A snowflake gently drifted down from on high, settling into the slick black pavement already wet with thousands, millions of its relatives. It lingered for a moment in time, fabulously arrogant in the cold of pre-dawn as it circled in the puddle before the water seeped into it, devouring it in the cannibalistic way that damned snowflakes do to their fallen kin. Another came swirling lazily through the weak light streaming into the alley from a nearby lamppost, swooping and spiraling through the air to settle directly on his unblinking eye...
The dawn broke across the small string of hills in the distance, exploding into the sky in a fabulous display visible even from the modest, barred window. Its golden light slowly crawled through the stone and iron sill, then jumped to the end of the stark iron-framed bed. The line of yellow crept absolutely silently through a thicket of blonde spikes and spilled down his rounded forehead to fill already-opened gray eyes with a sad depth.
Tareth stared at the blank stone above him, tracing its immaculate cut and fit with red-rimmed eyes as he pondered the nightmare for the hundredth time. With the shift of his gaze, he finally noticed it was indeed morning and rubbed his four-day bestubbled face and tired eyes in an effort to get some blood moving.
When the keeper of the pens came down his row not too much later, Tareth was already doing sit-ups in his bed. Tapping his claws on the heavy steel bars, the eight-foot black grizzly grinned in its frighteningly human way. "You know, this insomnia is probably one of the things affecting your performance, Tareth," the normally surly bear chided, but not without a note of affection. "You'll never finish your training fighting the way you have been lately."
"Thanks Beren, I'll keep that in mind." Tareth huffed between clenched teeth as he finished the last exercise, then hugged his knees. "I don't suppose I could get you to slip some of that drug you use on new recruits in with dinner tonight, could I?"
"It'll just make you slow and you know the matron would have my head if she found out." Beren chuckled, or growled, Tareth could never tell the difference with the deep, rumbling, rocky-churned voice Beren was somehow able to conjure from his animal form. "Breakfast in half a bell. Since you're up early, should I send Wren by with a razor, or will you be growing your beard out again?"
Tareth felt his jaw gingerly, pondering. "Will she be watching the practice today?"
"Maybe. I'm not privy to her schedule," the bear answered from around the corner as he tapped on a neighboring door, rousing the occupant before returning to Tareth's room. "But I do know Sibhoan will be participating today, so it's likely."
"Sibhoan?" Tareth smirked bitterly. "Lovely. Then yeah, send Wren by. I may get my ass beat, but at least I'll try to look good doing it."
Beren chucklegrowled again and left. A moment later a piercing roar rocked the stone corridor. As the echoes chased one another through the semi-prison and, doubtless, everyone's ringing ears, Beren's voice followed. "Wake up time fellows! Get your food and pick your weapons, combat begins in a bell!"
Forgotten, Recalled
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Tareth Thorn
- Proven Adventurer
- Posts: 187
- Joined: Wed Feb 11, 2004 1:08 am
- Location: Rhydin, somewhere.
-
Tareth Thorn
- Proven Adventurer
- Posts: 187
- Joined: Wed Feb 11, 2004 1:08 am
- Location: Rhydin, somewhere.
The coliseum seats stood empty, but the fighting floor was a mass of dust and action. Paired fighters scuffled and sweat, swinging all-to-real-looking weapons at one another in a parody of ancient gladiator combat.
Tareth ducked a particularly wicked-looking swing from a broadsword, then crab-stepped aside and brought the edge of his spear whistling into the other man's ankle. The spearhead struck and sunk in, feeling for all the world like it would do the damage that Tareth knew his opponent felt pain for, but these weapons never left a wound. His opponent crumpled and Tareth stood, angling the spear down at the old man's throat.
"Nice match, nice match. You seem much more focused today Tareth." The old man grinned, sweat streaking through thinning hair and a sparse beard. When he grinned, gaps in his teeth made Tareth think of every old sailor he'd ever seen and finally placed the man's fighting style.
"Yeah, the fuzz in my head has gradually been receding lately. Either that or you're getting older." Tareth jokingly jabbed the spear in the dirt next to the old man's neck, then offered him a hand up. "So do you miss the ocean?"
Gabbin's jaw went slack for a moment, then went back to grinning. "Aye, I do. But we don't talk of our past lives here, you know that."
"Yeah, so they say. But that doesn't mean I have to care." Tareth twisted out a wry smirk and grabbed the spear, turning for the water table.
It seemed that he was one of the first to finish, many of the other pairs still battled for position and dominance. He knew that Gabbin was old, but the old man still held the number three spot in this stage of training because of his speed and wily nature. This was the first time Tareth had been able to beat him in who knew how many duels.
Beren waited for him in his human form at the long table set up with water tubs and urns, the former for refreshing one's skin and the latter for one's gullet. Tareth wasted no time in leaning over one of the tubs and promptly dunking his entire head. Emerging, he shook his head like a dog shedding water, which had the fortune of splattering his bear-ish guard, which earned Tareth a stern look, but an accompanying grin.
"You're looking good today Tareth. Think you may be up to facing Sibhoan?"
Tareth used his standard-issued dusty tan shirt to clean wipe the water from his hands before moving for the urns. "Maybe. Did you find out if she's coming with him today?"
"Yes, she'll be here. And she's taking candidates for the second stage." Beren stood back, crossing his arms and watching Tareth carefully for his reaction.
"I want to talk to her." Tareth didn't look up as he responded, focusing instead on his assigned drinking urn, which he held in both hands as if it were some golden chalice of precious elixir instead of rough-turned stoneware full of water.
"So you've said, so you've said." Beren nodded gravely. "Win and you may be able to."
"Against Sibhoan?" Tareth arched a brow and finally looked in Beren's direction.
"No, of course not." Beren chuckled. "If you had to defeat Sibhoan to advance, nobody would be in the second tier, because nobody here has ever beat him. Coincidentally, that's also one of the reasons why the third tier is empty."
Tareth closed his eyes hard, inadvertently scowling as he tried to absorb what Beren was suggesting. It was just so hard to think... so hard. Nothing seemed important here but getting up every day, fighting for some reason that he couldn't fathom, not questioning why they were all here or where they once came from. His head felt cloudy again, like a thick mist rolling over the window through which he was trying to look.
But she was going to be here. That much he knew for certain.
She stood often on the top of the emperor's box in the coliseum, a wisp of fluttering white linen like some untouchable goddess on a mountaintop. Beren said she was the ruler of this place, it was by her order that they all fought for position, training she called it. He never saw her face though, never saw anything but her flowing white robes. But somehow he knew her. More than that though, he knew she had all the answers.
"So then who do I have to beat?"
Tareth ducked a particularly wicked-looking swing from a broadsword, then crab-stepped aside and brought the edge of his spear whistling into the other man's ankle. The spearhead struck and sunk in, feeling for all the world like it would do the damage that Tareth knew his opponent felt pain for, but these weapons never left a wound. His opponent crumpled and Tareth stood, angling the spear down at the old man's throat.
"Nice match, nice match. You seem much more focused today Tareth." The old man grinned, sweat streaking through thinning hair and a sparse beard. When he grinned, gaps in his teeth made Tareth think of every old sailor he'd ever seen and finally placed the man's fighting style.
"Yeah, the fuzz in my head has gradually been receding lately. Either that or you're getting older." Tareth jokingly jabbed the spear in the dirt next to the old man's neck, then offered him a hand up. "So do you miss the ocean?"
Gabbin's jaw went slack for a moment, then went back to grinning. "Aye, I do. But we don't talk of our past lives here, you know that."
"Yeah, so they say. But that doesn't mean I have to care." Tareth twisted out a wry smirk and grabbed the spear, turning for the water table.
It seemed that he was one of the first to finish, many of the other pairs still battled for position and dominance. He knew that Gabbin was old, but the old man still held the number three spot in this stage of training because of his speed and wily nature. This was the first time Tareth had been able to beat him in who knew how many duels.
Beren waited for him in his human form at the long table set up with water tubs and urns, the former for refreshing one's skin and the latter for one's gullet. Tareth wasted no time in leaning over one of the tubs and promptly dunking his entire head. Emerging, he shook his head like a dog shedding water, which had the fortune of splattering his bear-ish guard, which earned Tareth a stern look, but an accompanying grin.
"You're looking good today Tareth. Think you may be up to facing Sibhoan?"
Tareth used his standard-issued dusty tan shirt to clean wipe the water from his hands before moving for the urns. "Maybe. Did you find out if she's coming with him today?"
"Yes, she'll be here. And she's taking candidates for the second stage." Beren stood back, crossing his arms and watching Tareth carefully for his reaction.
"I want to talk to her." Tareth didn't look up as he responded, focusing instead on his assigned drinking urn, which he held in both hands as if it were some golden chalice of precious elixir instead of rough-turned stoneware full of water.
"So you've said, so you've said." Beren nodded gravely. "Win and you may be able to."
"Against Sibhoan?" Tareth arched a brow and finally looked in Beren's direction.
"No, of course not." Beren chuckled. "If you had to defeat Sibhoan to advance, nobody would be in the second tier, because nobody here has ever beat him. Coincidentally, that's also one of the reasons why the third tier is empty."
Tareth closed his eyes hard, inadvertently scowling as he tried to absorb what Beren was suggesting. It was just so hard to think... so hard. Nothing seemed important here but getting up every day, fighting for some reason that he couldn't fathom, not questioning why they were all here or where they once came from. His head felt cloudy again, like a thick mist rolling over the window through which he was trying to look.
But she was going to be here. That much he knew for certain.
She stood often on the top of the emperor's box in the coliseum, a wisp of fluttering white linen like some untouchable goddess on a mountaintop. Beren said she was the ruler of this place, it was by her order that they all fought for position, training she called it. He never saw her face though, never saw anything but her flowing white robes. But somehow he knew her. More than that though, he knew she had all the answers.
"So then who do I have to beat?"
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Tareth Thorn
- Proven Adventurer
- Posts: 187
- Joined: Wed Feb 11, 2004 1:08 am
- Location: Rhydin, somewhere.
It was the third round of combat, a situation he felt all too acutely was more than familiar. He'd handily defeated three other men thus far including Gabbin, who seemed to be moving slower than usual today. Each time he looked up at the canopied seats high above the floor he saw the flittering white scarves of her train, he knew she was watching. Somehow that brief glimpse gave him strength, a real motivation instead of just some constant gnawing at his belly, like the difference of being told there was a meal at hand and actually seeing it, smelling it and having your mouth water.
Sibhoan stood nearby on the ledge, his arms crossed over his bare chest, his dark skin and shorn head glossy in the sunlight. He observed those on the fighting floor with a critical eye, judging those beneath with experience. Every now and again he'd lean over to an acolyte with a quill and paper and have the lad scribe some notes, which would then take the attention of the White Lady for approval.
Two more rounds of combat remained, Tareth fretted up and down the sidelines as the last rings came to a close. He would be fighting the minotaur next and watched the beast's clever and frighteningly effective maneuvers. It hammered with the large axe at its opponents guard, unceasingly beating down the resistance until the smaller figure fell. At that point it simply swung hard enough on an upward angle to hook the curve of the axe under the other's sword guard and rip it from his grip. There was brute strength there yes, but it moved fast enough to avoid any counterstrikes as well. Tareth mused on this as the next rounds were announced.
"Hail the defeated!" Beren called, his deep voice filling the coliseum. The answering roar from those assembled made Tareth grin and all but four of them moved to the benches at the sides of the fighting floor.
"Tareth and Tinok, west side. King and Ramoth, east side. Hail when ready and begin." Beren strutted the center of the floor in human form, keeping a baleful eye on the combatants to remind them to play fair. Tareth took his favorite spear and gave it a few experimental twirls as he walked to the dusty floor opposite the minotaur. Tareth lifted his spear in salute to the creature, who returned the gesture with a not-unfriendly snort through large nostrils. Tareth then turned to the platform, lifting his weapon in salute to the trio on the high seats, certain that now the playing field was so reduced, they couldn't help but notice the gesture. If they did, they gave no indication or return motion.
When he looked back, Tinok had already crossed the distance and was winding up for a heavy overhand strike. Tareth lifted his spear with both hands and aimed it low to catch the axe's handle on the spear's haft. The blow landed like an anvil dropped from on high, driving Tareth down on one knee. The second blow came as expected, ripping the spear from his hands.
However, as Tinok pulled the axe up to disarm Tareth, it left itself wide open for that split second. Tareth seized the opportunity and drove forward off his trailing leg with startling speed, planting his elbow squarely in the beast's breadbasket. As Tinok doubled over, Tareth kicked out one hoof and grasped the beast's axe, forcing it to relinquish its grip or fall over. It chose to let go and take a kneeling position, both hands moving to its midsection as it struggled for air. Tareth simply rested the axe blade against the back of Tinok's shaggy neck in a sign of victory, it was over in less than a minute.
A murmur of approval rippled from his comrades on the sidelines, Tinok was the favorite to win this little tournament and Tareth had never fought it before. He dropped the axe, giving Tinok a few hearty pats on the back. It coughed a few times, then struggled back to its feet with Tareth tugging it up.
"That... was unorthodox." Surprisingly, Tinok's voice was deep enough to give justice to the large body, but feminine. "You tricked me good, little man." Tareth wasn't at all familiar with the animalistic features, but he swore she was grinning at him. He helped her to the water table as much as he could, grumbling good-naturedly that he didn't hit her that hard and she oughtn't lean on him so much. She laughed, a great rumbling sound and really did lean on him, collapsing Tareth and tumbling them both to the ground in a dusty heap, which caused a ruckus of laughter on the benches.
It finally occurred to Tareth that he should probably be watching the other match finish to get a better idea of what he would be up against it in the last round. However, when he turned to look, it was to find Beren in his bear body pushing one of the raving combatants off the other, bullying the one still standing toward the pens while the other cowered on the ground.
"What happened there?" Tareth inquired to the benches in general. Several answered at once. "King went berzerker." "Ramoth's totally gone now." "Bloodlust, that's what that was."
Tareth had seen it before. The weapons they used left no wounds, but the impact felt solid enough on both ends. Blood may not spurt, but the pain inflicted by a cut or bash felt real enough until the match ended. The reality of combat sometimes drove those fighting clear out of their sensible heads and they continued beating on their opponent well after the match was clearly over, caught up in some old war or grudge, or just plain bat-crazy. Ramoth lay on the fighting floor, cowering as the nurses came to try and calm his mind. He may not be dying physically, but at that point feeling like it was close enough. Tareth shook his head in disgust, it was well known that neither their keepers or the fighters would tolerate that. He doubted he'd see King again.
Which meant he was the winner today.
Tareth scowled and turned to soak his head. This just felt like a dirty way to win. Though it wasn't any fault of his, now the victory was hollow. And the White Lady was here to boot. What a way to make an impression.
Sibhoan stood nearby on the ledge, his arms crossed over his bare chest, his dark skin and shorn head glossy in the sunlight. He observed those on the fighting floor with a critical eye, judging those beneath with experience. Every now and again he'd lean over to an acolyte with a quill and paper and have the lad scribe some notes, which would then take the attention of the White Lady for approval.
Two more rounds of combat remained, Tareth fretted up and down the sidelines as the last rings came to a close. He would be fighting the minotaur next and watched the beast's clever and frighteningly effective maneuvers. It hammered with the large axe at its opponents guard, unceasingly beating down the resistance until the smaller figure fell. At that point it simply swung hard enough on an upward angle to hook the curve of the axe under the other's sword guard and rip it from his grip. There was brute strength there yes, but it moved fast enough to avoid any counterstrikes as well. Tareth mused on this as the next rounds were announced.
"Hail the defeated!" Beren called, his deep voice filling the coliseum. The answering roar from those assembled made Tareth grin and all but four of them moved to the benches at the sides of the fighting floor.
"Tareth and Tinok, west side. King and Ramoth, east side. Hail when ready and begin." Beren strutted the center of the floor in human form, keeping a baleful eye on the combatants to remind them to play fair. Tareth took his favorite spear and gave it a few experimental twirls as he walked to the dusty floor opposite the minotaur. Tareth lifted his spear in salute to the creature, who returned the gesture with a not-unfriendly snort through large nostrils. Tareth then turned to the platform, lifting his weapon in salute to the trio on the high seats, certain that now the playing field was so reduced, they couldn't help but notice the gesture. If they did, they gave no indication or return motion.
When he looked back, Tinok had already crossed the distance and was winding up for a heavy overhand strike. Tareth lifted his spear with both hands and aimed it low to catch the axe's handle on the spear's haft. The blow landed like an anvil dropped from on high, driving Tareth down on one knee. The second blow came as expected, ripping the spear from his hands.
However, as Tinok pulled the axe up to disarm Tareth, it left itself wide open for that split second. Tareth seized the opportunity and drove forward off his trailing leg with startling speed, planting his elbow squarely in the beast's breadbasket. As Tinok doubled over, Tareth kicked out one hoof and grasped the beast's axe, forcing it to relinquish its grip or fall over. It chose to let go and take a kneeling position, both hands moving to its midsection as it struggled for air. Tareth simply rested the axe blade against the back of Tinok's shaggy neck in a sign of victory, it was over in less than a minute.
A murmur of approval rippled from his comrades on the sidelines, Tinok was the favorite to win this little tournament and Tareth had never fought it before. He dropped the axe, giving Tinok a few hearty pats on the back. It coughed a few times, then struggled back to its feet with Tareth tugging it up.
"That... was unorthodox." Surprisingly, Tinok's voice was deep enough to give justice to the large body, but feminine. "You tricked me good, little man." Tareth wasn't at all familiar with the animalistic features, but he swore she was grinning at him. He helped her to the water table as much as he could, grumbling good-naturedly that he didn't hit her that hard and she oughtn't lean on him so much. She laughed, a great rumbling sound and really did lean on him, collapsing Tareth and tumbling them both to the ground in a dusty heap, which caused a ruckus of laughter on the benches.
It finally occurred to Tareth that he should probably be watching the other match finish to get a better idea of what he would be up against it in the last round. However, when he turned to look, it was to find Beren in his bear body pushing one of the raving combatants off the other, bullying the one still standing toward the pens while the other cowered on the ground.
"What happened there?" Tareth inquired to the benches in general. Several answered at once. "King went berzerker." "Ramoth's totally gone now." "Bloodlust, that's what that was."
Tareth had seen it before. The weapons they used left no wounds, but the impact felt solid enough on both ends. Blood may not spurt, but the pain inflicted by a cut or bash felt real enough until the match ended. The reality of combat sometimes drove those fighting clear out of their sensible heads and they continued beating on their opponent well after the match was clearly over, caught up in some old war or grudge, or just plain bat-crazy. Ramoth lay on the fighting floor, cowering as the nurses came to try and calm his mind. He may not be dying physically, but at that point feeling like it was close enough. Tareth shook his head in disgust, it was well known that neither their keepers or the fighters would tolerate that. He doubted he'd see King again.
Which meant he was the winner today.
Tareth scowled and turned to soak his head. This just felt like a dirty way to win. Though it wasn't any fault of his, now the victory was hollow. And the White Lady was here to boot. What a way to make an impression.
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Tareth Thorn
- Proven Adventurer
- Posts: 187
- Joined: Wed Feb 11, 2004 1:08 am
- Location: Rhydin, somewhere.
Removing his head from the barrel, Tareth plastered his hair back with both hands and regarded the wall. This is how Sibhoan found him, dripping wet and giving the wall dark looks.
"Tareth, you fought well." Sibhoan dipped his head to Tareth's back. Tareth turned as if startled, then bowed low in return. The black man smiled to himself at this young fighter's manner.
"Her Ladyship regrets the condition in which you find yourself the victor today and offers you a champion in King's stead," he continued, "so that you may be properly exonerated for your performance."
"I'm to fight you?" Tareth peered back. Sibhoan sensed the man's doubt, though he belied no signs of fear. This Tareth was so expressive, it was hard to believe he was considered such a trickster.
"Yes, if you wish. Win or lose, you have attained the second tier. I offer as a matter of honor." Sibhoan carefully watched Tareth as he considered the proposition. As for Sibhoan himself, he was quite curious as to this newcomer's prowess. There had been many conversations between him and his mistress concerning this recent acquisition and his potential, as well as the danger he posed to their order.
When Tareth finally answered positively, Sibhoan smiled and slapped his own chest in a gesture of approval. This would be a good test of the man.
Sibhoan chose two swords for himself as Tareth picked a new spear, the one he'd last used was terribly notched. Thus armed, they both wandered to the center of the arena. Everyone on the benches was uncharacteristically silent as the two combatants saluted one another, then, unprompted, turned to salute the White Lady in her high seat.
This was no quick combat. Sibhoan wielded both swords expertly, when one was striking the other stood ready to defend. Sibhoan could tell that Tareth had had some training in the art of weapons, though he was unsure and undisciplined. Several times he left openings of which Tareth couldn't take full advantage, either because of poor positioning or simple lack of proper attention. When he was done testing Tareth's offensive capability, Sibhoan began to mark Tareth with the swords. First he slashed Tareth's leg on an overswing, then his arm, then again.
Sibhoan was at least impressed as Tareth remained strong in the fight, continued moving with the same exuberance when surely he felt the sting of open wounds. After nine markings Tareth was moving awkwardly enough to give the dark man an opening that he used to shiver the spear from Tareth's grip and end the match.
Tareth stood panting, his brows knit and his hands clenched. Sibhoan bowed deeply. "You fight with no small skill, Tareth. I see the makings of a fine warrior, should you give your study adequate heed."
The dark man could tell that Tareth was angry, though he could only guess at many different reasons. However, to his credit, Tareth simply took a deep breath, bowed, and replied, "I will consider that my first lesson."
Sibhoan smiled outwardly, though his thoughts churned within as he watched Beren herd the fighters back to their evening meal. He had much to discuss with the White Lady concerning their new second-tier fighter.
"Tareth, you fought well." Sibhoan dipped his head to Tareth's back. Tareth turned as if startled, then bowed low in return. The black man smiled to himself at this young fighter's manner.
"Her Ladyship regrets the condition in which you find yourself the victor today and offers you a champion in King's stead," he continued, "so that you may be properly exonerated for your performance."
"I'm to fight you?" Tareth peered back. Sibhoan sensed the man's doubt, though he belied no signs of fear. This Tareth was so expressive, it was hard to believe he was considered such a trickster.
"Yes, if you wish. Win or lose, you have attained the second tier. I offer as a matter of honor." Sibhoan carefully watched Tareth as he considered the proposition. As for Sibhoan himself, he was quite curious as to this newcomer's prowess. There had been many conversations between him and his mistress concerning this recent acquisition and his potential, as well as the danger he posed to their order.
When Tareth finally answered positively, Sibhoan smiled and slapped his own chest in a gesture of approval. This would be a good test of the man.
Sibhoan chose two swords for himself as Tareth picked a new spear, the one he'd last used was terribly notched. Thus armed, they both wandered to the center of the arena. Everyone on the benches was uncharacteristically silent as the two combatants saluted one another, then, unprompted, turned to salute the White Lady in her high seat.
This was no quick combat. Sibhoan wielded both swords expertly, when one was striking the other stood ready to defend. Sibhoan could tell that Tareth had had some training in the art of weapons, though he was unsure and undisciplined. Several times he left openings of which Tareth couldn't take full advantage, either because of poor positioning or simple lack of proper attention. When he was done testing Tareth's offensive capability, Sibhoan began to mark Tareth with the swords. First he slashed Tareth's leg on an overswing, then his arm, then again.
Sibhoan was at least impressed as Tareth remained strong in the fight, continued moving with the same exuberance when surely he felt the sting of open wounds. After nine markings Tareth was moving awkwardly enough to give the dark man an opening that he used to shiver the spear from Tareth's grip and end the match.
Tareth stood panting, his brows knit and his hands clenched. Sibhoan bowed deeply. "You fight with no small skill, Tareth. I see the makings of a fine warrior, should you give your study adequate heed."
The dark man could tell that Tareth was angry, though he could only guess at many different reasons. However, to his credit, Tareth simply took a deep breath, bowed, and replied, "I will consider that my first lesson."
Sibhoan smiled outwardly, though his thoughts churned within as he watched Beren herd the fighters back to their evening meal. He had much to discuss with the White Lady concerning their new second-tier fighter.
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Tareth Thorn
- Proven Adventurer
- Posts: 187
- Joined: Wed Feb 11, 2004 1:08 am
- Location: Rhydin, somewhere.
Sibhoan stood, arms clasped, head downcast, in his lady's chambers waiting for her return. He scrutinized the floor in front of him as he considered what to tell her, how she would react... how he should react. He felt a wisp of air, smelled something fresh in the room and knew she was finally there, though he did not see or hear her enter. Such was her way.
"And how did he fare by your standards?" She certainly wasted no time getting right to the point of the matter as she settled into a seat like fog fills a mountain valley. Her keen icy-blue eyes rested on Sibhoan's dark shoulders, he was obviously troubled.
"He has some skill with weapons, but it's clear he is not familiar with them. I think he prefers to fight unarmed, as we saw with Tinok." Sibhoan started with the hard facts, things with which he could be sure and true without is own biases creeping in. "He is... unpredictable. I could feel his competitive nature today during the fight, some drive behind the motions, and he was clearly upset by losing. Until today though, he did not have any such qualities."
"Yes, unpredictable. And that's why you don't like him?" The lady probed her vassal's face for deeper meaning.
"I don't... " Sibhoan trailed off, unsure of the exact words to use. He stumped around the table in a large circle as he considered, feeling his lady's gaze on him the whole way. "I don't dislike the man. I don't know why I feel mistrust of him, he makes his feelings as plain as his nose on his face." Sibhoan thumbed at his chin and lower lip as he examined his own feelings and tried to put them to words. "I suppose I don't like feeling like I don't know what to expect of him. I don't think he means to be as wildly unorthodox as he is, it's part of his nature. He simply embraces it at opportune times, to extraordinary results."
"Better to be lucky than good?" The lady chuckled.
"Not even that." Sibhoan turned, pacing around the sitting table again. "Because I think he can control it. I just don't know how. Like the rage gives some fighters strength but breaks their rationale, he has some way of letting his emotions fuel his unpredictability. He could well be the best fighter here, or the worst, depending on the day and his mood. He's undisciplined and hard to motivate."
"He was motivated today." The lady gently inserted, then patted the chair next to her.
Sibhoan moved to sit with her and once again looked to his lady's face. Her pale features shone back at him, her light blonde hair cascading down her shoulders now that her white hood rested at her back. He took a deep breath and remembered the time when once they were equals.
"There is no way he could have come into contact with all of them by skill alone." He stared at her, for once surrendering the illusion of service to probe her face for answers.
She held his gaze evenly, if his forward approach bothered her in the least she did not show it. "He is only one of two to do so. Would you accept that he did it all by coincidence?"
Sibhoan scowled, but withdrew. Sighing, he stood, brushing his loose pants free of wrinkles. "So we're no closer to our answers than before and left with the same course, watch and hope for revelation."
"No, I think we've made progress toward our answer already," the lady interjected. "It just bears more investigation. We shall see what happens when he is introduced to some of his closer peers tomorrow."
Sibhoan took another deep breath to try and ward off the pressure of concern building behind his forehead, but kissed his lady's hand and left her chambers without further argument.
"And how did he fare by your standards?" She certainly wasted no time getting right to the point of the matter as she settled into a seat like fog fills a mountain valley. Her keen icy-blue eyes rested on Sibhoan's dark shoulders, he was obviously troubled.
"He has some skill with weapons, but it's clear he is not familiar with them. I think he prefers to fight unarmed, as we saw with Tinok." Sibhoan started with the hard facts, things with which he could be sure and true without is own biases creeping in. "He is... unpredictable. I could feel his competitive nature today during the fight, some drive behind the motions, and he was clearly upset by losing. Until today though, he did not have any such qualities."
"Yes, unpredictable. And that's why you don't like him?" The lady probed her vassal's face for deeper meaning.
"I don't... " Sibhoan trailed off, unsure of the exact words to use. He stumped around the table in a large circle as he considered, feeling his lady's gaze on him the whole way. "I don't dislike the man. I don't know why I feel mistrust of him, he makes his feelings as plain as his nose on his face." Sibhoan thumbed at his chin and lower lip as he examined his own feelings and tried to put them to words. "I suppose I don't like feeling like I don't know what to expect of him. I don't think he means to be as wildly unorthodox as he is, it's part of his nature. He simply embraces it at opportune times, to extraordinary results."
"Better to be lucky than good?" The lady chuckled.
"Not even that." Sibhoan turned, pacing around the sitting table again. "Because I think he can control it. I just don't know how. Like the rage gives some fighters strength but breaks their rationale, he has some way of letting his emotions fuel his unpredictability. He could well be the best fighter here, or the worst, depending on the day and his mood. He's undisciplined and hard to motivate."
"He was motivated today." The lady gently inserted, then patted the chair next to her.
Sibhoan moved to sit with her and once again looked to his lady's face. Her pale features shone back at him, her light blonde hair cascading down her shoulders now that her white hood rested at her back. He took a deep breath and remembered the time when once they were equals.
"There is no way he could have come into contact with all of them by skill alone." He stared at her, for once surrendering the illusion of service to probe her face for answers.
She held his gaze evenly, if his forward approach bothered her in the least she did not show it. "He is only one of two to do so. Would you accept that he did it all by coincidence?"
Sibhoan scowled, but withdrew. Sighing, he stood, brushing his loose pants free of wrinkles. "So we're no closer to our answers than before and left with the same course, watch and hope for revelation."
"No, I think we've made progress toward our answer already," the lady interjected. "It just bears more investigation. We shall see what happens when he is introduced to some of his closer peers tomorrow."
Sibhoan took another deep breath to try and ward off the pressure of concern building behind his forehead, but kissed his lady's hand and left her chambers without further argument.
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Tareth Thorn
- Proven Adventurer
- Posts: 187
- Joined: Wed Feb 11, 2004 1:08 am
- Location: Rhydin, somewhere.
Tareth punched the wall again, yelling when his already skinned knuckles took even more damage from the rough stone. He knew it would hurt more, but he did it one more time. When he pulled away, there was a crimson mark on the rock and his knuckles slowly oozed.
"Tareth! Keep that up and I'll have to sedate you." Beren growled at his restless charge as he once again paced the length of the dining hall. "You'll make the others lose their appetite." It was unlikely that last statement was true, but it made for a good argument nonetheless.
"I blew it Beren! I could have met her! I could have talked to her, asked her my questions.... imagined her naked... something, anything. But I blew it." He sat heavily next to his bear-ish keeper and let his head thunk noisily on the tabletop.
"I did say maybe, lad. And nobody expected you to beat Sibhoan. Don't think the man can be beaten, really, he's a different breed." Beren stopped short, considering that he probably wasn't helping things any. "Look at the bright side Tareth, you did make the second tier. That's cause enough for celebration eh? And if you're all that obsessed about seeing our lady, consider that she shows up at the second-tier practices much more often that the ones on which you were formerly a part." Beren punctuated the comment with an elbow jab to Tareth's shoulder, which set the smaller man rocking listlessly.
When Tareth still hadn't responded after a few moments, Beren shrugged and squashed Tareth's head against the table as he used him as a prop to push himself to a stand. Tareth finally obliged with some suitably protesting "ow!"s, a glare and a jab at Beren's beefy leg, which lifted the mood somewhat.
"I'll be back later to fix up that hand with some stringent before lights out," Beren chuckled. "You eat now, you're in a whole different world tomorrow and you'll need your top form."
Beren was somewhat right, tomorrow did turn out to be tougher. And the next day and the next were just as tough, each day filled with grueling, fast-paced duels with Sibhoan watching and giving form and maneuver advice before sending them back in against one another. There was little of the easy-natured, light-hearted jibing or teasing of the first tier crowd, if you had time to talk you had wind enough to fight.
By the time the outside of Tareth's hand had healed, the insides were already full with blisters. Sibhoan, however, could not note any marked improvement in Tareth's performance in his evening reports to the White Lady.
"Tareth! Keep that up and I'll have to sedate you." Beren growled at his restless charge as he once again paced the length of the dining hall. "You'll make the others lose their appetite." It was unlikely that last statement was true, but it made for a good argument nonetheless.
"I blew it Beren! I could have met her! I could have talked to her, asked her my questions.... imagined her naked... something, anything. But I blew it." He sat heavily next to his bear-ish keeper and let his head thunk noisily on the tabletop.
"I did say maybe, lad. And nobody expected you to beat Sibhoan. Don't think the man can be beaten, really, he's a different breed." Beren stopped short, considering that he probably wasn't helping things any. "Look at the bright side Tareth, you did make the second tier. That's cause enough for celebration eh? And if you're all that obsessed about seeing our lady, consider that she shows up at the second-tier practices much more often that the ones on which you were formerly a part." Beren punctuated the comment with an elbow jab to Tareth's shoulder, which set the smaller man rocking listlessly.
When Tareth still hadn't responded after a few moments, Beren shrugged and squashed Tareth's head against the table as he used him as a prop to push himself to a stand. Tareth finally obliged with some suitably protesting "ow!"s, a glare and a jab at Beren's beefy leg, which lifted the mood somewhat.
"I'll be back later to fix up that hand with some stringent before lights out," Beren chuckled. "You eat now, you're in a whole different world tomorrow and you'll need your top form."
Beren was somewhat right, tomorrow did turn out to be tougher. And the next day and the next were just as tough, each day filled with grueling, fast-paced duels with Sibhoan watching and giving form and maneuver advice before sending them back in against one another. There was little of the easy-natured, light-hearted jibing or teasing of the first tier crowd, if you had time to talk you had wind enough to fight.
By the time the outside of Tareth's hand had healed, the insides were already full with blisters. Sibhoan, however, could not note any marked improvement in Tareth's performance in his evening reports to the White Lady.
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Tareth Thorn
- Proven Adventurer
- Posts: 187
- Joined: Wed Feb 11, 2004 1:08 am
- Location: Rhydin, somewhere.
The door was too small for him, it hadn't been made for people his size. He cracked his head on the way out but didn't really feel it. The world reeled all on its own without the knock to his head. He could see his breath in the predawn cold, pluming like a train. This was what had so distracted him, watching the cloud of his own breath rise and dissipate in the frosty morning air, when he suddenly fell over. Something was tugging on him, but he didn't look. He couldn't look. The ground was too cold against his cheek, the puddle before him too fascinating. Then the snowflakes came, two of them preceding their brethren, falling through the dark sky into the cone of light...
Tareth woke shivering in his cot, though he'd tucked the blanket up to his neck the night before and it remained there now. He curled his knees up to his chest and breathed under the blanket until he warmed up sufficiently, pondering the dreams again when Beren came by, courteously tapping on the bars of his cell before the general wake-up roar.
"Come up now Tareth, the lady's going to be at pratice today so you'd best be on form. No hiding in the bed!" Beren reached in and tugged gently at the bottom of Tareth's blanket before moving on. Tareth sat up, remembering the cold as he dressed and did a few exercises to get his blood moving. He'd be warm enough on the fighting floor.
Tareth was paired up with an older man that still out-bulked him. Something in the man's demeanor told Tareth that there stood a former soldier, one who once commanded much respect. He even looked somewhat familiar, though Tareth couldn't place him and didn't try for long, the fog in his brain still held firm. The man never let his gaze drop from Tareth, the constant scrutiny began to wear on Tareth's patience until a flirt of white told him that the Lady had joined them.
Baring his teeth at the man, Tareth spun the spear and saluted both. His opponent made no similar gesture. However, before Tareth could wonder if he should attack if the man hadn't signaled readiness, he lunged.
Tareth had enough sense to keep his distance, since the soldier only bore a single broadsword. He turned the surprising opening maneuver away with a deft twist of the spearhead, then whirled to bring the butt around. His opponent similarly turned, parrying the blow and slicing again. He was fast and strong, Tareth could tell this would be a tough battle.
He broke off and paced sideways, forcing the soldier on the defensive as he jabbed in at intervals with his longer reach. Finally the soldier baited a jab, then hewed directly at the spear's haft, chopping the spear head clean off. Surprised, Tareth recoiled and dropped the remainder of his weapon, but the soldier hopped the short distance and swung a wicked blow at Tareth's head. Instinct kicked in and Tareth ducked, dropped to a knee and landed a wicked short hook to the outside of the man's knee. The soldier didn't make a sound, but the knee buckled at an odd angle. As the soldier fell, he brought his sword down with him in a killing blow that would have split Tareth's head in two.
Tareth screamed and fell back, writhing like a smashed bug. The soldier, using his sword as a prop, pushed himself to a stand and limped a few steps over toward Tareth's twitching body. He spat on the crumpled figure before him, then drove the point of his blade right into Tareth's chest.
The weapons were designed to simulate real pain in order to enforce consequence, but they knew their limits. They would not simulate enough of a death wound to make a person believe that they were truly dead. However, the spiteful gesture made the soldier collapse on top of Tareth's prone body, adding some real pain to the imagined. People were coming to stop him, he knew that he didn't have much time, but he pulled himself by Tareth's clothes up to his opponent's short-breathed face and whispered fiercely.
"I smell their stink on you, boy. You didn't deserve their honor. You're unworthy of the opals. How you got all six when I... I was only deemed worthy of five... "
Strong hands grasped the soldier, yanking him from Tareth's body. He began raving, struggling to get back to his prey. "Six! Hah! I commanded ARMIES! What are YOU, boy!? I was DOOMED to failure and you... you... " Several of the other duelists pushed at the soldier until one finally knocked him out with the pommel of one of the swords.
Beren knelt gently over Tareth's boneless, sightless body. "Oh gods, Tareth? Tareth? Someone call the Lady!"
Though the duel had ended, the pain had gone, the soldier's words had done far more damage than the already terrible toll the weapons took on Tareth's being. His eyes did not blink, his body refused to respond as Beren picked him up and carried him out of the fighting arena, only the shallow rise and fall of his chest indicated any life at all.
Tareth woke shivering in his cot, though he'd tucked the blanket up to his neck the night before and it remained there now. He curled his knees up to his chest and breathed under the blanket until he warmed up sufficiently, pondering the dreams again when Beren came by, courteously tapping on the bars of his cell before the general wake-up roar.
"Come up now Tareth, the lady's going to be at pratice today so you'd best be on form. No hiding in the bed!" Beren reached in and tugged gently at the bottom of Tareth's blanket before moving on. Tareth sat up, remembering the cold as he dressed and did a few exercises to get his blood moving. He'd be warm enough on the fighting floor.
Tareth was paired up with an older man that still out-bulked him. Something in the man's demeanor told Tareth that there stood a former soldier, one who once commanded much respect. He even looked somewhat familiar, though Tareth couldn't place him and didn't try for long, the fog in his brain still held firm. The man never let his gaze drop from Tareth, the constant scrutiny began to wear on Tareth's patience until a flirt of white told him that the Lady had joined them.
Baring his teeth at the man, Tareth spun the spear and saluted both. His opponent made no similar gesture. However, before Tareth could wonder if he should attack if the man hadn't signaled readiness, he lunged.
Tareth had enough sense to keep his distance, since the soldier only bore a single broadsword. He turned the surprising opening maneuver away with a deft twist of the spearhead, then whirled to bring the butt around. His opponent similarly turned, parrying the blow and slicing again. He was fast and strong, Tareth could tell this would be a tough battle.
He broke off and paced sideways, forcing the soldier on the defensive as he jabbed in at intervals with his longer reach. Finally the soldier baited a jab, then hewed directly at the spear's haft, chopping the spear head clean off. Surprised, Tareth recoiled and dropped the remainder of his weapon, but the soldier hopped the short distance and swung a wicked blow at Tareth's head. Instinct kicked in and Tareth ducked, dropped to a knee and landed a wicked short hook to the outside of the man's knee. The soldier didn't make a sound, but the knee buckled at an odd angle. As the soldier fell, he brought his sword down with him in a killing blow that would have split Tareth's head in two.
Tareth screamed and fell back, writhing like a smashed bug. The soldier, using his sword as a prop, pushed himself to a stand and limped a few steps over toward Tareth's twitching body. He spat on the crumpled figure before him, then drove the point of his blade right into Tareth's chest.
The weapons were designed to simulate real pain in order to enforce consequence, but they knew their limits. They would not simulate enough of a death wound to make a person believe that they were truly dead. However, the spiteful gesture made the soldier collapse on top of Tareth's prone body, adding some real pain to the imagined. People were coming to stop him, he knew that he didn't have much time, but he pulled himself by Tareth's clothes up to his opponent's short-breathed face and whispered fiercely.
"I smell their stink on you, boy. You didn't deserve their honor. You're unworthy of the opals. How you got all six when I... I was only deemed worthy of five... "
Strong hands grasped the soldier, yanking him from Tareth's body. He began raving, struggling to get back to his prey. "Six! Hah! I commanded ARMIES! What are YOU, boy!? I was DOOMED to failure and you... you... " Several of the other duelists pushed at the soldier until one finally knocked him out with the pommel of one of the swords.
Beren knelt gently over Tareth's boneless, sightless body. "Oh gods, Tareth? Tareth? Someone call the Lady!"
Though the duel had ended, the pain had gone, the soldier's words had done far more damage than the already terrible toll the weapons took on Tareth's being. His eyes did not blink, his body refused to respond as Beren picked him up and carried him out of the fighting arena, only the shallow rise and fall of his chest indicated any life at all.
Last edited by Tareth Thorn on Mon Nov 28, 2005 3:41 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Tareth Thorn
- Proven Adventurer
- Posts: 187
- Joined: Wed Feb 11, 2004 1:08 am
- Location: Rhydin, somewhere.
The fog curled and peeled as if it had been hit by a strong breeze, then slowly began to clear. The Opals... they were the key. He knew them. He knew the stones. He knew the world from which they came.
He was drinking again, another night in the Tilted Table. It was a dwarven establishment with some of the best brew for getting completely drunk on as few coins as possible. For the general part, they tolerated big folk like Tareth, but when he got too deep in his cups he had a tendency to get sour and pick fights, so they generally asked him to leave after a few pints. Tonight was no exception, they shooed him out the door just after his fourth mug.
It was the silvery sensation of steel in his back that he remembered most, it wasn't the pain or the cold, but the familiar feeling of being knifed. He hadn't been careful enough to stagger his routine, too caught up in getting sotted every night to chase away ghosts. As he fell forward on the cold ground, he felt someone tugging at his waist, pulling at the pendant encasing his first Diamond won in the Outback. So, it was a common thief, a simple mugging that would end the life of a man once said to be made of smoke.
As he laid there face-first on the pavement, unable to call out as the blood filled his lungs, he watched the beginning of the evening snowstorm come down. It was oddly peaceful, he even began to feel warm as the snow began to coat the ground. The last thing he recalled was a single snowflake drifting lazily down to fall right in his unblinking eye...
The spotted darkness of a snow-filled night shifted, then focused into a stone ceiling. He lay on a soft bed, his joints stiff from inactivity, his eyes dry from prolonged periods of not being wetted.
The world came flooding back to him, the correlation of this world and the last. He had died then, this was his particular purgatory. To fight for no reason but an elusive lady with no face, to train to beat an impossible champion. It all made sense at last, but it didn't make anything any better.
When Beren came by not too long later to check on him, he found Tareth sitting against the wall, his knees drawn up, his elbows resting on the top, his head bowed in between. "Ah, there you are! We were concerned we'd lost you... it's good to see you up and about again." But no matter what Beren said or did, he could not rouse word or interest from Tareth. All he could get from the man was simple obedience. Stand up, sit down, follow me. This concerned him so greatly that he lead Tareth back to the familiarity of his cot and room, hoping that something might jog the man from this stupor. When nothing he could do raised any further interest, he told Tareth to stay and went to fetch the Lady. She would know what to do.
"They tell me you won't eat. You do need to eat, you know." It was the first time Tareth heard the White Lady's voice and it was indeed sweet, but it held no more appeal for him. However, if this was to be his personal demon, he may as well find out what she wanted with him.
"Or what? I'll die?" He answered, chortling darkly at his own grim joke. He didn't look up as she entered his cell and sat on his bed. He had taken to sitting against the stone wall again, it was somewhat reassuring to feel the rough prickle at his back, even if it was some sort of perverse illusion.
"Yes, you could." She answered straightly.
"How can I die if I'm already dead?" He snorted derisively.
She sighed, the sound of wind through rushes. "It's true, you are no longer of the corporeal world. But you are not yet dead, either. We exist now as beings of thought, so our thoughts are tantamount of being. Just as the weapons here are a symbol of wishing to compete, sleeping symbolic of wishing for rest, eating is symbolic of wishing to continue to exist. Cease to do so and you will cease to exist here as well."
"There's a difference?" He looked up at her finally. She sat with her hooded face turned outside the cell so he could not see her features, though he caught a flash of her porcelain cheek, pert nose and dark lashes. She looked as though contemplating something. Her white robe shimmered slightly in the dwindling daylight of his cell.
"Very few things work strictly in black and white, Tareth. Death is no exception. Consider this some shade of gray. We found you wandering the fields beyond the living and brought you here, as we have all of the heroes from the mortal plane who fight here."
Her head dipped a bit as she considered again, obviously deciding how much to reveal. He remained silent, letting her keep her own council as he also considered what she had already told him. Finally she continued.
"Everyone here has a common bond. They have all been chosen by one or more of the Stones of Power as bearers. Most who have held but one are let slip through, but there is some curiosity for those who have carried two or even more. Some very few have held five. You are one of only two to have come into contact with all six.
"We have you fight one another hoping to find out what qualities bring greatness in mortals, enough so that the beings of elemental power that transcend planes, dimension and states of being chose companions such as you. These beings are in need of protection, guidance, it's our hope to find someone capable of being their champion on the mortal plane."
Tareth rubbed his forehead with the back of his sleeve. He recognized when he was in way over his head. "Listen lady, I'm just some guy that's good at fighting and swiping stuff. I'm not a champion and I'm certainly not some hero."
"Exactly why we are so curious about you, Tareth. We have some genuine heroes here. The man who injured you was a fine general who led the armies of many nations against an evil that you have faced again yourself. Surely he was a grand enough figure to warrant their approval. Yet he never touched the last stone. Why is that?"
"I don't know." Tareth mumbled into his knees.
"Nor do I. Which is why I ask you to fight here, so perhaps we can discover the answer."
Several long moments passed before the Lady stood, brushing her dress straight. She looked down at the man on the floor, at his broken soul and bruised mind, and her resolved wavered. As if sensing some change, Tareth looked up at that moment.
Tareth's breath caught in his suddenly tight throat as he beheld her face and he choked on his next word, then fell forward on his knees. The Lady's brow peaked, her eyes sad as she leaned down and touched Tareth on the lips with a fingertip. "Please help me Tareth."
With that she hurriedly turned and left his cell. Sibhoan, who was waiting just out of view, fell into place behind her as she passed.
"Are you certain that was wise, my lady?" He fretted at her back.
"You needed him motivated Sibhoan, so he is." She replied, a unique quaver in her voice. "Be prepared for the unexpected."
He was drinking again, another night in the Tilted Table. It was a dwarven establishment with some of the best brew for getting completely drunk on as few coins as possible. For the general part, they tolerated big folk like Tareth, but when he got too deep in his cups he had a tendency to get sour and pick fights, so they generally asked him to leave after a few pints. Tonight was no exception, they shooed him out the door just after his fourth mug.
It was the silvery sensation of steel in his back that he remembered most, it wasn't the pain or the cold, but the familiar feeling of being knifed. He hadn't been careful enough to stagger his routine, too caught up in getting sotted every night to chase away ghosts. As he fell forward on the cold ground, he felt someone tugging at his waist, pulling at the pendant encasing his first Diamond won in the Outback. So, it was a common thief, a simple mugging that would end the life of a man once said to be made of smoke.
As he laid there face-first on the pavement, unable to call out as the blood filled his lungs, he watched the beginning of the evening snowstorm come down. It was oddly peaceful, he even began to feel warm as the snow began to coat the ground. The last thing he recalled was a single snowflake drifting lazily down to fall right in his unblinking eye...
The spotted darkness of a snow-filled night shifted, then focused into a stone ceiling. He lay on a soft bed, his joints stiff from inactivity, his eyes dry from prolonged periods of not being wetted.
The world came flooding back to him, the correlation of this world and the last. He had died then, this was his particular purgatory. To fight for no reason but an elusive lady with no face, to train to beat an impossible champion. It all made sense at last, but it didn't make anything any better.
When Beren came by not too long later to check on him, he found Tareth sitting against the wall, his knees drawn up, his elbows resting on the top, his head bowed in between. "Ah, there you are! We were concerned we'd lost you... it's good to see you up and about again." But no matter what Beren said or did, he could not rouse word or interest from Tareth. All he could get from the man was simple obedience. Stand up, sit down, follow me. This concerned him so greatly that he lead Tareth back to the familiarity of his cot and room, hoping that something might jog the man from this stupor. When nothing he could do raised any further interest, he told Tareth to stay and went to fetch the Lady. She would know what to do.
"They tell me you won't eat. You do need to eat, you know." It was the first time Tareth heard the White Lady's voice and it was indeed sweet, but it held no more appeal for him. However, if this was to be his personal demon, he may as well find out what she wanted with him.
"Or what? I'll die?" He answered, chortling darkly at his own grim joke. He didn't look up as she entered his cell and sat on his bed. He had taken to sitting against the stone wall again, it was somewhat reassuring to feel the rough prickle at his back, even if it was some sort of perverse illusion.
"Yes, you could." She answered straightly.
"How can I die if I'm already dead?" He snorted derisively.
She sighed, the sound of wind through rushes. "It's true, you are no longer of the corporeal world. But you are not yet dead, either. We exist now as beings of thought, so our thoughts are tantamount of being. Just as the weapons here are a symbol of wishing to compete, sleeping symbolic of wishing for rest, eating is symbolic of wishing to continue to exist. Cease to do so and you will cease to exist here as well."
"There's a difference?" He looked up at her finally. She sat with her hooded face turned outside the cell so he could not see her features, though he caught a flash of her porcelain cheek, pert nose and dark lashes. She looked as though contemplating something. Her white robe shimmered slightly in the dwindling daylight of his cell.
"Very few things work strictly in black and white, Tareth. Death is no exception. Consider this some shade of gray. We found you wandering the fields beyond the living and brought you here, as we have all of the heroes from the mortal plane who fight here."
Her head dipped a bit as she considered again, obviously deciding how much to reveal. He remained silent, letting her keep her own council as he also considered what she had already told him. Finally she continued.
"Everyone here has a common bond. They have all been chosen by one or more of the Stones of Power as bearers. Most who have held but one are let slip through, but there is some curiosity for those who have carried two or even more. Some very few have held five. You are one of only two to have come into contact with all six.
"We have you fight one another hoping to find out what qualities bring greatness in mortals, enough so that the beings of elemental power that transcend planes, dimension and states of being chose companions such as you. These beings are in need of protection, guidance, it's our hope to find someone capable of being their champion on the mortal plane."
Tareth rubbed his forehead with the back of his sleeve. He recognized when he was in way over his head. "Listen lady, I'm just some guy that's good at fighting and swiping stuff. I'm not a champion and I'm certainly not some hero."
"Exactly why we are so curious about you, Tareth. We have some genuine heroes here. The man who injured you was a fine general who led the armies of many nations against an evil that you have faced again yourself. Surely he was a grand enough figure to warrant their approval. Yet he never touched the last stone. Why is that?"
"I don't know." Tareth mumbled into his knees.
"Nor do I. Which is why I ask you to fight here, so perhaps we can discover the answer."
Several long moments passed before the Lady stood, brushing her dress straight. She looked down at the man on the floor, at his broken soul and bruised mind, and her resolved wavered. As if sensing some change, Tareth looked up at that moment.
Tareth's breath caught in his suddenly tight throat as he beheld her face and he choked on his next word, then fell forward on his knees. The Lady's brow peaked, her eyes sad as she leaned down and touched Tareth on the lips with a fingertip. "Please help me Tareth."
With that she hurriedly turned and left his cell. Sibhoan, who was waiting just out of view, fell into place behind her as she passed.
"Are you certain that was wise, my lady?" He fretted at her back.
"You needed him motivated Sibhoan, so he is." She replied, a unique quaver in her voice. "Be prepared for the unexpected."
Last edited by Tareth Thorn on Mon Dec 12, 2005 3:07 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Tareth Thorn
- Proven Adventurer
- Posts: 187
- Joined: Wed Feb 11, 2004 1:08 am
- Location: Rhydin, somewhere.
Tareth requested a full game hen for dinner that night. Beren, overcome with relief, easily procured one for him and sat with him as he ate. Though the conversation was sparse and Beren couldn't get any details from him concerning what had happened between him and the Lady, Tareth seemed back to his old enough self, joking and jibing with the bear-man about the doings of the others. Only once when Tareth choked a bit on one of the small bones did Beren scold him for anything, even then it was the minor sin of eating too fast, so it things all seemed right in Beren's mind.
As the moon rose through the bars on the windows and some of the chubbier of the inmates began to snore, Tareth leaned through the bars and set to the relatively simple task of opening the lock on his cell door with two of the smaller bones from his dinner. The barred gate swung open on well-maintained hinges and Tareth stepped out onto the stone flags.
He'd ripped some cloth from his sheets and tied it about his hands and wrists, wrapping them effectively. He bore no weapon as he stole through the silent hallways, not truly knowing where he was going but not caring at that point either. It was action he was after.
He found it shortly at the intersection of two corridors. Two of the guards who maintained peace in the arena stumbled right into Tareth as he padded through the dark passage. They both drew their weapons with a hiss, but before they could bring them to bear on Tareth he'd grasped one by the wrist and used the man as a brace to jump up, catch the other man's face behind his knee and drop to the ground, using the second guard's head as a pad for his landing and his grip on the first as a catapult to sling him into the corner. The impacts made a horrible clatter, but neither got back up.
Tareth laid in the middle of the heap, the only one of the group conscious, as he waited for some sort of response to the noise. When none made itself readily apparent, he rose from the wreckage. For a moment he regarded one of the guardsmen's swords, but turned away without it.
Before he took a single step he heard a soft chuff as in an exhale through large nostrils. To his left, he saw two gleaming points of light, moonlight reflecting from animalistic eyes. With another huff, they rose from waist level to a height of over ten feet.
Tareth clenched his hand, prepared to take on even Beren if he should need to. He dug his toes into the stone flags beneath him, taking a the familiar defiant stance he should have known all along. The eyes, winking greenly in the hallway dropped back down, huffed once, then turned away. Tareth could hear the sound of claws on stone receding, whispered a silent thank you and continued on his path.
He followed the light, only the Lady would be up and in need of it at this hour. When he came to a corridor with burning torches, he followed it until it came to a bend, then a door. Two guards stood at either end of the door, looking drowsy and bored, but still rather awake. Tareth crouched and crept around the corner.
As the moon rose through the bars on the windows and some of the chubbier of the inmates began to snore, Tareth leaned through the bars and set to the relatively simple task of opening the lock on his cell door with two of the smaller bones from his dinner. The barred gate swung open on well-maintained hinges and Tareth stepped out onto the stone flags.
He'd ripped some cloth from his sheets and tied it about his hands and wrists, wrapping them effectively. He bore no weapon as he stole through the silent hallways, not truly knowing where he was going but not caring at that point either. It was action he was after.
He found it shortly at the intersection of two corridors. Two of the guards who maintained peace in the arena stumbled right into Tareth as he padded through the dark passage. They both drew their weapons with a hiss, but before they could bring them to bear on Tareth he'd grasped one by the wrist and used the man as a brace to jump up, catch the other man's face behind his knee and drop to the ground, using the second guard's head as a pad for his landing and his grip on the first as a catapult to sling him into the corner. The impacts made a horrible clatter, but neither got back up.
Tareth laid in the middle of the heap, the only one of the group conscious, as he waited for some sort of response to the noise. When none made itself readily apparent, he rose from the wreckage. For a moment he regarded one of the guardsmen's swords, but turned away without it.
Before he took a single step he heard a soft chuff as in an exhale through large nostrils. To his left, he saw two gleaming points of light, moonlight reflecting from animalistic eyes. With another huff, they rose from waist level to a height of over ten feet.
Tareth clenched his hand, prepared to take on even Beren if he should need to. He dug his toes into the stone flags beneath him, taking a the familiar defiant stance he should have known all along. The eyes, winking greenly in the hallway dropped back down, huffed once, then turned away. Tareth could hear the sound of claws on stone receding, whispered a silent thank you and continued on his path.
He followed the light, only the Lady would be up and in need of it at this hour. When he came to a corridor with burning torches, he followed it until it came to a bend, then a door. Two guards stood at either end of the door, looking drowsy and bored, but still rather awake. Tareth crouched and crept around the corner.
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Tareth Thorn
- Proven Adventurer
- Posts: 187
- Joined: Wed Feb 11, 2004 1:08 am
- Location: Rhydin, somewhere.
Sibhoan sat in the room before his Lady's chambers sharpening one of his two swords, the other lay naked in his lap. He beckoned to one of the two guardsmen in the room with him to bring a cloth sitting nearby so he could polish his weapon. As the man got up, there was a shudder at the pair of doors leading to the corridor.
Were it not for the Lady's warning, Sibhoan would have thought nothing of it, perhaps the guards outside were having a friendly scuffle, perhaps Beren was playing a joke. Things were generally fairly quiet here. Were it not for the Lady's warning, there would be no need for extra guards, but he was expecting the unexpected.
"Draw your weapon and investigate." He commanded the one nearest the door. With a hiss, the guardsman freed his sword and carefully cracked the doors, then peered outside. He slowly crept out, his weapon leading.
Suddenly, a hand gripped the top of his saber, yanking it and the owner through the door into the dark passage. With a yelp, the other guardsman dropped the cloth and pulled his saber, rushing to help his comrade.
"Wait!" Sibhoan shouted, then calmly stood and hefted his twin blades. "It's no good rushing into the dark. And that passage should be lit."
The guard stopped near the still-closed door, raising the blade to cut down anything that came through.
"Tareth? If that's you, I will warn you now the weapons we wield here will hurt you. These are not arena blades." Sibhoan called, but still wondered what good it may do. He had no idea what Tareth was up to, he even doubted Tareth knew himself.
With an explosive crack, the remaining closed door splintered inward, bowling over the guardsman standing behind it. When the debris settled, two guardsmen lay unconscious on the rugs, one having been thrown through the door.
In the broken maw of the destroyed doorway, Tareth beckoned to the floor just inside. "Saw his shadow."
Sibhoan kicked at the cushions on the floor, clearing himself some space. "Are you certain you should do this, Tareth?"
"Nope." Tareth twirled the bladed pike he'd taken from one of the outside guards, letting it rest point-down on the floor. "But that doesn't matter anymore, does it?"
They closed in a matter of steps, Sibhoan taking several splinters from the pike's haft with his initial strikes. Tareth gave ground quickly, barely fending off the blows. Sibhoan swung several more, each taking chips from the wooden haft when Tareth managed to deflect them. One finally got through, scoring a line across Tareth's thigh.
Sibhoan made the mistake of thinking the wound would wake some sense in his opponent, but Tareth seized the opportunity to take a whack at his arm. Sibhoan barely managed to avoid the strike, twirling away and coming back to the offensive. Again Tareth gave ground under the onslaught, was scored once more in the other leg and once on his hand.
Breathing heavily, they came to another stand, each eying the other.
"What must I do here Tareth? Cripple you? Kill you before you stop this?" Sibhoan tried to reason.
"I don't know." Tareth gulped air, digging his toes into the floor. "But I have a feeling we'll find out really soon."
Tareth charged, swinging the spear in a wide arc. With a mighty chop, Sibhoan lopped the pike head off at the place where it had taken so much damage already. However, Tareth didn't stop. He spun with the extra momentum, bringing the butt end around. Sibhoan, not to be caught off guard, parried the end away with his other sword. But Sibhoan had exhausted both his weapons now, and Tareth finished his spin by leaping up and laying the inside of his boot squarely across the side of Sibhoan's head.
"I'm sorry." Tareth said as he let the broken weapon clatter to the ground next to Sibhoan's limp body.
Now there was just one more thing left to do.
Were it not for the Lady's warning, Sibhoan would have thought nothing of it, perhaps the guards outside were having a friendly scuffle, perhaps Beren was playing a joke. Things were generally fairly quiet here. Were it not for the Lady's warning, there would be no need for extra guards, but he was expecting the unexpected.
"Draw your weapon and investigate." He commanded the one nearest the door. With a hiss, the guardsman freed his sword and carefully cracked the doors, then peered outside. He slowly crept out, his weapon leading.
Suddenly, a hand gripped the top of his saber, yanking it and the owner through the door into the dark passage. With a yelp, the other guardsman dropped the cloth and pulled his saber, rushing to help his comrade.
"Wait!" Sibhoan shouted, then calmly stood and hefted his twin blades. "It's no good rushing into the dark. And that passage should be lit."
The guard stopped near the still-closed door, raising the blade to cut down anything that came through.
"Tareth? If that's you, I will warn you now the weapons we wield here will hurt you. These are not arena blades." Sibhoan called, but still wondered what good it may do. He had no idea what Tareth was up to, he even doubted Tareth knew himself.
With an explosive crack, the remaining closed door splintered inward, bowling over the guardsman standing behind it. When the debris settled, two guardsmen lay unconscious on the rugs, one having been thrown through the door.
In the broken maw of the destroyed doorway, Tareth beckoned to the floor just inside. "Saw his shadow."
Sibhoan kicked at the cushions on the floor, clearing himself some space. "Are you certain you should do this, Tareth?"
"Nope." Tareth twirled the bladed pike he'd taken from one of the outside guards, letting it rest point-down on the floor. "But that doesn't matter anymore, does it?"
They closed in a matter of steps, Sibhoan taking several splinters from the pike's haft with his initial strikes. Tareth gave ground quickly, barely fending off the blows. Sibhoan swung several more, each taking chips from the wooden haft when Tareth managed to deflect them. One finally got through, scoring a line across Tareth's thigh.
Sibhoan made the mistake of thinking the wound would wake some sense in his opponent, but Tareth seized the opportunity to take a whack at his arm. Sibhoan barely managed to avoid the strike, twirling away and coming back to the offensive. Again Tareth gave ground under the onslaught, was scored once more in the other leg and once on his hand.
Breathing heavily, they came to another stand, each eying the other.
"What must I do here Tareth? Cripple you? Kill you before you stop this?" Sibhoan tried to reason.
"I don't know." Tareth gulped air, digging his toes into the floor. "But I have a feeling we'll find out really soon."
Tareth charged, swinging the spear in a wide arc. With a mighty chop, Sibhoan lopped the pike head off at the place where it had taken so much damage already. However, Tareth didn't stop. He spun with the extra momentum, bringing the butt end around. Sibhoan, not to be caught off guard, parried the end away with his other sword. But Sibhoan had exhausted both his weapons now, and Tareth finished his spin by leaping up and laying the inside of his boot squarely across the side of Sibhoan's head.
"I'm sorry." Tareth said as he let the broken weapon clatter to the ground next to Sibhoan's limp body.
Now there was just one more thing left to do.
Last edited by Tareth Thorn on Mon Dec 12, 2005 3:15 am, edited 3 times in total.
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Tareth Thorn
- Proven Adventurer
- Posts: 187
- Joined: Wed Feb 11, 2004 1:08 am
- Location: Rhydin, somewhere.
The final two doors flew open as Tareth laid his big boot to them. The White Lady knelt at the end of her bed, the commotion having already drawn her attention. She clutched the sheet to her chest, robbed of the concealing robe and hood.
Even though he thought he was prepared, the sight still froze Tareth's breath in his chest. His throat constricted, his vision blurred, and for a moment he couldn't help but stand and stare at her, his arms and legs bleeding unheeded at his sides.
His Aeislinn.
Her sharp features trembled at his frightening appearance, her icy blue gaze and pale blonde hair only waiting for something to happen. He took a step hesitantly forward, then rushed the last three to grasp her to him and kiss her.
For a moment, he could believe that the years had been undone, that the tables of time no longer existed and events could be erased from the great reckoning. He believed he could love again.
But the cold touch of her lips could not be ignored, the stiffness of her trembling body unwelcome under his touch was as foreign as the hundreds of women who had since tried and failed to fill the same gaping hole in his being.
The reality finally penetrated his thoughts and he slowly let go of the Lady, his vision finally cloudy with tears. It wasn't her. It would never be her.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, her form shuddering as though hit by a strong wind. She too cried, overwhelmed by the staggering sorrow that beat from Tareth like a raging fire. "I told you that here, thought is being. Food is existence, sleep is rest, I... am desire." She slowly licked her lips and settled back on her heels. "But I cannot be your desire."
Tareth stumbled back, unseeing and unfeeling in the haze of utter loss. He fell on his rear and pushed himself awkwardly back from her as if horrified until his back hit the wall.
There he felt something, something that couldn't be. But here, what he could will to be, was. He looked to his right where his hand had hit canvas and there it was indeed, his black rucksack.
For a moment he sat there, stunned. Something in his heart finally snapped, the last thread of some long-forgotten scab that had covered a wound he believed would never heal. He would have time to put that back together later. For now, he knew what to do.
Lifting the bag, he reached inside, closing his hand around the contents of one pocket. If he could get here from there...
His fist glowed as he shook several of the small glass explosives so dear to him. He rose, his face a stone mask. After two steps, he threw the explosives against the side of the White Lady's chamber. On the third he leapt atop her, throwing her down to the bed underneath him as the wash of fire and debris from the explosion engulfed the room. He kissed her then in the maelstrom of fire and destruction, not caring if it was real or not. She was desire at that moment, and she was his, for the last time.
Even though he thought he was prepared, the sight still froze Tareth's breath in his chest. His throat constricted, his vision blurred, and for a moment he couldn't help but stand and stare at her, his arms and legs bleeding unheeded at his sides.
His Aeislinn.
Her sharp features trembled at his frightening appearance, her icy blue gaze and pale blonde hair only waiting for something to happen. He took a step hesitantly forward, then rushed the last three to grasp her to him and kiss her.
For a moment, he could believe that the years had been undone, that the tables of time no longer existed and events could be erased from the great reckoning. He believed he could love again.
But the cold touch of her lips could not be ignored, the stiffness of her trembling body unwelcome under his touch was as foreign as the hundreds of women who had since tried and failed to fill the same gaping hole in his being.
The reality finally penetrated his thoughts and he slowly let go of the Lady, his vision finally cloudy with tears. It wasn't her. It would never be her.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, her form shuddering as though hit by a strong wind. She too cried, overwhelmed by the staggering sorrow that beat from Tareth like a raging fire. "I told you that here, thought is being. Food is existence, sleep is rest, I... am desire." She slowly licked her lips and settled back on her heels. "But I cannot be your desire."
Tareth stumbled back, unseeing and unfeeling in the haze of utter loss. He fell on his rear and pushed himself awkwardly back from her as if horrified until his back hit the wall.
There he felt something, something that couldn't be. But here, what he could will to be, was. He looked to his right where his hand had hit canvas and there it was indeed, his black rucksack.
For a moment he sat there, stunned. Something in his heart finally snapped, the last thread of some long-forgotten scab that had covered a wound he believed would never heal. He would have time to put that back together later. For now, he knew what to do.
Lifting the bag, he reached inside, closing his hand around the contents of one pocket. If he could get here from there...
His fist glowed as he shook several of the small glass explosives so dear to him. He rose, his face a stone mask. After two steps, he threw the explosives against the side of the White Lady's chamber. On the third he leapt atop her, throwing her down to the bed underneath him as the wash of fire and debris from the explosion engulfed the room. He kissed her then in the maelstrom of fire and destruction, not caring if it was real or not. She was desire at that moment, and she was his, for the last time.
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Tareth Thorn
- Proven Adventurer
- Posts: 187
- Joined: Wed Feb 11, 2004 1:08 am
- Location: Rhydin, somewhere.
Feena raised her head from her bosom, sure she heard something from the quiet room. Not much happened on her long watch, nobody could blame her for dozing off, could they? Scanning the many rows of beds, she gasped as one of her charges lifted an arm, which was quite an accomplishment from a room full of coma victims. Lifting the skirts of her habit, she scurried down the row in the center to sit at the side of the man's bed.
"There there dear, rest, rest. It's good you're awake. Drink!" She cupped the man's neck, pressing a dropper to his lips. He swallowed convulsively, then croaked for more. After he'd had several droppers full, she actually got him a glass, which he clumsily managed to choke down.
"What day is it?" He finally inquired of her when he could make his voice work.
"Nearly All-Saints Day, my son." She answered. "You've been with us for nearly a year. A fellow found you out in the snow around the corner, knifed and picked clean you'd been. I daresay it's a good thing you were out in the cold, it preserved you like." She patted at him, assuring him he was safe and sound.
He seemed awake and aware of who he was, so she fed him some soft food and more water.
"So, how do you feel now young man?" Feena glowed, having found a new miracle for her flock to pray over.
"Not dead yet." Tareth chuckled and made a toast to her and hers with his water.
"There there dear, rest, rest. It's good you're awake. Drink!" She cupped the man's neck, pressing a dropper to his lips. He swallowed convulsively, then croaked for more. After he'd had several droppers full, she actually got him a glass, which he clumsily managed to choke down.
"What day is it?" He finally inquired of her when he could make his voice work.
"Nearly All-Saints Day, my son." She answered. "You've been with us for nearly a year. A fellow found you out in the snow around the corner, knifed and picked clean you'd been. I daresay it's a good thing you were out in the cold, it preserved you like." She patted at him, assuring him he was safe and sound.
He seemed awake and aware of who he was, so she fed him some soft food and more water.
"So, how do you feel now young man?" Feena glowed, having found a new miracle for her flock to pray over.
"Not dead yet." Tareth chuckled and made a toast to her and hers with his water.
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