BrilliantReturn to the Sands
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ewayneself
- Dire Badger
- Posts: 183
- Joined: Tue Aug 02, 2005 6:41 am
May contain information you do not yet want to know. Read at your own risk. For another look at these events, see the the thread entitled Lyon's Travels.
You are speaking, but the words feel strange in your mouth, as if read from a dry scroll at the desert's edge.
Rats and wolves wander outside a yellow tent. Evil has come for a visit, billowing from the dark figure like smoke from wet wood. An abomination hangs from the man's gigantic blade, reflecting moonlight. He seems anxious to leave. You will not have it.
Even now, you feel no loathing. You see him knelt in front of babes. You see him fighting honorably at your side. But you know now, with only a lingering hope, that he is consumed.
Seven meetings have passed and now the time is at hand. Reason has failed. Appeal to old allegiances has fallen short. He will not stay his hand from the innocent. He must be stopped. And so there is bargaining. Blood for blood. Death for life. The singer, the dancer, the hunter, will all be safe, no matter the outcome. A good bargain.
You reach for your favored weapon and find it gone. You curse the lock that broke it, and heft a great-sword at him. Unwieldy. Unfamiliar. It slices nothing.
He does not mock. Instead, he instructs. "Use the weight. Hold it higher." Then he gives an example. His blow falls into your shoulder like the weight of the world. Your knees buckle, but you do not fall.
He pulls back and waits while you pray.
Soon your sword glows with holy wrath. You strike, and an otherworldly strength flows through you. Twice, the heavy weapon finds its mark. His blood squeezes thickly between the spaces in his black armor, like sap from a fire-darkened tree.
Suddenly, he is more serious. You are more of a threat than he expected. He thrusts forward, jabbing your side with his mighty blade. There is a sickening chill in the wound. He hits you with ease, yet you know each of your successful strikes comes from fortune alone.
The blessing fades from your weapon, and so you drop it. With a prayer for healing and for strength, you pull your shield around and untie your mace.
He swings wide. Sparks fly as his evil blade strikes the Lion's Guard.
You respond quickly, flicking the hollowed mace at him as a feint. Holy water splashes from inside the mace's chamber, splattering on his face.
He cries out. It burns him! What is he?
The feint is succeeds, but your strikes do little. The holy water eats into his skin like worms into a corpse.
He yells angry words. More sparks as he drags the sword on the ground, coming up from below. Hurriedly, you set your shield, but you are late and the swing is fierce. The force of the blow shatters the Lion's Guard and sends you flying to the ground.
He does not press his advantage. He waits. Stay down. Stay down, Akbar, and he will let you live. Yes. Live.
But something tickles your ear. You look over your shoulder to see the banner, still furled and bundled on your back. The Order of the Banner. Remember? It was a joke. Will it remain so? If it is to mean anything, you must stand.
He waits while you rise. A flagstaff makes a decent crutch. The banner unfurls, its power bleeding into your weapon. He is not amused.
Your mace finds its mark once, twice. And the banner bedevils him a bit. If you can survive a bit longer, there are a few tricks you know. Perhaps good will yet win the day.
It comes down on your other shoulder, driving deep, cracking armor. This time he does not pull away. Instead, he drives you to your knees, the blade buried in your torso. There is no pain, only certainty of death.
More bargaining. He does not want to kill you, but there was a deal. You insist. Blood for blood. Life for life. It must be honored.
He tells you the nature of his evil. He speaks of his birthright, even as he holds you up, fumbling for his bandages. No. There was a bargain. It must be kept.
A last plea. Protect her. Honor your agreement. Seek goodness.
The thrust of the sword. Teia's face. Lyon's embrace.
Water falls. Giant slain. Ring given, tossed, and fished from the wet. Cool water splashed after a long hot trek. Words of love spoken for the very first time above the crash of the falls. A push. An apology. A leap.
The waters are fleeting.
We burn. We bury. We sink. All mortals return to the sands.
You are speaking, but the words feel strange in your mouth, as if read from a dry scroll at the desert's edge.
Rats and wolves wander outside a yellow tent. Evil has come for a visit, billowing from the dark figure like smoke from wet wood. An abomination hangs from the man's gigantic blade, reflecting moonlight. He seems anxious to leave. You will not have it.
Even now, you feel no loathing. You see him knelt in front of babes. You see him fighting honorably at your side. But you know now, with only a lingering hope, that he is consumed.
Seven meetings have passed and now the time is at hand. Reason has failed. Appeal to old allegiances has fallen short. He will not stay his hand from the innocent. He must be stopped. And so there is bargaining. Blood for blood. Death for life. The singer, the dancer, the hunter, will all be safe, no matter the outcome. A good bargain.
You reach for your favored weapon and find it gone. You curse the lock that broke it, and heft a great-sword at him. Unwieldy. Unfamiliar. It slices nothing.
He does not mock. Instead, he instructs. "Use the weight. Hold it higher." Then he gives an example. His blow falls into your shoulder like the weight of the world. Your knees buckle, but you do not fall.
He pulls back and waits while you pray.
Soon your sword glows with holy wrath. You strike, and an otherworldly strength flows through you. Twice, the heavy weapon finds its mark. His blood squeezes thickly between the spaces in his black armor, like sap from a fire-darkened tree.
Suddenly, he is more serious. You are more of a threat than he expected. He thrusts forward, jabbing your side with his mighty blade. There is a sickening chill in the wound. He hits you with ease, yet you know each of your successful strikes comes from fortune alone.
The blessing fades from your weapon, and so you drop it. With a prayer for healing and for strength, you pull your shield around and untie your mace.
He swings wide. Sparks fly as his evil blade strikes the Lion's Guard.
You respond quickly, flicking the hollowed mace at him as a feint. Holy water splashes from inside the mace's chamber, splattering on his face.
He cries out. It burns him! What is he?
The feint is succeeds, but your strikes do little. The holy water eats into his skin like worms into a corpse.
He yells angry words. More sparks as he drags the sword on the ground, coming up from below. Hurriedly, you set your shield, but you are late and the swing is fierce. The force of the blow shatters the Lion's Guard and sends you flying to the ground.
He does not press his advantage. He waits. Stay down. Stay down, Akbar, and he will let you live. Yes. Live.
But something tickles your ear. You look over your shoulder to see the banner, still furled and bundled on your back. The Order of the Banner. Remember? It was a joke. Will it remain so? If it is to mean anything, you must stand.
He waits while you rise. A flagstaff makes a decent crutch. The banner unfurls, its power bleeding into your weapon. He is not amused.
Your mace finds its mark once, twice. And the banner bedevils him a bit. If you can survive a bit longer, there are a few tricks you know. Perhaps good will yet win the day.
It comes down on your other shoulder, driving deep, cracking armor. This time he does not pull away. Instead, he drives you to your knees, the blade buried in your torso. There is no pain, only certainty of death.
More bargaining. He does not want to kill you, but there was a deal. You insist. Blood for blood. Life for life. It must be honored.
He tells you the nature of his evil. He speaks of his birthright, even as he holds you up, fumbling for his bandages. No. There was a bargain. It must be kept.
A last plea. Protect her. Honor your agreement. Seek goodness.
The thrust of the sword. Teia's face. Lyon's embrace.
Water falls. Giant slain. Ring given, tossed, and fished from the wet. Cool water splashed after a long hot trek. Words of love spoken for the very first time above the crash of the falls. A push. An apology. A leap.
The waters are fleeting.
We burn. We bury. We sink. All mortals return to the sands.
The paladin dies as he was sworn too. Awesome.
I have had so much joy DMing Akbar Akh Asad. I am so happy that ewaynself's prodigious talent allows other to share in the growth, life, and death of a great character.
Ave atque vale, Akbar.
RIP
I, not events, have the power to make me happy or unhappy today. I can choose which it shall be. Yesterday is dead, tomorrow hasn't arrived yet. I have just one day, today, and I'm going to be happy in it.~~Groucho Marx
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Inwintersshadow
- Orc Champion
- Posts: 464
- Joined: Wed May 18, 2005 2:39 am
- Location: Wanderer GMT -5
- Contact:
Ah crap
OOC: I loved that guy as much as he annoyed me - helluva pc dude you better come back with another!
Admissions Goon
Primary PC: Vohrigg Cragstomper ~ Rock-climbing Spelunker of High Home http://pinterest.com/pin/229965124694678786/
Secondary PC: Nicobus Trask - Private Investigator of Silverymoon http://workerslawwatch.com/wp-content/u ... igator.jpg
NWN1 PC: Corgrym Aerthen: Warrior-Priest of Chauntea & White Chalk Village Militia Leader in Daggerdale
Primary PC: Vohrigg Cragstomper ~ Rock-climbing Spelunker of High Home http://pinterest.com/pin/229965124694678786/
Secondary PC: Nicobus Trask - Private Investigator of Silverymoon http://workerslawwatch.com/wp-content/u ... igator.jpg
NWN1 PC: Corgrym Aerthen: Warrior-Priest of Chauntea & White Chalk Village Militia Leader in Daggerdale
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psycho_leo
- Rust Monster
- Posts: 1162
- Joined: Tue Jan 17, 2006 2:10 am
- Location: Brazil
Great fiction as always. Akbar had a true paladin's death, following his code to the bitter end. I'm glad for playing whatever small part I had in his development and truly glad to have witnessed his final moments.
Current PC: Gareth Darkriver, errant knight of Kelemvor
Se'rie Arnimane: Time is of the essence!
Nawiel Di'malie: Shush! we're celebrating!