Post by Xander on Jul 1, 2015 15:02:24 GMT -5
Merick stood alone at the front of the makeshift column. The gnarled branches of the twisted trees leant forward, blanketed with swathes of the writhing, thorn covered vines. The whole forest seemed to stretch before him in every direction he looked, but no matter how hard he tried to focus, no matter how hard he told himself it was an illusion, he never felt the sudden mental snap characteristic of a mind breaking an illusion. Eventually he relented. The howls were getting closer, and though he couldn't entirely trust his senses without verifying his hypothesis, he had to make a judgement call: he couldn't fight if he was preoccupied with his mental exercises.
The Drow from the tavern had slunk off with her rapier, the Dragonborn sorceror who had taken his money but left with the others that morning was crashing through the undergrowth behind them and the man in green robes...
He looked around him once more. The small man, "Bilkin", was standing, knees bent, practically shaking with adrenaline and lit up by some kind of green light... Then he saw the green discharges of electricity arcing from his fingers, crackling and fizzing as they leapt to the earth. A sudden wave of black humour cast a grimace across Merick's face. This Bilkin obviously wasn't used to casting in combat; the magical fields surrounding him were poorly constructed, the lightning - though by far the most powerful Merick had ever seen, and tinged with that peculiar green - was barely constrained. It almost spewed uncontrollably from his finger tips, showering sparks everywhere. Merick looked closer, his interest piqued. Bilkin's stance was off considerably, his centre of balance was skewed over his left leg and his hands were held out, fingers splayed in no particular manual sequence. How was he compelling any magical flux at all? It was almost as if he wasn't manipulating the forces around him, merely being acted through by some unseen force... This man was not a War Mage and probably not even a wizard - no human mage, not even Merick's old Grand Maestre, could influence the 8 fields without impeccable technique... And yet, he noticed the tell-tale bulge of a spell tome under the man's green robes; meaning he obviously set down his spells and rituals in glyphs. Fascinating. Merick would have to ensure the man's safety in the oncoming battle - there were too many questions to be asked to let the answers die with Bilkin. Merick cast his eyes down to his own hands. He flexed his fingers reservedly, then began weaving a complex pattern of gestures increasingly quickly until he felt it - like icy shards of electricity coursing up his arms. He stopped suddenly. Magic. That was the first time he had touched the Great Weave since he had cast aside his magic... It had been too painful to cast even the simplest spell. Every verbal component, every subtle shift in body position before an invocation, conjuring the faces of dead comrades and tutors.
He shook his head to clear away the foul thoughts. He still felt twitchy after the events of the last night, and he was pretty certain that he had blacked out or had some kind of delusion a moment ago: one moment he had been looking at Bilkin's prone form, the next he had awoken stumbling into a thicket of razor sharp vines, dragging the man behind him. He had to stay disciplined. There was no room for error now, this was a combat situation.
He closed his eyes, drawing a long breath in through his nostrils, holding it in his lungs until they burned and slowly exhaling it through his mouth. He slid his feet through the leaf litter and twigs on the cluttered forest floor, creating a small clearing underneath himself. He settled into a correct ready stance; feet shoulder width apart, knees locked, weight distributed evenly over both feet and his spine ramrod straight over his centre of balance. His right hand slid across his belt to the scabbard on his left hip. His fingers reached up to the lion's head pommel. His jaw clenched as he grasped the weapon's hilt. With a rasping hiss, he tugged the blade from its leather covering. He swung his blade up over the rim of his shield into a defensive posture and drew back into an L-stance, transferring most of his weight onto his back leg, his back foot turned ninety degrees perpendicular. He was ready. He had to be: his survival depended on his being able to keep a clear mind - it had been so long since he had taken up arms that his sword had been nearly rusted into its sheathe and the fencing drills he had once mastered were, now, as rusty as his blade. His magic would have to cover for any flaws in his technique for now.
He exhaled heavily again.
"Keep it simple", he whispered to himself. Another howl, closer now, reached him. He inhaled deeply.
His nervous shaking ceased completely. He had trained for 10 years in the arts of war, magical and mundane; he had fought in as many battles as he had scars and he'd survived the annihilation of his entire kingdom.
He'd be damned if some oversized mutts were going to claim him now.
The Drow from the tavern had slunk off with her rapier, the Dragonborn sorceror who had taken his money but left with the others that morning was crashing through the undergrowth behind them and the man in green robes...
He looked around him once more. The small man, "Bilkin", was standing, knees bent, practically shaking with adrenaline and lit up by some kind of green light... Then he saw the green discharges of electricity arcing from his fingers, crackling and fizzing as they leapt to the earth. A sudden wave of black humour cast a grimace across Merick's face. This Bilkin obviously wasn't used to casting in combat; the magical fields surrounding him were poorly constructed, the lightning - though by far the most powerful Merick had ever seen, and tinged with that peculiar green - was barely constrained. It almost spewed uncontrollably from his finger tips, showering sparks everywhere. Merick looked closer, his interest piqued. Bilkin's stance was off considerably, his centre of balance was skewed over his left leg and his hands were held out, fingers splayed in no particular manual sequence. How was he compelling any magical flux at all? It was almost as if he wasn't manipulating the forces around him, merely being acted through by some unseen force... This man was not a War Mage and probably not even a wizard - no human mage, not even Merick's old Grand Maestre, could influence the 8 fields without impeccable technique... And yet, he noticed the tell-tale bulge of a spell tome under the man's green robes; meaning he obviously set down his spells and rituals in glyphs. Fascinating. Merick would have to ensure the man's safety in the oncoming battle - there were too many questions to be asked to let the answers die with Bilkin. Merick cast his eyes down to his own hands. He flexed his fingers reservedly, then began weaving a complex pattern of gestures increasingly quickly until he felt it - like icy shards of electricity coursing up his arms. He stopped suddenly. Magic. That was the first time he had touched the Great Weave since he had cast aside his magic... It had been too painful to cast even the simplest spell. Every verbal component, every subtle shift in body position before an invocation, conjuring the faces of dead comrades and tutors.
He shook his head to clear away the foul thoughts. He still felt twitchy after the events of the last night, and he was pretty certain that he had blacked out or had some kind of delusion a moment ago: one moment he had been looking at Bilkin's prone form, the next he had awoken stumbling into a thicket of razor sharp vines, dragging the man behind him. He had to stay disciplined. There was no room for error now, this was a combat situation.
He closed his eyes, drawing a long breath in through his nostrils, holding it in his lungs until they burned and slowly exhaling it through his mouth. He slid his feet through the leaf litter and twigs on the cluttered forest floor, creating a small clearing underneath himself. He settled into a correct ready stance; feet shoulder width apart, knees locked, weight distributed evenly over both feet and his spine ramrod straight over his centre of balance. His right hand slid across his belt to the scabbard on his left hip. His fingers reached up to the lion's head pommel. His jaw clenched as he grasped the weapon's hilt. With a rasping hiss, he tugged the blade from its leather covering. He swung his blade up over the rim of his shield into a defensive posture and drew back into an L-stance, transferring most of his weight onto his back leg, his back foot turned ninety degrees perpendicular. He was ready. He had to be: his survival depended on his being able to keep a clear mind - it had been so long since he had taken up arms that his sword had been nearly rusted into its sheathe and the fencing drills he had once mastered were, now, as rusty as his blade. His magic would have to cover for any flaws in his technique for now.
He exhaled heavily again.
"Keep it simple", he whispered to himself. Another howl, closer now, reached him. He inhaled deeply.
His nervous shaking ceased completely. He had trained for 10 years in the arts of war, magical and mundane; he had fought in as many battles as he had scars and he'd survived the annihilation of his entire kingdom.
He'd be damned if some oversized mutts were going to claim him now.