[turbine]
http://ac.turbine.com/?page_id=462
Maegris sat at his desk, scribbling notes and observations in a giant book. All around him, his study was in disarray. Open books and sheaves of paper were strewn over every flat surface, and the mage's fingers were stained with ink. His forehead, too, was smudged with ink, from his habit of kneading his temples when frustrated. Sighing, he reached for his tankard and took a long swallow, grimacing at the bitterness of the brew. He blinked, trying to clear his head. Arcane runes and diagrams swam before his eyes. He knew he was on the verge of exhaustion, but there was little time left, and he had much to do still...
There was a knock at the heavy oaken door of his study. He looked up and called, "Enter." A soldier dressed in black and gold armor slowly pushed open the door and stepped inside. The soldier went down to one knee and awaited Maegris' word.
"Speak," Maegris said, his tone betraying his impatience for the soldier's formality.
"Pontifex, my Archon sends me to bring you word, the summoning chamber is prepared. We have pacified and secured the surrounding area to your specifications."
"And the chamber itself? Has it been warded?"
The soldier inclined his head again. "As you ordered, Pontifex. The wards have been tested twice, and we are confident that it has been properly screened from all outside attention."
Maegris nodded in satisfaction. "That is well done. I want you to keep testing the wards. Pheraion is a crafty devil, have him try to defeat the wards from his own location. We must be absolutely certain that there will be no interference, from the Shadow Hunters or from... our new-made friends."
"It shall be so, Pontifex. Is there anything else you require?"
Maegris' eyes slid briefly to the tankard on his table. "Yes. Another flagon of ale. The Tusker Spit Ale. And a flagon of the Hunter's Stock Amber."
"Yes, Pontifex." The soldier stood, bowed quickly, pivoted smartly on his heel, and strode out of the room. The door closed behind him, and Maegris bent over his notes again.
A few minutes later, there was another knock on his door. Without turning around, Maegris called, "Come in. Just find some flat space to set down the flagons, and begone."
The door swung open behind him, but he heard no footsteps to indicate that someone had entered the room. Irritated, Maegris swung around, ready to scold or hex the person disturbing him.
The youngest of his assistants, robed in black, stood in the doorway. He clutched a sealed scroll case in his hand. Maegris noted the color pattern of the tube, and his eyes widened.
"Is that what I think it is, Angbarin?"
The younger mage nodded hesitantly. "I have not opened it, Pontifex, but yes, the courier brought this from... ah, from..."
Maegris snapped his fingers. "All right man, I can see where it came from. It is well you did not open it." He held out his hand. "Give it to me, and go. Make sure the flagons I requested get here, soon. I suspect I shall need them more than ever now."
Angbarin shuffled forward, deposited the scroll case in Maegris' outstretched hand, bowed deeply, and almost ran out the door.
Maegris set the scroll case on the table in front of him, smudging the ink on the diagram he'd been creating. He looked at it with almost superstitious dread. His mind was racing. All the long preparation, all the searching, the research that had been equal parts tedium, frustration, and soul-threatening danger...
"I never thought they would actually..." Then, taking a deep steadying breath, he broke the seal and removed the cap from one end.
He pulled out a thin stack of papers, written in a precise hand, with skillfully rendered diagrams. Leafing through the papers, he almost forgot to breathe. It looked proper, all in order. All the information he needed to finish... A third knock on his door brought him back to his senses. "Enter," he croaked.
Angbarin was there again, with a pair of heavy flagons on a platter. He quickly found a place to set down the flagons, on top of a pile of books that Maegris hadn't touched in a few days. Then he turned towards his Pontifex, an unspoken question in his eyes.
Maegris nodded, and the assistant smiled.
"It's what we've been waiting for, isn't it, Pontifex?"
"It is. Be careful what you wish for, Angbarin. It just may come true..."
The young mage was confused. "Pontifex?"
Maegris shook his head. "Never mind. I've just been up too long. We have what we need. Call your brothers. Make them begin their preparations. Assemble them in the chamber. We must move quickly. We are so close..."
He could tell that his assistant still had something to say. "Out with it, Angbarin."
"Pontifex... Were we not supposed to send a message of our own, in response? The agreement..."
Maegris waved his hand. "I remember the agreement." He looked at a sealed scroll case in his own bookshelf. He'd prepared its contents in advance, even though he'd never truly believed that his counterpart would fulfill the other end of the bargain. It contained nothing more than a location and instructions on how to get there. He looked at the elegantly inscribed papers on his desk, and the scroll case on his bookshelf. He thought of his counterpart, and sneered.
"Yes, we had an agreement. We should respond."
Angbarin saw the scroll case on the bookshelf and took a step in that direction.
"No," Maegris said. "Not that. I'll write a new letter to be delivered to our friend. I shall have to inform them that our old agreement has been voided, since we learned of his past deceptions. But he will not go wanting. He'll get what he deserves from the Heart-Render himself. He shall be unhappy, I imagine, but he must learn to live with disappointment. As have we all." He smiled a treacherous smile. Angbarin's own smile was much more hesitant. A fearful, nervous smile.
"As you say, Pontifex. You know best, I am sure."
[2006/05] The Price of Loyalty
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[2006/05] The Price of Loyalty
by Ziv » 18 May 2006 13:57
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Ziv 
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Rollout Article
by Ziv » 18 May 2006 13:59
[turbine]
http://ac.turbine.com/?page_id=464
The messenger scrabbled over rock and scrub, breathing hard. Each handhold and foothold was accompanied by a cascade of pebbles, clattering down the slope beneath. He cursed at all the noise he was making. He knew he was being pursued, and while his dark clothing would help conceal him in the light of a moonless night, all the noise meant that he may as well be calling out, "Here! Here I am!" to his pursuers.
He had been running since the morning, when dawn's first light revealed the spire over the Caul. He had run to his field commander, who had then dispatched him to the mainland to deliver a message to the chapterhouse. From the chapterhouse, with only a brief rest to recover his strength, he had been sent through a portal into this wilderness, to deliver more messages. It seemed that the entire Ordina had mobilized all across Dereth. He knew he was one of many messengers crisscrossing the known world, scurrying from the Caul to the Direlands to the frigid wastes of the Halaetan Islands. He counted his blessings – his task was to deliver messages and supplies to Ordina mages and scholars in isolated outposts. At least he'd not been the one sent to trade messages with those disturbing cultists, the ones who worshipped death and darkness with madness in their eyes. He also knew that the Ordina was not the only organization thrown into a flurry of activity. Even the unaligned were re-ordering their houses, checking loyalties, mustering for the battles to come...
Grimacing, he pulled himself onto a relatively flat outcropping of rock on the face of the slope. He allowed himself a brief rest, scanning the terrain below his perch to see if he could spot any sign of pursuit. He had been blessed with a hunter's sharp eyes, and the Ordina had helped him further develop his skills. He noted a stir in the low trees, a few hundred yards from the bottom of the slope. As he suspected, his pursuers were gaining on him as he struggled up the ridge. He only hoped that his decision to sacrifice stealth for speed would pay off once he topped the crest.
He drew from his pack a bottle of honey-colored potion. He flicked the cap off with his thumb and gulped the bottle down, feeling the tingle in his arms and legs as the potion burned away his fatigue. He set the bottle down on the ledge and re-started his ascent. The crest of the ridge was not too far above him now. He'd get back on even ground and then vanish into the trees before whoever was chasing him could see where he went.
He was just a few handholds away from the top when he heard a whoosh and moist, meaty thunk just underneath him. Pain followed immediately after the sound – a hot explosion of agony in his left leg. He spared a glance down over his shoulder, and saw an arrow sticking out from the back of his thigh. He almost cried out in fear and rage. Gritting his teeth, he pulled himself up the last few handholds, over the crest of the ridge and into the cover of some scrubby bushes. Trying to distance himself from the pain, he picked up a loose twig from the brush surrounding him. He bit down on the twig, then snapped the arrow shaft, leaving most of it still buried in his thigh. He bit through the twig and almost passed out from the pain, but somehow managed to roll to a crouching position.
The wound changed his thinking. How could he hope to evade this pursuit with a wounded leg, trailing blood at each step? More than that, he was tired of running. He'd joined the Ordina to fight, not to run. He decided to find a suitable spot, and prepare an ambush. He would become the hunter again, rather than the prey.
He moved towards the trees to the west with a lopsided loping stride, ignoring the ripping pain in each stride. He took cover in a dense copse of evergreens, sheltered on the north and west by large boulders. To the east, in the direction his pursuers would come from, were long stretches of mostly open ground. He'd have some natural cover and a clear shot at his enemies from here, including a view of the ridge crest he'd just come over.
He sat as comfortably as he could, strung his bow and scanned the horizon, ready to give back some of what he'd gotten. He was a good archer and an accomplished hunter, and it made him feel stronger just to have the weapon in his hand. "Come out, dogs, I have a surprise for you," he whispered.
There was a twitch in the bushes that he'd just come out of, a couple of hundred yards to the east. In a heartbeat, he loosed an arrow. Another movement, to the southeast. He loosed another arrow. There was a third movement, between the first two. He shot again, and he started to wonder just how many people were after him. He saw no evidence that he'd hit anything with his shots, and frustration and fear threatened to overtake him again.
He drew another arrow from his quiver, nocked it, and waited. "Come on come on come on," he muttered impatiently.
There was a crash behind him. Before he could spin to confront the threat, something heavy landed on his back, pinning him down, and a strong arm wrapped around his neck from the left side. He felt hot breath on the back of his head. He heard someone whisper, "An impatient scout is a dead scout." From the darkness to his right, a purple blade flashed brightly, then darted towards him with the speed of a striking snake.
http://ac.turbine.com/?page_id=464
The messenger scrabbled over rock and scrub, breathing hard. Each handhold and foothold was accompanied by a cascade of pebbles, clattering down the slope beneath. He cursed at all the noise he was making. He knew he was being pursued, and while his dark clothing would help conceal him in the light of a moonless night, all the noise meant that he may as well be calling out, "Here! Here I am!" to his pursuers.
He had been running since the morning, when dawn's first light revealed the spire over the Caul. He had run to his field commander, who had then dispatched him to the mainland to deliver a message to the chapterhouse. From the chapterhouse, with only a brief rest to recover his strength, he had been sent through a portal into this wilderness, to deliver more messages. It seemed that the entire Ordina had mobilized all across Dereth. He knew he was one of many messengers crisscrossing the known world, scurrying from the Caul to the Direlands to the frigid wastes of the Halaetan Islands. He counted his blessings – his task was to deliver messages and supplies to Ordina mages and scholars in isolated outposts. At least he'd not been the one sent to trade messages with those disturbing cultists, the ones who worshipped death and darkness with madness in their eyes. He also knew that the Ordina was not the only organization thrown into a flurry of activity. Even the unaligned were re-ordering their houses, checking loyalties, mustering for the battles to come...
Grimacing, he pulled himself onto a relatively flat outcropping of rock on the face of the slope. He allowed himself a brief rest, scanning the terrain below his perch to see if he could spot any sign of pursuit. He had been blessed with a hunter's sharp eyes, and the Ordina had helped him further develop his skills. He noted a stir in the low trees, a few hundred yards from the bottom of the slope. As he suspected, his pursuers were gaining on him as he struggled up the ridge. He only hoped that his decision to sacrifice stealth for speed would pay off once he topped the crest.
He drew from his pack a bottle of honey-colored potion. He flicked the cap off with his thumb and gulped the bottle down, feeling the tingle in his arms and legs as the potion burned away his fatigue. He set the bottle down on the ledge and re-started his ascent. The crest of the ridge was not too far above him now. He'd get back on even ground and then vanish into the trees before whoever was chasing him could see where he went.
He was just a few handholds away from the top when he heard a whoosh and moist, meaty thunk just underneath him. Pain followed immediately after the sound – a hot explosion of agony in his left leg. He spared a glance down over his shoulder, and saw an arrow sticking out from the back of his thigh. He almost cried out in fear and rage. Gritting his teeth, he pulled himself up the last few handholds, over the crest of the ridge and into the cover of some scrubby bushes. Trying to distance himself from the pain, he picked up a loose twig from the brush surrounding him. He bit down on the twig, then snapped the arrow shaft, leaving most of it still buried in his thigh. He bit through the twig and almost passed out from the pain, but somehow managed to roll to a crouching position.
The wound changed his thinking. How could he hope to evade this pursuit with a wounded leg, trailing blood at each step? More than that, he was tired of running. He'd joined the Ordina to fight, not to run. He decided to find a suitable spot, and prepare an ambush. He would become the hunter again, rather than the prey.
He moved towards the trees to the west with a lopsided loping stride, ignoring the ripping pain in each stride. He took cover in a dense copse of evergreens, sheltered on the north and west by large boulders. To the east, in the direction his pursuers would come from, were long stretches of mostly open ground. He'd have some natural cover and a clear shot at his enemies from here, including a view of the ridge crest he'd just come over.
He sat as comfortably as he could, strung his bow and scanned the horizon, ready to give back some of what he'd gotten. He was a good archer and an accomplished hunter, and it made him feel stronger just to have the weapon in his hand. "Come out, dogs, I have a surprise for you," he whispered.
There was a twitch in the bushes that he'd just come out of, a couple of hundred yards to the east. In a heartbeat, he loosed an arrow. Another movement, to the southeast. He loosed another arrow. There was a third movement, between the first two. He shot again, and he started to wonder just how many people were after him. He saw no evidence that he'd hit anything with his shots, and frustration and fear threatened to overtake him again.
He drew another arrow from his quiver, nocked it, and waited. "Come on come on come on," he muttered impatiently.
There was a crash behind him. Before he could spin to confront the threat, something heavy landed on his back, pinning him down, and a strong arm wrapped around his neck from the left side. He felt hot breath on the back of his head. He heard someone whisper, "An impatient scout is a dead scout." From the darkness to his right, a purple blade flashed brightly, then darted towards him with the speed of a striking snake.
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Ziv - Posts: 4185
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Pictures
by Ziv » 18 Apr 2007 14:47
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Ziv - Posts: 4185
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- Location: Münster
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