Dawn Glory (FR fantasy)

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i have spam, not critisism, hell I dont even have any constructive spam. sure it could be improved probably but you should try writing the next episode instead of re-writing this one

 

Whew, just read it all, absoloutly flipping fantastic! Hope other people post too, we gotta keep this thing going!

 

Really well written story I hope to see more from you!

 

Gebalo slowly ascended the decaying old wooden ladder. Each step the gnome took, in his mind, increased the likelihood of a serious injury should he fall to the cold library floor many feet below. It was a risk he was willing to take, however, for the glorious end result of his work. At the top of this unsteady climb awaited the book that would signify a great step towards his goal. If the master wizard wasn’t impressed by his work, he decided, there was definitely something wrong with him.
The book in question was Rhygytin’s Essence of Illusion, a large blue tome that had been recommended to him by the master wizard himself. With it, Gebalo would be able to put some starch into what he had superciliously dubbed the Ultimate Illusion, and really show the world of magic what he was capable of. He would surely prove competent in his master’s eyes, perhaps even enough to pass his apprenticeship and become a full illusionist. The gnome certainly knew he had the brains for a fully-fledged career in the arcane arts.
Finally, he reached the volume he was looking for, and gingerly he leaned out to pull it from the shelf. Unfortunately, his stubby little arms were not quite long enough to reach their destination, and for a moment Gebalo was left reaching out into space. He shuddered, and pulled himself back in to the ladder. It creaked unnervingly, and the gnome swallowed a squeak of terror. Slowly, he lowered his hand to his back pocket, and withdrew an odd shaped metal device. It appeared to be an overly thick two-pronged fork, with cylindrical piece of wood attached to the base. Gebalo leaned against the ladder until both of his hands were free, and slowly, ever so slowly, he turned the wooden knob.
As he turned the cog, the pronged section of the fork began to extend upon an unfolding metal pole. Soon, Gebalo held in his hand a three-foot long fork, and he quickly returned his shaking hand to the ladder. Reaching out with his other hand, now, he moved the extended fork out towards the tome. Moving at a snail's pace, he eventually managed to slot the two prongs around the book, and he gently tipped it backwards. He smiled to himself as the volume slipped backwards into the fork…and straight through it, and out into the dark expanse of air between Gebalo and the ground.
“Drienne! Catch!” the frantic gnome yelled, and began to climb down the ladder as quickly as the rotted wood would allow. After what seemed like an hour, his feet finally touched the cold stone floor of the library, but he did not waste any time. He anxiously scanned the floor for any sign of a pulverised book, but found none.
For the shadows of the dimly-lit hall emerged a young woman dressed in simple light blue robes. Her hair was of a brown close to, but not quite, red, and her face wore an open smile. In her hand, she carried Rhygytin’s Essence of Illusion.
Gebalo breathed a sigh of relief.
“Where would you be without me to help you along?” the woman asked jokingly, handing the would-be illusionist the tome.
“Drienne,” he replied, “you’re my saviour.” He studied the book briefly, and then hurried off to his quarters to continue work on his mysterious plans.


OOC: Not a very large post, but I'm lucky I found any time with the wonders of Dungeon Siege ever-beckoning.

Thanks for all the positve replies everyone, keep them up! Although the posts come through slowly, there is life!

 

More More More I want More. Please post MORE

 

His footsteps echoed through the slumbering halls of Morningmist at midnight, although his feet were bare. He wore the robes of an acolyte, but the expression of a philosopher. He wondered whether this was the path for him, but quickly dismissed his doubts. He was just being melodramatic; of course this was what he wanted. He felt more at home here in the temple than he ever had back in Kulta, but that was just the problem.
He had not yet embraced the changes fully. He knew little of the Morninglord’s faith, other than what his rudimentary village education had taught him. Was it his destiny to be torn from the calm life of a forester to the zealous existence of a fighting cleric, through the destruction of an insignificant village, and a chance meeting with a bizarre elf? Evidently so, he mused.
He idly guessed at the reason for the destruction of Kulta. Probably some mage out to settle a score. Lord Galroy had been a man of no little influence; perhaps he had attracted the attention of an angry magic-user. Perhaps the clergy of the small temple of Silvanus had thwarted the plots of some evil, or good, force with their unfailing dedication to balance and neutrality. With a start, Yerril realised that these familiar childhood faces had most likely now become skulls, their legacy and spirit wiped from this reality. It was a harsh concept to deal with. He shuddered at the destruction whatever it was had brought about. It was destruction worthy of Talos-

Where once it had been calm, the blood frothed and churned, as if it were the imitating the sea during a particularly angry storm. The waves rose higher and higher, until the blood rose and became death incarnate.

-himself.
So, Lathander it was. Yerril pictured himself a cleric, wielding portions of his God’s power in the form of powerful spells. Something did not chime just right with the image. Yerril sought, and found, the discordant note. He was averse to borrowing might from a greater being. If he were to serve Lathander, he resolutely decided, he would show his God what he could do for him. He would vanquish the Dawnbringer’s foes by strength of arms alone. He pictured himself wielding a mighty sword, and the notes in his mind rang clear.
“The hour is late, my son, there will be many an hour for ponderings in the morning.” Yerril looked up into the smiling face of the woman he had noticed during his trial, and whom he had later had identified to him as Morninglord Lamuhia, second in command only to Lord Dreen. He observed that his wanderings had taken him to a pew at the front of the temple and, realising he was sitting before a high-ranking member of the church, he scrambled to his feet.
“My lady Lamuhia,” he gasped, formulating an apology. He was interrupted.
“Call me Lamu, or La, everyone else does.” Yerril blinked, and Lamuhia smiled again.
“Sit, Yerril, I can tell that matters weigh on your young mind.” She placed herself on the pew, and gestured that he should join her. Yerril did so, becoming aware once more of the attachment he had formed with this woman he had only just met. It was not a romantic attachment; he had only just passed his fifteenth summer, and she looked to be over thirty. No, it was a kind of motherly attachment, that Yerril starkly realised he had been missing since that fateful day when his life had taken an abrupt turning down another road.
Returning her smile, he placed himself on the wooden bench, maintaining a respectful distance.
“So, tell me, young one, what is that haunts you?”
“I…I suppose,” Yerril began hesitantly, “I am not used to so many life-changing events in such a short time. I have been on the move since that day in autumn when my village was destroyed, and this is the first opportunity I have had to properly think. Nim isn’t exactly the sort of person you confide in.” Lamu cocked an eyebrow.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. I can see that, much like most people master Nimbule meets, you have forgotten his elven heritage. Perhaps it is deliberate on his behalf, but his manner is most unlike that of a common elf, if such a thing exists. He is raucous, bawdy, and a wonderful distraction, not noble, aloof, or mysterious in any way.”
Yerril realised this observation was completely true. He had ceased to notice.
“Whatever the case may be, whether deliberate or not, there remains an elven soul behind that grinning face. Nim retains a good measure of that sensitive, receptive race within him. Perhaps he is more of a confiding sort of person then he lets on.
“But I ramble, we are here to talk about you. Tell me of your heritage.” Yerril saw the clever ploy for what it was, and appreciated the subtle move by his clever confidant.
“My father was a forester – Gulde. He was teaching me the trade. A little strict, perhaps, but he was good to me. My mother was the real parent figure, I think; she taught what little I know of the world. My sister, I-” Yerril’s eyes prickled as he fully appreciated that his sister was gone. He felt no anger, only regret for the loss of one so young. Deep, deep –
“Loss.” Yerril looked up. Through the tears, he saw that Lamu’s face held complete understanding.
“It is a terrible thing to carry around with you,” she continued “It is a pain that is often worse than the physical. It runs deep through your heart, and is hard to purge with mere words. If it will help, I can tell you of my own association with loss.” Yerril nodded; glad to be sharing something with someone so considerate. Lamu settled back, her eyes focused in the past.
“Are you aware of the Time of Troubles?” she asked. Yerril nodded dumbly, but felt he should add more.
“My mother told me of that period. I was around three years old when it occurred, so I remember little of it.”
“Allow me to refresh your memory. Three evil gods; Bhaal, Bane, and Myrkul, stole the tablets of fate – important artefacts vital to the survival of the pantheon of the human gods. As a punishment, lord Ao, the overfather, cast the deities down from the heavens to Faerûn, where they walked in mortal avatars, until the time when the tablets were recovered. Our Lord Lathander was one of these gods, and his divine essence came to rest here, in this very temple.”
Yerril surveyed his surroundings with a new respect. Something occurred to him.
“Does that mean you-” Lamu nodded.
“Yes. I was fortunate enough to be a priest here at that time. The Morninglord possessed the body of one of his faithful paladins of the Order of the Aster. His name was Khuloran, a Sembian born and bred. In fact,” Lamu looked thoughtful, “he was very much like you.”
“A champion of body as well as mind, he offered himself to the Morninglord, and was deemed worthy. Lathander was kept busy for the next few months. Priests from across the realms came to pay their respect, and the Dawnbringer was almost always in conference with the higher-ranking priests of the realm. They discussed his safety from other gods taking the opportunity to move against him, and made preparations for a realms-wide conversion march. To gain an audience, people had to queue for days on end, but our Lord was generous with his healing powers. Many lives were improved in those few months. Whenever I did see him, he was hurrying around the temple grounds with a frown across his perfect features, surrounded by a crowd of babbling advisors.
“It was not until perhaps the fifth tenday that I was finally able to meet Lathander. I had completed all of my duties, and was sat here as we are now, pondering my life, as you were. A melodious voice interrupted my thoughts, as the Morninglord approached me.
‘Lamuhia,’ he spoke, as if my name reminded him of something. Up close, I could see that he had not adjusted his mortal vessel in any way, but for a glowing aura of gold surrounding him. I swear to this day, he was more strikingly beautiful in that moment than any elf could ever hope to be.”
“I leapt to my feet, babbling some nonsense about fetching Lord Dreen, but he silenced me with a wave of his hand. As I stood statue-still, he walked softly up to me, until he was standing no more than a foot in front of me. I raised my head, and looked into his eyes, and for a minute we stood there, looking deep into each other’s souls. In his, I saw endless dawn, endless compassion, endless goodness. What he saw in mine, I know not, but it must have pleased him somehow. He raised his hand to my face, and touched my chin.
‘So perfect,’ he whispered. His touch was bliss, it reinforced my faith more than any speech ever could.” As Lamu spoke this, tears began to fall from her eyes.
“At that moment, Lathander’s advisors burst in. They had been seeking him, and promptly dragged him away from me. I remained standing for what must have been an hour or so, trying to recreate his touch in my mind. It was to no avail, alas, and I returned to my room crying like a child.”
“Our next meeting was not for another tenday. I tried to bury what had happened in my work, and whenever I saw him around the grounds, I merely averted my eyes. He cornered me, however. I was running an errand for my superior, walking along an empty corridor. I nearly walked straight into him. I stopped, my eyes still fixed on the ground. He lifted my chin until he could look into my face. All of a sudden, I remembered what his touch was like, and lived it once more. When I opened my eyes again, there was an expression of infinite sadness on his face.
‘Why do you run from me?’ he asked. I felt as if I had betrayed him somehow, and my sadness for deceiving him was so great, I collapsed into floods of tears. I tried to apologize, to explain somehow, but the words would not come. The next thing I knew, he embraced me, and I knew the endless love of the Morninglord. It is like the boundless energy of a child, mixed with the joy of parenthood, mixed with every other kind of good feeling. I have never felt so loved in all of my life.
“Our love escalated over the next few weeks. We constantly sought each other out, and I noticed that the Morninglord spent progressively more time with me, and progressively less with his advisors. I could not have been happier. Each moment with him was perfect; my mind became free as I was given the full attentions of my God. Eventually, I was by his side always, during the day and at night. I remember, he flew me to the roof of Morningmist one night, and we sat and watched the dawn together. I believe that was the pinnacle of my life, the very apex. He held me, and I murmered,
‘Never leave me,’ and he replied, ‘never.’ To this day he has kept his word. Even now I feel him all around me, in the sun, in the passing of hours, and in everything else eternal. It tore me up inside when he eventually left me.”
“How did it happen?” Yerril asked softly. Lamu continued.
“One day in winter, he awoke restless. I asked him what was wrong, and he replied,
‘He comes.’ He would not reveal any more to me. Later that day, he assembled all of his followers in this hall, and pulled the sword you see upon that altar from nothingness.
‘A gift from me,’ he announced ‘it will protect its wielder from those who seek to use evil as a tool against the Realms. When the dawn is threatened, a mighty warrior will present himself unto you all, and he shall provide the means for that evil to be vanquished.’ With that, he walked from the hall, taking me with him. Once again, he flew me to the roof, and though the wind was biting that day, his aura protected me. He looked me in the eye for the last time, and said
‘I must leave you. But know, whenever you watch the dawn rise, that I am with you in every way possible. I love you.’ We embraced, and when I awoke, I was in my room in the temple, alone.”
“Panic seized me. I ran throughout the temple, calling his name, but he was nowhere to be found. I tore out into the city, running the streets like a madwoman, calling his name over and over until my throat was sore. I could not find him, my reason for life had been pulled from beneath me. I must have run for hours, because when I eventually stopped in a windswept field outside the city, I was exhausted. I collapsed, panting, amongst the tall grass, and it was there that I once more heard his fair voice.
“It was raised in challenge. I looked up, and there in the sky was Lathander, shoulders square, glaring at the figure opposite him. I decided not to attract attention to myself, concentrating instead on the figure that obviously opposed my love. He was cloaked in darkest black, obscuring his face, and all around him roared hurricanes and lightning bolts. I could not here the shouted exchange that passed between them due to the thundering storm, but it was obvious that there was a battle imminent.
“The cloaked figure took the first move. He swept his arms around in front of him, and the lighting was dragged along them and straight into Lathander’s chest. He dropped like a stone, and I screamed out to him. Before he hit, a golden light sprang from his hands like a river, surrounding him, and raising him back up into the air. He clapped his hands together, and the light erupted away from him. It rejoined, and flung itself like a catapult stone at the figure. My momentary thrill was shattered when the light’s target seemed to open up and somehow absorb it. The figure grew bigger, then, all of a sudden, exploded, sending a huge bolt of lightning back at Lathander. His body crumpled in midair, and the golden light surrounding him gathered into a swirling mass that shot up into the sky, leaving the broken body of Khuloran floating above the field. I screamed out again, but my voice was lost in the wind.
“A patch of darkness appeared where the figure had been, and to my horror, it stepped out of it. It raised its hand, and another patch of darkness appeared just below Khuloran’s body. I watched in stunned silence as the paladin’s body dropped into the void and was gone. The figure disappeared.”
Lamu’s eyes were closed, but the tears flowing from under here eyelids did not stop. Yerril hesitantly laid a comforting hand on her shoulder.
“Tirik, another paladin of the Order, found me upon that field a day later, and returned me to the church. After many days spent in unconscious limbo, I awoke. I was informed that Talos, god of destruction, had separated Lathander’s avatar from its divine essence. The Morninglord’s essence returned to Elysium, where, after the tablets of fate were returned, he slowly recovered from his ordeal. The body of my love had been transported to the Negative Material Plane; some said for protection should the need for his return arise, some said for incarceration.
“Whatever the case, he remains there to this day. I spent many tendays as a sad, emotionless wreck. How I recovered, I know not, but I do seem to recall his presence one more time in a dream many nights later. Since then, I have known that he remains by my side in all that I do.” Lamu bowed her head, and the pair sat in silence for a while longer.

 

This is really good, I just can't wait for more, please post more.

 

uh, sorry i havent read it yet as my computer decides to kick me off occasionally when i read large stuff so i guess I'll read it later

EDIT: Well, I mannaged to read it without my computer screwing up and my first thought was This is Godlike. My second response was this rocks. My third response was This is the best Yerril post ever. So there you have it. Post more, quickly.

[This message has been edited by zaknafein (edited May 07, 2002).]

 

Dawn Glory, the blessed halls of the Dawnbringer, was as peaceful as ever. Petitioners, the souls of the faithful of Lathander, wandered around the marble plateaus and tiered gardens of the expansive realm, enjoying the everlasting happiness of the Morninglord and the beatific tranquillity of Elysium. The plane was perfectly suited to the joyful and virtuous deity, but for once, his mood was one of retrospect and sadness.
He sat, alone, by a pool in the centre of a large pillared hall, staring into its crystal waters. The pool was magically enchanted to allow him to see the passing of any events in the realms, from the mighty to the mundane, but the conversation he had just observed was of particular significance to him.
He had never truly forgotten his mortal love, but watching her re-tell their tale to a young initiate brought back memories that had lain unexamined at the back of his godly mind for a long while. He watched in sad reflection as the past unfolded before him, bringing back to him pains that he, as an immortal being, had been unfamiliar with. Loss, grieving - these things were almost unknown to him. He was used to the beginnings he had lovingly crafted continuing for as long he wished, but this was one beginning that could not.
The love he had felt for Lamuhia was true, and he had trouble with the concept of a broken heart. All true love he had ever felt had lasted perpetually– love for his followers, love for the dawn - but this had not. His distress when it became apparent he would have to leave her behind was overwhelming, and he felt as though some measure of his exuberance had been lost on that day. It had been confusing to him; he had assumed that their love was to last forever, and when it had been brutally separated, the pain was great indeed.
He smiled ruefully at her description of his touch. For him, it was her touch that was bliss.
He watched as Lamuhia finished her tale, and the tears on her face matched his own. He recalled the dreamlike state he had spent those few tendays in, unable to focus his attention on anything but her. All other matters had ceased to be relevant. Perhaps that was the reason the Destroyer had come for him – he had sought to take advantage of his moment of weakness.
No, he thought, he could not blame her for what had happened. He would rather have spent what little time he did with her and gone through all the pain of their separation, than spent his time as a mortal in security, and solitude. Nevertheless, those days spent with her were the most beautiful of his millennia-long existence, and he only wished they could have lasted. Now it was all he could do to watch her, and recall.
“My Lord?” Lathander looked up, and rose to meet his proxy, Aurora. She was once a mortal, but the only love he had ever felt for her was that of a god for his faithful. Indeed, when alive, she was his most faithful follower, and her faith, so strong it was, had persuaded him to elevate her to the position of his aide. He looked questioningly at her, and gestured that she should relate her message.
“Lady Chauntea requests your audience, my Lord.” Aurora supplied. Lathander sighed.
“Thank you, tell her I shall be along soon” Lathander smiled through his reflective mood, but he could not bring himself to meet her eyes.
“As you wish.” There was a pause. “Worry not, my Lord, soon Lamuhia will join you in Dawn Glory, and you shall be together for evermore.” Lathander looked up, but Aurora had vanished.

Lost in the events of the Time of Troubles, Yerril once again found himself absorbed in thought within the main hall of the temple. Turning over all that Lamu had said in his mind, he drifted about the hall, eyes staring but unseeing. He gradually became aware of what he was doing, but made no effort to stop. He had noticed himself doing this a lot since his talk with the Dawn Priest; walking about the hall in random patterns, lost within his own mind. He shrugged it aside, however, dismissing it as just a habit, like talking to oneself or biting ones’ nails.
He fully awoke from his ponderings, and discovered that he was standing before the altar, his eyes fixed upon the sword. He looked it at with wonder, passing his hands over the air directly above it. Lathander himself had gifted Morningmist with the weapon, and now he looked upon it up close, he could see what a formidable one it was. It must have been five feet long, although the hilt had to be large to support the massive blade. Where the guard connected with the steel length, the symbol the Dawnbringer – a rising sun – had been inset in tiny gems. He could probably just about lift it with two hands, but he doubted he would be particularly deadly with it.
Once again, he noticed that the blade seemed to be lacking shine, healthiness. Unconsciously, his eyes roved to the spherical clasp at the very end of the grip. He puzzled over why the Morninglord would gift the Hall with a pommel-less, and apparently magic-dead sword.
“It is a mystery, isn’t it?” Yerril whirled around. His eyes fell upon Lamu, resplendent in her robes and headdress, arms outstretched. He hastily stepped back from the altar.
“I…I was just…” Lamu shook her head.
“Worry not. What good is beauty if it cannot be enjoyed? Come, walk with me.” Yerril jumped down from beside the altar, and the two began the walk to the acolyte’s quarters.
“When we realised the sword lacked a pommel, it was too late to ask what it meant,” Lamu began with a touch of regret, “we assumed the problem would solve itself when the time arrived. Perhaps the jewel would be delivered to us from on high, perhaps a member of the clergy had been entrusted with it in secret, and perhaps there was no pommel at all. We all knew the Morninglord would not abandon us with a useless weapon against evil.” Yerril nodded, accepting this explanation without complaint. Something that had been preying on his mind suddenly occurred to him, and he took the opportunity to ask about it.
“La?” he inquired.
“What is it, my son?” Yerril noted Lamu’s mothering words, and felt strangely at ease with them.
“When I was being tested…” he began. Lamu nodded sagely.
“Ah yes, Valanther’s little illusions. Go on.”
“There are only three, right?”
“As far as I know, yes. Lets see…there is the soldier, the druid, and…the pasha, yes?”
“Yes, but what would it mean if there were four?” Yerril asked. Lamu stopped walking and looked at him quizzically. She was slightly shorter than the stocky young man, and had to tilt her head upwards to meet his crystal-blue eyes.
“Four?” she asked incredulously. Yerril ran his hand through his hair at this response, and looked troubled.
“I had the first three, like you said, but after the pasha, there was one more.” Lamu knitted her brow.
“Are you sure? When we watched the magical projection, we only saw three. What was this fourth illusion like?” Yerril sighed.
“That’s the trouble, you see. I can’t tell you. It wasn’t an experience, more like…an anti-experience.” Lamu looked even more confused.
“It was like swimming through treacle - thick, black treacle, except you couldn’t feel the treacle. I couldn’t see, touch, hear, or move, but somehow I knew that the black was sucking away at me. It was like being taught a lot of information in a very short space of time, but backwards. There was no down, up, or sideways, and I shouldn’t have known that, but I did. Then, all of a sudden, that knowledge, and everything else, was sucked away.” All the time Yerril was describing the “anti-experience”, Lamu’s face grew gradually whiter.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. Lamu shook her head.
“Oh, I’m sure its nothing, it’s just…it’s that your description sounds awfully like…like the Negative Material Plane.” Yerril pulled a face.
“How would you know that?” He asked sceptically. Lamu sighed, and began walking again.
“After it happened…the battle, I mean, I spent a lot of my time researching the Plane. I was desperate to find some way to rescue Khuloran. I filled my head with knowledge, but it was just knowledge. I knew inside that I would never have the willpower to stand up to that dreadful place. Without powerful magics, good people like you and I are literally torn apart by the negativity.” Yerril was only half listening, a revelation having just occurred to him.
“If I had a vision of the Negative Material Plane, could that mean that I…I am the one the Morninglord foresaw?” Yerril’s face filled with apprehension and pride with the prospect of being chosen to serve his god on such an epic scale. Lamu stopped abruptly, and laid a firm hand on his shoulder. Looking directly into his face, she spoke;
“Swallow your pride, young man. It is your duty to serve your god in his name, not in your own. Arrogance is the downfall of many, do not add yourself to the ranks of the conceited.” Her face softened at his startled, hurt expression.
“I am sorry, Yerril, truly sorry. We have already found the one Lathander foresaw. It is Tirik, the paladin you saw at your trial. He is a warrior mighty and pure, and Lord Dreen has declared that should evil befall us, he will be the one to take up the sword.” Yerril’s face fell.

 

Keep the posting up. The story is amazing, you should write a novel.

 

Another great post. I wish I had something constructive to say about it but I don't.

 

OK, time for yet another excuse.

Finally, I have finished my geography coursework! YES!! 54 pages of life-consuming excrement!! That is why there have been no posts for the last two weeks.

I am now going on holiday to Florida on Wednesday, for 10 days, so I won't be able to post in that time either.

However, fear not, people who get bored and force themselves to read this junk, there is more to come! I have been spending a lot of my free time (ie. times when I finish all the work set at school early) working on my ideas and building the relationships between the characters. Soon, one more main character will hop aboard the Yerril Train. Also, I have been working on several new locations, and have slightly altered my plans for later on. In addition, a big catastrpohic event is up and coming. Finally, an incredibly large plot twist that I have been debating with myself over will, I have decided, occur, leaving terrible emotional impacts and adding a terrible new threat...

But until then, good spammers, keep it up! If no-one posts I won't be able to reply!

EDIT: LOL, Zak! I never thought of it like that!

[This message has been edited by Sir Yerril of Morningmist (edited May 28, 2002).]

 

u mean that your geography is mire important than entertaining me??!!

 

I think that we just I might forgive you... but you most write right after your vacation

 

Yes, here it is folks, the infamous Story Update! You might want to re-read it all so far, just to make sure you know where you are with the story.

Gebalo sat upon his lumpy bed, his short legs crossed, his eyes shut, and his face creased in concentration. On the stone floor before him a sludge-like form writhed in response to the slight twitches of his fingers. The thrashing blob of brown had no definite shape – whenever it began to vaguely resemble something, it merely sloshed back into an indistinguishable heap. Making a concentrated effort, Gebalo strained his mind to its full capacity. His fingers flexed, and the illusion suddenly grew in height to around human height. Struggling to enforce his will upon the spell, Gebalo gritted his teeth. The five-foot shape began to change colour to a pale blue, and appendages began to form. What had once been brown sludge began to take on the shape of a pair of muscular arms, and from the centre of the shape stretched two long, hairy legs. The four limbs all had a pallid, ashen tone of skin; the network of blue veins apparent beneath surface.
The half-formed illusion stood in the centre of the small circular room, two arms and two legs loosely connected by a frothing brown substance. Gebalo refocused his effort, and the writhing began to calm, the surface of the muck seeming to harden into a clear ovular shape between the appendages. It began to form itself into something distinct, the small waves rippling across the surface leaving areas of different consistency. Soon, the shape of a warrior began to take shape before the gnome, the muscular arms and legs connecting to a heavily armoured torso, and it was not long before a complete illusion of a hardened northerner stood on the stone floor of Gebalo’s quarters. Complete, that was, but for the head. From the neck upwards, the brown sludge still writhed in an indistinct pattern.
Gebalo took a deep breath, and moved his hands upwards and together. Responding to his movement, the sludge sculpted itself into a spherical shape. Two staring, hollow eyes appeared on the surface, swiftly followed by a nose and ears. A small slit opened beneath the nose, and Gebalo leaned forward in anticipation. Never before had he created such a large illusion, and never before had any of them been anything but silent. The slit opened wider and wider, until it was the size of a normal human mouth, but it didn’t stop there. As the hole in the northerner’s unformed face grew, it began to grow impossibly large. The eyes took on an agonized expression, and, to Gebalo’s horror, the illusion shuddered, and began to lurch forward. Panicked, he tried to concentrate on forcing his creation back, but this did nothing to stop the thing’s advance.
In a few, shaking steps, the indistinct warrior had reached Gebalo’s bedside. The gnome’s eyes snapped open. As he watched, quivering, the horribly gaping mouth sucked in air, and the arms shot forward. As the grasping, ethereal hands of the ghoulish thing flew to his neck, Gebalo heard a deafening, low scream erupt from the thing’s yawning maw. The apprentice shrieked in macabre counterpoint, locked in place by his terror.
An instant before the thing’s hands clamped around his neck, the door behind it was blasted open, and it froze. Through the purple smoke wafting around the doorframe strode his master, the high wizard of the tower. He stood, arms akimbo, taking in the scene. Gebalo was pressed against the wall nearest his bed, held in place by an immobile figure – an armoured warrior with a squirming brown blob for a head. The wizard spoke a few clipped words and snapped his fingers, and the illusion faded. Gebalo sighed in relief, and sagged back down onto his bed, his eyes closed as if prepared for sleep.
“Gebalo, what has happened here?” the high wizard asked in a dangerously calm voice. The gnome opened one eye, and lazily regarded his master.
“Oh, nothing, you know,” he replied casually, “just a little experiment gone awry, that’s all.” The high wizard’s sunken features turned bright red with rage.
“You were about to be strangled by a barbarian! I hardly call that nothing!” the mage replied through a snarl, making a visible effort to keep his rage in check. Gebalo sat up.
“Calm down there, baldy, it was just an illusion” he said with a negligent wave of his hand. The high wizard’s hand flew to his receding hairline, and then pointed accusingly at the apprentice as the powerful mage erupted.
“Insufferable gnome!” he bellowed, “How many times have I told you! When in my presence, you will refer to me as ‘master’!”
“Right you are, baldy.” The high wizard seemed not to notice.
“It is time you leaned a valuable lesson about illusion, young apprentice, one, I might add, that all of your fellow students seem to have learned and taken to heart!” he ranted, “You must understand when dealing with what is real and what is false, that illusion cannot hurt you if it remains illusion! It is merely a trick of the mind, and can do you no damage. It is only when people begin to believe in illusion that matters can get out of hand. That which you believe in can hurt you, even kill you, whether it is real or not!” the mage’s face softened and he spoke softly, half to himself, “why do you refuse to learn, Gebalo, why can you not take your studies seriously?” When no reply came from the inattentive gnome, who appeared to be asleep, the high wizard sighed, and paced out of the room.
Gebalo waited for the footsteps to fade, then allowed the worried expression he had been suppressing creep onto his face. Then he shook his head, and stuck out his tongue in the direction of his master

 

sorry, I havent spammed here in ages. Its still all good so keep writing

 

Tirik, chosen of Lathander, pushed open the redwood door to his personal armoury, and crept inside. He had been in and out of this room countless times, but he still entered with the same reverence and caution he always had. This room contained many artefacts of immense power, all of which deserved the respect he gave.
Despite his appearance, Tirik was not a young man. The favour of Lathander had sustained his life for over a century, although it was only since the avatar crisis, and the death of his companion and friend Khuloran, that he had realised why. He had been singled out by the church to be the champion of the Dawnbringer, and had accepted the task willingly. He had been destined to serve, and Lathander’s grace allowed him to do so long after his time.
He had not wasted his many years, preferring to actively serve his god. He had travelled on numerous quests with numerous allies, many of whom, he noted with a twinge, had now passed away. He had witnessed the birth of both Chansobel Dreen and Lamuhia, and fully expected to witness their deaths, too. He had adventured with many friends, gradually gaining power over a lifetime much longer than most humans would expect to lead. His many, many years of fighting had gained him a formidable level of power, and his travels had gained him an impressive arsenal.
His favourite weapon, the mighty warhammer he had used to defeat the Bebilith in the docks, he had retrieved from the lair of Illithids. The price, however, had been high. The quest, although successful, had resulted in the death of the psionicist with whom he had travelled with. The man had died waging a mental battle against the might of the Mind Flayers, and had eventually lost. Before the horrid, squid-like creatures could turn on him, though, Tirik had snatched the hammer from the Illithids’ horde, and used it to pulverize the Master Brain. Without their enhanced telepathic communication, the creatures became temporarily dazed and bemused – which was time enough for Tirik to pick them off, one by one. The warhammer had a powerful enchantment placed upon it that lent its wielder great strength – and Tirik had sworn to himself that he would always use it honourably and wisely in the memory of his lost friend.
He regarded his weapon now, hanging upon the wall amongst all the other items he had collected over his adventuring days. He had retired from that life now, resigning himself to the tutelage of fledgling paladins at Morningmist Hall. In his opinion, even after his many decades of service, going back to basics with the acolytes was the best way to prepare himself. By surrounding himself with the teachings of the Dawnbringer, he could truly understand what it was he would be fighting for. He pulled down his hammer from the wall, selected some light elven chainmail gifted to him by a grateful community of Green elves after saving their village from an onslaught of drow, and marched off to his first class of the day.
He was barely out of the door before he was met with the smiling face of the purple-robed Valanther. She laid a hand on his shoulder, and declared,
“You appear disheartened. What is the problem?” Caught off balance by the sudden appearance of the cleric, Tirik could only smile back. Valanther arched an eyebrow.
“Don’t try that with me. Something is wrong, I can tell.” The persistent look in her eyes betrayed genuine concern, and the paladin sighed, turning away.
“I was just… reminiscing,” he said, starting the walk through the arched halls of the temple towards the sparring chamber. Valanther ran to catch up with him, then strode alongside him, matching his pace.
“ That is not all, is it?” Tirik stopped. He shook his head.
“You always see through me, Valanther,” he began, “you’re perceptive, yet sensitive. You don’t use what you see against people, but as a way of helping them. That’s one of the reasons I love you.” The paladin kissed the cleric on the forehead, causing her to giggle, and the two continued walking at a slower pace.
“You’re right,” Tirik admitted, “it’s more than the nostalgia of a romantic fool. Its just…sometimes I worry. I worry that somehow I will…fail in my task. To be sure, when the time comes, I shall try my utmost to carry out the will of Lathander, yet I cannot be sure I will prevail. The people I love put so much faith in me, so much trust - the thought of failing them is unbearable to me. I fear that I will let down my companions, my friends, my god. I fear that I will let down…you. That is more than I can bear.” They stopped at the door to the sparring chamber, and the paladin hung his head, as if he were ashamed of his words.
Valanther reached up to touch his face.
“No matter what will come later, know that you shall always have me. It matters little to me whether you succeed or fail - be safe in the knowledge that I am forever yours.” The cleric turned and strode off down the corridor, stopping only once to blow a kiss to the reflective paladin. Tirik sighed, and stepped through the door into the sparring chamber – the room where all initiates came to begin their training in armed combat.
Bedlam greeted him, as it did every year, without fail. Female acolytes were trained in separate chambers for the first two years, leaving Tirik with a group of around thirty males. Unfortunately, it seemed that growing boys, when given a weapon of any sort, simply could not resist putting it to use. Shouts of anger and pain echoed around the low-ceilinged, featureless room, as what looked like an enormous melee battle raged in the centre. All of the young pupils had a wooden weapon of some sort, and were climbing over each other to get to the very middle of the fight. A young, blonde acolyte with a solid oak bastard sword was furiously engaged in the attempted destruction of a small, dark-looking boy with a short sword in either hand. The bigger lad held the sword in both hands, making bold sweeping actions back and forward, up and down, and it was all the smaller one could do to block or duck the attacks. He was obviously of the noble class, most likely sent to the church by parents wanting nothing more than for him to start up a life away from them.
The other boys had obviously chosen their sides, and were either attempting to attack one of the two duellists, or were waging their own, private wars towards the edge of the fray. Tirik watched the wild, brutish swipes of the blonde acolyte with a grim expression. The young man was merely using his superior strength against his opponent – had the small boy been any more experienced he could easily have overcome him by stepping inside the swing of the sword. The paladin shook his head, and bellowed at the top of his voice.
“Stop!” At once, all motion ceased. Thirty heads turned to face their teacher, and all of a sudden the boys seemed less interested in fighting, and more concerned with getting away from the two central combatants. The two were left on their own in the centre of the room, the larger boy holding his wooden sword high above his head, the smaller cowering beneath his upraised short swords. They remained frozen in position, as Tirik slowly advanced on them. He stopped before the obviously Sembian youth, and studied his face. There was nothing there but anger – no fear, no anxiety, just an open desire to slay. The paladin drew a slender knife from his boot, noting with satisfaction the gasps from around the room. Suddenly, he jabbed the knife towards the young man, who flinched but did not step away, stopping the blade an inch before his unprotected chest.
“Never,” he declared to the class, “leave your heart unprotected. Had our snivelling friend,” he indicated the cowering boy with the short swords, “been an experienced warrior, he could have slipped his blade right through this lad’s armpit and into his chest. One strike, and you would have been dead.” The paladin looked straight into the acolyte’s eyes. “Remember, Yerril, discipline is the key to overcoming your enemy.” He turned to face the rest of the class, arms outstretched.
“Now, let us begin your training.”


OOC - More SPAMMING, please!

 

Spam is my specialty, especially here

 

woooooaaaah!
Amazing stuff Yerril, keep it up!

 

Pretty good stuff, dear friend, keep it up