R
red_dog
Guest
Please note that I did not intend this story to make focus pulling appear in any way interesting
The noonday sun beat down upon the Cliffs of Moher, and a gentle breeze carried the tang of salt water across the short, stubby grass covering the gentle slopes which rolled down to meet the more violent precipice that gave its name to the area. Birds sang, and the day was calm, the earlier rains having cleared away to leave a warm, sun-kissed day. There was, however, anything but a picture of calm surrounding events taking place on those broad fields that day.
Blood and sweat ran from the body of the aughisky in equal measure, an element of desperation entering into the horse-like beasts whinnys as it attempted to lay a blow on its opponent. Between its legs a far smaller figure ran, darting here and there as it struck with sharp nails at the underbelly of the aughisky. It had been a long battle, for the corpses of both a Cliff Dweller and a Greater Zephyr lay strewn upon the grass, their blood mingling with the soil of Hibernia, but still the underhill creature known as Celadon fought bravely on. Her friend and master, the elven enchanter Fernglade, stood a little way off, directing her movements, the wind catching his long hair and making it whip around his face. On another day Fernglade would have been fascinated by the play of the wind across the grass, for despite being of the sidhe, Fernglade had the heart of a poet and often regretted that he had not been born a celt, so that he might make poetry his profession. But on this day such thoughts were put to one side, the concentration on his face betokening his concern for little Celadon as she fought on against more powerful foes.
Suddenly, the aughisky reared up on its hind legs, and with deadly accuracy landed a great hoof square on Celadon's jaw. There was a spray of blood as the blow connected, and the sun caught the bright scales of the little underhill dwellers armour as the force of the strike spun her around. The damage done was great, and somewhere in its primal mind the aughisky began to think that this might be the turning point in the battle, and that it might yet emerge victorious. But as Celadon reeled from attack, she felt a great wave of warm, healing energy wash over her, as she had done many times already during this fight. With the glittering lights of the restoration magicks still glittering around her, the renewed Celadon leapt back into the fray, safe in the knowledge that a little distance away from the scene of the battle there stood one who, in tandem with her master, was dedicated to ensure her ongoing survival.
In red hauberk, sea-green greaves and helmet, a shield bearing the guild emblem of the Artisans of Willow at his wrist, Cian the Enduring One focused closely on the ensuing battle, his eyes narrowed as he watched for signs that Celadon's injuries did not become too grave. As she took a glancing blow from the aughisky's rear hoof, the hands of the celt warden began to make complicated passes in front of him. He drew on a lesser magick now, for the wound was not great, but nevertheless he channeled the healing power of nature through his own being and into that of the little figure not a hundred paces from where he stood.
For the past two days, following an abortive attempt by the Artisans to hunt in the Sheeroe Hills (sadly, the glimmerings had proven too much for them), Cian, Fernglade and Celadon had ranged across the Cliffs of Moher. At the bidding of the Druid Tobryn they had attempted to seal the Koalinth Caverns, but despite killing the leaders of the koalinth in their lair, they had failed to seal off that dank, watery place. They had therefore taken it upon themselves to rid the fields of Moher of those creatures that sought to waylay and murder travellers, and many a beast had fallen before them, but they did not think it too many. Long hours had they struggled, and many times had they come close to death, only to be saved by a last ditch strike or the final desperate discharge of the last drop of mana.
Celadon leapt forward again, empowered by Cian's healing aid, and the aughisky began to whinny in an even more desperate manner. Sensing the end was near, Fernglade rushed forward in an attempt to finish off the beast with a blast of magic or, if need be, a blow from his staff. Seeing that Celadon's health was such that the aughisky could never hope to kill its little assailant before it was itself despatched, Cian also surged forward, pulling his shield more firmly onto his arm and drawing from his belt the weapon known as the Pestilence Sickle, which he and Guilin Sunstone had wrenched from the dead hands of the Spectral Whickerman called Withe some days previously. But before either he or Fernglade could engage with the aughisty, Celadon dealt the killing blow, and with a final shrieking cry the creature reared up onto its hind legs before falling dead to the ground. In that moment, Cian realised that the hard battles of the last few days had not been in vain, for he now felt that his level of training was such that he could return to his trainer in Mag Mell and be inducted into the next rank of the Path of Focus as a warden.
As Cian joined his two companions over the still warm bodies of their foes, Fernglade was affectionately patting his tiny friend on the head. "Well done Celadon", he said, "that was a good battle", as the underhill creature looked up into her master's eyes with pride, knowing that she had served him well. "Aye, well done indeed, little one", said Cian, bowing low, "your tiny stature belies the power at your command". Fernglade turned his eyes towards the Enduring One, and smiled as he said, "And well done to you, Cian, for I believe that you have achieved your thirtieth season."
"That I have, Master Fernglade, after a long and arduous journey", replied Cian with a grin, "and I am indebted to you for the part you played in helping me achieve it, for the part both of you played." And so saying Cian clapped Celadon on the shoulder by way of gratitude, whilst Celadon, for her part, said nothing (as is her way), but only smiled sweetly and kept her own counsel.*
Suddenly, Fernglade ran off across the wide grassy field, Celadon in close pursuit. "Now then, let us see if your training will enable you to unleash the power of that farm implement you wield!" he said with a laugh, looking over his shoulder and pointing at the Pestilence Sickle that Cian still held in his right hand. The Enduring One quickly roused himself and started into a run, and following in the enchanter's footsteps saw that he and Celadon were rapidly gaining ground on a single Mist Wraith that stood near the line of trees marking the boundary of the town of Tir Uphost. Sending Celadon ahead to engage the beast, Fernglade turned back to call to the rapidly closing Cian. "Engage the Wraith, my friend, and let us see what you can get from your weapon!" Indeed, Cian had heard that the Pestilence Sickle contained within it some magical power when used in combat, but so far he had not been of a sufficient season to draw this power forth. Following Celadon into the fray, he swung the Sickle high above his head, and began to rain blows down upon the unfortunate Wraith.
Although strong, the Mist Wraith was proving to be no match for Cian and Celadon. But every blow from the Enduring One that pierced the creatures defences seemed to Cian to be like the many others that he had inflicted since he had found the blade. Finally, the Wraith seemed near death, and Cian's pleasure at finally gaining his thirtieth season was tempered somewhat by the disappointment that he was unable to awaken the dormant power of his new weapon. Suddenly, just as the battle was nearing its end, Cian struck the Wraith a firm blow to the body, and a great blast of black energy erupted from the Sickle, burning the near incorporeal body of the Wraith with a fathomless cold. The beast roared in pain and surprise, for what should have been a blow that would not, as yet, finish it off, had been transformed into a strike that robbed it of its very life, there and then. It fell to the floor immediately, leaving Cian looking a little surprised himself, as he looked down at the weapon in his hands. The clamour of battle over, the awe in Cian's voice could be heard as he said, "By the gods! I never thought I held such destructive powers in my hand..."
There was a loud laugh, followed by a shout of victory, as Fernglade held his arms aloft and shook his staff above his head. "Slow to anger, but deadly in his strike, the Enduring One reaches his thirtieth season!!! Tremble before him, foes of Hibernia! You wield the power of the freezing void in that curved blade, my friend, which given the nature of both yours and Guilin's...backgrounds, seems quite appropriate!" Then came an even louder laugh as the elven enchanter sped off in the direction of Tir Uphost, Celadon following dutifully in his wake. Cian could not help but smile at his friend's gentle mocking, even as he wondered at the forces contained within the weapon he now carried, but now was not the time to ponder such things. With his own laughter mingling with that of Fernglade's as it rang out across the quiet fields of Moher, Cian the Enduring One, Prism of Souls, warden of thirty seasons, set out at a run in pursuit of his friend, their figures getting smaller and smaller as they gained the horizon, until eventually they were gone from view, the past no longer their concern as they grasped the future with both hands...
And a reply by Fernglade
The Tavern was darker then usual, not surprising given the late hour. The logs in the firepit had burnt low causing most of the room to be wrapped in shadows.
Most of the Artisans that resided there had returned to their rooms, but one dressed in red and green armour remained, dozing in one of the shadowed alcoves after a hard days adventuring.
The patter of small feet could be heard decending the stairs, then approaching the sleeping figure, as with a quiet chuckle it dropped a piece of patchment onto the celts lap before retreating back upstairs.
On the parchment in a strong elven script was written the following.
'My little tale begins as such/ Upon the Cliffs of Moher.
Where wraiths and horses live up high/ Dwellers and sherrie live much lower.
So it was in this grand place/ Where the land doth meet the sea.
That three adventurers made their mark/ And caused their foe to flee.
The Koalinth had been defeated/ But their cave could not be sealed.
They hid from the elf with magic/ And the celt whose power healed.
So it was that battles raged/ Upon the clifftop bare.
The creatures were all vanquished/ Be they dweller, zephyr or mare.
The futures bright, as in new light/ Chaos succumbs to reason.
Raise a glass and be safe at heart/ And celebrate Cian's new season.'
The noonday sun beat down upon the Cliffs of Moher, and a gentle breeze carried the tang of salt water across the short, stubby grass covering the gentle slopes which rolled down to meet the more violent precipice that gave its name to the area. Birds sang, and the day was calm, the earlier rains having cleared away to leave a warm, sun-kissed day. There was, however, anything but a picture of calm surrounding events taking place on those broad fields that day.
Blood and sweat ran from the body of the aughisky in equal measure, an element of desperation entering into the horse-like beasts whinnys as it attempted to lay a blow on its opponent. Between its legs a far smaller figure ran, darting here and there as it struck with sharp nails at the underbelly of the aughisky. It had been a long battle, for the corpses of both a Cliff Dweller and a Greater Zephyr lay strewn upon the grass, their blood mingling with the soil of Hibernia, but still the underhill creature known as Celadon fought bravely on. Her friend and master, the elven enchanter Fernglade, stood a little way off, directing her movements, the wind catching his long hair and making it whip around his face. On another day Fernglade would have been fascinated by the play of the wind across the grass, for despite being of the sidhe, Fernglade had the heart of a poet and often regretted that he had not been born a celt, so that he might make poetry his profession. But on this day such thoughts were put to one side, the concentration on his face betokening his concern for little Celadon as she fought on against more powerful foes.
Suddenly, the aughisky reared up on its hind legs, and with deadly accuracy landed a great hoof square on Celadon's jaw. There was a spray of blood as the blow connected, and the sun caught the bright scales of the little underhill dwellers armour as the force of the strike spun her around. The damage done was great, and somewhere in its primal mind the aughisky began to think that this might be the turning point in the battle, and that it might yet emerge victorious. But as Celadon reeled from attack, she felt a great wave of warm, healing energy wash over her, as she had done many times already during this fight. With the glittering lights of the restoration magicks still glittering around her, the renewed Celadon leapt back into the fray, safe in the knowledge that a little distance away from the scene of the battle there stood one who, in tandem with her master, was dedicated to ensure her ongoing survival.
In red hauberk, sea-green greaves and helmet, a shield bearing the guild emblem of the Artisans of Willow at his wrist, Cian the Enduring One focused closely on the ensuing battle, his eyes narrowed as he watched for signs that Celadon's injuries did not become too grave. As she took a glancing blow from the aughisky's rear hoof, the hands of the celt warden began to make complicated passes in front of him. He drew on a lesser magick now, for the wound was not great, but nevertheless he channeled the healing power of nature through his own being and into that of the little figure not a hundred paces from where he stood.
For the past two days, following an abortive attempt by the Artisans to hunt in the Sheeroe Hills (sadly, the glimmerings had proven too much for them), Cian, Fernglade and Celadon had ranged across the Cliffs of Moher. At the bidding of the Druid Tobryn they had attempted to seal the Koalinth Caverns, but despite killing the leaders of the koalinth in their lair, they had failed to seal off that dank, watery place. They had therefore taken it upon themselves to rid the fields of Moher of those creatures that sought to waylay and murder travellers, and many a beast had fallen before them, but they did not think it too many. Long hours had they struggled, and many times had they come close to death, only to be saved by a last ditch strike or the final desperate discharge of the last drop of mana.
Celadon leapt forward again, empowered by Cian's healing aid, and the aughisky began to whinny in an even more desperate manner. Sensing the end was near, Fernglade rushed forward in an attempt to finish off the beast with a blast of magic or, if need be, a blow from his staff. Seeing that Celadon's health was such that the aughisky could never hope to kill its little assailant before it was itself despatched, Cian also surged forward, pulling his shield more firmly onto his arm and drawing from his belt the weapon known as the Pestilence Sickle, which he and Guilin Sunstone had wrenched from the dead hands of the Spectral Whickerman called Withe some days previously. But before either he or Fernglade could engage with the aughisty, Celadon dealt the killing blow, and with a final shrieking cry the creature reared up onto its hind legs before falling dead to the ground. In that moment, Cian realised that the hard battles of the last few days had not been in vain, for he now felt that his level of training was such that he could return to his trainer in Mag Mell and be inducted into the next rank of the Path of Focus as a warden.
As Cian joined his two companions over the still warm bodies of their foes, Fernglade was affectionately patting his tiny friend on the head. "Well done Celadon", he said, "that was a good battle", as the underhill creature looked up into her master's eyes with pride, knowing that she had served him well. "Aye, well done indeed, little one", said Cian, bowing low, "your tiny stature belies the power at your command". Fernglade turned his eyes towards the Enduring One, and smiled as he said, "And well done to you, Cian, for I believe that you have achieved your thirtieth season."
"That I have, Master Fernglade, after a long and arduous journey", replied Cian with a grin, "and I am indebted to you for the part you played in helping me achieve it, for the part both of you played." And so saying Cian clapped Celadon on the shoulder by way of gratitude, whilst Celadon, for her part, said nothing (as is her way), but only smiled sweetly and kept her own counsel.*
Suddenly, Fernglade ran off across the wide grassy field, Celadon in close pursuit. "Now then, let us see if your training will enable you to unleash the power of that farm implement you wield!" he said with a laugh, looking over his shoulder and pointing at the Pestilence Sickle that Cian still held in his right hand. The Enduring One quickly roused himself and started into a run, and following in the enchanter's footsteps saw that he and Celadon were rapidly gaining ground on a single Mist Wraith that stood near the line of trees marking the boundary of the town of Tir Uphost. Sending Celadon ahead to engage the beast, Fernglade turned back to call to the rapidly closing Cian. "Engage the Wraith, my friend, and let us see what you can get from your weapon!" Indeed, Cian had heard that the Pestilence Sickle contained within it some magical power when used in combat, but so far he had not been of a sufficient season to draw this power forth. Following Celadon into the fray, he swung the Sickle high above his head, and began to rain blows down upon the unfortunate Wraith.
Although strong, the Mist Wraith was proving to be no match for Cian and Celadon. But every blow from the Enduring One that pierced the creatures defences seemed to Cian to be like the many others that he had inflicted since he had found the blade. Finally, the Wraith seemed near death, and Cian's pleasure at finally gaining his thirtieth season was tempered somewhat by the disappointment that he was unable to awaken the dormant power of his new weapon. Suddenly, just as the battle was nearing its end, Cian struck the Wraith a firm blow to the body, and a great blast of black energy erupted from the Sickle, burning the near incorporeal body of the Wraith with a fathomless cold. The beast roared in pain and surprise, for what should have been a blow that would not, as yet, finish it off, had been transformed into a strike that robbed it of its very life, there and then. It fell to the floor immediately, leaving Cian looking a little surprised himself, as he looked down at the weapon in his hands. The clamour of battle over, the awe in Cian's voice could be heard as he said, "By the gods! I never thought I held such destructive powers in my hand..."
There was a loud laugh, followed by a shout of victory, as Fernglade held his arms aloft and shook his staff above his head. "Slow to anger, but deadly in his strike, the Enduring One reaches his thirtieth season!!! Tremble before him, foes of Hibernia! You wield the power of the freezing void in that curved blade, my friend, which given the nature of both yours and Guilin's...backgrounds, seems quite appropriate!" Then came an even louder laugh as the elven enchanter sped off in the direction of Tir Uphost, Celadon following dutifully in his wake. Cian could not help but smile at his friend's gentle mocking, even as he wondered at the forces contained within the weapon he now carried, but now was not the time to ponder such things. With his own laughter mingling with that of Fernglade's as it rang out across the quiet fields of Moher, Cian the Enduring One, Prism of Souls, warden of thirty seasons, set out at a run in pursuit of his friend, their figures getting smaller and smaller as they gained the horizon, until eventually they were gone from view, the past no longer their concern as they grasped the future with both hands...
And a reply by Fernglade
The Tavern was darker then usual, not surprising given the late hour. The logs in the firepit had burnt low causing most of the room to be wrapped in shadows.
Most of the Artisans that resided there had returned to their rooms, but one dressed in red and green armour remained, dozing in one of the shadowed alcoves after a hard days adventuring.
The patter of small feet could be heard decending the stairs, then approaching the sleeping figure, as with a quiet chuckle it dropped a piece of patchment onto the celts lap before retreating back upstairs.
On the parchment in a strong elven script was written the following.
'My little tale begins as such/ Upon the Cliffs of Moher.
Where wraiths and horses live up high/ Dwellers and sherrie live much lower.
So it was in this grand place/ Where the land doth meet the sea.
That three adventurers made their mark/ And caused their foe to flee.
The Koalinth had been defeated/ But their cave could not be sealed.
They hid from the elf with magic/ And the celt whose power healed.
So it was that battles raged/ Upon the clifftop bare.
The creatures were all vanquished/ Be they dweller, zephyr or mare.
The futures bright, as in new light/ Chaos succumbs to reason.
Raise a glass and be safe at heart/ And celebrate Cian's new season.'