Post by Greco on Aug 8, 2004 5:35:27 GMT -5
(Didn't know how to start the thread, forgive me if it seems a bit weird. And be prepared for a story because its quite lengthy. If you find it confusing at points, post it, because I write this at 3:30 in the morning 
)
Before the cleric stands a shifty looking youth, amorphous figured wrapped loosely in an untailored, midnight black cloak. Against its flawlessly shadowed surface is sewn a series of intricately woven floral designs, each a pure shade of crimson. From beneath the flowing sleeves protrude a set of battlescarred forearms, each nearly as dark as the cloak which adorned them. Over the scar tissue is tattoed a series of geometric angelic symbols, in a hue identical to that of the floral designs upon the cloak. Within the darkness provided by the hood of the cloak glares a set of untainted grey eyes, each void of all color and emotion. Though the pigment is startling, what seperates this black man from the countless others of the realm is the dark aura he projects. The silent, solemn nature with which he carries himself only adds to the prepetual sense of shadow that stalks this man from place to place. From the interior of the deep black hood, a soft, harmonious voice breathes a musical mantra of words in a fluent form of jibbrish. "Kah, sallomon, ninjomo, nangraneem."
The man approached the clerk, tattered black cloak ineffectively covering his amorphous figure.
"Yaweah, clerk." he breathed between split, coal-colored lips, blood trickling from between them as he spoke. "I have a storeh for yer. Sit an' read." He presented the clerk with a crimson-spattered scroll, toothless smile spreading across his shadow-lined face.
Intrigued, the clerk looked up from his work, and , setting it aside, began to read the lengthy bit of parchment.
"From the remains of the decimated city emerged an adolescent youth, astonishingly grey oculars lingering on the overhead moon. 'It must have been so..' he said to himself, midnight black, untidily cut locks fluttering onto his face. He sat atop a smoldering rock, wiping away the dark vitae that dripped from his battlestaff.
You see, the boy sat within the wreckage of the great city of MorDent-Shi're, a blossoming tradetown just south of the region of Qeynos. The city itself, though located near the proud and most holy city, was corrupt. Its ruler, secretively dubbed "Annihilate", was quite a disturbed individual. He sought nothing other than bloodshed, worked for nothing greater than war. But, this here story is not about the debauched ruler of MorDent-Shi're, but about his progeny. You see, Annihilate bore two great sons. His eldest was called Dursith, and the youngest, Greco. Dursith was raised in his fathers image, and was the epitome of the phrase "evil genius". Skilled in all forms of magic, he took hold of the armies of MorDent-Shi're with ease following the passing of Annihilate.
Greco, however, was not raised in his father's image; on the contrary, he was oucasted at birth, and was raised in seclusion by Mu Nan. Greco was unmatched in his skill with a long staff; indeed, he had bested the greatest monks in his temple by the ripe age of 13. At the age of 15 he was released to wander Tunaria, believed to be wise and skilled enough to survive in this time of evil.
As chance would have it, Greco would wander south at the start of his journey. He came upon the nation of MorDent-Shi're, and at once was aware of its dark heart. Returning to Mu Nan, he told what he had seen. Mu Nan, realizing the boy's potential, confessed the truth of his lineage and the history of his birthplace.
Greco. stunned by this revelation, would keep his intentions secret. He continued to wander Tunaria in search of knowledge. His name was widespread, and by his 17th birthday he was known to the world as "Greco the Heavyhand". He'd become quite adept with magic, and coupled with his flawless performace with the long staff, he was a nearly invincible warrior.
Without warning, he unleashed a great storm upon the lands of MorDent-Shi'Re. Great balls of fire fell from the sky, throwing the country into disarray. Its townspeople fled further south, leaving the great city void of all normal life. Greco breached the town in the wake of the storm, approaching the castle with dexterity and agility akin to tigers and jaguars.
Dursith, employing his own brand of sorcery, became aware of his long lost brother and the havoc he'd rained upon the city. He armed himself with the strongest magic he possessed, and left the castle to confront his new-found enemy.
Wordlessly, a fierce battle begun. Great torrents of water washed across the land, the elements called forth and breaking the very foundation from which they were born. The struggle raged for days, and in the end, it was Dursith who lay slain at the feet of his kinsman. Sobbing quietly, Greco turned his back to the enkindled corpse. Amidst the charred, smoking ruins, he raised his head, and stared at the moon."
Stunned and speechless, the clerk exhaled. "Well, tha--Huh?" He lifted his head, only to find that the man had vanished.
(I usually play "Greco" or "Annihilate" from 6-9 on weekdays, rarely on weekends.)
)Before the cleric stands a shifty looking youth, amorphous figured wrapped loosely in an untailored, midnight black cloak. Against its flawlessly shadowed surface is sewn a series of intricately woven floral designs, each a pure shade of crimson. From beneath the flowing sleeves protrude a set of battlescarred forearms, each nearly as dark as the cloak which adorned them. Over the scar tissue is tattoed a series of geometric angelic symbols, in a hue identical to that of the floral designs upon the cloak. Within the darkness provided by the hood of the cloak glares a set of untainted grey eyes, each void of all color and emotion. Though the pigment is startling, what seperates this black man from the countless others of the realm is the dark aura he projects. The silent, solemn nature with which he carries himself only adds to the prepetual sense of shadow that stalks this man from place to place. From the interior of the deep black hood, a soft, harmonious voice breathes a musical mantra of words in a fluent form of jibbrish. "Kah, sallomon, ninjomo, nangraneem."
The man approached the clerk, tattered black cloak ineffectively covering his amorphous figure.
"Yaweah, clerk." he breathed between split, coal-colored lips, blood trickling from between them as he spoke. "I have a storeh for yer. Sit an' read." He presented the clerk with a crimson-spattered scroll, toothless smile spreading across his shadow-lined face.
Intrigued, the clerk looked up from his work, and , setting it aside, began to read the lengthy bit of parchment.
"From the remains of the decimated city emerged an adolescent youth, astonishingly grey oculars lingering on the overhead moon. 'It must have been so..' he said to himself, midnight black, untidily cut locks fluttering onto his face. He sat atop a smoldering rock, wiping away the dark vitae that dripped from his battlestaff.
You see, the boy sat within the wreckage of the great city of MorDent-Shi're, a blossoming tradetown just south of the region of Qeynos. The city itself, though located near the proud and most holy city, was corrupt. Its ruler, secretively dubbed "Annihilate", was quite a disturbed individual. He sought nothing other than bloodshed, worked for nothing greater than war. But, this here story is not about the debauched ruler of MorDent-Shi're, but about his progeny. You see, Annihilate bore two great sons. His eldest was called Dursith, and the youngest, Greco. Dursith was raised in his fathers image, and was the epitome of the phrase "evil genius". Skilled in all forms of magic, he took hold of the armies of MorDent-Shi're with ease following the passing of Annihilate.
Greco, however, was not raised in his father's image; on the contrary, he was oucasted at birth, and was raised in seclusion by Mu Nan. Greco was unmatched in his skill with a long staff; indeed, he had bested the greatest monks in his temple by the ripe age of 13. At the age of 15 he was released to wander Tunaria, believed to be wise and skilled enough to survive in this time of evil.
As chance would have it, Greco would wander south at the start of his journey. He came upon the nation of MorDent-Shi're, and at once was aware of its dark heart. Returning to Mu Nan, he told what he had seen. Mu Nan, realizing the boy's potential, confessed the truth of his lineage and the history of his birthplace.
Greco. stunned by this revelation, would keep his intentions secret. He continued to wander Tunaria in search of knowledge. His name was widespread, and by his 17th birthday he was known to the world as "Greco the Heavyhand". He'd become quite adept with magic, and coupled with his flawless performace with the long staff, he was a nearly invincible warrior.
Without warning, he unleashed a great storm upon the lands of MorDent-Shi'Re. Great balls of fire fell from the sky, throwing the country into disarray. Its townspeople fled further south, leaving the great city void of all normal life. Greco breached the town in the wake of the storm, approaching the castle with dexterity and agility akin to tigers and jaguars.
Dursith, employing his own brand of sorcery, became aware of his long lost brother and the havoc he'd rained upon the city. He armed himself with the strongest magic he possessed, and left the castle to confront his new-found enemy.
Wordlessly, a fierce battle begun. Great torrents of water washed across the land, the elements called forth and breaking the very foundation from which they were born. The struggle raged for days, and in the end, it was Dursith who lay slain at the feet of his kinsman. Sobbing quietly, Greco turned his back to the enkindled corpse. Amidst the charred, smoking ruins, he raised his head, and stared at the moon."
Stunned and speechless, the clerk exhaled. "Well, tha--Huh?" He lifted his head, only to find that the man had vanished.
(I usually play "Greco" or "Annihilate" from 6-9 on weekdays, rarely on weekends.)
