[Linmotar] Black Mage Down! Black Mage Down!

[Bad_Kharma]

The sun stood at it's Zenith high above the city of Raliea, though it most likely went unseen by anyone. After the storm of last night, thick clouds of mist had begun to move in at first light and now they had swallowed the entire landscape. Nothing of the great trees, now coloured in their many shades of red, orange and brown as fall approached could be observed. Nor the sight of the green grass covered with morning dew, glistening in sunlight nor the soothing ripples of the many hills of the Reliean landscape could reach one's eyes. All there was to be seen was a depressing shade of gray all around you, limiting sight to a few yards at best. Every now and than, the sun managed to show itself as a pale yellow disc high above, but that too quickly vanished again.

Surrounded by that one depressing colour, two figures haphazardly made their way west along the Great Mountain road outside of Raliea. Their progress made extra slow by the cobbled road, one man limping along while the other supported him. Every step taken was an extra hurdle passed, but alas at the cost of great strength. Only a few more steps could be taken before fate struck, sending them both tumbling to the ground; a wayward stone having caught the limping man’s boot.

~*~

The wounded warrior tried to correct himself, using his injured leg to catch his fall, but as to be expected, his leg simply buckled under the weight. A loud groan escaped from the man’s mouth, a jolting pain surging upwards through his leg as he fell to the ground like a brick - his heavy bronzen armour most likely having something to do with that. Shock rippled through his limbs as his elbow met the ground first, the rest of the body following almost immediately after. The sounds of metal impacting with stone were swiftly dampened by the thick mist though, not echoing further than a few yards at best and quickly silenced beyond it. The wails that followed them however were incessant. Pain had increased tenfold as it shot up the man’s elbow – a sensitive spot on any body - and outright scream of agony combated against the mist as a result whilst the dark-elf’s face distorted itself in pain; his eyes clenched shut tightly, his mind tried blocking out the pain, his teeth locked together, trying to bite the agony away.

Sadly, the grimace itself hurt as much as the elbow did, his face being a canvas of many cuts and bruises, purplish stains surrounding swollen bumps of skin at various spots. It was a wonder any untouched skin remained, though it certainly didn’t feel like it. He had received all his wounds the night before as a party of five angry sailors took him for a punching bag. Now, he had yet another note to add to the grand orchestra that played his nerves like a harp. The pain would slowly ebb away from his mind for sure, most likely allowing fatigue to take the upper hand again, but that time was not now. The dark-elf and his companion had been traveling all morning and though this accursed mist might not allow for an accurate sense of time, Sorakon was sure they had been walking for hours. To make things all the more aggravating, he didn’t even know where exactly they were going, just that it was ‘home’ to the other one. Right now, he was too tired and in too much pain to actually address the point, he simply wished it to be over with, he couldn’t go on much longer, his body had its limits like any other.

~*~

Edmund could hear the sounds of armour grating on cobbled road behind him, his partner writhing in pain, his cries not falling on deaf ears. The holy warrior was simply too exhausted to respond or turn around himself. Edmund had fared much better than his companion in their fall, simply having put his hands down in front of him to catch his tumble. Now leaning on all fours, Edmund gathered his thoughts again, his mind and body as exhausted as his companion's. His long black hairs, dampened by the fog, coldly draped themselves alongside his face, Edmund's helmet now lying a few feet away in the green grass alongside the road. But it didn’t take long before pain registered itself with Edmund as well, though be it in a much milder degree as with Sorakon.

Pulling himself back to his knees, his feet supporting his ass, he pulled up his hands and looked down at his palms, almost in bewilderment he had actually been hurt. His gloves were the poorer for it after the fall, the flimsy things that they were. Pieces of leather had been torn away and in their stead scraped skin now showed, a crimson color slowly seeping through the many cracks of the torn flesh while grains of dirt and sand clung to leather and blood alike. It was as if he had never seen blood and dirt, so mesmerized was he by his minor wounds. But in reality, he took it all as an excuse to give his body a moment’s pause. For the seconds this would continue on, he would not need to carry his wounded companion further over the road. As long as he concentrated on his hands, he wouldn't have to contemplate whether or not he had already walked past his home in this fog and had simply missed it. As long as he started at those wounds, there was nothing but those wounds and the pain and in a way, it was soothing.

He hadn't just been up and about since first light, but well before that, only taking a ten minute nap before jolting awake again, his mind having realized he had fallen asleep. The night before, Edmund had intervened in the fight between five sailors and the man he now supported. He had joined the uneven fight simply because it was the right thing to do. If it had been left at that, Edmund would have been much more rested. But seeing the wounds of the dark-elf, a man Edmund had actually been looking for, the holy warrior couldn't leave the man alone and instead had stayed up the entire night to watch over the man and care for his wounds. The entire ordeal began to demand its toll now, both on his body and his mind. His eyelids felt heavy and the temptation to give into sleep was overwhelming. Even the discomforts of the chilly air combined with the damp mist were barely enough to keep him from snuggling against the cold ground right then and there. To make things worse, it was as if the wind was singing him a lullaby, slowly blowing past around him, singing in his ears, the chill it provided hardly being noticed by his numbing skin.

A glimpse away from his hands woke him from his thoughts though, or at least, the absence of them. Right before him lay his mask, a face of empty sockets and welded shut lips staring back at him, the thin white layer of water drops between them somehow making the mask look all the more lifelike, gazing at him with those black empty eyes. With a sigh, Edmund reached out and picked up the mask, his eyes now searching for his helm, finding it surrounded by high brownish-green grass a few feet away from him. Obviously, the helm had been launched off Edmund’s head as he fell to the ground, though the half-elf still pondered on what could have happened, he hadn’t even heard it fall to the ground to begin with; Regardless, the holy warrior reluctantly and with much effort got to his feet and walked over, picked up his helmet, brushed off a few sprites of grass and after drawing his black hairs back, shoved it back on his head. Quickly after, the mask was once more inserted in front of his face within the helmet, a single click indicating the helmet was once more complete, the picture of Edmund now whole again.

Turning around, the half-elf faced towards his dark semi-brethren, for Sorakon was a full elf, and gazed upon the pale image before him, a thick gray veil heavily diluting the sight of the bronze armour and the dark flesh contained within it. Another sigh left Edmund’s lips before he walked over, not certain how much further it was to home, but certain they must be on the move again. Once before the elf, Edmund bent down, not paying much attention to the dark-elf's wounds, he didn't have the time to waste on that, every moment awake was a moment too many. Instead, Edmund grasped Sorakon's wrist and pulled him up by his left arm, throwing it over his shoulder while propping his own right arm behind the dark-elf’s back, grasping him firmly beneath his armpit. The break had ended, mind numbing labor was now to be performed.

~*~

Sorakon groaned at the sight of the half-elf approaching him, not because of the mask, he had gotten used to that by now - and he knew the face beneath it, they had met in a tavern 2 nights before - but he had barely recovered from his fall and already his savior of the night before insisted on tormenting him even more. Trying his best to suppress his yelps, Sorakon simply underwent it, doing his best to put his own strength into the movements. He didn't contributing all that much, his body being as good as drained - and cold, and wet, and starting to get numb as well - but he did manage to keep his elbow close to his body and thusly spare himself from more agony. A great achievement for someone in his condition. Sorakon didn’t hold this torment against the man though, for he knew the half-elf was as tired as he was, though most likely in slightly less pain. He could hear the holy warrior's heavy breathing behind his mask just as Edmund could undoubtedly hear the dark-elf’s heavy respiration. Both their movements were clumsy and slow, but at least the holy warrior of Diandra hadn’t given up just yet and dragged Sorakon with him, it was something to be thankful for, someone to push him and keep him alive.

---

Not that overly far away from the unfortunate duo, two torches burned not so brightly next to a great steel enforced wooden gate. If one would want to press their nose against the intricate steelwork, they would surely find it not only fascinating how a smith could bend metal in such a way, but they would surely also be awed by the beauty of the play between steel and carved woodworks. Though with the little light there was, no one could never fully appreciate it under the current conditions. That the light was diminished had nothing to do with the efforts of the nearby raging flames though, for they burned as feverously as ever before. The light simply wasn’t permitted to travel far and was quickly captured by the thousands of tiny light drops now filling the air, turning the gray into a temporary orange, only to be seen by those close enough. Those doors of course didn’t stand in thin air, no, a long and high wall built out of great thick stones was built around them and within the current situation, no end to it was to be seen in either direction.

These walls belonged to a monastery of Diandra, Goddess of life, which doubled as a house for travelers, one that had great battlements supported by thick high walls surrounding it. Here monks both contemplated on their faith and their life as well as they tended to the needs of the weary and wounded. Those who lived here would know it for the great complex it was. Three high spires, roofs as pointy as a spears and stones as great as those of any castle, could normally be seen from far away and normally drew long shades over the landscape when the sun was in the sky. this somehow even allowed the monks residing here to tell time and seasons without a flaw. Not only did the sun give them life, but knowledge as well apparently. Behind the main door, a great courtyard had been made. A central path led straight to the main door of a two storied building, flanked by trimmed bushes, great apple trees, benches and fountains, the place more an inner garden than a courtyard. It was a place of relaxation and contemplation surrounded by the gifts of nature. The stables of course were not far away, for all life was precious, even that of the animals. Though all of it was now covered with a shade of darkness, the fog diminishing the most passionate of colours present to a bland image of itself.

Once one entered the main hall however, one would find themselves in a place fit for kings. Great ornate pillars, would support the high up roof, brightly painted windows would depict Diandra herself together with her saints and followers, the sun and light playing a central role in all of it. A golden sun was laid into the floor and at the far end of the room stood a great chair, flanked by a few smaller once, a throne not exactly fit for kings, but it would surely do for an abbot. The doors leading out of the main hall would bring one to great long corridors flanked by many chambers, both for guests as residents. Here a bowl of water, a chair, a chamber pot, a simple bed and a dresser were all to be found, but it was more than enough for both residents as traveling guest. Everything was present here, a kitchen great enough to prepare food for a small army, a dining room grand enough, both in size as in decoration, to hold a great banquet. The hard times of the last three years certainly weren't to be felt here - yet - and the monks were wise to protect it. for aside from studying their tenets and trying to understand the depths of their own soul and body, these monks also trained in the control of their body and combat. For as Diandra is the Goddess of life, so do they protect it as well. As a result, even great training grounds for hand to hand combat - for they used no weapons - were present, wooden dolls serving as a tough substitute for the human body.

Aside from the many rooms present, there were of course also a great number of monks walking through all these places. In contrast with their almost royal surroundings, these men kept things quite Spartan, wearing nothing more but a long brown robe, not even a hood to shelter them from rain was present on their clothing.

Though times had changed in the last three years and hospitality had been diminished somewhat. Those who knocked on the great wooden door would not find them to automatically open for them as they used to, instead, a small door, just big enough to show the eyes of the one behind it would be opened. A test would follow, a test to determine who was true and who not, a test to "see if the black of death houses within". Next to the door, beneath the torch, a nail stuck out the wall and a sharp one at that. The idea was apparently for people to cut themselves – and risk a great deal of diseases most likely – and show their blood to the monk behind the door. the purpose of this was obvious.

If the result was crimson or green or blue or any color but black, people would be allowed in and directed to the main building with a simply pointing of the finger. No words would this warder of the gate speak nor would any other monk as if they had all taken a vow of silence. Within the main hall, people would only find one man who did open his mouth to let his voice be heard and that was the abbot, the overall manager of this holy place. Any question could be asked to him, whether it be for lodgings, healing or simply a blessing. Being the only man who actually spoke to outsiders, he was obviously very busy as well.

A little bit busier than he should be actually, though those that don't frequent this place all that much wouldn't notice. Several monks were sweeping the ground, clearing out broken pieces of glass and pottery. Others were removing a last piece of what was once a table. It seemed a fight had taken place here and the monks were cleaning up the last of it.