Member
Shadowheart
Shienvien
Simply Not Real
Fetzen
Necroes
KactusPunch
C4lmiaa
Guardian Angel HarukiOnce upon a time there was a man, a man with a family and dreams, but little else. Not a partucularly smart man, nor was he fast, strong or skilled; he was, for all intents and purposes, just a man. This man worked long and hard hours in a quarry in Golerin just to scrape together enough money to feed those dear to him and protect the precious little he had. Even when he did that his wife still had to do the laundry of more fortunate denizens of the land, competing with the host of others who were all desperate to earn even a little to survive in a country that at the time was plagued by poverty. Like so many others they dreamt of more, and were inspired by the tales of Roland the Ambitious, who achieved untold greatness despite his humble origins. Stories of this man were told to the man's children, providing fuel for their dreams to rise to new heights and ensuring that the roots of discontent burrowed even deeper in their hearts, making their lives all the more insufferable. One man with a family out of countless, each with its own story, each wanting their story to be different.
Their story changed, however, when the man one day came upon the wreckage of a caravan that had been heading for one of the cities of Golerin. It had been assaulted by goblins, which had killed everyone and stolen most of the cargo on the carts. Not all of it, though. Setting his conscience aside to chase his dream, the man had delved into the wreckage and looted everything he could find, which amounted to a respectable amount of wares that could be worth quite a bit, although none as impressive as a set of ornate platinum finery, which were doubtlessly worth a fortune.
The man went home, calling out to his family and showing them what he had obtained, and before the end of that week their family had uprooted their lives and went traveling north, financing their journey by selling or trading the loot from the caravan to whoever wanted it. They saved the finery for as long as possible, but eventually even pieces of that had to be let go.
Then came the day when they reached the promised land, the country where the insignificant could see their dreams realized; the land of Roland the Ambitious, Rodoria. The man took his family to Zerul City, home of the Academy of Magic and its famed platinum gates, and here he sold nearly all that he had left to fund the purchase of land and construction of a tavern. He was happy; his family helped him run the place, and the customers were pleased with how the business ran. The Platinum Goblet, named after the last remaining piece of finery from the set, became one of the more popular watering holes of the city, and one that attracted travelers visiting the city for them to spend the night.
In an age where all attention seemed focused on those with great ambitions of power, immortality and wealth, perhaps this man was remarkable after all, for his dream was simply to live in peace and safety. The man lived well, his dreams realized. And then he died.
Fast-forward sixty-three years, past the handing down of the tavern across two generations, the theft of the namesake of the tavern and a number of poor decisions and lack of interest by the decendants of that man, and the Platinum Golbet was no longer a place that would have made him happy. The floors were dirty and creaked when one walked across the floorboards, the glasses were greasy, the bedsheets faded and stained, and the drinks were watered down. Half a dozen small, round tables were scattered across the room, each inadequately illuminated by a single candle after their ancestor's chandelier, which had kept the common room so nicely lit, had been sold. All that remained of those days of cozy warm light now was the iron mounting in the ceiling, from which the chandelier once hang. Two of the tables had five chairs around them, the other four only had four chairs. The counter with its barstools was probably the cleanest place there, and even that had stains so old that they had become part of the wooden surface, seeping into the core of it and ruining it forever. A stench of alchohol, sweat and vomit hang in the air, prompting one to regard the gloom with suspicion and discourage one from straying too far from the islands of light that were the tables.
Despite of this the Platinum Goblet was busy this evening, and its common room was filled to the brink. With the influx of refugees from Nemhim every inn and tavern in Zerul City had been besieged by those who had recently been made homeless, many of which had lost everything and were left to either live at the mercy of the more helpful Zerulic citizens or seek out shabby establishments such as this, where a night could be spent warm and dry for just a rodlin or two, and one could have a drink to calm one's frayed nerves for another silver coin.
The misfortune of these people was evident just by looking at most of them; most wore clothes stained with dried mud, and there were many for whom the mud was mingled with bloodstains. Clothes were torn and worn from their trials, and many still had the fear of that which had chased them from their home written on their faces. Mugs of cheap beer and ale trembled in the hands of quiet patrons, while the dark corners were the origin of desponent sobbing of men and women alike. Children wept as they were taken to the stairs in the back of the room, which lead to the upstairs bedrooms, to face a night that promised the return of nightmares better forgotten. Fear and mourning permeated the air; the legacy of the monster of Nemhim was more evident here than anywhere else. These people were the lucky ones... the survivors.
Two people here stuck out, however: one was the tavernkeeper, a bulky, sweaty man with annoyance in his eyes, clearly disatisfied with having to deal with all these people and the inconvenience they represented; the other was a woman in a faded-red dress of velvet, of which the back was open to accomodate the trail of black feathers that grew along her spine and all the way onto her scalp. Seeming small and lost among the surrounding humans, being feeble of frame and only five feet and an inch tall, the crimson eyes of this lone true deigan regarded the refugees around her with concern and compassion as she went around the room, offering water, bread and sympathy. The hem of her dress was ripped, and around the room several injured refugees could be seen with faded-red velvet bandages.
Everyone stayed at least several feet from the entrance, a simple wooden door that on the outside had a sign with silver-speckled letters denoting the name of the tavern. A door through which a certain member of the Brotherhood of the Cardinal would soon enter...
---
Gerald had to sigh when Jillian replied to the Grand Master's offer, once more feeling whatever hope remained in his heart being drained by the cruel circumstances that seemed to eternally stack the odds against the success of his quest and, by extension of that, his survival and that of his immortal soul. He did not look at her immediately, nor did he respond when the witch turned and addressed him; instead he simply stared into the ground in front of him, the flame of his amber eyes dulled with fatigue and age far beyond the years he had lived. His sigh was not an impatient one, nor was it a sound of disapproval; it was merely the sound of someone moving one step closer to the edge, so very tempted to give up, but driven by a stubborn desire and ambition that would not allow him to surrender, no matter how hopeless it was. His goals were everything; he had to live.
Being able to end the Withering within two weeks does seem improbable, he thought, slowly closing his eyes in thought. Particularly since I've spent years trying to figure out how to do it, so it would be natural to assume that the Grand Master was setting the conditions so that he was certain to win. Indeed, normally I would assume that any terms of a bet suggested by a demon, let alone the Lord of Lies himself, would be tailored to be impossible to meet... But as pretty much everyone has pointed out by now the Grand Master would actually win even if he lost. The fact that he set up the bet the way he has means that he considers the end of the Withering worth as much as a mortal soul and an ancient artifact.
He opened his eyes to find the demon lord meeting his gaze directly. "I think it may be a hint," he muttered quietly, his words meant only for Jillian though he had no doubt that the fiend would hear him anyway. "He wants the Withering ended, we know that already... I think he is trying to tell us that once we know how to do it, the Withering actually could be ended that quickly. That it is possible to win or lose within that timeframe."
Turned to face Jillian fully, his expression grim, Gerald spoke in a tone unusually soft for him. "I don't think it's impossible, and if we turn him down we may end up searching for the information he is offering for much, much longer than two weeks. It could take years - in fact it has taken years already - to figure out what to do, and millions would die in the meantime. If we won this bet, the payoff would be immeasurable."
Fingers clutching his staff tightly, he sighed. "You know that I have nothing to lose and everything to win, and that I would take this chance in a heartbeat... But if I'm dead I have no use for a staff anyways, or anything else for that matter. You'd be wagering your soul on this; you have a lot to lose, which is also why I doubt the Grand Master would accept the bet if I was the only one paying. I can't do it alone, but I won't ask you to risk a sacrifice like that. If you think it isn't worth it, we'll find another way. I'll accept your decision either way."
"For the record," the Grand Master spoke up, raising one finger in the air as if to call attention to himself, "I would only be taking your soul after you died. The bet is for your soul, after all, not your life, and you can't very well live without a soul. While alive you wouldn't even feel different. You would be amazed if you knew how many mortals out there have promised me their souls." He chuckled darkly.
"But the bet is my final offer," the demon concluded, sounding suddenly deathly serious. "If you're not going to accept, I'd appreciate it if you would stop wasting my time. Otherwise I may start getting... impatient."
Their story changed, however, when the man one day came upon the wreckage of a caravan that had been heading for one of the cities of Golerin. It had been assaulted by goblins, which had killed everyone and stolen most of the cargo on the carts. Not all of it, though. Setting his conscience aside to chase his dream, the man had delved into the wreckage and looted everything he could find, which amounted to a respectable amount of wares that could be worth quite a bit, although none as impressive as a set of ornate platinum finery, which were doubtlessly worth a fortune.
The man went home, calling out to his family and showing them what he had obtained, and before the end of that week their family had uprooted their lives and went traveling north, financing their journey by selling or trading the loot from the caravan to whoever wanted it. They saved the finery for as long as possible, but eventually even pieces of that had to be let go.
Then came the day when they reached the promised land, the country where the insignificant could see their dreams realized; the land of Roland the Ambitious, Rodoria. The man took his family to Zerul City, home of the Academy of Magic and its famed platinum gates, and here he sold nearly all that he had left to fund the purchase of land and construction of a tavern. He was happy; his family helped him run the place, and the customers were pleased with how the business ran. The Platinum Goblet, named after the last remaining piece of finery from the set, became one of the more popular watering holes of the city, and one that attracted travelers visiting the city for them to spend the night.
In an age where all attention seemed focused on those with great ambitions of power, immortality and wealth, perhaps this man was remarkable after all, for his dream was simply to live in peace and safety. The man lived well, his dreams realized. And then he died.
Fast-forward sixty-three years, past the handing down of the tavern across two generations, the theft of the namesake of the tavern and a number of poor decisions and lack of interest by the decendants of that man, and the Platinum Golbet was no longer a place that would have made him happy. The floors were dirty and creaked when one walked across the floorboards, the glasses were greasy, the bedsheets faded and stained, and the drinks were watered down. Half a dozen small, round tables were scattered across the room, each inadequately illuminated by a single candle after their ancestor's chandelier, which had kept the common room so nicely lit, had been sold. All that remained of those days of cozy warm light now was the iron mounting in the ceiling, from which the chandelier once hang. Two of the tables had five chairs around them, the other four only had four chairs. The counter with its barstools was probably the cleanest place there, and even that had stains so old that they had become part of the wooden surface, seeping into the core of it and ruining it forever. A stench of alchohol, sweat and vomit hang in the air, prompting one to regard the gloom with suspicion and discourage one from straying too far from the islands of light that were the tables.
Despite of this the Platinum Goblet was busy this evening, and its common room was filled to the brink. With the influx of refugees from Nemhim every inn and tavern in Zerul City had been besieged by those who had recently been made homeless, many of which had lost everything and were left to either live at the mercy of the more helpful Zerulic citizens or seek out shabby establishments such as this, where a night could be spent warm and dry for just a rodlin or two, and one could have a drink to calm one's frayed nerves for another silver coin.
The misfortune of these people was evident just by looking at most of them; most wore clothes stained with dried mud, and there were many for whom the mud was mingled with bloodstains. Clothes were torn and worn from their trials, and many still had the fear of that which had chased them from their home written on their faces. Mugs of cheap beer and ale trembled in the hands of quiet patrons, while the dark corners were the origin of desponent sobbing of men and women alike. Children wept as they were taken to the stairs in the back of the room, which lead to the upstairs bedrooms, to face a night that promised the return of nightmares better forgotten. Fear and mourning permeated the air; the legacy of the monster of Nemhim was more evident here than anywhere else. These people were the lucky ones... the survivors.
Two people here stuck out, however: one was the tavernkeeper, a bulky, sweaty man with annoyance in his eyes, clearly disatisfied with having to deal with all these people and the inconvenience they represented; the other was a woman in a faded-red dress of velvet, of which the back was open to accomodate the trail of black feathers that grew along her spine and all the way onto her scalp. Seeming small and lost among the surrounding humans, being feeble of frame and only five feet and an inch tall, the crimson eyes of this lone true deigan regarded the refugees around her with concern and compassion as she went around the room, offering water, bread and sympathy. The hem of her dress was ripped, and around the room several injured refugees could be seen with faded-red velvet bandages.
Everyone stayed at least several feet from the entrance, a simple wooden door that on the outside had a sign with silver-speckled letters denoting the name of the tavern. A door through which a certain member of the Brotherhood of the Cardinal would soon enter...
---
Duchy of Pelgaid, secluded pond
Gerald had to sigh when Jillian replied to the Grand Master's offer, once more feeling whatever hope remained in his heart being drained by the cruel circumstances that seemed to eternally stack the odds against the success of his quest and, by extension of that, his survival and that of his immortal soul. He did not look at her immediately, nor did he respond when the witch turned and addressed him; instead he simply stared into the ground in front of him, the flame of his amber eyes dulled with fatigue and age far beyond the years he had lived. His sigh was not an impatient one, nor was it a sound of disapproval; it was merely the sound of someone moving one step closer to the edge, so very tempted to give up, but driven by a stubborn desire and ambition that would not allow him to surrender, no matter how hopeless it was. His goals were everything; he had to live.
Being able to end the Withering within two weeks does seem improbable, he thought, slowly closing his eyes in thought. Particularly since I've spent years trying to figure out how to do it, so it would be natural to assume that the Grand Master was setting the conditions so that he was certain to win. Indeed, normally I would assume that any terms of a bet suggested by a demon, let alone the Lord of Lies himself, would be tailored to be impossible to meet... But as pretty much everyone has pointed out by now the Grand Master would actually win even if he lost. The fact that he set up the bet the way he has means that he considers the end of the Withering worth as much as a mortal soul and an ancient artifact.
He opened his eyes to find the demon lord meeting his gaze directly. "I think it may be a hint," he muttered quietly, his words meant only for Jillian though he had no doubt that the fiend would hear him anyway. "He wants the Withering ended, we know that already... I think he is trying to tell us that once we know how to do it, the Withering actually could be ended that quickly. That it is possible to win or lose within that timeframe."
Turned to face Jillian fully, his expression grim, Gerald spoke in a tone unusually soft for him. "I don't think it's impossible, and if we turn him down we may end up searching for the information he is offering for much, much longer than two weeks. It could take years - in fact it has taken years already - to figure out what to do, and millions would die in the meantime. If we won this bet, the payoff would be immeasurable."
Fingers clutching his staff tightly, he sighed. "You know that I have nothing to lose and everything to win, and that I would take this chance in a heartbeat... But if I'm dead I have no use for a staff anyways, or anything else for that matter. You'd be wagering your soul on this; you have a lot to lose, which is also why I doubt the Grand Master would accept the bet if I was the only one paying. I can't do it alone, but I won't ask you to risk a sacrifice like that. If you think it isn't worth it, we'll find another way. I'll accept your decision either way."
"For the record," the Grand Master spoke up, raising one finger in the air as if to call attention to himself, "I would only be taking your soul after you died. The bet is for your soul, after all, not your life, and you can't very well live without a soul. While alive you wouldn't even feel different. You would be amazed if you knew how many mortals out there have promised me their souls." He chuckled darkly.
"But the bet is my final offer," the demon concluded, sounding suddenly deathly serious. "If you're not going to accept, I'd appreciate it if you would stop wasting my time. Otherwise I may start getting... impatient."