From: moneyblade@aol.com (MoneyBlade)
Date: 16 May 1998 03:44:51 EDT
Roland sat, bent over his makeshift work table in the small apartment he called home. Then long, thin rod laying across his lap on a very thick sheet of matted Duros fur. The rod, or so it was called since it was missing a hilt, was made from a rare metal called Kolar, a fine durable steel found deep in the mines of Sa'ala. Its crimson hue flickered in the single light, his eyes dull and heavy, watched the shadow's play
tricks over the small blade.
Roland sat back and yawned, the chair softly embraced him as he shifted to get comfy. It had taken him a good two weeks to get this far, the blade completed, the hilt molded and laced. All that was left was for the decoration... and the transformation ceremony. He sighed, Jona was doing a big thing for him and he knew it. It was just last night, after the arena had closed had he casual brought up the subject. At first, it
appeared she wouldn't go for it... that is was too dangerous and risky. That she wouldn't want anothers life, his soul, forever on her hands if all did not go well. But she had agreed, as he knew she would. Jona wasn't one for giving up, he knew that from the start, and she wasn't one to let a friend rush into things head on. If she considers me a friend at all, he thought, she must... why else do what she has put her word, her bond,
her honor into? He smiled at the thought of having such an understanding friend.
So much had he learned from the blue eyed human, the way she told her tales with such passion and intrest... Roland smiled, remembering the tale of the Bishop. Never having earned a ring, or at best an Overlords mantle... but how he was remembered for who he was... not what he was wearing. What had she said? , he thought as his mind drifted off to the night before, "Och, Roland All Ah require
'o thee ist th' ye remain true ta thineself, th' blade. An should thee win a ring, thee shall do 'onor ta' both th' ring an th' duels." All she required... , he thought again. Indeed. He had given his word, and Roland knew a Salsinger's word was his bond. He pondered that, her words, her stories, his current teaching.... untill darkness came, and he could bare the waking hours no more.
(con'd)
The Salsinger
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From: moneyblade@aol.com (MoneyBlade)
Date: 17 May 1998 22:24:30 EDT
It had been a long day in the shop, finishing up a few minor adjustments on the hilt of his new blade... new blade. He smiled as he thought, I've got to give this blade a suitable name. Stretching back into a nice lean against the bartop, Roland took in his surroundings with a casual gaze, his eyes tired and barely open. Hiding a yawn behind his hand he began to think, Perfection...
hmm... not a bad name. Or the Blade of Roa... no no.
A few hours later and a dozen names past....
By now Roland had settled into a comfy seat near the caller's couch, a few people he recognized had come in and started speaking of a recent challange match rather heatedly. Roland didn't pay them much mind, he was bent on finding a name for this new blade. His head swam with different names... that of beasts and legends. Of cities and places of fortune. Of family long gone... then it had hit him. The Salsinger, he
pondered, of course... not only is it my family name... but a myth. The Salsinger was a legend of older times within the lands of Warsal. A time when peace flourished and the wicked natures of the dark elves were kept to a small island off the western coast, named Beru. As the legend goes a single unit, comprised of the various kingdoms within Warsal's best troops, was sent to guard the coast from any attack the island my attempt. The unit
was skilled in both magic and swordplay... they were deemed the ultimate warriors of the land. They soon developed a code of honor and instisted to be called Salsingers, also know as Warrior of Truth in the old elven tongue.
Roland furrowed his brow, trying to remember the rest of tale. After a moments of failed remembrance, he stood hurrying out of the dueling house, his sashes moving fluidly with his quickened step.
Date: 17 May 1998 22:24:30 EDT
It had been a long day in the shop, finishing up a few minor adjustments on the hilt of his new blade... new blade. He smiled as he thought, I've got to give this blade a suitable name. Stretching back into a nice lean against the bartop, Roland took in his surroundings with a casual gaze, his eyes tired and barely open. Hiding a yawn behind his hand he began to think, Perfection...
hmm... not a bad name. Or the Blade of Roa... no no.
A few hours later and a dozen names past....
By now Roland had settled into a comfy seat near the caller's couch, a few people he recognized had come in and started speaking of a recent challange match rather heatedly. Roland didn't pay them much mind, he was bent on finding a name for this new blade. His head swam with different names... that of beasts and legends. Of cities and places of fortune. Of family long gone... then it had hit him. The Salsinger, he
pondered, of course... not only is it my family name... but a myth. The Salsinger was a legend of older times within the lands of Warsal. A time when peace flourished and the wicked natures of the dark elves were kept to a small island off the western coast, named Beru. As the legend goes a single unit, comprised of the various kingdoms within Warsal's best troops, was sent to guard the coast from any attack the island my attempt. The unit
was skilled in both magic and swordplay... they were deemed the ultimate warriors of the land. They soon developed a code of honor and instisted to be called Salsingers, also know as Warrior of Truth in the old elven tongue.
Roland furrowed his brow, trying to remember the rest of tale. After a moments of failed remembrance, he stood hurrying out of the dueling house, his sashes moving fluidly with his quickened step.
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From: jonalyn@aol.com (Jonalyn)
Date: 19 May 1998 23:25:56 EDT
It had been last night, after the dueling house closed when Roland had casually brought up the subject. He was in the process of fashioning a new weapon, a blade forged by his own hand, crafted from the ore of his homeland. As with many of the lands of the fey, magic often permeated the very essence of the land even unto the very marrow of the bones, the ores, which lay beneath the mountains. Of such would Roland craft his
blade. To Jonalyn's surprise he requested her aid in the crafting. She had laughed gaily, explaining that she knew little of the art of the weapons smith. Jonalyn was familiar with many weapons. She had had occasion to not only study but to use a wide variety of weapons over the years. She had an eye for finely crafted blades as well as for various firearms. Often the diversity and variety of weapons used by various patrons of the dueling
house caught her eye.
As with many of the fey, his own innate powers were strong, yet he wished her aid in a binding; a binding of his life essence, his spirit into the fey blade. Jonalyn was reluctant at first. A binding of spirit to blade presented a dangerous undertaking, for, in the moment of transference, the spirit needs must be bound, guided, warded, lest, by some mischance, it be lost. The chance also existed that the spirit, freed for that moment of
transference, sentient as is the life essence, freed of its mortal shell, would reject the binding, refuse the joining, flee of its own will, refuse even to return to he whose essence it was.
She had questioned him, seeking his reasons, yet listening and watching him closely, for she needs must see with her mind's eye more deeply into his essence. Her thoughts raced to of all the necessary magical precautions, spells, circles of warding, runes to be crafted to accomplish the transference and the danger if a single incantation failed at a critical moment. She spoke of certain components which would be required for the crafting; the
warded sands of the dueling rings for their powers of restoration and healing, the feather of a phoenix for its powers of binding the inseparable fellowship of the spirit to the lifeless blade, for its essence of obedience and justice with which to imbue the blade, for its rarest of powers, that of being imperishable. They spoke of the need for the blade to be flawlessly crafted, properly tempered, quenched in the final forging in blessed waters and
with a bit of his life's blood to precede the binding.
Jonalyn pledged to endeavor to do her best to accomplish the crafting and binding. " Me hand then on it, Roland an me pledge ta' craft th' spells ta' bind thine spirit inta' th' blade wi' all th' skills at me command." He inquired what she wished in return. Jonalyn answered she required only that he remain true to himself and to the blade. Also, should he seek to win a Baron's ring, she required of him only that he would do honor unto both,
the Baron's ring and to the duels. In return, Roland had given his word, his bond as a Salsinger.
Jonalyn departed for Arda joining her husband to share the evening. On the morrow, following breakfast with Gav, she and her husband shared the morning playing with their daughter, Laenith. Mid morning, Jonalyn ventured to Thulin's Tower where she conversed with the ancient Arch Mage. She left the Mage to his nap after lunch, teleporting to her laboratory in the cellars of the Starfare Manor House in the Great City. There she spent the
afternoon hours pouring intently over a collection of ancient tomes.
(tbc)
Date: 19 May 1998 23:25:56 EDT
It had been last night, after the dueling house closed when Roland had casually brought up the subject. He was in the process of fashioning a new weapon, a blade forged by his own hand, crafted from the ore of his homeland. As with many of the lands of the fey, magic often permeated the very essence of the land even unto the very marrow of the bones, the ores, which lay beneath the mountains. Of such would Roland craft his
blade. To Jonalyn's surprise he requested her aid in the crafting. She had laughed gaily, explaining that she knew little of the art of the weapons smith. Jonalyn was familiar with many weapons. She had had occasion to not only study but to use a wide variety of weapons over the years. She had an eye for finely crafted blades as well as for various firearms. Often the diversity and variety of weapons used by various patrons of the dueling
house caught her eye.
As with many of the fey, his own innate powers were strong, yet he wished her aid in a binding; a binding of his life essence, his spirit into the fey blade. Jonalyn was reluctant at first. A binding of spirit to blade presented a dangerous undertaking, for, in the moment of transference, the spirit needs must be bound, guided, warded, lest, by some mischance, it be lost. The chance also existed that the spirit, freed for that moment of
transference, sentient as is the life essence, freed of its mortal shell, would reject the binding, refuse the joining, flee of its own will, refuse even to return to he whose essence it was.
She had questioned him, seeking his reasons, yet listening and watching him closely, for she needs must see with her mind's eye more deeply into his essence. Her thoughts raced to of all the necessary magical precautions, spells, circles of warding, runes to be crafted to accomplish the transference and the danger if a single incantation failed at a critical moment. She spoke of certain components which would be required for the crafting; the
warded sands of the dueling rings for their powers of restoration and healing, the feather of a phoenix for its powers of binding the inseparable fellowship of the spirit to the lifeless blade, for its essence of obedience and justice with which to imbue the blade, for its rarest of powers, that of being imperishable. They spoke of the need for the blade to be flawlessly crafted, properly tempered, quenched in the final forging in blessed waters and
with a bit of his life's blood to precede the binding.
Jonalyn pledged to endeavor to do her best to accomplish the crafting and binding. " Me hand then on it, Roland an me pledge ta' craft th' spells ta' bind thine spirit inta' th' blade wi' all th' skills at me command." He inquired what she wished in return. Jonalyn answered she required only that he remain true to himself and to the blade. Also, should he seek to win a Baron's ring, she required of him only that he would do honor unto both,
the Baron's ring and to the duels. In return, Roland had given his word, his bond as a Salsinger.
Jonalyn departed for Arda joining her husband to share the evening. On the morrow, following breakfast with Gav, she and her husband shared the morning playing with their daughter, Laenith. Mid morning, Jonalyn ventured to Thulin's Tower where she conversed with the ancient Arch Mage. She left the Mage to his nap after lunch, teleporting to her laboratory in the cellars of the Starfare Manor House in the Great City. There she spent the
afternoon hours pouring intently over a collection of ancient tomes.
(tbc)
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From: moneyblade@aol.com (MoneyBlade)
Date: 22 May 1998 13:09:56 EDT
Gaining a fabled feather of a phionex hadn't been has tough as he planned. If anything he though he'd be knee deep in some grassy plain, stalking the beast untill the perfect moment to grab the feather. No, it was much easier, if not eductating. The creature was quite amazing... atleast twenty feet tall, a wingspand you wouldn't believe, feathers the color of fire, and a unique taste in
strawberries. Roland chuckled, remembering the creatures antics after catching site of the strawberries. He ran a finger over his newly won phionex feather. At last, he thought, we can go on to the crafting.
Thoughts of the new blade danced around in his head like hopes and dreams often did. This blade will lead me to fortune, a ring, honor and respect...
"Papa?" a childs voice whispered into his thoughts. Slightly startled the mercenary sat up from his laying position on the couch.
"Why are you still up, princess?" he smiled and teased, "its bedtime for pirates you know." The newest Sal Roa grinned and climbed up beside her father, strawberry blonde hair almost slapping him in the face.
"I had bad dream, papa" she repiled quietly, cuddling in beside the elf. Roland smiled and layed back once again on the couch. The young pirate adjusting with the new position.
Roland paused for a moment before giving her a reassuring smile. "Its alright now hun" he soothed trying to get the child to sleep. Riley peered up at her father, big curious eyes studying his face. She yawned for a long moment before settling in.
"Nite papa."
"Nite princess" with that, the short sword drifted off to sleep and left Roland once again, alone with his thoughts.
He couldn't sleep that night, shortly after Riley had fallen asleep he carried her to back to her own bedroom. She barely even stirred, lass is out cold, he remembered thinking. Grabbing his cloak and blade he set out for an unknown destination. Leaving Riley alone but well protected, the neighbors do a good enough job watching her. Besides, I'll be right back. He reminded himself as he stumbled into an alley.
Suddenly the shadows seemed to dance, flowing over one another like waves or the morning tide. The mercenary stopped, peering into the shadows, hopeing to catch a glimps of the trickiers source. The shadows washed over him, calling to his body and soul like a sherpard to his lamb. Only then did he see the source, it was Warsal... his homeland. I'm being summoned, he thought. Willingly he began to walk deeper into the
shadows. Almost to the core, and home he was stopped by a familure pressence. A bright celestial glow overcame him. Protecting his body from the shadows, he cried out as his body and soul parted. Split between the shadows and light, his soul traveling back to Warsal as his body fell lifelessly to the pavement bellow. The light vanished, along with the body... safely away from the dying shadows.
Roland's body appeared back in his room at the GIT, lifeless and seemingly dead to the world...
(tbc)
Date: 22 May 1998 13:09:56 EDT
Gaining a fabled feather of a phionex hadn't been has tough as he planned. If anything he though he'd be knee deep in some grassy plain, stalking the beast untill the perfect moment to grab the feather. No, it was much easier, if not eductating. The creature was quite amazing... atleast twenty feet tall, a wingspand you wouldn't believe, feathers the color of fire, and a unique taste in
strawberries. Roland chuckled, remembering the creatures antics after catching site of the strawberries. He ran a finger over his newly won phionex feather. At last, he thought, we can go on to the crafting.
Thoughts of the new blade danced around in his head like hopes and dreams often did. This blade will lead me to fortune, a ring, honor and respect...
"Papa?" a childs voice whispered into his thoughts. Slightly startled the mercenary sat up from his laying position on the couch.
"Why are you still up, princess?" he smiled and teased, "its bedtime for pirates you know." The newest Sal Roa grinned and climbed up beside her father, strawberry blonde hair almost slapping him in the face.
"I had bad dream, papa" she repiled quietly, cuddling in beside the elf. Roland smiled and layed back once again on the couch. The young pirate adjusting with the new position.
Roland paused for a moment before giving her a reassuring smile. "Its alright now hun" he soothed trying to get the child to sleep. Riley peered up at her father, big curious eyes studying his face. She yawned for a long moment before settling in.
"Nite papa."
"Nite princess" with that, the short sword drifted off to sleep and left Roland once again, alone with his thoughts.
He couldn't sleep that night, shortly after Riley had fallen asleep he carried her to back to her own bedroom. She barely even stirred, lass is out cold, he remembered thinking. Grabbing his cloak and blade he set out for an unknown destination. Leaving Riley alone but well protected, the neighbors do a good enough job watching her. Besides, I'll be right back. He reminded himself as he stumbled into an alley.
Suddenly the shadows seemed to dance, flowing over one another like waves or the morning tide. The mercenary stopped, peering into the shadows, hopeing to catch a glimps of the trickiers source. The shadows washed over him, calling to his body and soul like a sherpard to his lamb. Only then did he see the source, it was Warsal... his homeland. I'm being summoned, he thought. Willingly he began to walk deeper into the
shadows. Almost to the core, and home he was stopped by a familure pressence. A bright celestial glow overcame him. Protecting his body from the shadows, he cried out as his body and soul parted. Split between the shadows and light, his soul traveling back to Warsal as his body fell lifelessly to the pavement bellow. The light vanished, along with the body... safely away from the dying shadows.
Roland's body appeared back in his room at the GIT, lifeless and seemingly dead to the world...
(tbc)
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From: moneyblade@aol.com (MoneyBlade)
Date: 22 May 1998 13:57:13 EDT
Seperated from the body, Roland's spirit traveled through an alternate plane. Searching for one who might help reunite him with his body. Suddenly he came apon it, calling for the being, "Guardian of the Ward? Athlstan?". He got no reply. Trying again, his voice amplified by some unknown force or spell, he called out again, " Guardian of the Ward of Gondar... I summon thee...". Using the words
of an older tongue he caught a glimps of a swirling mist... rising all around him untill blossoming into a luminious form. "I have a reuqest, Guardian." The spirit looked up to the luminious being with bright green eyes.
"Truly? What ails thee?" the guardian replied, his voice washing over the spirit like a gentle breeze.
"I've had... an accident." he stammered for a moment, his eyes locked onto the figure. Athlstan nodded, clearly seeing his spiritual state. "I was summoned back to my homeland... through some misshap..." the spirit seemed to sigh, "I parted from my body."
The mist thinkened at the words as the fugure nodded. "Aye... oft 'tis the way of it..." he paused, "...and thou wishest to reunite them?"
"Yes... I have un-finished business to attend to... and promises to keep..."his thoughts drifting to his newly adopted daughter, Riley. Parentless and alone at his keep, he hoped Jona or one of the neighbors would notice his absense.
The mist quickened and seemed to carry the reply to him, " A bairn is involved, then?" The spirit nodded in return. The guardian seemed to consider for a moment, a luminious brow furrowing through the image. "Never have I attempted such for one of the elven folk..." a long pause, silence just settling in before he continued.
"Wilt thou accept a quest in exchange for thy healing?"
After a moment of thought the spirit of Roland nodded and replied, "I shall...". Just as the words left his mouth the mist rose and flashed in a bright glow. Enveloping the spirit in the light and transporting him into the Guardian's realm.
The voice of the Guardian boomed in his ears, "Then I will place this geas upon thee along with the healing... find the chundrick named Faith, once called Chastity. Bring it to the Arena... one named CatShakira has it.... I shall return in a moment to preform the healing". The spirit nodded again, remain silent as he awaited his fate.
(( Note: During this time Roland's body is going through a whole mess of things. A whole other adventure in its own right. Which is why it'll have a seperate post sometime in the near future. :) tbc ))
Date: 22 May 1998 13:57:13 EDT
Seperated from the body, Roland's spirit traveled through an alternate plane. Searching for one who might help reunite him with his body. Suddenly he came apon it, calling for the being, "Guardian of the Ward? Athlstan?". He got no reply. Trying again, his voice amplified by some unknown force or spell, he called out again, " Guardian of the Ward of Gondar... I summon thee...". Using the words
of an older tongue he caught a glimps of a swirling mist... rising all around him untill blossoming into a luminious form. "I have a reuqest, Guardian." The spirit looked up to the luminious being with bright green eyes.
"Truly? What ails thee?" the guardian replied, his voice washing over the spirit like a gentle breeze.
"I've had... an accident." he stammered for a moment, his eyes locked onto the figure. Athlstan nodded, clearly seeing his spiritual state. "I was summoned back to my homeland... through some misshap..." the spirit seemed to sigh, "I parted from my body."
The mist thinkened at the words as the fugure nodded. "Aye... oft 'tis the way of it..." he paused, "...and thou wishest to reunite them?"
"Yes... I have un-finished business to attend to... and promises to keep..."his thoughts drifting to his newly adopted daughter, Riley. Parentless and alone at his keep, he hoped Jona or one of the neighbors would notice his absense.
The mist quickened and seemed to carry the reply to him, " A bairn is involved, then?" The spirit nodded in return. The guardian seemed to consider for a moment, a luminious brow furrowing through the image. "Never have I attempted such for one of the elven folk..." a long pause, silence just settling in before he continued.
"Wilt thou accept a quest in exchange for thy healing?"
After a moment of thought the spirit of Roland nodded and replied, "I shall...". Just as the words left his mouth the mist rose and flashed in a bright glow. Enveloping the spirit in the light and transporting him into the Guardian's realm.
The voice of the Guardian boomed in his ears, "Then I will place this geas upon thee along with the healing... find the chundrick named Faith, once called Chastity. Bring it to the Arena... one named CatShakira has it.... I shall return in a moment to preform the healing". The spirit nodded again, remain silent as he awaited his fate.
(( Note: During this time Roland's body is going through a whole mess of things. A whole other adventure in its own right. Which is why it'll have a seperate post sometime in the near future. :) tbc ))
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From: moneyblade@aol.com (MoneyBlade)
Date: 22 May 1998 14:05:40 EDT
The Guardian returned a few moments later. The glowing mist thickened and dropped toward Roland, growing in brightness until he could no longer look at it. The voice of the guardian echoed, "Then upon thee this geas do I lay along with thy healing..." The world seemed to fall away as the mist whirled Roland into a place far beyond his experience.
Roland floated freely in an azure sky, surrounded by crystalline orbs and strange silver cords stretching in haphazard ways through space. Wisps of glowing mist occasionally obscured his vision as he drifted. He had no sense of embodiment, though he beheld limbs - hands, arms, legs when he looked down at himself. This body though, seemed queerly insubstantive - it moved in response to his thoughts, but gave the distinct impression of image rather
than substance.
He heard music. A peculiar atonal melody shimmering atop a complex rhythm pulsed around him as he floated amid the cords and spheres. Some portion of the song pulled a deep resonance from the back of his mind and he began to perceive a direction to his drifting. Orbs and cords slid past, and possibly time without measure.
A voice emerged from the music, the way a water sylph might rise from a clear stream.
"Here it is... and there is yet time." Roland floated to a stop before one of the silver cords, this one conspicuous through its desperately thinned and frayed appearance. Even as he watched, the cord was darkening, stretching toward an inevitable rupture.
The mist and music drew closer around the cord, and Roland almost thought he glimpsed the form of an old man, draped in white samite, reaching out to wrap mighty arms around the cord. The song shifted timbre and spoke of command.
In an instant the mist and cord flashed gold and brilliant. An immense wheel of golden fire, larger than worlds, filled Roland's mind.
He awoke, trembling and whole, with these words still sounding in his ears...
"Find the chundrick Faith, once named Chastity, and bring it to the Arena. Cat Shakira has it."
(( Credit: Written by Athlstan-mun. :) Still tbc! ))
Date: 22 May 1998 14:05:40 EDT
The Guardian returned a few moments later. The glowing mist thickened and dropped toward Roland, growing in brightness until he could no longer look at it. The voice of the guardian echoed, "Then upon thee this geas do I lay along with thy healing..." The world seemed to fall away as the mist whirled Roland into a place far beyond his experience.
Roland floated freely in an azure sky, surrounded by crystalline orbs and strange silver cords stretching in haphazard ways through space. Wisps of glowing mist occasionally obscured his vision as he drifted. He had no sense of embodiment, though he beheld limbs - hands, arms, legs when he looked down at himself. This body though, seemed queerly insubstantive - it moved in response to his thoughts, but gave the distinct impression of image rather
than substance.
He heard music. A peculiar atonal melody shimmering atop a complex rhythm pulsed around him as he floated amid the cords and spheres. Some portion of the song pulled a deep resonance from the back of his mind and he began to perceive a direction to his drifting. Orbs and cords slid past, and possibly time without measure.
A voice emerged from the music, the way a water sylph might rise from a clear stream.
"Here it is... and there is yet time." Roland floated to a stop before one of the silver cords, this one conspicuous through its desperately thinned and frayed appearance. Even as he watched, the cord was darkening, stretching toward an inevitable rupture.
The mist and music drew closer around the cord, and Roland almost thought he glimpsed the form of an old man, draped in white samite, reaching out to wrap mighty arms around the cord. The song shifted timbre and spoke of command.
In an instant the mist and cord flashed gold and brilliant. An immense wheel of golden fire, larger than worlds, filled Roland's mind.
He awoke, trembling and whole, with these words still sounding in his ears...
"Find the chundrick Faith, once named Chastity, and bring it to the Arena. Cat Shakira has it."
(( Credit: Written by Athlstan-mun. :) Still tbc! ))