The land of Anstasia, a once powerful and great nation has fallen more than once. In order to protect the holy lands from evil a great seal was created in the time of the High Kings.
Its name was Quiazon, Protector
The origin of the original sword was lost to the ravages of time, hidden away to protect humanity itself.
But a shard was recovered.
Enough magic remained within the shard to erect a great seal in the form of a statue placed in front of the High Palace, a seal that would protect the kingdom from chaos.
When the seal was intact, a powerful prophecy was forged.
"When the lands are safe, the sword will stand; but when the lands are before destruction, the sword will shatter."
There was great reason to forge such a seal, the land had crawled its way out of deaths grasp, having survived a war of great chaos and destruction.
What sort of power brought the world to its knees, and close to its destruction?
What sort of power required immense holy magics to fend off its advances?
Before the seal was woven.
Before the sword was forged.
Before the cataclysm.
The Dulshas ruled.
And against them?
Ciaran: The Dark Stranger.
Humanities last hope?
The Arkovayne.
Or is he?
This is the story of how it all came to be. A legend told in secret; of hopes, of dreams, of love, of happiness, of how they all came crashing down, and of how the world was covered in darkness for hundreds of years.
In the ancient times but two kingdoms stood strong in the realm of life, Diarmuld - The Radiant Jewel, home to the secret warrior sect known only as The Chosen, Mage and warrior as one.
The second, whose name was lost to the modern world, is now known as Suileabhain, a land filled with ancient magics. In this land once roamed the elves, and the ancient sisterhood of the Dulsha, and the Alter of Ah'lar.
-- Edited by Samone on Monday 29th of April 2013 02:13:59 AM
In the dawn of the 2nd era, the land was at peace.
The two kingdoms had been in mutual peace for almost a hundred years, an anniversary soon to be celebrated by both. A mother reagent sat upon one throne, and the mighty warrior king Xavier upon the other.
However dark whispers began to be heard across the land... some spoke of war on the horizon, but with whom?
The two kingdoms currently up-stood the peace almost flawlessly, little was heard of dispute between the two.
With the comings of spring already in full progress, the people gather about awaiting the nearing festivities.
With the snow melt comes easier travel between the two kingdoms, the rather thick jumble of mountains separating the two quite lethal mere weeks before.
Rumor of bandits seem to multiply by the day. News of several barbarian tribes moving as one across the trade routes, wreaking random havoc.
Behind all the shadows and mystery lays a prophecy riddled with misfortune, with a single ray of hope piercing its core.
Many argue over the true translation of the prophecy, the ancient language seemingly predating mankind itself. Some even argue it came from the future, sent to us by a powerful mage trying to prevent catastrophe.
One of many on the tablet, this prophecy declares that "after a hundred years of peace, a forbidden child will be born that will reap the souls of man with his decisions, forever dooming mankind to a life of torment"
Yet hope still exists, for later on the tablet another prophecy speaks of the same child.
"Thus was sown the age of death, the shadows rose and consumed the light, except for one, who withstood time itself to defeat the darkness that it wrought with blood"
-- Edited by Samone on Tuesday 14th of May 2013 08:09:21 AM
-- Edited by Samone on Friday 17th of May 2013 06:14:56 AM
-- Edited by Samone on Sunday 6th of October 2013 09:40:24 AM
Born as a physical sign of peace between the two countries; mothered by the ruling Dulshan queen and fathered by the Ciaran, king of Diarmuld.
But not all were pleased by his birth.
Ancient Dulshan prophecies had forbidden a male child to be born from any reverend mother, a child whose destiny was quite dark; and foretold the doom of mankind. In secret they gathered at his birth, deep within the castle at the focus of their power, the great Altar of Ah'lar.
Its surface gleamed in the dull candlelight. Ancient glowing runes along its gleaming Silver surface, the air choked with the smoke from a variety of colored incense sticks burning along key points in the spell-form drawn on the ground with ground dragons bone and blood.
The agonizing wails of childbirth echoed through the dark stone walls of the labyrinthine palace, the only sound to break the nights silence.
The prophecies foretold the child of reaching levels of power that none could control a mage of unimaginable strengths, strong enough to either rule the world, or destroy it in conquest.
Measures had to be taken, precautions against the child from ever living up to that potential.
The cries of childbirth were slowly met with that of a new life.
A priestess took hold of the newborn, and held it aloft, so that it may see the face of Ah'lar.
The great statue that sat in the center of the Altar suddenly came to life, its silver surface flowing like water, shimmering with uncountable shades of intense color. The statue bellowed out in a low rolling wail as it looked upon the child. Grasping the sword it wore at its side firmly, holding it aloft the statue bellowed out a mournful wail before bringing it down upon the childs bare breast .The great glimmering blade seemingly vaporous in form as it sliced through the air, leaving behind a potent trail of runes that floated into the air as motes of dust, eventually fizzling into nothingness.
Thrust into the child it was, but no blade was present to rend flesh and draw blood. The runes placed upon it saw sure to that. No it was not steel that pierced the child's heart, but that of pure essence, slicing through the child's soul and in doing so scar it, weakening it at birth. No soul such damaged could ever harness the powers of magic, essentially cutting him away from all magic.
The first shackles had been forged. The first cage was locked. The spark that lit the flame.
-- Edited by Samone on Sunday 6th of October 2013 09:38:52 AM
Few if any could understand the situation that he seemed to have gotten himself into, the situation he had been branded into since birth.
He was but a trophy to the kingdom, and intensely watched as an abomination in the eyes of his up bringers, the dulshan nurses and teachers who guided him through life at the strictest of regimen, his every move watched down to the minute detail. Even what little "Friends" he had were kept under watch, less they lead him astray.
The dull monotony that was his daily life offered few if any excitement, his regularly scheduled classes kept him occupied, the only part of the day that was anything but mediocre were his Magic history classes, and Fencing. being unable to wield magics like so many other's, a good chunk of time that would normally go into practicing the art of magic, went into practicing theory, and although he grew to know more about the technical aspects of the art, he was unable to make use of it.
He would spend split time between the two nations who brought him into this world. Life outside the stifling presence of the Dulshan priests was the only joy the child came to know. His father forbidding the priests from following the boy, for he knew why they watched him so, and was not inclined to let their conspiracies take from within his kingdom.
It was here, within the walls of the Radiant Castle that the boy first heard the whispers.
Soft susurrations of tonal interference within the back of his mind, always present, but distant. The sounds came at random, creeping forth from the shadows with maligned intent, over time it sunk it's hooks into his mind, influencing his actions in the minutest of details.
-- Edited by Samone on Wednesday 25th of September 2013 01:21:32 AM
-- Edited by Samone on Friday 27th of September 2013 09:33:25 AM
He was as a multitude of smoke currents of infinite origin. Collecting and swirling on current's of air, delicately writhing about in the light, perfectly confined within the vaporous form of a man. Crimson swirls of rancid black smoke burning from two direct sources, eye's of fire and brimstone gazing out at the world with a piercing gaze.
Form wafting ever so, always in the corner of the eye never straight forth, always around you. His form never once solidifying, always with the vaporous smoke swirling about in the light with innocence. Always with the burning eyes, the rancid colors almost palpable. Softly fading cackles echo with sharp malice, the wretched smile stretching about the air with a wicked grace.
The air snaps about violently, gust of wind slap about sending the smoke swirling madly around, dense in the light it bounces about as a whole, yet ever so individual of its delicate strands of vapor. But always the wavering form of man, always the rancid smoke burning with a dull light.
Many whispers roam the halls in hushed reverence to the mystical being of wicked decorum that haunts the high tower, few brave the steps into it's shadowy depths, having been sealed off many years before. The omens bode ill upon the subject, none displaying anything less than feared awe and gossip like horror at it's mentioning.
But he knew.
The young boy knew what presided up their, cackling in its dungeon of stone and mortar. The ancient beast pinned to this world, it's focus sealed away within the tower.
The power of such a being.
He lusted to wield it. He must Have it for himself. The being within must answer to him.
The hunt had begun, the obsession, deep seated within his mind every day, gnawing away at him slowly like the parasite that it was.
He could feel it's presence at night, in his sleep and in his dreams he could feel the call of power.
Careful planning was the key, he mustn't go in unprepared.
-- Edited by Samone on Wednesday 11th of May 2016 04:35:11 AM
He was as a multitude of smoke currents of infinite origin. Collecting and swirling on currents of air, delicately writhing about in the light, perfectly confined within the vaporous form of a man. Crimson swirls of rancid black smoke burning from two direct sources, eyes of fire and brimstone gazing out at the world with a piercing gaze.
Form wafting about always in the corner of the eye never once coming to full view, surrounding you from all sides. Its form never once solidifying, yet always with the vaporous smoke swirling about in the light with utter innocence. Always with the burning eyes, the rancid colors almost palpable. Softly fading cackles echo with sharp malice, the wretched smile stretching about the air with a wicked grace.
The air snaps about violently, gust of wind slap about sending the smoke swirling madly around, dense in the light it bounces about as a whole, yet ever so individual of its delicate strands of vapor. Yet always the wavering form of man, always the rancid smoke burning with a dull light.
Many whispers roam the halls in hushed reverence to the mystical being of wicked decorum that haunts the high tower; few brave the steps into its shadowy depths, having been sealed off many years before. The omens bode ill upon the subject, none displaying anything less than feared awe and gossip like horror at its mentioning.
But he knew.
The young boy knew what presided up there, cackling in its dungeon of stone and mortar. The ancient beast pinned to this world, its focus sealed away within the tower.
He could feel it's presence at night, in his sleep and in his dreams he could feel the calling from the other side, within his minds eye he saw the mirror and the reflective image from within, calling out to him with that wordless cry.
The darkness had planted its seeds within him carefully, knowing the eyes that watched the boy, they knew not of the slowly nourished vines that crept deeper and deeper into him, coiling around that gaping void that would be his heart of hearts, unable to fully penetrate into his soul without that precious touch of magic. It lay dormant within him, never able to take control; yet influence his every move with subtlety.
He began to feel new emotions never felt before, rage boiled beneath with viscous grace, bubbling out at random times.
He could always hear it calling to him from the other side.
That other side of the mirror, what lay beyond it? Surely it was not of this world, for nothing so born could fuel a power so dark, a power dark enough to consume the feeble light that was cast upon this failing world by petty peace.
It hungered to be released.
Nightly he would awake with a start, suddenly to realize he stood before that ancient mirror in the tower, always within the flickering judgment of candle light.
He knew what he must do.
He had studied many ancient rituals, the knowledge literally spoon fed to him by his teachers, never caring at what it was he took in for he could never enact upon it.
How foolish they were.
The mirror before him shimmered with light quite unusual to its usual appearance. Dull angry red light shone from behind the quicksilver, which had visually warmed and began flowing slowly downwards, as though some great fire behind it raged.
And so the boy stood before the mirror, the opposite of himself staring at him with no emotion.
The visions would flash without reason, always with the glimmering promise of something he could never hold.
Voices offered healing. Voices offered to close the wound that shut him away from the magic.
The boy dreamed of such. The darkness reached out to him once more with an iron grasp, tightening the burrowed thorns of control it had grown within his mind.
With tender grace he reached out his hand and placed it upon the mirror, but no contact was made.
Instead it slipped inside like liquid, the reflection mirroring his actions.
Flowing over his body slowly, engulfing his every being into its embrace.
And then it was over, and everything was quiet.
The images had crossed over, and now it was the darkened reflection that stared back at the pale boy in the mirror with no emotion. Turning away he gazed upon the tower room for the first time with his own eyes, no longer gazing back through the mirror into the judgmental candlelight.
He was through. The boy named Xavier had now taken the place of the boy named Ark.
-- Edited by Samone on Wednesday 16th of October 2013 10:33:35 AM
The moon shed no light from it's immortal shell, glowing only from within, hollow and transparent as the world it governed. A starless sky of ink black, the endless void of the nether.
Infinite motes of ash frozen in time, as though freshly hurled forth from an earthen wrath.
The only perceivable light one could note upon came from no visible source, the landscape about him was very clearly lit, but the world was so dark.
The only other element of note was the complete lack of sound. His own voice muted to visual vibrations that rippled the air around him, the ever present motes moving for once, flowing upon the currents of air until once again freezing in time.
Reality bending in on itself in attempt to resolve the recent anomalies.
Everything seemed as though new once more, as if he first gaze upon the world with virgin eyes.
Sound's decided to return to this plane, a roaring rush of further silence filled his ear's, no life graced this world.
His breath exhaled a most curious cloud of colored vapors as reality once again attempted to correct itself.
However this final time brought upon the true horror of the world.
Ash fell freely within this world of no wind, stale hot air filled his lungs obtrusively, bringing with it the stench of brimstone.
Flames danced through the air, blazing forth from the thin networks of cracks creeping their way across the landscape.
The path before him was wrought of roughly hewn stone, scorched and crumbling.
The ashen world spread before him, split in twain by the path.
-- Edited by Samone on Friday 13th of December 2013 02:01:24 PM
-- Edited by Samone on Friday 13th of December 2013 02:03:32 PM
