What's new
  • This section is for roleplays only.
    ALL interest checks/recruiting threads must go in the Recruit Here section.

    Please remember to credit artists when using works not your own.

Fantasy Fables of the Forgotten (Closed)

Sub Genres
Action, Adventure

The Inquisitor

A Lover of Stories |Art by Nikoboiko|
Tyr had not expected to find the answer to the problem of magic in the town of Livu, one which was in the middle of nowhere with nothing of note.

Magic was still deeply seeded in their world. So much so that even one bad apple could come to lead everything to rot. Tyr was left in the middle of the ocean of pain and despair, his body lost in every call and demand to find these elusive treasures which would bring forth the Order of Breaal to glory.


It had been a quiet night. Such a thing was unusual for a tavern. Just as unusual as it was for them to be empty, devoid of life. It had been fate, or something of the like which had brought Tyr to the corner of his tavern. He was simply there to find peace of mind, leaning back against the wall as he let the burning ale slip down his throat.

The tavern was the Two Headed Dragon. A rickety old thing which was in the middle of a town which was forgotten by everyone except the tax collector. Besides Tyr there was a family, three generations of men, a grandfather, a father and a young son, barely above the age of ten. They had given chance looks to him the entire night, as it was a town so small that being from outside of it was enough to bring attention to the stranger. Yet, from the looks, the man who sat not too far away from him was a stranger as well. He was dressed far too well to be from a nothing town anyways.

Rough would had scratched at Tyr’s palms as he attempted to simply think, wanting only one moment to himself so he could do just that. It was quiet, it was offering him a bed to sleep in for the godforsaken night he had spent there. The barmaid came by again, her smile bright as the golden hair that fell over her pale shoulders. She put the stew before him, a hard piece of bread set aside it as she carefully tucked a piece of hair behind her ear.

He did not know her name nor did he care to know. Nor did he want to peruse with her, as his tastes were finer than with a common barmaid that had likely been with several others before he had even graced the town with his presence. For a moment, however, she was the only thing worth looking at, with her skin as white as snow, hair as shiny as polished gold and eyes sparkling like the azure jewels which often lined Tyr’s throat or fingers.

“It could take away any magic you could imagine,” the man slurred, his hand on the edge of the table, eyes bright in the excitement of his drunken stupor. “They said it didn’t fucking exist--” He looked down, pressing his hand to his mouth as though he was keeping his supper from coming up.

“Mister?” the barmaid asked, her big blue eyes slowly blinking, her auburn lashes hanging low, the light of the fire prettily catching on them.

“Shush!” he snapped, Tyr had not noticed how hardly he was gripping his table, splinters were digging into his hand. He could feel the ache in his fingers, yet he did not let go of the edge of the table. Her scowl was the last thing he had seen from her.

“They doubted me, the bastards,” he was a short man, his hair fell to his shoulders, wild and unkempt, though his face was closely shaven. His hair was a bright copper, making him stand out starkly, and his fine silk shirt was enough to prove he was not the average traveler. “They said I was wasting my time going through all those records, but look where they are going now, right to the ruins to chase down my treasure.”

The tavern owner looked bored, his eyes cast down as he wiped at the table, obviously just waiting to leave them all to go back into his den where he could do Gods know what in order to be away from the common rabble.

“What of it?” Tyr had asked, pushing the bottle of rum he had gotten over to the man before he could even think on what he was doing. “This treasure, what of it?”

“It is something right special,” the man smiled, taking Tyr’s rum without asking. It would have bothered him if anything else was coming from the man’s mouth. “I saw it with my own eyes and everyone told me I was a damn fool. Who is a damn fool now? Who is a damn fool, that thinks a world without magic is impossible?”

There was, in truth, no reason to believe him. He was a drunk and blathering fool. Yet, for two years now, two whole years, Tyr had been sent from one place to another. On one wild goose chase to another. One failed attempt to bring an end to the unnatural ability which was magic, freeing the populace from the stain upon the pristinity and it had come to naught. So it was only that, perhaps, which led him to feel so desperate to cling on to the words of a drunken man. However, there was more to it. He was a scholar. No muscle was on his arms, his grin held a certain naivete that was nearly admirable.

He had no reason to lie in this dingy tavern when already he was richer than any other there. Perhaps it was not the best plan which Tyr had managed to cobble together, however, he could not bring himself to look upon it with any type of disdain.

“I found it,” he murmured, taking Tyr’s hand. Tyr felt his lip turn at the feeling of the sweaty palm, however he did not move his hand away. “That thing that can take away-- I found it. Over in the forgotten ruins.”

“The forgotten ruins?” Tyr mused as he looked down into his mug, his fingers clasping loosely around it as he spun the liquid at the bottom, watching as it danced. “Why, I thought nothing was left there. Picked clean and dry by robbers.”

“They couldn’t have taken it without the-- without the ring The Sunderer.” Tyr leaned back, cocking his brow. The story was getting far too elaborate. However, he let the man continue. “The forgotten ruins, they’re traipsing there now, walking like they were the ones to figure all this out. They did not even pay me what they promised. A hundred gold pieces, they said! A hundred! And what do I get? Fifty! Fifty because I took too long. Do you think that’s fair?”

The Sunderer was a myth. A legend. Nothing which could have existed in life before. Lost to legend yet never again mentioned. It was the only thing known to have destroyed magic from the root and left anyone who had once had it completely rid of their ailment. The Sunderer was, in a word, a miracle.

Tyr did not actually answer, as he could not find himself to care.

“It ain’t fair, I will tell you that much-- damn fucking wizards-- Never trust a wizard, I was told that so many damn times, yet then I decide that I believe a wizard would hand me what he promised me, and yet he doesn’t. What am I to them? Their damn magic is only good for trickery, they think they are such--”

“Quite right,” Tyr said as he waved the man’s words off. “I am sure it was awful. About the wizards, you say they are going to the Forgotten Ruins, hm, when did you leave them?”

“Dunno, few days ago. They left me on my own to figure out how I’m supposed to get back to my home, but that doesn’t matter, eh?” Tyr nodded serenely, rubbing a hand down his black beard for a moment, his eyes narrowed as he stared up at the back wall.

Tyr frowned. Wizards. The stain upon society searching out the only tool which could properly rid them of their own curse. Yet, Tyr heavily doubted they planned to do anything of merit. Worse, if there was even a slight chance that The Sunderer were to actually exist, then they could not hold it to their bosoms if the Order of Breaal was to gain any leverage.

“I saw ‘em. A bunch of foreigners, eh? Walking around like they own the damn land?” The old man said as he stood up, coming over to them with a scowl on his lips. “I saw ‘em. They were comin’ up the road when I was coming back to my home, they were clogging up the damn roads, didn’t even look sorry, those absolute bastards!”

“They--” Tyr stood up afterward. It was getting a bit aggravating listening to drunken men spew half stories.

“What is this? The damn spell-slingers coming back?” The tavern owner had come back again. “I swear if they set foot in this town I’ll--”

“What? Shove drinks and bad stew to them until they die?” The old man snorted. “Their wizards, they’ll just turn you into a frog you idiot, that’s what wizards do!”

“No!” The scholar said, slamming his hand against the table. “They just act like they are smarter than they are and take your damn money!”

“I heard that they can curse ya so that ya grow hair as thick as a wolf’s pelt,” The tavern owner said as he slammed a mug down on the table. “They’ll rape the women too, at least the men will, heard the women magicians are too hot to try anything with.”

Tyr felt his features strain. He turned on his heal without another word and shoved himself out the door.

The night was long, but it had gotten better.

Tyr had no reason to believe The Sunderer of all things existed here. The Sunderer was a thing of legend, of myth, created by those who saw the evilness of magic to rid those cursed with it from their burden. It could slice and separate a man so cleanly from such a dark cloud, that some say he would not remember his life with it before.

~*~
The ruins were unremarkable.

Whatever treasures that had once been present within her long gone, likely taken either by petty thieves or noblemen that wished to have some form or culture brought into their life. It was hope along that The Sunderer wasn’t taken. Perhaps it could not be, from what the Scholar had said. Not only being unwanted, but being untouchable, like one of the rocks, or formations.

It was fortunate that Tyr had been in the right place at the right time. In truth, he could have missed this very moment had he decided to pass through the town as he truly wished to, with only the panging of his stomach being what led him to attempt to search for a warm meal among them there. He had never been overly religious, he had never felt the need to get approval from their God in order to bring himself closer to his goal or the land, but he could only think it was a boon from God that was given to him now. He had handed him the keys to a new future which could be walked along with a light heart should Tyr choose to take what he was given.

Tyr had never been a man to thank God for the things that happened in his life. Perhaps it was only because he was unused to it, and thus becoming unwilling as the words “Praise God for Victory!’ as his late father often murmured was often lost on him. Yet, at this very moment, in this very time, Tyr felt the need to say it loud, loud enough that any being which sat there high above in the heavens would be able to hear him clearly as a man would that stood so close to him, and many men and women now stood close to him.

They were wizards, he could practically feel the magic spark in the air the moment he saw them. He could feel himself growing weak in the knees, being forced to fall before them. It was his fortune, or perhaps quite the opposite, to have been exposed to so many of them that he could hold his own.

Tyr watched them for only a few moments, watched them gather their belongings as they began to camp for the night, preparing to enter the ruins. If what the scholar had said was true, then it did not matter, as no one would have taken The Sunderer. It would have been useless to them. Perhaps even valueless. Such value being in the pockets of a random thief would not have done. And it would have made Tyr’s goal much harder to achieve.

The Sunderer was not supposed to exist.

But if it did, Tyr would not be one to let the wizards get it.

“Mister?” Tyr looked up from the rocks, his musings being ended sooner than he thought. He put on a smile as he turned and looked at them, clasping his hands behind his back as he nodded towards the man that stood, the robes about him clasped tightly together by a rope. They were black, making him resemble a monk more than anything, and if he did not have a full head of hair, Tyr may have mistaken him for one. More came behind the man. Two men and one woman. Each dressed as he was, each watching Tyr skeptically. Tyr kept the smile on his lips as he glanced over each.

Tyr looked at them for a moment then raised his hands.

“I apologize, I had just come after having heard it may still have some treasures, but obviously those who told me such a thing lied.”

“Indeed,” the man agreed, a smile coming to his own lips as his head dipped forward into a nod. “Quite sad, is it not? Why don’t you go on? We’ll tell you if you missed anything.”

“I would prefer not to if it means anything to you. I simply want to continue to look--”

“After we leave it would be perfectly fine, but for now, I ask you to--” Tyr nodded his head, raising his hand in acknowledgment before he could continue. “Of course, I understand. Though can I ask what it is that the man before me holds in his hand?”

The wizard clenched his fist tighter. “No you may not. Please leave, hm?”

Tyr nodded, and took a step forward. He took a sharp breath in, feeling the knife slip down his sleeve and into his palm. He watched them all for a moment, feeling everything freeze. Then he shoved a knife into the neck of the wizard, it was quick and sudden. Enough so the wizard could not get a spell out before he gasped, blood gushing from the wound which had been inflicted. Tyr reached to grab the ring before a blast of magic sent him flying back. He hit the back wall hard, tumbling to the ground painfully.

He coughed, watching as the men ran at him, while the woman dove for the ring. Tyr tossed his ring at the woman, hitting her in the forehead, sending her dark hair flying about her as she fell back, her eyes rolling back before she hit the ground. He tossed himself forward, rolling between the two remaining wizards. A blast of fire next to him nearly singed off his eyebrows. Tyr groaned, shoving himself down to avoid another attack, as he scrambled to his boot to find another knife.

He was sent skidding across the ground by another blast of magic, leaving him gasping for air as he grasped at the ground. He felt at the ground, his brow tender and his body trembling as he felt something round and metal press into his palm. He shoved it on his finger and squeezed his hand closed.

If The Sunderer existed, he could use it now.

Take their magic away, damn it, take it from them!


Perhaps he could take them now, but the injuries he had already gotten…

Work! Take it from them now!
 

Quintessence

Clouds in the Head
The ruins of a once-mighty city lay silent in the morning sun, her bones of stone - though weathered and beaten - still standing defiant against the unforgiving march of time. She was the relic of an age when magic was still potent and untamed, but much like her ancient denizens, her true name and former glory now lay buried beneath eons of debris, lost forever to the fleeting memories of mortals.

Most days passed in the same fashion as they had for countless bygone centuries, with nary a whisper of birdsong to wake the aging empress from her peaceful slumber. Today however, the breeze stirred the air around her with the sound of voices, the rise and fall of their words echoing hollowly amidst empty rooms and broken walls. While they breathed a shadow of life back into the deserted remains of the city, the catacombs below remained untarnished by the influence of earthly beings.

Wisps of consciousness stirred within a void of boundless nothingness, like weak fingers of light struggling to reach the murky depths of a lake long forgotten by the sun.

Both above ground and beneath the feet of those currently locked in a desperate fight to the death, the very stone upon which they stood seemed to tremble with a faint groan, the earth itself seeming to protest against an unseen force which held it in its grasp. Then, a deep, bone-rattling crack rent the air, as if the unseen stone heart buried deep beneath the city herself had been split instantaneously in two. For a moment, the remaining stone walls which still stood shuddered dangerously, the last of the city's strength threatening to give out all at once. Then, with one last audible protest, silence reigned once again.

Beneath the surface, hidden from the burning gaze of the sun, bare hands and knees met cold stone amidst a shower of shattered crystal. Each golden fragment of stone threw off a faint, ephemeral glow as it bounced to a halt, illuminating the figure with a warm radiance that a moment ago had been encased within an unbroken whole. Pale honey tresses cascaded down from a bent head to caress the dark stone beneath, an ageless figure that was unmistakably feminine shrouded in gossamer cloth released from within the crystal coffer.

Take.

There was a brief moment of hesitation, her limbs having forgotten the customs of movement. When she finally stood, the motion was slow and deliberate, placing one foot beneath herself before the other, seemingly ignorant of the shards of broken, glasslike stone which dug into the soles of her bare feet. The waves of golden hair fell back about her exposed shoulders to reveal a pale, alabaster face with delicate features, although much of her countenance was obscured by an intricate crown of silver which circled her head, entirely masking her eyes. Nevertheless, it seemed to have no effect upon her gait or sense of direction, each step unhurried and increasingly confident as an unseen voice guided her from her age-long resting place.

Take.

Just outside the ruins, the fighting had come to an abrupt halt when the ground beneath the city cried out, fear instantly overtaking the grimaces of rage which had adorned the faces of the two remaining wizards. For a moment, murderous intent was forgotten in the face of unified confusion and terror as the two scrambled to keep their footing, their gazes wildly seeking the source of the interruption where none could be found.

When the tremors finally stopped, one of the men trembled where he stood while his companion knelt, his head pressed to the ground as vehement prayers to his god tumbled freely from his quivering lips. The battered assassin was forgotten for the moment in favor of pleas for mercy and deliverance, the wrath of an angry deity a much more compelling threat than any single man.

In spite of the near-silence, a new hush suddenly fell over the ruins, as if the city itself waited with bated breath.

The soft pat of bare feet against the dirt seemed to fill the empty air around the three men, drowning their ears in the sound despite how quiet it was. Even the kneeling man was silent now, his head raised and mouth agape as his gaze followed the figure which had just emerged from within the ruins with wordless rapture.

Translucent silks clung to the woman's pale frame as she glided effortlessly towards the men on bare feet, her path seemingly uninhibited by her apparent lack of vision. Her gait slowed only as she approached the two wizards, the second now having fallen to his knees to join his companion in prostrating himself before the angelic figure that had materialized before them from within the ancient ruins.

"Oh God in heaven and on earth, please have mercy upon your obedient servants." The man's voice quavered with an amalgam of fear and reverence, casting his eyes away from the woman as if afraid that his gaze would offend. "We are forever your humble devotees, and we worship in your light."

In a fluid, graceful motion, the crowned woman knelt with a whisper of silken cloth before the two men, a delicate hand coming to rest gently on each of their heads. Elated, they caught the faint trace of a smile on her smooth, rose-colored lips as they lowered their foreheads to the ground once again, exultant at a touch from the divinity that they worshiped so vehemently.

The lips parted and a lilting, melodic phrase escaped them, the words incomprehensible, the language she spoke lost with those who had died out long before their city had crumbled. For a moment, her hands glowed with the same radiance which had shone from the crystals that had so recently bound her, and in an instant, the tears of joy which had streamed down the men's faces turned to tears of horror.

Take.

The Sunderer had awoken.
 

The Inquisitor

A Lover of Stories |Art by Nikoboiko|
Tyr had not known what he had been expecting. He did not know what he was supposed to look for. He did not know what the Sunderer was to look like, or how brightly it would shine before all of them the moment it arose. He knew only that it could be the miracle tool which would come and be used in this endless, bitter war against the magic that plagued the land.

Yet, what had materialized before them all, what had broken from the confines of these ancient ruins was far from what Tyr had ever expected to look upon.

A woman, so pale and fair he felt his breath leave him. As she stood and walked, she held the grace of a dancer. Rather than looking like a sword as he expected, or simply a divine beast which would lay down their hand in anger until the opposer knew the true power of their God, she came out like a woman that most would be climbing over one another to protect, a virginal maiden who had only lived for maybe twenty summers, yet she had certainly been trapped beneath in her tomb for eons upon eons.

Her feminine form was gripped in the translucent cloth that rustled with each soft step. Her pale skin had an ethereal glow, extending all the way to the pale golden tresses that fell down her shoulders and back, her features delicate and her rosy lips standing out starkly from her pale face. The crown which circled over her eyes did not marr the picture of perfection which was before Tyr, it only added to it. The mystery. The mysticism. The magic.

“Oh God,” Tyr breathed, despite himself. The fist that had been closed about the ring was now pressed to his chest as he watched the angel descend upon those who had become lost in their magic. “Oh God,” he said again as he struggled to his knees, eyes widened wondering what was the right thing to do, fear and awe slowly spreading throughout him.

With one lay of her hand, she had taken the curse from them. He could see it on their faces. He could see in their eyes. He could feel it within his own soul.

“No…” One of them murmured, looking down at his hands as his body shook, his eyes widening. The tears began to flow more heavily, he shook his head. “No! No, you--” he began, he tossed his hand out, experimentally. “No!” he said louder. The other began to sob heavily as he also threw his hand out, waiting for something to happen.

Tyr had made it to his feet by then, though his knees nearly buckled as his breath still hitched as he looked at her.

“No! For the love of God, please God no--”

“You don’t know any God,” Tyr said as he wiped his mouth of the blood that had formed there. He stepped forward with his eyes narrowed. “And you are saved from the curse that had once ruined you--”

“Ruined me?! Ruined me?!” he began to rise. “The only thing which has ruined me is this- this-” Tyr knew what their next thought likely was. He was healed enough now, and they were useless in combat without their magic. He ran, picking up his knife before tossing it at one, letting it sink deep into his chest before he slipped in smoothly and punched the other in the throat, watching him sink to his knees before Tyr wrapped an arm around his neck. The knife which the man had slipped into his hand raised to cut against his arm, but Tyr let it, it would not cut him badly through his thick jacket before he was finished.

It was slow. It was lumbering. But he felt the man begin to stop struggling as he tightened his hold. And then once again, all was calm.

Tyr watched him slip down, and crumble into a heap.

He looked up, at the woman that had come from the crystal, her silver circlet blocking her eyes. Yet, he felt as though she stared down into his soul. His knees were weak. But his hand was heavy with the ring that was on it. The Sunderer. The Sunderer was his. He need not fear anything.

His hand closed over his chest once again, his lips parted silently as he studied her delicate features once again, yet now from up close, able to see all the angelic glory that still resided within her.

“You… Are The Sunderer,” he said quietly, stepping close to her, his hand reaching out to touch her before he thought better of it. “The Sunderer. Is that correct?” he stood taller, bolder as he rubbed the ring with his thumb.

“And I am your master…” he held the ring in his hand. He felt a smile twitch on his lips.
 

Quintessence

Clouds in the Head
As soon as the deed was done, the pale figure rose once again, the trace of a smile still lingering on the curve of her lips. However, it no longer held any modicum of joy for the two men kneeling at her feet. Instead, it haunted them as if it were the infernal leer of the devil himself, the last sight their eyes gleaned of the mortal world before the life was snuffed from their now-powerless bodies. The final expression fixed into their faces as the light drained from their eyes was despair in its purest embodiment, their lifeless forms with empty gazes forever seeking the heavens for a salvation which would never come.

The ruins were silent once again. The crumbling city seemed to breathe a sigh of relief as the last of the struggles gave way to peace, the turmoil of the past several minutes seemingly lost to the breeze just as quickly as it had come. The only two living beings which still remained were the traveler and his hard-won prize, standing alone amidst the carnage which had been wrought.

The Sunderer. It was a thing of distant legend which had been forgotten along with its creators for countless millennia. Even the title which it currently bore was the mark of recent imagination, its true name having long since been consigned to distant history. It was a product of the ancient magics of a bygone era, but its revival meant the ushering in of a new age of magic. The purpose of its creation was to serve as the hammer with which its wielder would forge the path for humanity, the same power which was now called upon again to shape the very future of the world.

The light breeze tugged at the gossamer cloth shrouding the figure where she stood, her countenance surprisingly still now that her work was complete. No discernable emotion crossed the delicate features, even as the two men were ruthlessly cut down before her, spilled blood from the first victim's torn chest slowly pooling about her pale, bare feet. Her expression remained impassively serene, bordering on emptiness, as if the scene unfolding before her invoked nothing from within. She merely stood, hands idle at her sides, although her eyeless façade appeared to remain fixed upon the one who currently bore the ring. Upon close inspection, it was evident that the circlet she wore and the ring which seemingly commanded her shared a common design, differing only in scale.

When Tyr finally stood to address her, her unseen gaze followed him, although his words and query were met only with silence for several long moments. If not for the melodious, if indecipherable tongue in which she had spoken just moments earlier, one might have presumed that she were mute as well as blind. However, the truth of the matter was that the common tongue was as foreign to her as the mannerisms and garb of the period, and she had to search deep within her repository of knowledge to decipher the ring-bearer's meaning. To top it off, she'd never been addressed as "The Sunderer" in any language; in fact, she'd never been directly addressed in the past in spite of her deceptively long lifetime. As such, her prolonged silence seemed colored with a faintly quizzical air.

"I…am Aila."

The words were slow and hesitant at first as she formed her lips around the unfamiliar sounds, her speech steeped in an accent foreign to their time. It was unclear whether the original question had been misunderstood, or if she was simply correcting the assumption which had been voiced.

"You are…not the Maker."

This time, her words were tinted with what could most closely be approximated to confusion. Her golden tresses shifted about her shoulders as her head tilted lightly to one side, her aura pensive. This was the first time in her long life that everything around her hadn't been made crystal clear, but she concluded that it was simply an effect of the absence of the Maker. She didn't question why that was, or even the purpose as to why she had been awakened in an unfamiliar land in an unfamiliar time. All that mattered was that this man before her bore the Artifact, and that was all the reason she needed.

"You are the Bearer."

There was a finality to the words, a power which seemed to resonate in the air between them, as if the statement solidified the bond which had been created when Tyr had placed the ring upon his finger. An air of acknowledgement emanated from Aila's unseen gaze, an acceptance of the contract which now bound the master to his new vassal.
 

The Inquisitor

A Lover of Stories |Art by Nikoboiko|
Aila.

It was simple. It was elegant. A perfect representation of the image which stood before him. Now that all was still, with only the wanton breeze which had managed to worm into the cave of the ruins. A treasure that had been long forgotten and secluded to myth. This final piece of the long-forgotten past was no longer supposed to exist. And there she stood, unmoved by neither breeze or emotion, passive and quiet with only the gossamer cloth any indication that she was real and not a statue. Yet, still all he could see as he looked upon her was a statue, perhaps highly details, perhaps expertly painted, but a statue nonetheless, something which was beyond their own life and far away. In a way, that all she was. The remains of an age which was now brought to this modern time.

The ruins had stories untold etched in the walls. Men long dead had once walked through those halls, their minds likely obsessed with something which he himself could not comprehend. A generation of philosophers, thinkers, magicians who had lasted through a mighty empire that now only existed through tablets and scrolls. Their thoughts, their emotions, their ideas had all existed within these ruins, and now they had come to life through The Sunderer, who stood unmoving. Despite her appearance, she was timeless. A young woman, yet a woman with years beyond what anyone could understand, an old woman, yet one that looked like a virginal maiden awaiting to be married off by her father.

The Maker.

A genius who had existed in a time which was now nothing more than a brief thought in the heads of scholars and historians alike. The beginning of civilization and the end of savagery, that was when this mind, greater than any to have ever existed, had come to make this, which would bring this world to salvation. The story of The Maker and The Sunderer. The man prosecuted for only wanting to do good to the world. To want to rid it of problems. And this is what he had brought upon the world here and now.

A miracle.

If there was any other name for her, that was it. A miracle. He felt compelled to pray to God again, to kiss her cheeks and to laugh as he stepped forward, holding up the ring on his finger as his eyes slid to its copy which circled around her eyes. He did not touch it, his fingers twitching, but he worried she would crumble. Her body thin and lithe, her skin pale and her hair so pale and airy he worried she would break beneath his sordid touch.

"Aila..." he said beneath his breath, his hand came up to run across his black beard. He was glad she had a name, at the very least. It would keep him from having to come up with one himself, as they would have to go through towns for him to bring her back to the center. He frowned then. Already she looked too angelic to be a true woman. Already men would stare as they walked through any town, wondering who this was that Tyr had taken away from her home and brought upon his horseback to Nuveere. But any other smaller branch would not do. The Master of the Order, Grenor himself had to see her. Had to know her power.

"I am not the Maker," he nodded in response as he stepped closer to her, letting out a breath as he watched her. "And I am the Bearer. But you may call me Tyr." he studied her for a moment longer, then he touched her arm. It nearly felt wrong to sully her with his touch, but he did it anyway as he motioned with his hand, as though she could see. Perhaps she could. Or perhaps she was blind. It mattered not to him.

"We're leaving here, now. It is getting too drafty. I set up camp not too far away," he had not planned for a woman. But he could not bring himself to care as The Sunderer was now in his grasp.
 

Quintessence

Clouds in the Head
Aila's skin was surprisingly cool to the touch, as if she had remained for too long in the clutches of a chill winter air. Perhaps it was simply the lingering touch of her stone sarcophagus's unyielding embrace, the warmth of her form long since stolen away by the eons she had spent hidden from the sun's reach. However, as unexpected as it may have been to Tyr when he reached out to close the distance between them, there was the unmistakable energy of life which hummed through her porcelain form under his fingertips. Whether it was mortal or magic in nature was impossible to discern, but her flesh was far from stone in spite of the statuesque presence which her countenance and demeanor emanated.

An invisible physical seal now broken, Aila seemed yet unmoved by Tyr's unsolicited touch, but her lack of concern or response was likely quickly becoming familiar to the man. Her expression remained incomparably quiescent, peaceful to the point of being somewhat unnerving considering the sluggish ebb of blood which continued to form a crimson stain against the pale skin of her feet. Physical contact was yet another concept unfamiliar to her, but it seemed to have as much effect upon her as did the playful breeze which currently teased her garments and hair.

"Your will is my command, Bearer."

Her words were accompanied by a graceful incline of her noble head, a verbal and physical acknowledgement of Tyr's statement. However, it seemed that his request to be addressed by his given name had gone unheeded, or perhaps Aila simply wasn't designed to respond to any request that fell short of a command. Nevertheless, her response did serve to provide Tyr with a glimmer of insight into the minutiae which governed her obedience. The truth behind the power of the ring which now adorned his finger lay in its affinity to his mind. As evidenced by the first wordless command which had raised Aila from her timeless slumber, the ring's true potential arose from imposing the wearer's will upon the woman who bore it's twin on her brow, their motives and aspirations instantaneously and seamlessly becoming hers in turn.

It was clear by the way her shrouded gaze followed his movements that in spite of her seeming lack of sight, Aila could perceive his motions and gestures as clearly as day. Her senses were a mixture of all those excluding sight, simultaneously augmented by magic of her creator's design. While she could not conventionally see the movement of Tyr's hand, she sensed it just as clearly as any person gifted with sight could have perceived it. It was impossible to say exactly what her Maker had deigned to place beneath the crown in place of her eyes - any attempt to remove the circlet would prove to be a seemingly impossible task, so those who were curious could only speculate as to what secrets it hid.

Tyr's last statement seemed to finally stir the woman to motion, her feet carrying her towards him in that same, gliding gait which had brought her forth from below the earth. Although she had no understanding of what a camp was, the order to leave the ruins and follow him were clear, and it was abundantly evident that she was ready to obediently follow wherever he led. There was no hesitation in her step, no pause which might have spoken towards a reluctance to leave the ruins of the city which had been her home for countless millennia before fate had brought Tyr to its bosom. If any memories from within its walls lingered with her after all these centuries, they seemed to hold no bearing upon her as she turned without a backwards glance to leave, perhaps never to set foot back inside the empire which had birthed her again.
 

Users Who Are Viewing This Thread (Users: 0, Guests: 1)

Top