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#Post#: 504--------------------------------------------------
On the Plane of Mechanus: The Black Mage
By: Shadowhuntress Date: November 29, 2012, 12:46 pm
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Dracona walked out of the large, inn-like building where
mercenaries gathered to find work and to collect their payment
for completed jobs. Her newly-filled purse swung from her belt,
in plain view of anyone who cared to look. Normally this
indicated a lack of street sense, but Dracona knew that no thief
with any sense would attempt to cut her purse, and she was
confident that she could easily deal with any stupid enough to
try.
There were a few very good reasons for their caution. The first,
and most obvious, was that Dracona was a draconian. Half elf and
half dragon, she stood six feet two inches, covered with
shimmering blue scales, with full sized wings and a tail. Also,
she was decked out in wicked looking mithril armor and armed,
literally, to the teeth. Most importantly, however, was her
reputation. She had been at mercenary work for the better part
of two-hundred and eighty years, and during that time she had
made quite a name for herself.
She had lead the most important and powerful armies into the
most world-changing victories in recorded history. Anyone who
dealt in warfare knew her name, and everyone who had come up
against her in battle had learned to fear her. Either that, or
they were dead. Her name was known throughout Mechanus as one of
the oldest and most experienced mercenaries still in action, and
one of the most influential sell-swords in history.
As she walked, she thought of times past. Times when the people
had actually needed her, and when each contract she signed has
excited her. She remembered each battle as it had actually
happened. The blood of the dead and wounded, friend and foe, the
screams of dying men. She remembered how bitter-sweet each
victory was, the faces of the men under her command that had
fallen in battle. Despite that way bards and poets made it
sound, there were always losses.
Dracona sneered to herself as she thought of the way humans
embellished the image of battle. They made it sound pleasing,
almost beautiful. They made it sound like the glory one gained
in battle could somehow compensate for having to leave
everything one held dear.
Dracona knew the truth. She had buried countless men on the
field of battle. She had personally delivered the sad news to
thousands of families, had seen the looks on their faces, had
done her best to console them. None of those men were ever
remembered for anything other than making the ultimate
sacrifice, and, most of the time, not even that. No, the truth
was, war wasn't a place for anyone who has something to lose,
for, in the end, they always lose it.
With these thoughts and the images of thousands of fallen
soldiers whirling about in her mind, Dracona made her way to her
house. She kept many such houses throughout Mechanus. They gave
her a safe place to rest and store her things in between
commissions. The people that she passed on the road moved
respectfully out of her way and stared at her an awe as she
passed; some of them even greeted her politely, to which Dracona
responded with nods or polite smiles.
When she reached her house, she deposited all of her armor onto
a manikin and hung all of her weaponry on various hooks and pegs
set into the walls. She entered the kitchen and rummaged through
the pantry. It was entirely empty except for the occasional
month-old hunk of bread or molding slice of cheese. She was
going to have to do some hunting.
The draconian went to her room and changed into some
forest-green breaches and a soft, brown tunic. She then went
back to her improvised armory and took a longbow and a long
hunting knife down from their places. She filled a water skin
and a large sack, then made her way out of the house. Once
outside, she spread her wings and flew over the bustling city
and the high wall that surrounded it.
Dracona landed at the edge of the forest and stepped int the
treeline. She flexed her shoulders and back as she walked, free
at last from the bulky armor that she had been stuck in for
almost a month. She looked much less imposing without the
bristling spikes and glinting metal of her armor. She had no
spikes in her draconian form, and her scales glistened like
water, giving her a flowing, sleek look.
She continued to think on her work as she walked deeper and
deeper into the forest in search of game. Dracona remembered the
days back when mercenary work had given her a sense of deep
satisfaction, as if she were really making a difference. Lately,
however, she had found herself merely going through the motions.
Her notoriety allowed her to charge whatever she wanted for her
services, and she had been taking advantage of that more often
of late. The longer she spent working for humans, the more she
realized how little every conflict actually mattered. She was
beginning to feel like it was time to move on.
Those thoughts and others passed through her mind as she walked.
She was now in one of the darkest parts of the forest, a place
seldom invaded by humans. Dracona spotted a deer and strung her
bow then took careful aim. With a twang and a hiss, the arrow
sped across the clearing. There was a solid thud, and the deer
fell to the forest floor, pierced through the eye.
As Dracona moved to claim her kill, she smelled an unfamiliar
scent. She turned to see where it was imitating from, and saw a
figure collapsed on the ground in the underbrush to one side of
the clearing. She changed direction and knelt beside the figure
to inspect it. It was an elvish woman.
Surprised, Dracona touched The elf's forehead, to find that is
was dry and burning with fever. The draconian unslung her water
skin from her shoulder and drizzled some into the unconscious
woman's mouth. She couch and spluttered, then her eyes opened
and she clutched desperately at the water skin, draining it in
seconds.
The elf then blinked a few times, trying to focus her vision.
Dracona braced herself for the usual reaction. As expected, the
elf took one good look at her fave, and fainted dead away.
With a chuckle, the draconian lifted the elf over her shoulder
and cared her to where she could keep an eye on her as she
cleaned the deer. Once the large sack she had brought with her
was full of fresh venison, she slung it over her shoulder,
leaving what little was left of the deer for the scavengers.
She lifted the elf, draping her over her other shoulder, and
began making her way out of the forest. She wondered idly how
the elf would fit into her plans for the next few days. With a
mental shrug, she decided that it would work itself in the end.
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#Post#: 509--------------------------------------------------
Re: On the Plane of Mechanus: The Black Mage
By: slimemold4 Date: December 4, 2012, 12:46 pm
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Everything was visible from where he sat upon his throne made of
nothing. He watched. He waited. He looked. He saw. He was. He
is. He will always be. He sighed and leaned back in his 'chair'.
He didn't need to see. He didn't want to watch. He was tired of
waiting. "I'm bored." Said Cyndor.
"Ah." Replied Kindon, Cyndor's faithful familiar, rather
unconcerned. He didn't even bother to look through the book he
was leafing through. "Fascinating." He said sarcastically.
Cyndor ground his teeth angrily and returned to watching the
world around him. Sighing, he shut his eyes for a moment. He
opened them and continued watching. The waiting was endless. He
watched and he waited. That was it. Being a god was the most
boring profession possible. A year passed.
"Happy birthday, Kindon." Cyndor said, rising from his throne.
"You must be what now, a bazillion years old?"
Kindon frowned and looked up from his book. "I suppose."
"Well for your birthday, I've decided to give you the most
wonderful present." Cyndor said, smiling and spreading his arms
wide. "You get a day off! Or a year. Or longer. Who knows. I'm
going on an adventure, I've decided. I'll probably be back
within, say, 200 years maximum. So have it you little party
animal!"
Kindon raised his eyebrows and gave Cyndor a grunt of approval.
Cyndor smiled wider and turned to face the world. He decided he
wanted to stop looking. To stop seeing. To stop watching and
waiting and all of it. It was time to start doing things. It was
time to take up his rightful place as a god and start meddling
in the affairs of humans.
He conjured his traditional outfit, one he hadn't worn in a long
time, black and gold, and stepped out into the world. If
adventure didn't find him, he was determined to find it.
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