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Tales of Jael: Imbeciles (Rough Draft)

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Dazargeros
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Tales of Jael: Imbeciles (Rough Draft)

Post by Dazargeros » Fri Dec 14, 2018 3:31 am

(Hey goys, I've been looking for some critique on the beginning of a story I've been trying to get going for ages (I've restarted it about 3 times by now) Any comments left will be responded to as fast as I can. If you want to see any of the entries from before, I'll give'm, (The farthest I've went before having to discontinue and restart this story was to page 29 on Google documents. This one is currently on page 5) and if you want images to portray the characters I got'em :D. Thanks and enjoy!)

Originally called: “The madness of man…” The quote; “War and ill-fit squander has raged to such a point with such spite and burning fire to send flight, the plight of all of our god-given right, to die because of another’s perceived insight, and thus this fight… Will lead all to our long night, lest we never lose our sight to the sunlight.” to represent this tale and all of Jaelia.





Prologue: Cold droplets stain and continuously tap the cobble rough pathing beneath the wanders’ thick darkened, obsidian, fur embroidered and laced stabatons, the intricate gold lining strung along the collar, front and back shaft, some of the lines creased into the vamp aswell, seeming to glow as the watery puddles in which he strode in eroded, ripples sending forth, and out as he placed, more or less slammed his heel into them as he marched onward. The rain in which had subdued the otherwise glorious fields of these plains struck this night like lightning from cloudless skies, casting down upon him with the fury of god, as if he had brought certain distraught and demeanor to the deity of the clouds. A leather hood hung over the stranger’s face, one of the raggedness that indicated a receptacle of previous journeys, and from what was left of his face to shone and etch to you, was a display stone cold and bitter, yet it’s deformation still whittled-chiseled moreso from the coruscation of the dreary moonlight that just barely pierced the veil, for it (The moon…) seemed to not even exist at this time, for the dark clouds over the field did, and would not let up on the sorry lad. Young and altruistic he looked… A pale face, more boyish than man adue, his eyes radiated with a dull hew/tint of gold, maybe some would even describe as orange. No iris, nor pupil set within those two suns that laid smack upon his mortal mask. Hairy-bushy brows hanging lowly beneath his eyelids, certainly not of a human descent either… Indeed… But of the Ascended. -....What? You don’t know how to picture a mortal ascended…? Aye… I am foolish to not elaborate more indepthly of this estranged people and their somber tale of ruin… The Ascended were a people in which dwelled within Forgo long ago within the Days of long past… The first realm o’ Jaelia… A breed o’ the indescribable, and human… They were an audacious type, tenacious and revelatious, their course running short all because of the hatred in which they received for their stained blood with the contemptible, as is known within Jaelia, they (Those indescribable) are a ghastly sort, not ones to ever be trusted after what they had done… But you will figure of this later, in due time my good lad. Now, returning to the description… The Ascended are chronicled throughout folk-lore to have long Elvish eyebrows and ears, but the duality of human shabbiness, dull, black or brown strands of hair, curly or wavy (And nothing else), some even being born without their head mop (Rarity), and donning deep, sunken orbitals (The area around the eyes) that oddly enough made the people in which caught sight of them, describe their golden eyes as glowing from beneath the shadowed visage of their long-dangling hairy eyebrows. The Ascended have high cheekbones, serpent-like thin cheeks that are sharp and gaunt and perched white lips, lying below, strong jaws, it is an accomidy aswell for them to grow fangs as large sabers or perhaps Vampiran (Atleast in human proportions) but mystifying enough, it is a scarcity once again. There are many different variations of the Ascended, seeing as how they’re to take the traits of them, in which they had induced their seed with, or vice versa, some Ascended are etched as being on par with apes, having clear resemblances to them, or therefore any animal really… Their height varying, but halting usually between 6’2-6’7, with long legs, arms and feet, no hair on their forearms, or their haunches and pits, protracted and whittled abdomens and protruded stomachs o’ starvation and disease. They are a race of intellect and wisdom, and as such, they tend to groom and keep themselves quaint as much as they can, unless of course, it interferes with their time… Time… All mortals are afraid of the endlessly murderous anomaly of time, but the Ascended believe they’ve been pourn the cup o’ life amounted to that likewise an insect, and as such… They believe their lives are miniscule compared to their brothers; the Elves and them, most endearing (As they) the arts of Magick and never returning once they ventured their studies far too along the unknown, becoming examples o’ God and Devils yin and yang; magick. The single stranger whom traipsed this road seemed to approach nothingness, his pointed ears stabbing the shadowed depths of his hood as he stared and marched onwards with a face of dis-ease and or some would describe as desultory, blackened stubble beginning from his wavy chops, he appeared to be a groomed man, but his beard was misshapen, the black spots of his stubble entirely being crudely cut, if not mistakenly and unevenly, hairs longer than others, would make a man wonder what he used to receive this odd look, perhaps he had been struck across his face with a weapon… A match... flame?

This man, unfortunately, I do not believe has, or had a name, a drenched, waterlogged cape being strode around his shoulders and neck as he ducked his head. Defiantly ogling the pearly stones beneath him, like crystals, glistening from the droplets, reflecting back to the stranger’s own face, no gleam or galore in his eyes nor his cape, but he didn’t seem to recognize it somehow… He faltered, a slight moment of hesitation as he scowled down to the image of himself, slighting a gloved runed wrist guard and leather palm to touch and rub his face, He could not feel his face, except for a ghostly strike of cold inflicting him as he did so, his attention flicking to his fingers, before he raised his palm out before himself with his other hand removing the black leather mitts. Tis was hard to tell if he was pale from the arctic storm he had been enduring, only then, portraying his reluctance to keep his steady, gallant stroll, a tremor beginning as he curled his fingers as if he wanted to gnaw away at the bare skin on his wrist and pull at his own icy crude blue veins, tightening his hand into a fist, before slinging back over the visage for his hands, his gangly fingers fitting back into their rightful places, the glove, colder than before. But he continued.

After hours, what felt like decades of remaining stoic within the deepening storm, did he begin to lose his sight, and what seemed to be the condensation and thus come fog of that ocean which had lackadaisically been pourn upon him, instead came from an unknown crimson veil that swept the scurrying birds in the skies, the breeze incepting into the valley unnoticeably, until its color was definable to his already eviscerated eyes, his hand, now both covering his face as he grit his teeth and cold flashes stung him like wasps, extreme palpitation and quaver striking his body as he went limp, hearkening to the cobblestones as he fell aside the pathing, rolling down into the mud and tall wheat-like grass of the lowly leveled endless fields, but the Wanderer did not waiver, despite his fall he retained his life and will, his right arm outreaching and bending to lift himself, fingers wriggled to grasp untamed roots, that or plant his calloused palms firmly so he could reform, and whence so, when he caught grip of a prickled reed, he kicked the bill of his foot back into the earth and hopped to his feet, refirming his stature and bipedal functionality, before shakily dusting his cloak and shrugging his shoulders, letting out a crude, low growl, as he shifted back his shoulder guards into place, mud like ichor stained him, the brown slime slowly flowing into the dark creases and folds as if it sought the man within. The stranger stared up into the clouds, his eyes seemed, calloused, crows feet forming as so, a slight disturbance as water trickled down onto his pale face, a droplet landing just below his nose, causing him to grimace for a moment, red flickers stirring in his golden eyes like a swishing cauldron of pour, his entire body quaked, a wretched, waiflike sod emerging as the cloth slipped his shoulders to the grass (The man had an abhorrently disfigured frame, withered bones revealed on his muscular arms, athletic biceps, yet straight, slim forearms and long legs), waivers in his face as his lips chattered like a sulking pup. A final arising word or maybe holler becoming etched from his mouth, beginning as a snarling coo, into a bustling roar, the weight of the clouds plummeting, thunder flashing, as lightning struck stone pillars “!!!-SAAAAARGREZAAAD-!!!”


Conniptions
A green o’ the mother, and yellow o’ the god, flush of galore struck through the flappy mellow leaves of the obelisk, god-like pillars of nature. Twisted and gnarled branches strode up their long etched with discrepancy bodies, with scurrying insects atop, within and below their hollow husks, foraging for themselves and or their kinship, above them, those plump, blue, or red feathered, perky crested jays, singing their songs lackadaisically as they hopped from thickets o’ leaves and moss-stained twigs, to in which they’d happen upon those crowns of sticks and almost ill-like ish… meshed to refine and feed their ilk, white little eggs settled, and some already broken with calling newborns for their mothers. Through the churn and loud rustle of these bustled couples, could be heard the steps and shuffle of a shut and cut supple-man, below the pine needles and leaves, and below the creatures in which leapt with glee, and some in flee. A soul with a red hat causing a susruss of the detritus, along a trail only he knew, brushing his hand through the shaded ferns of the forest floor, his protracted, pale fingers feeling the leaves as he sighed, settling his crooked posture, almost the same as an old man he stood, with a seemingly broken back, his alternate hand gripped tightly to his pelvis as he strolled, white fur embroidered on the belted collar around his neck. This soul, this man, was slung in tattered crimson robes, a wave of heat, as of from the sun during the warmest summers, when every creature bounded the forests in delight would emanate and flow against yours and others like the ocean’s waves, embers, like a dying fire, lacing his calloused, sunburnt, blackened skin, his tongue and face, ash-like, with dry lips and watery orange seemed eyes. Fingers a-nipped against the petals, he froze, rubbing the soft midrib of so, his thumb making back and forth before he squeezed, a green, sappy pulp seeping from out of the tubular-esque lining, the warm liquid staining his fingers like moss, a head and face shifting with curiosity, glancing down to the stained fingers, a lowly, beast-like growl humming as he ogled down to it. Just beyond his fingernail, did it slowly reach, a dewy droplet forming as he stared as if he was in an apothecary studying his own mix, his eye and face lowered to the same plane as it. His lips and tongue furling as he kept marksman still, beholding the little orb before it would climatically slip and fall, and as this happened, he kept complete, clear sight of it, the ghost-like fissure airborne now, stuck within the grasp of velocity and gravity, tapping and splattering onto the bustling with life floor beneath, more specifically onto the fallen husk of a branch, a trio of ants becoming stuck within the syrup. Haunches and knees bending as he lowered himself, seeming his eyes to see the three antenna’d devils, a hand glancing to his waist nestling on the glass rim of the cork of a bottle, swiveling, snake-like appendages wrapping around the neck of so, as he lifted the bottle to his mouth, taking a swig before retruding to his kempt posture, continuing his trek along the trees.


Arala-Jaelia
To the door of the barracks o’ Arelaine, strode along the entry/doorway, green, dilapidated banners, there drew up a smart carriage--a light spring carriage of the sort affected with pristine and elegance, kempt wheels and seemingly untouched wood, one of retired country-men and or landowners possessed by sovereign souls, and, in short, all persons whom ranked as gentlemen and of the royal category. In the roofed carriage was seated such a gentleman--a man who, though not of this land, was not ill-favoured and or crude, not one of a sickly nature, nor fat, but not thin either. Also, though not over-elderly, he was not over-young, in fact his face seemed to rest more like a manly-boy, hairs not yet striking his gaunt, angular pale face. His arrival produced no stir amongst the kingdom and neither the men or guards underneath the cobble hedges of the bridge above to sheath them from the pour, only but a pair of ragged boys whom’d been wrestling in the mud before the men over tossed rancid pork, pausing their confliction to shift brows, their terrible parents, throwing palms and gestures of displease as they took their gander amidst their flailing bout “Look at’a’t wagon…!” coo’d the most kempt of the two with ragged brown hair, and a deep Maxinan accent (To say kempt/clean of this child was a very keen compliment for the boy, for he beheld almost none of those cleanly manners) “Think you a man of importance lies within?” the other retorted with a snarl, as his arm took the other into a hold beneath his pits and his knuckle tousled his scalp “!...Off with ye, Arendafo!” he said swinging the others’ grasp off the wits of him, a slight dazzle of humor and playfulness tittering in his gleeful chitter, a dagger-like elbow striking him in the jowls as he retained his repose, barrel-tossing the others arm over his head, their conversation and words seeming to falter thereafter. Presently, as the carriage was approaching the barracks, rocking along the crude stones, it was somewhat met on the way by a man in a pair of very short, very tight, leather breeches, an ill-stained, hairy chested, checkered hat wearing bloke, prostrating to the carriage, a blessed, clean white gleam of teeth from beneath that torn visage and shaggy, cut beard, clearly one of a disparaged lineage or other downtrought legacy. The old beggar turned his head as the fancy wagon made past him, his eyes keeping an attentive gaze as he lifted himself from the water-drenched stones, a hand clapping to his cap (Which was in danger of being removed from the winds) with still that smirk underneath, a final salute to the driver, making a slight nod at him, with a perked, half-smile and the twitch of his black stache. But to the checkered man’s surprise, this fancy car strode along no longer, parking underneath a wooden shack clambered near, right-aside the barracks, that also beheld the Knights’ most noble companions. On the vehicle reaching the inn-like door, an occupant, a man in brass metal and iron, with a gold crested hauberk and visored helmet, with the same emblem of the banners beside him halted the lad’s continuation with an upstruck, plated mitt/palm “State your business.” the man inquired immediately with not even a quelch or shift o’ pitch within his bucketed voice “I am Vaieldt, this is an inn, am I correct?” the plated bloke lowered his palm back a-next his sheath, shaking his head “This is the barracks o’ Dires Ofeldt, there are no inn’s I’m afraid ‘ere, you’ll ‘ave to continue on down atleast into Trades Ofeldt for anything o’ that fancy…
I'M GOIN' TO JAEL! - https://wafflecows.wixsite.com/fearlessstrangers
Your lad, one and only, abroad this endless journey.

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Dazargeros
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Re: Tales of Jael: Imbeciles (Rough Draft)

Post by Dazargeros » Fri Dec 14, 2018 3:45 am

(Initial rough draft! :D)
Prologue: Cold droplets stain and continuously tap the cobble pathing beneath the wanderers’ thick darkened boots, as the rain casts down upon him with the fury of god. A leather hood hung over the stranger’s face, and from what was left of his face to shone, was a display stone cold and bitter, yet it’s deformation still coruscated his once young and altruistic looks, a pale face indeed, more boyish than man adue, his eyes glew but gold within the harsh night, no iris, nor pupil. His bushy-brown brows hanging lowly beneath his eyelids, certainly not of a human descent indeed. But of the Ascended, a race that’d been so reluctantly, some’d say foolishly, created, their souls and bodies manifestations of god and magicka, hideously deforming their fine Elvish looks, dampening their beauty to pale white skin and hollow-golden eyes without iris, their blushy-full cheeks reforming to more gaunt, sharp Human characteristics. the stranger whom traipsed this long road, sept to approach nothingness, his pointed long Elvish ears stabbing the shadowed depths of his hood as he stared and walked onwards desultory, he faltered, a slight hesitation as he scowled to the oceanic stones beneath him, yet he continued his cold, lonely traipse down the roads of Ethrannel, a plains like region of Maxina, with nothing but boulders standing alone midst the endless meadows’ tall grassy fields, nothing in sight ahead of him to the eyes of thee, but to him, he knew exactly where he went.
After hours of walking through the pour of god, The fog of the rain had deepened and torn away at his sense of eyesight, but as said, that time and wandering came to an end, as he approached a great mountainous Dwarvish keep, decrepitly the torn thing stood, arcanium amethyst runes glowing ‘round the cobblestone keep, emanating but wisps of purplish flame, a battered and beaten stead it was, it lay ahead, bearing crude, chapped ivory white pillars beholding the grand outstanding, the entirety of it, stained by moss and overgrowth, not a single light from outside glowing within this dull stained solitude, nonetheless he stammered to the royal, elegant Dwarvish door, whomever kept this solitude before must’ve been of grand importance. He advent, stepping over the elegant steps clearly crafted for Dwarves and none other sort, glancing to the withered fountain which spout no water. Whence reaching the door, he caused a light rap upon it, ignoring the knocker and striking with his gloved cold fist, knocking consecutively 1...2...3, there was pure silence for meer seconds, the rain’s sound sept to stop as the anticipation of the traveller turned to anxiety and heart wrenching fear, as his mind began to race of oncoming revelation. The door creaked open, but it was not opened by a man, but by the harsh winds, the traveller paused disdainfully, fearing for his life, still bearing that childlike trepidation despite being grown now, he still beheld of fear...A final shone of contempt flickered onto his face, his brows sinking and grimacing, he then grabbed at the copper-death stained handle and pushed the door through with a grunt, blade ready for the encounter? ‘Tis hard to know if he bore even that amount of bravery, especially with only vision of his non-expressional unseen face. Nonetheless, the tottered door fell through, the stacks of armor lapsed within, falling over as the cloaked man took steps inwards into the mansion. The wanderer once entering, franticly observed the strange home, glancing to the old withered idols and books laying scattered across the reflected domino-like flooring, and the trophies on every crook and cranny of the mansions walls, swords and axes lopsided about the borders, some fallen off the walls, most in somehow pristine condition although all of their known heritage, or atleast the ones he recognized, from ages past. Rows of armored hollow Dwarvish-heighted racked suits standing about on the corners of the main room, and near the lavishly draped staircase that led upward, which lay dead center from the front-door. Whence the stranger’d first walked through he’d taken the hollowed soldiers for people or magickan living revenants that’d leap at him during his approach to the fireplace, nevertheless, they were-and did not. But most importantly, within this room at the bare end, sat a Dwarvish-man, making sounds as if he slept near the lowly lit fire within the chimney, deep humming, in a strong oaken rocking chair, in old black obsidian armor, showing similarities to our wanderer, atleast in a sense of apparel, both having black overalls and golden linings streaking and striking ‘cross their panoply’s, though the Dwarf’s face and eyes were shielded by a large black hood, a brown-oaken pipe stood out from beneath, clearly plucked in his mouth, emanating Falarin tobacco, a scent our wanderer was familiar with, a single tear almost stringing from his eyelids as the smell reached unto his nose, a potent, guttery smell it was, stronger than any cigar he’d inhaled, and anyone would in the realm of Maxina, the shadowed face, partially torn-bearded Dwarf turned incompletely to face the young wanderer, “...Long have I waited for you, boy…” croaked the old Dwarf, his voice shaky, yet unfrightened of the sudden intrusion “Why’ve you come here? ...To avenge your friends?” the Dwarf scoffed to himself, pitying his own foolishness, shaking his head back and forth slowly, clearly in hauteur of the stupidity of his own inquisition “...Of course not. You came here to finish all of this...” The Dwarf paused briefly, squinting his brows then his face retruding “...But... how does one finish and fix a problem he knows nothing of? Or say, how dost thee? And how does an Elvish boy so blindly serve those... who could’ve been anyone? You know nothing...Nothing of the masters you’ve so mindlessly served your entirety. The tear that dribbled, and slid down your cheek from your eye for that imbecilic harpy, should not.” the Dwarf paused for a brief moment of respite again, allowing the wanderer to absorb the power of his words “...Boy, I’ve seen many things of this land. From the mountaintops of the Obsidian mountains to the simple plains of here, Ethrannel. From the bowels of each kingdom to the peaks and keeps of every castle! I’ve spoken to every King, Queen and holy-man. So before thy is to gut me so viciously and ill-willingly, I propose a moment of repose…!” said the Dwarf leaning back in his chair, and slowly taking a puff of his pipe “...I shall educate thy with the story of your familiars. I will tell everything of their journey’s, for I’ve herald them all. ...And I know even you, boy, are curious of that, ‘tis it not why ye came here?” the Dwarf choked grinningly “...To know where you go on from here? To know where, and how ye’ friends died?” the tall unmoving cloaked wanderer stood so coldly and statue-like, only outlines of the cloaked Elvish figure noticeable, his hand on the hilt of his sword, clearly listening and registering every insult and word coming from the small Dwarf intently, his face almost completely shadowed, the only apparent-visible part of his face was his dangling, long wavy-white hair, and his jowls, despite the fires lighting and the thunderstorm in the background illuminating briefly the entire room, slowly the figure retruded his hand from the hilt, letting his hand fall, he then began to pace over to the crimson-red furniture straight across from the Dwarf, sitting down without sound and without making even a single crease into the couch, a small glint emanated from beneath the Wanderer’s hood, shoning his fangs and a slight grin. “...Wise, yet coy, Dwarf, Go on then, tell of their tales, ‘fore I change my mind...” he spat “...It would only serve a positivity to my long journey ahead. But do not think your judgement shall escape you for your...Generosity, tell but another single insult or lie throughout this. And your time will be struck short...” the Dwarf after the tense moment uneasily adjusted himself in his rocking chair, a creak happening as he did so “Well then... I believe I’ll be able to tell of this whole tale, start to finish, without being killed...Let us begin hastily, shall we...?” The wanderer briefly glanced the broken glass, eying the storm, before turning back him and nodding to him. Justice must be served. “-Lightly…! With the lives of the four imbeciles...Of course, you do not know them, neither did I, or anyone else I’ve conversed with know of them, but their story is still significant to your goal, now… I know what ye be thinkin’, I told I’d speak of the people I knew, but, as said, they are important! The Gods, aswell; as the many loremasters of Jaelia almost know nothing of these four, their accomplishments...Miniscule, atleast to the grand scheme of the quest to activate all the pillars, as the one you seek, seeks to do. But nevertheless; the four, a strong player into our reality... Their journey and everything that occurred during those times, I consider and display unto my listeners as: The days of long past. Our-their story begins within; Arelaine, the human kingdom which fell only three decades ago, surely you know of it, she taught and told it to you...Didn’t she? ...The first kingdom of the Humans, south of Falarus, within Adaleiasia, close to the rubble in which sits there as the Twylen’s home today…?” but the wanderer spoke nothing, for he had already heard, so the Dwarf continued...

Chapter 1
Long Past
It’d been raining unrelentlessly upon the human kingdom of Arelaine, located south of Falarus, nestled in the center of Arala-Jaelia within Adaleiasia, a sort of mossy rainforest, with grey crags and widows abound its vast reaches, husbands and children stolen from creatures in the night and the small pygmy people they called Twylen’s, the trees and scenery surrounding Arelaine-Arala were simple, oakish-brown, lavish colours, but it had that peculiar scent in the air always, one of paranoia... this kingdom bordered the giant’s domain (Falarus), in fact, the titan’s forest only sat but simple days-perhaps a week away. Summer it was, yet still so dark and dreary did the kingdom stand, but the gallows and sewers of the vast kingdom somehow stood clean of the muck of man, as ironic as it sounds, yet somehow still so skewered, riddled and eviscerated of the peace of dryness from the storms, the towers ‘round the kingdom manned by single guardsmans onlooking, as their hooded, black and gold, billed-royal helm’s dripped large sappy petals of water, all of the towers’ outcroppings, trickling large droplets, sliding and slipping downwards onto the cowled peoples and dryless beggars as they walked underneath the showers of the heavens seeking refuge from the storm, it was midnight, and within the tavern of Tera, located within the royal blue colored district of Arelaine (Dire District), would sit two, one strong and tall, brown-haired and stoic, his eyes green and his skin white, and across from him, his weaker, yet more agile and graceful companion, he, straight haired as his friend, but more slim faced and outgoing, with black hair and blue eyes, the stronger man’s name was Contelenon, being a human, more so prominently told, as a beggar who’d lived his early life on the streets of Arelaine, being forced to devour the rodents and filthy creatures of the kingdom just to save himself from the aching pain and death-threatening hunger he was forced to endure during his youth, and if he was lucky, be able to steal from the bakers and chefs of the kingdom, Contelenon’s story was that of a droll boy, fated to become, no one, if he were to keep that pace up, atleast that was the thought within the mind of his friend who would soon sit across from him. His mother abandoning him after her spouse had been murdered at the gates of Relefade by a raid of bandits. Relefade, being an upcoming Township bordering the forests of Windelen, (home of the Elves, during this time atleast) the providence, bearing almost no defenses quickly succumbed to the onslaught of the Sons of Greed, stolen valor Knights which rode in on purloined horseback with swords of Lighcean and plated armors of the knights and footmen they’d slain, their apparel and look was that of holy paladins but their deeds were not, pillaging and murdering everyone of the settlement, including... Contelenon’s father and yet somehow, discluding his mother who had been able to run away. Relefade, before Contelenon’s father's death, had been of very keen interest to him, month’s previously he had desired to live within its dwelling, for it’s supposed oncoming success of being a lumber town, surely it was practically a death sentence to butcher the forests of the Elves, but Humans cared not for the rage of violence to ensue, for humans beheld never any familiarities to Elves despite the filth they may do when they’re alone. Anyways, besides that tragic tale, let us move onto another, Contelenon had been abandoned by his mother during his early youth as said, age 3, from fear of not being able to feed her little boy, she abandoned him out on the streets, and he was left to endure a life of sin, stealing, bribery, doing anything he could to feed himself. The more riotous fragment of his youthful tale, which had led him to Alonn, his best friend, was he’d first mugged Alonn and they’d fought against eachother in the dung of the kingdom within the sewers. Contelenon and Alonn swinging rusted old blades at one another, Contelenon only at the age of twelve using his dagger he’d found within the sewers of Arelaine and Alonn, thirteen, using his father’s oldest blade which he knew his father wouldn’t notice went missing, but the two blade-dancing children paused eventually midst their roundabout after encroaching upon the realization of their folly and stupidity, being; neither of them would succeed in killing one another. Contelenon wasn’t a boy of skill, and he lacked any sort of intelligence which during the fight had made him receive and also unintentionally strike his opponent, with the blunt and or dull of the blade. And you’d say the same for Alonn, he was a boy of grace, honor and intelligence, the polar opposite, unknowing to the strange and sudden swings made from Contelenon, the homeless ragged child swinging wildly, to and fro at him. Alonn and Contelenon after this encounter had became friends, ending the fight and resolving the issue with peace, both of them covered now in but rags from their torn apparels, but only bearing such small scratches and scars from their confliction. Contelenon was the first to notice their folly, throwing his dagger to the ground with a clutter and telling Alonn to seize as he readied to strike again once more, Alonn froze, lowering his stance and blade after inspecting Contel carefully, Contel apologized for his pigheadedness, persuading Alonn to forgive him, handing him back the bread he’d stolen, begging for Alonn not to tell the Guardsmen, but Alonn did not receive lightly his apology, unwilling to accept it, not until someone had seen to their little quarrel, the beggar-child, dragging along with Alonn, pleading for forgiveness would not let go although Alonn’d shunned him and offered him freedom of his adjudication if he’d just begone of him, still though, he continued, all the way ‘till Alonn’s homestead, a large home bricked home, in the midst of the evening and district, Alonn’s father hadn’t been there that week since he’d left to Vaeielt, a Gelran foothold southeast of Arelaine, conjured for the trade of both the humans and Gelrans, so Alonn brought Contel to his mother, she’d been cleansing the clothes of their filth outside as Alonn approached with Contel still abound, but not even did she receive unto Alonn or the guilt of the crime of stolen bread, Alonn’s mother instead handed Contelenon bread and more, seeing the ragged, uncombed/uncleaned boy almost made tears come to the rough, yet soft woman’s eyes, for she had lived almost the same to Contelenon, Alonn’s parents both had lived early lives of disparage and doubt, living in squander and rubble. Regardless, returning to the story at hand, subtly told twixt this tales sea of words, Alonn had always been a more gifted individual, in a sense of being blessed of good parents and fate unlike his friend, but Alonn never sought to take up a working job, Long hours for good pay, seemed like a death sentence to him, instead Alonn sought to venture off. during the Lafaelaiyan parades of Arelaine (four months henceforth, Contelenon and Alonn had fought, after their amends), the many adventurers he had seen leave years ago, had returned, wielding weapons which glew of runes and bearing beside them women and friends they’d made off on their journey’s, Alonn always saw this image as his major aspiration for his life, he always thought to himself when he was a child that he wanted nothing but the people’s love, to be known throughout Jaelia as the adventurer who ended all of the evils of their lands, slaying every foul-magicka bedridden demons, butchering every bandit and assassin, laying waste to the legions of the damned, the list of his righteous, childish endeavors goes on... Alonn during this parade had also been accompanied by none other than Contelenon, Contel wasn’t ever too thoughtful of his decisions within life, hell, he barely knew there was a world out there besides Arelaine, but when Alonn explained so vividly and fantasized unto him of the glory of freeing the world of mystery and evil, he too bore the dream, earlier in his life he had always dreamt of having enough gold to feed himself during the Winter, but as Contelenon aged onward, he began to feel more of a family presence growing within him, one of selflessness, if thine does not understand the previous blatant point, I shall scribe a bit more intricately, a trait within Contel’s family, was one his father (Contelenon’s) had always bore, dying after sacrificing himself for a woman who’d born four children, allowing her to escape, Contelenon dreamt every hour during his lonesomeness of being able to care forever for his family and friends, being able to feed and buy them everything their hearts desired as he too craved for when he was younger. Contel never had anyone to hold him back and he was now dead-set on the journey, but Alonn, Alonn had family, his parents had now grown quite old, his mother fifty-two and his father sixty and sickened, coughing up blood every evening during his work, his children begged him to lay, but Alonn’s father was one of unknown aptitude…’Till of course, he couldn’t even bare to stand or sit properly, his Wife, Alonn’s mother: Mira sent him to finally rest, as he’s been now for three month’s...Never regaining even but a sinch of his forte. Alonn was always supposed to of been there for them when they could no longer bear to work, for what would his four sisters do to feed and comfort their parents? Women within the days of long past, especially within human lands were deemed incapable of most good paying jobs. And thus Alonn’s father always had eviscerated and tore at his son’s dream, telling him it was a fallacy and sin to desire such fantasies, he told him life was there! within Arelaine, guilt-trip after guilt-trip did his father do to him and eventually Alonn’s dream did begin to die. And so now, Alonn in his early adult years, worked the forge as his father had so stoically and humbly worked every day for ages, sun up ‘till sun down, but as every parent, his father could somewhat sense something wrong with his boy, as did Alonn’s mother too, they both saw the overwhelming urge and desire within Alonn’s eyes, more or less the week before his friend Contelenon announced to him his off-going without him. In truth, they were right, Alonn hated the forge, he hated handing the blades off to the ones who bore better more exciting fates then him, he bore envy for the adventurers and warriors who came so lackadaisical unto him, practically tossing gold and coins at him for swords and daggers befitting of killing demons and other creatures of legendary proportions. Alonn, the day before Contelenon was to leave, offered him an invitation, one last sitting within their favorite tavern in all of Arala-Jaelia (Arelaine), a final toast to their friendship. Contelenon arrived timingly, already donned in his armor, ready for the morrow, silver, it was, a helm brought together to make an adversary perceive a berserker, two eye slits, stretching down to the length of his mouth from his eyes, no air holes either, sometimes Alonn wanted to redesign the damned thing, a battered-beaten ugly thing it was, horns like daggers striking the parallel ends of the jagged yet box helm, Contelenon had received it from stealing it from a group of bandits in the forests of Gorreleran when he was a child and had kept it ever since, same with his halberd, a bronze now rusted blade it bore, dull and chapped, the blade sept almost like the fin of a shark...How did Alonn know of any of this? ...He was there...Of course. As Contelenon walked through, into the tavern, he’d abruptly open the door, simultaneously, instantly he noticed and set his eyes onto Alonn, the hunched figure of the black-haired sod with a seemingly cane-like blanketed spear near him, resting on his chair, lent over, immediately his eyes darting to the table which he and Alonn had always sat at, a high stooled table-almost centering the room where he and Alonn had shared many memories together, though most he could not recall since they were as drunk as Dwarves, probably batting heads with eachother anyways, as they’d usually wake up with concussions. He slowly traversed through the large tavern, pardoning the many drunken humans, and shoving the Gelran’s littering the darkened room, Contelenon whilst he treaded onward to the table of his friend scoffed at and of the lime skinned, pint-sized rodents, never did he bare such a hatred for another mortal, lest they were Tiations, Twylens or Gelrans, all halfling Dwarvish-esque creatures compared to the tall Humans and Elves. Contelenon took his helmet off and placed it upon the table, revealing his bright green eyes and brown hair, near the drink Alonn had brought for him “...Is there a reason you’ve brought me here, Alonn?” Alonn settled himself, lowering his stricken posture he’d maintained during Contelenon’s traipse to the table. Once Alonn was settled he looked to his friend delightfully “I thought I’d bring us here for a final farewell, a goodbye, if you will.” Contelenon rose a brow, the slight excitement in his face receding “So you haven’t brought me here to announce your forthcoming, ashame...” Contelenon glanced around the room impatiently and annoyingly “...Well, I’ve no time for dallying, Alonn... excuse me.” sharp screeching of the wooden chair occurred as Contel pushed himself away from the table, the irritable sound practically echoing within Alonn’s mind, and with that, Alonn suddenly halted Contelenon’s exit with a shout “Contel! Have you no time for a simple drink? Remain atleast for the duration of your drink for god sake, I didn’t spend two drakes for nothing.” Contelenon turned back to Alonn, sitting once again on the red seat. He lifted the drink then downed it within seconds, he then wiped his mouth with his arm despite the cloths nearby, clearing the spilled droplets from his beard. “Have you really no time, Contel? Atleast listen to my word. I know more of the world you seek to traverse, I could perhaps help!” Contelenon eyed him drearily “Unless you’ve a sword in your hand and traverse the realms of Maxina with me, then I don’t think you’ll be helping me all too well.” Alonn sat there stone-faced, his lips perched, and his frown heavy “We’ve gone over this Contel, you know I cannot leave.” Contelenon sat boringly, one arm behind the back-guard of the chair, and it’s legs, two off the floor, leaning back, “I do not wish to ramble of this again, but…” he grunted, scoffing, clearly, as stoic he sought to remain, he wanted Alonn to come forth with him and so he partook “...Two of your sisters already bear husbands, Alonn, a man makes…” Alonn interrupted his friend, knowing of his dull mind for mathematics and basic standards for living “One-hundred and twenty drakes. You know a family must provide for their own, correct? Do you think my sisters and their husbands want to use their money on my parents? My mother makes a slight of hand-forty drake's every two weeks, and that’s if she’s lucky! Now, as you know, my father who used to make one twenty every two weeks, makes none at all! All of MY money goes to payments for our natural equities.” Contelenon scoffed “Bah! Then stay, Alonn, and live the life you dreaded... Or! as I’ve told you a million times to do, just take the chances and leave! What is so hard to understand of that?! If ‘yer parents seek to survive, they’ll do everything they needa do! Sure they might shun ya afterwards if we return, but it’s not like them bastards didn’t do that to ya ‘yer whole life…! From what you’ve told me, yer fatha’s a child! Begging you to stay home and take care of him…! Love is one thing Alonn, but whence you’re held back from your own aspirations because of it, it means nothing. If I were you, I’d embark, and think none of it!” Alonn’s right eye unsteadily flickered after hearing his friends explanation, the weight of his imbecilic insults thrown at his family crashed down, but Alonn did not raise his temperament, for he bore the same spite and mindset as his friend too, but he still defended his regression from his own ploy “...I’ve known my father, my mother and sisters since I was born, they depend on me. I’d be Leaving them for dead! These are not just leaf-like people Contel, they do not simply fall and I forget! They are my family! Women within Arelaine must be accompanied aswell, without me, my mother’d end up in slaw, you know this! What’ll my younger sisters do aswell? Hand my mother and weak father a spare of 20 drakes every month?!” Contelenon sat back, creaking the chair as he did so, a somewhat churnful grin on his face as he stirred what little of pour was left in his drink “...If the fantasies you’ve so vividly explained to me are real, then you’ll be able to feed your family for their life-times, nevertheless provide them with a better home…!” “...Who in all of Jaelia is going to deliver my money back here to Arelaine once I’m out there Contelenon?! Do you not know how long the trek is from Arala-Jaelia to Falarus-Faolau?! Though what I know may be of but broad understanding of the outside world, I know for fact, that there aren’t just magical messengers whom appear from nowhere to kingdoms, carrying bulging pockets of golden drakes and expenses for people's’ loved ones.” Contel scoffed “I’m sure you could find someone…! ...Probably that little Gelran bitch your so fond o’ talkin’ to...; Azera, if ye give’er a little coin…” “Your arrogance and stupidity knows no bounds, Contel…” told Alonn, his friend paused for several moments, whilst Alonn sat, finally engulfed in a surge of madness, enraged from Contel’s arrogance “Hmm...Continuing...Alonn, I also seek to pardon your insolence... Do not think I don’t realize why you’ve brought me here.” he paused “You’ve come to plead for mine stay. Which I will end, and answer that question now. I will not. I leave on the ‘morrow, as early as possible. Arelaine may be my rightful home, but it bores me, and I will not waste another day longer.” Alonn chuckled of Contelenon’s stupidity “You think I came here to prolong your settlement?!” he shuddered, laughing uncontrollably “No, no...I brought you here to say a farewell and offer my advice, for the love of god, Contel, why would I make you stay?-Nay, How would I make you stay? You aren’t a dog, I cannot just lock you up in a cage. I brought you here to question your journey-Nay again! To question how the hell you’ll survive the voyage to Falarus!” Contelenon sat in silence for a moment, his arms folded, the brash sod then tittered of his cheeky thoughts “Questions prolong...” Alonn rolled his eyes “Contelenon, what will you do for food?” “I’ll hunt.” he shrugged “Do you know how to hunt Contel? All I’ve seen you eat your whole life is stubborn-possy-fat rodents here, probably infected with diseases and the sort.” “Well of course I may need a bow, I may need arrows…” responded Contel, pausing again “...But I sure as hell don’t need your bickering. There’s a first time for everything, Alonn, and there are certainly stops on the way to Falarus, you know this correct? There are Tavern’s, there are inn’s, there are people! so I believe I’ll be just fine without your stupid inquiries and assurances.” “Unknown faceless men incentivizes danger out there, Contel, especially if you’re alone. What? You think they won’t kill you for your armor and expenses? Hell, you’d be like a tree that falls in the forest which bears no men or animals to witness, you’d be unheard, and unspoken of, forever…!” “...I’m sure there are some blokes out there who’d assist me and not just seek to gut me straight away.” Alonn, parting from the nonsense that will arise if he is to continue, breaks away to the point “Who will accompany you, Contel? I hope thy realizes that delving into something as treacherous as the caverns of Mt.Falafieri requires at least the aid of a few companions, correct? If you’re caught on the roads by a gang of bandits, or a pack of wolves threaten your life during dusk, who’ll save you…? Look, Contel! We may’ve got off on the wrong foot for this meeting… But you are still my friend. I brought you here, also… to give to you this.” Alonn sought the cane near him, it was even larger than Contel had imagined, spanding far, almost to the ceiling, Alonn laid it across the table, the ends of the large staff like item sheathed by a leather cloth, the concealed stick almost poking the waitress who passed by carrying drinks. “What’s’t be?” asked Contel, raising his hand and finger, and leaning back forward placing the legs of the chair back onto the wooden floors, Alonn grabbed at the leather covering, pulling it back swiftly, and unveiling it, it was a large foreign halberd to Contel’s understanding, the long hilt encumbered in runes and symbols he did not know of or seen before (This was assured), spanding from the blade and to the golden ball of the long hilt was a lavish pattern of blue flames. The upper half of the weapon, the important part, was a blue-sapphire drakes head, brilliantly/artistically painted and sculpted to resemble the sapphiran drakes of Farrenla, gaping it’s razor sharp mouth and teeth to reveal the long sharpened blade which struck out with a glimmer of ferocity, truesilver, it was made of, a metal that was extremely rare, on par with gold almost in the realm of Adaleiasia, the blade reflected Contel’s face back to him, the lower ends of the blade razor sharp and jagged, like a crocodiles upper teeth, made to stab and hack down, a final signature at the ends of the blade, labelled: “Cotalos” “...Alonn...What is this?” The proud blacksmith (Alonn) settled the gold-runed hilt in his palms and passed it to Contel, “A parting gift, Contel. Hopefully the damned thing doesn’t set a target over your head for brigands, but...If you are as skilled with that thing as you were with that dagger you kept when you were younger, I don’t think anyone will be tearing that from your hands, ‘less of course you’re asleep or dead. And nonetheless, it’s a hell of alot sturdier than that four-feet long machete you’ve been carrying around...” Contel still trying to fathom the halberd spoke with his tongue tethered, stuttering whilst he spoke surprisingly yet lowly “H-how the hell did you get th-the things to make this? How in the depths did YOU make this?!” Alonn laughed “Hah! Not sure. I’ve been spending the past eight years at the damned forge everyday so maybe that explains it? And as for the materials, I’d simply trade a bunch o’ dopes who didn’t know the worth of Truesilver for swords and silver drakes, an easy ploy, really…What they don’t know won’t hurt them, besides, some of them just handed me the damned ingots wanting to get it out of their hands.” Contel squeezed the gold embroidered hilt, and returned his eyes to Alonn “What’s the writing at the end of the blade?” Alonn lent in to take a look “...That’s your name, Contelenon, in old (Gay-ler-ick) Galeric. And that brings up another issue, how are you supposed to navigate yourself throughout Maxina if you can barely read?” Contel sat silent for moments, unshaken from Alonn’s blatant fact that just somewhat barely tore at him vaguely, for it was true, Contel did not know how to read, for as said before, he was a beggar and was unable to afford schooling. Alonn tittered, continuing on “I do not wish to discourage you, Contel, but the art of wordsmithing and understanding of language is a practical essential of traversing realms. Take the wrong path or road, and it could lead you straight into your doom.” Contel scoffed, placing his old halberd aside, and fitting the new next to him answered “I fear no enemy. And I can read, even if it’s not to your...standards…!” said Contelenon bustly, muttering to himself briefly, a slight glimmer of courage and arrogance lying within the grin he smiled, Alonn beset his gaze upon him once again, his mind doubtful of his friend and his blue eyes showing nothing but disdain for him. The many candles and torches of the tavern wooed as a loud thundering occurred, the people of within, jumping, from the bellowing roar of god, for it shook the very frame of the wooden building, and silenced the many talkers. Once the light of the room recovered, a royal purple cloaked, iron-padded Gelran sat ascuched near the table of the two, his dilapidated-lopsided magenta ribboned helm, almost sprouting and meeting with the height of the table, his long Goblin-like lebowitz rough nose showing from underneath the iron footman’s helmet, it’s edges like sharp daggers, reaching far and wide, his one eye shone, it’s iris even purple and his skin a lime color, as all Gelran’s, his wavy black hair barely sprouting from the borders underneath his helmet, curling back like the waves of the ocean, aswell a black roughened-tied long beard and face hardly perceivable to Alonn and Contelenon from where they sat, though this man must’ve been old, right? So they thought, for was his voice, twas was deep and gruff. He held but a long spear, clenched in his right hand near his face, standing and pointing to the heavens, a lilac colored ribbon like the one on his helm, raffled and tied ‘round the pointed tip of the spear, elegantly, and finally a shield in his left hand, beautifully displaying a painted garden full of velvet roses, it was as if he held a frame of art as an instrument of war. Alonn and Contelenon turned downward to meet the eyes of the Gelran, in fact, his face was not old, scarred yes, but he looked of a 30-35-40 year old Gelran, scruff and chin hair, the, at this point to Alonn, natural Gelran mustache and thick brows. “...You’re taking the path off to Falarus,
human..?” Alonn, baffled, yet still somewhat stricken of the Gelran’s sudden appearance nodded hastily, dazed of the core of this Gelran’s question, yet his answer was still true in Contel’s case “...What business has it of you, Gelran?” spat Contel whence he recovered too, chuckling, the small Gelran remained silent for a moment, beholding Alonn’s question “...Well, I’m glad you ask...I happen to be one who is aswell on a journey there for my own purposes, and I’d be willing to aid any venture you sought after, -I also thought I could entice the two of you with a little tale, to introduce myself...” “Ah! We care not for your story, petty Gelran! Begone!” vociferated Contel “Oh? Dost thee not, human., The size of a rock golem? Would you so foolishly throw away my proposal to weld our ships together? From what your friends told so far, you need some help...” Contel looked to Alonn drearily, then back to him, rudely gesturing him to continue. The Gelran lifted his helmet, raising his head a bit to reveal his darkened-hollow right eye, abyssal it shone, dark like the endless pits of Sesoria, an oozy dark fill spilling from it’s caverns, he then spoke coldly, lowly, but still yet boldly “Fourteen years ago…” he raised his hand holding four of his fingers up “...My party and I set off from the Amethysian forests, an area far north east in the lands of Farrenla, a land said to be a gift from the gods, woven with such intricacy not even the oldest and knowledgeable souls could harness it’s majesty, magenta-like forestry all about. Even the creatures of such exotic elegancies and colors! Nonetheless, I trekked off with the aid of my companions, Hierol Availeq, Javier Cenede and Anenafele-” before Gofeuryac could continue, Alonn interrupted, chiming in “...Anenafele...? That isn’t a Gelran name.” “Correct, it isn’t, now may I continue?” inquired the Gelran, malice rising in his tone from the abrupt interruption, so Contel pardoned Alonn and beckoned his hand to the stranger to continue “We had an easy trip, not much action, ‘sides the bustling nuisance of the cart we carried hittin’ the rocks and mountains we had to cross, not even did the Twylens of Faolau pose a real threat to us, the walk through Zoida was perishable though… Those damned forests, the spiders, the cretins and demons whispering in the night, -my sanity, I will confess, did wane at that time, as did the sturdiness of my lot, but we persevered. Ismoldar, next after the sail, the freezing winds of the flat-snow white plains pierced our eyes and vision, whilst we were out there I believe we were being followed by an Alibno, yes...Yes, we were… I don’t however recall the battle completely, but it is safe to assure we won throughout.” he smirked “...and on our way finally to the great giant forests of Falarus…” he paused, sighing “they were slaughtered… Everyone of my homeland and ilk… Were ruthlessly killed by the bandit lord…~Lord Kagorak, the bastardous-weakling wretch whom took my right eye with a crimson kris and forced me to witness the utter murdering and butcher of my friends… He left me for dead in those damned forests to suffer. Ravaged of my apparel and belongings, told to cower and warn the others of his grand ascension to becoming the High-king of Falarus…” The Gelran laughed softly-briefly, in a tittering manner, but then his face turned cold, his lips pinching shut and his Amethysian eyes softening “…Oh... The years henceforth since then… have been strifeful, indeed! And my heart has been left void of the warmth of happiness...But no longer…!” he paused again, emptying his lungs with laughter, maniacally howling, delighting himself in his own bloody fantasies “If there is one thing in all of this damned world that’ll make a smile return to my face...It is the lifeless carcass of that swine. ...I shall behead that mongrel, without a moment of hesitation if I’m ever given the chance again…! So with that! I offer my blade and life to whatever cause you seek heading off to Falarus, as long as you too seek to aid me with this good deed to serve all of Jaelia-Maxina...” Alonn stared inquisitively at the Gelran “...And this Ogre lives on the roadways to Falarus?” the Gelran shook his head slowly, whilst he began to wander off from the two, clearly searching for a stool for himself, peckering and pushing at the many drunks who sat slunked over dozing “He lives within Hold Tarifiericizis, an old battered thing it is, made of burly-heavy stones and resting on the mountains led up there, it may only be held up by just old stone mantles and logs, but do not underestimate it’s stability and fortitude, for it was built by the Dwarvish Lord Tarifieri, thus the name, surely you know him… for he was lionized and practically crowned as the most legendary mason during the War of 13 for his craftsmanship…! For he was. A castle made for the Vafaelan Drow-king Alasos during the age of strife, fitted and stoked altogether with ballistas and catapults on each tower and upstanding, truly a keep apposited for war… I doubt, no matter what your route be on your way to Falarus, you shant encounter the keep and nonetheless that dog himself, for that soulless wretch’s always up to no good, whether it be murder or purloinment.” Contel looked to Alonn grimly, his face now, finally showing fear for his life, Alonn was pleased for this sudden glimpse of mercy and ineptitude, but there was no pleasure in the chance of his friend perishing. The light and excitement in Contel’s emerald eyes were then extinguished of it’s once galore and his mouth and beard trembled, just barely opening as it did so, he then turned back quickly to the Gelran, who’d luckily caught fates timely ride, seizing a chair from a ginger-haired fine-thickset woman who’d aswell been reaching for it, snatching the wits of the stool, pulling it away then grimacing at the woman, forcing it toward the duos’ table...Whilst so happened, Contel spoke rationally in whispers to Alonn questioning the Halfling “Ist the Gelran to be trusted, Alonn...?” Alonn shuffled into the dark reaches of his stool, grunting and keeping his eyes on the strange man “Perhaps, if he knows the way to Falar, why would you not seek to follow in his path? Perhaps his little sentiment of this bandit lord could be swayed, as I’m not sure if you two would be able to accomplish such a feat with only the both of you” Contel squinted, his brows furrowing inward, making a face inquisitive of the question asked “You saw the faint flickers of that bastards sanity, would you trust him...? For all I know this Bandit Lord rouse could just be some sort of ploy of his. You told me to keep arms length of strangers’ help out there...” Alonn stared to the ill-fated Gelran, not batting to Contel, as he growled at the burly-bitch who’d aswell been reaching for the stool then said “...Perhaps...Let him go on with his tale, then I’ll decide.” Alonn then settled himself and crossed his arms as the Gelran seated himself before the table, Contelenon straightened himself aswell, pulling back from his lent position and unfolding from his lips a question to the violet cloaked Gelran, asking of his epithet “What’s your name, Gelran?” from beneath the dark steeled helm the Gelran wore, grinned razor sharp teeth “...Finally! Now there’s a good question…! My name is, Gofeuryac, son of High-lord Alexi, overseer and protector of the Amethysian forests of Farrenla.” Contel’s attitude and belief didn’t even seem to waver not nor in shock or awe of the sudden revelation, but to Alonn it did, his eyes widening and his imprecise questions spilling out at the word of “Prince” “We stand in the presence of royalty? Why’re you here in Arelaine if you’re the prince of a kingdo?!-” Gofeuryac scoffed, pardoning Alonn’s acknowledgement lifting his gloved hand, five fingers up halting his fumbled flow of inquiries “I’m no prince or king now, human, not after my father and people disparaged me. I hate to speak of it…! Exiled from my own damned kingdom by my father! to put it simply, because of a bout between the both of us years ago... I deserve no real pleasure in the sense of honor for my banners, nor would I accept it for them, not after what they’ve done.” Alonn stared at Gofeuryac as he sipped from the only other tankard left at the table, unblinkingly and curious of the Sovereignless soul whom sat so remissing before him “...What’d your family do and why, Gelran? What could you do that’d rectify such an ill ailment to behold as a Prince whom was promised sovereignty and rule?” Gofeuryac’s yearning lips perched and straightened once the query was enunciated, he settled his tankard and cleared his throat from the groggy fluids cast within his throat and he looked back up to Alonn “Why? ...Gelran-kind has never once throughout history allowed or tolerated the camaraderie of other races mingling within our territories in Zoida, and I was one to vocalize and assist in the abolition of those laws. More or less because of a certain deary who I benevoled of…” said Gofeuryac reminiscently “Whom?” asked Contel, grinning now, his stained and messied face, clearly attentive of Gofeuryac’s speech to commence, for there was one thing Alonn knew Contel could listen to for hours, and that was women, for even one of the most tallest and somehow handsome human’s within Arelaine, Contelenon had never once felt the soothing brisk feel of a woman’s touch “Anenafele, oh what a sweet little dove she was… Her posture was stuck-upright, like a queen, her-” Feuryac’s speech faltered, his voice shrinking, almost as if his breath’d been stolen “...I torture myself explaining of her… If only she was still here…!” Alonn nodded harrowly, yet expectantly, whilst Contel lent back in his chair focusing on the depressing half-man “You mentioned her before… She was with you on your way to Falar, right? When your caravan was seized?” asked the sovereign-beggar softly, trying to maintain a dim-set of mid and figure for the sorrow man’s story, Gofeuryac’s left-chipped ear sept to flicker irritatingly as the question was nudged “...Yes…” Contel then reached across the table, patting the Gelran’s shoulder “Ist alright, Feuryac, I’ll help ya kill the bastard, as ye said, and as I decree now! Kagorak, that weakling whom killed your friends... deserves death and all that comes with it, and I will ensure that his death is none, but of the cruelest.” a smirk perked from the Gelran’s lips as he nodded “May it be so. ...As for the tale of Anenafele, the reason I was destroying the laws was because they prohibited my council to her and her struggled people, for within Zoida, Tiations bear the same civility as a dog, people couldn’t care less for’em, ‘sides the Dwarves, and its all because of the first plague.” Alonn scoffed “Hmph, I never would’ve guessed short-races beheld so many restrictions to quarrel between eachother...” Gofeuryac tittered “So many restrictions back there in Amethysia-Farrenla, even here.” answered the dull Halfling, his eyes covered once again from his helm’s ends, but Contel leapt forward “Let us quench this moping already, besides this, Gelran, what’s your plan to get to Falar? Are you in need of any supplies? Weapons, armor…?” the Gelran turned right-side up, his face resting against the knuckles of his gloved, closed fist, almost boringly he sat, plainly insipid of the faded memories of his wife, his black curly hair, like waves brushing and swaying just below his brow and above his tiresome eyes “...Maybe a skinning knife’d help for the winter to shave a few pests easily, but overall i’m not in too much in need of anything. On the other hand, you, human...” Gofeuryac pointed at Alonn “-..You! need something better than that. Politicians and fancy folk out there on the roads are like helpless children, cloth won’t do, I should know. Lest it’s enchanted with Elvish scrolls and runes.” Alonn poshed himself back to Contel, then turned back to the inquisitive resting Gelran, but before Alonn could etch his words, Contel interrupted, a low tone increasing into disdainful words “Alonn’s not comin’ with us, he’s too busy here in Arelaine.” Alonn felt a burning anger rising in his throat as he scolded his dear friend for the intrusion of the explanation “Ah the smithery… Yes, yes, I understand then, but why is it then that you two are converse here in this tavern if you’re to leave tomorrow?” “Purposes… That I don’t really know yet, I was called by him to appear here for advice for my journey, and to receive…” Contel poshed the sapphiran halberd’s blade onto the table “...This…” Gofeuryac stared at the halberd Contel presented longingly, not turning from it until Contel spoke no more “I’m cooped because of utter sorrow occurring, my family needs me, I’ll say this.” Gofeuryac froze, staring at the tables rest briefly, muttering under his breath, before glancing up from the wits up back to Alonn “...Family is a just thing to consider the halt of a journey. You seem eager to leave if you’re to discuss this business with your friend, But what specifically ails your ongoing?” asked he, fluttering his eyes upto him with a poshed face of intrigue, Alonn felt and bore the look of a sod without sought, his chest urching as he fel’t’d foward, scoffing “A plethora of reasons…” he hummed disdainfully, both of his elbows on the table, whilst the beggars face and lips quivered to question the meaning of the strange word presented unto him, but his mouth remained closed, eventually, Alonn spoke through again “...My father, ever since I was but an infantile, miniscule rat told me that to venture off from Arelaine was to mean but death. I’ve tried to ‘suade him, in every possible way you could think, but it’s all just pointless, he shant’d let me go, and… and I cannot let myself go either. For now, my father’s grown quite weary and sickly, with a disease I know nothing of, or simply how to cure, I’ve visited every Mage and every medicine-man, to even the bastardous beggars whom tell they can save his parish for coin, but none can cure him. If only I could’ve had a brother, maybe he would’ve wanted to inherit my father’s place…!” Gofeuryac flinched, gritting and picking at his sharp teeth, looking back to Alonn “You need a brother? What is it, you only have sisters?” Alonn nodded “Four.” Gofeuryac’s movements stopped whence his words were etched “Four?!” he bellowed “Sio’d! No wonder your father wants to keep ye shacked up here.” told Gofeuryac, then turning to Contel momentarily “And what about you...Contel? What’s your story?” Contel’s brows rushed inward, making a stricken inquisitive face “Me? I’m the one leavin’ with you.” Gofeuryac’s tongue and mouth repetitived the words “No, no, no… What I meant was what’s your story? Your friend here seems to be quite family-like, what about you?” Contel nodded “Don’t have too much family…” said Contel pecking at the wooden front of the table clearly depressed of the fact, his eyes hidden from his lashes as he gocked downward, Alonn then cheekily parted his words into Contel’s saying “Or a last name for that thought...” he said grinning “Do ‘ye have a problem Alonn?” inquired he, yelling, clenching his jaw and rushing to be, nose to nose with Alonn almost “Hah! you’ve been glancing slight jests all this whilst. but the moment I exclaim, you jump to my throat?!” laughed Alonn, but Contel, clearly was not amused and neither did he take pleasure in his attitude, and his grip strengthened on Alonn’s leathery chest, some people, the ones who weren’t completely passed out, gandered from afar, their tankards in hand, drinking anticipatedly as the two encountered each other “Haha…! ...Lower your wits and fist, Contel. away thee must drag and sway thy fist from thee, lest thou truly seek me to do so otherwise...” Alonn growled, grabbing Contel’s clenched fist and pushing it away from himself. Contel’s mind and fist halted, was this really worth fighting for? ... Contel let one last second glance, then he retruded to the depths of his stool, shaking his head in awe of Alonn’s arrogance, then turned back to Gofeuryac “Don’t have any family. All I got is this imbecile…” he said prompting his thumb in the direction of Alonn, Gofeuryac had been taking their argument easily as the other patrons of the Tavern had, taking off his wrist guards and helmet, he’d also begun cutting the stubble from his throat and mouth with his glaive the entirety of their small discord, but when Contel finally spoke, he halted, resting again and listening “Wonderful, you’ve a story as hopeless and depressing as mine!” Gofeuryac exclaimed, chuckling, then pressing his elbows into the table, leaning forward “...Do you two have anymore friends? And in particular, a Mage?” Contel squinted, tittering briefly of the proposal, scoffing “..A Mage?! Why would we need help from one of those, bastards? Bunch a’ scroll readin’, halfwits if ‘ye ask me, only an Elf’d want to be a Mage!” Gofeuryac sitting silently, pardoned his bigotry and then answered “We need a Mage in case we need to escape. Nonetheless it’d be helpful to have some more company and assistance, for it is always nice to have someone flinging projectiles around at our enemies.” Alonn whilst they blabbered on, tuned them out, and was trying to make rash, to perhaps recall the Mage’s he’d sought earlier in his dire peril for his Father’s antidote. Mostly, the ones he met were Archmage's, and Alonn knew they’d bear no real ambition to assist his procuration of a fix, nor would they care, but there was one or two he’d spoken unto of the journey he was going to take if he could assure his father’s life… “...I know a Mage.” avered Alonn, Contel and Gofeuryac, who’d both been speaking lowly to each other of the importance of Mage’s, turned to him “Three in fact… Though, I believe there are only two now within Arelaine who may assist the you.” Gofeuryac after a moment, then shot out his hand impatiently “Well? Go on, say their names!” Alonn raised his finger, clearly beckoning him to wait, still trying to recall their names in a quickening desparitous respite and manner “...Sukan...Daeldere...And Redmane…” Contel snorted whence the first name was told “Sukan?! Isn’t that the little rat in our banks? She counts as’a Mage?!” Alonn shrugged, “Supposedly. From the words she’d etched unto me, she once served on a journey such as yours. Accompanied by eight, all seeking the light of the phoenix of the sanctity of Autumn...” Contel hesitated for a moment, blankly eye the ceiling, until it sept he came to a revelation, in which he then pressed on “Funny...I was unda’ the spell Tiations couldn’t use magicka…?” Gofeuryac , who aswell sat gawkingly, with his arms crossed, answered “I was thinkin’ th’ same thing…What’ve the others you mentioned?” Alonn sighed, tossing his head to the side “...Daeldere still resides here in Arelaine, but I believe he’s taking his Elvish-Nedjarin pilgrimage to Xal’afeu soon. As for Redmane, you know him Contel, he’s the one I believe to already be gone…” Gofeuryac grunted, shuffling himself in his chair, then inquiring “So we can perhaps attain the assistance between two ...A Tiation and Elf I perceive?” Alonn nodded, then reassured him “ although as I’ve told, I’m not entirely sure if Daeldere’s still here, so your best bet is Sukan.” told him, a grin growing on his face as he looked to Contel, reminiscing of the few times he was forced to endure the likes of a Tiation, Contel after all was one racist bastard… “-Sukan, isn’t all bad. Not too short, and not too tall for her race, you probably’d never picture her in her sorcerer's garment with her soulful, freckled, child-like face, she’s an easy spot, seeing as how there aren’t many Tiations this way in Maxina, she has a snub, yet sharp nose, a keen, rash voice for a woman her size, and a sot appearance of apparel, if you catch her not within her lodging, she’s probably in white russe pants, tied tightly at the waist, and a rough, sleeveless leather jacket, she doesn’t dress too nicely, but I do believe you’ll get around to it…-” Contel’s face all throughout Alonn’s tell was unamused and dour, his nails beginning to embed themselves into the Wooden tabletop as he spoke of Sukan, a low growl rising spitefully, a wretched groan emitting in his voice as Alonn droned on about her. Contel’s mind raced with thoughts of Tiations and their weak bodies, disgusted he was, and so, interruption was imminent “-...There are plenty of other people within Arelaine who’d gladly take her place. Why do we need her? Exactly?” Gofeuryac swayed to Contel “-Do you have something against her? There aren’t too many Mages left in Arelaine as it is, and from what Alonn’s sayin’ she seems like our best bet at an experienced Sorcerer.” Contel let out a very drawn out sigh “Sukan’s as worse as it gets for a… fire, frost tossin’, robed, weakling, how’s she gonna defend herself on the roads there, she’ll dodge? Ha! ...And now I must await two souls?!” he pestered like a child, gritting his teeth, but yet again Feuryac spoke up to his complaints, pardoning his say “-Bah! We’ll be waiting just for her, Contel, for I can leave whenever the hell you and me decide to.” Contel nodded, grunting, then turning back to Alonn “Well...Does this conclude our little meeting, Alonn?” Alonn sat tensely as his friend spoke, ignoring him as his hands and fingers prattled together anxiously, again, pondering of the whole situation, Can he leave? should he leave? Perhaps his father and mother could maintain their livelihoods alone… he was scouring his own thoughts, but still attempting to rationalize them. He sought to leave but he knew it was for the worse, atleast for his family. Alonn was awoken from his deep thoughts by the puncturing finger of Contel against his shoulder “Alonn?!” Contel struck, Alonn returned with a waiver of his head and face “...Yes. It does.” “...Is it bothering you that much, lad...?” inquired Feuryac, peering upto Alonn with a gaze that sought to pierce the skin and bone round his newfound friend’s face to gaze into the depths of his decrepit mind “-Yes.-” Alonn broke, glancing down, stuttering as he spoke his mind truthfully “I-...Seek to leave, with all good intent, but.-” he faltered once more “-I... do not know what will happen to my family.” “Nothing, Alonn. Your family’s fine! I doubt your father hasn’t any drakes to spare, as your mother the same.” “-Y’think money could help?” asked Feuryac “Yes. My father has gone ill, as told, and my mother isn’t capable of supporting him and my sisters amidst my disappearance.” “-How many Drakes?” “-What?” “How many Drakes will it take?” Alonn shifted his brows “-I haven’t a clue..-Whatever it must be to support a lifetime.” “Hmm…” The Gelran paused, doshing away “...Then consider this next thing I say a favour from me. As I’ve told, I am from Amethysia, home of the rich and eccentric. I am-or once was, THE Prince, showered in apparels of beauty all my life, as I’ve been told by the few spiteful-envious peasants of these lands. But I do not value those small-irrobustful coins-sparks of envy, what they buy is nothing. food? I can hunt. Clothes? I can make them. I have made-nay! I have earned many in my life, from knocking away at Veins and ores within mines for sovereignless-now crushed by rocks-men, to killing blokes who wielded blood-stained swords of children. But my care for them amounts to feathers still. I tossed them all away. Dug them into the grave of some poor sod I once knew. I can have someone fish it out for you. Lest you seek to do it yourself. -the grave resides in a township just before the ruins of Relefade. Cataeleus marks his grave. Bordering the Elvish forests of Windelen.” “-And you’ll -Give your fortune all to me?” “As I said. Money is nothing to me. Take however much you need, it is alot I assure, more than I could ever count, so I didn’t. And the journey’ll only take you a couple weeks, two if you’re swift.” Feuryac grinned, taking a drink from his own tankard he’d gotten “Well.” Contel turned to Feuryac “-What a kind gesture for a stranger in a tavern.” “You still consider me a stranger? Hell! you know my whole story at this point…!” “...What is the disease that ails your father, Alonn?” Feuryac lent back in his chair, swirling the mixes of his drink within as he cattily looked to the two, still with that smug look waffing on and off “…I don’t know. The one that makes you cough up blood and gore?” “...Get’em out of that damned forge then. The smoke of that Smithery has probably torn at his lungs like a Roc afen’a serpent! Anywhere away from there’ll help him, it maybe a slow process for him to recover, but if god wills it, he shall.” “How do you know I work at the Blacksmith?” “Who else in Jael would throw you the ingots to create that damned thing ya gave Contel?” Alonn looked upto Contel, his eyes dilated as he glanced up to him and the halberd “-Don’t act surprised. I’ve known of your twos’ journey and planning for awhile now. Now continue on, tell me more…” “Right, it doesn’t matter now. -How do you know leading him from the smithery’ll help him?” “I’ve seen it before. Coughing is never a good sign, ...and what makes a man cough?” Contel answered his question, bleating in his “revelatious riposte of a rejoinder” “...Smoke!” “...Indeed. Now do so with the drakes if you are to find them, Alonn. Or don’t, I really don’t care what you do with the money. Spend it on whores, ...Spend it on other accomplices… It really is none of my concern.” “Thank you for this, Gofeuryac.” the Gelran nodded, blinking as he did, a true glint of propriety in the salute “Mm… -resolve this quickly, lad, and know that I’m here for you now too, this journey’ll sow us all as brothers if we’re to survive, I know it. -your assistance will also be needed if me and Contel here aren’t to find anyone else. -Which I Doubt we will, I never seem to fare too well… “ he pointed to his hollow eye with his thumb “-Returning, I believe I’ve heard of this Sukan you’er speakin’ of earlier” “You probably have. As I said, not too many Tiations are here in the East, they’re a rare sight, ‘specially one as pure as her. Silver hair, pale skin, red lips and crimson eyes.” “That’s her! Aren’t those features rare for a Tiation? ...Red eyes...?” “Red eyes are rare in any persons case, lest they’re a Dwarf, their lot seems to stay awake for weeks straight.” “-...Ya speak o’ that wench as if you love her Alonn... How’d you even meet the bitch…?” “When we were adolescents she came here to Arelaine, I’ll always remember meeting her, tis strange to meet a person that’s only half your height for the first time.” “Hm. We’ve met plenty of Gelrans throughout our lives, what the hell’s the difference between a Tiation and so?” “Gelran’s aren’t that small. Nonetheless Contel we never really saw Gelran’s till now, ya never did want to come with me and my father when we met to do trade with the Gorrelans on the border to their homeland.” “That’s cause even bein’ ‘round those mutt-faced runts sets my eyes ablaze. Gofeuryac I make an exception, for a man he is, but those little whelps who cower away in the forests behind us…-” Contel grit his teeth, a flicker of madness and anger in his iris swiveling like a pourn brew in it’s black cauldron, his brow grimaced and his arms folded over himself as his foot let go of the tables edges and he fell back into place, four on the floor “-...Imps! They all are! Why did god-Why would god create such a weak, tiny people? To spite me and the sane people of Maxina?!” he cackled madly, his eyes wild as he snorted and cackled at and of the “putride” tiny race “Well, I’m glad you don’t see me the same way as my Gorrelan brothers, but why do you bear such a deep spite for them, Contel?” “‘Cuz! Most of those blimey halfling children of dust are cowards! I’m sorry fer usin’ Elvish talk of’em, but its a good insult…! Ey’d all run fore they’re even asked to lift’a weapon.-” Contel’s fist and forearm clenched, the pressure and veins of his arm swelling as his fist began to quake against the table, the tankards and one bottle on the table shaking as he did so, once again, it TRULY once again was a sight to behold Contel’s fury for halflings, the young beggar reminiscing to vague memories as his eyes were cast a blaze, once again a growl starting his “divine belittlement” of the race “...Whilst I was in the Arelainian Militia, I was stationed near one of their encampments, just near the emerald-ward’s lake, I was able to spot a lot of them being attacked by a group of pesky-puny Gnoll whelplings that’d chased a few children and women away from the beaches, and even the men, although grander than their adversaries tightened their throats as they sought to wreak cold tears rather than fight for their lives an’ people..!” “S’what ‘appened to’em…?’ Gofeuryac notioned, lifting his tankard only slightly, swiveling the brew in his hand as he pondered interested of the petty tale told of the blinded-misguided fool “I crossed the lake, making ‘round it, and lifted those foking shites up and clammed their heads together, tossin’em into the lake near whence they were finally dead.” “You know that’s not how the story went, Contel.” barged Alonn, anxiously squeezing the handle of his brew, glancing over to him boringly “...Alonn and me, went over there and clammed their skulls together.” “That’s better.” “S’did’ya get anything outta it? Or was it just for the glory o’ killin’ sod-like pups?” pestered Gofeuryac “No one really got a favor. Besides the guards. They’re lucky I was somehow able to quench Contel’s bloodthirst.” Contel grinned wildly “I shoulda killed those two where they stood.” but his smile would then recede as he gritted his teeth, a dull fire remaining in his deadset-scornful eyes “So is this how and why you view the whole of my people as weaklings then, Contel…?” “I’ve witnessed countless acts that’ve given me that view. But I’ve hope you may break it…” “And so I shall! Back again!. -S’where does this Sukan live, Alonn?”
I'M GOIN' TO JAEL! - https://wafflecows.wixsite.com/fearlessstrangers
Your lad, one and only, abroad this endless journey.

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Re: Tales of Jael: Imbeciles (Rough Draft)

Post by Dazargeros » Fri Dec 14, 2018 3:48 am

(Continuation and the second, unfinished chapter :D)
“Dire district. The only home there besides the barracks, if you can even call it a home.” “Then we must be off! Off to a witches den in the sake and midst of our kingdom, fare us well, Alonn, in sought heed that she doesn’t place a curse upon our heads. ‘Opefully juss’ Feuryac if she is to!” “She’s not that kind of Mage, or atleast, I don’t think so.” “Jests, jests… Shall we go then, Contel?” Contel grabbed at the eccentric-lapiz halberd aside him, shoving it slightly as he lifted himself up back onto his two feet, Gofeuryac grabbed for his helmet as did Contel, both of them sheathing their faces whence they recovered themselves of their belongings. Contel then notioned to Feuryac to the Tavern door as he still stood aside Alonn, watching the Gelran make-way as he remained “Strange, Gelran…What a sociable one too...” he sighed, turning back to Alonn, grimacing, and nodding at him ”...Reclaim yourself, Alonn,” Contel uttered “-...and come to a decision swiftly. If you do not believe your life belongs here, then come with us…!” Alonn turned to him gravely, pulling at the skin on his face, his figure reforming as his leather gloved hand let go “...May it be ‘morrow, Contel. I do not wish to be here... If even it be years from now, it does not plight me, but mark my words. I shalt ‘scape this prison.” Contel glanced down to his friends tankard “Then be well in my absence, Alonn…- “ Contelenon’s voice shook, breaking as he let go of Alonn’s shoulder “-...If we’re ever fated to meet again. Know that you’ll forever be my mate, mate.” Contel nodded, relieving his grip on Alonn’s shoulder as he turned back to Feuryac, traipsing out and through the door into the storm.
(Chapter two should start with Contel and Feuryac)

Chapter 2
????

Contel and Feuryac after leaving the Tavern and bidding Alonn a final farewell, both sauntered aimlessly about the kingdom, their stave-like weapons lugged onto their shoulders, gleaming from the storms’ rain, hiding in alleyways and under any space where the waters would not rap upon their skulls, neither of them had cloaks, just leather-lace, mail and plate, all strode together and along for combat of the illest, not for Gods tears… The both of them like sniveling pups, seeking the warmth of their den-mother, shivering from the rain as they walked, the both of them still inquiring eachother whilst their teeth clambered together repeatedly, attempting to remain stoic, acting as if they weren’t slipping into strife and madness from the deathly cold drops of the rain, one of the decisions they’d concluded midst this, was that the first they were to speak to would be Sukan, as she was more focused upon during their conversation, and the others could be already missing as Alonn had told. Contel was the first to reveal his true attitude, wincing as they finally neared Dires district and were covered by the castle’s tops’ downpour and drip “We’re finally he-ere!” he clammered, the two guards at the entrance, completely still, next to the dull torches on each side of the gate, inquired them “What is your purpose entering the dire district at such late times?” “We’re off to the barracks, mate.” Contelenon reached onto his back, swinging his knapsack over his shoulders and held it to his chest, gleaming his hilted sword emblem to the both of them “Heheh, well in all honesty, we’re just clearin’ on through and past, headin’ta Rinefeld’s tavern beyond the final gate, Southeast, you wanna come with? Betta then sittin’ o’er here in the rain” The other guard next to him chuckled, clearly showing interest in going on with them, but his sigh endingly his laugh, shown reclusion to keep to his post “Heheh, unfortunately me and Bagroth are stuck ‘ere for the night.. Lemme see your insignia. Gotta make’a clearance...” he notioned, reaching his other hand out to Contel, the plates shifting between both of their shoulderguards as they exchanged, Contel nodded, grasping onto his insignia on the back of his pack and putting it into the gloved gauntlets of the guardsman, smirking at him “Yes-yes, I was apart o’ Baradin hold off in Lerelerran, served as patrol and a watchmen amongst those halfling shites, like the one next’ta me” Contel glanced to Feuryac, laughing humbly “-Where were you two cooped up? Surely you’ven’t been hanging ‘round ‘ere the whole time, right?” “We’ven’t been blessed with new figures in a long time. Our fate does behold of seeing white-bricked pillars and standing here every night though…” whimpered the other guard depressingly “Baradin hold… You like stayin’ around halflings or something…? Why would you choose there?” the guard grimaced, examining the emblem slowly, turning it over to see its date and clip of its issuing, it was a standard, bronze-silver corporals badge, nothing too impressive, but Contel held upto it very much so, he was proud of his work “Ha! You’d think so, but I’d rather sleep with a Gorgon ‘fore I stepped foot near a Halfling with any such intent.” “...Well you seem to’ve befriended this ankle biting razor teethed rat, mate…” the tone of the guardsman was dour, and Feuryac felt the heavy need for a rebuttal, but he kept, he wanted no trouble, especially with the guard, the guardsman then flicked the insignia back to Contel with his finger “Hey! Watch that, its a delicate piece, ya sod..!!!” Contel shouted as he caught it stringingly by its clip, the guardsman shrugged as he pulled himself back into place “...Apologies, but y’know they’re customs, not too many get that rank of so, with all the deaths occurring because of the sick’. And on the notion if it had been destroyed; you could’ve been issued a-new, anyways..” “I’d like to keep it quaint and original, thank you.” Contels word vocabulary seemed to be expanding “On the note of others, I do not desire such vile equities, if you wish to imperish your bloodline with weakness, then go ahead… “Love” a halfling.” The guardsman turned down to Feuryac who’d been remaining exceptionally silent during the mood and night “Do you’ve anything to say of this, Halfling? Do you think your kind is capable of loving or becoming friends with…?” he snorted, laughing “...And for my friend o’er here, for knowledge, do you think one’d fall in love with him…? I know he’s very keen on your women...” Cofeuryac tossed his head to the side, gritting his teeth, reluctant to answer such stupid questions “...‘Pends… If it’s a whore, yes, but that's a different sorta love. You’d have to be lucky, or you’d have to do something extraordinary…” Feuryac turned his cloak around the jowls of his neck and face, it was beginning to weigh him down from the rains pourn soak “What about you, mate? What sorta women do you like?” asked Contel, strapping back on his knapsack as he retained his gaze, overlapping it over each shoulder “...Elvish, Human, Orcish. My lads can keep all the others, if they don’t have fine features, I don’t like’m.” “Orcs have fine features…?” “Gaunt, strong, yet still very soft. -Their women of course I speak of, they’re very profound in look too, just depends on the one you seek…” Feuryac began to hum lowly, awaiting for the conversation to end “Hmfh, I think I know t’e both o’ ye, Bagroth as ye said...And… Feilris…?” Feilris, the guard who was more approachable and yet keen on insulting Feuryac, rose his face and nodded, smirking at Contel “Huh, surprised I got that one, you two have a good night, then, mates. We should probably get on with it.” The two guards parted their halberds, opening the way and letting them on through “How’d you know those ones…?” “Training.” Contel huffed, sighing “Feilris was caught by the Knight-Captain wit dinner in the barracks a long time ago, and Bagroth always kept to his side, they’re like a married couple.” he grinned, laughing “Also, can you believe that one, Feuryac...?” he shuddered, barking “Farking imbeciles!”

after around forty or so minutes-moments in the dreary dark, did they find Sukan’s dwelling, it was very secluded from the rest of the place, in a final, short hallway, with a drawing gate, that uplifted and slammed to close was the soudess woman’s decrepit, it out led to a forest clearing with a single small cottage, the candles and cadres before it, all shut of their galore, and almost no decorations on the outside of it, besides strange raven-esque effigies and idols which seemed to glare at the two vagabonds with curiosity, tis was difficult for Contel to understand the illusion, but he made a mental note of this strange interaction, his eyes darting all along directly and fro the statues, the outing courtyard to her barren stead, was earrilly empty “...Is this her home…?” rolled Contel’s snarling tongue with a shiver in his voice, ogling the small, seemingly hut-like cottage, with a dark roof and scuffed old lumber that stood before him “...Prolly is, Alonn did make it clear that it was a worn cottage within Dire District, and this seems to be the only one so far…” Contel began to stride onto the cobblestone blocks leading onwards to her homage, there were no flowers, or garden next to the cottage, nothing but a single rose remaining in the troth next to the vine-encumbered windows, this place seemed more a prison than a home… Contel’s hand arose to the knocker, slamming it three times consecutively and fearlessly, he turned back to Feuryac at the step, flopping back onto the concrete way-up, resting his arms on his plate knee guards as he looked to Feuryac, awaiting her to answer and finally being set eye-level with him “Do you think she’s even awake?” Feuryac’d been laughing the way up, a smirk had glanced him when he heard the thunderous rapping Contel had done “Of course... With the way you slammed her door, I don’t know how any person could sleep through that.” Contel glanced back to the home, growing impatient already “...What kind of home is this anyways? Who the hell decides to live in Dire district in such a lonesome place, in a down-rugged home like this one...? Sorry sod, doesn’t even seem to take care of’tis place...I’m no gardener, nor tender to the elements, but… Tis grass, is all dead, and these roots...They’re all dried!” Contel scoured the building from his bound position, leaning his head to the corners of it, his neck and eyes yearning to see past the geometrical outcrop of the sides from his impossible position, and so, he could not... “A Mage… She probably enjoys this place for her studies away from everyone..” Feuryac notioned to the several jagged corners and tears in the fabric of the cool, slabbed, white bricks that made up most of the walls, especially in Dire’s “-A solid material to try your bolts and spells against… No one to question the ethics of your magick and to tell you if it’s actually good or not.” “Doesn’t that heed the process of becoming stronger…?” Feuryac shrugged “Ahh... I do not know; For I’m not a Mage, but I conclude not.” Contel glanced timely, seeing a very faint waiver in the curtains aside the dead garden and barred window, a red eye peering out from the shadowed depths of the black abyss that was concealed to them. Contel could hear the faint, fleshy steps of someone at the door, as he began to hear many locks becoming undone, the clatter of their machinery and metalwork commencing within them very noisy “It appears she is awake…” as the final seal was undone, the door was opened by a pale-white small, calloused hand, it was Sukan assuredly, her long, silver hair being in that of a ponytail, small strings and/or strands of hair hanging in her face, she had drowsy eyes, a large crimson rune, expanding around her left eye, both of them red and almost as bright as the rune on her eye as Alonn had explained, she was in a very fancy garment, her jacket being white and flannel, sleeved down to her hands of course, with a red-rusk cotton, buttoned shirt underneath, she wore tight, laced at the bottom of her ankles, cotton russe pants as Alonn had told she would be wearing, and she kept in her hand, what Contel could perceive was but a wand, very crooked and old the branch looked, but Contel already knew the difference and keen of power between magical artifacts, if it was old, it was probably stronger…

“Good morning fellow putian of god! Sukan, isn’t it? I think so! Tis be of good-will and swell accomplice to greet thee aswell!” Sukans eyes dossed to Contel, her lips/mouth just barely open as she sighed, just staring at him for a brief moment “...What is it you seek?” she cooed, lowering her wand, once she recognized Contel’s faintly familiar voice, rubbing her eyes in the meantime “Alonn said you’d be an offering candidate in the venture off to Falarus we shalt be doing. Is this correct to assume…?” Sukan’s iris flashed to the white-silver moon above “And you couldn’t come to me any later than this, for that…? -Yes...my epithet, is that what you’ve spoken…; Sukan.” she nodded slowly “...If you wish, we could come later-” “No-no... he did tell me of you, this is my fault, I shouldn’t’a gotten so cooped up with my business…!” And what you’ve dealt already is irreversible, haha…! To come later would be a fallacy all in itself. Come-come, into mine “Humble” abode! For we must discuss!” her widowy, depressing eyes went over the both of them as she said this, flummoxing and shaking her body, the linen-esque clothes’ sleeves rippling as she stretched, tightening the grasp of her palm as she widened her eyes, then closed them, covering her mouth with her left arm as she yawned, beckoning them, Contel, still sitting on the doorstep kept an estranged look about her and her dwelling “Ya sure..? -Honestly wasn’t even s’pecting’ya to’ve answered the door in the firs’place.” without words she once again just outstretched her arm, folding her fingers into her palm, calling them. Contel lifted himself, and Feuryac followed behind, placing the pole of his spear onto the final step of the small staircase that led in, and heaved himself without pressing on the others to the top.

As the outside of her home looked, so too did it reflect within aswell, there were what Contel could only perceive to be lavish-green sheets with golden flowers (Daffodils) and goblets ‘round the boundaries of so as it’s odd pattern cover the windows. many candles, all in different cadres, some making bending twirls that outreached and formed awkward shapes, some of the thin copper of them, gnarled like tree branches and exampling that of mother nature's grace, but the common and mass, were just the bright, single, straight uplifted cadres that were made to only but light your room, most of them were lit at this time, making that within, a very difficult sight to behold, it was like staring into the eye/epitome of a quasar. Most of the candles were settled around the windowsill, but these were the ones in which were off, the real sun was on Sukan’s desk, like a funeral in remembrance of a grand soul, parchment old and new filled to each corners end with curvy, strange spelling and drawings of odd things Contelenon couldn’t even begin to perceive, shapes with angles estranged and that tricked his already stupid eyes and mind, beautifully shaded trees and wildlife he’d never seen before with descriptions aside them, elegancies of art he’d never beheld the sight of seeing, all of this, on the old desk of a wench in hiding (Some, spilling onto the cluttered grounds of her home)! He thought to himself as he walked through… (Let me say this aswell; for it’d be a fallacy if I were to not tell you, Contel’s eyes and mind are like that of a child’s; and as so, he worked quickly atop the escritoire, not being able to distinguish the several concoctions and bubbly-green alchemy pourn vials and diamond bottom-shaped potions, notched at the top with corks and caps, winds and tubular slides, swirling and bending, to meet at a boiler’s flask, clearly to blend ingredients.) There was two other rooms besides this one, a doorway leading off to what he could believe was her bedroom, as it was close to the desk at the back of her abode, but he wasn’t sure, as there was a bed in the living room aswell, or once again, a bed as he could only tell… A messy pile of fur, sheets and blankets all compiled on a very dull, red sofa, aswell, a black, laced with purple around the trim of it, very large wizards hat, and a broken-wooden staff next to it, the hat slouchily dangling on the armrest of it, and the staff laying near the dusty small table next to it, which for some reason, was to the corners filled with bottles and trinkets, necklaces, earrings, spars and bracelets, all where the gems/diamonds would be placed, empty, Feuryac was the one to notice this and point it out, it gave him a weary feeling, but he continued his tread aside Contel, nevertheless. The final room, which was not a room connected plainly as the other, and more so just what he could believe was a trapdoor leading into her attic, the wood concealing it was brim, and very noticeable as it was peculiarly gnarled, strifes of wood angily making crude gestures and runes, probably like this so she could spot it easier, just above the sofa in the “Living Room” this was. Sukan, as they followed, sept to be very exhausted, her back slouched and her arms just left to dangle at her sides as she proceeded “Sorry about the mess… Not often I’ve visitors here, and well… My work has been taking up a bit too much of my time,” she tittered wearily, for a moment, coughing slightly, yet somehow ghastly at the same time at the end of her beseech, holding her clothed arm shakily to her mouth, letting go once she reformed, clearing her throat “,aswell as my common too…” as soon as she was within reach, she held onto the median of the chair next to her desk, grabbing onto the pillar-like stands that upheld its backrest, her hands pruning ‘round it as she glanced once again back to the both of them, as she slowly began to plop herself down onto the crop of the chair… Most of what was within Sukan’s dwelling was human-sized, oddly enough, and so Contel fell back onto the furniture aside her, beginning to pick at a morsel that’d been stuck in between his teeth since the tavern-meet, Sukan notioned and grabbed the chair next to her, offering it to Feuryac politely and with the wimmer of a sharp smile at him, her crony, tired eyes perking as she realized him completely. “So… You’ve a proposition for me, care to elaborate…?” Contel sighed, huffing his lugged, chestpiece as he shot back upright, lifting himself up with the armrests of the couch, the shuffling of his armour very distinct, as it broke the eerie silence that lasted only a few moments “Yes, but first! Let me get this right... For I seek to be absolute in this manner, and not waste your, or our time… You know, Alonn Forx? -black hair, blue eyes, a sod who’s spoken to you quite a bit from what he’s told. He, who has told, -believes you may be interested in a walk off to Falarus…?” Sukan’s dreary wolf-like iris peered back to Contel, the crimson-pair dawning just above the hedge of the chairs rest like a blood moon, as she ogled at him “I know him. Yes, as I know you” she nodded to Feuryac “-I know you both...” she cooed at him, before glancing back to Contelenon again “How do you know me?” Contel poshed, squinting at her and pausing his endless pick at his teeth to stare “Well, as you’d probably guess, you’d think Alonn told me, but I’ve heard quite a bit from the souls within the tavern you’re always in. Mostly the guardsmen speak of you when they’re drunk, the tide of speech has died recently… But I believe that is just because you’ven’t done anything excitable…” “They speak of me?” “Oh yes, they call you -the- ¨Mikrodyfilian” of Arelaine...Quite a title indeed…!” she snickered “The hell does that mean?” Feuryac perched his lips, mouth, nothing but silence at first, but then words began to flow as he lowered his cape from his sealed face and etched “Half-man hater...” Feuryac nodded, there was silence between both Feuryac and Sukan “They call you that cause...It seems it’s all you’ve to speak of in their presence…” as Contel cackled, slapping the wrists of the chair “Quite a title she says!” he howled “...A-and, you’d invite me into your household with me bearing a name such as that?!” “Well… I wouldn’t’ve, but you brought along this Gelran… So... I know you can’t hate us all as much as they say you do.” Contel swiveled in his chair, resting again as the laughter and joy spurred and waned, for as all things; the joke was met end to ends with time and it’s sap “Well..! No, I don’t. I couldn’t care for your lot more. But if I need yer peoples help to save Jaelia, then be it so!” “Save Jaelia…? The hell are you talking about?” “Do you not understand explanations?” “-Do you mean exaggerations?” Sukan huffed, chuckling shortly “You know what I meant, mate, s’it’doesn’t matter.” “Enough! Let us return to the point of this meet.” grimaced Feuryac, his voice was like stone, clearly he was beginning to grow weary of this night. The candles wooed as they all sat near the fire, the small flames doshing like waves to the broadsides of each, their waxy forms slowly deteriorating, a slight drizzle just then, began to patter down upon the homes roof (When Cofeuryac bustled in his half), for the storm had stopped whilst they’d been in search for Sukan. “I think the Gelrans a god, he can start and stop the pour of god. Good catch, Contelenon…” she smirked “They always told me I had an eye for this thing. -But he’s right. We should return and retain, for what lays before us is no laughing matter.” “Oh please… The traipse to Falarus from here shouldn’t be a problem, the only thing you’ve to worry of is Bandits.” “You’ve gone there before…?” “Of course. Heading there’s the whole reason as to why I’m now stuck here in Arelaine.” “How is that...? Alonn did mention before that you were a traveller such as us, once?” she nodded “I travelled there from Asalajae with a party of eight. Seven Tiations, one Elf. I was to serve as a manifest of sorts and greeting to the inhabitants of Falarus, moreso overall of the populace of Falar, the overwhelming population of the Twylens…” “Why so little for such an important purpose...? And why you…?” “I was trusted, and I’m one of only two Tiations to be able to use thy god’s grace and sword, making it convenient. If the demons of Falar were to tamper against mine and my people, I could ward them off without the use of a fateweaver.” “Weren’t they all lost? Scattered after the Great disparity?” “Indeed. But they’re tale isn’t concluded from what the Elves say. They’ll return on fiery ordained wings of Phoenix’s, like a beam of light, in our darkness.” “How is it you possess the art?” “How should I know…? The Elves whom beheld my birth foretold that I’d wield it, to my mother and father, this frightened them, but to the Elves, they spoke in grace and admiration of it, they said it was one of the many blessings our royalty would receive, a child whom’d be graced with everlasting life and the power to save our kingdom and people. Since the start I was fated to go on this journey, but I don’t think the story went the way it was suppose to…” she grimaced, looking absolutely off-set “-One of my more grander schemes, was, me and my party were to delve into the sanctity of Autumn, the Dazarin artifact left in Falar long ago by my ancestors, it was told to contain the origin and history of my people… Alas… That is where the lives of my party yielded. I was the only one to escape the slaughter.” “What happened?” “We were routed, followed and tracked by dubious-interrupting god forsaken Satyr, all the way from the Obsidian Mountains-Oladoq, my party served as a simple hunting trip for them, from what I know, they’re bodies were mutilated and gutted for the feast of there...!-” Sukan’s voice faltered (She doesn’t speak because of revulsion and aversion of the act they committed…), as her fingers began to gnarl like wilting flowers and shake around the guard of the chair, she clasped her jaw, grinding her teeth as she glanced off to the floorboards of her home “...-They died... and I was only able to escape because of the cantrip-spell I casted too late… A scroll marked with Elvish runes I couldn’t understand, tis why we took one, that elf, with us… It ported me to the outskirts of Adaleiasia and Falarus, just before Rivendel and Relefade. I’m lucky they didn’t find it in my robe when they’d been searching me.” the Tiation closed her mouth, raising her finger, just before she began to ransack her own desk, opening every drawer of it, muttering lowly as she searched for something… All until she grabbed a very long scroll, that rolled out onto the dark, battered, mahogany wood underneath all of their boots. Although mostly, people expect scrolls to be bedridden with scars, old taint and tears, this one, was quite innocent… The only jagged things of the scroll, were the runes that it beheld, and they, those ghastly things, emanated deeply with a faint purple, small smoke like particles floating off, some like outreaching hands yearning for the grasp of another. “Tis the scroll…” she eyed and said, whilst the roller was grasped by her hand, showing it to the both of them as if she sought to reclaim a reward for the beheading of a criminal “The selfsame particular I exerted to ‘scape my doom. I kept it in case I’d ever run into another Elf again, but… With the way this Elf, Human prattle seems to be going… My chance with that goes and is very slim I believe…” “I don’t agree with it either…” etched Contel, shifting in his seat “-Don’t get me wrong… I don’t like Elves, probably more than I don’t like…” he nodded to them both, smirking “-but fighting them is pointless and a grave waste really… S’why I ‘scaped my duties as a soldier. -Not fightin’ a bunch’a knife-eared twats that just shoot arrows o’ flame and use stealth and magick, cowards. ‘Sides, what’s the point?” “You’re a deserter?!” “...’Course... Though people don’t know I am yet… I show upto the barracks every once and awhile, then I skip it round, there's a large gap in the back quarter of the sanction in which the buildings placed, and I just go outta there ‘fore I’m shipped. Then...Everyone thinks I’m simply just gone on with those whom left.” “How does no one notice you’re gone?” “Because I wear my damned helmet the latter of time. The order here anyways seems to be more keen on telling you you’re a simple number aswell. So wit that… Everyone's already faceless when you join it… I don’t recommend joining either, terrible food…” Sukan glossed over him drearily “Good to know…” “We’ll be fine… No one’s in search of me. Nobody but Alonn, and now you two know of this knowledge. And all I must do to dupe the guards… Is do this…” Contel’s hand slowly moved to grasp his helm by its horns, and he put it on briefly “Ajoila…!” he smirked from underneath its weight, whatever the word he was to have just uttered, it was very similar to “Voila” and he fluttered his fingers as if he’d just casted some great spell, Sukan tittered at the small jest, whilst Feuryac remained cold, deathly serious “...This may be a problem…” he growled “They -will- eventually notice you’re gone, and when they do, they’ll set a bounty, and the first person to catch a glimpse at yer face, well...Heh, I doubt they’ll be kind enough to let you pass without alerting anyone.” “People aren’t that keen…” “If you could get 50-100 drakes for simply telling the guard where someone resides, would you do it?” “Yes. But I’m not too shabby, nor stupid enough to take off my helmet in the midst of a crowd looking for me, nevertheless, parchment and deal won’t reach the towns we’re striding off to soon, we’ll be off in Falar by the time they’re told of my absence, and from what I know, there aren’t any settlements in the land of giants just yet.” “You’d be right...If it weren’t for magick…” added Sukan, Feuryac nodded to her notion respectively “Messages aren’t persay carried by couriers much anymore, especially with the convenience of spells as such. Why send a boy who’ll probably get themselves killed on the road when you can just flick your finger? And in a manner of moments, your thoughts shalt be delivered.” “Oh come on… With the war, the archmagus of the king doesn’t have time for my nonsense, now can we forget I spoke about being a runaway?” “What was your rank first?” Contel scoffed, grumbling and grabbing at his pack again, which’d been laid right next to his studded, plate, leather-laced stabatons, he grunted as he took the insignia/medal from its wits and he dropped it in the palm of Sukan “Why do you carry this around showingly on your pack if you’re a convict...?” “Iss’a Conversation starter…” he grinned “Put it inside. Tis’a Corporals badge, third class... if anyone were to spot you with th-” “Wait! You showed that to the guards outside! No wonder that bastard was so eerily canny!” “Indeed I did. But they believe I was heading off to the “barracks”. -Look, there’s nothing to worry about, quit frettin’!” “Just trying to solve this new problem. We don’t wanna get in trouble for your business... “ there was pure silence between them all, as they were all thinking of where to lead off on now “...What’ve you been working on, Tiation…?” asked Feuryac, glancing to her desk “I’ve a name, but I guess Tiation gists… I’ve been progressing my work for my return to Asalajae… All those notes, all those papers you see...They’re all information I’ve been gathering for eighteen years, tis all I’ve worked on since I got here to Arelaine…Descriptions and pictures of what I’d seen within Falarus, the creatures, the flora, the fae, the magick… Anything of interest really.” “And what’s with the…” Feuryac scratched at his eye, looking at her dead-set, clearly attempting to imply something about her… “Hm…?” “He’s asking about the rune on your face...” “Oh… That. That is the mark the Satyr left me with, I don’t know what it means, nor what it does, but I assume it’s some sort of ward…” “You don’t know what it is…?” asked Contel urkingly “...I thought Mages were ‘pposed’ta spend hours o’ study about such things.” “I have, but the Satyr and their magic aren’t a studied phenomenon, as is blood magick because it requires sacrifice. It hasn’t from what I’ve experienced beheld any magical or physical disparities, not even mentally... So, I ruled it out of being a curse or cantrip and currently I presume its a ward…” “A ward of which?” “Tis the dubious, yet intricate question...To my knowledge and understanding there are only five different types of wards, protection, bounding, booming, torn and tracking…” “I’ve only ever heard of protection and bounding, what in the depths’ booming and torn wards?” Sukan tittered lowly “I guess it would suffice well if I was to educate you both on magick before we head off to the realm of arcane sanctity… A booming ward is a cantrip casted in very swift succession, it is not a difficult ward or spell to pull off, but it is dangerous… It’s a rune, as all wards, that you place on an individual and carve into their skin with a stake or with your mind, and whenever thine seeks to disparage of their likeness, simply etch the words you’d spoken to inflict them, this’ also the only ward that can be functionally placed on materials without such a strange effect…” “What happens after you say the words?” “They, or it combusts violently.” “And a torn ward…?” “It’s very similar to the booming ward, but more intricate, it’s suppose to enact similar to the mutilation and cutting of a sword on an organic individual, it’s also called the voodoo cantrip… This’ probably the most heard of ward besides the other two you mentioned, demons a’fore, back in Zoida used to inflict mortals with it and torture them during the absence of their peers, But I must clarify...This one… I… Do not know how to cast, its one more known by priests of the Nedjarin origin, for tis more a sanctimonious and cleansing ritual, as it can mimic the lashings to release the sins you’ve committed, or whatever the hell kindof Sachosh shite they believe in, I don’t remember exactly… -I’ve decided as of late, that there could be only one choice of the five in which I’ve been inflicted, and that is a tracking ward…” Contel went grim, completely silent “...So those sniveling goats have a ward on you then? That tracks your every move?” “Every thought…” she added cooingly with a whim of song in that note “Is there anyway to remove it?” Sukan swayed her head to the side, shaking it “There is only one way I believe, and it’d be very bloody…” Sukan made a jagged motion with her finger, acting as if she was sawing around the eye. Contelenon hummed deeply as he stared at her “I do say… Those goats were sharp to put it on my eye and not just one of my fingers…” she cooed, covering her smirk and titter with her white sleeve “How long do Satyr hunting trips last anyways?” “Well from what the Archmage has told me, decades to centuries... they continuously trek from Oladoq, to highborn Kjadafeil in Farrenla, endlessly, making to and fro like a guardsman’s trought.” “Disgusting goddamn Elves.” Contel spat “Offering homage to those murderers into the land of our creators and nonetheless the golden kingdom. Things as such make me wonder why the god-man’s sovereignty exceeds there.” he grit “-As much as I hate to admit it, and I bet they do too, the Satyr are the couriers and messengers of Cymiro, so they’re entry must be permitted, and the god-man... He is a liar and a false prophet, a dangerous one aswell if tolled heed to our exploration into the accomplices and mystery of Magick. That bastard went missing too, not even the Elves speak of him anymore, what a messenger of god to the people he is, not even to the followers of his own does he deliver… To believe in Dazargeros, is to hamper us all and our already weak intellect and growing knowledge of this world.” Contel’s eyes shifted with disdain over to Cofeuryac “Dazargeros is the epitome of why we are all still here aswell, restraint is a known and absolute philosophy through many strives, and there’s no difference for a sorcerer, we all know what happened within the first realm because of their tampering.” “Only old men and dying souls speak of that falsehood place… Forgo has no written history, it has no artifacts, all it has… Is those Ashen-Ember Whelps talking about it so direly.” “Hmf… That is cause the old-first realm was destroyed, not a fragment of it remaining, cast into the seas and engulfed in flames all at the same time.” “Then the ashes would’ve been disparaged, and have died and sunk to the bottom with the told flame and ire.” “...Heheh....Tid really be what god said, my green friend, mine tell of this happen is but of rugged ‘membrance, but they-...God knows…” Contel assured pointing to the heavens with a smirk and huff as he shuffled forth in his chair again. Cofeuryac’s narrow, distraught long stare at Contelenon bore nothing but pure disdain and a longing sense of sorrow for an idiot, sudden grimaces flashing his cold face and a final flicker of his ear, like a pup, as he reconceded from the dull conversation of god and their beliefs, shifting his eyes back to Sukan “...S’what kind of a Mage are you then, Sukan…?” his tongue rolled, a’still with that wretch of spite “I’m a Pyromancer, my prowess attained through the asceticism born through traveling to Arelaine.” “Are ye’ good with yer aim?” Sukan tittered again “...Prithee... Do not worry o’ such equities when we’re out on the roads. As is said; hesitation is death in the motion and whirl of war and battle. -My aim is fine...” “‘Ye’ don’t sound too confident…” “That is purely from the notion of how tired I am, Mikro… -What date are you two kept on leaving on…?” “We were ‘pposed to leave ‘esterday… But certain people came up for hire, and I’m not one keen on being duped on the roads by mine lonesome… No, no… I’d rather do that with m’lads, more for them to loot when they’re finished with us.” “Oh, so you do have a mind of acumen and sense, aye? Atleast you’re not stupid enough to commence a journey by yourself as so many other half-wits during these times.” “Careful now, Sukan, don’t give’m too many compliments…” “I’ll give credit, when credit is due.” she nodded to Feuryac “So ye know a lot about Falarus, right, Sukan? Whass it like then…?” Contelenon asked with a whim and hymn of parched-easy tin and it’s soft thin ‘lin. Sukan, as was said, spun around back to her desk, grabbing a few of the strange-scattered parchments she’d scribed upon, and handed them to the both of them “Falarus’ like no other region o’ Maxina… Tis hard to explain the ancient strange dimensional beings and shapes that scatter that place… But they’re not welcoming if that gives you an idea... The Fae, since the beginning o’ Jaelia, have always been spiteful to us lesser mortals, the pixies and sprites, chanting in their little sings o’ their grand home and realm; Flora, as they cast away spells to banish us to said realms and perform their rituals o’ what I could only believe; Cymiro… -I’d gladly throw forth my notion of not disturbing them as we traipse, not a single word slipped from our mouths, if they speak to us; make no comment, and if one, may it be only ones of inquisition or retainment.” “And if one blatantly tries to sland’a me?” “We’ll deal with it accordingly.” “”...Accordingly…” You sound like ye have all this figured out already.” “No. I’ve been there a’fore the both of you, I’m simply ‘ttempting to sway t dull minds not to be duped by those cackling fiends and their little tricks.” “Ye ever been tricked, Sukan…?” “...Yes…” “Mm...Surprising… What was it like, aye?” “I wish not to speak of it, just know it is an experience only the latter and mad of Jaelia would rather divine and take part in.” “How’d you escape atleast…?” “Through finishing my plead…” she scowled, roughening the indenture of her forehead as she gawked at the dark floorboards, most likely adrift now in whatever she had to accomplice. but Contel was more persistent in knowing “...Well? What ‘appened now? Ya can’t just say ya paid laud to a damned pix, then not ornate.” Sukan threw her head back against the wooden pillar a-next the wall near her gnarled chair, one side of her face quickly flickering with malice before retaining again “...Serfism…” she sighed shakily, letting her face sway to both sides, her silverine, mop-hair becoming even more so ruffled as she notioned disagreement noiselessly.
I'M GOIN' TO JAEL! - https://wafflecows.wixsite.com/fearlessstrangers
Your lad, one and only, abroad this endless journey.

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