Date: 1/2/98 10:33 AM Pacific Daylight Time
From: Moralitor
The black and silver robed mage walked down the stairs of the arena, smiling to himself as he found it empty. He had hoped that this would be the case and quickly went to work, moving towards the center ring. He stepped in and spoke a soft musical incantation, his silver staff appearing in his hands. He lifted the staff above his his head, a flash of blue energy running it's length as the mage began to speak the words of binding.Of witch's brew and dragons wings,This spell I weave, these things I bring,From the deepest, darkest, depths of hell,Come and serve this dark binding spell,I call on forces, those who aid the dark,Come forth this weekend, to be the spark,This fair land, a realm, RhyDin by name,A portal opened, to this distant plane,Come forth in force, shadows cold,To aid a servant, a dark one of old,My words are binding, so listen clear,The next three nights, you shall appear,Wraiths of weakness, demons of fear,RhyDin Town, in the Arena appear,My command spoken, rise from the dust,Your service rendered, in this I trust,Words of binding, dark spell of the night,Aid has been harnessed, in this fight,Weaken those, who stand against our lord,Have each one falter, to his own accord.There was a flash of cold air that whipped about the arena, the spell having been completed. Moralitor lowered his arms, the staff vanishing from his grip. He pulled the black and silver robes tight about himself as he felt the rush of cold air passing through the portal he had just created. A portal that none would see, but all would feel the effects of.He stepped from the ring as he heard the soft, almost inaudible laughter, as the imps poured through the portal and into the realm. A dark, almost wicked smile, crossed the face of the mage as he stepped back through the door and into the RhyDin morning light.(TBC)
Imps of Darkness
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Date: 1/6/98 7:43 PM Pacific Daylight Time
From: Moralitor
Moralitor walked along the street towards the Arena, most making way for the black and silver robed figure, his large hood pulled up over his features. Hidden beneath those robes, a man fought with his heart to deny the pleasures being offered him. The power that lay waiting for him to tap it, beckoned the mage to complete the ritual of binding. A soft musical incantation is the mage's reply, trying to keep the wards about him that held the
darkness at bay.
He stepped into the Arena and once more was pleased that it was empty. He made his way down the stairs as a cold wind whipped about the Arena, blowing the black and silver robes about the mage, who raised a brow as he moved towards the center ring.
Shadows started to dance about the ring as he moved near, seeming to force his will, speaking in sensual tones to him, tempting him to use that which he called. Once more, an incantation is spoken, a scream is heard from the ring as the shadows vanish, replaced by a dead silence and stillness in the air.
Moralitor's dark blue eyes scanned around the arena, looking for any movement. Not seeing any, he turned and stepped through the ropes and into the ring. He could still feel the link, the invitation to embrace the power that was offered. He reached up and slid the hood from his head, and then lifting his arms high to each side of himself.
"Oh Dark Lord of old, why do you seek to sever that which we wish to serve," a soft sensual voice calls out to Moralitor.
"Your service is no longer desired or needed," the mage replies, his words plain and to the point.
"Our service could be put to much use in this realm old one," the voice counters.
"The one I wished to bind had not the power I expected, her dark arts a mere shadow of what I had thought. This was my only need of you, and now you shall honor the spell of binding, allowing me to close this portal," Moralitor spoke louder, a bit of anger coming to his voice.
"Next time you call old one, don't expect the same response. We are not tools to be cast aside at the whims of a mortal," the voice replies.
"Hopefully there will be no next time," Moralitor says, then clasps his hands above his head and a flash of blue energy explodes in the center of the ring and then quickly vanishes. The presence was gone, the Baron turning and stepping from the sandy floor and heading to the stairs.
"Hopefully there will be no next time," he says once more to himself, heading up the stairs and out into the cold RhyDin evening.
(TBC)
From: Moralitor
Moralitor walked along the street towards the Arena, most making way for the black and silver robed figure, his large hood pulled up over his features. Hidden beneath those robes, a man fought with his heart to deny the pleasures being offered him. The power that lay waiting for him to tap it, beckoned the mage to complete the ritual of binding. A soft musical incantation is the mage's reply, trying to keep the wards about him that held the
darkness at bay.
He stepped into the Arena and once more was pleased that it was empty. He made his way down the stairs as a cold wind whipped about the Arena, blowing the black and silver robes about the mage, who raised a brow as he moved towards the center ring.
Shadows started to dance about the ring as he moved near, seeming to force his will, speaking in sensual tones to him, tempting him to use that which he called. Once more, an incantation is spoken, a scream is heard from the ring as the shadows vanish, replaced by a dead silence and stillness in the air.
Moralitor's dark blue eyes scanned around the arena, looking for any movement. Not seeing any, he turned and stepped through the ropes and into the ring. He could still feel the link, the invitation to embrace the power that was offered. He reached up and slid the hood from his head, and then lifting his arms high to each side of himself.
"Oh Dark Lord of old, why do you seek to sever that which we wish to serve," a soft sensual voice calls out to Moralitor.
"Your service is no longer desired or needed," the mage replies, his words plain and to the point.
"Our service could be put to much use in this realm old one," the voice counters.
"The one I wished to bind had not the power I expected, her dark arts a mere shadow of what I had thought. This was my only need of you, and now you shall honor the spell of binding, allowing me to close this portal," Moralitor spoke louder, a bit of anger coming to his voice.
"Next time you call old one, don't expect the same response. We are not tools to be cast aside at the whims of a mortal," the voice replies.
"Hopefully there will be no next time," Moralitor says, then clasps his hands above his head and a flash of blue energy explodes in the center of the ring and then quickly vanishes. The presence was gone, the Baron turning and stepping from the sandy floor and heading to the stairs.
"Hopefully there will be no next time," he says once more to himself, heading up the stairs and out into the cold RhyDin evening.
(TBC)