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Post by Faljere D'ael Elderbaden on Oct 27, 2015 0:14:31 GMT -6
The wind nipped at his toes as he marched up the rocky surface of the Deadlands. Gravel stuck to the soles of his sandals and scraped off against the ground, occasionally making him lose his balance. His hood was up and he wore a thick scarf borrowed to him by an old friend, but even with warm clothes, he could still see his breath in front of his face, misty and pale.
What a dreadful place to meet, he thought to himself, clutching the envelope in which he carried a few letters.
The first came from Ieda, the monk who welcomed him when he first came to Wildgard. He had long been a member of the Circle, but had not expected there to be a chapter far west where Wildgard was found. He had written to her about his sorrows and grievances, and she did what she had always done by writing to him about her forgiveness of his pitiful actions.
The second came from Ellarhir Taur-Eielas, the High Elf lord who had called on Faljere to defend Silv-Anir from the dwarves not two years past. He was remarking on the Clanless’ strength, and had sent praise from the highest High Elf authorities and nobles, the greatest Wood Elf warriors, and even from the Sky Elf Celestial that found her home in the Circle of Magic. None of them knew that the Clanless was a different man now, as he had been often times. But even he felt that this time, this face, was final.
The last was from Sarea. It was hastily written and void of frivolous words that often accompanied her notes. This letter was concise and dull, very uncharacteristic of her, and spoke of forgiveness. She was not giving pardons to the monk, but rather seeking them from him. She wished to meet in the Deadlands, a few miles south of Rorikheim, the fiery palace belonging to the Fire Giant Warlord that had stolen a local’s dog and cursed the same man with a Fire Giant’s body.
He knew it wouldn’t be too hard to see Rorikheim wherever he was, so he suspected that once it came into view on the horizon, Sarea would appear before it.
Aha! There it was, its great orange spires reaching into the ashen sky, flames poking out from the tips and licking the clouds. Not much else could be seen apart from the great wall that separated the land from the citadel or the towers, but Faljere didn’t worry himself with getting a proper look. He had other business to attend to.
And his business was soon to be attended to, as before the image stood a lone figure, clutching her chest. A red hood was pulled over her head, but where usually Faljere would expect golden locks to be waving out from underneath it, he saw nothing in their stead. The wind blew at her skirt, causing her to noticeably shiver.
Sarea…
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Post by Sarea Riel Dirao on Oct 27, 2015 0:18:27 GMT -6
So much fire. So much flame. So much energy.
She envied the castle for what it had. What the winter and the cold could not take away. Its place in the world was a grand one, for despite the cruelty of its inhabitants, it was true that it was a bastion in these dead lands. A sign of life where none else would show itself.
All these things were once things she held, too. But now she was a husk, frozen by years of torment and cursed by the choices made by her lust for what she could no longer have.
The bard was as good as dead.
But she could not die. Not yet. She still had something to do, and that in itself was perhaps redemption; if not, it was a step in the right direction. Faljere was coming, and so she would do what she needed to complete her song.
She heard someone approaching from behind, and she turned, her ring ready to stop them in their place lest they were an enemy. The sight that filled her eyes, however, caused her to lower her ring and burst immediately into tears. A tall, lanky Wood Elf, red from the cold air but no less warming to the soul that she thought she could never feel again.
“Faljere!” she cried in between her tears, but despite her joy at seeing his face, she could only find herself backing away.
She could not bear to bring herself to touching him. She could not bear sharing her curse with him.
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Post by Faljere D'ael Elderbaden on Oct 27, 2015 0:22:03 GMT -6
The Wood Elf rushed forwards towards his friend, a tear forming in the corner of his eye. He had not seen the girl for years, and although he knew that it was his own fault, he could feel nothing but pleasure at seeing her face again.
Although, it wasn’t quite in good health. Time had weathered her jovial air until she looked only like death. Her normally healthy skin was close to white, and was translucent enough for veins to be seen on her neck. Her lips, usually so full and lightly smiling, were cracked and thin. The golden hair on her head had been hewn off, leaving her locks short and jagged, with only a few strands left long in front of her left eye.
Her eyes. He could tell now that she had endured torments. They were usually green like an emerald forest. Now they were only sickly. Ghostly.
The bard truly was a husk of her former self.
The monk reached out quickly and grabbed her, embracing her tightly. “I am so sorry for leaving you! I am so sorry!”
His crooked nose brushed against her cheek; it was frigid like a winter pond. He breathed upon her face’s side in hopes of warming her up, simultaneously rubbing his hands up and down her bare arms in a futile attempt to do the same thing to her torso.
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Post by Sarea Riel Dirao on Oct 27, 2015 0:22:58 GMT -6
Faljere was hugging her now. This was an alien feeling. Normally, she would be ready to return the embrace, but normally she was so full of love.
Now, she felt only shame. She hadn’t been properly hugged in years. All her friends had forsaken her, and the only ones willing now to lay a finger on her had gold to pay for it.
She allowed the monk to hug her, willing to tell herself that a part of her was still alive. But then she did not hug him back, reminding her of the dreadful truth that she could not.
After a moment, she shrugged his arms off of her and turned from him, not bearing to look at him anymore. She would not look at this friend—this last person whose heart had room still for her—while she forsook him to his fate.
“I, too, am sorry…”
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The Raven
Apprentice Roleplayer
I am Her champion...and I will not retreat from Her will.
Posts: 52 
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Post by The Raven on Oct 27, 2015 0:28:05 GMT -6
The words are spoken.
And now I shall look upon the face of rebellion once more.
He shall be there.
I shall fulfill Her crusade for me.
The crusade that for lifetimes has plagued my steps.
I shall have my revenge.
The Insubstantial Plane’s purple stones and black sky fade from view as the Champion exits his home. Normally, people who enter and exit this world see images. Feelings, dreams, and hopes taking physical form before their eyes to remind them that these things are not reality, but an illusion.
The Raven has no feelings. No dreams. No hopes.
I have only Her guidance.
In that moment, he arrives on the physical plane, standing beside Lukis and Ibelin. They are on a large rock, overlooking a crevice in which Sarea stands before Faljere. All is set for the moment.
“Let us begin,” he orders his pawns.
Nothing will stand in our way.
I will finish what I started.
Such is Her will.
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Post by Ibelin Dumont Baltonien on Oct 27, 2015 0:30:20 GMT -6
The warrior looked over at his master and nodded, drawing his sword from its sheath. Its shimmer may have alerted their target to their presence, but that didn’t matter anymore. Any small thing they could do to help this poor sod was something.
He fixed his helmet and trudged forwards, his chainmail ringing quietly, with Lukis in his fur coat following behind. The warrior looked down at his ankles, seeing upon each of them a total of five bands wrapped around them. Ibelin scowled and looked at his ankles, seeing only the three he’d obtained so far.
Gotta catch up somehow! he thought to himself. Hopefully, this monk—who clearly carried trinkets and random items of little importance—was carrying a few that he could generously donate to the Frenchman.
Once down in the crevice, he slowly but surely crept up behind the monk. Once he was sure he could get the jump on him, he reached up with his sword and lightly placed it against his neck. He had no intention of actually harming him, but with the Raven watching intently and still thinking that the Trio was as loyal as a group of well-trained puppies, he had to put on as good a show as he could.
“Evenin’, Chipper.”
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Post by Faljere D'ael Elderbaden on Oct 27, 2015 0:32:20 GMT -6
In the cold wasteland, he did not expect to feel anything colder than the air itself. But that was not the case in which he found himself, as something icy and metal rested against his bare neck. His eyes widened in recognition at the voice that had sounded from behind, knowing that it belonged to one of his trackers known as Ibelin Dumont Baltonien, a Poseidonian knight from Norman Briton.
The elf slowly turned around, wanting to face his hunter but not wanting to let his eyes trail away from Sarea. In that moment, he realised that he had been fooled into meeting with the bard. For years, he knew that there was a group of people searching for the Clanless, and subsequently him, by word of mouth. An inquisition led by the Raven. Only now did he truly discover that Sarea was the final person who was searching for him. Only now did he realise her treason.
Only now, it was too late.
He looked the warrior in the eye—or as well as he could, considering the difference in height between the two of them. Ibelin wore a cocky smile upon his lips, tilting his thin moustache upwards towards the scar that graced his cheek. A steel helm obscured most of the middle of his face, but that did not matter, as he had seen that face on many bounty posters before. However, he was surprised to see the warrior wearing a tabard of yellow and red, very similar to the colours the monk bore. On his shield was also a heraldry with a liver bird, the official animal of the seaside village of Prometheus.
Faljere sneered. “It’s an honour to meet a warrior from the village I helped found. I’d thought that the Poseidonian order would’ve given that one a skip.”
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Post by Ibelin Dumont Baltonien on Oct 27, 2015 0:34:24 GMT -6
The warrior smirked upon seeing Faljere so cool for a moment. Had he really wanted to be his enemy, he’d have complimented him on his coolness in such a dire situation, and thanked him for helping to found his birthplace.
Of course, he was here to help, and so he tried his best to remain confrontational—or, at least, as confrontational as the cool-as-a-cucumber Norman could be.
“Can it, lanky! I ain’t here for you to yatter on about this rubbish!” he shouted, forcing his blade harder against his neck, being careful not to draw blood; after all, that would surely be…what’s the word?...anti-productive.
He looked around, seeing Lukis approaching the scene with his langseax and butcher’s knife in his hands, a loud grin on his face. Ibelin inhaled sharply, hoping that Lukis would hear it and get the message that with a face like that, he wasn’t fooling anyone.
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Post by Faljere D'ael Elderbaden on Oct 27, 2015 0:36:27 GMT -6
Despite the pressure on his neck and the approaching Nord—he could swear that this was the man who had lost his dog!—with the knives, Faljere remained as cool as the gravel beneath him. Sarea still stood behind him, weeping. He could see that she hadn’t intended for it to end like this, but that did not make him any less bitter. However, he wasn’t bitter that she’d betrayed him for his archenemy, but that she’d chosen to side with the Raven rather than go to him for help.
Faljere looked around: he hadn’t seen or heard the Raven since arriving in the wastes, and with his operatives present, he should have shown himself too.
The elf snorted and leaned away from Ibelin’s sword. “You can tell your master that if he wants my life, he should claim it for himself. There is no honour in having lackeys do your dirty work, carrion fowl!”
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The Raven
Apprentice Roleplayer
I am Her champion...and I will not retreat from Her will.
Posts: 52
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Post by The Raven on Oct 27, 2015 0:38:20 GMT -6
He calls to me.
He calls to me!
The elf!
Ready to accept his fate!
How I have longed for this day to come.
How I have longed to plunge my weapon into your chest.
How I have longed to bring you to justice, Clanless warrior!
The Champion, perched upon a stone, races towards the scene. His footsteps are unheard. The wind makes very little sound as it rushes around him. He is silent, and yet he is quick.
Once behind Lukis, he slows his pace and begins to saunter towards the elf.
“Clanless,” he speaks, his voice monotonous and synthetic, as if tempered by eons that no mortal should endure. “It has been over one thousand years. You trickster. You deceiver. I should rather call you Faljere D’ael Elderbaden than the Clanless. For that is who you truly are. And to think you were hiding under my nose for so long. It is good to look upon you once more before I bring justice upon you.”
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Post by Faljere D'ael Elderbaden on Oct 27, 2015 0:40:36 GMT -6
Behind Lukis, there was first a shadow. Then, a looming figure with dark robes and a sinister air. Finally, Faljere saw the mask. In the shape of a bird’s face, with eye holes revealing weathered, steely blue eyes surrounded by the shadow of time and age. Both of his hands were obscured by gloves, tattered and falling apart. His robes dusted the ground, collecting dust at the bottom, while the cloak that once draped over his torso and flew majestically was bunched up at his shoulders and frayed at the hems.
A thousand years of hunting for Faljere had turned his greatest enemy into a wreck.
But that did not mean that Faljere felt no fear. After all, this particular Champion of Her had caused the deaths of his companions, even though they had all trained in the same ways that Baristhebos’ elven slayers had trained. He was no one to quarrel lightly with, perhaps not even in this state.
Faljere frowned and stepped back. “If it isn’t my old warden,” he said, hoping that denoting him simply as his custodian would at least insult his foe.
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Post by Ibelin Dumont Baltonien on Nov 13, 2015 13:01:33 GMT -6
The Norman nearly smirked, still fascinated by how Faljere could be so cool when death was about to pay him a visit. Or, at least, it would show up on his doorstep and wait to be invited in. Thankfully, the Trio (as Lukis had begun to call them months ago) were there to make sure that death wasn’t going to have its turn with the elf.
Still, he watched the scene play out, hoping that the Raven did not lose his temper and lash out, knowing that Faljere wouldn’t be able to stop a man so fast with a blade.
He may bloody-well be a monk, and a Wood Elf at that, but the Raven’s a beast, Ibelin pondered. He took down the lad once; he can probably do it again.
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The Raven
Apprentice Roleplayer
I am Her champion...and I will not retreat from Her will.
Posts: 52
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Post by The Raven on Nov 13, 2015 13:02:56 GMT -6
A joke.
He has not lost his humour.
A smile on his lips.
This shows that he has no fear.
This shows that he laughs in deaths presence.
Or it shows just how fearful he really is.
How he wishes to prolong his existence.
By telling a joke.
By amusing me.
I am amused.
But not for the reasons he thinks.
The Raven lets his shoulders slink back. He slithers closer to the elf, his twitchy head bobbing up and down, left and right, like a bird’s.
“I have had my hands full, if you perhaps hadn’t noticed. Chasing heretics around this land while upholding Her will tends to take quite some time.”
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Post by Faljere D'ael Elderbaden on Nov 13, 2015 13:04:34 GMT -6
“Hence the age,” the elf shot back. Pursing his lips, he added: “You’ve looked better, especially in your youth.”
Of course, in his youth, this man was strong, proud, and quick. He puffed his chest out as he walked, held his head high as he looked down the beak of his mask as if all others he saw through its slots were beneath him.
O, the looks he could give through those slots. Some would say he had an accursed gaze, but in his own youth, the elf didn’t believe that. He would glare at him with cold hatred from behind his prison cell bars, hoping to prove himself the stronger man and to make the Raven fear him.
Much as his clothes were a wreck, so his stature was, too. He still retained some youthful athleticism to his build, and his limbs looked strong like usual. However, his neck was crooked and bent, dipping his head downwards like a vulture’s, or a feasting crow’s. He kept his chest under his head as if looking to protect something—his cold, empty heart, perhaps?—and his shoulders were shrunk close to his torso. But his eyes still peered downwards, as he was certainly a tall man, and they still gave off the most terrible gaze.
It was then that Faljere realised what they had all meant in the days of old when they said that his gaze was accursed: it was not one that would lay curses on others, but one from an accursed man. Immortality was his curse, and immortality had done its part in ruining him while he could not find Faljere. But now that the elf was in his grasp—now that his destiny was in reach—the Raven’s curse shone brightest, indicating that it was soon to be over.
Or perhaps it is that crack in his mask that is glowing…Faljere realised, seeing the large crack leading from the bottom right side of his beak up to the top of his forehead. What had done that?
In fact, there were a few things that were off. Ibelin and Lukis were silent, and the Raven was more upfront than usual. He turned around and looked at Sarea, who still wore the same, shamed expression on her smooth, pale face.
Was he imagining things, or did it seem like there was more to this situation than was being let on?
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The Raven
Apprentice Roleplayer
I am Her champion...and I will not retreat from Her will.
Posts: 52
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Post by The Raven on Nov 13, 2015 13:06:29 GMT -6
Enough talk has been done.
I stand here aging and growing further from my crusade’s apex.
While this chattering fool lives still more.
I must forgo my arrogance.
There will be time to celebrate.
To bask in this glory.
But not until his blood has been spilt.
Not until She bathes in this moment of time.
Not until Faljere lies dead.
I stand atop a pedestal at Her side.
This endless crusade meets its ultimate end.
The Raven grasps for his belt, but instead of reaching for his usual daggers, he reveals from under his tattered cloak a sheath of black leather and silver buckles, adorned with sapphires and blue metal.
“There is no time to stand on ceremony, as much as that would pleasure me. We stand here together, and only one will leave. We both know who that is, Clanless warrior. Such is Her will!”
To emphasize those final words, he unsheathes from the scabbard a blade: it is shining and silver, set into a dark silver hilt. Black lace wraps around the handle, interline with blue thread, and at the hilt’s cross-guard there is a small mural. A blue stone sits upon an image of a beautiful woman, a red one above a man with disheveled hair and a grim air, and a white one finally finds its place above a carving in the Raven’s image. A final blue stone finds itself embedded in the blade’s pommel, shimmering like its sister-stones on the cross.
The Raven points the blade at Faljere and smirks. “Draw yours. We shall see once and for all if, all those years ago, you really were too weak to slay me, or just too gallant.”
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