Post by Firoth on Feb 15, 2008 17:54:50 GMT -5
OOC: Hey all, with much delay, this is a story of a little of Firoth's travel, and a little of his history as well. Parts of it are meant to be sketchy and a bit jumpy, as they represent what he remembers of the events...without further ado, here it is....
The rain drove down in torrents, cutting visibility and making travel conditions horrible. Each drop had made the ground below softer and muddier, until the grasslands were more of a swamp than a field. It had been raining for days now, and only through sheet will and protective arcana made his travel bearable. He should have been back to his seaside encampment quite awhile ago, but he must have been set astray by the wall of water and frequent stops. With a grin, he realized that this wasn't the first time he had gotten lost due to the weather....
Stifling heat...ceramic plated armor....burning, acidic rain...The air was hazy with vitriolic vapours, straining the lungs and stinging the eyes. The acid storm had tormented the tall, eroded spires of the mountains for what seemed like weeks, years even, despite his brief two day period here.....The scent of dissolving leather....rusting blades and buckles...soft, clay-like dirt that ate at the heels....for a moment, the reason for his trip was lost to him, the inclimate conditions slowing his mind with the stress. Slowly, the image of his prize solidified within his mind, the treasure that was found deep within the catacombs beneath Needle Rock.....dry, dust choked air....the ever-present, pungent scent of polluted waters...dim light shone through the high cavern ceiling, aiding the ghostly flame that he had conjured to light his way. Shadows danced threateningly about the room, creating intangeable horrors in the dips and curves of the rusting suits of armor and corroding coin that dotted the expansive room. A pedestal in the very center of the space was before him now, upon it lie a black iron dagger, the blade pitted and dull, but not a dot of rust clung to it. The handle was wrapped with rough, red dyed leather that was smooth from years and years of use, the sanguine material hiding the remnants of thousands of lost lives, their life-blood spilled by this very blade what must have been centuries ago.....a black gloved hand wrapped around the handle...a bright flash of light....a searing hot pain that bit down to the bone.....
Firoth awoke to the sounds of a bird's sweet melody, the creature perched on a bare branch ten feet above. The changeling had fallen asleep beneath an old birch tree, his entire cloaked form caked with splatters of mud and dead grass. He was glad that the storm had passed, even if the standing water still remained, pooled inches deep around him. A hesitant hand fingered the worn ebon hilt of a short blade at his belt, the dark crimson leather that wrapped the handle contrasting with the dirty tans and blacks that he wore. With a relieved sigh, Firoth stood and surveyed the area in which he had made camp for the night. A charred mass of embers from a dying camp fire lay feet away, the ground barren in a wide radius of the tree. Beyond that the tall grasses and muddied waters prevailed for miles. Only the beaming morning sun suggested in which direction he was facing. Despite the featureless landscape and dizzying expanse of grassland he knew where he was upon rising, the single birch among fields of yellow grass a memorable landmark from earlier expeditions. He was but miles from his home on the Great Sea, the small harbor town not quite what Mittelmarch was, but at least it was shelter. Gathering his damp cloak about his form, he strode off towards the east, each step with the confidence and arrogance that came with being a leader.
The sun was high in the sky before he had reached the wooden gates of the ramshackle town. Two guards flanked the opening, holding serrated glaives against their shoulders.
"Windwalker, welcome back, sir. I hope the storms of late didn't bring too much trouble....if I might say though...your absence has brought trouble to the outskirts of our perimeter."
Firoth stood thinking for a moment, analyzing the situation, "I'm guessing that the goblins have returned?"
"Correct, sir. THe problem, though, is that a few of their masters came with them. As you know, our patrols aren't that well trained...and...we lost two men to the dark skinned elves.."
Firoth's ruddy face formed into a grown, though no other signs of distress showed themselves. "That's unfortunate. Have their bodies been sent yet?"
The guard nodded, the light colored wrap about his face hiding what he thought of the situation. "Yes sir...their ceremony was completed last night, after the storm broke..."
"Good...I am assuming that the problem was taken care of then? If so, is there any other matter that needs to be attended to?"
"N-no sir, there isn't anything else.."
With that, the door creaked open, revealing the dark wooden buildings and packed dirt streets within. The overhands looming over the path dripped slowly, the sound drowned out by the hustle and bustle of daily life. Firoth walked by the few vendors that lined the open road, eying those who he had united under his cause. He was a leader of few, and even fewer warriors, but those beneath him did their duties well, becoming defenders of their community at a moments notice.
The wood the buildings were made of; soft, dark wood accrued from the nearby swamps, were harvested and brought back through sheer will and desire for decent homes. Despite their rickety appearances, the buildings were sturdy. A few cantrips here and there helping with this.
At the moment, all the changeling wanted to do was enjoy the solitude and sanctity of his home, heading that way now. His own home was made of the same materials, though it was slightly larger than the rest of the houses. This was to house his lab, among other things. The front door creaked as he went inside and into the two story front room. Being a novice in the mystic arts had its advantages he thought, as a wave of his hands evaporated the filth from his form. Not enough time for a proper shower, he had work to do.
Descending the flight of stairs down to his storage, the darkness wrapped around him, clinging to his skin, hiding him from everything and anything.....
Cold, encapsulating mists....scattering shadows that ran from his heatless torch....a starless, soundless night....the area was silent, despite being in the center of a forest. Not a single bird nor rodent stirred, or even dared show themselves if they were in fact there. Such was the nature of the Fel Forest, anathema to living things and good thoughts. This was where the treasure he sought lie waiting to be claimed. It was thought, that the weapon itself was the source of the mists and invisible anti-life shell that enveloped the forest. The trees themselves remained, though not a one seemed to be still alive, their trunks gray and rotting, as if the life had been drained from them as they still stood.....a frigid wind that coaxed the mists thicker.....blind eyes and deaf ears...but oh so close....He had made it to the heart of the forest, though now was unable to see more than an inch from his face, and he couldn't even hear the crunching of dead leaves his boots made on the forest floor. Only a single source of light was now visable, cutting through the haze and dark night, a single pillar of silvery light that made his stomach sick just looking at it, tears welling in the corners of his eyes from the dull aching pain that the proximity imposed upon him....numb digits and strained breath....irrational dread and nausea that was overwhelming....there it was, standing before him with it's keen triangular blade dug into the earth. The entire length of the glaive seemed to be made from the same silvery black metal, a thin layer of frost having covered the surface of the weapon. This was the source of the forest's 'power.' This is what he had sought, mere inches before him, though his muscles felt weak and heavy, his body rebelling against his need to take hold....chilly, rigid metal...the sound of bone cracking....a sudden pain in his right arm...tendrils of darkness that concealed him from the night....
Firoth stood at the very back of the vault, a tingling sensation running up his arm. Before him sat a flawless polearm made of pure adamantine, not a single seam on the whole weapon, as if it were shaped and not forged. The blade was sharpened on both edges, the heavy serrations gleaming in the light of the ghost flame. He closed his eyes for a moment, a chill breeze causing him to shiver. Closing the darkwood doors, the shadows swallowed the weapon and it seemed to fade from existance...Sacrifices and hardships, something he did not regret at all.
A few days had passed and the changeling sat silently in the main room, an over-stuffed backpack and four cloth-wrapped weapons sat beside him. Flickering candles threw a warm glow onto his form, the shadows dancing in the inconsistent light. Firoth was clad in segmented, black leather armor that had the dragoon cross adorning the chest plate. Beneath this he wore light tan clothing that flared out at his wrists and ankles, black symbols in an unknown language marked the outsides of sleeve and legging. Split-toed boots adorned his feet, and tight black gloves covered his hands. For awhile now, he had prefered his natural form than the ones he could assume, since it was somewhat easier to hold. Short, blonde hair and pale, almost translucent skin contrasted with the ebon armor that he wore. His facial features were smooth, holding little definition, and his eyes lacked a pupil as per normal creatures. The changeling definently stood out like this, but it mattered not. He had no reason to hide, no reason to disguise himself among the people of the city, nor those of the road.
Today was the day he was to head back to Mittelmarch for a few weeks, for training and brotherhood that he sorely missed....And so, with shoulders listing from the weight of his pack, he began his trek, giving his farewells to the townsfolk as he went....
The rain drove down in torrents, cutting visibility and making travel conditions horrible. Each drop had made the ground below softer and muddier, until the grasslands were more of a swamp than a field. It had been raining for days now, and only through sheet will and protective arcana made his travel bearable. He should have been back to his seaside encampment quite awhile ago, but he must have been set astray by the wall of water and frequent stops. With a grin, he realized that this wasn't the first time he had gotten lost due to the weather....
Stifling heat...ceramic plated armor....burning, acidic rain...The air was hazy with vitriolic vapours, straining the lungs and stinging the eyes. The acid storm had tormented the tall, eroded spires of the mountains for what seemed like weeks, years even, despite his brief two day period here.....The scent of dissolving leather....rusting blades and buckles...soft, clay-like dirt that ate at the heels....for a moment, the reason for his trip was lost to him, the inclimate conditions slowing his mind with the stress. Slowly, the image of his prize solidified within his mind, the treasure that was found deep within the catacombs beneath Needle Rock.....dry, dust choked air....the ever-present, pungent scent of polluted waters...dim light shone through the high cavern ceiling, aiding the ghostly flame that he had conjured to light his way. Shadows danced threateningly about the room, creating intangeable horrors in the dips and curves of the rusting suits of armor and corroding coin that dotted the expansive room. A pedestal in the very center of the space was before him now, upon it lie a black iron dagger, the blade pitted and dull, but not a dot of rust clung to it. The handle was wrapped with rough, red dyed leather that was smooth from years and years of use, the sanguine material hiding the remnants of thousands of lost lives, their life-blood spilled by this very blade what must have been centuries ago.....a black gloved hand wrapped around the handle...a bright flash of light....a searing hot pain that bit down to the bone.....
Firoth awoke to the sounds of a bird's sweet melody, the creature perched on a bare branch ten feet above. The changeling had fallen asleep beneath an old birch tree, his entire cloaked form caked with splatters of mud and dead grass. He was glad that the storm had passed, even if the standing water still remained, pooled inches deep around him. A hesitant hand fingered the worn ebon hilt of a short blade at his belt, the dark crimson leather that wrapped the handle contrasting with the dirty tans and blacks that he wore. With a relieved sigh, Firoth stood and surveyed the area in which he had made camp for the night. A charred mass of embers from a dying camp fire lay feet away, the ground barren in a wide radius of the tree. Beyond that the tall grasses and muddied waters prevailed for miles. Only the beaming morning sun suggested in which direction he was facing. Despite the featureless landscape and dizzying expanse of grassland he knew where he was upon rising, the single birch among fields of yellow grass a memorable landmark from earlier expeditions. He was but miles from his home on the Great Sea, the small harbor town not quite what Mittelmarch was, but at least it was shelter. Gathering his damp cloak about his form, he strode off towards the east, each step with the confidence and arrogance that came with being a leader.
The sun was high in the sky before he had reached the wooden gates of the ramshackle town. Two guards flanked the opening, holding serrated glaives against their shoulders.
"Windwalker, welcome back, sir. I hope the storms of late didn't bring too much trouble....if I might say though...your absence has brought trouble to the outskirts of our perimeter."
Firoth stood thinking for a moment, analyzing the situation, "I'm guessing that the goblins have returned?"
"Correct, sir. THe problem, though, is that a few of their masters came with them. As you know, our patrols aren't that well trained...and...we lost two men to the dark skinned elves.."
Firoth's ruddy face formed into a grown, though no other signs of distress showed themselves. "That's unfortunate. Have their bodies been sent yet?"
The guard nodded, the light colored wrap about his face hiding what he thought of the situation. "Yes sir...their ceremony was completed last night, after the storm broke..."
"Good...I am assuming that the problem was taken care of then? If so, is there any other matter that needs to be attended to?"
"N-no sir, there isn't anything else.."
With that, the door creaked open, revealing the dark wooden buildings and packed dirt streets within. The overhands looming over the path dripped slowly, the sound drowned out by the hustle and bustle of daily life. Firoth walked by the few vendors that lined the open road, eying those who he had united under his cause. He was a leader of few, and even fewer warriors, but those beneath him did their duties well, becoming defenders of their community at a moments notice.
The wood the buildings were made of; soft, dark wood accrued from the nearby swamps, were harvested and brought back through sheer will and desire for decent homes. Despite their rickety appearances, the buildings were sturdy. A few cantrips here and there helping with this.
At the moment, all the changeling wanted to do was enjoy the solitude and sanctity of his home, heading that way now. His own home was made of the same materials, though it was slightly larger than the rest of the houses. This was to house his lab, among other things. The front door creaked as he went inside and into the two story front room. Being a novice in the mystic arts had its advantages he thought, as a wave of his hands evaporated the filth from his form. Not enough time for a proper shower, he had work to do.
Descending the flight of stairs down to his storage, the darkness wrapped around him, clinging to his skin, hiding him from everything and anything.....
Cold, encapsulating mists....scattering shadows that ran from his heatless torch....a starless, soundless night....the area was silent, despite being in the center of a forest. Not a single bird nor rodent stirred, or even dared show themselves if they were in fact there. Such was the nature of the Fel Forest, anathema to living things and good thoughts. This was where the treasure he sought lie waiting to be claimed. It was thought, that the weapon itself was the source of the mists and invisible anti-life shell that enveloped the forest. The trees themselves remained, though not a one seemed to be still alive, their trunks gray and rotting, as if the life had been drained from them as they still stood.....a frigid wind that coaxed the mists thicker.....blind eyes and deaf ears...but oh so close....He had made it to the heart of the forest, though now was unable to see more than an inch from his face, and he couldn't even hear the crunching of dead leaves his boots made on the forest floor. Only a single source of light was now visable, cutting through the haze and dark night, a single pillar of silvery light that made his stomach sick just looking at it, tears welling in the corners of his eyes from the dull aching pain that the proximity imposed upon him....numb digits and strained breath....irrational dread and nausea that was overwhelming....there it was, standing before him with it's keen triangular blade dug into the earth. The entire length of the glaive seemed to be made from the same silvery black metal, a thin layer of frost having covered the surface of the weapon. This was the source of the forest's 'power.' This is what he had sought, mere inches before him, though his muscles felt weak and heavy, his body rebelling against his need to take hold....chilly, rigid metal...the sound of bone cracking....a sudden pain in his right arm...tendrils of darkness that concealed him from the night....
Firoth stood at the very back of the vault, a tingling sensation running up his arm. Before him sat a flawless polearm made of pure adamantine, not a single seam on the whole weapon, as if it were shaped and not forged. The blade was sharpened on both edges, the heavy serrations gleaming in the light of the ghost flame. He closed his eyes for a moment, a chill breeze causing him to shiver. Closing the darkwood doors, the shadows swallowed the weapon and it seemed to fade from existance...Sacrifices and hardships, something he did not regret at all.
A few days had passed and the changeling sat silently in the main room, an over-stuffed backpack and four cloth-wrapped weapons sat beside him. Flickering candles threw a warm glow onto his form, the shadows dancing in the inconsistent light. Firoth was clad in segmented, black leather armor that had the dragoon cross adorning the chest plate. Beneath this he wore light tan clothing that flared out at his wrists and ankles, black symbols in an unknown language marked the outsides of sleeve and legging. Split-toed boots adorned his feet, and tight black gloves covered his hands. For awhile now, he had prefered his natural form than the ones he could assume, since it was somewhat easier to hold. Short, blonde hair and pale, almost translucent skin contrasted with the ebon armor that he wore. His facial features were smooth, holding little definition, and his eyes lacked a pupil as per normal creatures. The changeling definently stood out like this, but it mattered not. He had no reason to hide, no reason to disguise himself among the people of the city, nor those of the road.
Today was the day he was to head back to Mittelmarch for a few weeks, for training and brotherhood that he sorely missed....And so, with shoulders listing from the weight of his pack, he began his trek, giving his farewells to the townsfolk as he went....