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PostPosted: Jun 14th, '10, 23:28 
Masters of Fate
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Joined: Feb 8th, '08, 23:30
Posts: 288
Location: Kallahaaaa--portsmouth
As their world stands on one of the many brinks that could inevitably lead towards the end, it is then that all mortals show their true colours. The common folk and the backbone of society hide in their holes trusting in the might of those they look up to. The righteous and foolhardy take a stand, adamant in their belief that their will to do right by the world will see them immortalised. The power-hungry and those dispossessed by the world strive to undo the machinations of an adversary greater than themselves, if only to imprint their own ideals upon the society that remains after.

This, fine example of a man is none of the above for there are those whose compulsions tend towards not the world as a whole but their own ends entirely. Oh but of course, there are many who can be accused of living for themselves and themselves only, yet these so called men and women of greed pale in comparison to this gentleman. Flowing silks, gold encrusted gems, fine perfumes, alcohols and all the potent narcotics the world has to offer… The last months have been spent surrounded by these embellishments but look upon them with such lustre as they used to evoke he has not.

This is his secret place, a location given to only two persons in the entire world, a trove of treasure, each more ill gotten than the last. Statuettes of Gods cast in rich ore, jewel encrusted weapons poking from umbrella stands by the dozen, arcane manuscripts written upon rich, thick velum, scroll cases, paintings, tapestries, garments fit for both King and Queen, if you were to but set foot in the expansive vault then you might leave with such a wealth to start your own country – or war.

Leocanta’s dusky, olive skin seems paler than normal; eyes heavy with tell-tale signs of self imposed insomnia. The mahogany writers table (procured from an unnamed arch-mage’s study) is covered with a researchers clutter surrounding a finely penned map of what may or may not be an artists depiction of the multiverse as a whole. A paperweight rests on the map, a brass orb, its surface intricately carved with runes and markings of a cartographical nature.

“Come again, will you?” His eyes lift lazily from a piece of parchment written in gnomish, stamped with the esteemed mark of Sprocketfuse.

“The Nheraz council seeks our expertise in the current war. What will we do, Commander?” The icy gaze of the woman is as unnerving as ever, the hard, north-born lass his second in command, culled of emotion and any sense of free-will. A perfect advocate for a man with many a secret and a wonderful gift from a certain unnamed necromantic lord.

“Is the enemy human?” An off-hand comment.

“Fiendish, if you were listening to my report—“ An impatient wave of his hand cuts her off swiftly, teeth clacking shut upon the unfinished sentence.

“Our use is limited in this ‘war’ of theirs. Tell me, Karrinna, what use will sabotage, espionage, recon and assassination do to stem the demonic hordes?”

“I’ve been informed that our expertise would be most—“

“Useless. Tell the council not to waste my time.”

“Lord Mortanis himself is missing in action. With recent situational review he may have been taken. We will receive serious—“ A feminine sigh of frustration as her third attempt is cut off.

“I won’t stretch our resources or send any of our men on suicide endeavours against things that can smell our soul, have no need for siege artillery and communicate empathically! My men would be nothing, tell the council they can punish me for my ‘insubordination’ to their hearts content, although, once Keldrin is back in the field – which he inevitably will be – the council will forget all about our lack of involvement.” He snaps the last sentence off with a sense of finality that sends the woman into a subdued silence.

“Old Khasib, I presume you joined Karrinna in this unwanted social visit for a reason, yes?” His gaze shifts seamlessly from the Northern woman to the man who resembles more a prune left out on the surface of the sun for too long – the horrible fate of any Kallahan male that dares to survive more than his first five decades.

“Hrnn, yes, the Maharaja wants to know—“ Another impatient wave stills the wizened man to silence.

“He will have what he wants when I have figured all of this out!” An angry sweep of both hands takes in the mound of documents, diary entries and peculiar inter-planar maps. A soft sigh escapes the lips of the man with no set name as he pinches the bridge of his nose, he continues, in a much calmer tone than before, “Khasib, the Maharaja will know when I am done, tell him no amount of ‘checking up’ on me will expedite the location of it from… From… Nothing but heresay and legend. Karrinna…” He pauses to rub at his temples as he considers his next words. “Tell the council they can have division Ahriman. I can’t lead them but you will do fine, yes? Let them know of my allergic reaction to anything from the ether or with the ‘immortal’ price tag attached, yes? Good. Splendid, now, since I shewed you both all the entrances and exits, I can only imagine you have ability to let yourselves out, yes? Good!”

He didn’t bother to watch them leave, waiting was simple, waiting until he was sure he was alone.

The secret drawer (One of a dozen he’s found insofar of a possible thousands – archmages, eh?) slid open with barely a touch, revealing the glimmering mirror-silvered mask. The mask of persuasion – the true mask of persuasion - with it’s grinning lips, the subtle curve of the silver and most importantly; those undecipherable runes, the likes of which no mage could identify for him. True, nearly all of the runes were known, enchantment, transmutation, the bits and pieces of your average day magical artefact that’s to be expected but three – just three – out of them all had turned each and every mage that had lain eyes upon them into…

His trail of thought was interrupted by the brass orb. One of it’s etched faces had lit up with an ethereal light.

A grin wide enough to rival the mask in his hands split his face as he reached for the planar tracker, the brass mechanism slowly opening like a geometric flower blooming, yet something was off, the angles were just… Wrong! All wrong and the more Puq found himself staring at the non-Euclidean shapes and surfaces growing and expanding to float above, the more his mind began to--

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Leocanta Ravelle - The Hero of Time
----

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PostPosted: Jul 2nd, '10, 20:02 
Masters of Fate
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Joined: Feb 8th, '08, 23:30
Posts: 288
Location: Kallahaaaa--portsmouth
He stood looking out over the Frozen Wastelands of Tilverton and Burton, the wind urgently picking at his back, as if to force him in his decision to join the procession below.

The death still rattled inside his skull, the boat, the couple, the haziness of it all. Some things just present themselves to you when you die, bad decisions, good ones, workings of "fate" and the machinations of the Gods...

No, not the Gods, his eyes were opened, the glimpses of what he had seen in fractured perspective. The kaleidoscope of insanity in crystal clear format, the cackling laughter... No, that was himself. Memory, a tricky thing. The pain was still present. In there. In that place. To the left of the rear-side of the edges. The squishy parts that no one would talk about! (Especially not him, oh no!) So delicate! The edges of his vision shewed them to him. Dangerous to have eyes look at such. Practised thought. Practised thought, don't strain too hard. Why with all the angles and corners do we go through it all in curv--

Fingertips nervously scramble about his jawline, raking at the ever present unruly growth of facial hair to scratch at the skin beneath. Puq's eyes strain, bleary red with no sleep, peering at the motley group cutting a practised swath through the undead. So clean, so precise, you can tell they know the way when he did not, why bother? Undead were a nuisance, they didn't feel pain, the staple of how he learned to fight. Be the one willing to inflict more pain on the other, that's how it is. Magic is a fine thing to help you kill-- whoops, did he say "kill"? Foolish, foolish! Already dead and long gone--

Gone, like the group. He panicked then, casting eyes about, how was he to find his way to the Two when he did not know the way?! He could find out on his own, though, the small Brass orb rested in his palm so snugly, just put that marking to the left, this one to the North-Western sector and find your own door, no need to rely on already existing and known gateways, find a new one, they were always there and Hell was closer than you--

A clean breeze blew through his head, clearing it. He'd learned to latch onto these moments of clarity, hold onto them as if his life depended on it. When did he take the map from his pocket? He assumed the lock on it's box was foolproof, he even used magic to force the memory to paper and was very careful in not glimpsing at the words lest he discovered how he had locked it.

Puq's hand raises to the side of his head, pulling the silver grinning visage on over his own, trouble and weary face - a jerk, a small adjustment and it slid over his prominent facial features as if it were a second skin. It afforded some protection, in fact, he couldn't remember taking it off, how foolish of him. Fool I Am.

There, a flash of magic, a disturbance in the tree-line, he had them. The Keep, ahead, filled with the Shade Elves and the Architect himself. He'd likely have to shew himself to the Procession soon, the Red Headed one likely wouldn't mind, Dwarves reacted well to his false sense of humour, the rest wouldn't see him as a threat - no one bothers to look past the idiot these days.

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Leocanta Ravelle - The Hero of Time
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