn't sure what he was doing.

    “I'm Vulres. Want to tell me why I'm here?” He shifted from one foot to another. “I'm not a soldier. A little bit of guard duty does not make me some chosen … person. It means I am community minded.” His voice was stubborn and determined. “The other two…. Sure.” He gestured at Deoric and then at Sojin. They both seemed like fighter types. Not that Vulres wasn't… But.

    Doubts flashed across the man's face and then he squared his shoulders and looked at the weapons once more. “You've got the wrong man.”
    #8 Saint Tribs, Mar 11, 2016
    Last edited: Mar 15, 2016
  9. "Yes. Why were we called here?" This question came from Deoric, whose presence somehow managed to fill the room and fade into the woodwork all at once. Until he'd spoken, he may as well have been a decorative stone statue inside Rayvin's workshop.

    He'd been just as mute in his time waiting on the doorstep with Afanen. They'd arrived within minutes of one another, but before Deoric could summon words to break the silence, Rayvin had flung wide the door and ushered them both inside.

    Now he took a step forward, examining the row of weapons which caught and glimmered in the glare of the forge. Each piece was expert- no, artisan in terms of craftsmanship. He didn't need to ask to know that these were one-of-a-kind- and likely ensorcelled, as well. Whatever hands had wrought this steel were ones that earned Deoric's respect. Unthinking, he raised one large hand as if to grab the handle of a wickedly curved axe- and stopped short when he remembered himself, his callous-heavy fingers curling into a closed fist as they withdrew.

    "Your letter was sent to the Cathedral in Mal'mia, but I- wasn't there," he informed Rayvin, eyes still on the head of the axe. He could swear that flames flickered across the metal surface, but surely it was a trick of the forge's shifting light. "I'm not one of the Choir any longer."
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  10. A singular bird called out in protest as wind rustled thousands of nearby leaves. Snowfall from the night before had settled to the ground and there was only a light chill unless the breeze was being particularly ruthless. Haenor sat cross-legged on the stump of a long felled tree. His ears caught the rhythmic thump before his eyes could catch anything through the woods. Only when she turned a bend where the trees lessened did he recognize Mimi, hair a windswept mess.

    “Hey!” She called reining her horse to a slow next to him. “I've got you a letter.”

    “For me?” The man shot her a sceptical look.

    “Yeah!” She pulled a single munched letter from her satchel. “The carrier was goin' mad searchin' for you. Can't really blame him. You livin' in this nowhere like you do. Anyways I says I know where you live and could take it to you. Quite relieved was he. Says he'd been lookin' several days for you already. I was glad to help out. So yeah! Here's your letter Hae!” She held the parcel out to him.

    Haenor gave the letter a suspicious glance before taking it from her. It was his name on the front. Haenor Karzak. Curious. He could think of no one and no reason worth sending him a letter.

    “Er– do I owe you anything for your trouble?”

    “Nah, it's fine. I'm just glad to be a help!”

    “Thank you.”

    “Yeah, no hassle. I like going for rides.” Mimi smiled a wide toothy grin and gave her horse a pat on the neck. “I gotta get going now. Work to do and such. See you.” Without another word she encouraged her mount forward with an enthusiastic 'hya!' Once she'd vanished from sight Haenor returned his focus to the mysterious letter. And opened it.​

    Later. Much later.​

    This was absurd. Both the contents of the letter and the fact he was fool enough to heed such summons. But his thoughts of departure were happy to jump to any excuse. Not that there was much for him to leave behind. Just a small wooden shack in the middle of nowhere. Any attachment he had to that place was entirely practical. At the very least he should have purchased a horse. Though he preferred to travel without, crossing the continent on foot had not been a great idea. Haenor stopped. There was a house in front of him. One he could only assume was his destination. The halfbreed huffed a sigh. Finally. Up to the door he went and knocked his knuckles on the door several times. If this wasn't some form of ridiculous prank, now would hopefully come the part with answers.​
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  11. Chapter I: Onwards To Adventure
    The blacksmith smiled from behind her helmet as she took it off, revealing for definite that she was a female descendant of Havenshire. With a deft removal of hair pins and a quick flip of her hair, she looked both beautiful and hardworking at the same time. “I have called you all here for a singular purpose.” She stated, pointing at the pedestal adorned weaponry behind her. “In front of you, are the most powerful weapons in our world. These were made by my farthest forefather, the great Havenshire the First. These weapons hold abilities most mages dream of, and I am giving you to them with both an explanation and a warning.” Rayvin exclaimed with a smile, before passing toward’s Yae’thyr's pedestal. “These weapons contain the Fae’hathel. If you have read the tomes of ancient history in your libraries, you will know that they are the caretakers of our world, sworn to protect it from harm.”

    “But…” She exclaimed, serious faced and tight lipped. “Our world, our Aeliatora, faces a threat beyond mortal comprehension.” She spat on the floor for emphasis. “The Al’ras, beings that created what we call the night, created darkness itself plague our land once more. Our descendants could not conquer them. Their descendants failed also. But I believe that this group I have assembled, you all, have the ability to full awaken the power of the Fae’hathel, and as such, I shall bequeath them unto you as a symbol of your heroism.”

    She smiled as she picked up Yae’thyr. “Sojin Dastri, you shall receive Yae’thyr, the Bladesinger. She is both beautiful and deadly, and should be handled with affection and respect intertwined. May you devastate your enemies with utmost grace.” She gave the sword of beauty to the man of fiery hair and disposition. What a paradox that pairing would be, she thought.

    “To Deoric Wald, a man of religion who turned his back on the church to find new possibilities, I grant you the axe known as Irie. Irie is a crafty one, and I believe you and they shall get along well. With Irie, may you deliver justice upon those who you deem heathens.” She stated with grandiose intent, as she moved onto the halfbreed orc.

    “To you, Haenor Karzak, the halfbreed wishing to prove themselves, I grant you the illustrious Ris’aeya, a bow and woman of intelligence and creativity. May she provide you a solution to any problem you have.”

    The blacksmith saw a half elf and a human standing near each other, and decided to approach them both with a staff in one hand and a spear in the other. “To Vulres, I grant you Alasdair, the staff. Alasdair is a mature spirit, and I’m sure you will get along well. May the sky itself shiver as you walk, Vulres.”

    “To you,” she finished, “Laman, I shall grant you the spear Alarune. May her humour inspire your work, whilst her combat capabilities making the darkness itself quiver and cower as you approach.”

    She stood, looking over the party of adventurers, and smiled. “I truly believe that you are the key to the fate of the world. If I were to advise you, you should head north east to the shore of Phasriel. There, Yae’thyr will grant you all the first answer to how you are meant to conquer the threat to come. Meditate on what is to come, I advise you all. Meditation has more benefits than you think.” Rayvin said, waving her hands to dismiss them.

    “The daylight is fading as we talk, heroes. Head north-east to Coranyth Trench and awaken the answer to my riddle. But beware, there are places in this world that some consider hallowed, sacred ground. It would be wise not to cause a fight unless it is necessary.”

    And with that, the heroes were dismissed.

    It would be time for them to begin their journey, to save Aeliatora from destruction.

    [ @Seiji @Red Velvet @Dawn @Tribs @Astaroth @Leif]

  12. "Lady, I don't know if you can tell, but I'm not much of a reader." What the hell was this caretaker business about? It sounded fishy, not to mention that the only 'research' Sojin ever did involved intimidating people out of information about his targets or the odd light reading for practical purposes.

    Like how to counteract a poison, for instance.

    Funny, though, how his thoughts should lead to poison and not a moment later, the blacksmith was talking about something quite similar. Enemies in the shadows? Darkness to plague the lands? Sojin Dastri was by no means a flighty forest prancer but he did give a rat's ass about the lands he called Home. With that in mind, he was already coming around to the idea of this mission, though he had some doubts that he was the best option. Even as he stood there, holding the blade as he'd taken it from the blacksmith with his palms up and the flat of the blade and the hilt resting upon his fingertips, the troublesome redhead's gaze sought out the others in the room. Each of them were being handed a weapon, unique and named and seemingly fitting. But what of this intricate weapon in his own possession?

    Yae'thyr as the blacksmith had called it was cold upon his fingers, much colder than steel normally sat. In fact, he wasn't so sure the material was steel at all, but the fact still remained that this weapon did not suit him. He was Suli and he was fire. He was brash and anything but a gentleman and the blacksmith woman advised affection and respect as if those weren't his least most practiced skills. Putting this weapon in the hands of someone like Sojin... Was this woman mental?

    If it even is powerful like she claims, he thought as an inexplicable desire drove him to wrap his long, strong fingers around the leather-bound grip.
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  13. That was not really an answer. What Vulres really wanted to know was WHY HIM. But the forge-stained woman was rambling on about what? A legend told to children? The half-elf crossed muscular arms across his chest and cocked his head back and listened to her prattle on about the weapons of power she was giving them. He ran a hand through his soft gray hair impatiently and bit his lip before finally exploding outwards. "Why us? How did you find us to assemble us into this team you speak of? Why us, why those weapons, why each weapon to an owner?!" Vulres huffed, impatient and needing an answer of some sort. But he knew he wasn't going to get one. That wasn't how mystical mumbo jumbo worked after all.

    I don't like him. He's not at all what I imagined. I wanted someone like me! Look at his hair! Look at it! It's so short and it's terrible. Just terrible. I can't believe you would give me to a person like him. Doesn't he know a hero isn't supposed to ask these sorts of questions? What sort of untrain- Hey! He's touching me! Dammit! I don't want this this one!

    Indeed Vulres was raising the staff and looking it over with a few more grumbles of annoyance before balancing it on the back of his hand easily. He was impressed. "This is rather nice..." Nothing in this world came for free though and he thought of what the woman had already asked of them. She wanted them to save the world. To go on some mythic quest...

    "But what if we refuse? What if we say no to you and to these and to this entire thing and just return to our homes?" He asked, brows drawing down and he stared at the woman. "Who would come to stand in our places?" Yet he didn't set down the staff. No. He was already fond of how it felt in his hands. The beautiful balance of it. Vulres was tired and snappy though and he felt alone in a place of strangers and that led to him being ... troublesome.

    "Meditation and riddles, my arse."
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  14. “If you refuse?” spoke Rayvin. “I won’t do anything to you, Vulres. But let it be known by the world that you would hide away from the chance to be a hero to choose the solitary life of a coward. I am offering you the chance to become immortalized in the songs and the hearts of many, by saving our world, you will be forever remembered as a hero rather than a nobody.” Rayvin spoke, harsh as ice but calm like low tide.

    “I chose you all specifically because I believed you could not be replaced. But if you wish to whine and moan about responsibility, I can provide you with a horse and carriage back to Fiosalroth if you wish. But let it be known that there will be no tales of the gymnast Vulres, a man of grace and honor, who sacrificed all to save the world, no. There will be no tales. There will only be the stony cold silence of a desolate world.” Rayvin exclaimed cryptically, trying to instill the fear of the gods within the half-elf.

    “I see how you like the feel of Alasdair. He will be a great companion to you, even if he grumbles and moans like yourself.” Rayvin chuckled as she frowned with slight disapproval at the inanimate staff’s personal conduct. “So I bid you all farewell, unless you wish to depart back to your homelands, forfeit your chance at ultimate heroism and be lost in the annals of history.”

    Rayvin pointed to the door ahead of her. “You may leave if you wish, or you can head to the north east and acquire the first piece of your destiny as the forever remembered heroes of the land.”

    The wind blew a gust of air into the room to which they stood, the forge creating sweltering, whirling thermals of heat that battered the skin, the wind itself offering sweet Elysium to the warmth in the form of chilling cold. Rayvin did not wish for any of the gathered party to leave for their homelands, despite her harsh tone. They were excellent at what they did, and all she wanted was for the world to be safe.

    She just wanted to be safe, and not have to carry a burden.

    She pointed to the door and smiled to them.

    “This is your time. You are the fate of Aeliatora and you are all that holds the evergrowing darkness back. So I will say this. You have my forge, you have my help, and I wish you the best of luck. For the fate of Aeliatora. For the fate of existence. Onward!”

    So away from her they would walk. Away from her home, away from her forge. Onward, she had said. Onward to greater destinies, greater treasures, and greater threats than any one person in the world could have imagined.

    The world held it’s breath for them, their fate outside in Aeliatora, in its forests, it’s mountains and its deepest seas. All the party would have to do was grasp it.
  15. ~

    After the slow of meandering around, things quickly took a new pace. The halfbreed was in a room with several other men and a woman without even remembering having entered. The men were silent. But she was talking. Saying things about people and the past. Things Haenor wasn't overly familiar with. He'd heard the stories. Some of them. He doubted there was anyone who hadn't. But little of it made much for sense. What he definitely understood was that Aeliatora faced a big threat. And they, these – he looked around to observe the other men in the room – these misfit strangers were supposed to be the ones to stop it. And to do it with these powerful weapons. His eyes scanned the weapons and settled on the bow. The one she handed to him, as she said several things. Things about himself and the bow. It was beautiful. Finer than any he'd ever held. And for a moment he truly considered it might be all it was claimed.

    Haenor was drawn away from the bow by the reactions of those nearby. The red-head made a comment about reading. And the elfish man seemed entirely unpleased with the whole situation. This offered a degree of confirmation for him that the others were in a similar situation. Only they perhaps were drawn away from more than just a lonely house in the middle of nowhere. Haenor remained quiet. Watching to see how the woman would reply. How anyone might reply. He was not ready to cast a verdict. There was without a doubt part of him which wanted it to be true. He wouldn't mind being a hero.

    Her reply only made that part greater. And he would follow this course. At least to the Coranyth Trench. If there was no satisfactory answer there he could die forgotten as best befit him. But should he be capable of preventing doom for Aeliatora he would not shy from the challenge. Mind made, he spoke to the room.

    “I intend to go to this... Coranyth Trench.” Haenor could feel the frame of Risaeya in his hand. “I stake the hindrance it is to me against the possibility that everything the blacksmith says is true. And the answer is clear.” He paused half a second. What was this what he should be saying? “If I am not alone in this — erm, choice— it would be wiser to travel as a group.” The halfbreed finished with mild confidence note. Then cast his gaze toward a wall.

    Plain. He's used to being dull. Thinks it fits nice. I think another colour would suit better! Haha! I can see his fondness for me. He's got the resolve, too! Better than a lost cause. A fine start.
    • Love Love x 1
  16. Vulres took the scolding from the woman with a flushed face and a look of annoyance. He wasn't a coward! He just... really liked answers. Surely that was no bad thing, right? To not ride off into a potential trap? Where did the line between cowardice and intelligence get drawn and exactly what side was he on? But more importantly; what side did everyone else think he was on? Vulres tightened his grip on the staff. "Alasdair." He muttered, tasting the word in his mouth, rolling it over his tongue.

    The Orc- or at least as far as Vulres could figure- was talking. A hindrance? Well. He wasn't far off. He hoisted the staff, laying it over his shoulder and adjusted his bag. It wasn't like this was the first time he'd traveled long distances on nothing but hope and a word. Still. It was different. He wasn't trying to find family. This time it was very impersonal. Saving the world was not the same as finding your grandparents. Vul chewed on his lip.

    "Alright." He exhaled, looking towards the Orc named Haenor if he recalled. "If we're to travel... We might as well do it together." He looked towards Sojin, Deoric, and Laman almost hoping that one of them would agree with him. Say that this entire thing was silly. But... If what she said was true they didn't have a choice. Vulres didn't want songs of his valor. He didn't want his name sung in the street. But he'd fight to protect his friends in Fio'salroth.
  17. Collaboration: Sojin & Yae'thyr

    Shaken from inside of her crystal prison Yae'thyr could feel her power elongate into the thoughts of another, searching to understand his pressence.

    Once again she had been given a wielder, once again she would be asked to fight upon the battlefield against the horrors that slaughtered the man she loved. The man's voice chimed against the walls and it took no more than a few seconds for the ancient being to realise her wielder was of a different persausion and thus chose not utter a word.

    In order for a working relationship between the two, mutual respect would have to be earned, which unfortunately due to first impressions Yae'thyr compared this new wielder to one of the newer soldiers in Garion's battalion; rebellious, hot headed and not ready to be a leader of humanity.

    Nothing happened. Somehow the rebellious redhead had been expecting some grand event the moment he laid claim to the weapon and his expectations fell pretty short. Maybe he felt a little disappointed, but Sojin Dastri bounced back quickly, rarely allowing anything to affect him in a way he didn't want it to.

    So the sword was just a pretty sword and nothing more. He could live with that. And even though he had doubts about this quest, he could see determination forming in the eyes of the others. Well, most of them anyway. The nimble one looked just as he sounded - skeptical and lacking confidence and Sojin would die before he let himself be the same.

    One of the group spoke up and made his decision public, made Sojin's decision all the easier. "Fuck it. Can't be any worse than sitting on my ass in Maldretchor. I may not like staying home but that doesn't mean I don't want to protect it." He swung the blade up, resting the blunt side on his shoulder like the mercenary he was.

    For Yae'thyr, she could tell it was going to be a long journey ahead, emotionally and physically.
    • Love Love x 2
  18. Laman Agoshi was a man of many years. Not so many as to be elderly, but he had seen several decades as a grown man already. He was seen as warrior-monk by some, sage by others; still, few thought him a vagabond and rogue. None of those descriptors would be wholly wrong, nor wholly right. It was true that Laman was a traveler, and fond of a few vices that saw him more playful than not. But-- he had seen those years, and had the measure of true wisdom cinched tightly to his chest. And that same chest was one of a raw, powerful physique used to combat and the toil of warfare, with countless scars hidden by layers of silken robe.

    A hand ran through his black hair streaked by silver as he accepted the weapon from the beautiful blacksmith. Alarune. Her. It seemed typical that his weapon would be named for a woman and, supposedly, be given properties towards those with a humourous streak. It was strange the weapon was spoken of in a way as to suggest life, but those were just the hallmarks of some of these weapon makers. All of these weapons had souls to them, and it was just the opposite as far as Laman was concerned: they were all blood-thirsty instruments of death. How could something like that have a soul?

    The tall, powerfully-built man took a sip of his clear rice wine from the ceramic tea cup he held. The spear was propped up in his other hand, silver butt-cap wedged neatly into the floor. He studied the woman-smith as the others spoke, the heat of the nearby forged soaking his skin and the silks he wore. It was a pleasant, almost welcome sensation, and Laman was all about the joys of the senses. Perhaps it would do him good to taste crisp, cold air later in their journeys, as they were seeming to travel north soon.

    They. Heh. It was interesting to him, how he had been drafted into this... What was it, band, of travelers? He might as well had been a traveling troubadour at this point with his new compatriots. Still, he supposed he could have had worse for companions. They were pleasing to the eye, if anything.

    "Well, before we leave, or study, or anything like that, my lady blacksmith, I was curious... Do you like tea? I have a lovely kettle, with a wonderful history that we could discuss later. Perhaps you'd join me in my quarters, and we could discuss more histories, together?"