|
|
Post by Isra - The Free City on Jul 24, 2016 6:15:12 GMT -8
One of the first constructions of Ryden Greyiron during his tenure as Judiciary Governor, the immense bastille beneath the Citadel was created for the specific purpose of housing larger prisoners. The strange, shimmering, black cube sits anchored by thick, long chains in a massive cavern emptied by mages, and seems to draw in all of the light around it. When inhabited, it is protected by a full host of mages, monitoring the prisoner within, and ensuring that no magic can be used by said prisoner.
|
|
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
|
Post by Attla, the Conniving on Jul 25, 2016 23:47:15 GMT -8
Glavilidom was bound, unmoving. Still in a comatose state, he provided no resistance as he was chained. Slow, drawn out breaths were exhaled from his maw, his great sleep seemingly unending. Despite the barriers in place, magic practically pulsated from his form. The magic wouldn't be harmful and would merely muddle the mind and cloud your senses. The magic was a product of Glavilidom's millennia year old mind, during that time he wrote thousands of magical tomes and read far more. Nearly every spell known was ingrained inside of his mind, meticulously memorised. Every facet and detail. He was a living encyclopedia of magic and due to the fact his mind was more-or-less unguarded, as he was comatose, you could easily gain access to this information.
His mind being in its unguarded state also left his memories available to viewing. Any half-experienced mage could easily cycle through his memories, however it would take a long while to survey the entirety of his mind, due to the sheer quantity of memories Glavilidom possesses. His very being was available for viewing. The time for viewing this would be slum, however. In a matter of days he would wake and his mental defences would consolidate and enter their previous, impenetrable state.
His chest rose and fell as he blissfully slumbered, a strange state for a dragon. He looked peaceful.
|
|
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
|
Post by Attla, the Conniving on Jul 29, 2016 22:03:09 GMT -8
One day went past and he was one day closer to awaking. Three days roughly would be the time it would take for him to rouse.
Or so it would seem. Attla was conscious inside of Glavilidom. Utilising not magic, but the mind of Glavilidom, taking advantage of its open state, Attla could force Glavilidom to wake more quickly. Attla would take on the form of Glavilidom's subconscious, and subconsciously chide Glavilidom into awakening, manipulating him into believing he had no external injury. This act would cause Glavilidom's regeneration to a more measured pace and drastically lower the time it would take for him to arise from his coma.
The once 72 hour sleep was chopped down into roughly 8 hours, as the tricked mind of Glavilidom grew closer to waking. You could sense this, his breathing patterns changed to a faster pace and he noticeably changed in heat, touching Glavilidom's hide would provide temperatures from 40-50 degrees Celsius (104 degrees Fahrenheit), a change on average of 10 degrees (or 20 degrees Fahrenheit). Past the visible physical changes, his mind increased in activity. Vivid images and recollections of Glavilidom's capture cycled through his mind, being played over and over again.
The external magic released from his form was absorbed once more. His magic would have no external impact. He was gathering his power, reinvigorating himself, getting back to his full strength. He hadn't been at his full strength during the events of the central plaza. He would be more powerful when he would awake, as he would gain back his physical and mental composure. This would benefit Glavilidom, in that his physical form would be more defined and his use of godly powers would be far less limited.
|
|
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
|
Post by Attla, the Conniving on Aug 10, 2016 0:13:02 GMT -8
Eyes opened. He awoke.
Hatred.
Hatred of those who had captured him. The only though he may muster.
He needed to escape. To ascend his shackles. To take flight. He must leave now. Or else he would die. He launched himself forwards. He was kept in place by the chains that bound him.
"SET ME FREE!"
He screamed with primal rage.
But he couldn't scream.
He couldn't talk. He couldn't say no single word. His jaw was bound.
His mind lashed put towards the mages in the cube. Not just the mages in the cube. But every being in the citadel. Wherever his mind may traverse, he went. He roared, his voice raw, primal, angry, fearful, scared, anxious and most of all: spiteful. He screamed for them to free him, to unbind his wings to let him BE FREE. He would fight and fight and scream and shout and smash and bludgeon and break and run and...
I WILL NOT GIVE IN!
He smashed himself against the ground. The force would shake the ground, reverberating. A horribke noise, the sound of scale against stone.
I will not be contained.
|
|
Grandma
Widely Known
Imperial Vizier of Isra
Roleplay posts: 1,017
Age: 90
Physical Description: ---------------------------------------------------------
An elderly and frail looking woman with white wispy hair. However, despite being old, her back is not bent by age nor are her eyes clouded by it.
Clothes and Equipment: ---------------------------------------------------------
She wears a deep purple robe that has sleeves that extend far beyond her hands. Her hands are covered with fine gloves of black silk and she wears one ring on each, one having a purple stone set in it and the other a piece of onyx. Carrying an ornate cane of orellium, Grandma can use it to increase her magical channeling as well as assist in deflecting others spells with it. The cane itself is black and covered in numerous ornate, but tiny runes. The cap on the cane is a purplish colored gem. On her wrist is a silver bracelet with a ruby in it that Grandma uses for telepathic communication with others in its network.
---------------------------------------------------------
Registered: Sept 12, 2015 8:27:42 GMT -8
|
Post by Grandma on Aug 14, 2016 21:34:24 GMT -8
Following Naoki’s suggestion, Grandma made her way down to the heavily secured cube. The Sun Marshall badge seemed to work as well as Naoki had promised, guards allowing her through without complaint. Although perhaps some remembered her from when she was in charge of law enforcement, regardless, she was curious to see what manner of creature caused such a commotion in the plaza.
Earlier that day Grandma had managed to get the mages on duty who were protecting the cube swapped with Sun Marshal mages. Only temporarily of course, but she wanted this visit to be off the record for the most part. Before entering The Cube, Grandma regarded the prisoner inside with one of her many supernatural Sights. It was a dragon of some kind, nothing particularly new for her. Still, she could sense a great deal of magic coming from the dragon held inside. How delightful.
Ordering the mages to open the door to The Cube, Grandma entered, ordering the door to be sealed shut once she was inside. Her cane clicked on the smooth stone below her as she approached the dragon, stopping around twenty feet away from him.
“So you’re the one who caused a disturbance in my absence. Tsk.” Her tone was one of disdain as she surveyed him with a cold gaze one might give to a large dog that had misbehaved.
|
|
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
|
Post by Attla, the Conniving on Aug 14, 2016 23:59:22 GMT -8
His gaze hardened.
He could not speak, still. He stared at Grandma. His eyes studied her form.
Speaking with mindvoice, he responded.
"Who are you, tail-splitter?!"
Who was this before him? Some black-robed demon? Was that walking stick a stave? Was he being executed? His mind reeled, thinking forward. He could not know what would come next.
He assessed his vulnerability as he had slept. His mind must have already been examined to its fullest. Each memory of his thoroughly sorted and categorised. He was sickened by the very idea.
"Did you look into my mind as I slept?"
He took no time to allow a response.
"Of course you would have. Filth."
What would he have to do to be freed? Be some puppet for their use, despite his innocence?
They must be corrupted. They obviously have no perception of right, or wrong. To capture such a pure being as his. He only did what was right. He never was immoral. That would be impossible. After all, he is a god.
Were they heretics? Pagans? He could not conceive this. For all he had known, all in this mortal domain had followed one of the minor gods. He was a minor god. They should recognise this. Elsewise he will destroy them.
However, they had a chance. They could redeem themselves if they granted him freedom.
"Free me sinner and I will forgive. I am Glavilidom, god of wisdom and the second lord of dragons!"
|
|
Grandma
Widely Known
Imperial Vizier of Isra
Roleplay posts: 1,017
Age: 90
Physical Description: ---------------------------------------------------------
An elderly and frail looking woman with white wispy hair. However, despite being old, her back is not bent by age nor are her eyes clouded by it.
Clothes and Equipment: ---------------------------------------------------------
She wears a deep purple robe that has sleeves that extend far beyond her hands. Her hands are covered with fine gloves of black silk and she wears one ring on each, one having a purple stone set in it and the other a piece of onyx. Carrying an ornate cane of orellium, Grandma can use it to increase her magical channeling as well as assist in deflecting others spells with it. The cane itself is black and covered in numerous ornate, but tiny runes. The cap on the cane is a purplish colored gem. On her wrist is a silver bracelet with a ruby in it that Grandma uses for telepathic communication with others in its network.
---------------------------------------------------------
Registered: Sept 12, 2015 8:27:42 GMT -8
|
Post by Grandma on Aug 15, 2016 7:48:07 GMT -8
Leaning in on her cane, Grandma patiently listens to Glavilidom, still studying him with her unwavering gaze. As he finishes his demand, she addresses him, her tone more neutral this time.
“I go by the name Grandma. You seem to be a rather amusing dragon. I’ve seen plenty of humans with delusions of grandeur, but you have to be the first dragon I’ve met with such a bad case of it. Most dragons could back it up to some extent, but claiming to be a god? Did some village of a few hundred people worship you for several generations? Did a kingdom believe you to be their god and do as you said? I’m quite curious to hear why you believe yourself to be a god.”
Grandma pauses for a moment and paces back and forth before him. She seems to be anticipating something, something that makes her rather excited.
“As for your memories, although the mages got some of it, I don’t particularly trust their competence in getting all the knowledge from something like yourself. Unfortunately I wasn’t here to insure all your memories were looked at. Therefore, I shall have to do that task before I leave… I suggest you don’t resist me on that, if you do, you’ll end up losing more than just your memories.”
Giving him a positively twisted smile, she continues.
“You said that you were the ‘second lord of dragons’. Are you saying there was a first lord of the dragons? Although I don’t believe you to be a god, you do have quite a bit of magic. Are there other dragons like you out there? Of course, you don’t have to answer any of these questions now. After all, I’ll get all this info before I leave regardless.”
|
|
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
|
Post by Attla, the Conniving on Aug 16, 2016 13:28:47 GMT -8
"If you must know, I am a God."
Moving in his limited confines, he cut himself with his claw. Golden blood streamed out. He grimaced in pain. What a foolish choice. This 'Grandma' wouldn't believe him anyway. She thought he was just merely an ego-inflated dragon. He was wounded by what she had said, severely. He could not cope with the idea that he was not disimiliar to mortalkind. He was above them, better than them. Purer. He had worked so hard to become a god, and worked so hard as a god, that he thought he may be different somehow. But these stinging words drew into his deepest fears.
He composed himself, before he replied.
"The second lord of dragons? I was the second dragon to ever ascend into godhood. This therefore granted me the title of 'Lord of Dragons', for it is a domain I partially rule over."
But then, it hit him. Why am I here? I wasn't the one who'd id this for myself. It was this putrid being inside of me. His mind cleared.
"I wish to say a word."
"I believe I am innocent, now hear me out."
"When I entered this realm, I was already in the central plaza. They had called me due to the fact they were in pain. I came down and hijacked the body of one of my worshippers. He had used a spell in order to become a dragon. This worshipper is still locked within me.
From this point, I had no idea what was going on. Apparently, this man had provoked this town and therefore I tried to ease the situation by forming a banquet table. Then I was subsequently attacked and as a last resort, I entered a comatose state. Now I have awoken here."
"I believe I am unfairly judged on the actions of this man. He brought me into this, unfairly. I do not see how I should be judged for his unruly actions in the central plaza."
His anger had faded by now.
"I apologise for my rashness observed as I awoke."
"It was triggered by a recurring dream in my comatose state. Please, do not take this as a reflection of me."
|
|
Grandma
Widely Known
Imperial Vizier of Isra
Roleplay posts: 1,017
Age: 90
Physical Description: ---------------------------------------------------------
An elderly and frail looking woman with white wispy hair. However, despite being old, her back is not bent by age nor are her eyes clouded by it.
Clothes and Equipment: ---------------------------------------------------------
She wears a deep purple robe that has sleeves that extend far beyond her hands. Her hands are covered with fine gloves of black silk and she wears one ring on each, one having a purple stone set in it and the other a piece of onyx. Carrying an ornate cane of orellium, Grandma can use it to increase her magical channeling as well as assist in deflecting others spells with it. The cane itself is black and covered in numerous ornate, but tiny runes. The cap on the cane is a purplish colored gem. On her wrist is a silver bracelet with a ruby in it that Grandma uses for telepathic communication with others in its network.
---------------------------------------------------------
Registered: Sept 12, 2015 8:27:42 GMT -8
|
Post by Grandma on Aug 16, 2016 14:15:24 GMT -8
Grandma raises her eyebrows at Glavilidom’s explanation. He claimed to be unjustly imprisoned because his own worshiper hijacked his powers or tricked him? Grandma couldn’t help herself from chuckling slightly. If that wasn’t the perfect example of him not being a ‘god’ she didn’t know what was. Regardless, she would investigate the truth of this claim. For her, doing so would be a fairly trivial matter.
“Although what you claim is rather strange, I shall see if you tell the truth in regards to having another soul in your body.”
Ordering the mages to insure the magic containment field didn’t interfere with her magic, but still keeping the field on Glavilidom, Grandma placed her cane to the side and stared with great intensity at Glavilidom. After a few moments of this, the aura around Grandma changes for a split second, her eyes turning completely black and gazing directly into Glavilidom. It would feel as if all was being laid bare before the unnatural gaze.
This gaze lasts only for a moment, Grandma’s eyes turning back to normal as she bends over to retrieve her cane. She then regards Glavilidom with a quizzical look before speaking to him.
“It seems you tell the truth, Glavilidom. I must say, I was quite surprised to see the soul of a mortal residing alongside your own. As it seems you are telling the truth, I shall offer you a deal.”
Absentmindedly, Grandma pulls a strange jar of some kind out from within the folds of her robes.
“You will be given some water filled with a number of potions in it. These potions won’t prove harmful to you at all, but they will send you into a deep sleep for a day or so. While you are asleep I shall extract the soul of the mortal from you and go through your memories to ascertain what you say is the truth. If what you claim is indeed true, I shall speak to the High Lady of Isra myself on your behalf. Most likely, I will be able to free you from this jail in an expedient fashion. This is the best bargain I can offer you.”
Leaning on her staff, Grandma then continues in a slightly more ominous tone.
“Of course, if you refuse, I’m afraid you’ll most likely be stuck down here for quite a long time before you get a trial or even another visitor. It seems most of those in our actual justice department are a bit wary of speaking to a creature such as yourself face to face. Although Isra is a great city, our standard lines of communication in the Justice department aren’t exactly the most expedient…”
Grandma paces back and forth slowly before him as she waits for his answer.
|
|
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
|
Post by Attla, the Conniving on Aug 18, 2016 3:36:20 GMT -8
This thing inside of him, beast or man, was a truly malevolent creature. It would be of great aid to the world to rid it of this creature. He knew that it tried to destroy him, as he was weakened. He felt pure hatred towards his past would-be-killer. He wanted him dead, more than that, he lusted for him to experience pain. He was in an impenetrable shell inside of him, currently. Even Glavilidom was not able to breach the magical barrier that Attla had created. He could, if he hadn't had magical bounds put upon him.
He smirked underneath his muzzle.
He could get revenge. Sweet revenge.
"I give my consent, for the extraction of this soul."
|
|
Grandma
Widely Known
Imperial Vizier of Isra
Roleplay posts: 1,017
Age: 90
Physical Description: ---------------------------------------------------------
An elderly and frail looking woman with white wispy hair. However, despite being old, her back is not bent by age nor are her eyes clouded by it.
Clothes and Equipment: ---------------------------------------------------------
She wears a deep purple robe that has sleeves that extend far beyond her hands. Her hands are covered with fine gloves of black silk and she wears one ring on each, one having a purple stone set in it and the other a piece of onyx. Carrying an ornate cane of orellium, Grandma can use it to increase her magical channeling as well as assist in deflecting others spells with it. The cane itself is black and covered in numerous ornate, but tiny runes. The cap on the cane is a purplish colored gem. On her wrist is a silver bracelet with a ruby in it that Grandma uses for telepathic communication with others in its network.
---------------------------------------------------------
Registered: Sept 12, 2015 8:27:42 GMT -8
|
Post by Grandma on Aug 18, 2016 10:15:46 GMT -8
Lips quirking slightly in the closest thing Grandma had shown Glavilidom resembling a smile, she nodded curtly.
“A wise decision. I shall start the preparations immediately.”
Leaving The Cube for the present, Grandma ordered the water be brought before Glavilidom, considering how she would go about extracting this particular soul while she waited for Glavilidom to drink it. Once Glavilidom had drank his fill of the water, he would fall into a deep slumber, one that would most likely take a few days to awake from.
Having mulled over the different options for extraction, Grandma decided to go with the rather overkill, yet extremely reliable one. Ordering four square shaped runes to be moved into The Cube itself, Grandma directed them placed one in each corner. Runes arranged in a satisfactory fashion, Grandma took another look at the soul residing alongside Glavilidom’s. It appeared to be holding on for dear life to the dragon’s body. That wouldn’t do, she would need to shatter its hold before ripping it out. As simply restraining the use of magic hadn’t broken the hold, Grandma decided to use a more brute force approach.
Relaying orders to the mages outside the cube, Grandma would wait as they reconfigured their spell. After a few moments, the spell that simply contained magic would be exchanged for an antimagic field that was slammed down around the Glavilidom’s location. While before magic and effects had simply been suppressed, all in the field would find their use of magic completely cut off, any mana reserves lost, and any continuing effects ended.
Grandma nodded in satisfaction, she herself was outside of the field but could easily sense its effects from where she stood. The other soul inside Glavilidom would now find its desperate attempts to hang on ended by this field, now she must simply rip it out. Channeling into the runes in each corner of the room, the field Grandma wanted filled the interior of the cube, with the exception of the area Glavilidom was as the antimagic blocked it.
If any were to enter the cube at this current moment, they would find their souls ripped from their bodies violently and drawn into the soul vial Grandma held out before her. However, Grandma only wanted to draw out one of the souls. Concentrating on the rogue soul within Glavilidom, Grandma was finally satisfied she had a lock on it. Giving a swift order, the antimagic around Glavilidom was released, the soul draining aura in the room rushing in to fill the sudden gap.
Grandma aimed it all at the extraneous soul residing within Glavilidom, which would most likely feel a massive pull as the ritual drew it out of the body and into the soul vial Grandma held out before her. Assuming this happened, Grandma would seal the vial with a swift spell to prevent escape. Even if the soul miraculously didn’t get drawn into the vial, there was nowhere for it to really go as the walls of The Cube were enchanted against non corporeal beings escaping.
|
|
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
|
Post by Attla, the Conniving on Aug 22, 2016 12:42:13 GMT -8
The sheer power of the pull ripped Attla directly from inside Glavilidom. His ethereal body flew into the vial, and the spell to keep him contained kept him contained. He made no attempts to struggle, or resist this. He knew what the spell was and that in his ethereal state he was far weaker than usual. Therefore he could not utilise magic to outright resist it. Not outright. The fact Grandma used a spell within The Cube was some interesting information. It would appear that Attla could therefore use magic, inside the Cube.
As stated, he did not resist the pull.
But instead, in the split second Attla had, he summoned a flame rune upon the inside of the vial. His own prescence, as a powerful mage, should therefore mask the runes prescence. It would be very difficult to know that rune existed, even harder locating it. If detonated, it would fill the vial with flame and the sheer temperature of the fire would cause the air inside to rapidly expand, and cause the vial to rapidly melt as well. The air expanding would increase the pressure inside and would cause the vial to crack, if all went as planned. It was a matter of waiting, so that his magic may not be found.
Playing an innocent, docile king of character would add leverage against Glavilidom, if only in the slightest. If he testified as a 'poor man who had his soul hijacked', he may have the chance to leave. He had control over Glavilidom's fate. If he said one word against Glavilidom, he would suffer greatly. He is going to make Glavilidom suffer. For getting him into this situation.
|
|
Grandma
Widely Known
Imperial Vizier of Isra
Roleplay posts: 1,017
Age: 90
Physical Description: ---------------------------------------------------------
An elderly and frail looking woman with white wispy hair. However, despite being old, her back is not bent by age nor are her eyes clouded by it.
Clothes and Equipment: ---------------------------------------------------------
She wears a deep purple robe that has sleeves that extend far beyond her hands. Her hands are covered with fine gloves of black silk and she wears one ring on each, one having a purple stone set in it and the other a piece of onyx. Carrying an ornate cane of orellium, Grandma can use it to increase her magical channeling as well as assist in deflecting others spells with it. The cane itself is black and covered in numerous ornate, but tiny runes. The cap on the cane is a purplish colored gem. On her wrist is a silver bracelet with a ruby in it that Grandma uses for telepathic communication with others in its network.
---------------------------------------------------------
Registered: Sept 12, 2015 8:27:42 GMT -8
|
Post by Grandma on Aug 22, 2016 15:41:35 GMT -8
Attla’s plan with the fire rune worked as he thought it would. Grandma would simply feel a slight increase in magical power from him as he cast the spell, but wouldn’t detect its creation of the rune inside the soul vial. No, she would simply chalk it up to something else. A brief inspection of Glavilidom’s memories would reveal him to be speaking the truth, which was all Grandma needed to know for now. Holding the vial out before her, Grandma began walking towards the door, as if to leave. Then she stopped. It would be safer to do what she had in mind here, wouldn’t it? Yes, Glavilidom was sleeping and there was plenty of distance between them.
Addressing the mages monitoring The Cube, Grandma would order them to raise the antimagic field back over Glavilidom. After asking to ensure all the mechanisms to prevent escape were in place, Grandma then ordered them to stop monitoring the inside of the cube. All of this was done with the telepathic communication rings, it wouldn’t have for her friend in the vial to get any ideas.
Satisfied she wasn’t being watched, Grandma dropped the first level of her disguise. Immediately, her form shifted, becoming less substantial, grayish smoke pouring off her. Any magically attuned being nearby could easily sense that something from elsewhere was present. A mental pressure of sorts would fill the cube and those inside would begin to hear whispers. If they listened closely, they would find all these whispers had a common theme. Consume them. Break them. Drain them. End them. Erase them...
The whispers continued, each one having its own unique voice. There were hundreds, no, thousands of them. Despite the sheer volume of voices, after just seconds of their incessant demands they fell quiet, an eerie stillness settling in The Cube. With a swift motion, Grandma would raise the soul vial to her lips, uncorking it with her other hand as she did so. There was now only one thing that could be felt coming from Grandma, insatiable hunger. Attla’s soul would feel a pull as before, but this time there was something living behind the pull. Something that had every intention of consuming him.
“You will join the others now.”
The statement was directed towards Attla in an unnaturally grating voice, unpleasant upon the ears and the tone leaving no room for discussion.
Although Attla’s plan had been a sound one, he hadn’t taken something into account. Grandma’s hunger.
|
|
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
|
Post by Attla, the Conniving on Aug 24, 2016 14:20:58 GMT -8
And yet, Grandma had underestimated Attla.
He released the rune and absorbed its power. He then concentrated more magical energy upon it. A ball of energy apparatus. He had at least half-a-second in order to act. He pressed it towards his abdomen, his soul form absorbing the magical energy and magnifying it.
Transform.
Transforming into a dragon requires a physical form. That's simply how the spell works. But Attla had found a loophole. Force enough energy into the spell, the laws of magic must allow it to occur. Therefore, according to this, his corporeal form was pulled directly on to his soul form, appearing in a flash of light. He cancelled the transformation as he entered his normal form. Transforming into a dragon would be a hindrance by this stage.
These actions would counteract Grandma's soul-vacuum, assuming all went well.
Attla trained the majority of his life as a summoner. He is most adept at demon summoning. Therefore, since he presumed Grandma to be a demon, dispelling should not be an issue.
He brought his hand in a circular motion in the air. Strands of light followed his hand and formed a ring of light. Inside the ring, Attla produced a smaller hexagon within the circle. This was a spell of entrapment. If all went well, a ring should surround Grandma and cage her in.
Attla grinned.
|
|
Grandma
Widely Known
Imperial Vizier of Isra
Roleplay posts: 1,017
Age: 90
Physical Description: ---------------------------------------------------------
An elderly and frail looking woman with white wispy hair. However, despite being old, her back is not bent by age nor are her eyes clouded by it.
Clothes and Equipment: ---------------------------------------------------------
She wears a deep purple robe that has sleeves that extend far beyond her hands. Her hands are covered with fine gloves of black silk and she wears one ring on each, one having a purple stone set in it and the other a piece of onyx. Carrying an ornate cane of orellium, Grandma can use it to increase her magical channeling as well as assist in deflecting others spells with it. The cane itself is black and covered in numerous ornate, but tiny runes. The cap on the cane is a purplish colored gem. On her wrist is a silver bracelet with a ruby in it that Grandma uses for telepathic communication with others in its network.
---------------------------------------------------------
Registered: Sept 12, 2015 8:27:42 GMT -8
|
Post by Grandma on Aug 24, 2016 15:14:29 GMT -8
It appeared Attla was going to make this troublesome for Grandma. Although some predators might like toying with their meal, Grandma preferred to simply eat them and be done with it, therefore, she wasn’t particularly pleased by this turn of events. Already communicating with the mages on the outside through her ring, Grandma ordered them to cover the entire area with antimagic, but now to view the inside, lowering the antimagic around her if she signaled them. She changed her form slightly before the field went up, going back to her usual human form, but a bit more… Bulky. It was a rather strange appearance.
She would have to deal with Attla the old fashioned way. Although Attla’s transformation was a success, causing him to escape Grandma’s drain, his attempt at producing an entrapment spell would be cut short by the field. The field removed the mental pressure being put out by Grandma and caused the grayish smoke around her to thin. However, it wouldn’t prevent the natural speed and strength she possessed, as that was a purely biological benefit.
“Why couldn’t you have come along quietly? Do you really wish to cling to life this much that you’re willing to suffer just to live for a few more moments?”
Attla couldn’t be standing particularly far from Grandma, as he had been directly beside her in the soul vial. Wherever his current position was, Grandma would charge at him, brandishing her cane and swinging it at his ribs, with enough strength behind the blow to shatter them. As Attla was in the body of a human, he we would have a rather difficult time evading Grandma’s charge.
|
|
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
|
Post by Attla, the Conniving on Aug 26, 2016 0:18:45 GMT -8
He groped for his side. Anti-magic. The apparation of his mortal form carried his clothing and besides that, his burgulars tools. He latched open the steel box, and removed a couple of his darts. The important thing he did was do all of this under his cloak. It would be impossible to see his removal of the darts.
As Grandma charged, it gave Attla a chance to reteliate. He wouldn't throw the darts, but instead would wait until Grandma was upon him. He feigned fear. Maybe he was fearful. Just as the cane arm was poised to swing, Attla darted forward. His scrawny build gave him surprising agility. This was the essential part. As he darted, he lowered his stance to the ground. He then launched from this crouch-like position, giving him momentum and fired his arm out, with a dart in tow. If nothing was done to counteract his movements, he would have lodged the dart inside of Grandma's armpit. The damaging of this joint should effectively stop the use of her cane-arm.
|
|
Grandma
Widely Known
Imperial Vizier of Isra
Roleplay posts: 1,017
Age: 90
Physical Description: ---------------------------------------------------------
An elderly and frail looking woman with white wispy hair. However, despite being old, her back is not bent by age nor are her eyes clouded by it.
Clothes and Equipment: ---------------------------------------------------------
She wears a deep purple robe that has sleeves that extend far beyond her hands. Her hands are covered with fine gloves of black silk and she wears one ring on each, one having a purple stone set in it and the other a piece of onyx. Carrying an ornate cane of orellium, Grandma can use it to increase her magical channeling as well as assist in deflecting others spells with it. The cane itself is black and covered in numerous ornate, but tiny runes. The cap on the cane is a purplish colored gem. On her wrist is a silver bracelet with a ruby in it that Grandma uses for telepathic communication with others in its network.
---------------------------------------------------------
Registered: Sept 12, 2015 8:27:42 GMT -8
|
Post by Grandma on Aug 26, 2016 11:21:48 GMT -8
Grandma foresaw Attla’s lunge at her, stopping her swing short and rolling to the side to avoid his jab with the dart. Although she was about to take another swing at him, Grandma realized the ridiculousness of this situation. It might be good fun to chase this man around the cube, but she should really be a bit more professional about this.
With a hand signal to the mages viewing the inside of the cube, that to Attla wouldn’t be discernible in meaning, Grandma would take off at a dash towards the entrance. Her pace would be far too fast for Attla or any human to keep up with. Right as she reached the entrance, the door would open just a crack, allowing her to slide out. The instant she was out, the door would be slammed shut again and sealed.
From the ceiling of The Cube, gas would begin pouring in. After a few minutes, the entire area of The Cube would be filled with it. The effect of the gas would put those inside asleep, for quite a long time. It was rather similar to the water given to the dragon except in smoke form.
Grandma considered her options from the outside of The Cube. Now that she knew Attla was a mage powerful enough to perform magic from simply a soul form, a rare trait, she could take the proper precautions. On the other hand, she could also perhaps use as a gift of sorts for Alden, the High Marshall. She had heard he had a certain knack for this kind of thing… Considering her rather strange position in the Sun Marshalls, it would be good offer him such a gift and get some connections going with him.
Deciding on the latter course of action, Grandma would relay some info to Alden that they had a prisoner who needed breaking...
|
|
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
|
Post by Attla, the Conniving on Sept 1, 2016 22:46:02 GMT -8
He could have thrown the dart as Grandma. However, that would likely worsen the situation. He predicted he would have to appear in court. Assaulting a government agent, outside the bounds of self-defense would levy a serious charge against him, certainly. Who was to say they wouldn't immediately throw him into a dungeon, without trial? He couldn't be sure. Still, he had better not be foolish. It was imperative for him to sustain his life.
As Grandna slipped through the crack in the doorway, Attla licked his lips. He tentatively studied the place where Grandma had exited through, expecting something to burst out, perhaps a guard. He did not anticipate the sleep gas; even if he had, he wouldn't have been able to do anything about it. He fell unconscious immediately.
He collided with the ground with a resounding crash, his many utensils colliding with the floor. The dart in his hand would lodge itself in his arm, puncturing through his pale, flabby flesh
His last thought was pain.
|
|
Alden Marshal
Widely Known
Roleplay posts: 1,420
Age: 30
Physical Description: Alden is 6 even, with shoulder length messy black hair, and several days worth of beard stubble. He is handsome, with a powerful jaw, mid set cheek bones, and a perpetual grin that makes him seem younger than he really is. His bright green eyes, constantly sparkle with barely contained mirth. He has the lithe well muscled body of a swordsmen, and he moves with considerable grace and dexterity.
If one where to take more thorough examination of Alden's eyes they may notice a further detail. Around the outside edge of his iris's there's an intricate series of minuscule grey runes.
Alden rarely removes his shirt, but should someone see him with it off, they would find his body to be covered in scar tissue. Starting from just below his neckline, there is very little space that does not sport some relic of a past injury. A particularly observant person may also note that among these scars, some are a bright scarlet. These scarlet scars form an intricate series of runes hiding among the others.
Those of a more magical bent may be able to decipher the runes in his eyes and on his skin. Identifying them as sigils more commonly found on magical items. The most obvious effect of the runes on his body, are increased speed, strength, and durability.
The runes on his eyes give him the ability to detect magical auras and residue, as well as allowing him to see through low level illusions and glamours. They also maintain his vision regardless of the current light level, and even if there is a sudden shift. His eyes are also capable of dropping into the infrared spectrum in complete darkness.
The rune work on his body enhances his natural strength, speed, endurance, durability, and reflexes to almost super human levels. The effects make him a formidable opponent for most magical creatures though only because they are supplemented by exceptional skill.
This means that all though he is almost super human in a straight contest of strength or speed he would most likely loose to most other magically enhanced humanoids such as vampires or were wolves.
Alden's runes also greatly increase his healing rate allowing him to recover from injuries that would normally take a few months for a person to recover from in a few short weeks. Not only do Alden's runes accelerate healing they also enhance it. A normal persons body will repair itself until it is functioning again then stop, thanks to the runes Alden's body will continues to fix itself until it is in near perfect condition. His healing abilities enhance his already prodigious stamina as it repairs muscle damage and lactic build up and it also increases longevity as he does not accumulate long term damage as most people do.
Finally his body runes provide protection from people attempts to find him magically. Detection spells will be obfuscated their readings on his location being off by about 20 meters. Long distance scrying and tracking spells are only able to narrow down his area to somewhere within a mile radius. It should be noted that these protections can be overcome by someone with sufficient power or ingenuity.
His runes cannot be removed unless they are cut off of his body using an appropriate ritual knife and magic. If the runes are disrupted in any other way they will simply grow back in a few weeks time.
The final thing that only someone versed in rune craft and enchanting would be able to tell is this: The process of these runes being carved into his bodies would have been unbelievably painful. A normal person would have been driven insane or to suicide if they had this happen to them. During the carving process un-directed magical energies would begin to take hold and tear apart your soul. The pain this would not cease until the rune pattern was completed. This means the pain caused would be on a spiritual and physical level of incredible magnitude.
Clothes and Equipment: Read this post for equipment update: http://thefantasysandbox.boards.net/post/27933
A re-paired and enchanted grey cloak, leather armor, twin short swords, bag of candy, full water skin, a few days worth of travel rations, enchanted leather boots, and a brace of throwing knives.
Player's online availability : On and off during the day, more active during evenings (EST)
Registered: Oct 30, 2015 14:59:43 GMT -8
|
Post by Alden Marshal on Sept 3, 2016 15:56:12 GMT -8
The gas dissipated and almost as soon as it is gone the anti-magic field is enabled again. Then the doors creek open and a troop of guard hustle in, doors closing behind them. They have little fear since the gas would keep even a dragon sedated for a few hours. They come upon the sleeping man. The man is then stripped and cavity searched. Once they are assured he has nothing a simple robe is put on him, his effects taken away. Then a pair of anti magic cuffs are slapped on Attla. (So long as the cuffs are worn no magic can be used by the wearer.)
If at any point Attla so much as stirred a muscle he'd be smacked in the side of the head with a leather wrapped club. Whoever ordered this extraction did not believe in taking chances. Once the prisoner is trussed up he'd be removed from the large room. From there he is transported to a smaller holding cell. His arms raised above his head and bound to the ceiling. His legs placed in another set of anti-magic restraints and bound to the floor. Then three men are stationed inside the room to watch the man until he awakens. They have a casual conversation, keeping one eye on the man. Their orders were to alert their commander when he awoke. And to beat him if he made too much noise. The content of their conversation is rather mundane except the beginning.
"Is all this really necessary? Seems like overkill."
"Dunno, apparently it's by the High Marshal's orders. I heard an officer complaining about it. The Marshal said something like: You aren't Marshals, I don't trust you. You will take the precautions I have ordered or I will remove you and have your replacement do it."
"Damn. Forget what I said, this is fine."
"What?"
"Dude the High Marshal is a scary guy! He came down to a training session once. I saw him beat six men armed and armored, with his bare hands. Not recruits either, veterans I think there was even a dawn rider in there."
"Really I heard his nice. Friendly and smiley."
"That's crazy. The man leads some of the baddest bad asses in Isra. Dudes a stone cold killer."
And so on.
|
|
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
|
Post by Attla, the Conniving on Sept 6, 2016 4:15:46 GMT -8
Eyes opened. His arm was in pain. He had a severe thumping pain in his temples. He was groggy. Forming thoughts felt like trudging through treacle. He heard talking. It was mostly unintelligible to him; not that he would have cared much for the situation at hand. He did note one fact. High Marshal. What was his name? Aldor? Aldemn? He couldn't recall.
He knew one fact, though. He'd really screwed up.
He was lucky he was alive, however. That hag was deceptively fast. He hadn't expected adversaries of such abilities. He apparently was of importance, if they were taking such precautions to capture him. He was lucky to be alive, all things considered.
Perhaps death would come, now. A sense of dread loomed over him. His breathing sped up. He bit his lip.
He didn't want to die. He hadn't quite accepted death yet. He knew he'd go to hell. The thought terrified him.
He glanced upwards, indicating he was awake.
|
|
