The Fight for Freedom

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gands0508

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Original poster
Ever since King Marvel was killed, no one was allowed to use magic. It was completely outlawed. If you were caught in the act, you would be hanged for treason. Many people have tried escaping, but it's really no use. There are guards stationed everywhere, with heat sensors and movement detectors. They'll shoot you dead if you try escaping. Anyone with the guts to escape obviously doesn't have any brains whatsoever.
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My name is Samantha Wright. I am a wizard. I have never tried escaping the country, nor do I plan to. I prefer to be alive, but that's just me. People say I have an attitude, but who cares what they say. No one. My father and my brother were both killed for trying to escape from the country. They sent me letters from prison until they died of course. My brother had his tongue cut out and his fingers were cut off, one by one. They tortured him until they finally killed him. My father on the other hand, was not tortured at all. They only killed him because they needed his prison cell for a new prisoner. I wouldn't call the rulers of the country now the smartest people ever. For one, they don't even make the prisons big enough. Half the time that's why they're killing the prisoners; to make more room. I use magic whenever I feel like it. I just don't get caught. I am planning a rebellion against the government and I want you to join me. I'm not promising anyone immunity, because most of us will probably die. But who cares. We could prevent our children, and our childrens' children from having to live in this god-forsaken country we know as Cartasia.


OOC: This is my first story ever, so go easy on me please! I am looking for anyone willing to join in the rebellion.
 
Tish walked away from the capital, black cloak flowing in the wind. The green hills surrounding her seemed to glow in the afternoon sun. She walked over to a waiting groom holding a white stallion." Thank you." she passed the man a bag of coins and mounted the horse." It's getting harder to hide... soon they'll catch everyone..." Tish thought to herself as she nudged the horse into a fast gait. Just last week three of her friends had been caught and token to the prison. She hadn't seen them since and with dread as her company she knew they dead. If she could find somebody to help her she could take down the government... if she lived long enough.
 
He pulled the hood around his face, and walked through the throng of people, careful to not let his skin and eyes show. To watch. That was the point of his exhibition. See what went on in the kingdom that people were gossiping about. Wandering from town to town was normal, but the rumors of magic being forbidden was something of a little more intrigue.

He slipped by another group of people, and looked around. Alone. No one else seemed present at the moment, now that he was through with the large populous square.
 
Enrik wasn't really magical at all. He didn't have the "gene" like the rest of his family. He was one of the few, and was found out and recruited to become one of the guards. They trained him for the last three years, since he was fifteen, and once he became of age he was put to work. It wasn't that he hated magic. He didn't. It just didn't bother him like it bothered others. Still, he knew that he needed to do as he was told. If he didn't, it would be his head on the chopping block next.

Armed with an M14 modified to have a scope, he was set at the main gate to keep people in. He has never needed to use the gun though. He's seen his partner guards use it though.

The gun scared him. He didn't like holding it. It felt heavy in his hands. He would rather be one of the main guards, carrying a sword and keeping the rest of the city safe. But he had to start out on the gate. It could be years before he could get away from this post.

And he hated it.

But... He couldn't deny the pay was good. And since he got this job, he was disowned by his family. He needed the money or he couldn't survive, couldn't afford his small home and food. So he worked hard. Kept his new job.

He just had to make this work.
 
This place needs to change killing people because they have magic in them. How stupid is that? If she had magic she would use it to fight against the government with everything she had. Sadly she did not have a signal drop of magic in her blood. Truthfully the only reason she probably was not scared of magic was because when her best friend was alive, she had magic. Yes it was scary, but it was amazing. Magic could save so many people and instead of embracing it we destroy it. Gabrielle walked home after getting some food for the week coming. She needed to find a job soon the little money she has will not be enough to support them much longer, and she did not want to take money from her parents. When she walked into the house she got a huge hug from a little two year old, who looked just like his dead mother, her best friend. She had to protect him. He already showed that he has magic, and she would make sure he was safe.
 
Elise kept her head down making her thick black hair into a curtain. Her eyes stared at the ground as she made her way through the masses of people within the kingdom walls. The paper hidden under her cloak crinkled as she ran into a man in the process of dodging a white horse. "I am sorry sir" Elise mumbled as she quickly vanished into the crowd. Soon she began worrying about the paper she was hiding. It held secrets to get to the officials in the capital, at least she hoped. Tonight was a meeting of the alliance and it was her job to get them information. If the information wasn't reliable she was to be thrown in the prison to keep the alliance safe. The alliance was never in the same place and there were several different leaders. The hierarchy of this organization was confusing but for good reason.
 
Amartano sat in a tree a bit away from the town. 'Those pitiful humans without magic, they are scared of what they don't understand. I will change it, they won't have any power over us for that mutch longer. When this is over we will controll them instead.' He thought. He jumped down from the tree and landed without a sound, walking towards the town. A raven flew down and took its place on his shoulder "welcome back Amartia"
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As the sun set upon her town Elise paced in front of the church. Once the sun was below the horizon a messenger was to come and tell her where the alliance was to meet that night. A chill raced up her spine as she felt a hand grasp her shoulder a raspy voice whisper in her ear "tavern wine cellar. You are not to go in front of your lead. You are going to appear in front of the heads tonight. Be there in an hour." She tried to turn to see the face of the man who spoke to her but all she saw were backs of people passing and faces of the miserable. "The heads," Elise whispered. At that moment she knew that the paper held in her cloak had more significance than she thought. Slowly, she made her way through the crowded market, stopping every so often to see when the vendors had to sell. Taking a deep breath she came to a stop and looked at the carved doors of the tavern suddenly becoming fearful of what was going to unfold.
 
The man that had grasped Elise's shoulder had been none other than Ronan Déiseach. He had left his lands long ago, for some quest or another, some noble effort to test his skills, but now, here he was, scaring women into going down to the cellars of taverns. He had been a paladin, when he still lived with his people, and during his quest, but he didn't really consider himself a paladin anymore. He still had all of his powers, all of his immunities, but he considered himself not fallen - but tumbled. Originally, He had been quite light-hearted and easy going. These days, he's much more pragmatic. It's no longer practical to be a paladin. They've tried to exorcise him twice. They've tried to take out what makes him Déiseach.

You shouldn't have done that. You know there's nothing there. You've done it merely because you're still clinging for adventure. We know you, Déiseach, we know how your mind works... We are you, and we are aware that you've given up on your duties. We will not help you in this endeavor, Ronan. We won't take away your gifts, but do not count on us, ourselves.

He had voices in his head. They were never mocking or infruiating, but merely stated the truth, and sometimes, a little more than just the truth. They sometimes prophesied to him, or told him allegories for his own life. They had been with him since he was a child, since he was sired by a king and a priestess on an altar, years and years ago. He didn't remember that, of course, but he remembered being awoken in the world fully conscious - aware of everyone and everything that happened around him, and his memory spanned to day one of his life. Enough of that, Ronan. Enough of that. You had a girl to meet. You had to apologize.

He followed her to the tavern, and watched as she stood at the doors. He put his hand on her shoulder again pulling down his dark hood so she could see his face. He was a tall, handsome young man, broadly built with light blonde hair down to his chest. His looks were classically handsome, with bow lips and a strong jawline - anything that hearkened to his supernatural nature were his golden eyes, that seemed to glint in the light. He smiled at the girl gently, "There's nothing there for you, milady. Taverns tend to be filled with the king's men, these days, hoping to catch some poor court magician." He sighed, "Even if you're not a caster... the guards make poor company. They do not have much respect for women alone."

((Hey guys! Hope you're okay with me joining up. <3 ))
 
She knew she had a mission to complete but everything inside her kept screaming no. Shaking her head, she ignored her guts and put her hand on the door, ready to push it open. Once again a hand grasped her shoulder causing her to freeze in mid motion. She turned her head just enough to see a man in the corner of her eye. Dropping her head slightly, she looked away from him. "You came to stop me when it was you that guided me to this place," Elise murmured. Anger began to boil up inside her but she pressed it back down as she took a deep breath, finally convincing herself to face the man. When she looked up at him the words she was about to speak were forgotten. Her crystal blue eyes quickly looked over the man before her gaze met his. This mysterious man may have been the most attractive she had ever seen. "T-t-thank you sir," Elise stammered and bowed her head in respect "I shall keep that in mind." Forcing a smile she nodded while taking a step away, beginning to make her way down the street.
 
The young man's smile faded. He moved his arm from her, and it disappeared within the folds of the dark blue cloak that covered his form. He shrugged his shoulders slightly, and under his cloak, his hand curling around the hilt of his sword. He sword had a name, though he doubted that anybody would be able to pronounce the name any more. His country had disappeared long, long ago, and was no longer part of his life. The sword hadn't been used since that demon so many years ago, and even then it hadn't been much use. It had seen war, but never had served him well. Perhaps the sword was cursed. Perhaps it was just him.

Ronan watched her go, and dogged her steps, following after her. He wasn't trying to draw attention to himself, or make her anxious, but this was the first time in several years that he had really spoken to anybody in the common tongue. In the old speech, his words sounded different, his tone lighter, but common made him sound rough and uncouth. It didn't matter though. it felt good to communicate with somebody once more, even if she didn't seem to have much desire to speak to him.

"Hey - wait?" He called, "Where do you hail from?"
 
"Kale" she called back to him then stopped knowing that he probably was not going to stop following her. Turning towards him her courage faded once Elise looked at him. Her voice grew softer a small flush began on the apples of her cheeks. "Just before the death of our king, I moved to this place from Kale." Glancing around, she all of a sudden feeling conspicuous. Leaning closer to the man she lowered her voice "please sir, this is not the place to talk" Elise shook her head slightly causing hair to fall in her eyes. In a swift movement, she tucked the strands behind her ear " On the edge of town by the east wall is my house. It is not immaculate, but it is a place we can talk without fear." With a quick nod she continued on her way then slowed down in front of a grungy building "this is what I call home."
 
He stared out into the fields outside the walls of the town. A man lay sprawled out in the grass, red pooling around him. Moving the gun and scope from the shooting position, Enrik stared in the direction he had looked. He couldn't see as well without the scope, but his mind had pretty much memorized the sight. He'd had to shoot a man, a man who only wanted his freedom.

"Good shot, boy," the other guard shouted over to him.

Enrik just felt sick to his stomach. And then he hurled over the side of his post.
 
Ronan followed her to the building. He looked up at the place she had paused in front of. it was gaudy and inelegant, and cracked and fading all in one. He frowned sharply. This was nothing like his homeland. There had been the 'castle' which was nothing more than a tower along the wall that gave the place its name. Whitewall. Home. He missed it, sometimes, and perhaps he had asked the girl where she had come from out of his own desire to find somebody else who came from his country. But, in the end, he knew they were all dead. Dead and buried by the snows of spring, winter, and time. He had left his home when he was nineteen. He was thirty-nine now, though it didn't show on his face or physique. He was the last thing keeping the Old Gods alive, and they intended to cling to their investment.

"I don't fear speaking on the streets," He said flatly, "I have nothing to hide. I'm not a spellcaster, really, and everything I do is government sanctioned and functioned," He shrugs, "And even if I was a caster, they wouldn't touch me. I had been a hero once, revered fro some petty thing or another, and people listen to heroes." Ronan runs a hand through his thick blonde hair, "Or at least, they used to. I haven't spoken in some time."
 
Elise hated bringing people to her home. It was far from welcoming and most the time it was depressing. "You may not have things to hide," she mumbled while glancing over her shoulder at him. After pushing open the door, she went up a flight of stairs and unlocked another door. "Make yourself comfortable," she said as she motioned to a small living with a worn out rocker and an off-white love seat. Carefully Elise took her cloak off, making sure not to drop the papers hidden within. Once her cloak was off her slim frame was exposed. "My father taught me in the elements. He hoped I would grasp the use of fire but water was my strong-suit," Elise settled down in the rocker and leaned towards the man, resting her elbows on her knees, becoming more relaxed since she was off the street. "Heroes are a dying breed. Many of their egos led to their demise," she smirked her eyes twinkling slightly. "You interest me sir."
 
Ronan shook his head, and continued to stand. He folded his arms across his chest, and the golden armor under his dark robe became visible. He flicked his head slightly, and his blonde hair is shaken back slightly. In the darkness of the room his skin seemed to glow. He shrugs slightly, and the clink of armor sounds in the room, a real vibrato. He reasons that it is not appropriate to conceal much from this girl who has exposed her own discretion to him. He tossed off his cloth. Under that was an impressive set of golden armor with runes and sigils carved on it, and bits of cloth and beads tied to the shoulders. Pieces of paper were woven through slits in the gold, and they had words written in a language that didn't exist. They looked like prayers. This man was made up of protective fetishes, prayers, and armor, though what was truly fascinating about him was the sword at his hilt.

It was an exceptionally long sword, in a white wooden scabbard that had been intricately painted with a series of designs depicting monsters and magic. Black letters peered through the blue designs, and read Gwaingalonn. As for what the word meant, it was written in the old language for a kingdom that no longer existed. The hilt of the sword was wrapped in dark blue cloth, and the pommel of the sword was made of a dark grey crystal - perhaps quartz.

Ronan looked at her with those tawny eyes, "I am interesting, perhaps, but not for anybody who is alive today." He doesn't want to disclose everything to this girl he's just met - though the voices in his mind plead for him to reach out to somebody, he's been alone for so long, "But it may be useful for you to know this; I'm the Déiseach of Whitewall - Ronan is my name." He offered her a small bow, "Whitewall no longer exists, and I don't think there is a man, woman, or child alive today who can define the word Déiseach for you. So I am Ronan, and no more."
 
Elise saw the hints of gold, but it didn't really phase her. It wasn't until Ronan had taken off his cloak that her attention was really grabbed. Her eyes lingered over every inch of his armor, desiring to know what the words meant. Tilting her head slightly she tried to decipher the language but to no avail. Finally, her eyes came to rest upon his sword. The pictures on the scabbard held her interest, a small smile played at the corner of her lips. No longer was she worried about the papers in her possession, no longer was she worried about appearing in front of the alliance. It wasn't until he spoke, telling her the name of his city as well as his name, that she looked away from what he was wearing and met his gaze. "Whitewall," Elise murmured as she searched her mind. Suddenly her eyes lit up. "I know of this place," she nodded. "My father, Aldred, would tell me stories of a great wall. He would tell me tales of adventure and love. It was my Camelot." Elise shrugged. "I am Elise," she smiles brightly.
 
Ronan blinked, surprised anybody remembered the nation of Whitewall. He nods his head slowly though, and a small smile plays across his face. He's pleased that the tales of Whitewall have been carried on through the generations and through the upheavals and passage of new treaties and formations of new lands. He bows his head slightly, slumping against the wall, back propped up. His blonde hair begins to fall back over his face. The voices inside of him beg him not to ask the question he is going to ask, tell the tale that he is going to tell, but they already he is going to. Please, Déiseach, don't bring it up again. It's been done to death. Get over it, Déiseach, they're gone and its time to get over the old wounds... look to the future, Déiseach, please.

He flicks his head up abruptly, inspecting her with those tawny eyes. "I'll tell you a story from your Camelot. I'll tell you a story from the land of Whitewall. Perhaps you've heard it. Perhaps you haven't. But this is the Whitewall I remember." There is a tone of bitterness in his voice that ebbs away into a lyrical, almost song-like tone:

Broken battlements and wrecked walls
Where worship of the Horror once embraced.
The last men of the Wall do recall
Upon stained and bloodied hollow gates
The Men of the Wall gave it their all
With wild eyes, and a broken gaze
Until one by one they fall.
Does the Horror still remain?

The Men of the Wall did retreat
Thinking that there was no escape.
But a Hero did come out to meet
And did slash the Horror's nape.
And he stood with breath sweet
and his lips teeth mouth agape
Has the Horror met defeat?

The Hero saw the falling of the head
When the beast lay amongst the gore
When the dread Horror bled
Their loving eyes did meet once more
And only then was the Horror dead.
The Hero cried out "Please No More!"
Does the Horror bleed out red?

The Horror never said a true word
but the final chill makes one honest
The Horror's only truth in the world;
"I loved you the longest."
The Hero's hands were red with guilt
His heart hung heavy and low
He and the Horror, the life they built
Buried deep under early snow.
Ronan chokes out the last recorded notes of the song, "Per Request, there is no more." He rubs a gloved hand across his face, a bit of a prayer getting stuck on his face for a moment, before he rips it off. He looks at her with hard amber eyes, and a stoic face. He is bitter, angry, and his skin seems to glow with it. His frustration manifests as a single line on his face - in between his eyebrows. After a moment's pause he replies, "That is the Whitewall I remember."
 
Elise watches him as he adjusts his posture, noticing just how handsome he is. She smirked a bit, but it soon dissipated when he started talking. Her eyes were wide with child like amazement, she stared at him entranced. Her chin had dropped into her hands as she listened to his song. It was not like the tales her father had told her, this one was real, ripe with emotion, filled with anger. She watched the frustration cause a furrow between his brow, causing a feeling of sympathy to rise up inside of her. Slowly, she rose from her seat and made her way over to him. She placed her hand on his upper arm and tried to smile reassuringly, hoping that just maybe it would help. "If it would get your mind off things for a bit I can share my tales?" Elise smiles. "They do not have great meaning like your song, but I can assure you they are entertaining."
 
Ronan frowned at her, and slumps against the wall further, still he is seated, back propped up against the wall. He looks lost in his thoughts, a vacant look in his golden eyes. The voices in his head are screaming at him, wondering why he so willingly disobeyed their commands. He was Déiseach, was he not? He was supposed to listen to what was inside of him, listen to the voices of what had made him, but instead he turned away. He suspected that soon enough he would lose his gift. He would no longer be a paladin at all, and would no longer be Déiseach to the last poor voices in his head and cease to be Déiseach at all. He looked at her with those tawny eyes, and they seemed narrow. Angry, churning with something. He shudders slightly, when she touches him, and pulls himself away from her, "Don't touch me." He murmurs.

"My song doesn't have great meaning. It was a true story about me and my friend." He folds his arms across his chest, closing himself off to her, "For twenty years I haven't been able to get my 'mind off things'. What makes you think that this will be any different?" He shakes his head, and begins to move to stand, "I don't know why I came here."
 
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