Gregz
Arcane
H1
-
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Monster Trucks
- Thread starter Holy Cow
- Start date
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- Tags
- wizard kings
Random Word
Arbiter
- Joined
- Mar 14, 2012
- Messages
- 320
H2
Viata
Arcane
H2
WE WUZ WIZARD KANGZ
H2
H2
Holy Cow
Guest
Male Egyptian wins! Update will be up this weekend monday
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I was holding out for 
Too late to vote again. But, for once, I am pleased.
xXGunsNRoses420Xx
Novice
- Joined
- Jul 4, 2016
- Messages
- 63
traded root writing black cat soft(hard?)core porn for what will probably devolve into scorpion king freemasonry with C'Tans
I see your MechWarrior and raise you Tiberian Sun 
Holy Cow
Guest
“You’re reading the old fraud’s latest work, I see. He still tries to turn the people against us. I wonder what he hopes to achieve.”
The pupil puts the tome down, raising his head to face the man. He has not changed much for there is not much to change. Without the formal attire he seems a thing of the stage, some puppet or prop left gathering dust for too long. A bandaged hand picks up the book from the table:
“Let us see what he says…’Malta is a relief to me. In a world so changed from mine own, there still remain some mysteries shared by both. The ruins remain, were already ruins far before Syracuse was ever erected, its people not even a memory. It was with not inconsiderable effort I was able to convince the Hegemon to leave these ruins be and establish no more than a small outpost on the island, Port Melite. A few other scholars have gathered here along the years, along with fortune seekers and arcanists hungry for the riches and power they think the ruins hide. Most who venture inside come out empty handed. Some never come back at all.’”
The master snaps the book shut and utters a cavernous rattle.
“Always a flair for the dramatic. He made up that last part, you know. Nobody’s ever disappeared inside those ruins. He just wants to discourage the treasure hunters. Come, walk with me.”
The two men make their way to the top of the tower, high above the city roofs. It seems out of place with the local architecture, a crude structure of wood and quarried stone. Here and there other such structures dot the skyscape, reminders of the many wars the River Kingdom waged to conquer the island, none of them successful for long.
“This is all our School left to the world untouched by the Nile. Minstrels will sing of the philosophy of the Hellenes, of the contraptions of Archimedes, of the cities of Carthage, but of us only these towers.”
“And the deathless armies.”
“Ah, yes. Our legacy will be the dead. The gifts we leave to those who come after will be those who came before.”
The pupil, who never had much patience for his former master’s musings, speaks testily:
“Why did you summon me, Imbeyal?”
“Ah, names now? You've grown confident. I’ve a last task for you, one that needs doing and one that I cannot accomplish."
The death mask turns to face the young man, its colors long ago eroded from the metallic surface, though behind the eyeholes the pupil fancies he can see the twin flames that are a glimpse into the old wizard's indefatigable will.
"Long ago there was man who could wield our powers despite being neither of our School nor of our blood. In the Levant he raised the dead and proclaimed the falsehood of our beliefs. We had him and his disciples hunted, their lives snuffed, their bloodlines ended, their names and memories expunged from all history save our own.”
“The Nazarene. Thank you, Varvanus.”
The pupil takes the goblet of wine and sits down on the hard surface of the tower, stretching his legs. The other man remains standing, again looking more puppet than man, not even his chest moving to the rhytmn of breath.
“Indeed. Though at that time, over four hundred years ago, we were quite taken with our own power and were arrogant in our ways. This Nazarene performed the crossing and rose from his grave three days afterward. Thereon he disappears from all history, even our own. We should have been more vigilant, should have destroyed his corpse, instead of letting it rot at the bottom of a ditch. We did not think it possible for an outsider to perform the rite.”
The young man reflects on what has been said to him. He knew only the first part of the tale, and finds it hard to believe in the second. Only the most exalted of the Egyptian wizards could challenge Ammit and wrest from her the immortality Anubis had denied them. Of course, that very story leaves open another possibility for a second life…
“Jukka! Mark me now. A group of Proscribed has learned of the Nazarene, and now they seek him out, hoping if they find him they’ll have the means to discredit us. To prove magic can be taught across Lines. That the Hierarchies are the invention of old men desperately clinging to power.”
“Are they not?”
“You ask me this? You, whose Persian friends are convinced untamed magic will usher in the end of the world?”
All expression flees from Jukka’s face, who, still being a novice to intrigue, is unaware this is quite telling in itself.
“I may lack eyes but I am not blind, pupil. Restrain your impertinent tongue. You may think yourself no longer my apprentice, but I remain your master. You will do as I bid.”
The pupil raises an eyebrow, for he knows himself a wizard and won’t be cowed even when outmatched. Sneering, he asks:
“Why?”
“Because it is Sarasti who leads these Proscribed.”
The young man’s face goes pale, his features twisted in a tangle of emotion.
“You will find them and see out their quest. How you do it is of no import to me. If the Nazarene yet lives, destroy him. If he is but dust and bones, see to it that they are never uncovered. Eliminate the Proscribed. Spare Sarasti and bring her back into the fold, and I shall make sure any mention of her…deviancy be struck from record. These are my commands.”
“Yes, master.”
The old wizard’s dried frame ponderously turns its back on the pupil, the death mask turned toward the noontime sun.
“Good. Varvanus will see you to my factor in Melite, who will supply you with the information and equipment required. You may leave now.”
Jukka rises slowly and makes to climb down the stairs, but the loud beating of hooves arrest his motion. He turns to look at the city below and sees a trail of dust speckled with gold rising quickly, moving towards the tower.
“Mithridatics. They have been hoping to get at me for some time now, and word of my being recalled has finally spurred them into action. They probably think you a princeling's envoy, a stuffy bureaucrat to escort me home."
“Recalled?”
“Irrelevant. Go now and do as I’ve told you. I can deal with these pests.”
Six horses canter to a halt on the agora adjacent the tower and their riders dismount without apparent haste. Their robes gleam green and gold under the sun, the foremost of their group carrying a staff with a carved snake entwined. They stride briskly towards the tower. The snake entwined around the Asklepian’s staff opens its mouth and tastes the air with its tongue.
“All of them?”
“Yes. Go.”
1) Jukka does as his master bids and departs in haste towards his quest.
2) Jukka refuses the command and helps his master in the coming battle.
The pupil puts the tome down, raising his head to face the man. He has not changed much for there is not much to change. Without the formal attire he seems a thing of the stage, some puppet or prop left gathering dust for too long. A bandaged hand picks up the book from the table:
“Let us see what he says…’Malta is a relief to me. In a world so changed from mine own, there still remain some mysteries shared by both. The ruins remain, were already ruins far before Syracuse was ever erected, its people not even a memory. It was with not inconsiderable effort I was able to convince the Hegemon to leave these ruins be and establish no more than a small outpost on the island, Port Melite. A few other scholars have gathered here along the years, along with fortune seekers and arcanists hungry for the riches and power they think the ruins hide. Most who venture inside come out empty handed. Some never come back at all.’”
The master snaps the book shut and utters a cavernous rattle.
“Always a flair for the dramatic. He made up that last part, you know. Nobody’s ever disappeared inside those ruins. He just wants to discourage the treasure hunters. Come, walk with me.”
The two men make their way to the top of the tower, high above the city roofs. It seems out of place with the local architecture, a crude structure of wood and quarried stone. Here and there other such structures dot the skyscape, reminders of the many wars the River Kingdom waged to conquer the island, none of them successful for long.
“This is all our School left to the world untouched by the Nile. Minstrels will sing of the philosophy of the Hellenes, of the contraptions of Archimedes, of the cities of Carthage, but of us only these towers.”
“And the deathless armies.”
“Ah, yes. Our legacy will be the dead. The gifts we leave to those who come after will be those who came before.”
The pupil, who never had much patience for his former master’s musings, speaks testily:
“Why did you summon me, Imbeyal?”
“Ah, names now? You've grown confident. I’ve a last task for you, one that needs doing and one that I cannot accomplish."
The death mask turns to face the young man, its colors long ago eroded from the metallic surface, though behind the eyeholes the pupil fancies he can see the twin flames that are a glimpse into the old wizard's indefatigable will.
"Long ago there was man who could wield our powers despite being neither of our School nor of our blood. In the Levant he raised the dead and proclaimed the falsehood of our beliefs. We had him and his disciples hunted, their lives snuffed, their bloodlines ended, their names and memories expunged from all history save our own.”
“The Nazarene. Thank you, Varvanus.”
The pupil takes the goblet of wine and sits down on the hard surface of the tower, stretching his legs. The other man remains standing, again looking more puppet than man, not even his chest moving to the rhytmn of breath.
“Indeed. Though at that time, over four hundred years ago, we were quite taken with our own power and were arrogant in our ways. This Nazarene performed the crossing and rose from his grave three days afterward. Thereon he disappears from all history, even our own. We should have been more vigilant, should have destroyed his corpse, instead of letting it rot at the bottom of a ditch. We did not think it possible for an outsider to perform the rite.”
The young man reflects on what has been said to him. He knew only the first part of the tale, and finds it hard to believe in the second. Only the most exalted of the Egyptian wizards could challenge Ammit and wrest from her the immortality Anubis had denied them. Of course, that very story leaves open another possibility for a second life…
“Jukka! Mark me now. A group of Proscribed has learned of the Nazarene, and now they seek him out, hoping if they find him they’ll have the means to discredit us. To prove magic can be taught across Lines. That the Hierarchies are the invention of old men desperately clinging to power.”
“Are they not?”
“You ask me this? You, whose Persian friends are convinced untamed magic will usher in the end of the world?”
All expression flees from Jukka’s face, who, still being a novice to intrigue, is unaware this is quite telling in itself.
“I may lack eyes but I am not blind, pupil. Restrain your impertinent tongue. You may think yourself no longer my apprentice, but I remain your master. You will do as I bid.”
The pupil raises an eyebrow, for he knows himself a wizard and won’t be cowed even when outmatched. Sneering, he asks:
“Why?”
“Because it is Sarasti who leads these Proscribed.”
The young man’s face goes pale, his features twisted in a tangle of emotion.
“You will find them and see out their quest. How you do it is of no import to me. If the Nazarene yet lives, destroy him. If he is but dust and bones, see to it that they are never uncovered. Eliminate the Proscribed. Spare Sarasti and bring her back into the fold, and I shall make sure any mention of her…deviancy be struck from record. These are my commands.”
“Yes, master.”
The old wizard’s dried frame ponderously turns its back on the pupil, the death mask turned toward the noontime sun.
“Good. Varvanus will see you to my factor in Melite, who will supply you with the information and equipment required. You may leave now.”
Jukka rises slowly and makes to climb down the stairs, but the loud beating of hooves arrest his motion. He turns to look at the city below and sees a trail of dust speckled with gold rising quickly, moving towards the tower.
“Mithridatics. They have been hoping to get at me for some time now, and word of my being recalled has finally spurred them into action. They probably think you a princeling's envoy, a stuffy bureaucrat to escort me home."
“Recalled?”
“Irrelevant. Go now and do as I’ve told you. I can deal with these pests.”
Six horses canter to a halt on the agora adjacent the tower and their riders dismount without apparent haste. Their robes gleam green and gold under the sun, the foremost of their group carrying a staff with a carved snake entwined. They stride briskly towards the tower. The snake entwined around the Asklepian’s staff opens its mouth and tastes the air with its tongue.
“All of them?”
“Yes. Go.”
1) Jukka does as his master bids and departs in haste towards his quest.
2) Jukka refuses the command and helps his master in the coming battle.
Last edited by a moderator:
2
1 for sure. Egyptian death magic specifically has an edge on these slithery Hellens from what it said in the first post, right? Even if this is not the case, best to keep our eyes on the prize. Assuming that we still have those.
xXGunsNRoses420Xx
Novice
- Joined
- Jul 4, 2016
- Messages
- 63
1
Endlösung
Unwanted
- Joined
- May 1, 2016
- Messages
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Gorion is under attack, men. To Arms! Real CnC!
2) Jukka refuses the command and helps his master in the coming battle.
pretty:
2) Jukka refuses the command and helps his master in the coming battle.
pretty:
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