O
old.SadonTheGrey
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Sitting in the corner of Ye Stone, Gelid observed Shaeffer's dancing with the young minstrel with a distinct lack of approval. Gelid had never particularly understood the drunken revlries of the rets of the realm, let alone their actions whilst sober. His eyes flicked unseen from the ridiculous sight to the table where Shaeffer was sat but a few minutes ago talking in a hushed town with the cunning but brutal saracen, Corranhorn. Three empty pint mugs sat in front of the mercenary master as he sipped from the fourth, his eyes staring into the wooden mug asif it revealed to him the secret of life. Or not, thought Gelid whilst taking a sip of his own steaming herbal infusion.
Both Corranhorn and Shaeffer, like the rest of Albion were caught up in their respective wars. Corranhorn, one of the higher ranking field commanders of the Guardian's of Power was a bastion of faith in the defence of the vast expanses of land outlying Hadrian's Walls. Veteran of battles both there and in the bitter lands of Odin's Gate, he was a seasoned and contented man. He enjoyed his war because he could see his war. Shaeffer, on the other hand, self proclaimed Prince of the Shadowed night and womaniser extra-ordinaire, fought the shadowed war. to him, milegates were like the seedy backstreet brothels of Camelot; the enemy, the foul creatures of the night and shademasters would end up there, the shadowed war in the frontier and in the vast dungeons which crisscrossed the realms.
Sighing, Gelid felt a sudden chill as his mind wandered to past events that seemed like only yesterday. Taking a handful of his jet black silk robes which draped down onto the harsh stone floor of the pub, he threw it over his lap in an attempt to combat the ethereal frost with the fragility of the physical barrier. The flash of a memory restablished itself in his mind. The war beyond, the war that could not be fought with physical weapons. That which is fought in the vast chambers of the academy, the druid cirlces in the extensive glades in the realm of forests and grass; and of the caves, the labarynthine passageways and crumbling temples of Midgard, the land of ice.
Gelid instantly recognised his situation . He was in a chamber. Semicircular and with walls of deep black marble the only light was from the few torchlights which adorned the patterned wall. Covered in heiroglyphics written in gold and inset with lumincescent stones of power, this was the room were the real defence of Albion takes place; at least in the opinion of Gelid and those of his order. Deld, fellow sage and scholar of the jet black globe which stood innocently upon its dias in the centre of the chamber, had urged Gelid to come presently to the great hall. The air was thick with elemental power. Gelid felt it surging through him, to all ends of his fragile body from his bony fingers to his lithe toes and back up again as it caressed his straggling white hair. Clutching his gnarled staff with evident discomfort he knew the reason why Deld had summoned him forth before the wizard's desperate news had shambled from his cracked mouth. Corranhorn, quite content in his watering hole in the current time, had not always been so confident in the defence of Hadrian's Wall. When the mighty gates of Benowyc had been smitten asunder by the forces of Midgard, guided by the infamous and profoundly disturbed spiritmaster, Roo and his vindictive counterpart of similarly questionable sanity, Nicodemus, the defence of realm had reached its final resort. Gelid and Deld, as the only mages of sufficient sagacity and experience had been called upon to hold open the portal to Dakrness Falls for as long as possible, such that the hundreds of Albion men and women might escape the viscious hordes of Midgard as they trampled their way through the titanic dungeon.
Taking a deep breath, Gelid glanced at Deld. Like Gelid, Deld had abandoned any nonsensical attempts to clad himself sociably. The wizards were called upon all too often to war, and with their age it was becoming somewhat difficult to change robes. Thus, both were clad in their battle garments; bot jet black and ensorcled with an intricate pattern of runes and in-set stones of power. Dropping his staff to the floor, Gelid placed his sinous hands upon the orb in the centre of the stone whilst Deld took a great mamoth of a book from below the orb's dias and opened it.
"Este scris putere este, dreptul popuril meu de a conduce!" commanced in a deep and booming voice. The ancient inscription could not be read in common tongue, at least, the introduction. As the wizards expected the jet black which covered the arcane globe began to disipate as thunderous bolts lashed its inner wall, whipping and striking the crystal like the tail of Golestandt. It began to hum asif it were spinning. The walls were humming. Gelid peered into the sphere with an unfaltering gaze, his eyes changing from an aged grey to complete black as the power of the orb pulsed through him. His breaths became deeper and more frequent. He tightened his grip on the orb as the untamed energies lashed and thrashed about its surface. Chanting, now in common speach Deld remained calm and composed, his voice now booming and fighting with the faster, more intense humming. Gelid's grasp on the orb tightened further. Deld's voice rose in volume and became deeper still.
Rising above the cacophonous humming, Deld shrieked "Spirits of the interregnum, I invoke thee!" The calamatous humming was now a gigantic groaning as the thunder thrashed and twisted with greater speed and intensity as it struggled with Deld's arcane words. deld wanted to drop the book and clasp his ears but he could not. Gelid gripped the stone further as it began to rejeect his hands. Pushing and writhing he too struggled against the arcane energies and fought temptation. the pain became unbearable, the stupendous groaning became a shriek. It's pitching hightened, piercing. Both wizard's cringed. Deld struggled to continue the chant. Gelid fought the storm. The thrumming grew further, it was out of control. The power within the sphere thrashed, splashing and striking upon the inner walls of the orb. A dart rushed out and struck one of the heiroglyphs on the wall. The symbol disappeared in a cloud of smoke and rock black marble flew in all directions. Both men fell.
The torches went out. Silence. Gelid peered into the sphere. A face. Deld was still struggling on the floor. Gelid couldn't look away from the face. It was strangely beautiful. White, marble like skin stretched across it. Upon its forehead was a black circlet inset with a deep, red gem in its centre. Lacking hair the head was largely bald save for a few rogue strands of dark hair. Dark, almost blue lips grinned maniacally back at Gelid and the deep, grey eyes stared him. Gelid couldn't blink. The face faded. Darkness Falls. A series of images flashed in the sphere. A portal collapsed. Two apprentice sorcerers chanted unavailingly at the closed gate. Gelid heard them, and pities them. Another flash; the Midgard gate. Dead britons, highlanders. A chain clad cleric lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, yelling defiantly at the trolls as they barged forward. Blood trickled from his mouth. the bodies of the fallen littered the floor as Gelid beheld a wider view of the Midgard gate. Young 'prentices fled from the prevailing horde of trolls and dwarves, the heavy thuds of their bulbous feet reverberating round the cavernous dungeon and mingling with the screams of the fallen. The face again. It was Roo. Darkness. Gelid and Deld had failed.
Gelid looked up. He watched a barmaid entice another young infiltrator. He followed her up stairs. Corranhorn was gone; all that was left of him were the twelve empty pint glasses as they festered upon the otherwise empty table. A bestial yell. Gelid looked to the left and saw a flash of silver as Shaeffer danced a different dance, and the great bull of a man fell to the feet of the Prince. Gelid looked back into his mug. The concotion was cold. He took a swig anyway, slowly stood up, and hobbled back to his chamber; hoping that the random vision was not a sign that he would be called to perform the ritiual once more when he returned to the academy.
Both Corranhorn and Shaeffer, like the rest of Albion were caught up in their respective wars. Corranhorn, one of the higher ranking field commanders of the Guardian's of Power was a bastion of faith in the defence of the vast expanses of land outlying Hadrian's Walls. Veteran of battles both there and in the bitter lands of Odin's Gate, he was a seasoned and contented man. He enjoyed his war because he could see his war. Shaeffer, on the other hand, self proclaimed Prince of the Shadowed night and womaniser extra-ordinaire, fought the shadowed war. to him, milegates were like the seedy backstreet brothels of Camelot; the enemy, the foul creatures of the night and shademasters would end up there, the shadowed war in the frontier and in the vast dungeons which crisscrossed the realms.
Sighing, Gelid felt a sudden chill as his mind wandered to past events that seemed like only yesterday. Taking a handful of his jet black silk robes which draped down onto the harsh stone floor of the pub, he threw it over his lap in an attempt to combat the ethereal frost with the fragility of the physical barrier. The flash of a memory restablished itself in his mind. The war beyond, the war that could not be fought with physical weapons. That which is fought in the vast chambers of the academy, the druid cirlces in the extensive glades in the realm of forests and grass; and of the caves, the labarynthine passageways and crumbling temples of Midgard, the land of ice.
Gelid instantly recognised his situation . He was in a chamber. Semicircular and with walls of deep black marble the only light was from the few torchlights which adorned the patterned wall. Covered in heiroglyphics written in gold and inset with lumincescent stones of power, this was the room were the real defence of Albion takes place; at least in the opinion of Gelid and those of his order. Deld, fellow sage and scholar of the jet black globe which stood innocently upon its dias in the centre of the chamber, had urged Gelid to come presently to the great hall. The air was thick with elemental power. Gelid felt it surging through him, to all ends of his fragile body from his bony fingers to his lithe toes and back up again as it caressed his straggling white hair. Clutching his gnarled staff with evident discomfort he knew the reason why Deld had summoned him forth before the wizard's desperate news had shambled from his cracked mouth. Corranhorn, quite content in his watering hole in the current time, had not always been so confident in the defence of Hadrian's Wall. When the mighty gates of Benowyc had been smitten asunder by the forces of Midgard, guided by the infamous and profoundly disturbed spiritmaster, Roo and his vindictive counterpart of similarly questionable sanity, Nicodemus, the defence of realm had reached its final resort. Gelid and Deld, as the only mages of sufficient sagacity and experience had been called upon to hold open the portal to Dakrness Falls for as long as possible, such that the hundreds of Albion men and women might escape the viscious hordes of Midgard as they trampled their way through the titanic dungeon.
Taking a deep breath, Gelid glanced at Deld. Like Gelid, Deld had abandoned any nonsensical attempts to clad himself sociably. The wizards were called upon all too often to war, and with their age it was becoming somewhat difficult to change robes. Thus, both were clad in their battle garments; bot jet black and ensorcled with an intricate pattern of runes and in-set stones of power. Dropping his staff to the floor, Gelid placed his sinous hands upon the orb in the centre of the stone whilst Deld took a great mamoth of a book from below the orb's dias and opened it.
"Este scris putere este, dreptul popuril meu de a conduce!" commanced in a deep and booming voice. The ancient inscription could not be read in common tongue, at least, the introduction. As the wizards expected the jet black which covered the arcane globe began to disipate as thunderous bolts lashed its inner wall, whipping and striking the crystal like the tail of Golestandt. It began to hum asif it were spinning. The walls were humming. Gelid peered into the sphere with an unfaltering gaze, his eyes changing from an aged grey to complete black as the power of the orb pulsed through him. His breaths became deeper and more frequent. He tightened his grip on the orb as the untamed energies lashed and thrashed about its surface. Chanting, now in common speach Deld remained calm and composed, his voice now booming and fighting with the faster, more intense humming. Gelid's grasp on the orb tightened further. Deld's voice rose in volume and became deeper still.
Rising above the cacophonous humming, Deld shrieked "Spirits of the interregnum, I invoke thee!" The calamatous humming was now a gigantic groaning as the thunder thrashed and twisted with greater speed and intensity as it struggled with Deld's arcane words. deld wanted to drop the book and clasp his ears but he could not. Gelid gripped the stone further as it began to rejeect his hands. Pushing and writhing he too struggled against the arcane energies and fought temptation. the pain became unbearable, the stupendous groaning became a shriek. It's pitching hightened, piercing. Both wizard's cringed. Deld struggled to continue the chant. Gelid fought the storm. The thrumming grew further, it was out of control. The power within the sphere thrashed, splashing and striking upon the inner walls of the orb. A dart rushed out and struck one of the heiroglyphs on the wall. The symbol disappeared in a cloud of smoke and rock black marble flew in all directions. Both men fell.
The torches went out. Silence. Gelid peered into the sphere. A face. Deld was still struggling on the floor. Gelid couldn't look away from the face. It was strangely beautiful. White, marble like skin stretched across it. Upon its forehead was a black circlet inset with a deep, red gem in its centre. Lacking hair the head was largely bald save for a few rogue strands of dark hair. Dark, almost blue lips grinned maniacally back at Gelid and the deep, grey eyes stared him. Gelid couldn't blink. The face faded. Darkness Falls. A series of images flashed in the sphere. A portal collapsed. Two apprentice sorcerers chanted unavailingly at the closed gate. Gelid heard them, and pities them. Another flash; the Midgard gate. Dead britons, highlanders. A chain clad cleric lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, yelling defiantly at the trolls as they barged forward. Blood trickled from his mouth. the bodies of the fallen littered the floor as Gelid beheld a wider view of the Midgard gate. Young 'prentices fled from the prevailing horde of trolls and dwarves, the heavy thuds of their bulbous feet reverberating round the cavernous dungeon and mingling with the screams of the fallen. The face again. It was Roo. Darkness. Gelid and Deld had failed.
Gelid looked up. He watched a barmaid entice another young infiltrator. He followed her up stairs. Corranhorn was gone; all that was left of him were the twelve empty pint glasses as they festered upon the otherwise empty table. A bestial yell. Gelid looked to the left and saw a flash of silver as Shaeffer danced a different dance, and the great bull of a man fell to the feet of the Prince. Gelid looked back into his mug. The concotion was cold. He took a swig anyway, slowly stood up, and hobbled back to his chamber; hoping that the random vision was not a sign that he would be called to perform the ritiual once more when he returned to the academy.
