Hjolnai

Alten the martial artist was meditating calmly in the midst of the chaos. Suddenly, but equally calmly, he opened his eyes and stood, stepping aside just in time to avoid a piece of falling masonry. Looking around, he quickly formed a full mental picture of the scene. Such pointless bombardment is no test of my skills, but I should see if I can protect anyone else from it. Until the enemy arrives, the best course is to seek out anyone trapped in the open, and move them to safety. As for the dragons... if I can convince one to come down to the ground, at least it won't be unleashing death from above. Alten ran out into a rubble-filled courtyard, and began dragging an injured Pennite into the relative safety of stone walls.

Lessons in focus A blade flashed from the bushes. I rose in the blink of an eye, and, confident in my abilities, caught and returned the thrown knife without suffering so much as a scratch. Then I realized my mistake. The coldness of poison spread into my hands; a very strong contact poison. I immediately set myself to concentrating on purging it, expecting whatever assassin had struck to be afflicted in the same way. Then a dark shape burst from the bushes. Fortunately, I maintained enough awareness to notice when he came within sight. This one is dangerous, I realized. Though the coldness had receded somewhat, I had not banished the poison yet; nonetheless, I was forced to abandon that fight in light of the more immediate danger. My foe struck with a shortsword; I deflected it with little effort. He is skilled, but he underestimates me. Seeing his expression of surprise, I returned a blow of my own: A swift kick which would cause enough injury to end the fight. In perfect balance, the assassin evaded my blow, and nearly dealt a cut to my leg. Still confident in my abilities, I leapt within his reach, and ignoring the gradual, painful freezing of my hand, delivered an openhanded blow which stunned the assassin with its ferocity. I forced his sword hand out wide, and struck again. Then I was forced to leap back, narrowly avoiding a second dose of poison, and a nasty cut, from the dagger now occupying the grey-clad figure's left hand. The cold pain was spreading quickly now, and I knew that I had to end the battle quickly. I could deliver no deadly punches with my right now, and it would not be long before the poison could claim me. In desperation, I launched into a flying leap. Surprised, the light-footed assassin evaded my attack, but dealt no blow. Without the poison, he would be little challenge. Regaining my feet in an instant, I struck with elbows and knees, but my foe was almost as swift to recover, and only one of my blows connected. He whipped his sword into action, and then I knew that my pride would claim its victim today. As a last chance, I struck his arm, using the blade's momentum to turn it. Then, I struck at the hand hard enough to drive the blade it held deep enough to kill. It didn't work. The assassin avoided his sword point, cut me with his dagger, and I fell to the ground with cold creeping toward my heart. I awoke, much later, surprised that I yet lived. While no poison could cause more than unconsciousness to one of my training, I had expected a sword blow to end my life. I was certain that such a skilled assassin would have known of my resistance. Still, the quick mind I have always prided myself on (though that pride itself is a flaw in my focus) adjusted quickly. If I yet lived, I must be a prisoner. Death was not the intent of the enemy after all, at least not immediately. After a single deep breath to regain my concentration, I leapt in a single movement to my feet. My heart filled with anger, though I quenched it immediately. I stood in a magical arena, with walls of rolling, purple magic. The depths of the darkness called the eye, trying to capture the mind with their darkness. Through my concentration, I ignored the dark grip. Then I saw that I was watched by a red-robed mage hovering above. In an even tone, I spoke, still forcing myself to abandon anger and to concentrate. "Why have you brought me here?" "Through the passing of the centuries, I grow bored." This statement immediately brought a new level of anger, which I crushed mercilessly. That failing I could not allow, not even in the face of the crimes which a bloodrobe mage would commit to gain centuries of life. The mage continued; "You are here for my entertainment. You will fight my creations, my minions, and others like yourself, until I grow tired of you and kill you. By my arts, I will keep you from that death until then." Another wave of anger poured into me, but this time I was able to dismiss it in under a second. A battle needs concentration. The sand of the arena shifted, and I leapt aside a full second before a monstrous worm burst its head from the ground. At least my instincts were still sharp, even if I had allowed pride to overcome me. (to be continued) Please feel free to offer feedback; I plan to extend this soon.

I think I'll expand on the last two stanzas here, then if it works I'll add it in to the original post. And yet I cannot help but think of the many things I miss. I take pride in my skills and clarity of mind through meditation. And yet, other emotions are dead. No laughter, no tears, no half-forgotten fears. Does the pride in a demon's death outweigh love, laughter and life? My answer must be no but another reply comes; If I do not choose focus many others will lose what I would hope to gain. Corpses have no laughter and corpses shed no tears so I must stand before them to banish ancient fears. But still... Silence, doubt! Silence, too, my anger. Contemplation brings the answer. I must focus, always focus and not let these thoughts of discontent mar my art's subtle teachings. I chose this path, and must walk it to the end. Those I protect must survive to have those emotions for me.

Thanks for your feedback, I'll certainly bear it in mind for any future changes to the poem. With the odd numbers of lines, my intention was to use gradual incrementation of line numbers for the first four stanzas; I'm not sure whether the effect was worth it though. As for expanding on the emotions, I agree that that may be something I need to work on. The second-last stanza doesn't really feel like it concludes, so I might try to expand it. Incidentally, this is my first post since I returned from a computer programming camp, which is why I didn't respond to your feedback earlier.

That morning, the villagers found a note nailed to Ahadrion's triangular door. The note reads, "Forgive me for decieving you all for years, as my command of the Common tongue is as broad as your own. Now I leave, there is no point retaining the secret, much like another; I am a coward. With deaths every day, I'll not stay and meet a werewolf's teeth, or worse, be burned alive through suspicion. Should anyone survive, forgive me for my cowardice. Beware, for those who hunt are not often seen. Adrian Kals" Tracks are found leading along the road to the North. OOC: I'm leaving tomorrow on a ten-day camp, so I won't be back before the game ends. Consider me dead/gone for the rest of the game. I'm uncertain as to whether I should post my role, so I'll leave that decision in Mynx's hands. Sorry I couldn't stay for the rest of the game.

Ahadrion awoke, and saw the corpse of the Blacksmith. Thinking rapidly, he soon made a decision: there was an obvious connection between the two most recent kills. In both cases, Millie had been nearby. Still, he did not jump to conclusions. This could readily be a case of framing. After much mental deliberation, he pointed sternly at Millie, attempting to communicate his suspicions. OOC: My vote rests with Millie at the moment.

The Martial Artist I am air, and the cobra itself cannot strike me. I am earth, and the bite of cold is as nothing, as even venom does me no harm. I am fire, and no wall, no barrier, no foe can survive my onslaught, unstoppable as time itself. I am water, and I strike as rain strikes the ground, thousands of blows, thousands of drops, forming a raging torrent to sweep all enemies from my path. And yet I cannot help but think of the many things I miss. I take pride in my skills and clarity of mind through meditation. And yet, other emotions are dead. No laughter, no tears, no half-forgotten fears. Contemplation brings the answer. I must focus, always focus and not let these thoughts of discontent mar my art's subtle teachings. I chose this path, and must walk it to the end. Those I protect must survive to have those emotions for me. I'm not used to using poetry, but I felt like writing this. If you have any feedback, please don't hesitate to offer it. Also, I think I need a better title, but off the top of my head I could think of none better.

I'm not much of a poetry critic, but I must say I found the imagery in this poem very effective. Sorry I can't tell you much more, but that's all I have to say (at least until I analyze the poem in more depth, which I'm probably too lazy to do). I'd definitely read this again.

Ahadrion marched on to the scene, then pointed and shouted "Xliaer trpliy zhanclia!" at Enipul Mai. He mimed drinking, presented a copper coin and then made a snarling face and sound. Then he burst into tears, flung the coin into the bushes and ran back into his fortified home, where he noisily bolted the door. Minutes later, he emerged, face still red, but somewhat calmer. He acted apologetic to Enipul, but still visibly distrusted him. While Ahadrion tried to remain out of arm's reach of everyone, he most obviously avoided Xander, Enipul and (strangly) Millie. OOC: My current vote is for Enipul, but I may change my mind later (most of the day phase isn't over yet).

Finally awakened by the commotion outside, Ahadrion Karios opened his front door and yawned, before seeing the horrific sight of the mangled corpse, surrounded by villagers. Through the small crowd, he saw a red-stained sleeve, and although it seemed to be Xander's, in that brief glance he could not be certain. Where formerly he had seemed uncharacteristically tired, he now gibbered energetically in his strange tongue, stepped back and slammed his door. He spent several hours hammering reinforcement planks into his walls, and installing brackets for a bar for his door. When he was finished, Ahadrion very cautiously opened the door and walked on to the street. Almost jumping at any noise, walking as far from others as he could, he came to the tavern. He walked over to the bar, and said to Preston, "Kilon treik sqwa", pointing to the kitchen. Although the words were different each time, Preston knew by now that Ahadrion wanted food to take home, but this time the foreigner kept motioning for more. When finally he was satisfied, he put a large, gold coin onto the bar with the clang only the purest gold gave. Before Preston could argue about overpayment, Ahadrion grabbed the bag and turned, speaking to no one else on the way out, looking at each person as though they could be dangerous. On the way home, he went at a pace not far short of a run. OOC: I vote for Xander.

Meanwhile, further along the road, Ahadrion Karios sat on the roof of his strange home, completely focused on a drawing spread out upon his knees. Every so often, he would measure a line, and write something beneath it. Had anyone looked, they would have seen a diagram of a seven-legged chair, with strange symbols marking lengths. As people passed by, Ahadrion did not notice, but then, not many people noticed him any more, as his strange ways had become somewhat familiar over the past few years. Only on the occasions that homes needed to be built was he of much interest. Finally, Ahadrion walked down the sloped roof to the ground. He noticed someone walking past, and greeted them with a hearty "Kiestrasan!", which could mean anything, the way he talked. He then turned, and went into his house. Not long afterwards, hammering sounds could be heard from within.

Ahadrion Karios, a foreigner who seems to have made this village his home, speaks no known language (as none recognize his), but through pointing and varying the tone of his seeming gibberish, rarely fails to make his point. Surprisingly, while unable to speak it himself, he seems to understand the common language when used by others. While at first the townspeople distrusted him and thought him mad, the architecture he builds has bought some degree of trust. When not building someone's house, he can often be found staring into space, drawing strange devices, or occasionally even making them.

I guess I'll give it a try... but I will be unable to access the internet for 10 days starting in about 3 weeks, so I may end up missing the end. I get the feeling my character won't be speaking much, but the silent can communicate in other ways.

With a loud clatter, a massive, heavily-armoured orc rides up to the party. The orc takes a few breaths, then mutters softly, "Strange to sense Undead here... perhaps I should stay in case...". The orc removes his helm, dismounts and walks over to introduce himself to the hosts, trying his best to appear non-threatening (an eight-foot tall orc in full plate obviously finds this difficult). With the formalities done, he searches for a seat; eventually he settles into a plain armchair, which promptly falls apart under his weight.

Sir Ordolar charged up just as Sir Walnut sunk to the ground. The orc roared in rage at seeing a companion struck down. The massive, shining sword in Sir Ordolar's hands swung down, slicing right through a fresh barrier. The barrier did serve its purpose, though, for instead of halving the Necromancer, the sword bit hardly any depth. A seething morass of black lines flew from the Necromancer's hand and severed wrist to strike the orc. Plate armour glowed, and the deadly darkness faded. The wards on Sir Ordolar's armour also faded, however, leaving the orc almost defenseless. The Necromancer was still dangerous, despite mortal wounds. Sir Ordolar heaved his sword back, then struck again. This time, instead of cutting, he stabbed. The Necromancer staggered with a huge weight through its lungs. Orange flames raced along the blade, forcing Sir Ordolar to drop his sword's hilt. He kicked at the Necromancer, but made a serious mistake: he glanced at the Necromancer's eyes. Eye contact was enough, and the orc staggered back, then fell to the ground with a clatter. Barely conscious, he remained on the ground.

er... Thankyou!

Sir Ordolar was growing frustrated at the way in which the unstoppable zombie limbs kept grasping at him, despite repeated shattering and crushing. Still, the ancient bones gradually thinned in number. Bone dust and rotting flesh coated the ground, and eventually Sir Ordolar ran out of foes. With no joints, the Undead could hardly move, and so Sir Ordolar paused to take in the battlefield. Looking to the Necromancer, he saw the enemy staggering and wounded. Still, the Necromancer was dangerous. The dark caster hurled dark magic in several directions, trying to force Degorram off itself. One wayward blast struck Sir Ordolar's fallen shield. The spell knocked the shield flying into the air it had so recently falen from, but the magic was redirected to be absorbed by the Necromancer's arcane protections. With all immediate foes neutralized, Sir Ordolar decided to see if he could do anything to help killing the Necromancer. Once again, he broke into a lumbering run, and shouted, "Aasharam! For Justice!". However, the noise completely failed to distract the Necromancer. The orc charged onward...

Sir Ordolar marched silently through the woods, barely limping despite earlier events. He kept his sword drawn, spreading light before him. Suddenly, he saw a group of zombies charging at the suddenly-visible Sir Walnut. Despite the massive headache and ringing ears which remained from the shrieking skeletal monster, Sir Ordolar charged instantly. His first blow tore right through a zombie, leaving two halves. As he turned to strike down a second zombie, he saw that the halves of the first were already gripping his ankles. Thinking quickly, he clubbed the second foe with the hilt of his sword, hurling it into a nearby tree. The zombie was impaled, and so that particular foe was trapped. Then he reached down, grabbing each half of the first zombie with a huge hand, then hurling the pieces into the canopy of the tree. With immediate threats removed, he looked to where Sir Walnut was fighting magnificently, slicing sinews while not separating limbs. The werewolf was managing to keep back an astonishing number of foes with seemingly no ideas, so Sir Ordolar spent a few precious moments in thought. He was left with one idea to get rid of the zombies. They had to be trapped. As he turned to rejoin battle, he saw the real foe. Once again, he thought quickly. His strength could do little to stop spells, so he would be of most aid delaying zombies. However, there was one thing he could do. He took his smaller shield from within his larger, and hurled it a great distance, straight to Kikuyu. He shouted, "It may reflect his spells!". Not even waiting to see if it reached her, he turned back to the zombies and charged into a great mass of them. He slammed into a small group, sending them flying. He swung his huge sword with massive force, cutting several Undead to pieces. If they could not be trapped, reducing them to dust might work. He cut through the mob again and again, but soon disembodied arms covered him, tearing at his armour, seeking an opening. He stabbed the ground, then put his gauntleted hands to good use, tearing the skeletal limbs from him and crushing them. He fought on and on, but the shattered bones kept attacking.

Hours passed, and eventually a faint groan could be heard, though none remained to hear it. Then a dark form tore from the earth, and unsteadily climbed to its feet. The soil clung to the strange figure, but soon it fell away, revealing armour so polished it could almost be a mirror. There was a small tear in the armour, revealing a mess of burnt dried blood and dirt. The wound was obviously painful. The creature painfully searched the area it had climbed from, and brought out a huge sword, shining brightly. Still somewhat confused, it took three tries to sheathe the sword on its back. Then it spoke, and the voice was an orc's. "What happened?" It leaned against a tree to recover, and soon stood again and searched the area. There were many destroyed skeletons, and a crater where the orc had been lying when he first awoke. Memory of the battle returned, and the orc, now revealed to be Sir Ordolar, said, "Where are they?". He found his pack where he had dropped it before the fight, and took it. They wouldn't have left without good reason. Were they captured? Or did they leave me to die? He looked at the crater, then collected his thoughts more clearly. I was half-buried in the mud. I must have seemed dead and gone. Sir Ordolar carefully cleaned and bandaged his wound, then searched for tracks. Minutes later, he was moving silently through the woods, following the hunting group.

It seemed that Sir Ordolar was gone. All that remained where the orc had stood was a pile of scorched earth. The group rested after the ordeal of the battle, but when they were ready to move on, there was still no sign of life. They said a few words in memoriam, then left.

Stabbing repeatedly, Sir Ordolar's efforts were rewarded. He cried out in triumph as he struck through three ribcages and into the skull, which crumbled to ashes. The vile creature let out a soul-rending shriek, and everyone was forced to cover their ears. Sir Ordolar, however, had a helmet in the way, and so he soon fell unconscious under the torment of that sound. Soon after he clattered to the ground, the shriek stopped, and the monster was moving again. The watching group saw another skull's eyes burst into flames. This battle would not so easily be won... The monster stepped onto Sir Ordolar's protesting armour, and from the sound, it might not stand up to the huge weight for long...

With the monster no longer focusing its attention upon Sir Ordolar, the orc knight only grew more angry, if such a thing is possible. Massive blows which would have felled a tree were unleashed, but removing limbs meant little to such a creature. The light from his blade seemed to annoy the thing more than the blows he dealt, and through the thick fog of anger, Sir Ordolar realized he achieved little. Changing tactics, he stopped slashing and stabbed the huge sword deep into the thing. Suddenly, the skeletal foe shrieked, and lurched to one side, almost pulling the sword from the orc's grasp. Wrenching the blade back, Sir Ordolar saw through the hole - amidst the bones - a skull with fiery eyes, which his strike had scratched. With his rage clearing, some measure of the orc's reason returned. He shouted, "The skull with fiery eyes! Destroy it!", then stabbed again.

Sir Ordolar marched quietly onward, praying constantly. He felt the presence of great evil, but with so much around him, he could tell little of its direction or nature. Still, he remained on his guard, watching all sides, much as the rest of the group did. He looked up and forward, and saw that Kikuyu and Wyvern had stopped. They were looking somewhat further up. Then he saw it. A mighty skeletal creature towered over them. Thousands of bones connected magically, forming a creature beyond nightmare. The sight of the monstrosity instantly brought Sir Ordolar to towering rage, and he barely heard Kikuyu's shout. Drawing his massive sword, Sir Ordolar shouted, "Aasharam! For Justice!". He broke into a lumbering charge, crashing through the undergrowth and bringing his immense strength to bear. What must have been the leg bone of an elephant swung down at him, but he cut right through it with a single blow! The creature turned to face him, swinging several limbs at him, and the mighty orc was thrown backwards. He scrambled to his feet, and threw all his might into blow after crushing blow, but still he could not strike hard enough to destroy the foul creature, and as it walked over the shattered bones, the shards added themselves once more to the abomination. It was plain that the enraged orc could not win this battle, and eventually his armour would fail... but the distracted monster could not protect itself from attacks from behind. As it beat its fury against his shield, others prepared to strike.

As Sir Ordolar climbed back to his feet, he saw that the remnants of the slime monster were quickly vanishing into flames. Unfortunately, these flames were beginning to take in the trees. Soon the dense forest would be an inferno! Seeing one sapling which had already caught fire, he chopped it down with his sword, and ground it into the cold mud, which soon put out that source, but fire already danced in several other places... By sheer coincidence, a torrential downpour begun at just that moment. Cutting through the dark fog, the rain quickly quenched the fire, but now all the ground was quickly becoming slippery with mud. Despite this mud, the few remaining undead were quickly cut down, but it would be very hard to move on for several hours. Sir Ordolar knew that if the mud became too deep, the entire group would sink and drown.

The slime monster seemed unaffected by the pepper attack, so Sir Ordolar charged (yet again), and began slashing at its bony limbs, which at least could be harmed. His massive arms swung the huge light-bringing sword with tremendous force, cutting right through a skeletal limb at least ten bones thick, hardly slowing in the blow, but falling fragments of bone were merely reabsorbed by the slime, and reformed into new appendages. A force great enough to cut through a dragon's scales could do little to harm the foul slime, but buying time was worth the effort. With the slime thus engaged, Sir Walnut had time to rush off and deal efficiently with less dangerous foes, and also gained the time to think of any ideas to destroy the vile-smelling sludge. Meanwhile,yet more undead marched on toward the distracted group of three... Back at the keep, thousands of zombies were forming a wall of rotting flesh for several metres around the boundaries. Whenever they pushed forward, the magic of the keep pushed back, but sooner or later there would not be enough power to hold back the tireless masses...