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Dissentions Charater Back Stories
- Thread starter Tolis
- Start date
Neverwonagame3
Self-Styled Intellectual
- Joined
- Sep 5, 2006
- Messages
- 3,549
Horseman's Backstory:
The King, the Horseman, and the Advisor. This trio ran the faction of Hagnaught. Hagnaught was unique for it's notoriously poor army. It was a minor faction which only survived because of it's mountanous terrain and utter lack of strategic value.
The Horseman's posistion is in fact, hereditary. The current Horseman is formally Horseman XVI, hereditary head of the Army. Hagnaught had the further weakness that he, the King, and the Advisor would normally struggle for power.
This changed when Horseman XVI ascended the throne. He decided to renounce, in both theory and practice, the seeking of power, and unconditionally back the King against the Advisor. The ultimate result of this was the formation of the Golden Trio, of King Henry (who broke tradition by having a name other then "King"), Horseman XVI, and Strategos (who did formally change his name, but was always called Strategos) the Advisor.
Strategos's grand plan was to ally with Matram against Xen, a nominal Imperial loyalist who was in reality a loose and unreliable ally. They would then move through Matram's terrortory and defeat Xen, then Matram. If this was sucessful, they would be in plains where cavalry had unique opportunities.
Horseman's role was to reform the army for such warfare, based around the outflankment. The state of Yama was aided in war in order to improve discipline before the great envedour. Horseman abolished the supply system in favor of stealing from the locals- though he kept supplies on horses for travel when this was not practical. He took a gamble on horsemen still being useful despite the invention of the musket.
The plan suceeded, and the descisive victory at Hoodrush led to the death of Xen and Horseman's crowning glory. Xen's new capital (Xen City, which actually kept it's name) was taken, and Matram was attacked and defeated.
But the state of New Hagnaught was in a poor posistion. The heir to the throne of Matram was dead by Horseman's hand, and the King of Matram was insistent upon revenge despite the offer of Hagnaught's old lands.
Hagnaught was in a pincer, as the Empire to the north desired the destruction of Hagnaught for daring to invade a nominal Imperial vassal without their permission. They had taken a diplomatic gamble, and failed. Nobody dared oppose the Empire.
Under normal circumstances, they would have pretended to accept the subsequent Imperial offer of a tournament to end the wars, but planned in secret to build up strength and gain at the expense of those foolish enough to take the contest seriously. Despite the drought, Horseman's forces (who had suffered less then most, but this would have been the case despite) still wanted a fight. But under the circumstances they felt they had no choice. The Treaty of Xen City was signed.
The terms were that they would attend the contest and submit to it's decision in exchange for the Imperial army forcing Matram to submit to the contest and the new status quo. Also, Hagnaught would become an Imperial vassal like Xen before it.
Reluctant, Horseman decided to attend the contest. He hoped the other factions were not actually planning to keep their word...
The King, the Horseman, and the Advisor. This trio ran the faction of Hagnaught. Hagnaught was unique for it's notoriously poor army. It was a minor faction which only survived because of it's mountanous terrain and utter lack of strategic value.
The Horseman's posistion is in fact, hereditary. The current Horseman is formally Horseman XVI, hereditary head of the Army. Hagnaught had the further weakness that he, the King, and the Advisor would normally struggle for power.
This changed when Horseman XVI ascended the throne. He decided to renounce, in both theory and practice, the seeking of power, and unconditionally back the King against the Advisor. The ultimate result of this was the formation of the Golden Trio, of King Henry (who broke tradition by having a name other then "King"), Horseman XVI, and Strategos (who did formally change his name, but was always called Strategos) the Advisor.
Strategos's grand plan was to ally with Matram against Xen, a nominal Imperial loyalist who was in reality a loose and unreliable ally. They would then move through Matram's terrortory and defeat Xen, then Matram. If this was sucessful, they would be in plains where cavalry had unique opportunities.
Horseman's role was to reform the army for such warfare, based around the outflankment. The state of Yama was aided in war in order to improve discipline before the great envedour. Horseman abolished the supply system in favor of stealing from the locals- though he kept supplies on horses for travel when this was not practical. He took a gamble on horsemen still being useful despite the invention of the musket.
The plan suceeded, and the descisive victory at Hoodrush led to the death of Xen and Horseman's crowning glory. Xen's new capital (Xen City, which actually kept it's name) was taken, and Matram was attacked and defeated.
But the state of New Hagnaught was in a poor posistion. The heir to the throne of Matram was dead by Horseman's hand, and the King of Matram was insistent upon revenge despite the offer of Hagnaught's old lands.
Hagnaught was in a pincer, as the Empire to the north desired the destruction of Hagnaught for daring to invade a nominal Imperial vassal without their permission. They had taken a diplomatic gamble, and failed. Nobody dared oppose the Empire.
Under normal circumstances, they would have pretended to accept the subsequent Imperial offer of a tournament to end the wars, but planned in secret to build up strength and gain at the expense of those foolish enough to take the contest seriously. Despite the drought, Horseman's forces (who had suffered less then most, but this would have been the case despite) still wanted a fight. But under the circumstances they felt they had no choice. The Treaty of Xen City was signed.
The terms were that they would attend the contest and submit to it's decision in exchange for the Imperial army forcing Matram to submit to the contest and the new status quo. Also, Hagnaught would become an Imperial vassal like Xen before it.
Reluctant, Horseman decided to attend the contest. He hoped the other factions were not actually planning to keep their word...
Æthermancer
Whakiomama the Æthermancer. That's what he was. Hailing from the steamy recesses of the Vassagonian Swamps far to the south, his Halian sect had pulled the strings of the puppet King !Xobile of Vassagonia and ensured the swamp kingdom's prominence in the affairs of the southern continent.
The Halians practice the unseemly sorcery of nothing at all, for that was what æther was. Long hours of study in dank mausolea make their skins pale, their figures, skeletal. In spite of their peculiar looks and ways, none doubted the nightmarish power of the Halians - least of all the King !Xobile, the very man whom the Halians grasped by the nethers.
Thus when the imperial messengers came, King !Xobile saw a chance to extend his personal power by requesting the Halians represent him at the imperial tournament. For he knew there would be no neutrality in this tournament.
The Halians were unable to say no, puppet-masters as they were as they knew only they could win the tournament for Vassagonia. The sect travelled to the Imperial City - as a mana bank for Whakiomama, Precentor Primus of the Åzanam. He was chosen by the elders to go into the arena.
Whakiomama the Æthermancer. That's what he was. Hailing from the steamy recesses of the Vassagonian Swamps far to the south, his Halian sect had pulled the strings of the puppet King !Xobile of Vassagonia and ensured the swamp kingdom's prominence in the affairs of the southern continent.
The Halians practice the unseemly sorcery of nothing at all, for that was what æther was. Long hours of study in dank mausolea make their skins pale, their figures, skeletal. In spite of their peculiar looks and ways, none doubted the nightmarish power of the Halians - least of all the King !Xobile, the very man whom the Halians grasped by the nethers.
Thus when the imperial messengers came, King !Xobile saw a chance to extend his personal power by requesting the Halians represent him at the imperial tournament. For he knew there would be no neutrality in this tournament.
The Halians were unable to say no, puppet-masters as they were as they knew only they could win the tournament for Vassagonia. The sect travelled to the Imperial City - as a mana bank for Whakiomama, Precentor Primus of the Åzanam. He was chosen by the elders to go into the arena.
The13thRonin
Handsome Rogue
Many shadows twirl across the grounds of the arena, blade glinting in the afternoon sun. It dances to and fro, cutting the midmorning air into ribbons of shimmering light. He watches each stroke with care and he remembers...
The chamber... A mess of blood, death and destruction... The master mutters something, gasping for breath and clutching at the mortal wound at his side as the scores of rogues, mercenaries and bandits squabble over the spoils. Groaning I hear a table crash into the stone floor, overturned in a heated dispute. I attempt to rise but the pain brings me back to my knees. I look down and curse the spear pinning my chest straight into the wall. Blood cakes my black robes. I look up to find that master has died, his unfurled open hand lies still where it fell, one finger still pointing towards me. A smirk etched on the old mans lips. And then I see it. From all around the chamber little purple flames rise from my fallen brothers, twelve of them in all. No-one besides me seems to notice this madness. I close my eyes, I am dying and I have failed. There is no honor in this end. I open my eyes and to my shock the flames streak across the room circling me, tightening around me. The pain is excruciating. I writhe against the spear in agony, several of the foul defilers turn towards me in astonishment. And then it snaps. Something snaps inside of me, at the same time the spear snaps and I rise to my feet. Several men step back in horror. The purple flames have dispersed, but I no longer care about them, I no longer care about anything. I swing my katana with the speed of thirteen, it slices through the foe with the strength of thirteen. The night had not yet seen its fill of blood.
"Revenge can consume a man." A shadow suggests. "But wrath has a greater appetite." chuckles another. The Ronin, the one they call 'Thirteen' smiles. "No one man is worth a damn." he mutters. The shadows nod in agreement.
The chamber... A mess of blood, death and destruction... The master mutters something, gasping for breath and clutching at the mortal wound at his side as the scores of rogues, mercenaries and bandits squabble over the spoils. Groaning I hear a table crash into the stone floor, overturned in a heated dispute. I attempt to rise but the pain brings me back to my knees. I look down and curse the spear pinning my chest straight into the wall. Blood cakes my black robes. I look up to find that master has died, his unfurled open hand lies still where it fell, one finger still pointing towards me. A smirk etched on the old mans lips. And then I see it. From all around the chamber little purple flames rise from my fallen brothers, twelve of them in all. No-one besides me seems to notice this madness. I close my eyes, I am dying and I have failed. There is no honor in this end. I open my eyes and to my shock the flames streak across the room circling me, tightening around me. The pain is excruciating. I writhe against the spear in agony, several of the foul defilers turn towards me in astonishment. And then it snaps. Something snaps inside of me, at the same time the spear snaps and I rise to my feet. Several men step back in horror. The purple flames have dispersed, but I no longer care about them, I no longer care about anything. I swing my katana with the speed of thirteen, it slices through the foe with the strength of thirteen. The night had not yet seen its fill of blood.
"Revenge can consume a man." A shadow suggests. "But wrath has a greater appetite." chuckles another. The Ronin, the one they call 'Thirteen' smiles. "No one man is worth a damn." he mutters. The shadows nod in agreement.
Stuck in Pi
3.14159265358979323846...
- Joined
- Oct 23, 2007
- Messages
- 646
The Illusion was young. His life however, had been full of violence, betrayals, and death. Throughout the twenty years of his wanderings and adventures, he had perfected many things, including illusions. The illusions he made depended on his mood, when angry, they could be a skeletal figure with a huge sword that would frighten anyone else, or, when calm, a meditating monk that would shield him from harm. However, he could concentrate and make a virtual copy of himself if he wanted to, and he did in his past, as agents had tried to murder him time and time again. Each time, the Imperials had one dead agent that was in perfect health other than being dead. What had happened was unknown. But the Illusion was contacted by his nation, who wanted him to compete here. He knew that it would well be an oppurtunity to change history and defeat the Imperials (again). So he came, and hoped his team wouldn't get him killed.
mythmonster2
BEC NOIR! RUN!
Vampyre Backstory:
Vampyres, vampires. What's the difference, ask many mortals. To many mortals that answer is nothing. Yet there are many differences. For starters, vampyres have better skin. Why? They can go out into the sun. Unlike those bloody vampires. Another thing, vampyres have most of the physical features of vampires, but exaggerated. The have larger teeth, there eyes are completely red, and they enjoy wearing capes. For this reason, vampyres are much rarer than vampires, who are harder to distinguish. As for this one, he is, like most vampyres, very smart, and when he wins, he will use the prize money for vampyrekind. And also to wipe out those cursed vampires.
Vampyres, vampires. What's the difference, ask many mortals. To many mortals that answer is nothing. Yet there are many differences. For starters, vampyres have better skin. Why? They can go out into the sun. Unlike those bloody vampires. Another thing, vampyres have most of the physical features of vampires, but exaggerated. The have larger teeth, there eyes are completely red, and they enjoy wearing capes. For this reason, vampyres are much rarer than vampires, who are harder to distinguish. As for this one, he is, like most vampyres, very smart, and when he wins, he will use the prize money for vampyrekind. And also to wipe out those cursed vampires.
Shadow Stalker:
The Shadow Stalker was your standard agent, he would accept missions given to him via a well connected organization, preform them and then get payed. Unless personally contacted he would never see the client or know what they planned to do, this made in much easier if things got messy.
This all changed after one day. He received a standard mission, infiltrate a nobles mansion and acquire information on troop movements, economic info, etc. Nothing out of the ordinary accept that the client requested him to do it. This put him a little on edge but he went out on it for the sake of his reputation.
Once inside the gates closed behind him and soldiers came rushing out and surrounded him. After a few moments of intense fighting and techniques too complicated to explain he escaped. He was unsure whether the client or the organization set him up so to play it safe he checked with his own contact. Luckily the organization had no part in this set up so he reported it. This broke the confidentiality contract allowing the organization to reveal who was the client. It turned out to be a man known as the Risk-Breaker. The organization gave the Shadow Stalker a special assignment locate the Risk-Breaker and if possible bring him in or remove him.
After years of searching he got a lead that informed him that the Risk-Breaker was going to compete in a competition. Using it's connections with the government they were able to get the Shadow Stalker into it, though the government probably would of hired him out to do so anyways. It's time to get to the up of a search that began long ago.
(First official vendetta against Rogueknight
)
The Shadow Stalker was your standard agent, he would accept missions given to him via a well connected organization, preform them and then get payed. Unless personally contacted he would never see the client or know what they planned to do, this made in much easier if things got messy.
This all changed after one day. He received a standard mission, infiltrate a nobles mansion and acquire information on troop movements, economic info, etc. Nothing out of the ordinary accept that the client requested him to do it. This put him a little on edge but he went out on it for the sake of his reputation.
Once inside the gates closed behind him and soldiers came rushing out and surrounded him. After a few moments of intense fighting and techniques too complicated to explain he escaped. He was unsure whether the client or the organization set him up so to play it safe he checked with his own contact. Luckily the organization had no part in this set up so he reported it. This broke the confidentiality contract allowing the organization to reveal who was the client. It turned out to be a man known as the Risk-Breaker. The organization gave the Shadow Stalker a special assignment locate the Risk-Breaker and if possible bring him in or remove him.
After years of searching he got a lead that informed him that the Risk-Breaker was going to compete in a competition. Using it's connections with the government they were able to get the Shadow Stalker into it, though the government probably would of hired him out to do so anyways. It's time to get to the up of a search that began long ago.
(First official vendetta against Rogueknight
)
Catharsis
catch u on the flip scythe
Nobody knows exactly how many shapeshifters there are. In my time, I have had the privilege to meet fifteen of these strange entities, these spacetwisters. They are, of course, best known for the agitation of the subreals, those tiny specks of truth that make up Reality, and all subordinate realities; but that agitation was nothing compared to my own, when I found out that fourteen of these shifters were in fact the same being. Perhaps it could be seen as flattering, that he stuck around in my reality for the best part of a human lifetime, devoting his energies solely to messing up my research. Alternatively, it could be seen as very, very irritating.
But the fifteenth shifter I met... I am sure that she is a separate entity. For a start, she is voluntarily female. She also doesn't have that slight haddock smell that I had always assumed was a hallmark of shapeshifters. Oh, and she can't shift shape. Or manipulate subreality. This could, perhaps, be seen as a slight obstacle for a shapeshifter, but as anyone who has seen their best friend sleepwalk into a meat-grinder knows (I lost 10 gold on that bet... never thought he'd do it), obstacles mean nothing when you're unconscious.
---
How are shapeshifters chosen? I'd love to tell you some mystical lore about duelling gods hand-picking warriors to do battle across the many bifurcations of Reality, but it's actually a pretty standard entrance exam. You might wonder, then, why shapeshifters are so few and far between. Well, the test is a spelling test. The problem comes when the new shapeshifters attempt to shift shape and find that they can't, usually dislocating some part of themselves in the process. The test itself is merely a clever way of disposing of the enormous collection of staples all shifters gradually accumulate for God-knows-what reason.
But for Meghghan Psquirrelstone (that's 'Meghghan' with a double-'gh' - say it as if you're choking on an otter) this was not a problem. Despite misspelling her own name on the test, she was by a wide margin the most successful shifter of her class of around four thousand, as she was the only one who could actually shift shape. She lived a fine life, hopping between realities, making the subreals dance for her - even spending some time in the Realm of Zeal, watching a new style of blood-sport which she dismissed as a silly fad that would never catch on. And it all would have gone on like this, as swimmingly as anything can be, if she had not got a little too lax with her abilities, and bitten off quite a lot more than she could chew.
Meghghan Psquirrelstone broke time.
We are, of course, already familiar with time's on-again-off-again relationship with Reality. In some realities, the two are all over each other; in others, Reality won't even give time the time of day (obviously). But there are some fundamental threads of time, even in those realities where it does not make its presence felt, and no shapeshifter must ever interfere with them - they are in the proverbial display case. And on the 14th day of the 3rd month of the 37th year of the reign of King Zühberbuhler of Grauundgrauundweiss, Meghghan Psquirellstone got her sticky lollipop-hands all over them.
Naturally, the shapeshifter examining body was pretty embarrassed about this, seeing as their failure to include pretty important information about how not to rip the fabric of time-space in their little spelling test could perhaps be blamed somewhat for this mishap, so they got to work fixing it. They toiled and toiled at it, but on the 14th day of the 3rd month of the 37th year of the reign of King Zühberbuhler of Grauundgrauundweiss, time was rebooted, to the immense relief of timeshare salesmen, whose customers were beginning to suspect that they were getting a raw deal. But time was already running out for Meghghan Psquirrelstone.
She fell. She fell hard. In fact, Psquirrelstone fell so spectacularly that the Americans named a season after it. Her shapeshifting powers were purged, and control over all subreals was wrenched from her - like a restraining order, but issued by human beings instead of lawyers. The revocation was so complete, she couldn't even make a mountain out of a molehill anymore.
Now, there are three main career paths for a fallen shapeshifter: after-dinner speaking (not an option, as due to her chronological oopsie, she and dinnertime were not exactly on speaking-terms), balloon modelling (she's scared of balloons), or becoming a dreamer. Anyone can shift shape in the Dream Realm, and in fact most people do: while dreams are technically Real, the subreals that compose them are notoriously gullible - some would say groggy - so even the ghastliest spellers can be shifters there. Trouble is, most people don't really notice their dreams, let alone control them. Fallen shifters, therefore, are ideal dreamers: they already know how to control every speck of truth and reality around them, and plus, they tend to be lazy beggars, so the extra sleep isn't a problem either.
Donning her purple-and-black hooded robe-cum-patchquilt, Meghghan Psquirrelstone made her way to the Dissensions tournament as the representative of Grauundgrauundweiss (they daren't send another toymaker, not after what happened to the last one). With her she carried her deadly tools of innate destruction: a vial of SandmanTM-quality sleep sand (eye gunk, technically); a ferocious goose-feather pillow; and a terrifying entity of all that is unholy, called Mister Fwuffums (a.k.a. the Teddy of Death).
The Dreamer is here... and she'll Rip you a new Van Winkle.
But the fifteenth shifter I met... I am sure that she is a separate entity. For a start, she is voluntarily female. She also doesn't have that slight haddock smell that I had always assumed was a hallmark of shapeshifters. Oh, and she can't shift shape. Or manipulate subreality. This could, perhaps, be seen as a slight obstacle for a shapeshifter, but as anyone who has seen their best friend sleepwalk into a meat-grinder knows (I lost 10 gold on that bet... never thought he'd do it), obstacles mean nothing when you're unconscious.
---
How are shapeshifters chosen? I'd love to tell you some mystical lore about duelling gods hand-picking warriors to do battle across the many bifurcations of Reality, but it's actually a pretty standard entrance exam. You might wonder, then, why shapeshifters are so few and far between. Well, the test is a spelling test. The problem comes when the new shapeshifters attempt to shift shape and find that they can't, usually dislocating some part of themselves in the process. The test itself is merely a clever way of disposing of the enormous collection of staples all shifters gradually accumulate for God-knows-what reason.
But for Meghghan Psquirrelstone (that's 'Meghghan' with a double-'gh' - say it as if you're choking on an otter) this was not a problem. Despite misspelling her own name on the test, she was by a wide margin the most successful shifter of her class of around four thousand, as she was the only one who could actually shift shape. She lived a fine life, hopping between realities, making the subreals dance for her - even spending some time in the Realm of Zeal, watching a new style of blood-sport which she dismissed as a silly fad that would never catch on. And it all would have gone on like this, as swimmingly as anything can be, if she had not got a little too lax with her abilities, and bitten off quite a lot more than she could chew.
Meghghan Psquirrelstone broke time.
We are, of course, already familiar with time's on-again-off-again relationship with Reality. In some realities, the two are all over each other; in others, Reality won't even give time the time of day (obviously). But there are some fundamental threads of time, even in those realities where it does not make its presence felt, and no shapeshifter must ever interfere with them - they are in the proverbial display case. And on the 14th day of the 3rd month of the 37th year of the reign of King Zühberbuhler of Grauundgrauundweiss, Meghghan Psquirellstone got her sticky lollipop-hands all over them.
Naturally, the shapeshifter examining body was pretty embarrassed about this, seeing as their failure to include pretty important information about how not to rip the fabric of time-space in their little spelling test could perhaps be blamed somewhat for this mishap, so they got to work fixing it. They toiled and toiled at it, but on the 14th day of the 3rd month of the 37th year of the reign of King Zühberbuhler of Grauundgrauundweiss, time was rebooted, to the immense relief of timeshare salesmen, whose customers were beginning to suspect that they were getting a raw deal. But time was already running out for Meghghan Psquirrelstone.
She fell. She fell hard. In fact, Psquirrelstone fell so spectacularly that the Americans named a season after it. Her shapeshifting powers were purged, and control over all subreals was wrenched from her - like a restraining order, but issued by human beings instead of lawyers. The revocation was so complete, she couldn't even make a mountain out of a molehill anymore.
Now, there are three main career paths for a fallen shapeshifter: after-dinner speaking (not an option, as due to her chronological oopsie, she and dinnertime were not exactly on speaking-terms), balloon modelling (she's scared of balloons), or becoming a dreamer. Anyone can shift shape in the Dream Realm, and in fact most people do: while dreams are technically Real, the subreals that compose them are notoriously gullible - some would say groggy - so even the ghastliest spellers can be shifters there. Trouble is, most people don't really notice their dreams, let alone control them. Fallen shifters, therefore, are ideal dreamers: they already know how to control every speck of truth and reality around them, and plus, they tend to be lazy beggars, so the extra sleep isn't a problem either.
Donning her purple-and-black hooded robe-cum-patchquilt, Meghghan Psquirrelstone made her way to the Dissensions tournament as the representative of Grauundgrauundweiss (they daren't send another toymaker, not after what happened to the last one). With her she carried her deadly tools of innate destruction: a vial of SandmanTM-quality sleep sand (eye gunk, technically); a ferocious goose-feather pillow; and a terrifying entity of all that is unholy, called Mister Fwuffums (a.k.a. the Teddy of Death).
The Dreamer is here... and she'll Rip you a new Van Winkle.
thomas.berubeg
Wandering the World
I am Hunger. I am Thirst. Where I Bite, I hold till I die, and even after death, they must cut out my mouthful and bury it with me. I can fast a hundred years and not die. I can lie a hundred nights on the ice and not freeze. I can drink a river of blood and not burst. Show me my ENEMIES!
--- I'll write a better story tomorrow...
--- I'll write a better story tomorrow...
The13thRonin
Handsome Rogue
The Ronin unsheathes his katana, glances down at the blade and looks bored.
So uh... Where's the competition? I thought I was going to be fighting warriors not civilians with sleep disorders and petty tricksters. Bah...
The Ronin sheathes the blade in disgust.
So uh... Where's the competition? I thought I was going to be fighting warriors not civilians with sleep disorders and petty tricksters. Bah...
The Ronin sheathes the blade in disgust.
Neverwonagame3
Self-Styled Intellectual
- Joined
- Sep 5, 2006
- Messages
- 3,549
"What's the point, anyway? I don't think any of us have leaders stupid enough to actually take this contest seriously. Except mine perhaps."
Leeksoup
Pope Lazius
- Joined
- Sep 14, 2006
- Messages
- 130
The Forsaken didn't understand. This was not out of the ordinary; he wasn't the sharpest bulb in the drawer, but this was an important thing he didn't understand. He thought everything was going well. He served his master, his master rewarded him.
Ever since he was a small being in the Realm of Twilight he knew he was destined for greatness. The prophets foretold he would be a great realm-jumper. What they didn't mention was that he wouldn't jump on his won; instead, he was travelling down the street one day when the ground abruptly ate him. When he came to, it was the brightest he'd ever seen it- there was some kind of huge lamp in the sky- and a man in odd robes was chanting and dancing around a circle made of dried blood.
While he and the man didn't seem to speak the same language- no matter how many times the Forsaken asked where he was with a polite spray of chlorine, the man always just flapped his teeth- they got along all right. The Forsaken was treated well, fed incredibly rare delicacies that apparently weren't rare (did you know apples actually grew on TREES, instead of having to be mined deep underground?), and in return all he had to do was scare a few unsuspecting people out of their skins. A couple times, literally. And he only hurt his master a few times, although his master seemed to complain a lot for something as small as stepping on his lower abdomen.
Until the last mission his master had sent him on. Evidently this one was quite important, for his master accompanied him. He did his usual thing, flashing teeth and claws at people to scare them, and if they didn't run he ripped them in half. His master hurled fire and shadow bolts over his shoulders, adding to the carnage. They descended into a cave, and came to a cavernous room where his master placed a glowing gem on a platform and began chanting around it. He felt himself being pulled, as he had so long ago in Twilight.
Before he knew what was happening, his world shifted and changed. The walls became multifaceted and red, with glowing light coming through them. He floated in space, feeling nothing, hearing nothing, and all around him was beautiful ruby. He realized he was inside the gem his master had placed on the pedestal.
He roared his rage at this change, and one facet became a window to the outside from which he could see his master exit the room and close the only pathway out with a rockslide. He was trapped, utterly alone, and he didn't understand what he had done wrong.
Time passed. The Forsaken had no idea how long, as his surroundings changed very slowly and imperceptibly. Eventually, moss grew on the walls. Vines grew on the ground outside his crystal, and the rock of the chamber began to crack with age. The Forsaken managed, from time to time, to contact the realm of Twilight through deep meditation. By doing so, he maintained his sanity, and in time began to be revered as a demigod in Twilight, appearing in a ruby portal out of nothing and dispensing sage advise to any who asked.
But one day, something happened outside his crystal. There was a boom that could be felt inside his prison, and the rockslide placed there so long ago dissolved. After the dust cleared, a party of men in shining armor and surcoats emblazoned with a golden spear and sickle on a white field marched into the cavern. Reverently, they knelt before the crystal, delicately picked it up, and wrapped it in fine silk cloth.
When he was unwrapped, the Forsaken saw that he was outside a large arena with banners of all kinds around it. His crystal prison hummed with increasing volume, until finally and blessedly it shattered. In a flash of light, he enlarged five times to be his natural size and reveled in stretching his limbs. Eventually, it was conveyed to him through signs and writing (his master taught him some writing, though this language seemed to be a very childlike version of what he had learned) that in return for his freedom, he must go into this arena in behalf of the nation of Benghadi and compete by rules with the other combatants. The rules surprised him, as in the past his master did not bother with any rules or conditions. Dead was dead. Still, anything was better than that crystal prison of his. With an emphatic spray of hydrochloric acid and arsenic, he agreed and the people fled from him.
The Forsaken smiled and turned to the arena.
Ever since he was a small being in the Realm of Twilight he knew he was destined for greatness. The prophets foretold he would be a great realm-jumper. What they didn't mention was that he wouldn't jump on his won; instead, he was travelling down the street one day when the ground abruptly ate him. When he came to, it was the brightest he'd ever seen it- there was some kind of huge lamp in the sky- and a man in odd robes was chanting and dancing around a circle made of dried blood.
While he and the man didn't seem to speak the same language- no matter how many times the Forsaken asked where he was with a polite spray of chlorine, the man always just flapped his teeth- they got along all right. The Forsaken was treated well, fed incredibly rare delicacies that apparently weren't rare (did you know apples actually grew on TREES, instead of having to be mined deep underground?), and in return all he had to do was scare a few unsuspecting people out of their skins. A couple times, literally. And he only hurt his master a few times, although his master seemed to complain a lot for something as small as stepping on his lower abdomen.
Until the last mission his master had sent him on. Evidently this one was quite important, for his master accompanied him. He did his usual thing, flashing teeth and claws at people to scare them, and if they didn't run he ripped them in half. His master hurled fire and shadow bolts over his shoulders, adding to the carnage. They descended into a cave, and came to a cavernous room where his master placed a glowing gem on a platform and began chanting around it. He felt himself being pulled, as he had so long ago in Twilight.
Before he knew what was happening, his world shifted and changed. The walls became multifaceted and red, with glowing light coming through them. He floated in space, feeling nothing, hearing nothing, and all around him was beautiful ruby. He realized he was inside the gem his master had placed on the pedestal.
He roared his rage at this change, and one facet became a window to the outside from which he could see his master exit the room and close the only pathway out with a rockslide. He was trapped, utterly alone, and he didn't understand what he had done wrong.
Time passed. The Forsaken had no idea how long, as his surroundings changed very slowly and imperceptibly. Eventually, moss grew on the walls. Vines grew on the ground outside his crystal, and the rock of the chamber began to crack with age. The Forsaken managed, from time to time, to contact the realm of Twilight through deep meditation. By doing so, he maintained his sanity, and in time began to be revered as a demigod in Twilight, appearing in a ruby portal out of nothing and dispensing sage advise to any who asked.
But one day, something happened outside his crystal. There was a boom that could be felt inside his prison, and the rockslide placed there so long ago dissolved. After the dust cleared, a party of men in shining armor and surcoats emblazoned with a golden spear and sickle on a white field marched into the cavern. Reverently, they knelt before the crystal, delicately picked it up, and wrapped it in fine silk cloth.
When he was unwrapped, the Forsaken saw that he was outside a large arena with banners of all kinds around it. His crystal prison hummed with increasing volume, until finally and blessedly it shattered. In a flash of light, he enlarged five times to be his natural size and reveled in stretching his limbs. Eventually, it was conveyed to him through signs and writing (his master taught him some writing, though this language seemed to be a very childlike version of what he had learned) that in return for his freedom, he must go into this arena in behalf of the nation of Benghadi and compete by rules with the other combatants. The rules surprised him, as in the past his master did not bother with any rules or conditions. Dead was dead. Still, anything was better than that crystal prison of his. With an emphatic spray of hydrochloric acid and arsenic, he agreed and the people fled from him.
The Forsaken smiled and turned to the arena.
The Barbarian was at his usual spot, on top of a mountain, looking down at the village below.
The village was called Khatignajjjakhrta (Don't bother trying to pronounce it), and it was his birthplace. It was a small place, located a few miles from Wirjha, the capital city of the nation of Jikutichurmi. And it was the site of a battle a few weeks previously.
Jikutichurmians have a reputation throughout the area for being war-like and barbabaric. That reputation certainly has something to make it believable. All his life, the barbarian had known little but war. Whether it be the never-ending battle for surviving the evil known as public school (The Barbarian shudders as he thinks of this, the Uber-Wediges still hurt to think about), or the actual wars fought among the factions, he had seen a lot of combat, made a lot of enemies, and made sure that anyone he ran into that he didn't like ended up with a battle-axe embedded in their throats. This was something held in common among most of the people of his faction. And wars they sure fought a lot of- they were small, had a large military and needed resources- Uh, yeah. But the Barbarian thinks his nation's reputation is a bit exaggerated.
Okay, so maybe they did rape, pillage, murder, and play baseball with the heads of babies. Sometimes. Only when their enemies really pissed them off (such as when the leader of Kuthra gave the finger to their leader). That doesn't make them barbaric, right?
Or perhaps it was the battles that made people think they were barbaric. The barbarian thinks back to the battle at this location a few weeks ago, the carnage that was. Ah, how much fun it is to impale people's heads on spears, swing battle axes madly and hope to hit something, and yell maniacally.
He supposed that his immense strength with weapons was what got him chosen to get in to this tournament. Or maybe it was that everyone else the High Council was considering "mysteriously" died two days ago.
In any case, the Barbarian thought that he had better get on his way. The sooner he got there, the more heads he would get to chop off.
The village was called Khatignajjjakhrta (Don't bother trying to pronounce it), and it was his birthplace. It was a small place, located a few miles from Wirjha, the capital city of the nation of Jikutichurmi. And it was the site of a battle a few weeks previously.
Jikutichurmians have a reputation throughout the area for being war-like and barbabaric. That reputation certainly has something to make it believable. All his life, the barbarian had known little but war. Whether it be the never-ending battle for surviving the evil known as public school (The Barbarian shudders as he thinks of this, the Uber-Wediges still hurt to think about), or the actual wars fought among the factions, he had seen a lot of combat, made a lot of enemies, and made sure that anyone he ran into that he didn't like ended up with a battle-axe embedded in their throats. This was something held in common among most of the people of his faction. And wars they sure fought a lot of- they were small, had a large military and needed resources- Uh, yeah. But the Barbarian thinks his nation's reputation is a bit exaggerated.
Okay, so maybe they did rape, pillage, murder, and play baseball with the heads of babies. Sometimes. Only when their enemies really pissed them off (such as when the leader of Kuthra gave the finger to their leader). That doesn't make them barbaric, right?
Or perhaps it was the battles that made people think they were barbaric. The barbarian thinks back to the battle at this location a few weeks ago, the carnage that was. Ah, how much fun it is to impale people's heads on spears, swing battle axes madly and hope to hit something, and yell maniacally.
He supposed that his immense strength with weapons was what got him chosen to get in to this tournament. Or maybe it was that everyone else the High Council was considering "mysteriously" died two days ago.
In any case, the Barbarian thought that he had better get on his way. The sooner he got there, the more heads he would get to chop off.
The13thRonin
Handsome Rogue
The Ronin watches as the forsaken emerge from his crystallite prison scattering the so called 'brave' men whom dress in tin-foil and manipulate others to fight on their behalves. He shakes his head in disgust at the knights from Benghadi. If it wasn't this poor Forsaken beast who was exploited with such palpable dishonor then the best such a disgrace of a nation would have to offer would be no more than a band of unwilling peasants armed with pitchforks. At least such a beast looked capable of honing the art of his blade further.
Crouching in the shadows of the gate he also witnesses the Barbarian arrive. Spitting on the ground he grasps for the handle of his blade. Another hapless fool such as the defilers who murdered his master. How he would taste the sting of cold steel in the arena... The Ronin would show him the fate of all who earn the name 'barbarian'. To be pulled back screaming into the shadows from whence they were spawned. Oh yes... This fool would remember the name Thirteen... He would die with it upon his cracked heathen lips.
Crouching in the shadows of the gate he also witnesses the Barbarian arrive. Spitting on the ground he grasps for the handle of his blade. Another hapless fool such as the defilers who murdered his master. How he would taste the sting of cold steel in the arena... The Ronin would show him the fate of all who earn the name 'barbarian'. To be pulled back screaming into the shadows from whence they were spawned. Oh yes... This fool would remember the name Thirteen... He would die with it upon his cracked heathen lips.
The13thRonin
Handsome Rogue
And whats wrong with unwilling peasants armed with pitchforks, huh?
The Ronin does not approve of the accompanying stench
.
The13thRonin
Handsome Rogue
Now you make good killing practice
.OOC: I hope you're not offended choxorn. I was in character the whole time. I like to spice things up with a bit of anti-heroism
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