An Old Conjurer's Foolishness

Daelan

Revered Elder
There upon a broken stone wall slumped a middle-aged man. His worn boots were soft black, turned gray and thin with time and use, and one was perched atop a low, broken hunk of granite. He wore dark brown trousers, a white shirt, and a green suede vest. The vest was buttoned, and strained a bit for the belly beneath. The chipped point of a gnarled wooden staff rested in the dust beside his lower boot, and the other end of the stick stood more than a foot above his windblown hair. The staff rolled across his collar bone into the crook of his neck with the breeze, and the familiar charge coiling beneath the worn wood surface brought the hairs at the base of his neck to attention.



Daelan Magan squinted bright blue eyes, crinkled with decades of mirth and scratched at his once-red beard, now shot with streaks of gray. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered, shaking his head as he glared at the ruin angrily, as though his irritation carried some influence over disinterested rock and wood.



The pile of sticks and stone which was the target of his ire was strewn and broken across a span nearly a hundred feet across, and hundreds more deep. This plot of land had, once, proudly borne the de facto hub of all things in the Capitol. Commercial, social, and political events all took place within those sturdy walls of log and stone, often simultaneously. How many arguments had that now-shattered foundation seen? How many bodies had fallen onto those heavy floorboards? How many blades wet, bones broken, blood sprayed against tooth and claw? How many stolen kisses and amorous liaisons by her roaring firelight?



Daelan coughed, once, and stood. “Sentimental garbage…” he leaned the staff against the low entry wall and lifted his dusty wool riding coat from where he had sat upon it, whipping its folds open with a sharp SNAP. He was scowling as he fished his shirtsleeves out through the coat, and wondered why he’d bothered to show up again in the first place.



“It’s not like we loved you, old girl,” he said aloud, shaking his staff at the rubble. “We spent as much time complaining about your inadequacies as was reasonable, and to anyone who would listen!” He shrugged, and the wind rolled dusty whorls down the overgrown road. The trees danced and shook in the twilight breeze, and the old mage caught a spark of Spring magic bubbling up in his chest. He tamped it down in irritation immediately.



“Oh, you think so, do you?” He shouted at the breeze. “Well, I’ll be damned if I care! I remember, alright, and you can just KEEP your bloody nostalgia! Your rose-colored nonsense is for older, weaker men than I!”



But then he smiled for a moment, and found himself inching closer to the broken steps, up over the scattered threshold, into the grass and earth that had once been cellar walls and barroom foundations. He squinted back through the years as he hopped gingerly over shattered dancefloor boards and rusted wall sconces. He turned around and strong walls were suddenly whole and the place was warm and golden with firelight, bright with laughter and music and smelled strongly of ale and the blood of a good fight! He was a younger man, excited and enchanted by the thrill of it all. The endless possibility! The power of the place was undeniable, even now.



It had been dumb luck and weird fortune that had built this old world in the first place. And someone had cared enough to keep the world open even in the absence of all his old friends. Daelan had strolled back into this plane after many years’ adventuring in other realities, and somehow this was the only place he stopped to remember. He sighed, long and low, “Gods but I’m a relic even to the Old Guards that followed. I was there since almost the beginning of this place… I wonder, is it dead now, or just asleep? If I do nothing, will darkness consume what’s left, or can it yet be fought?”



Daelan Magan, Wizard. Shapechanger. Conjurer. Warrior. Elder. Chronomancer. Once, he had played the hero here. Now, he had more interest in playing host. Perhaps let the kids try their hands this time… He rolled his eyes and shook his head, a grin creeping across his weathered face. “I’m an old fool,” he muttered, gripping his gnarled staff and rising a foot off the ground as spring winds whipped the tails of his green riding coat.



***



The bar was perfect, polished oak, and well stocked with a variety of all the old favorites Daelan could recall from his youth. The barstools stood empty, but they were made whole again. The walls were tight and strong, and the hearth burned with a welcoming fire. Torches lit the Common Room, darted occasionally with a lamp here, a candelabra there. The place had always been a bit eclectic, and the mage liked it that way. Stairs led up through the shadowy rafters and off to sleeping rooms, doorways opened onto the kitchens and any number of accommodations. The stable, the well house, the workshops and outbuildings were all restored, and the Common –the heart of the place—was back and whole, for another hundred years at least. Not one to reinvent the wheel, Daelan had taken the place –the entire lot—from his vision of the past and simply replaced the ruin it had later become with its previous version. As though rewriting reality with an older save file from a better time was a simple thing. It wasn’t so tricky, after all, if you knew the way.



The sun had set, and the whole affair was incongruous with the destroyed city without, a golden firelit beacon in a sea of cold blue-gray.



On the bar he placed a single Coin, a Dagger, a Chalice, and a scroll, sealed in wax with the emblem of a burning dragon’s claw. He clutched his old Staff and rapped it once on the floor, sparking a handful of spectral attendants to life, at least until more people arrived. “I’ll have an ale, please,” he asked a spectral wench, politely. “There by the fire in that old chair,” he said, and walked over to a familiar reclining seat. “Maybe they’ll come and maybe they won’t. We’ll just have to wait and see.”



Outside, above the doorway was a weathered wood sign bearing the words “Ayenee Tavern” swinging back and forth in the warm Spring wind.
 
Mithrandir, old of spirit and mind, and even flesh though he did not look it moved through the outskirts of the old hub of Ayenee's core a city that had seen the amalgamation of technologies beyond imagination and the raw forces of nature bent to the will of mortal and immortal creatures alike. His silver brocade waistcoat overlaying a fine white silk shirt extending just above the coats neckline. His trousers a bland charcoal grey and atop coat and shirt was a black leather baldric with a frog holding the hilt of his rapier. All this was visible with each step and flutter of the wind as it moved his traveling cloak that hung loosely over his shoulders. His long hair fluttered in the passing breeze and then laid flat down his shoulders and back. The city seemed muted and almost dead, bleak and forgotten, and yet as he traversed the main roads he spotted something that flabbergasted him. The center of the city the oldest of its structures with perhaps the exception of the halls of the dead was restored and illuminated. His thin lips parted with almost child like glee as he saw the beacon come back to life. His eyes silver and bright shown in the darkness as he moved towards the illuminated tavern. He could not guess who had done the magic but it felt comforting like something he'd known but briefly in his earliest days in this realm.

Moving towards the old Ayenee Tavern his eyes narrowed squinting as if looking for threats in the darkness, but it was to hide the tears that the rolling nostalgia brought to them. The tears silver and luminescent were impossible to hide but he tried heartilly till he felt the burn of the first as it streaked down his cheek. Taking a long moment he pulled in a long breath and held it getting his emotions in check, before letting the breath out slowly and in a controlled exhale. How long had it been since he had seen the tavern in this shape ? He couldn't be certain time in Ayenee was always a tricky issue but it felt like seeing the shoreline of his new homeland for the first time. The feelings welling up within him rallied again as he pushed them down holding them tightly in his minds grasp. He wouldn't let his emotions get the better of him, the tavern if anything had made that lesson abundantly clear on his first visit where a ice demon and a Saiyan started a fight and had hit him with half of a wall the moment he walked into the tavern. For a moment he paused and started to think of all the mishaps that befell him upon entering taverns in Ayenee, but shrugged it off as the price of doing business and moved towards the common room's doors. He could see specters moving about inside through the windows keeping the place moving and functional.

His eyes instinctively moved up to the swinging placard as he smiled and moved towards the door pushing upon it lightly and feeling the door move forward with swing inward as he stepped into the tavern and spotted the salted-ginger mage whose contience he could not recall specifically thought he seemed familiar as if he'd been seen before but never in the forefront. With a casual lift of his hand he saluted the mage as he made his ways towards the bar. Licking his lips before pulling a coin and setting it upon the bar as he spoke in a clear tone " Bloodwyne please" before casting his eyes to the mage as the spectral serving wench sped passed taking up the coin. "This your work ? " He said extending his left hand out as if to behold the whole of the tavern and the staff.
 
The grin which spread across Daelan's face made him look 20 years younger. He thrust two red darts into his illusory opponent's hand side-first without really looking and hastened directly to the bar. The third red dart protruded haphazardly from the wall board a good foot to the lower left of its target.

"Give me that!" He barked at the figment of a buxom brown-haired wench, snatching the coin from her hand just above the till. The wench rolled her eyes, shrugging at Mithrandir plaintively as Daelan held the coin aloft for a moment. With a bark of laughter, the coin clattered hollowly into the otherwise empty till. He took a breath, clutching the drawer for a moment before slamming it shut with a >DINNnnnngggg!<

"There!," he laughed. "If I never make another sale in here, at least I enjoyed that one."

The wench smiled broadly and returned with a bottle from the shelf behind the bar. You'll have to forgive him. He's a child in a rebuilt sweetshop.

"Hmm. Yeah, to answer your question, sir, this is my handiwork," he said thoughtfully, squinting at the chesty figment. He added, with a direct look at Mith and a quick wave, "The whole thing, not just her." Turning his gaze back to the woman, he scratched at his beard, "Although she's most certainly one of mine. Chesty, smart-mouthed, and gutsy as all hell... Gods love a feisty woman! Always at the risk of playing at wish fulfillment, but you know what they say: write what you know..."

Can I get back to work, or do you just want to ogle me while a thirsty customer waits..? She stood with a hand on her hip, a crystal goblet laced between her spectral fingers. Her voice was clear and delicately accented, but seemed to emanate from her general form as a vibration than words projected from a physical mouth.

"You know, they also say, 'Murder your babies,'" he glowered at the wench as she poured the bloodwyne and placed it before Mithrandir. She just sighed and looked at the customer in mock helplessness before bumping Daelan out of her way with a well-formed hip hidden by her rolling skirts.

"Her name is Bronwyn, not that anyone will ask!" Daelan said the last more at her than to Mith. "She's an innkeep and very capable cook. She also loves to dance. She's secretly a minx in the sack with a fondness for women as well as men and who just looooves a good spanking."

Daelan Magan, you rutting bastard..! You get out from behind my bar and shush...!! She looked incensed, blushing prettily.

Grinning at his success, Daelan took her face in both hands and continued, "This is my favorite part... When my creations start to become something. Probably more than the place strictly needs, but even spectral servants deserve some happiness, and that means personality! Experience, you know? I always prefer to give them a little more of a story. Some depth... It's the little touches make a conjuring worth the doing," As he said it, he ran his fingers through her straight brown hair, winking at her. The hair grew longer, wavy, and black. A folded kerchief formed, holding the wild curls in some semblance of order, but the hair was too great, too glorious to be fully contained. He beamed with pride. "There. That's much better. With that tongue, I thought maybe red, but it just feels like I'd be playing to type..?" He came out from behind the bar and sat beside Mithrandir.

With a broad smile, Daelan waited for Mith to take a sip of his drink. "As you no doubt heard, I'm Daelan. Welcome back to the Ayenee Tavern."

Throughout the exchange, Bronwyn had wiped all around the bartop, picking up and replacing items as she went, but always avoiding the four objects placed so noticeably. The Coin. The Blade. The Scroll. The Cup. All ornate, and each radiating a kind of quiet power. Spectral musicians played guitar and drum music softly, occasionally offset by fiddle or flute. The place was lively and bright, and much like the smiling mage's manner it was suffused with joy.
 
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The echo of children's laughter encircles their sense of reality. Ripples of colors distort the transitions of emotions and understanding. Blackness turns to white..White turns to blackness... Vision and sensory is lost

........Laughter is heard echoing across the lands.

Thunder crashes as lightning splits the hope of a bleakness shared. A figurine of electrostatic systems reveal the visage of Joshua's long haired image. Lightning bolts stop striking as stars align for a split second. Chestnut tendrils flicker half foot above his torso.

The stars become empowered. Relinquishing reign of his humanoid form and revealing the all knowing eyes of The Summoner. Two jaded moons rise above the omniverse. Denying the prophecy of peace!. For a second coming of death was in the air! (Joshua's eyes formed by solar systems) Stars dissipate while the discharges whirlwind his robe open. Revealing an inward fabric disclosing endless stars and galaxies of man and god...Strange...

*The glow of the cosmos stop as the divine bolts diminish.*

*The light fades as his acceptance is upon hand!!!!*

Ghosts and zombies dig themselves out of the grounds and leylines. The two combatants of this scenario completely unaware that the entirety of creation's history was being summoned to march...March directly against them.

Graves begin to rot and fall to dust. A mist rolls in thicker than hell's fury. Phantasms become empowered by the opening of the flood gates of the planes. Circular discs; that distort and absorb light, flash like demon portals infinitely in the skyline. Afterward, a green hue darkens out god's paradise.. Transforming every singular system in this corporeal demi-realm.

Plants become demonic and sentient. Entire swarms of lower life forms flower upward and embody enormous, indestructible humanoids. The flora transmute into wood line systems that converge into a gigantic treant. Swirling a prowess of chaotic synergies; branches wilting and melting the vows of god himself. Corrupting the roots of creation into an infinite army.

The world is enclosed in darkness. A multitude of forms and configurations of astral entirety morph against these twos' will. The Horrors of the Fellowship of the Rudra turns against Adam.

....Is this the new Sodom and Gomorrah?


...............*A voice erupts underneath all this madness...A grumbling so deep, it's mythos.......

*I waaant Corban..........Saaaaaaaaaaezer...*
 
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(Gentlemen, you shall stop your fight and go call for Corban. Neither of you can t1.)

(Have fun, tough guys. )

(admit death or fight...If you fight..I win..You leave forever or you bring me Rogy....I want Rogy/ Corban.....I want a real man's fight.)
 
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The peasants stood outside the crypt. Husbands holding their wives. Mothers holding their kids. It had been two days since the paladins came to town to deal with their crypt problem. And this was the second day they had waited outside for the paladins to return. It seems that the dead occupants that occupied the crypt, didn't want to stay dead. The undead never show any sign of intelligence, they only show that they are hungry. Hungry for the living and their hunger was starting to bring them out of crypt.

Finally, the sound of armor could be heard coming up the stairs. The townsfolk drew closer together, not sure what was going to come out from the dark doorway. Four paladins of the Imperial Fists emerged. What was once shining armor, was now covered in dust, cobwebs and dried blood. The clean shaven faces that had entered, were now dirty and rugged from two days of no shaving. Luther led as the other three followed. All had an angry look about them, they usually always did after fighting. They marched through the crowd, Luther snatching up a young man by the name of John in the grip of his huge golden gauntlet. "One would think if you had the brain to use magic, let alone the foul dark and forbidden arts of necromancy , you wouldn't be as stupid as to leave it with one's own name written in its foul pages!!" The man, scared, shaking his head and pleading for his life that it wasn't him. Luther scowled, "You were suspicious from the start. Now you'll answer and admit to everything. But rest assured , pain will be involved. Tie him up. Gag him so he can't curse us and let us be way from this place!" Luther pushed the man onto the ground, knocking the wind from him. Two of the paladins rushed over, doing as they were told. Gris walked up beside Luther, removing his helmet. His long blond hair fell to his shoulders, almost matching his golden armor, his white tabard gently ruffling in the light breeze. The man was nearing his 30's. Luther looked to him. "You did good, Champion. You always have. There isn't a paladin out there I wouldn't take over you." Gris grinned, slinging his mace over his shoulder. "11 years of service to the light and the Imperial fists. I shant have it any other way. But don't you go getting old on us young bloods and retiring. This world needs us and the light more than ever." The two paladins nodded and bumped gauntlets, making their way to the tavern.

Two figures, dressed in black robes stood on a hill over looking the town. Watching as the paladins emerged, then the crowd dispersing back to their homes.
"Well, looks like our fun is over. T'was a good thing we were given fair warning that they were coming. Gave us ample time to frame the village idiot. Oh well. Now that we know what we're capable of, we can move on to bigger and darker things. Oh, but don't worry, sis. The paladins will soon work for us. Though... they won't be aware of it but... I just hope they're...hungry." They both turned, leaving the village behind like a discarded toy.


***

The sun shone brightly on the cathedral of light. Gris emerged, now considered a veteran in his order. Now wearing a blue tinted armor with lots of gold trim, his shield strapped to his back, and his huge one-handed mace strapped to one side, a huge book hooked to a chain on the other. His tabard was also tinted blue with gold trim, a huge fist displayed in the middle of his chest. Two weeks had passed since the ordeal with the crypt, but it still weighed heavily on his mind. Shaking his head, he started to descend the stairs, making his way to the stables. He had been assigned on solo missions for now until called for something that required a team. The stable boy brought his horse and supplies for the trip as Gris reached the stable. Gris mounted the horse, giving it a kick in the side, sending it into a trot. As he rode through the city, people cheered, Gris could only nod. It wasn't becoming of a paladin to boast, he was just doing his duty. As he made his way out of the city, Gris paused at the crossroad. He looked off into the direction that would have taken him back to the town with the crypt.
"Why does this feeling that we missed something continue to hang over me?", Gris said to himself. He shook the thoughts away, turning his horse down the other path. Giving his horse another gentle kick, they trotted down the path. "Ayenee, huh? I feel as if I've heard that name before, though I've never been there. I know not what awaits me, but the Light will guide me."
 
Bemusedly Mithrandir watched as the man moved to the phantom waitress and took the coin from her. His eyes following the roll of her's made him smile there was true mirth between the two creator and created. It was impressive magic so many did magic just to accomplish a task not for the love of it, and yet here was a mage who truly seemed to love the life of it. The loud ding from the till forced him to snort with restrained laughter for a moment before he looked at the man as he espoused his happiness for the single coin.

His eyes sparkled with the quiet mirth as he turned his attention to the serving wench as she called her creator a child in a sweets shop before retorting to her “ Better a sweet shop than a sweat shop” As he heard the man speak his eyes flicked back towards him hovering over him as he moistened his lips “ She certainly is a sight and she radiates a mischievous amount of joy to the ambiance” He said as she cut through getting the goblet for his order.

As the goblet was filled and settled before him he reached towards it his fingers gentlely encircling the crystal stem and lifting the edge of the goblet to his lips as he watched Bronwyn's rolling hips and took a sip a breath after he whispered “wish fulfillment indeed” He barely got the first sweet sip of bloodwyne down his gullet as Daelan mentioned her sexual proclivities and sputtered a moment before arching a brow. The banter between them was smooth with no edges that seemed to indicate a preformed dialogue or act, it was too honest for anything along those lines but spectral beings were normally well restricted to less chatting and more doing with limited guidelines.

Mith had encountered spectral beings who could do more but most of them were beings who were created out of a living soul which often snuffed out the life it was born from. Taking a long sip as he contemplated the complexities of how the magic could be set this way without that idea Daelan's words pierced his thoughts, story, personality, more than was needed. It was a script but only her past was written in the lines of the spell and thus she adapted to the various references in her past story to determine function and reaction. It was masterful work and it allowed greater flexibility.

Watching the change of hair color and length to Bronwyn's appearance Mith shook his head as he listened to the musings of Daelan, a mild smirk upon his face, as he began his mental debate over preference of hair colors and the question left in the air “ Sometimes type has a point in the story as well though” He said before taking another sip of the bloodwyne and honestly focusing upon the taste as he noticed a minor hint of cinnamon to the after-notes.

As Daelan introduced himself directly Mith settled the goblet upon the shining bar-top and nodded approval towards Bronwyn impressed with her work. “ I did indeed note the name but was almost afraid it was a pet name of yours that Bronwyn had given you, I'm Mithrandir Olorii, but please call me Mith” He said with a kind genuine smile as he offered his right hand in a gesture of greeting. As he paid heed to the soft music normal tavern fair but it seemed to energize the place fill it with more than sound, but it seemed to lack any hostile or negative implications.
 
OOC Note: Josh you clearly are not paying attention to what is going on in this thread. Firstly there are other options than fight or die you may remember often reading .o0O(Iggy) if you used Cheeta Chat back in the old days of Ayenee on yahoo chat. Which is always an option to ignore characters or events that are either forced autos like your post or because of charaters who disregard the posts of other characters in the scene and just want to have a self aggrandizement fest all over the screen. Secondly T1 does not have any rules or guidelines that force either instant death or automatic hits upon players, all attacks are based upon acceptance of the player who is attacked not the attacker or aggressor. Thirdly I have read your post five times and each time it is more incomprehensible than the last. So lets see, you autoed the removal of vision and senses, but then in the same breath you insist laughter is heard, hearing is a sense, so is it lost or not? You mention color interfering with emotion and understanding so you autoed the ability of other characters to comprehend or have emotional reactions and then inverted the monochrome filter on the world ? So until you post something that is not an auto upon characters in the scene the entirety of the world/universe/multi-verse/omniverse I refuse to acknowledge your posts with in the game, as an admin however I will tell you to watch your spam postings, as you are able to edit and thus expand an earlier post instead of constantly adding one line posts to threads.
 
The grip that met Mith's outstretched hand was equal parts eager and proud. Here was a man who could clearly appreciate the Craft. Daelan gave a somewhat impish bow, with a sparking flourish common among caste Mages on several worlds he'd visited. The bow was a bit lopsided, as the conjurer was evidently favoring his left leg, but it was a respectful acknowledgement of a shared interest in the Arcane. He released the man's hand, betraying a fraction of a moment's embarrassment.

Bronwyn lost her near-constant state of amusement the instant Daelan wobbled, visibly halting herself mid-reach to aid him. Her instincts were clearly protective, hinting at a deeper purpose to her presence than simply to clean up and cook a nice stew. Her demeanor was in no way threatening, of course. Simply that a meaningful moment had clearly passed between master and manifestation. She glanced at the objects on the bartop with a worried look before settling in to the task of gathering onions and a kitchen knife at the board behind the bar, her glance returning to Daelan intermittently.

"Sweat shop! Ha! I like that. You seem a good sport, Mith. I believe I've actually heard that name before, though I don't recall if we've met directly," he narrowed his eyes at Mith, smiling a tight-lipped smile as though he'd be delighted to ask a million questions all at once, but clearly thought better of it. Instead, he just added, "Glad to have you here."

Daelan settled in beside Mith, staring thoughtfully at the wall of variously-colored bottles behind the bar. For the first time he acted his obvious age, elbows on the bar, a moment to crane his neck of tension, a thoughtful sniff as he stared intently into the eyes of Mith's reflection in the mirrored wall behind the bar.

Like a duck on a pond, the ginger mage looked calm enough, if a bit pensive. But to Mith --or any arcane caster worth the title, really-- it was obvious that some truly mighty duck-legs were churning, churning, churning beneath the surface. Waves of ambient arcane energies were flowing into Daelan's body like a river, invisible to the mundane eye, but to a caster it was like an intangible, rainbow-hued tidal wave pouring into the man. The spell that was being worked was clearly one of Divination. Daelan made no effort to hide it. In fact, the casting was done more in a way to indicate a polite nod toward the fellow mage, who was very obviously the intended target.

"Mithrandir Olorii, I'm gonna level with you. Partly because I have need of new friends here and partly because Fate is an old ally who has yet to screw me. And, partly, because the fact that you're even here --and a fellow sorcerer-- suggests to me that your strand may be as tied to this whole mess as mine is, though I hope for your sake the stakes are lower. So, with your permission, I'd like to ask you --with obvious magical insight applied-- are you a decent man? Honorable? Are you the sort an old spellslinger could trust on a quest? Real Big Bad kinda' stuff?"

Daelan's face was hopeful, possibly a little fearful, and as he was focusing on this new spell, the magic which had been supporting him rippled, revealing a vulnerability. Dark circles under his eyes, old scars and newer cuts both magical and mundane dotted cheek and hand. The lower half of his left leg --beginning at the knee-- was physically whole, but mystically withered. The outline of a black clawed hand scarred his left foot, encircling his ankle, drawing magic like a hand-sized leak in an otherwise excellent boat.

He gave a plaintive smile and nodded, recognizing the admission of his wounds. Bronwyn stood agape for along moment before fetching a tumbler and ice, pouring a scotch, and setting it in front of the gray-streaked ginger mage as he awaited his answer. The musicians had stopped playing. One was nervously clutching at a dagger hilt, a second was waving the first off in annoyance. The third just glared. A stable boy appeared at the door, hopeful, an angry looking smith at his back, hammer in soot-stained hand. All were specters, and each had the same signature style as Bronwyn's crafting. A little golden thread of the arcane woven through each, like a book with a single gilded page.

"Are you a good guy, Mith? 'Cause I could kinda' use a hand saving the world."
 
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The horse walked slowly down the path, open fields surrounding them. Like the sky above, Gris' mind was clear. His head turned side to side, keeping an eye of everything that went around around him. The day was a long one, the sun beating down on him and his armor. Hours past as he traveled. Stopping to give his horse time to rest here and there. As his journey continued, the path led him to a forest. "Finally, I shall get to ride in the shade."

Crossing the line between sun and shade, Gris gave a sigh of relief, welcoming it. The forest was thick, leaving not much to be seen past the trees that seem to guide the path where they wanted it to go. As he rode, he noticed a woman sitting on the side of the path. She was dressed in the normal "fashion" of the common town folk that surrounded the area. Bringing his horse to a halt by the woman once he was close enough, he looked down to her. "I'm a paladin of the Imperial Fists order, ma'am. Is there anything that I can assist you with?" The woman looked up with a dirty face, "Just some water, kind paladin." Gris unmounted his horse, then began digging into his horse's saddle bag. SNAP! Turning around quickly, hand on his mace, he saw two men stepping out from the woods, swords in hand. The woman had stood up, Gris never hearing her move. Laughing, she walked backwards, disappearing into the shadows of the trees.

"What a shaaaaame. And here we were hoping to slit your throat before you knew what was happening.", one of the men said as they finally stepped out onto the path. Gris gave a sigh, pulling his shield off his back, and pulling his mace from its side strap. He mumbled something under his breath, never taking his eyes off the two men. "Speak up, paladin. I'm starting to think you're getting scared." the two men began to laugh as the woman in the trees continued her hideous laughter.

"I said...Mistake. Now, my mace shall speak for me should you need another reply." Raising their swords, the two men rushed Gris. Raising his shield, Gris waited til the last moment to side step, forcing the men to have to climb over top of each other to continue their assault. Gris pushed his shield out, bashing the talkative bandit back into a stagger, causing the other bandit to stagger as well. Gris' other arm swung around, the mace coming around, connecting with face. Spit, blood, and teeth flew from the man's mouth, the side of his skull crushed in. He followed through with his swing, taking the man to the ground with it. Gris slowly looked over to the other bandit, their leader or one of them he assumed. "Now, who will laugh at your jokes?

Scowling for a bit, the bandit finally grinned. "I didn't intend for him to die. But sometimes plans don't always go as...planned... You didn't really think two of us could take on a paladin, did you?" Raising an eyebrow, Gris stared at the man. Then it hit him! The woman! She had stopped laughing. Spinning around was all it took for Gris to realize his error. The two bandits had kept his attention, the laughing to hide the sounds of foot steps. A huge man stood behind Gris, now in mid swing with a huge log towards his gut.

The sound of armor hitting earth filled the forest. Rolling and sliding across the path, Gris finally stopped, slowly getting to his hands and knees. The breath knocked from him. Lights and stars filled his head and not the ones he considered an ally. His helmet had fallen off at some point during the roll. "You idiot! You were suppose to knock his head off. How are we going to get full price for that armor if you go shittin' the whole thing up!" The big brute looked at the bandit all confused, then turned to walk towards Gris. "k i nok head off now." Finally, picking himself and his mace off the ground, Gris muttered a few words. His body was enveloped in a small, yellow glow. The pain was still there, but now he could fight.
"For whatever crimes you have committed. For whatever pain you have put innocent people through. And for the assault on a paladin of the Imperial Fists order..." Gris gritted his teeth, gripping the handle of his mace as tightly as he could, armor shifting as he got into a defensive stance. His mace giving off a yellow glow as he spoke, "Consider yourself judged."

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Weeks had passed since Gris left the forest on horseback. He continued his journey, helping out people as he went. The trip gave him no more hindrance, save for a few goblins and other nuisances that plagued the common folk. The trip had finally started to draw to an end. Tired eyes looked up at the board that read "Ayenee Tavern." The thought of hot food, hot bath, and a warm bed put his mind at ease finally. The tavern looked occupied but Gris hardly paid any attention to it as he dismounted his horse, tying it off to a post. He would get someone inside to see to the horse.

Walking in, finally taking everything into view. Gris dropped the the bag he was carrying, looking around every which way at what residents were occupying the tavern. Green eyes stopped on the two men at the bar. "In the name of the Light and everything that is Holy. What in the Light's name is going on?!"
 
Seeing the bow Mith knew of its implications and began to return the gesture in kind as he watched from under the hood of his brow seeing the movements falter slightly to Miths right. Seeing the minor falter Miths eyes were drawn down to Daelan's left leg searching for the cause of the stumble and moved to the claw mark upon the etheral body just blurred out of phase with the material. Licking his lips at the mark he looked to Bronwyn's change in demeanor before he could ask about the wound.

Mith took in the sudden look of pensivity upon Bronwynes face as she turned glancing almost directly upon the items he'd surveyed upon the tavern top but had given little direct interest in until this moment. The objects on their surface Mith had believed in his earlier assessment mentally were talismans inteded to help feed the spell the energies of the arcane to continue the temporal reinforcement and help fill out the phantasms ability to interact with mass. That however could not be all they were there had to be a more meaningful implication. Bronwyns look had given that much away. The mark upon Daelans leg on the other hand also showed something like the mark of a skreling or another denesine of the realm of the dead or at least the infernal realms. Such marks were at best taxing and at worst a beacon to things best thought of as tales ment to terrify children, and old men beside a nights fire.

His breif mental musings were swept back as Daelan spoke. " Well if we did meet I am remiss to admit I do not recall it before today, but perhaps in my younger and wilder days" He said with a hint of a smile as his arcane senses swirled around the clawmark attempting to gain knowledge of that which had caused the wound and if anything could be done for it immediatly. " It is an honor to be here, I must admit" He said looking back into the mirror and meeting Daelans eyes. The slow working that Mith was working on seemed to be sensing the pull of arcane energies pooling and flowing into Daelan's body but the intent was akward like running up a slide while wearing roller-skates. Divination was always a greater hassle than it paid out to be in Mith's estimation although it had its uses and perhaps Daelan was worried about the mark more than he'd said and was looking to see his own future depending upon the claws implications down a few roads if not all of them. At that moment the skates flew off sideways and Mith realized he was the intended target of the working, not hostile and not damaging more or less passive and nothing to worry about directly.

As Daelan spoke his full name as it was Miths head turned and looked towards the other mage facing him directly. Hearing the question he sort of chortled to himself as he pondered how to answer. "Daelan firstly if you have a need of friends call them as you would a friend as I said Mith will suffice, as to answer your question however I think you know as well as I any man claiming to be wholly a decent man is either selling something, stealing something or plowing your wife when your deep in your cups, but as for honorable I would say I believe I am, I always pay my debts and have yet to let a friend enter the pits of hell without aid." Then they hit the crux of the issue a quest against something truly nasty. Pondering Daelans statement he almost seemed to seize on the idea of taking to the road and traveling to realms he'd forgotten even existed once the fog had cleared so many years ago. Had he not been so lost in his thoughts for the moment taking some of the less traveled roads of his past recalling places he'd rather forget he'd have noticed and perhaps even prepared himself to fight the specters as they drew weapons but his mind wandered off down a road he'd rather forget and by the time he came back he could see the wounds upon the mage physically.

Taking a long breath in and exhaling it loudly as he looked at Daelan's withered appearance he shook his head slowly " You know I have played this card on so many young adventurers I hardly ever believed I'd be suckered into such a trial, but whats good for the goose is good for the gander so they say, but as for good same answer but I am willing to help those who need helping, so tell me what grabbed you, and what kinds of hell we are going to be dealing with" He said As he heard a bag slide down an arm and hit the floor before the exclaimation from the newly arrived paladin. With a small chuckle he looked over to Daelan with a almost child like glee sparkling in his eyes " You're up my friend" He said as he looked to Bronewyn and spoke " Could you bring me three cloves of Garlic, an iron nail, a sprig of rosemary and some cedar bark ? "
 
Bronwyn looked for a moment as if she would argue. She wanted to shout at Daelan, berate him for showing weakness to a stranger, for expending so much of his limited strength on useless old buildings and toys to be wielded by whom, exactly? And for how long? If Daelan died, she would as well, certainly. And no mistake about it, Daelan was dying.

Patiently, Daelan stared into her eyes as they shifted from shock to anger to fear. Catching his glare, she scowled and nodded at Mith. "Kitchen... I have garlic in the kitchen. And I think rosemary. Torrim, an iron nail. And Orr, there are some cedars behind the stables. Hop to."

The hammer-wielding wall of muscle at the door made a worried face, giving him a much kinder appearance than he'd had only a moment before, "Yes, Bron. One nail, right away," before slipping that big hammer into a loop at his side and plodding down the outside stairs past the newly-arrived Paladin. Torrim gave the armored man a glance, a passing once-over as a habitual assessment. His eyebrows lifted at the quality of armor and weapons, and he nodded briefly before trotting off toward his smithy.

The boy at the door, evidently Orr, gave the newcomer a smile and a nod, saying, "You'll help too, I hope. I'm off for cedar bark." For a child of twelve, maybe thirteen, the stable boy had remarkably old eyes. He sprinted off into the night.


Daelan was drawing a shining blue thread between two fists in the air, eyeing it from end to end, apparently checking for frays. It was a surprisingly long thread and changed colors many times as he pulled it from nothing and wound it around a hand, the thread fading off as he did so such that he never collected any bulk in his winding hand. "Too true," he said, smiling. "The part about none of us being all good. How boring would that be, anyway, right? Pardon the inspection," he added, lifting the thread. "I'm not prying, just checking for black spots. Black isn't evil, for the record. I mean, some of my best friends? Effin' EVIL. My own WIFE, technically very evil. No, I'm not too particular about all that. I'm looking for the dull bits. Parts that don't glow.... I've got a big one, and every so often more keep popping up. He nodded toward his wounded leg with the blackclaw scar hidden by his boot. To mundane eyes the boot hid all, but mystically the magic was drawn into the wound like an arcane heat-sink. "It's a curse, that mark. Shows up on my soul as a dull black patch that keeps spreading.

"But this? It's your thread, Mith. Well, a poor representation, anyway. Not, like, Your Soul Thread or anything. (I've seen that Loom. NOT to be trifled with, those Three, although the younger one, hoo! We had some fun, briefly, once upon a time...). This thread's not the ONE, but, you know, a visual," He shrugged, releasing the very long line back into the aether, evidently pleased with the results. "The good news is, you've not been touched by the man I hunt," Daelan nodded. He spared a glance at the man at the door before making a gesture and snatching a second thread from the air. This one was a darker blue overall, more navy, with many patches of intense color. A brief inspection showed no dull patches there, either.

"You'll have to pardon the impromptu check, but good news, you're clean as well! And you know, waste not, want not," Daelan shrugged, threads and magical auras all fading off around him. "It takes a lot to work a divining like that. More with my damn ball and chain hanging on," he gestured at his left ankle again. "Part of why I'm here. Ayenee has such tremendous amounts of ambient magic, just floating around. I figured, if nobody's using it, I might as well. Might give me a better shot at fighting the bastard I'm chasing." He rambled on, sitting comfortably atop his barstool, addressing Mith as well as the new Paladin at turns.


"As for the Light's name and goings-on, that's a little complicated, but the simple version is this: I'm looking for some non-cursed badasses to help me school a harbinger of certain doom on the general consensus of Creation that we'd much rather stay CREATED, thank you very much. I've made a few items of --and this is not to brag-- pretty sweet power," he gestured at the Coin, Cup, and Blade.

Bronwyn returned and placed garlic and Rosemary before Mith, as well as a plate to work atop and a bowl to contain things as Daelan continued,"Not the Scroll. That wasn't me, that was... somebody else." A look of regret passed his features briefly. Not profound sadness, but a vaguely confused, deep-rooted regret, then added, "But four specialized items to help things along. I just need people like yourselves to take them up and help me out, since I'm mostly certain I tried it once on my own and failed miserably. Thus the Curse of the Forgotten on the ol' ankle there. The Scroll explains things much more thoroughly," he looked at Mith as he said it. "You can each take two if you want to double up, but if anyone else joins the party it's only polite to share."

It was then that the stable boy Orr dashed in and deposited a ball of slowly-opening coiled red cedar bark and a square-edged smith's nail on the bar in front of Mith. The boy looked at the men in the room each in turn before mumbling, "Torrim says it's mostly iron. He's not sure if it's pure enough fer magics, but it draws a lodestone sure enough." The last part sounded like he was quoting the smith ver batim, probably rehearsed from one door to the other. He darted out of the bar like a mouse in a cat-kennel.

Daelan then picked up his slightly-watered down scotch clinking with ice in one hand, and with the other he used his worn old staff as a crutch to help situate himself better, turning to face the new Paladin. "Daelan Magan, by the way. Welcome to the Ayenee Tavern."

The musicians returned to their playing, and the pretty barkeep Bronwyn wiped up the condensation ring from where Daelan's glass had sat as he made spells from light and air.
 
Gris stared at the two men for a bit, his head turning back to back as he stared the two men down. "magic users!", he thought. Gris wasn't the most trusting of most magic users, any path of magic can take a man down to the necromancy side, he believed. He would stay alert, but for now the two didn't really seem to pose to any threat. He leaned over, picking his bag up and slinging it back over his shoulder, after taking his twitching fingers away from his mace. Walking over to the two men, he paid no attention to the other magic beings around him. Stopping in front of the men, they could tell he was still defensive with his position. Gris took his eyes from the two men, gazing over the items Daelan had mentioned, then back to the men.

"And you may call me Gris. Now speak and I will decide if I will aid thee or go alone to investigate things out myself."
 
As Bronwyn issued her orders Mith nodded towards her and even gave a kindly smile before turning his attention thread that Daelan was winding about his hand. A wry smile crossed Miths lips as he heard the requisition for forgiveness.” A man who asks for forgiveness over permission, I knew I liked the cut of your jib” He said before lifting the glass of bloodwyn back to his lips and taking a long drought from it before setting down the empty glass. His eyes flickered back and forth to Daelans leg and then to his eyes, holding a moment of each flick between to look into the mirror and watch the paladin.

As he listened to Daelan explain what he was looking for and the origin of the mark he narrowed his eyes in concentration attempting to think of what ind of curse would leave such a lingering mark. His eyes flickered towards the thread looking it over a moment as he relived each high and low point as his eyes skimmed the thread not in perfect clarity but like a half remembered tale told in a hurried fashion. His eyes traveled from his to the Paladins thread seeing the bright nature of it and smirked a moment. Tilting his face up a bit he sniffed the air slowly before turning around in his chair the smell of lingering undeath was potent upon the Paladin or was it simply his armor. The smell of undeath and horse lather made picking out the other scents in the immediate area impossible. Giving the scent idea up as a bad job, he heard Bronwyn return with the plate and herbs. “Thank you Bronwyn” He said calmly attention remaining upon Daelan and the Paladin as his left hand slipped into his pocket and pulled out a gold crown (coin) and set it on the counter behind him without looking to her.

As he cast his eyes towards Daelan he arched both of his brows “ The Curse of the Forgotten...I'm sorry what was the name again I seem to have forgotten it” He said briefly before looking serious again and turning looking at the Garlic and rosemary the cloves were almost perfect for what he needed the rosemary was good but not perfect, it would do though. Taking the cloves of garlic in hand he placed the garlic into the bowl and looked to The Paladin for a long moment as if doing mental calculations before sliding forward on his stool and slipping off the edge in a smooth transition from sitting to standing.

As he stood feeling his legs remembering gravity he smiled at the slow sensation of returning blood-flow to them. Just as his legs started to feeling the renewed life pumping into them Orr returned and dropped the nail and cedar back in a hurry and stammered out his message from the blacksmith. Twisting at the waist Mith reached back and picked up the nail and rosemary sprig before stepping forward his eyes moving to the paladins and locking upon them. As he heard Daelan properly welcome the Paladin he blinked a moment before he heard the Paladins brusque introduction and tone.

Mith looked at the paladin a moment before stepping forward towards him his eyes narrowed as he spoke “ Holy Warrior do you know how to use that mace you have there ? “ He said his tone sounding curious and almost threatening with just a hint of condescension. “If you do meet me outside” He said before moving towards the door. Miths walk and stance seemed to indicate almost complete and utter passivity and calm as he pushed upon the door the nail and rosemary clutched in his hand as he called back before the door closed “ Don't touch my garlic, or cedar, but another glass would be wel-” And the door shut cutting off his last word.
 
Mith rose and made his way toward the door, and Daelan spoke to Gris hurriedly.

"Fair enough," replied Daelan. "A bit difficult to explain --and more difficult still to prove-- the existence of something called The Forgotten. Essentially, it's a god of un-making, at least as near as I can tell. Much easier to prove the presence of the man known as the Hand. The Hand is the harbinger of this un-god. The Hand is intent --I believe-- on creating a way for the Forgotten to get here from its own dimension. An event which I believe would lead to the un-making of reality... In effect, every universe would cease to exist --to ever have existed, in fact. I believe the Hand is here in Ayenee specifically because it links to so many changing realities. Here, a breach would do the most damage."

Daelan carried on speaking as Bronwyn snapped up Mith's gold crown and --after a brief accusatory glance at the wizard-- slipped it into the till without nearly as excessive a ceremony as he had.


"I can present the evidence which has convinced me, though I admit it is thin and requires an advanced level of understanding of temporal dynamics to prove it. But all I can do is state my case and I suppose hope for the best.

"That said, some of it is fairly esoteric in nature," Daelan added. "Are you sensitive to matters arcane? Meaning, specifically, can you see astral or spiritual energies by your own means..? I can display them for you, but to be fair if you're not prepared to take my findings at face value I imagine any sort of display would be met with equal suspicion."


As he spoke, the gray-streaked Daelan rose and put on his coat, leaning on his tall staff of carved ash wood. Presuming Gris would meet the challenge of Mithrandir, and obviously curious to witness the abilities of each, Daelan made his way along Mith's path to the door and held it politely open for Gris. "I'll show you the Scroll once you and Mith here have settled... whatever it is you wish to settle. Gods know this place is no stranger to sport such as this, and I'll admit it's a fine way to get the old blood pumping!"
 
Gris kept his eyes moving back and forth between the two men, his lips never moving as he took everything in that was being spread out before him. His eyes cut over to Mith as he spoke, standing up,asking his question and moving towards the door. His green eyes cut to the nail on the bar. "I certainly did not bring it for that."

The door closed and Gris turned back to Daelan. Plate covered arms crossed over his chest, listening as he spoke. The hand? He had never heard of such a man. He had also never heard of a group calling themselves the forgotten. But truly if some evil were trying to breach this world, Gris certainly wouldn't allow it. "I have fought humans, undead, and other such vile things. But your words. They are new and I do not fully understand it all. But listening to you, I have sensed truth and conviction in your words. I will follow you and help aid you in stopping whatever menace would seek to do harm." Gris dropped his bag to the floor, turning and following Daelan to the door.

His armor clinked as he stepped outside into the night. Green eyes staring down Mith once he located him. Once again his arms crossed over his chest.
"Is there something out here that needs physical Justice or are you going to give me a reason to use this mace? My order and myself will not allow me to just go around swinging without just cause."
 
Mith looked up towards the door about six feet from the thresh-hold. Before him on the ground was a the nail standing on its point encircled with the rosemary as if it had been warped and twisted around the nail as a single thread. His eyes sparkling slightly as he watched Daelan open the door, holding it open for Gris. As he Heard Gris's question he stifled a soft chuckle before pulling a quick breath to help retain his composure. "Actually there is something here that requires faith based protection and a heavy hit from blessed iron, so to answer your questions yes and yes unless you are in the habit of causing curse marks to devour people when you are in a position to help" He said pointing towards the nail.

Daelan would be able to sense if not feel the strands of energy woven around the nail that seemed to go towards the sky and out into the lands beyond the tavern insubstantial as they were they were it would be clear their effects would be simplistically anchors to keep the nail from shattering or hit too hard into the ground that it would take hours of fingernail digging to retrieve it. At least this way he would resolve the possible imperfections of the iron without having to smelt them out or magically purify them from the iron which would make it even less ideal. The addition of the blessed weapon adding its magic to the rosemary would by and large also help unify the ingredients of his little spell.
 
Trotting down the steps, Daelan's attention was immediately drawn to the nail and the spellwork surrounding. His eyebrows lifted and he made a lop-sided grin at Mith. "Pretty little spell, that. Knocking the flaws out? I've tried similar approaches with people on occasion, but results vary."

He stepped aside to lean against the edge of the small porch where he could watch Gris do as he would. "Well," he added to the big fellow, chuckling. "Drop some physical justice for the man."
 
Gris looked over at the nail. Finally, he nodded and walked over to it, standing in front of it. "Many miles traveled to play carpenter." Unhooking his mace, Gris held it in front of himself, saying something in a whisper. The mace started to give a small yellow glow. Raising it, he brought it all the way down, hitting the nail as hard as he could. After delivering the blow, he stood up and took a few steps back, waiting to see what would happen.
 
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