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Post by Land Tillers' State on Apr 14, 2016 15:39:12 GMT -8
 In the northern section of the United Training Fields, there is a relatively desolate mountainous region close to the Saskatoon Clan's territory. Here, earth mages learn to commune with the will of the rocks and soil themselves. While these warriors traverse the Running Trails like everyone else, much of their training involves meditation and self-discipline. A great deal of mana and spiritual energy must be built up, and one's will must be perfectly synchronized with the very earth itself, to perform the ultimate Earth art, the summoning of a stone titan.
The strongest stone titans have skin with a mohs scale hardness of 9 (just under diamonds) and can grapple with dragons. |
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Attla, the Conniving
Committed
life
Roleplay posts: 84 
Age: 27
Physical Description: A shrewd and bent over nomad, deprived of food at a young age, giving him malnutrition. His thin bones and muscle weaken him physically. He is just 5 foot 5 inches and has a weak and flimsy gait.
He is usually wearing a form of battered cloak, over black robes that hang loosely across his protruding figure.
His weakness extends to his legs, where he cannot run effectively. Instead, he must hobble at a slow pace, making him simple to outrun.
To most people he would be considered an outcast, a useless fruit of society, living off the work of others in a parasitical one-sided form of symbiosis.
His face is droopy, his eyelids purple, a permenant state caused by his lack of sleep. He is an insomniac and thusly has use magical means to get himself to sleep.
He has beard, congealed with silver and brown hairs, which is spewed haphazardly across his chin, in an ugly show of his unclealiness.
His hair is a mess of dirt and grime. It is hard to gauge of his hair is brown, or it is merely the mud that lumps together inside of it.
His eyes, a brilliant green iris, contrasted by the vicious red tendrils in his eyes, a sign of bleariness and tiredness.
His nose is long and angular, ending at the near hidden, slim mouth stuck in a grimace of pain and anguish.
He near always has a thin cover of sweat across his body, with little pieces of grit mixed in, like a foul soup.
Clothes and Equipment: As mentioned, he has a black, torn and weak robe, covering a small fleece of sheep's wool. Over this robe, a battered and torn black cloak covers him fully. His is connected to his robe by a simple headwrap, creating a black hood to shield himself from the sun with.
He wears large leather boots, worn and old, with obvious mistreatment. No attempt to clean his boots has been made.
He carries a twisted and gnarled ironwood root, as a walking stick and makeshift weapon. He uses it as a way of casting magic, using it to gather energy in the same way a lightning rod would conduct lightning.
Underneath his robe he carries a satchel. In the satchel he keeps a small coin purse, and a small box where he keeps various nefarious equipment, such as lock-picks, needles, small daggers and some throwing darts, all of these stolen or created by him.
Registered: Mar 18, 2016 23:24:09 GMT -8
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Post by Attla, the Conniving on Apr 29, 2016 7:28:47 GMT -8
The great, stone Titans were majestic, humongous stone humanoids of unimaginable power, and strength. Attla could merely dream of being able to summon such a beast, for he was a summoner of a different school and of course, lacked in skill. His hobbling movements would have alerted the residents of the camp, informing them of his crippled nature very quickly. Attla moved past the intrigued faces, setting his frail frame on a nearby stone. If he were not visible to whomever was nearby, it was not his problem, he had little to care about his audience.
He cleared his throat, no indication beforehand he would of shared a story. No introduction or name, just his story. It was all that mattered, for he was dislike lie anyway.
He projected his voice, his diaphragm flattening itself, accommodating his lungs increased size.
"My tale is short. But it is if importance. It does not tell of a day when the hourglass of time was still very much full, it speaks of a far more recent time, of I and my plight with a dragon. If you were to be excused, this shall be done in a poetic form."
"One day, o'er the gem-filled crags of a hundred foot cave,
Sat a single stick in a clearing, not a campfire,
Two compatriots stood, a knight and a knave,
The knight was unaware of his alliance with this lier,
The fool knight had been expecting the embrace of silver,
The cruel night had not began, the moon not even a sliver,
The pocket-picker and the warrior were soon to be even,
When a dragon of black coals, had seen them.
The silly back-stabber, moving abruptly forward,
A plight of great fright causes him to stop, his vision blurred,
A great scaly beast beat his wings and roared,
And for the poor knight behind, it had struck a chord.
He knew of the imbeciles own mistake,
He could fix this - the distance was not too great.
His moral compass accompanied him so,
He would save his accomplice, he could not just say 'no'.
The sneak was afoot by a lizard of unimaginable size,
But he had found shelter, under stone, under earth, which the dragon did not realise,
And so the Armored savior had caught up with the despairing twit,
The draconic thing was certainly terrible, it's eyes were slits.
The battle-hardened fighter began the mighty duel,
Little did he know, the dragon's method of fighting, was rather cruel.
Spears of fire landed from the skies,
Where his melee could not function, he would certainly die.
But then and there did the coward set the score,
Giving a command to remove the dragon's tail, to cause it to fall,
A throw of unimaginable speed and power,
Pierced the dragon's body, causing a bloody shower.
A dragonic limb of great size hit the ground,
Where the conniving bugger had wanted it to be found,
His plan was genius, a plot to summon a demon,
A sizeable sacrifice, if he were able to free one.
And so a muscled, flaming monstrosity erupted from some flames,
As the knave summoned a Balrog, a creature that shouldn't be named.
The dragon was not stupid, it knew it had been beat,
So it bowed it's head at the winners, and made swift retreat.
This is the tale of how two enemies chose to fight under one banner,
It did not matter that they did not like eachother, in any way or manner,
So heed this advice, if you see an adversary in danger,
Maybe next time, helping you, to them, won't be much stranger."
He had finished his poem. Was it good or bad, he had no way of telling. He hoped he would win however; more than that, he believed he would win.
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Post by Land Tillers' State on May 1, 2016 10:18:20 GMT -8
The Land-Tillers had never heard such odd poetry coming from such an odd man.
The people clapped politely and asked questions. Was it a true story? How long did it take Attla to memorize the poem? If a Balrog shouldn't be named then why is it called a Balrog?
Overall the stories was well received. It was intriguing, especially since knights and rogues were still a relatively new phenomenon. Demon summoning was actually considered a legitimate form of magic for more rebellious folk, and though it wasn't exactly smiled upon, it was considered better than necromancy (which had an unfortunate history here).
The man himself continued to be eyed with suspicion. Someone was kind enough to get him a new cloak though.
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