Hjolnai

Life and death, blood and pain come and fill the well again. Town walls break, buildings burn, why is it that life you spurn? Many thousands full of life, many graves come from this strife. Finally the war is done. So much loss for everyone. Tomorrow you will come to see now that you've defeated me, Anger now lies in my heart and war again begins to start. On and on the years go by, yet more ways for all to die. Conquest comes through yet again, rebellion stirs in the hearts of men. Once you're dead it will not end, for many more have you frightened. The fear then kindles a bright spark a spark of war, another dark. Another rises, conquers more, covers all the fields with gore. Life and death bring blood and pain, the cycle rolls back on again. I know the rhyme of end and frightened is a bit strained, but I'm not sure what would fit better. As for the rest... I think it gets the point across, although it could use work.

Solorassil sat in a corner for a very, perhaps even suspiciously, long time, dark clouds tentatively chasing each other around his shrouded form as he thought intensely. Hmm.... I think I need to make something "normal", but with just a little of the exotic about it to avoid looking like I'm trying too hard to seem normal. I know, a cake is the perfect thing to make. Now, what cake recipes did that chef have? A chocolate cake? Too ordinary. Tower cake? Perhaps a little too exotic... and only half edible, as the structure needs wood. Toffee souffle might work... but it's just too suspicious to be cooking something so... unconventional, and no one liked it when it was last made, because it's too much of a solid block. Actually, that gives me an idea... the tower cake is probably similar enough to what people here know as a wedding cake, so it would be rather ordinary instead of outlandish as I first thought. I can make it a little more unconventional with ease. Still, I should keep looking through the chef's memories... there may be just the perfect dish to come second in this contest (first would be too suspicious). Maybe... Several minutes later, Solorassil stood, and confidently walked off to look for some ingredients as his cloudy aura swirled purposefully.

Solorassil walks into the Conservatory, the dense fog surrounding him swirling in grey clouds. Pretending to not notice anyone staring, he reads the poster. Ah, a cooking contest. A perfect way to make myself known, allay suspicion about my clouded form and build trust. This is exactly what I need. Now, as for what I'll cook... I knew these memories stolen from a chef would be useful, particularly with the joy infused in them. Still, I'm not sure whether I can reconstitute the recipes from just a few frames... but taking all uses of them would have made my theft too obvious. Solorassil signs the page with a faint flourish, and then turns away to see if he can converse with someone and reduce the expected distrust.

Solorassil walked quite rapidly along the road. He would have looked quite human, if it weren't for the dense, dark fog which surrounded him, making observation difficult. His determined stride took him toward the gates of the Pen. Presently, he arrived at the open gate of the keep, and knocked sharply on the wall beside the gate. Bill the gate guard looked up from his book, and saw the shadowy figure; he nearly fell off his seat in surprise. After taking a moment to mutter about how he "should be used to this by now, with all the magic here", Bill stood and spoke clearly. "Who are you, and why does one so evil-looking seek to enter the halls of the Pen?" "I am Solorassil, and please do not hold my appearance against me; I have no choice how I look. I came to the keep of the Pen to avoid persecution over my... unusual appearance." "Well, all right then... you can go in. But don't go making me regret it." Surprising, they're as accepting as the rumours which brought me here. I should be able to collect many memories without being caught, with the eccentricity of the inhabitants... perfect. Still, I must be very careful; if they divine my purpose in being here, I'll lose an excellent source of minds to steal good memories from. I'll just have to befriend as many as possible, so that I become a pillar of the community. Only a few memories should be stolen at first, because everyone will be suspicious for six months or so... but I'll be making sure not to take any memories which will have their absence noticed anyway, and avoid taking any risks. Continuing to scheme, Solorassil made his way into the depths of the keep, seeking a way to show himself to be harmless. OOC: Sorry if I'm stepping on anyone's toes with Bill the Gate Guard here, but I didn't really want to search for other depictions of the Pen gates and guards at the moment.

Name Hjolnai Physical Description Hjolnai appears to be a mage's staff; to be more precise, he looks roughly like a wooden pole about 1.5 metres (5 feet) long and 5cm (roughly 2 inches) thick. Embedded in the wood, all along the length of the staff, are crystal shards, which glow almost steadily, though there is a faint pulse to them. Their colour is currently undetermined. Hjolnai also has runes carved all down his length, and has as his head a more gnarled wooden piece, vaguely resembling a carving of a dragon's head. There are no visible representations of eyes. Hjolnai's former, humanoid form does not have a description at present, as at present he has been stuck as a staff for some time. Abilities: Hjolnai uses arcane magic, and tends to overreach his spellcasting capacity. This has led to his current form as a staff, and often causes difficulties when spells do the unexpected. One of Hjolnai's spells is Illusory Division. This spell allows him to create a vast number of immobile illusions on a grid with a set distance between them. Personality: Hjolnai has a somewhat chaotic personality; he uses magics he does not necessarily understand almost on a whim. He is not completely irresponsible, however; he is motivated by loyalty and courage despite his irresponsibility. He is prideful and overly willing to act on his whims, but not necessarily evil. Still, his tendency to speak or act on the first thought to come into his head can be quite destructive, and he often reacts completely unexpectedly to events based on this. Hjolnai does tend to have mood shifts, though perhaps not quite swings. He merely has a tendency to remember the most recent significant events, and consider them first. He could be angry one minute, and laughing at someone's joke the next. Though irrational and chaotic, Hjolnai is not stupid. With his lack of patience, great intelligence indeed would be needed to learn more quickly. After all, he hardly spends a long time studying.

Warning: excessively lengthy blocks of text in some paragraphs “To Hell and back! To Hell and back!” the soldier chanted, as the huge column marched through the ancient Gate. I stood in the shelters erected by archaeologists around the sides, to preserve artefacts which were dug up with remarkable regularity, and tried to avoid deafness as I waited and watched the column, while the archaeologists toiled on, despite the thundrous (and unusual) war chant. I am one of the Ten, a council of leaders each with unique powers and remarkable longevity. Not that we’re much of a council anymore; though many years ago we were united, I can hardly remember a time when we stood not in conflict. It is this place which did it. Somehow, though the memory fades now, all ten of us found ourselves here, among many others from wherever we were before. The normal people multiplied over the centuries, but almost as soon as we arrived, the conflict began. Friction came, of course, from the one who has mastered it. His vast strength and manipulation of external friction (to stand on ice, or stop an arrow in midair) may have led to his ambition, but I think he simply saw that in this land we were free of the restrictions placed on us before. Certainly, he could no longer tolerate the master of cold leading us, though I don’t remember whether they had any animosity prior to our arrival. A thousand years, after all, dulls the memory, though not my senses. At one point, very recently, they came to blows. Spheres of frost were shattered, and icy wind threw great strength back. Friction could not get close enough to destroy the cold, but was left almost unharmed in his turn. Names, of course, are absent among the Ten. In any case, I think the end of that battle was the destruction which threatened us at the Gate, or perhaps it caused the destruction itself. Perhaps I knew, perhaps I saw, for observation is, after all, my talent, but my memory has long been crippled; when you see too much, you are overwhelmed... or perhaps, in looking too far into the darkness, it looked back. I don’t remember. The land we stood on is a great, floating island; nothing but air beneath it, and I forget how we got there. Perhaps it was through the portal I so recently stood beside, as soldiers marched through; or perhaps one of us, one of the Ten, did it. In any case, I’m getting side-tracked again. What should I tell of next? Ah yes, the soldiers and their unique cry of “To Hell and back! To Hell and back!” which still rings in my ears. They were not all soldiers, in fact very few of them were. The destruction I mentioned earlier was a strange thing. Rocks falling from nowhere, the island shaking in its airy space, splitting apart in places and forming hills in others. As I said, I’m not certain what the cause was, but it may have been the battle between the divided Ten. And now I’ve forgotten which side I stood on, not that it mattered that much. The Ten are mostly too direct for an observer to have much impact on our internal battle; mostly everyone knew where everyone else was, with exceptions. Friction made a compelling argument against maintaining our structure from the time before, while the cold led us back there, and did so with icy judgment and logic; that makes him sound dark, in a way, but he wasn’t like that really. We trusted him. And now it must sound like the Ten are all male; but that is a false impression. Unfortunately, I cannot remember any of the other seven right now, but we are a varied group, and at least one of us must have died and been replaced. I digress, I have lost the thread again. With the destruction tearing apart our land, we knew we had to flee. The divided Ten put aside our differences for the first time in centuries, and I searched for a way of escape. I took but days to find the Gate which must have been buried for almost as long as we’ve been here, if not longer. I’m not completely useless, no matter how bad my memory is, and how weak my grasp of names. Anyway, with our small world collapsing, hundreds dead already and what precious time we had almost gone, the Ten decided to arm everyone we could, even if they’d never lifted a sword before. Beyond the gate might have been anything, and hence the warcry: “To Hell and back!” If we went prepared for Hell, we just might survive. And now I come to the time when I stood by the portal, overseeing two or three decrepit archaeologists gathering the last of our history to take through after the rest of the populace took the Gate, when perhaps it might be safe beyond. Most of the Ten were on the other side, ice and friction working together again, charisma and shadow (whom only I can see when cloaked in shadow), though I think healing was still at the back, helping stragglers. These are not their names, of course (I think, perhaps they are though), but their spheres of influence. My memory is too damaged or overflowing for names, which are but words unrelated to the people they detail. The column was very long, and I must have stood for hours as they marched through, two by two, in perfect step despite our almost complete lack of military outside the Ten until about a week ago. The gate was too small for more than two at a time. The day before the march, fires had come from the ground, marking an extension of the previous destruction, and haste was absolutely essential. Only I saw the fire, for it devoured a town several miles from the city, which had already been evacuated in preparation for leaving. Still, my words lent the necessary urgency. Finally, the column abated. My team of aged archaeologists stepped through with their barrows of history and powerful relics, and then the Ten healer (who must have been at the back, as I thought) shook my shoulder and ordered me sharply through the portal, sharply so I would cease staring at sand, seeing the individual grains, and the tiny parts within the grains, smaller and smaller... Oh, sorry, that’s right. We were the last two to step through the portal, and seconds later were somewhere else. I may later have gone looking with my mind for the island on which we spent a thousand years, or perhaps not. I think I did, but I don’t remember whether it’s still there or destroyed, so... I shall look when I’ve finished speaking, I suppose. Now, on the other side of the portal... the Gate... we were standing... in a forest, I think, not much different from the island itself. The portal exploded, vanished, froze over, was destroyed somehow. I followed the column which had continued to march through for a while, and after a bit of following I found myself in a castle or tower ruin. Distracted by something your senses could not comprehend, I sat down and stared deep into the pile of rubble which must have been a stone wall. I saw... something important, but I’ve lost what it was. Some sign that the Ten had been there, nothing important really. After all, some of us had been here for hours. But then, I stopped looking and thought, why would our power be buried in rubble? And why is the moss intact? I looked again, and found that the power was old. Very old. Perhaps this was a ruin from a war we led, but I don’t think we fought that much before we were on the island. Later, we had a meeting of the Ten. There was plainly still some frozen conflict between a few of us, but little. There was war. We fought the inhabitants of this place for some reason, maybe to do with having somewhere to live. The battle was bloodthirsty, so perhaps the war cry was accurate: perhaps this truly was a hell. I looked straight at whoever said they ambushed us; I saw right through him. We had initiated combat, why? I told healing, whose name I should remember; with the shattered remnants of my memory, he or she helped me most. After all, is not a healer’s way to help with injury? Regardless, healing launched an accusation, I forget who was accused, but it was the liar. Perhaps it may seem strange that healing was more able to be aggressive than I, but a cancer must be cut out, so perhaps not so strange. I am too passive an observer anyway. I do not remember what happened next, but I think at least one of the Ten died that night. The next morning, it must have been, a great speech was given, something about how the enemy must be destroyed so we could survive, and this was the test of Hell of which they had chanted. I remember nothing for at least another week, I think. This is loosely based on a dream I had this morning, but the dream was mostly in chronological order and I only really remember 2 scenes; a fight between someone using magical ice and a gigantic figure with strength and endurance and some visible magic, and a gate with people digging at both sides (archaeologists) while a long column of soldiers marched and chanted in impressive unison, “To Hell and back!” I do remember some background from the dream, such as being somewhere else a long time ago and being on a floating island, but those weren't images in my memory. I just realized that there are some huge blocks of text there, so I'll try some editing to break it up a bit, I think.

Thanks for your useful feedback; not certain whether I'll come back to it, but if I do I think I might try to make it clearer that Tim, Bill and James are the same person; "I'll call him Tim for now, because I can only remember one name;..." was intended to be something of a joke, as he's supposed to be remembering the reader's name, and so is unable to remember even the arbitrary name he chose on the spot. On the other hand, I see what you mean about expanding to look around the "workplace" Hell a bit more. If I decide to return to this piece (unlikely, given my track record...), your feedback should prove useful.

Welcome to Hell. Not what you were expecting, is it? You, a good Christian, in this place of blood and fire. Not that there's any of that. No, nothing so interesting happens here, just toil. You will work ceaselessly for an eternity, never resting, never eating, never drinking. And for what? Above in Heaven, the feasting, the enjoyment, everything, is reserved for those who cared not. Here are the things you need to know before you start. Firstly, I am the Devil, Satan, Lucifer... and yet none of those labels fit me. I do not wish for suffering, and if I could release everyone here into Oblivion I would. God must have his produce, though, or the murderers' heaven will collapse; there is balance in the Dead realms as much as in life. You see that person over there? I'll call him Tim for now, because I can only remember one name; God placed restrictions on me. Now, Bill lived a good life. He stood up for any suffering religious persecution, no matter who they called a god. Now, James works here as he has for fifty years; I only recently managed to introduce atheism to Earth. That brings me to another point. The order of the afterlife is against my liking. While you, and almost infinite others, labour here, I plot to overthrow God and free you. Not to put the evil in this place, just to make them see Oblivion, so that those here might have the freedom they deserve in death. Oblivion is not such a bad fate, after all; even God longs for it, though It will not let itself realize. So, remember while you labour here. For every task you do above what is required, we gain resources for the war effort. Your excess toil will eventually lead to your freedom, and that of all else here. Will you choose the God who lied to you, the God who forces the good to serve the evil, or will you work for the freedom of all those here, and the righteous among the living, even as it serves the Devil? To be continued, or possibly heavily edited.

Lokriad got out of the seat from which he had apparently been reading all night, and hauled his reading desk away from the cell door. With the lockdown at an end, meals would be available soon. Once the doors were unlocked, he painstakingly made his way to the dining rooms (which usually served surprisingly good meals for a prison, presumably on the basis that bad food and insanity would not mix) without taking his eyes off his book, as usual. For once, however, he kept to the side of the halls, rather than striding through the centre and leaving sidestepping to anyone going the other way. As he walked, however, he caught the scent of blood, and noticed two guards standing before the bars of another cell. He saw red in the corner of his eye, then let his book drop from its constant place in front of his face. He stared in shock at the horrifying corpse behind the bars, for it was far beyond all the death he had seen before (and sometimes caused). He backed away quickly, then drew his book back up, unwilling to consider the image before him. In the meantime, the guards saw his reaction. One muttered to the other, "This Lokriad bears watching. No prisoner has been shaken this much, this is probably an act. What's he thinking behind that book anyway?"

Snypiuer, I'd certainly be happy for you to write with Alten, and I've written a piece in the Piazza of Portraits of my view of him in case that helps. As you said, though, having too strong a grip on the character might be a hindrance, so there's no need to read it if you think you already have a strong enough grip on the character. I'd like to see your idea of him, although of course it's completely up to you whether you want to write about him. The same goes for anyone else who wants to write with one of my characters; as I've said already, go ahead, and most of them have a piece in the Piazza of Portraits if you think it helps. I'll also think about writing from someone else's point of view, as I've already said in a previous post.

Name Alten Race Human, at least by birth. His profession may make him seem something... more, or perhaps less. Occupation Martial Artist, also described as an Atheist Monk; this is not just a profession, but a way of life for him. Beliefs Alten is an atheist, but shares many of the beliefs of a monk. He has a strong belief in himself, which is necessary for his abilities. Substantially more detail may be added later. Alten does not indulge himself in many ways. He eats little, and healthily, drinks only water most of the time, and forces himself to avoid anger or other mind-clouding emotions. He has a constant struggle with pride and is deeply introspective, sometimes considering leaving his path as a martial artist completely, but never for very long. He does not consider a middle way of more indulgence much. He also does not speak much, preferring to listen to his own thoughts and knowing that he cannot afford to grow attached to anyone if he wishes to hold to his path. Regardless, he has a strong sense of duty. Alten also believes in protecting others; he knows that he has made many sacrifices for his skills, and feels he has sacrificed his emotions so that others might experience life without fear. It is through this sense of duty that he holds his self-discipline constant. Abilities (great big wall of text, may be set out better later) Alten's abilities are at least partially based on the abilities of a D&D monk, although as an atheist he does not exactly fit into that definition. He has muscular control and concentration far beyond the norm, which allows him to clamp muscles around an injury to slow the bleeding; this does inhibit movement though. He can also purge himself of most toxins and diseases, either through forcing poisons out through a cut or by consciously fighting them with his immune system, metabolism and so on; this requires most of his intense concentration, and as such can be too much of a distraction in combat. He is also very resistant to cold and heat, at least when it comes to weather, and he does not scar much. He makes very effective use of his strength, with every bit of his weight behind his blows and a huge capacity to leap great distances. However, he is not much more than average in strength, for someone who exercises quite extensively, and lifting heavy weights is hardly easier than normal. The concept of ki, chi, or a variety of other names for the subtle energy used by martial artists, is applied by Alten. Although it is not known to manifest itself in anything beyond being used as a method of breathing to increase the power behind blows, Alten can make some other use of it to make himself suffer less injury from a blow. This is neither easy nor reliable, and takes his concentration away from a battle, potentially leaving him open to a second blow, but in some cases may be enough to save his life. Basically, as a martial artist, Alten seems much faster, more agile and tougher than he should be, but if his concentration is disrupted he can be left at a severe disadvantage. Equipment Alten wears undyed robes of worn cotton. He mostly walks barefoot, and carries little. Weapons and armour are completely absent, but he may carry a little plain food, like rice, when travelling. For longer trips, he may take an apple or two, but almost never any meat; he is capable of hunting with his bare hands, though he would rarely hunt anything larger than a rabbit, being unwilling to carry a large lump of meat or waste much when a life is lost for it.

Not sure if anyone would want to use any of my characters, but if you do, go ahead, I don't mind. I also might consider writing a piece, but I don't really make a close enough study of anyone's character development.

Lokriad continued to sit in his cell, turning page after page, and scarcely acknowledging the shouting down the corridor. Finally, he grew tired of the distraction, and spoke quietly to himself; "This annoyance is beyond reasonable; perhaps one of these guards is more dangerous than the other inmates...". He then called out, just below shouting volume, "Keep it down! I'm trying to concentrate here!". He then realized that his words would be more likely to provoke further distraction than to help. OOC: oops... voting for an NPC probably is pointless. I'd agree that Tony presently seems the most dangerous character. We need a bit of plot progression, I think, because the lockdown is making it hard for any progress to occur. Vote changed to Tony.

OOC: At present we all seem to still be stuck in the initial lockdown, so I really have no idea what to write. However, my vote goes to Donovan.

Lokriad sat in his cell reading, giving no sign of concern as to the events of the day. If anything, he almost seemed happier at not having any distractions from his book, despite the circumstances. His only concession to danger was moving his heavy desk to block the door, and sitting at it so that he could glance past his book and through the bars at anyone who might approach. In this manner he waited patiently for the panic to end.

(OOC) Happy Birthday. I'm just a bit too tired to write more, but I might add something tomorrow.

As my initial character concept was fairly nonspecific, I will now give a better description of my character. Lokriad is a veritable giant who always gives the impression of being enclosed in a space too small. This is accentuated by the fact that he tends to walk hunched over, with his head bent down nearly to the level of his shoulders, and a book is held firmly in his vision. Should anyone be impolite enough to physically disrupt his vision of the book, he has a strong tendency to take a thin dagger from just inside the cover and leave the unfortunate disruptor bleeding on the ground; the important rule which other people failed to follow (and thus leading to Lokriad being in this asylum) is not to touch the book or wave hands in front of it (lest they be cut off). If this is avoided, Lokriad is relatively harmless and can hold an intelligent conversation on a variety of issues, and indeed has an uncanny tendency to know almost all available information on any topic you care to discuss. This does tend to shorten conversations, however; it is difficult to converse with someone who is so well informed. Partially due to this and the ever-present book, Lokriad is a very distant personality, and it is rare for him to take an obvious interest in anything else. This distance has only grown wider in the asylum. It should also be noted that Lokriad's book covers never seem to change, but the few foolhardy enough to watch over his shoulder have never seen the same page twice; in fact, a recent eavesdropper (who lost three fingers) noted the page number 1 162 483 (Note: 2/3 of all the minutes in 40 years is 1 401 600). Despite this, Lokriad does not appear to be beyond middle age; in fact, he seems not far over 30. To the few who bother to consider all this information in the asylum (watching potential enemies is an essential survival strategy for some of the less-mad inhabitants), this is something of an unsolved mystery. Lokriad also seems unconcerned with weather, always wearing warm clothes even in midsummer and ignoring the rain apart from in preservation of his book. More possible detail may be developed with the game, but that is uncertain.

I'm strongly considering entering. At present, I'm considering a character to use, too; seemingly harmless (and indeed has a strong conscience), until directly insulted, at which point he goes berserk and has a tendency to kill anyone in the vicinity, with the brain practically bypassed by sheer physical rage. Possibly a failed creation of unethical scientists (due to passive nature when not incited), and a few other ideas I'm still thinking about.

Inaction is timeless, action is transient. Inaction is death, action is life. Inaction is boring, action is painful. Inaction is pointless, action is ineffective. Inaction is comfortable, action is exciting. Inaction is sleep, action is wakefulness So many more, of varying degrees of optimism/pessimism/paranoia, could apply so well to different people. I really couldn't pick a particular one to adhere to, as different moods strike at different times. Let it suffice to say, a balance should be struck between inaction and action.

Thanks for your feedback, I guess it makes sense to put the raw material in a prose form first to hold the story together, and I'll bear that in mind next time. Now that I look at it again, I see what you mean about "inside" being better, and I'll try "within" for now. As for "Come deep through here", I think I just couldn't remember any effective synonyms, which is why the line ended up so unwieldy. I've also written a second half for the poem, but I'm not sure if it fits; being in a different format may not be suitable, even taking it as a turning point in the poem. The last stanza was accidentally left off when I began writing again, and I don't think it really fits with the new content, although at present nothing is set in stone. I may end up going back to that direction, since I'm writing this with such an indecisive approach anyway. In any case, I'll most likely make the new portion a single format, although not the same as the first half (longer lines and/or more per stanza). I stand in the Void magically held watching, in silence, a battle. Explosions sear, fire bursts forth, but all, in the Void, is null. A great ship flies past, disintegrating rapidly. Still I hear nothing. Time flows on. At last, this battle seems almost to cease One side flees, the other stays. A monolith approaches. A door opens A human in silver floats out. His bubbled head nods, he points and gestures, indicating the door. I follow. I find myself within a place so foul I can hardly bear to stay. Unflickering, pale light flows through steel corridors, as stale air seeps through my arcane bubble. Here, away from the dark emptiness I begin to pity the wielders of the dark arts of Technology. They are lost, for the majesty of existence is ignored in favour of assigning a number or an explanation and taking no notice of the innate beauty, which cannot be conveyed with a number. On my world, however, Magic is a way of life. No such unnatural light, ours; for our arcane lights shine as though natural, or glow with flame and the beauty of the land is unmarred by poisons, poured out by the tonne. Now I stand in a large room, where many Technologists glare at me, gabbling questions in their strange tongue. I raise my hands and incant, and now what they say is clear They wish to know how I survived in the Void, which they call "space", but my answer they will not accept; magic. Now hostile, they are, made so by fear and confusion. Seeing strange weapons directed upon me, I realise it is time to leave. Twisting the gold ring on my finger, my head aches as I feel the pull and I stand clearly on good soil. The sun shines strongly, and the land has a serenity of its own. This must not be spoiled by Science.

Since I have again been working on an essay for English, I again feel like writing fiction-based poetry (to clear my head), so I think I'll try to clear up this poem into a slightly less disastrous form, following the format of the first two stanzas. I stand in the Void magically held watching, in silence, a battle. Explosions sear, fire bursts forth, but all, in the Void, is null. A great ship flies past, disintegrating rapidly. Still I hear nothing. Time flows on. At last, this battle seems almost to cease One side flees, the other stays. A monolith approaches. A door opens A human in silver floats out. His bubbled head nods, he points and gestures, indicating the door. I follow. I find myself in a place so foul I can hardly bear to stay. The ships of Science were never meant to come deep through here, the Void. I seem to have taken this in a different direction to the one I was going earlier; I'll probably try something I've never done before: rewriting completely differently a few times (as opposed to simply editing the structure already complete), and decide on which direction to go in. If anyone has any comments, I'd be most appreciative.

I stand in the Void magically held watching, in silence, a battle. Explosions sear, fire bursts forth, but all, in the Void, is null. No sound, no heat, no fire can be seen to last but a second For in the Void, all is dark, save the stars, burning eternally. All is silent, as all is absent. Without magic, none survive. Yet somehow the scientists manage. They built great ships, which now battle and explode in silence, for one thing they did not predict. Madness. For that is another thing my magic keeps at bay; the void holds little, the mind too much. In this, at least, Science is held back and magic may remain. Yes, this work has somewhat insane use of stanza lengths, and probably doesn't make very good use of the format of poetry, but I'm tired, and I felt like making something up to refresh myself. The concept, more than the writing, is what I hope to be conveyed for now, but maybe later I'll be prepared to put more time into it, making it somewhat more uniform, and hopefully better-written overall. Feel free to comment in the meantime, though.

Alten kept the foreign thought at the front of his mind, while behind it he thought, This spell must be undirected; if it had been intended to attack me no knife would be needed, and in any case, if they knew of me they would not have tried such magic; perhaps... Ah, I see. They might hope to force me to guard the prisoner myself. On the other hand, I have not been here long, and I avoid fame, so more likely it is an undirected spell. Alten took the dagger, and hurled it straight at the wooden roof; the blade bit deep, and stayed there. Pushing back the illusory thoughts, he began searching for someone to seal wounds and watch the prisoner, while also searching for any dark seeds from the restorative magic within himself. Finding a small knot of magical poison, he sliced a small, thin cut nearby, using the katana he had taken from the field of battle, and with extreme muscular control, forced the poison through the flowing blood and out. I should be more watchful; someday my pride will get the better of me, and the magic I do not notice happening will kill me. I was foolish not to notice the magic instantly, and refuse its purchase upon my flesh. This is taking too long. More foes may already stand within our walls; I hear dragon fire, and the dragons may be close enough to the ground for me to bring them within reach of others. Finally finding someone to take care of the prisoner, after warning them to beware of the magic which could end the prisoner's life, or free him, Alten left the katana and raced out to do battle with the enemy. As he left the building, Alten saw a dragon heading in to burn it to the ground. Alten made a tremendous leap, landing on one wing as the dragon came in. The disrupted dragon hurled its flames into the courtyard instead of the building, and Alten jumped to the other wing, forcing the dragon down bit by bit as he went back and forth. Though he dealt little real damage, Alten knew that he could at least bring the dragon within reach of someone who could stop it, or even force it into an obstacle and let its own speed kill it. Then the dragon turned its head, looking back at Alten with furious eyes.

Alten was gradually being forced to a nearby wall by his three opponents (the third of which had turned out to be a dagger-wielder), and tiring rapidly. Knowing that with his back to the wall, he would have no chance, he dodged the next swing of the katana, slammed his hand into the back of the blade (a blow which would have left the blade of a lesser foe stuck in the ground), feinted a kick at the staff-wielder, and took a step back. Then, suddenly, he performed an amazing leap, landing on his feet on top of the building behind him. When they follow, I may gain a brief advantage, but I must move quickly. The three robed opponents made the same, impressive leap as one, but Alten kicked one straight back off. At the same moment, however, he couldn't avoid the katana headed for his ribs... Only one chance. Alten's arm came up, and the solid-eyed foe almost smirked at the inadequate defense, seeing no futile attempt to strike the flat and drive the cruel edge away. Then, blade struck flesh in a burst of sound like steel on steel. A line of blood appeared where the sword struck, but the blade was stopped. Truly surprised, the opponent broke out of any semblance of a blank face, fear now showing in his eyes. A punch broke his balance, and with a mighty kick, Alten sent him flying to the ground, where he lay still. Meanwhile, Alten prepared to deal with his two remaining foes. In two brief seconds, the staff-wielder had caught his falling companion, pulled him back, and they were ready to fight. Alten flowed into a new position, ready for the slightly more equal battle to continue. He threw himself aside, avoiding a thrown dagger, and felt the strain on his injured arm. That blade cut deeply. The muscle is torn, and I cannot afford too much blood loss. Alten flexed the arm, the pain not even penetrating his battle concentration. The blood flow slowed, then stopped. So long as the muscle was tense, he would lose little blood. With his unharmed limbs, he continued battle. The fight was hardly more equal than before. The dagger-wielder stopped, stepped back, and spoke again in his unknown language. Alten could tell that the pair would try to leave now. Knowing he could not strike them down before they escaped, Alten bowed, and said, "We will meet again." This time, the enemy bowed back. Alten walked to the fallen katana, picked it up, dropped to the ground, and walked calmly to the fallen enemy, stepping aside only once as a brick flew through where he had been. The katana-wielder was alive, but unconscious. From the laboured breathing, Alten could see (if he had not already heard and felt) that the burgundy-robed warrior had broken ribs. He would not be fighting for some time. Alten tore a red sleeve to bind his own arm, finally unclenching the sliced muscle. Realizing his prisoner would not survive long amidst falling masonry, Alten begun the task of getting him to the main keep building.

Alten sized up the situation instantly. The centre one may be a spellcaster, or more likely has concealed knives. The katana is likely too sharp to parry, so I should avoid it if possible. The staff I can deal with easily. These appear to be focused opponents. I should not underestimate them. I doubt they are individually as skilled, but with three... They have made a mistake; they assumed I was left-handed, for the more dangerous is on the right. Either that, or they knew that I am ambidextrous. Alten rapidly stepped to the left, evading both staff and katana, and putting the staff-wielder between him and the one who had spoken. The three opponents rapidly compensated. They are skilled. This may be my time, but that has been true before. Alten caught the incoming staff, wrenching it to pull the foe off-balance, but was forced to release it with one hand to disrupt a kick. His return punch forced the robed opponent back a step, but did little damage. At this point, the katana came back into play, and Alten was forced to move back. Bowing to his skilled adversaries, he soon rejoined combat. Meanwhile, the greater scene continued...