Post by erokai on Apr 7, 2006 15:52:01 GMT -5
Forging the future
The dawn crept slowly across the barren mountainside. A wave of dun orange light flowed over the black rocks of the dark craggy peaks as the sun rose, inching over the horizon as if in anticipation of the day to come. Those relentless and unyielding black mountains almost seemed to grow in the gathering light of the new day, casting dark shadows across the thick forests below, like many fingered hands reaching out hungrily for something desperately close, but all too far away.
Not only would the kingdom of Karador see the beginnings of a new day, but a new order would be forged. The past would be stripped away, and the future would be forged anew, for better or for worse. The dreams of one man would be fulfilled - finally he would have that which he had coveted as the years went by and his destiny would be realised. Only the mysterious identity of our dark hero is unknown.
Many men vie for the great honour that he desires. Many men dream those dreams of eternal glory, to live forever and write history in their name - to make the impossible possible. The underbelly of Karador would today see the dawn of a new era, as the shadows that ran so deeply through the veins of the kingdom would be made anew, and they would never again release their hold.
Daylight seeped slowly into the room through an open window. The shutters stood ajar, the latch held open by a small pin – a pin that had been pushed through the door from the outside. But how? The black tower stood hundreds of feet high, looming over the mountainside like a sinister guardian and the window left open to the crisp morning air sat at the very top of the obsidian tower.
Silken curtains on a great wooden bed fluttered in the breeze from the open window, revealing what lay behind them. The bedclothes were bloodied and torn and thick, clotted blood dropped sluggishly to the floor to gather in a sickening pool of crimson at the foot of the bed.
The room showed little signs of struggle, save for the fortunately covered corpse beneath the ruined bed sheets and several deep gashes in the oaken headboard. Something terrible had transpired here the previous night, something unstoppable, hungry, and yearning for its rightful place and recognition of its true glory.
The door to the room stood open, the hallway beyond was silent and empty. The wooden pedestals and statues that littered the corridor cast receding shadows across the cold stone floor. Five ornate oaken doors led onto the corridor, doors much like the one to the room that played host to this chaotic scene. Five doors that stood ajar.
At the end of the corridor a narrow spiral staircase of black stone descended into the darkness, the thin and sparsely placed slit like windows not allowing for much light to enter the staircase from the outside.
A black cloaked figure quickly descended the narrow stairway, soft leather boots making no sound on the hard stone floor. The cloak fluttered and disappeared around the corner as its owner moved rapidly downward, towards the great hall and his destiny – whatever that may be.
All six members of the council of shadows lay dead in their rooms, their bodies broken, left where they had fallen. Some had died in their sleep, other had been more alert and had attempted to fight back, but all had succumbed to the merciless shadow that stalked these halls. The leaders of the assassins guild were dead, leaving the guild headless, without a leader and no one to turn to. Our dark hero descended the staircase to rectify that problem. He would present himself to the guild as their new leader, their King, and kill any other foolish enough to oppose his dominion. All assassins would be united under one banner, one fist, one blade, one will – and he fully intended for it to be his own.
The great hall at the bottom of the obsidian watchtower hummed gently with the business of the early morning. Guild members returned from their night shifts, jobs and sentry duties whilst others awoke to prepare for a day of work, and pay to squander on whichever whore or ale took their fancy.
Slowly, a dark presence emerged from the shadowed gallery above the hall and the cloaked figure stepped forward into the light. Eyes flashed red beneath a long black hood as the unseen guest moved to the edge of the high stone balcony. Slowly, two black leather gloved hands moved up to draw back the hood. The man who now stood gazing down at the assembled assassins was not tall, and stood at only around five and a half feet. Straight black hair hung down to his shoulders about the sides of his sharp and heavily scarred face, and dull red eyes fixed the guild members with an emotionless gaze.
His gloved hands moved once more to the neck of his cloak, unclipping and removing the long black garment. With one movement he cast the cloak aside, revealing the rest of his attire. The stranger was clad from head to toe in thin leather, allowing for rapid, fluid movement. Two wickedly curved scimitars rested upon his back, their dull red handles peering menacingly over his shoulders. His body was covered with an assortment of knives, daggers, shuriken, needles and poisons and a small bow even hung at his hip. He looked very much like a walking armoury, though the weapons were small and light and would not slow his movement.
Once more his hands moved. This time he held out six rings in the upturned palm of one hand. Rings that bore black obsidian stones that carried the shield of the guild. Slowly, he turned his hand, letting the rings trickle out and fall to the floor of the great hall, many feet below.
They struck the ground with a resounding ring, echoing across the great hall like silver rain. The nearest man examined one of the rings, before crying out in alarm.
“The rings of the council! The council of shadows is no more!”
Suddenly all eyes were upon the stranger at the edge of the great stone gallery. Some beheld this man with contempt, some with awe, and some with fear. The silence seemed to last for hours, before the stranger spoke out in a voice thick with eastern accent.
“Great men and women of the clan of shadows,” He began slowly, savouring the moment, “Your council is dead, slain by my hand. I, Erokai Saquet, come before you to claim my rightful place as your king, and to kill all those foolish enough to deny my dominion.”
Erokai gazed out across the congregation of killers and cutthroats, his deep red eyes conveying a challenge, and a warning. Any who came against him would die - He fully intended to be true to his word.
The dawn crept slowly across the barren mountainside. A wave of dun orange light flowed over the black rocks of the dark craggy peaks as the sun rose, inching over the horizon as if in anticipation of the day to come. Those relentless and unyielding black mountains almost seemed to grow in the gathering light of the new day, casting dark shadows across the thick forests below, like many fingered hands reaching out hungrily for something desperately close, but all too far away.
Not only would the kingdom of Karador see the beginnings of a new day, but a new order would be forged. The past would be stripped away, and the future would be forged anew, for better or for worse. The dreams of one man would be fulfilled - finally he would have that which he had coveted as the years went by and his destiny would be realised. Only the mysterious identity of our dark hero is unknown.
Many men vie for the great honour that he desires. Many men dream those dreams of eternal glory, to live forever and write history in their name - to make the impossible possible. The underbelly of Karador would today see the dawn of a new era, as the shadows that ran so deeply through the veins of the kingdom would be made anew, and they would never again release their hold.
Daylight seeped slowly into the room through an open window. The shutters stood ajar, the latch held open by a small pin – a pin that had been pushed through the door from the outside. But how? The black tower stood hundreds of feet high, looming over the mountainside like a sinister guardian and the window left open to the crisp morning air sat at the very top of the obsidian tower.
Silken curtains on a great wooden bed fluttered in the breeze from the open window, revealing what lay behind them. The bedclothes were bloodied and torn and thick, clotted blood dropped sluggishly to the floor to gather in a sickening pool of crimson at the foot of the bed.
The room showed little signs of struggle, save for the fortunately covered corpse beneath the ruined bed sheets and several deep gashes in the oaken headboard. Something terrible had transpired here the previous night, something unstoppable, hungry, and yearning for its rightful place and recognition of its true glory.
The door to the room stood open, the hallway beyond was silent and empty. The wooden pedestals and statues that littered the corridor cast receding shadows across the cold stone floor. Five ornate oaken doors led onto the corridor, doors much like the one to the room that played host to this chaotic scene. Five doors that stood ajar.
At the end of the corridor a narrow spiral staircase of black stone descended into the darkness, the thin and sparsely placed slit like windows not allowing for much light to enter the staircase from the outside.
A black cloaked figure quickly descended the narrow stairway, soft leather boots making no sound on the hard stone floor. The cloak fluttered and disappeared around the corner as its owner moved rapidly downward, towards the great hall and his destiny – whatever that may be.
All six members of the council of shadows lay dead in their rooms, their bodies broken, left where they had fallen. Some had died in their sleep, other had been more alert and had attempted to fight back, but all had succumbed to the merciless shadow that stalked these halls. The leaders of the assassins guild were dead, leaving the guild headless, without a leader and no one to turn to. Our dark hero descended the staircase to rectify that problem. He would present himself to the guild as their new leader, their King, and kill any other foolish enough to oppose his dominion. All assassins would be united under one banner, one fist, one blade, one will – and he fully intended for it to be his own.
The great hall at the bottom of the obsidian watchtower hummed gently with the business of the early morning. Guild members returned from their night shifts, jobs and sentry duties whilst others awoke to prepare for a day of work, and pay to squander on whichever whore or ale took their fancy.
Slowly, a dark presence emerged from the shadowed gallery above the hall and the cloaked figure stepped forward into the light. Eyes flashed red beneath a long black hood as the unseen guest moved to the edge of the high stone balcony. Slowly, two black leather gloved hands moved up to draw back the hood. The man who now stood gazing down at the assembled assassins was not tall, and stood at only around five and a half feet. Straight black hair hung down to his shoulders about the sides of his sharp and heavily scarred face, and dull red eyes fixed the guild members with an emotionless gaze.
His gloved hands moved once more to the neck of his cloak, unclipping and removing the long black garment. With one movement he cast the cloak aside, revealing the rest of his attire. The stranger was clad from head to toe in thin leather, allowing for rapid, fluid movement. Two wickedly curved scimitars rested upon his back, their dull red handles peering menacingly over his shoulders. His body was covered with an assortment of knives, daggers, shuriken, needles and poisons and a small bow even hung at his hip. He looked very much like a walking armoury, though the weapons were small and light and would not slow his movement.
Once more his hands moved. This time he held out six rings in the upturned palm of one hand. Rings that bore black obsidian stones that carried the shield of the guild. Slowly, he turned his hand, letting the rings trickle out and fall to the floor of the great hall, many feet below.
They struck the ground with a resounding ring, echoing across the great hall like silver rain. The nearest man examined one of the rings, before crying out in alarm.
“The rings of the council! The council of shadows is no more!”
Suddenly all eyes were upon the stranger at the edge of the great stone gallery. Some beheld this man with contempt, some with awe, and some with fear. The silence seemed to last for hours, before the stranger spoke out in a voice thick with eastern accent.
“Great men and women of the clan of shadows,” He began slowly, savouring the moment, “Your council is dead, slain by my hand. I, Erokai Saquet, come before you to claim my rightful place as your king, and to kill all those foolish enough to deny my dominion.”
Erokai gazed out across the congregation of killers and cutthroats, his deep red eyes conveying a challenge, and a warning. Any who came against him would die - He fully intended to be true to his word.
