Rising Up - Scion of Shaelara

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Ithildur
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Rising Up - Scion of Shaelara

Post by Ithildur »

"... This Gold elf house is a recent arrival from the mainlands. It has brought many new citizens who have yet to completely fit in with Evermeet's ancient society... house patriarch Uthorim Shaelara has had his hands full keeping his relatively young family from getting into trouble. Most Shaelara are fewer than 100 years old and are still quite adventurous and rowdy. Although they are Gold elves, Shaelara originated in a rough region of Faerûn, where fights and adventures were common. Slowly but surely, the Shaelara have been improving their behavior, but they still cause incidents that disrupt the calm life of Evermeet. A recent brawl with Silver elves at the Green Sword tavern is but one example of Shaelara's boisterous behavior..."



Olde Ballads... and Pigs


No more do lovers pledge their troth,
Or gaze upon the stars.
No more do children sing and dance,
Or dream of lands afar.

(CHORUS)
For all about are bloody bones,
And shattered dreams now lost.
A sea of orcs sought only death,
Myth Glaurach was the cost.

No more do towers soar aloft,
Or cast their shadows deep.
No more are stones made into walls,
To form a sturdy keep.

(CHORUS)

No more do fields turn gold with grain,
Or wells yield water blue.
No more do tomes hold cherished lore,
Or teach old thoughts anew.

(CHORUS)


Aglaril regarded the word of the ballad on the page before him, the lingering memory of a haunting chord progression echoing in his mind. According to the Keeper of the Vault of Sages in Silverymoon, these were the words of an Eaerlanni Spellsinger written five centuries ago, though they'd come to be attributed to the famed Lonely Harpist Mintiper Moonsilver, who'd revived and popularized them in recent decades.

A sea of orcs... sought only death... Myth Glaurach was the cost...

The images invoked by the words darkened his mood as a shadow fell across his face. Too familiar, they were, the words and the images, too close to home.

Myth Glaurach... one of the elven cities of old that was named for having a true Mythal protectively surrounding it... protections that in the end did not prove enough...

Could Silverymoon likewise fall someday?

Aglaril did not speak the words out loud, but turned the thought over silently in his mind for some time. After a while however, the elf snorted rather indelicately and rose to his feet.

When orcs grow wings and fly
and dance on their toes to a jaunty tune
strummed on a harp by Grummsh One Eye.
Last edited by Ithildur on Tue Jan 27, 2015 10:12 pm, edited 8 times in total.
Formerly: Aglaril Shaelara, Faerun's unlikeliest Bladesinger
Current main: Ky - something

It’s not the critic who counts...The credit belongs to the man who actually is in the arena, who strives violently, who errs and comes up short again and again...who if he wins, knows the triumph of high achievement, but who if he fails, fails while daring greatly.-T. Roosevelt
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Re: Rising Up - Scion of Shaelara

Post by Ithildur »

((moved))
Last edited by Ithildur on Tue Jan 27, 2015 10:13 pm, edited 2 times in total.
Formerly: Aglaril Shaelara, Faerun's unlikeliest Bladesinger
Current main: Ky - something

It’s not the critic who counts...The credit belongs to the man who actually is in the arena, who strives violently, who errs and comes up short again and again...who if he wins, knows the triumph of high achievement, but who if he fails, fails while daring greatly.-T. Roosevelt
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Re: Rising Up - Scion of Shaelara

Post by Ithildur »

((moved))
Last edited by Ithildur on Tue Jan 27, 2015 10:13 pm, edited 2 times in total.
Formerly: Aglaril Shaelara, Faerun's unlikeliest Bladesinger
Current main: Ky - something

It’s not the critic who counts...The credit belongs to the man who actually is in the arena, who strives violently, who errs and comes up short again and again...who if he wins, knows the triumph of high achievement, but who if he fails, fails while daring greatly.-T. Roosevelt
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Re: Rising Up - Scion of Shaelara

Post by Ithildur »

The Bite of War
(an early entry in Aglaril's journal)

Wars have casualties. None but the very young, most naive or the very foolish would be unaware of this.

It is however, one thing to give mental assent to such notion, another thing entirely to know it's heart wrenching truth firsthand.

To have it become personal, and strike close to home...

Coming to terms with loss, with grief, was something I ran and hid from. The bottle, the jokes, playing the fool, hollow laughter and empty smirk, all served me well enough or so I thought. So I told myself, for a very long time, though I could not fool all of them.

I am glad now, that I have been weaning myself of such, though Taernl's death did make me pause and wrestle, consider going back to playing the happy fool, consider the old comforts, like a merchant slowly appraising some worthless bauble before returning it back to it's display.

How much more then, now with this tragic loss! Three lights snuffed out, like stars on an overcast night! Brightly they would have shone, each in their own way, with many more days to shine even brighter still.

I tremble to think what I would have done, what I would have turned to, were I still the same elf. I might have become the saddest casualty of them all, a casualty of war, not from bodily wounds but wounds still.

I fear that others around me may yet become casualties, in body and mind... casualties of this war.

I seek a warrior's training, for times such as this, for times of war. For war never truly ends in this life.

But it does not mean that one has to like the fact. War bites, as humans say.
Last edited by Ithildur on Tue Jan 27, 2015 10:14 pm, edited 2 times in total.
Formerly: Aglaril Shaelara, Faerun's unlikeliest Bladesinger
Current main: Ky - something

It’s not the critic who counts...The credit belongs to the man who actually is in the arena, who strives violently, who errs and comes up short again and again...who if he wins, knows the triumph of high achievement, but who if he fails, fails while daring greatly.-T. Roosevelt
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Re: Rising Up - Scion of Shaelara

Post by Ithildur »

Falling Rain

Aglaril had been standing for nearly six hours now at a small clearing, atop a lonely slope within a reasonably safe section of the Moonwood. This test of waiting was perhaps the most difficult part for him, for Aglaril in spite of his strides could hardly be accused of possessing the patience of Labelas Enoreth.

Unless it was a matter of life and death perhaps, which he reminded himself with effort, that it very well could be someday.

The Sword Coast would've been a better place for this, mused the Elf. Almost immediately after the thought flitted across his mind, he looked up to the sky once more, nodding to himself as he laid out a small parchment on the hilltop. The sky was finally growing darker, not with the approach of dusk but with the gathering of clouds.

Illeleste, Falling Rain. A style of elven bladework which is foundational training for most Bladesingers, relying on parrying and dodging an enemy's blow until an opening for a decisive strike appears.

As the rain drops began to fall, Aglaril drew his blade and took a deep breath. It had been more than a decade since he had seriously attempted this drill back on the Isle under the rather distracted eyes of his father. He remembered vividly how the elder elf had drawn his thinblade, winked at Aglaril, and proceeded to put on a dazzling display of agility, accuracy, and reflexes in the light drizzle, using only his blade to keep a small parchment on the ground completely dry by precisely deflecting raindrop after raindrop before they could land on the parchment.

Aglaril remembered too, that after a few minutes of the display, his father simply bade Aglaril to draw his blade and do the same, then walked away as his attention was caught away by a pretty etriel. After some minutes of frustration and anger, the results had been a drenched piece of parchment and a vow to never attempt the drill again.

A matter of life and death, Aglaril reminded himself, and bent his legs slightly at the knees into a balanced stance, his longsword held out before him over the parchment.

With a distant thunder, the first few raindrops began falling from the sky.
Formerly: Aglaril Shaelara, Faerun's unlikeliest Bladesinger
Current main: Ky - something

It’s not the critic who counts...The credit belongs to the man who actually is in the arena, who strives violently, who errs and comes up short again and again...who if he wins, knows the triumph of high achievement, but who if he fails, fails while daring greatly.-T. Roosevelt
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Re: Rising Up - Scion of Shaelara

Post by Ithildur »

Tradition and Stupidity

The sense of frustration had been growing slowly but steadily for a while. It had been lurking there, first felt in a corner of his mind as a seed of doubt, then moving almost physically outwards, through his chest, his heart, and eventually his limbs.

Aglaril stopped and lowered his blade. He considered the four glowing spheres of light dancing before him, as well as the similarly (but more faintly) glowing, vaguely humanoid shape standing in their midst. With but a thought he willed them all to move as he wished, the balls of light flitting around the larger shape at breathtaking speed, then the humanoid shape moving as well, resembling a strange and exotic opponent who moved his torso, arms, and legs with equally dazzling quickness.

The willing of the movements did not take much concentration, and there was a deliberate, constant predictability to them, no matter how fast the speed. After all, the movements were born from his own thoughts; he knew precisely where the movements would begin and end.

The exercise was a well established and relatively simple one on the Isle of Evermeet, where Bladesingers and other elven fighter-mages regularly honed their blade-eye coordination, accuracy and speed, while practicing the separation of both mind and physical movement that allowed them to cast spells fluidly in the thick of melee combat; it was, oddly enough, akin to the separation required to the playing of certain musical instruments where the left hand and right hand (and more so the player's mind and thoughts) were required to move and play in completely independent fashion... though this was far more complicated, ultimately closer to the feat of playing such an instrument in one hand while dancing with one's feet, while the other hand was engaged in deadly swordwork... all the while reciting a fairly complex book of poetry by memory.

Aglaril had always displayed some degree of facility with such an exercise, even as a much younger Elf, and the task was no longer such a great challenge for him. A shift of his weight, balancing into a basic stance - a flick of the wrist, a subtle turn of his forearm, quick, precise twitch of lean, taut muscles... brows knit slightly in relaxed concentration, even, steady breathing (so important), eyes following the flitting Dancing Lights rapidly back and forth - no, this was something he had little trouble with as the edge of his longsword scored hit after hit alternately on the moving spheres, then past the spheres at the humanoid shape. If anyone could have observed from a distance, the resulting blend of the spells' soft and swift moving brilliance, the flashes of light as the longsword danced, the movements and gestures of the two humanoid shapes, one luminous, one solid but seemingly otherworldly in the midst of the glitter, it would have been a rather impressive sight... although likely an actual master Bladesinger would simply have smiled rather amusedly.

The building frustration, however, was undeniable. There was simply something not quite right about this. It was too... static, in spite of the rapid movement of the lights; by the nature of the exercise, the spell, it was... too predictable. There was a time when the exercise would have been important, perhaps critical, in developing more fundamental skills of accurate bladework along with the separation, but somehow Aglaril knew this was no longer sufficient.

Yet it was such a time honored and well established exercise! And not merely the exercise, but something of the thought, the approach behind it, was what bothered Aglaril. Does it have to be thus, the Gold Elf wondered silently as he stared at the lights once more. Then the thought came to him, a barely remembered phrase spoken decades ago.

"Classical stances and classic forms, exercises and rituals can become artificial and mechanical, and do not truly prepare the warrior for actual combat," Aglaril recalled the familiar voice in his mind, and wondered. "I consider it a form of paralysis, constraining what was once fluid. Their practitioners are merely blindly rehearsing routines and stunts that will lead nowhere, unless they grasp the greater truth."

A brief pause, then a smirk. "Tradition has it's place Aglaril, but don't let it make you stupid."

Sheathing his blade quietly, Aglaril did not even notice the cantrip fade away into nothingness as he cupped his chin in thought.

"Enough of this," Aglaril snorted indelicately after a while. "I'm going to find Elenaril."
Formerly: Aglaril Shaelara, Faerun's unlikeliest Bladesinger
Current main: Ky - something

It’s not the critic who counts...The credit belongs to the man who actually is in the arena, who strives violently, who errs and comes up short again and again...who if he wins, knows the triumph of high achievement, but who if he fails, fails while daring greatly.-T. Roosevelt
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Re: Rising Up - Scion of Shaelara

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Is this what Elenaril feels, I wonder? Is this what it feels like to be a...

Aglaril had to wonder, but soon his amusement at the possibility of comparing himself to the respected elf won out; he dismissed the thought quickly with a chuckle.

The grin faded however, whereas the images in his mind did not. Two unconscious elves, lying on the ground with blood trickling from their wounds, with the hideous dog-like visages of gnolls leering over them... two elves, now standing near him battered but alive, thanks to his efforts alone, for none of the others had been willing to go back with him to attempt the rescue.

Hells, he simply did what had to be done, that's all. Perhaps it was luck more than anything else; how close he'd come to preparing an entirely different set of spells for the trip! And if he had, most likely he himself could've been a third victim lying on the ground, bleeding his life away.

But as luck would have it, that did not happen. Aglaril had always paid at least lip service in hommage to the Protector, but today he truly believed Corellon had been looking out for he and the others.

Suddenly a realization came to him - quite self consciously too. Almost as if on cue, a voice somehow strangely familiar seemed to speak to him audibly, echoing the very thought in his mind as the other elves seemed to strangely fade into the distance.

"You're not the same elf you once were. But you're no Elenaril."

Elenaril was the El Tael who put himself on the front line, threw himself into the teeth of danger, every single time, getting up again and again even if he went down, even if he took a pummeling. Elenaril was the very picture of courage, and a hero, for doing what he did time and time again, perhaps even to a fault.

No, he was no Elenaril. Perhaps he never would be, indeed, perhaps he wasn't meant to be, just as he wasn't meant to be like his father.

And just like that, he stood before him: a tall, athletic sun elf at the beginning of his third century of life, with a wry grin on his chiseled bronze face. In his right hand was an ornate, superbly crafted rapier, the tip of the weapon floating perhaps a millimeter off the ground, and his left hand rested against his hip in a posture that might be the very picture of a swaggering, cocky swashbuckler. And his shoes... those infamous loud green boots... whose point curled upwards in a manner that would have been patently ridiculous, were it not for the fact that somehow the wearer could pull it off: Arinelar 'Rinel' Shaelara, in his time perhaps the most notorious adventuring troublemaker in a Sun Elven house full of them, stood before Aglaril.

"How...?"

"Elementary, my dear Aglaril," came the too often heard quip accompanied by the rogueish grin, though there was something oddly different about the quality of his voice this time. "You, young sir, are still looking to someone else for the answers."

"That is not what I meant. How is this happening? Did O'si teleport you here for some reason? Have you been scrying on me? If so, how long have you..."

A slender, long finger touched the elder elf's lips, bringing an end to the questions.

"Silence child. You never quite got the hang of artful conversation while engaging in biir-kerym, much less something more sophisticated like proper kerym syolkiir. Now, are you ready to defend yourself, or shall I stab you through?"

Aglaril bristled in spite of himself at the use of the phrase; biir-kerym was evoked to insult someone's style of swordsmanship, literally "junk-sword", or more bluntly, 'crap'. Some part of him knew that there was truth to it however; even while on the Isle Aglaril knew his bladework could bring purists to squirm or smirk, and his time spent away from the Isle did not help, especially the recent months when surviving the forge of live combat seemed to matter much more than proper technique.

His bronze cheeks flushed slightly as Aglaril's longsword was drawn. He knew what was coming, but he did not seem to care. A curt nod of acknowledgment, and the two blades touched between them. Aglaril took a deep breath as he prepared to receive a score of small bruises and welts distributed generously across every part of his body.

Something seemed... different this time, however. Aglaril wondered if it was his own progress or Rinel showing signs of rust, or whether he was toying with the younger elf, or perhaps something else entirely. Regardless, the expected sting of numerous quick scores did not come, at least not yet.

Encouraged and emboldened, Aglaril shifted his stance and grip, going on the offensive. The tune of the two blades dancing and clashing took on a touch heavier tone as the younger elf pressed the attack with his longsword, and the movement of the two blades quickened their pace into a series of metallic flashes that would have impressed many.

But the elder elf's lighter rapier was still too quick; Rinel's blade met the longsword time and time again with only enough force to redirect, not to stop, allowing the agile, effortlessly moving dualist to dodge potential scores with apparent, almost precognizant ease.

"That's the best you can muster? This is boring me Aglaril..." quipped the elder elf, rapier singing. "Shall I recount the tale of the time I met this exquisite Moon elven etriel in Waterdeep? Long before your time of course, but still, a rather amusing escapade, if only she hadn't had connections to a certain local quessir who..."

He is toying with me again, thought Aglaril, trying to block out the banter. There was a time when it would have reliably drawn the younger elf's ire, enough to distract him, enough to cause him to force his hand impatiently.

Not this time.

Rather than press even more, an inspiration came to Aglaril. Taking a risky gamble, he suddenly and deliberately lowered his guard, and simultaneously took a lightning quick step back. He had guessed correctly! Seemingly thrown off for a moment by the unexpected move the elder elf immediately reacted to the apparent opening without conscious thought, striking with his blade only to find Aglaril was not there. Rinel seemed to lose his balance for a brief instant, his torso twisting and bladearm lowering as he sought to reposition himself.

I have him!

Aglaril went for what would've been a killing strike were this more than a dual: a modified strike from Gyrlaszthraen, ‘Swift Strike Hunting Bird’. While the elder elf was off balance and his guard was lowered, Aglaril leaped into the air in the blink of an eye, turning the angle of his sword into a downward, forceful stroke that would have pierced many a lessor armor. He had to check the momentum, of course, since this was no mortal combat, but still, a memorable point would be made...

Except the target was... gone. Impossible... impossibly quick, but the elder elf was gone, had somehow moved and repositioned himself. In a split second Aglaril realized, the twisting of his torso wasn't an attempt to regain lost balance, nor was the lowering of his guard. It was all a feint, a ruse, to bait him into an aggressive move while covering the fact that Rinel had drawn a brilliantly sparkling golden dagger with his offhand while repositioning himself somehow... behind him. Aglaril winced as he found that the small weapon had also hooked the pommel of his longsword, and out of position as he was, he was simply... doomed.

"Well, I will admit, you've made some progress," Aglaril could sense the smirk behind him. "But you've a long ways to go yet, dear Aglaril. As amusing as this has been... "

Aglaril's shoulders slumped, expecting a stinging slap or prick somewhere on his arms, legs, or buttocks to emphasize the point.

"Thus ends the lesson,"


The voice became distant, taking on a strange quality, as Rinel's rapier struck from behind, stabbing cleanly through Aglaril's heart.



With a start the elf sat up bolt upright, covered in cold sweat as he awoke from his dream.



http://forum.candlekeep.com/topic.asp?T ... ichpage=29,
Last edited by Ithildur on Wed Jun 13, 2012 2:53 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Formerly: Aglaril Shaelara, Faerun's unlikeliest Bladesinger
Current main: Ky - something

It’s not the critic who counts...The credit belongs to the man who actually is in the arena, who strives violently, who errs and comes up short again and again...who if he wins, knows the triumph of high achievement, but who if he fails, fails while daring greatly.-T. Roosevelt
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Re: Rising Up - Scion of Shaelara

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+A :fencing:
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Re: Rising Up - Scion of Shaelara

Post by Ithildur »

A recent entry from Aglaril's journal:

I believe it is... nearly done. Our purpose for coming to the Sword Coast, the search for Sywyn, the efforts to free him from the vile and horrifying condition he was inflicted with... barring any last minute treachery, it will soon be over.

But I cannot find peace in my heart, in spite of this. Is it because I still fear that the evil nature of the creature (or indeed, creatures) we are dealing with will rise up to overwhelm the orderly, 'reasonable' and manageable qualities? Is it because the nature of the 'solution', the path of diplomacy with creatures who are clearly dangerous and evil, does not sit well with me? Or is it because I do not fully trust most of those who have authority to lead this city of dubious morality and deeply compromised principals?

It is largely on my account, my efforts, my belief that a diplomatic and ultimately strategically sound solution could even be feasable with such creatures, that this path was pursued and in the end agreed upon - though the exact nature of Korlar's proposal to the Dukes was not one that I had in mind. In the end, it likely proved far more persuasive than the approach I had planned; in terms of what it achieved it was brilliant, appealing to the Dukes' desire to order, control, and monitor, as well as potentially providing an economic boon... I fully agree with the need to monitor these creatures for the possibility of future treachery, and would likely support the notion that they should be destroyed if given the slightest reason for the evil abominations they are.

I had only one thing in mind when I began: Sywyn needed to be rescued, at all costs. Vampirism is a dark nightmare and a bane to all living things, but to elves it is even a greater evil, a blasphemy and eternal horror that mocks and counterfeits the gift of long life in the mortal planes followed by the promise of unending bliss in Arvandor. The horror and fear I struggled with when I first made the decision to meet Zorran face to face... is one that I hope to never taste again. I would prefer to look a dragon in the eye and be devoured while quaking in my boots, torn to pieces while wandering the Underdark, or even tortured in body and mind, than to expose myself and others of the People to the risk of vampirism... If it were not for the deadlock of indecision on the part of the others, during which I feared every wasted moment potentially translating into Sywyn becoming more and more lost... I do not think I could have overcome my dread. And if it were not for Korlar's staunch belief and support of my decisions... I do not know if I could have pressed on when all the others were against me.

I would have gladly supported a well-prepared and thought out plan of aggression against the vampires, but hearing of the first foray below drained my confidence in those who led the effort, and convinced me the possibility of diplomacy offered by Zorran had to be considered. If it meant the release, the return and restoration of Sywyn, then it had to be considered. And on a strategic level, diplomacy with perhaps the lessor of many evils (as far as the city is concerned) made at least some sense... even with vampires.

For now.

One other thing weighs on my heart heavily; I am profoundly disheartened by what I saw from some whom I had come to trust. I do not question Aislinn's intelligence, nor Talindra's intent; what is disheartening is ultimately their inability to put faith in me in the end at critical points, unlike Korlar, and their misrepresentation of my actions. In my mind it is no small cost that I pay for this mission's completion.

I have taken part, hopefully, in the rescue of one elf, and I have gained the friendship of another in Korlar. Elenaril proved in the end stalworthy as ever, standing by our side even in spite of apparent misgivings. But while I will never willingly allow harm to come to them as long as I am able, I have lost the friendship of two elves. Perhaps after many decades of winters have gone by, when shorter lived friends and allies are long gone, this will change. Perhaps the test of a hundred more battles against orcs, giants, Mind Flayers, Drow, vampires, and worse will renew the bonds.

I pray to Corellon and all the Seldarine for that day, for us to live to see that day... while our feet tread this strange, wondrous and dangerous world called ...Faerun.
Formerly: Aglaril Shaelara, Faerun's unlikeliest Bladesinger
Current main: Ky - something

It’s not the critic who counts...The credit belongs to the man who actually is in the arena, who strives violently, who errs and comes up short again and again...who if he wins, knows the triumph of high achievement, but who if he fails, fails while daring greatly.-T. Roosevelt
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Re: Rising Up - Scion of Shaelara

Post by dergon darkhelm »

Like! :)
PCs: NWN1: Trailyn "Wayfarer" Krast, Nashkel hayseed

NWN2: ??

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Re: Rising Up - Scion of Shaelara

Post by Ithildur »

((Theme song for Aglaril... https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uGDA0Hecw1k))


"Tsk, Aglaril... you really believed Corellon visited you in a dream?"

The crisp, smooth sound of drink being poured expertly into the crystal goblet underscored the words. Through the thinly veiled layer of what might've been sympathy, the true tone was unmistakable, Aglaril thought to himself: the tone of nonchalant skepticism, perhaps even a hint of mockery.

"And this... voice you believe you heard, telling you to return, without explanation," The elder Elf paused to take a sip before continuing, a small smirk forming on his lips. "What next, my dear Aglaril? I suppose you'll be telling me you're a chosen vessel of the Lady of Mysteries! Perhaps become a man of the cloth or some such."

The last bit was not spoken with any degree of reverence, Aglaril knew. Some part of him felt a twitch of anger, but the emotion passed quickly as Aglaril lifted his gaze to meet the eyes of his father.

Surprisingly, the elder elf averted his eyes. It was subtle, and swift, but Aglaril saw it. Curiosity and wonder, followed quickly by his own skepticism took hold of him.

"Why did you come, Osu?" Aglaril queried rather accusingly. "You've had little interest in returning to the Sword Coast, or anywhere outside the Isle in general since you retired from your adventuring days to settle down." It was his turn to take on a slightly mocking tone now, the last words spoken with deep irony. "Surely you've better things to do than to find passing amusement at my expense under the guise of checking up on me?"

A twinge of regret passed through the younger elf even as the words left his lips, but he hardened his face, eyes locked onto the other elf unflinchingly. He knew fully what to expect, for this kind of exchange was the perfect setup for the not-so-subtle verbal sparring that Arinelar quite thoroughly seemed to enjoy. It had been a pattern for years, decades, almost a dance that Aglaril had often unwillingly, sometimes quite eagerly found himself locked into... a dance that he did not enjoy ultimately, a sparring contest that pained him deeply, and one that the elder elf was nearly as proficient in as with his actual blades.

Surprisingly, Arinelar simply turned away; the still athletic elf's broad shoulders seemed to sag ever so slightly.

What new trick is this, I wonder?

Aglaril's habitual instincts would not allow him to lower his guard. Decades. Decades of experience had taught him that nothing Rinel did was what it seemed; everything was a setup, a sleight of hand, a diversion to catch one unawares or distracted - it did not matter whether the sharp, cutting thrust would come in the form of blade, words, or simply a look; Aglaril knew well enough that it would come, sooner or later.

"It was your mother's idea," replied the elf simply. "And I agreed."

Since when did you start listening to anything that came out of her mouth? The thought formed in Aglaril's mind, but he remained silent for the moment, still wary.

"Osi... mother...." the younger elf spoke after a full ten minutes of complete silence in the room. "And you did as she asked? Why?"

Rinel shrugged his shoulders, with something more akin to resignation than apathy in his movement. His grey eyes, however, rose to meet Aglaril's gaze for a moment.

"Because I wished to," came yet another plain answer, followed by words that sounded more tired than defiant. "Is that so wrong? Does it offend you to hear it?"

Aglaril, for the moment at least, could not find the words to reply.


((to be continued))
Formerly: Aglaril Shaelara, Faerun's unlikeliest Bladesinger
Current main: Ky - something

It’s not the critic who counts...The credit belongs to the man who actually is in the arena, who strives violently, who errs and comes up short again and again...who if he wins, knows the triumph of high achievement, but who if he fails, fails while daring greatly.-T. Roosevelt
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Ithildur
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Re: Rising Up - Scion of Shaelara

Post by Ithildur »

The eyes of your heart must be fixed on the destination.

For the fifth time this Tenday, the elf stepped into the building that was oddly becoming a rather familiar place. A few stares, one or two nods his way this time... though Aglaril did not acknowledge them initially.

But be mindful of the journey, else your progress to the destination will be delayed, hindered.


The elf paused briefly, looking up to return a nod to the man. What was his name? For a moment Aglaril nearly felt embarrassment; in spite of his sharp mind he knew well that at times he could be slightly absent-minded, especially when it came to names.

"You're back again, I see. Keep this up and we'll make a warrior of Tempus out of you yet."

Aglaril smirked good naturedly at the quip.

"Perhaps, someday," the elf replied with a wink. "I certainly am prone to change more readily than most of my kin; a century or two might do it if you're patient enough! But I'd expect followers of the Lord of Battles aren't particularly known for longevity."

Aglaril heard the man's loud chuckle and half listened as he readied himself: the usual exposition on glorious deaths and bravery, readiness to take up arms to defend what was important, the honor of battle and such things... in some manner similar perhaps to the code and values of an El'Tael, the Bladesinger, even to those things upheld by Corellon Larethian himself.... and yet so different.

Glancing about the room, Aglaril eyed the various accoutrements of training for warfare. It was crowded, somewhat chaotic, noisy, and smelled of sweat.

Perfect, thought the elf.
Formerly: Aglaril Shaelara, Faerun's unlikeliest Bladesinger
Current main: Ky - something

It’s not the critic who counts...The credit belongs to the man who actually is in the arena, who strives violently, who errs and comes up short again and again...who if he wins, knows the triumph of high achievement, but who if he fails, fails while daring greatly.-T. Roosevelt
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Ithildur
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Re: Rising Up - Scion of Shaelara

Post by Ithildur »

((a bit of forum RP from some time ago, including post from Blindhamsterman))

"Hells, Elenaril... trying to score a hit against you... is worse than chasing Fairy Dragons blindfolded..."

Aglaril paused and panted quietly as he took a step back, moving out of the superbly crafted adamantine rapier's range. A small trickle of sweat rolled down his bronze forehead, coming to a halt upon meeting the ridge of golden brow. Aglaril studied the other elf's weapon, which had become both a very familiar vexing obstacle as well as an object of admiration and inspiration.

Talvael...

His own longsword was of fine elven craftsmanship, but looked and felt like a clumsy thing in contrast to the El Tael's superb blade. Similarly, while Aglaril's own agility and speed would've been judged as superior by most, the other Sun Elf's footwork, elegant grace, and technique combined to make him feel rather clumsy by comparison once more.

Aglaril shook his head and refocused, a determined expression forming on his face.

I cannot try to match his grace, nor can I match the speed and precision of a rapier... I must find my own rhythm.

With a small intake of breath, his longsword moved back into position as Aglaril approached the Bladesinger once more. The contrasting blades flashed in the sunlight as they met, the ringing sound strangely melodic, as the two figures renewed their dance.

"I'm not giving up yet, El Tael..."

................................................

He dodges a blow albeit barely, dancing back just out of reach of his opponents swing before darting forward again in an effort to land a strike of his own, his blade; Talvael, made of darkest adamantine, elven script along each face of the blade sparkling with diamond dust and subdued flames, moves deceptively slow flicking around a blocking parry to land a hit on the other elfs arm.

Or at least it would have, if the other elf did not elegantly spin away from the attack leaving the El'Tael open for a counter of his own... and so it continues with each elf countering and riposting, gracefully avoiding eachothers blows. To anyone that observes it looks more like a dance, the two are near perfectly timed with eachother and it is hard to really say one is more skilled than the other.

A pair of dancers in near perfect harmony despite their differences... of which there are many, both have determined looks of concentration, but the El'Tael is decidedly more grim in aspect. Where the El'Tael is pale and dark haired, easily mistakable for a Moon Elf, the other is bronze of skin and golden of hair. Where the El'Tael is precise and elegant the other is strong and sure. Where the El'Tael uses a rapier the other uses a longsword and yet despite all ofthis, there is a balance, perfect in time between these two and their dance.

"Aye and you're far better than you give yourself credit my friend, you're arguably better with your blade than I am now, and your form and style are among the best I've seen, it's an honour to spar with you... and maybe teach you a little."

The two blades ring together again, each elf dancing back and leaping forward again in unison, again the blades ring, even this almost sounds like music as they do.

"All you need is focus, you must find a sense of balance... not just on a physical level, but on a mental one also. Find harmony with your weapon and you'll come to truely understand the Bladesong"

And so it continues for some time more, with neither elf really appearing to be likely to win as far as observers can tell... but maybe that's the point, a dance for the sake of the dance.


.........................................

"Aye and you're far better than you give yourself credit my friend, you're arguably better with your blade than I am now, and your form and style are among the best I've seen, it's an honour to spar with you... and maybe teach you a little."
It was not the first time Elenaril had affirmed him certainly; Aglaril would never forget the day in the Underdark when Elenaril told him that he saw qualities in him that he could never have admitted to himself.

"... you have a spark of heroism when you want to. It suits you better than the drinking does."

For an instant the words echoed through his mind, distracting him enough for a fraction of a second, almost enough for the Bladesinger to land another score.
"All you need is focus, you must find a sense of balance... not just on a physical level, but on a mental one also. Find harmony with your weapon and you'll come to truely understand the Bladesong"
Focus... balance of mind and body... he made it sound so simple. And watching the El'Tael, often it did look near effortless, simple. There was an elegance to his every move, every parry, every step, every...

...strike!

The deceptively slow moving rapier came at him suddenly, breathlessly quick, almost like wakening from a dream in an instant and becoming fully alert; it was aimed chest high and this time landed a score, and certainly would've skewered him through his heart if this were actual combat.

Too much thinking now... I need to think... without thinking somehow. Focus... balance.

"Well struck, El'Tael,"

Aglaril shook his head and acknowledged the score with a nod and slight smile, immediately returning to his stance to resume the dance. A flickering thought passed through his mind with a familiar voice, though he managed to dismiss it quickly.

You're no hero...

Breathing in deeply through his nostrils, Aglaril narrowed his eyes slightly as he renewed his focus.
Formerly: Aglaril Shaelara, Faerun's unlikeliest Bladesinger
Current main: Ky - something

It’s not the critic who counts...The credit belongs to the man who actually is in the arena, who strives violently, who errs and comes up short again and again...who if he wins, knows the triumph of high achievement, but who if he fails, fails while daring greatly.-T. Roosevelt
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Ithildur
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Re: Rising Up - Scion of Shaelara

Post by Ithildur »

A short entry from Aglaril's journal:

Stars in her eyes
Hair like dark tresses
Strong of will, temper would rise
paired with gentle caresses

Her prayers now sung
somewhere far from the Coast
I know not where but this I know
She walks in beauty where e'er she goes

Two hearts torn as duty calls
One night's dance, her bright eyes shine
Sehanine guide her fragile footfalls
and Corellon ever mine
Formerly: Aglaril Shaelara, Faerun's unlikeliest Bladesinger
Current main: Ky - something

It’s not the critic who counts...The credit belongs to the man who actually is in the arena, who strives violently, who errs and comes up short again and again...who if he wins, knows the triumph of high achievement, but who if he fails, fails while daring greatly.-T. Roosevelt
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Ithildur
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Re: Rising Up - Scion of Shaelara

Post by Ithildur »

Standing before the statue of the Great Archer - Solonor Thelandira - in Everdusk, Aglaril half chanted, half sang quietly in Elven...

Strong and skilled, a shadow in the wilds
Nimble of hand and foot, some never saw you smile


The North no longer hears your bow's lethal song

Stubborn and proud, hunter and scout
Deadliest of archers, there was little doubt


The Sword Coast too, knows not where you stalk


Does the deep High Forest once more welcome you now?
Perchance Cormanthor, Evereska, or even the Moonshae Isles?
Or is it really true, that the Ranger's wanderings at last
Have taken him to his last final mile?


"Without your fateful invitation Sywyn, I would still be hiding in the taverns of Silverymoon, or perhaps even returned to Evermeet," Aglaril mused under his breath as he lingered for a moment. "And who can number the thousands of orcs you slew?"

With a quick nod to Loremaster Elaith the Elf silently exited the temple, the bustle and sounds of Silverymoon's market soon filling his ears.
Formerly: Aglaril Shaelara, Faerun's unlikeliest Bladesinger
Current main: Ky - something

It’s not the critic who counts...The credit belongs to the man who actually is in the arena, who strives violently, who errs and comes up short again and again...who if he wins, knows the triumph of high achievement, but who if he fails, fails while daring greatly.-T. Roosevelt
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