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Post by Sylvari Dawnsage on Nov 30, 2023 23:58:31 GMT -5
The usefulness of a frosty steed to traverse with ease over the mire of the Marsh Flats could not be overstated, and such a luxury lost made Sylvari's face scrunch up in distaste as her heavy metal boots sunk into the muddy landscape down to her knee for the third time in as many minutes. Unfortunately for the justiciar, her faithful steed was receiving some much-needed rest after their journey yesterday chasing down a troublesome Displacer Beast in the area. Sylvari didn't have the heart to call upon Mercy again after the herculean effort she had given yesterday, and thus here she was, covered in mud, on a mission for the village of Lillicors to retrieve a large number of stolen Bogskippers. Sylvari wasn't sure why there was such an epidemic of lost or stolen animals throughout Charon, but her current predicament left her longing for the days when she was searching for cute, fluffy Woolfuls in temperate plains rather than scouring a bog for bugs. Still, she tried to maintain a brave facade, not the least of which to benefit her partner for this mission: a black-haired, silver-eyed elf named Cyran. He seemed conciliatory enough, from what few words Sylvari had managed to elicit from him, but there was a sense of consummate professionalism that Sylvari could only hope to one day emulate. She was always glad for a capable companion. Hoping once again to strike up some conversation to alleviate the pervasive boredom of this trek, Sylvari turned back to her partner, her black and silver veil that covered her eyes bristling slightly at the motion. " So, dear, Cyran, I don't suppose you've any familiarity with this region? Myself, I try to go about my business and leave this wretched place as quickly as possible." Sylvari shivered as her mind drifted back to her first outing in the Marsh Flats, just weeks after her exile, hunting the Bogaboo. " Bad memories..." Quest Name: Skip With Me
Participants: Two or more
Location: Marsh Flats
Post Requirements: 5 posts per person, 200 words per post
Reward: +1 Renown
Description: The Marsh Flats have continued to suffer under the wrath of the Mud Worms, the gang quickly gaining more and more control of the region. Recently, they have begun to steal and hoard Bogskippers, valuing their usefulness for navigating the swamps. It is believed that with an army of Bogskippers, they can outfit their gang and become more of a problem. Lilicors is asking for help in freeing and retrieving the Bogskippers, returning them back to their owners. You are asked to find a Mud Worm camp and free any Bogskippers they may be holding there, dispatching of any the members who may try to stop you.
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Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Dec 1, 2023 8:30:37 GMT -5
Even with winter’s chill just beginning to sink its claws into the swamps, the frost and partially-frozen ice did little to mitigate the misery of the trek. Not that Cyran minded. He was light-footed enough that the unstable terrain and murky waters - which were more like a sludge with the sleet and frost - did not bother him too terribly much.[1] He wished he could say the same for his traveling companion.
The retired assassin turned to glance at the young pale woman whom he was to accompany for this particular missive, concealing a wince of sympathy as she sunk into the mud once more. He was familiar with knightly types, and held great respect for their creeds and their passion, though he did not begrudge their heavy armor when it came to limiting their nobility.
Sylvari, as he learned her name was when they both answered the call to arms in Lilicors to rescue stolen native animals from a local gang, had handled the inconvenience with grace thus far. He’d yet to pinpoint where the young, moon-touched woman had hailed from, but it was safe to say that she was not a local to the Marsh Flats. She dressed like a woman of the faith from the most holy temples of Sol City and spoke like the nobles of the courts Cyran lived in before his exile. She was a strange one to pin down… but her company no less pleasant for it, and though they’d spoken little Cyran appreciated the gravity with which she took the task at hand, as if there was no such thing as a small job. Professionalism could be trained. Passion could not.
She broke the silence first, though Cyran was not surprised by that fact. She seemed the social type, and it was not her fault he was otherwise tied up in his thoughts, else he might have been a touch more… chatty. Regardless, he did not mind the small talk. He rested his hand on Wraithsbane at his hip, the weight of the leather grip a familiar comfort.
“Only in passing.” He replied, truthfully. “My work here mainly extends to dispatching creatures threatening the swamp. An elder Hydra, once…” He tapped at his chin in thought with his free hand. “A Bogaboo, with my fiancé, most recently. It seems that there has been a resurgence of them as of late. Regardless, I do not blame you for desiring to keep your distance. The Marsh Flats have evolved in a unique way that benefit their way of life, but it tends to leave most outsiders feeling unnerved.”
He frowned at her offhand comment regarding bad memories. She had hid it well thus far.
Cyran stopped, watching her stomp through the mud and thinly-veiled attempts to hide her discomfort at the region, putting bad memories out of her mind. He would be just fine without a mount, but he worried about her ability to continue… and at the very least, it might help make her trip easier.
“Wait just a tick, Miss Sylvari.” He requested, waving his hand in the air and calling the shadows to his aid.
The darkness responded, inky-black tendrils reaching up where they were cast by dead trees and shrubbery, and their own persons, before coalescing into a larger shape, and then physical form.[2] Nightmare stomped her hooves, a creature of pure dusk brought to life, as if she’d been formed of blackened sand heated to glass. Her appearance was unnerving to most who did not know her, but she was Cyran’s most trusted horse. The elven man drifted over, the shadows clinging to his heels, and grabbed her reins, putting a hand on her muzzle before turning back to Sylvari.
“She is… much friendlier than she looks. I don’t require assistance through the Marsh, but let’s not suffer for the sake of personal pride. She’ll make the last leg of the journey to the camp easier for you.” 1. Cat’s Grace 2. Summon Mount - Nightmare Steed
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Post by Sylvari Dawnsage on Dec 1, 2023 11:49:41 GMT -5
Sylvari placed a hand over her breast, truly touched by Cyran's concern for her, despite their recent acquaintanceship. It seemed that his intimidating exterior hid a heart of gold for those bold enough to engage him. As to the animal itself, Nightmare, he called the mare, she was a gorgeous creature with a color of purest obsidian and a mane of flickering flames, which danced upon her neck. Rather than a glossy coat that reflected light as was common for well-maintained horses, Nightmare seemed to draw in excess light, making her hard to perceive even when looking directly at her.
Sylvari was hesitant to approach the creature, as she recalled that animals seemed to invariably be uncomfortable in her presence, with Mercy being a notable exception. As best as Sylvari could tell, beasts could sense the nature of her curse, how she straddled the line between life and death and shied away from her as a result. For one who so adored the creatures of nature, such unrequited love as she was subjected to was among the foremost hardships of her new life. I don't suppose Nightmare will be any different, and I don't want to make the poor dear uncomfortable. If she does shy away from me, though, at least I will have greater grounds to refuse Cyran's offer without seeming ungrateful.
With tentative steps, Sylvari inched closer to the mare, holding out her hands in a placating gesture, until she reached out to brush her gauntleted hand to the supple muscle of the horse's neck. To Sylvari's surprise, and her eminent pleasure, Nightmare was unaffected by the proximity of her presence. Sylvari removed her glove so she could pet the mare, softly savoring the gentle warmth the creature emitted. Sylvari let a gentle smile spread across her face, so genuine as to be able to melt the heart of the iciest bandit chief.
"Are you truly sure, darling? Such a beast is fit for a king, and I am far from royalty. Moreover, my armor is covered in the mire of this place, and to sully such a fine coat with filth is a recipe to make my heart break."
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Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Dec 1, 2023 13:51:23 GMT -5
More often than not, Cyran was used to people flinching or recoiling when they caught sight of Nightmare. Mostly because the creature could be… unnerving for those who were not accustomed to creatures of the shadow. But Sylvari did not appear especially rattled. To Cyran’s surprise, she merely cautiously approached the creature - not with fear, but with wonder sparkling in her eyes. If she worried for Nightmare’s reaction to her rather than the reverse, she needn’t have. Nightmare came from the realm of dusk, a place where they created fear, rather than feel it. She did not flinch away from Sylvari’s approach. She merely held still, as docile as her owner. Perhaps the beast had a sense for her affliction, but dark magic did not matter. After all, her master, too, had one foot in the grave. Not truly steeped in the dark, but living solidly within it. Suspended within the dusk. Shepherd of the shadows.
One of the Vampyr, in comparison, was more like a kindred spirit than anything.
Nightmare leaned into her cold touch, as if greeting an old friend. And Sylvari’s smile was infectious - Cyran, too, wore a small smile on his face.
“Of course. I would not offer if I did not mean what I said. I see no reason for manners or politeness just for the sake of it.” He paused, amending his statement. “Of course, I mean no insult. If you’d rather walk, or not ride, don’t feel pressured to accept on my account.” Besides, he was not especially worried about stealth, either… they had yet to work together before now, but Cyran was fairly certain that he would not have to worry about Sylvari’s presence. The brighter the light, the darker the shadow. And so long as she could provide support from the front line at full strength, it did not matter whether the Mud Worms saw her or not. What mattered was that they would not see Cyran.
He paused. She was a little shorter than him, and in bulky armor…
“Erm. Do you need some assistance up?” He offered her his arm, just to be safe.
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Post by Sylvari Dawnsage on Dec 1, 2023 15:59:54 GMT -5
Sylvari dipped her head low in gratefulness as she began brushing off all the excess mud on her greaves. Once she was satisfied that requisite progress had been made, she looked up at Cyran again with a close-lipped smile.
"Of course not, dear. You don't seem the type to waste time with frivolous words. As your offer will lead to the expedited completion of our task, and serve some small personal gratification of being able to ride such a magnificent creature, I would be a fool to refuse."
Sylvari noted the hand that Cyran extended, a silent offer of help to mount Nightmare. Unseen behind her veil, Sylvari's eyes creased in gentle admiration for her new companion. He was what she wished to be embody, forced now into her role as a native of darkness striving towards light. When all was said and done, kindness and goodness had lasting impact, far more than fleeting appearances, and Sylvari could see that her partner displayed the kind of pervasive compassion needed to separate himself as a great hero to the masses, if they would only give him a chance.
Sylvari graciously accepted his assistance, trailing her hand only lightly on Cyran's own, as she jumped with grace and vigor belying a person in heavy armor [Knight, Light as a Feather]. Indeed, only the slightest of pressure was exerted on the elven man's hand, in order to acknowledge his offer of assistance, as Sylvari cleared nearly the whole jump onto the mare in a single smooth motion that would have been difficult even while unladen. She was careful to balance her landing just so, so as not to inconvenience Nightmare with a sudden jolt of unexpected weight.
As she settled in, once again stroking the horse's neck in appreciation, Sylvari gazed down at Cyran once more with an impish smile. "Well, I daresay I won't hold you back in terms of speed until we find our targets now. I know you were going slowly for my sake, and I thank you for your eminent grace and generosity."
Sylvari quirked a brow as Nightmare began walking alongside her owner, just as nimble as she had expected of the beast. "Judging by our respective attire, I don't suppose you would object to me drawing the enemy's attention for myself?"
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Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Dec 2, 2023 13:33:19 GMT -5
If he were being honest, Cyran was a touch surprised that Sylvari claimed she was not of royalty. Her manner of speech and mannerisms would indicate to him that she’d had a noble upbringing… it was not his place to pry, though he could not deny the curiosity. He himself had been born of nobility, no matter how much he scorned the title that had been stripped from him. Though he tried his damnedest to distance himself from that life (fat lot of good it had done him, since despite his best efforts, he’d found himself stuck with the same title he’d never wanted), there were still parts of it that clung to him.
He had a suspicion Miss Sylvari might have been the same… her lifestyle at odds with her upbringing. It was not especially important - but there was a hint of understanding there. The retired assassin merely nodded and offered to help her atop the horse. Despite the armor, she was not as encumbered by it as he ought to have expected. A boon for him, he suspected; though Cyran had offered his help, he was not particularly strong. Any musculature he possessed was from speed and discipline.
Nightmare was not especially bothered by the sudden weight, considering she was used to Cyran hopping on and off of her as the retired assassin needed. She snorted, eyes alight with anticipation. Where most horses Cyran had known and owned had to be bred and trained not to flee at the sight of the battle, Nightmare possessed no such innate fear.
Cyran shrugged at Sylvari’s observation. “It is no trouble. These swamps are difficult terrain for most anyone… even myself. I don’t claim to be the most familiar with this area.” He huffed out a small laugh, a spark of humor alight in his only visible eye while they continued on once more, drawing closer to the camp. “Nor am I as young as I used to be. Slowing down is a welcome break.”
He nodded in confirmation when she spoke next, tapping at his chin. “I suppose we haven’t spoken about what we might do when we reach the camp - but you’re correct. My skills are firmly rooted in stealth and misdirection…” And the blade, but there was a small part of him that wanted to accomplish this mission without taking a life. He’d only just hung up his assassin mantle after less than pleasant circumstances, he wasn’t sure he was ready to -
But those were not problems for him to put on Sylvari. Cyran would find a way. He had to.
Pulling a mask from his bag, he affixed it over his face, and pulled his hood over his head so his features were mostly obscured. Not anything more than a precaution, now - since he would not be silencing witnesses through… more vicious means, he would simply have to make do through obscuring his identity and being a little more careful. It was a touch more trouble than the ex-assassin usually went through, but it was worth it. Besides, there was a small part of him that was grateful for the opportunity to do good for once next to someone so noble.
“I am unfamiliar with how the Mud Worms operate, but in principle, I don’t think it’s too far off to say that if you’re capable of distracting them, diverting their attention out of the camp, I can knock them out from behind. Or I can attempt to steal the Bogskippers from them… I am unsure how many foes there might be, but the animals are a priority.” He turned to Sylvari. “What do you think?”
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Post by Sylvari Dawnsage on Dec 2, 2023 13:55:11 GMT -5
A grim, wearied smile found its way onto Sylvari's face at her companion's proposed plan of action. It seemed Cyran's gentle heart had won out again when it came to dealing with even problematic criminals. Sylvari could easily imagine him being a priest for his bearing and mercy, even as she inwardly giggled at the thought of him clad in church finery. She, however, was called to a more macabre duty.
Justice and mercy were equal partners in the administration of peace and goodness and needed to be delivered in appropriate measure to render proper tranquility to common man. While the tender yearnings of Sylvari's heart wished she could be purely uplifting, inspiring people to choose light instead of darkness, as was her naive, childish wont, her travels had firmly rooted her worldview in reality. Her belief that everyone could be redeemed through kind efforts had rapidly dwindled to near nonexistence as her oath drove her to travel beyond the lands of her youth. As surely as justice was a balm of comfort to the innocent, it needed to be a scourge of fear to the wicked, and these criminals had proven themselves to be in need of a reminder of the threat of righteousness' wrath.
"Of course, our primary directive is the safe retrieval of the creatures, but my divine mandate is to bring justice throughout the world. These 'Mud Worms' have shown themselves to be dismissive of peace and goodness and must be reminded of the penalties associated with such actions." Aware that her harsh words and increasingly incensed, dark tone, may have been shocking to her apparently kind-hearted new friend, Sylvari forced a kind smile onto her face as she regarded Cyran with gentleness. "It need not cost them their lives, but they are certainly due a firm warning. Nothing less would satisfy justice."
As the pair continued their journey deeper into the swamp, Sylvari began to see the telltale signs of flickering firelight and gently rising smoke that spoke of an encampment ahead. She cracked her neck in anticipation of the coming fight as she retrieved her shield and massive warhammer, sliding off Nightmare to approach on foot. She looked to Cyran to see if he had any final preparations to discuss before the raid would begin.
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Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Dec 4, 2023 9:48:38 GMT -5
The conclusion Sylvari had reached about Cyran’s demeanor and the way he insisted on doing things was not entirely inaccurate, though not for the reasons she suspected. Cyran did not avoid killing because the act of it revolted him when someone could be saved or redeemed. Cyran avoided killing because it would be all too easy for him to do so. His hands, his blades, had put an end to the lives of countless, criminal and innocent alike, all for the sake of coin and survival. If he did not stop, withhold himself, then he feared he would create a monster.
Other people did not scare him. Cyran scared him.
… Though he refrained from explaining that, not only because he was not in the business of lamenting his word and the skeletons in his closet to a virtual stranger, but he was not jumping at the bit to explain his lengthy past as a contract killer of some repute to the Justiciar.
It was a bit of a shock for Cyran to hear the admission of her vows from her own lips, but it should not have been. Cyran’s primary experience was with knights who’d taken oaths of protection… but each had a different creed and manner of handling things. Evidently, Miss Sylvari’s method of operation was mercy to those willing to see the light. A kindness that was not extended to those who did not deserve it. The severity and conviction with which she spoke of ideals was at odds with her preternaturally youthful face.
Cyran closed his eyes and exhaled softly though his nose, once. Perhaps he’d been hasty in taking this job. The wounds from the battle with Vulcadreus were still fresh, and since then, he’d only taken care of rampaging monsters and the like. But he and Del needed the money - once the font of savings from his time as the Specter ran dry, then their only source of income would be Del’s odd jobs and carpentry work. Cyran needed to pull his weight, for their own survival, and so that they could learn to reach a new normal together.
He could make this work.
Opening his eyes, Cyran returned the same patient smile to Sylvari, one that pinched at the corner of his one visible eye. The only sign of the weariness of all his centuries. “You have your creed, Miss Sylvari, and I have mine. I’ll not obstruct your work as you do what you see fit. The Mud Worms are criminals, though they’ll not die by my blade. I shall support you from behind, provide opportunities. My priorities are you, and rescuing the Bogskippers. So long as you respect that, then I respect your vows for dispensing Justice.”
It was an olive branch - a promise he would not judge her for doing what she thought was right. Cyran was not ignorant to how the world worked… where most assumed that a decision to avoid killing when possible was preluded by a naive sense of optimism, Cyran was all too familiar with how the world worked. One could only be responsible for their own actions, not let that of others stain their hands and their hearts. Nor would Sylvari find any judgement from him - he understood being guided by one’s morals, and first and foremost, he was a pragmatist.
Signs of activity ahead told Cyran that there was little time for further conversation. They’d found the Mud Worm camp, exactly where the reports indicated it would be. It would be easier for Cyran to cloak himself in darkness and separate from Sylvari, allowing her to act and giving her support she needed from behind. Though he figured it would be prudent to ask before they acted. “Am I right in assuming that you’re the type to charge in and act, or would you like me to scout the camp first?”
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Post by Sylvari Dawnsage on Dec 4, 2023 15:57:03 GMT -5
Sylvari gave Cyran a grateful smile. He would not begrudge her for the things she was compelled to do. In return, she would do all she could to show mercy instead of vengeance, for his sake. She thought it was beautiful that he was able to hold onto such hope for human goodness. For as rare a gift as true martial talent was, finding a person of such remarkable moral and emotional fortitude was akin to finding a single snowflake in a blizzard.
As she moved forward to act, Cyran's next words caught her by surprise, and filled her with no small modicum of embarrassment. She must have looked quite the brash fool indeed to want to charge headlong into an entrenched enemy position and draw their attention all for herself. Her father always told her she was too quick to act by half, and it dulled any potential blows she might land. Her mother hand told her to use the beautiful mind wrapped up within her. While Sylvari had done her utmost to amend her fighting style to one more technical and savvy, clearly, such caution still had not made its home in her waking mind outside of battle. She cracked a blushing grin at her own expense.
"I suppose I must seem rather foolhardy if that's your estimation of me. It's a harsh but fair critique: in truth, I had not thought to make use of your scouting capabilities. I will endeavor to be more tactically minded, dear. Please don't risk yourself overmuch though. Call for me, and I will rush to your defense like a spring thunderstorm."
Sylvari reached out a hand halfway, longing to express physical comfort, before she retracted it and looked away in embarrassment. Despite how long she felt like she had known her partner, despite how much she admired him for his noble intentions, she knew that such quick gestures of affection made others uncomfortable, made them retract from her. In the lonely days since her exile, she longed for friends, for the sort of camaraderie that she had with her people, but she was forced to face with the harsh reality of the world: such easy fellowship was born of years and dozens of shared experiences. One never understands the gift of bonds set in place when they are young. For one such as Sylvari, however, who had lost those connections and now had nothing to fill the deepening void in her heart, she could lament how she took such things for granted.
She gave a small smile to Cyran and made a show of settling in on a nearby stump, though she knew she would be nervously pacing the moment he departed.
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Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Dec 13, 2023 8:32:45 GMT -5
It was Cyran’s turn, now, to look sheepish. “Oh, no, I meant no offense. I’ve done combat with, erm, knightly types before, and I know that not everyone feels the need for caution and preparedness.” On the other hand, the nature of his skills forced him to be clever with them. There was nothing wrong with either approach, though his experience in delving trapped, deadly dungeons often taught him that his role was necessary to prevent others from losing limb or life to something unexpected. He’d once lost his own eye to such lack of caution; one that had since grown back shadow-touched and magically twisted, infected with shadow and black as midnight. Functional, but ever the physical reminder of his own monstrous qualities.
So, yes. Scouting was a small caution he was more than happy to perform. In thought, the assassin tapped at his chin. “I don’t presume the Mud Worms are the most organized, but this operation implies thought and unity. I’m anticipating environmental traps around the camp…”
The aborted half-movement of an arm caught his attention and drew him out of his thoughts. The movement of someone who craved closeness, yet did not know how to ask for it.
Cyran smiled, tilting his head. Sylvari was a surprisingly sweet kid. He could only guess at her age, but it was her demeanor less than her face that betrayed her youth. When she pulled away, he smiled, the small softened demeanor still invisible behind the mask; though what was considerably more obvious was him reaching his hand out and patting her on the head, ruffling her hair. Fatherly instinct more than anything, a creature comfort he was used to affording the children of the orphanage.
“I’ll be back in just a tick.”
Then, he stepped back, and disappeared into the comfort of the shadows entirely.[1]
It was familiar, to traipse alone in the silence, cloaked entirely in the dark. The retired assassin crept closer to the light of the Mud Worms’ campfire, the action second nature at this point. Hauntingly intimate. None were the wiser to his approach, allowing the assassin to create a mental map of the area, etched into the recesses of his memory. As he expected, the camp was simple. No elaborate constructions, though he thought he saw some kind of… what looked like the remains of a stone building, partially submerged in the muck, warped and twisted by time to the point its true form was unrecognizable. The rest were tents, and even a small pile of crates an archer was perched on, acting as a makeshift watchpost.
He spotted the signs of ten people in total inhabiting the area in the past few hours, though whether that was the full extent of their ranks, he wasn’t sure; different footsteps indicated some human, some goblin.[2] No sign of the bogskippers, though Cyran could make out signs of places where cages had been dragged in the mud. He didn’t have enough time to figure out where to. Priorities, priorities. He paid attention to shuffling movement, the sound of speech, the bored archer-guard falling asleep at his post, two goblins and a human playing knucklebones at the campfire, all pointing to eight people in total…
Wait. Eight?
Cyran’s shoulders stiffened, searching for the final two, unable to find anything. The last two had left camp - recently. For what reason, the elven man couldn’t be sure. But it didn’t matter. If the Mud Worms were mulling around the area then they weren’t as safe as they thought. They needed to make haste. He dusted himself off and started making his way back to where Sylvari was waiting.
A few seconds too late, perhaps - for the two remaining bandits patrolling the area were just about to stumble upon the justiciar, neither group any the wiser. 1. Dark Form (Shadow Dancer III) 2. Investigation Kit (Hunter I)
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Post by Sylvari Dawnsage on Dec 13, 2023 11:24:04 GMT -5
Surprises with Cyran kept coming, as the elf seemed to always see right through Sylvari's intentions and into her soul. It seemed that her half-veil was a poor defense for the rogue's piercing gaze. As reached out to ruffle her hair, a gesture of fondness that reminded her of her father, the justiciar's eyes went wide and a flush dominated her cheeks. He knew her desire for affection and reciprocated: without hesitation, without asking any apology. The strength and certainty of his motion affected Sylvari more powerfully than the action itself.
Is this what it means to be strong? To be so assured of yourself to give people what they need and never question yourself? But no, I do him too little credit. I know in my bones his eyes see all in my mind. He is as cautious as me, if not moreso, but he reads me as if I were a small child crying out my wants for all to hear. I need to be more observant. A real justiciar should be able to attend to people exactly as they need, with no words spoken. Master Cyran, I vow to follow in your example, to hone my skills in the pursuit of yours, until the day I too can help the weary and downtrodden without words.
So caught up in her thoughts of her training yet to go was Sylvari that she was wholly unaware of the impromptu patrol of a man and goblin that wandered the perimeter of the camp. If one was charitable, they might chalk the justiciar's quick action up to her honed fighting instinct over years of combatting evil. In truth, however, she was simply looking in the right direction as the pair approached, blessedly so engrossed in their conversation, some kind of argument, to see either Sylvari or Nightmare. Such fortune would not last however, as the pair looked forward, their attention drawn by Nightmare's fiery mane.
The bandit's eyes went wide with alarm, but the justiciar was already in motion. Her warhammer, wielded in only her dominant arm despite its size [Knight, Master of Combat], flashed with frost [Spell Blade, Arcane Soul] and light [Celestial, Angelic Light] as it came down upon the skull of the goblin in a flash. The human's demise came swiftly after: a smooth transition from the first blow, as Sylvari used the reverberating momentum of rebounding from her first foe's head to ricochet the hammer's hooked end up into the man's throat, but not before he was able to begin a pitched, panicked cry. Hells. They were upon me too swiftly to hold my blows.
As the man's shout alerted the camp and an alarm bell was sounded, Sylvari groaned and pressed her hand to her veiled forehead in exasperation. And I wasn't even successful in preventing an alarm. Godsdamnit. Sorry, Master Cyran. I failed you twice.
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Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Dec 16, 2023 21:00:36 GMT -5
In the span of a few seconds everything had gone rather pear shaped.
Only a short time passed between Cyran’s realization that a few camp members were missing and the cry of alarm in the distance, though it felt like an eternity. Not a scream; a shrill shriek in a series of different tones before it was quickly cut off. The danger, silenced, but not before the other Mud Worms were warned of the stranger in the midst of their territory.
Oh, hell.
One of the goblins opened their mouth, letting out a screech in a language that Cyran didn’t recognize. Not that he needed to, when the sentiment was enough. The other Mud Worms reached for their weapons, the time for peace and relaxation coming to an abrupt end. Spears were hoisted in the air, was cries rallied; three sprinting in the direction of the sound, the direction Cyran had come from.
Sylvari.
The retired assassin turned his attention towards the camp, where five remained to guard the perimeter. So they were smart enough to leave some protection in their camp. Cyran paused, indecisive - should he strike the camp while it was weak or should he go after Sylvari? The young woman could likely take care of herself, but he worried what might happen if she couldn’t and he wasn’t there to help.
In the end, it really wasn’t much of a question.
Cyran raised his hand, calling the shadows to his aid. The darkness clinging to his heels expanded, the air around him growing dimmer, dismal, hopeless. A spectral, winged creature of pure inky-black darkness formed from his shadow, spreading its wings and taking flight.[1]
“Hit the camp!” Cyran commanded, any softness and gentility he might have shown earlier hardening to ice with his worry. “Don’t give them the opportunity to gather their bearings!” If they realized that the intruders were after the monsters they were hiding away, it only gave them the chance to collect themselves, to transport the Bogskippers somewhere else. Any attempts at stealth were null and void, now. They had to act fast, and hard.
And the creature obeyed. It blotted out the sun with its massive body, opening its mouth and releasing a wave of pure darkness that punctured the arms of one of the remaining Mud Worms, and plunged the camp into chaos.[2]
Cyran didn’t stick around to see what happened after that. Sylvari was his more immediate priority.
The Mud Worms had gotten a head start on him, in part due to their natural familiarity with the terrain - but Cyran, once the Specter, would not be impeded so easily. Wings of pure shadow burst from his back, and Cyran soared, a blur skimming the air after the bandits, racing them to Sylvari.[3] His heart pounded in his chest, seconds stretching into eternity, unable to breathe until he found them. The three bandits, nearly closing in on the knight’s location, spears aimed to strike at the woman. But they’d neglected to account for the devil on their heels.
Cyran raised a hand, palm splayed towards the ground as he called the darkness to his aid once more. “Be still.”
Brambling shadow-vines burst from the ground, the scratching thorns piercing through their shoes and tangling in their legs.[4] His visage, a grim mask of death, silhouetted by a pair of midnight wings, a halo of pure shadow framing his face. Challenging them to move. Challenging to attack her.
Cyran might have promised no one would die today, but that did not mean he was incapable of harm. 1. Summon: Dark Elemental 2. Chaos Bolt - Dark Elemental 3. Bat Wings (Post ⅓) 4. Stinging Nettles
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Post by Sylvari Dawnsage on Dec 18, 2023 11:07:51 GMT -5
It seemed that no sooner had Sylvari dispatched the criminal than did three of his comrades come charging forth to challenge her with spears forward in a charge. Tight formation, no gaps between them. These gangers are a cut above normal bandits. Perhaps they have military experience among them? I shall be wary and fight carefully. No need to aggrieve Master Cyran's heart any more than I already have.
Speaking of her elven companion, he appeared above them, on wings of night, and outstretched his hands to intercede on her behalf. She could smell his spell before it was cast: one of entangling and restraining. Sure enough, a mere second later, blackened vines with wicked thorns rose up around the charging bandits' legs stopping their forward momentum, and nearly causing them to fall forward into the mud for their sudden stop. It was a testament to their skill and their cooperation that the trio did not. seeing that the bandits weren't going anywhere for a little while, Sylvari turned to address her winged friend.
"Master Cyran! I'm sorry. I was too slow to prevent the perimeter guard from crying out and sounding the alarm. Were you hurt at all?" Worry and shame laced the justiciar's voice in equal parts, clearly quite perturbed that she had failed the operation. She gave no indication of being hurt herself, though did grimace as her gaze fell upon the now-lifeless bodies of the bandits that fell to her might. "I was unable to spare them. I hoped to prevent alerting the camp, but it seems I failed twice in that endeavor."
Suddenly aware of the eyes of the gangers on her, Sylvari drained the emotion from her face and stepped forward to address them. Speaking with criminals and offering them clemency for promises of redemption was the one area where she was supremely confident, and so she bore no meekness in taking lead on this endeavor.
"Foul bandits, your sins of assault, theft, and other criminal acts have weighed against you and you have been found lacking. I am within my rights to end you here and prevent further harm to the common good, but my good companion has begged mercy on your behalves. If you lay down your arms and swear to pursue the path of righteousness, you will be subjected to only questions instead of the end of my hammer."
Sylvari watched their eyes carefully as the bandits contemplated their course of action. She could hear combat from within the camp, but assumed Cyran to be the cause and, thus, devoted her whole awareness to the men before her.
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Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Dec 22, 2023 10:00:05 GMT -5
Cyran wasn’t too late. Sylvari was fine; of course she was, albeit a little harried, though it was difficult to make out the expression on her face under the veil at this distance. He knew little of her fighting prowess, though the dead at her feet ought to have been a good indicator of her skill. Even now she was worried about him.
“I’m fine!” Cyran called over the sound of the roaring bandits, the cries of pain as brambles and thorns dug into their legs, their attacks brought to a screeching halt. Cyran dropped to the ground, wings fluttering behind him before tucking downwards and resembling a sweeping cloak. “Don’t worry about me. It happens. Adapt and focus on dispatching the enemy now.”
His tone was firm, though not without its own warmth; worried, perhaps, that Sylvari would take this out on herself and lose sight of the task at hand. Sloppiness that could get her hurt. Armor did not make her invincible. As Cyran straightened, though, one of the Mud Worms only scoffed.
“Morons! Two renegades can’t slay the Worm. Flay us and we regenerate. Soft, squishy folk like you don’t belong here.” His voice, vitriolic; every word spat as if the acid might melt Cyran. “If the swamp does not claim you, our brethren will. With claws and and fangs.”
Cyran remained silent. Such a threat meant nothing to him.
He didn’t even deign them with words of warning. The elven man, once the Specter, now merely a common spirit, let Sylvari take the reins. Conviction dripped from her every word, her ideals as unyielding as the hand that gripped the hammer. Her threat was a genuine one. Surrender, and live. Give them the answers they sought, and die. Cyran took a step forward, the very air around him growing darker as the shadows clung to him. In the distance, the sound of clanging steel, shouts, and the shadeling’s screeches said that no allies would be coming to their aid.
“Your allies won’t last long.” Cyran added, each word a deadly calm. He took another step forward. “It would be prudent to heed my compatriot’s words and surrender yourselves. You’ll find peace and live long lives… you need only tell us what you intend to do with the Bogskippers you’ve imprisoned.”
The thugs glanced between them. Death in front of them, and salvation behind.
In the end, there was never really a question.
“Better to die a beast then live chained like a man!”
The others raised their weapons. Their rallying cries pierced the air.
Cyran sighed and closed his eyes. Why in the world did they always choose to fight…? No matter. The end result would be the same. At the very least, they would not die by Cyran’s hand. “Then perish like the dogs you’ve chosen to be.”[1]
The very words, pierced straight into their hearts. Cyran didn’t need a dagger to be dangerous; it showed in his demeanor, in his calm. They didn’t dare step closer to him and learn what would happen if they wandered within the shadow’s grasp. Stricken with the fear of a prey animal and the fangs and claws of predators, they hoisted up their weapons and charged -
Straight at Sylvari. 1. Looming Fear (Warlord III)
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Post by Sylvari Dawnsage on Dec 23, 2023 13:16:17 GMT -5
In the grand scheme of years, Sylvari hadn't been a justiciar long: scant more than two years, at this point. Nevertheless, her dedication was an all-consuming fire that dominated her actions, her thoughts, and even her subconscious mind. She was as adept at her duty as she would be 50 years hence, for though the total time spent in her dedication was short, she lived and breathed her convictions.
It was small wonder then, that she saw the turning of the men's hearts and thoughts, betrayed by their eyes, as Cyran spoke. They wouldn't surrender. They were too entrenched in the path of wrongdoing. They had tied up their identities in wickedness, and it was her job to judge sinners.
Sylvari didn't spare a glance to her companion, but she was thankful that the men charged her, even though she didn't understand it in that moment. Acting quickly, she uttered a sting of fell phrases in quick succession, first placing a hand on her friend, as a dull purple haze enveloped his form [Black Shield]. Thus, assured of Cyran's safety, Sylvari was not beholden to restrain herself.
When the bandits were mere feet away from her, weapons outstretched to strike her down, Sylvari released the held magic of her second spell: a roiling wave of darkness erupting out from her in all directions [Death Wave]. The necrotic energy rolled harmlessly off of Cyran, repulsed by the flare of protective shielding. The enemies of the justiciar, however, were not so fortunate.
For two of them, the wave knocked them off of their feet, launched into the mud and howling in pain as the dark energy rent them from the inside. Their vanguard was not so lucky. The closest of the bandits when the spell was unleashed, he was cut in two pieces, the exploding arcana acting like a razor-sharp blade that sundered his body in twain. He was dead before he hit the ground. Dark crimson began to mix with the mire.
Sylvari walked forward calmly, her neutral expression and easy gait at terrifying odds with the ease of which she had just severed a life, making her all the more menacing. She stood over the two criminals, still writhing in the mud, and all she could see was taint that needed to be purged.
"Only fools choose death where life is offered." With two quick strokes of her hammer, justice was sated twice more.
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