The Maid of the Comet: A Tale from Azeroth
- Thread starter King Tharassian
- Start date
- Fantasy
[X] Stormfathom, Exiled from the Light of Lights
King Tharassian
Governor-Militant
- Location
- Victory Bay, Kronus
The vote will end around 8, everybody.
EDIT: Vote closed. Stormfathom wins!
EDIT: Vote closed. Stormfathom wins!
Last edited:
Chapter 5 Interlude: Musings of Stormfathom
King Tharassian
Governor-Militant
- Location
- Victory Bay, Kronus
23 Sextus, 25 ADP
A Hidden Place off the North Coast
Once, there was a land bathed in endless starlight. Upon it walked a people fair, and it was good.
Once, we walked among the trees, felt the grass beneath our feet. We called ourselves the Kaldorei, and it was good.
Once, we beheld a lady fair who surpassed us all in every way. The Light of Lights, the Queen of Stars, our beloved Queen Azshara.
And when the ungrateful masses rebelled, that land was shattered, and we were cast into the sea. And we knew only dark.
But we are the people. We are the rulers. Changed, but unbroken. There are always the Naga, always the Ocean.
And there is always our goddess Azshara…
Such was the story as it was told, from the Venerable who had lived it to the three generations since. But it was not so simple after the Sundering, and all knew it. Some had been cast farther afield than others, and so there were tribes of Naga who had not awoken in sight of the Empress at the dawning of the Empire of Nazjatar.
Such was the case for the Stormfathom, who had dwelt long ago in the city of Vashj'elan. The city's rulers named themselves the tribe of Vashj'elan, and were served by their lessers until the coming of Nazjatar's explorers. But the distance from Nazjatar made the worship of the Empress somewhat different. They came to view the Light of Lights as one would a distant star or a light on the horizon. Where those who dwelt within Her sight knew Her as Queen and Goddess both, the Stormfathom saw only the divine.
Some of the Sirens whispered that it was the cause of their lessened state.
Charib'dishal, Rajis of the Stormfathom, knew otherwise. It had been the false councils of Nazjatar and their pact with the Faceless One that had claimed leadership of Vashj'elan that had cast her tribe out.
The prayers were as she had been taught: whispered, only loudly enough for the Empress to hear, but never so loud that She would find them vulgar. The altar was forged of coral and the bones gathered from whale carcasses. Sharkskin veiled the altar around the sides, decoration and protection both.
Around her, the Sirens sang, and the sorcerers of the murlocs wove their rituals. As the song reached a crescendo, those present felt a wave of power wash over them, and the prayer was completed with Charib'dishal singing in the dialect of Nazja spoken only by the priests.
As always, she felt whole again; the gnawing of her hunger was lessened, and she would not need to seek out a source of magic for some time. The niceties and babblings of the sycophants did not register as she returned to her dwelling.
Their exile had meant a change in accomodations. Before, they had lived in the city they were born to. Now, they were forced to build new homes as their search and the tides demanded. Her home on this shelf was built of great stones and corals, luminescent crystals and finer things within forged by her own magical might.
The male waiting only stirred as she entered. He was great and wide, all rippling muscle and opaline scale. She admitted to some small satisfaction as he swam to her, profusely kissing her hand and arm.
"My Lady… It is good you have returned."
"Was there ever any doubt, Zolaresh?" She knew he couldn't hear the sarcasm in her voice. He never did.
Zolaresh was first of her warlords, the leaders of her soldiery, but only by virtue of his size and strength. He was a glorified bodyguard, and little else. His status as one of her consorts was one she used to its fullest as a matter of convenience. She raised a brow and the serpents wreathing her face hissed in surprise as he shook his head.
"No, of course not, mistress. There was never doubt. My faith springs eternal." Zolaresh backed away, bowing his head in shame, forked tongue snaking between his lips as he struggled to find some way to make up his supposed insult.
"Then why worry?" She sank into the softer corals that formed her bed, and he shifted behind her to knead her shoulders, his fingers pressing the tendons of her neck, which had been drawn tight by the stresses of prayer and politics. "Is there something of which I am not aware?"
"No, mistress. I am your servant, and I would not hide anything from you." She let out a contented sigh as she felt the muscles of her neck relax. She did not deny that he was good at that. "You are troubled, mistress?"
"And why shouldn't I be, Zolaresh?" He barely reacted to her sharp response. Good. "We are reduced to such meager places as this as we seek out the allies we need. We are exiles, untouchables in our own homeland!" She felt one of her hands curl into a fist and the serpents rising from her head began to writhe agitatedly. "I am left with less than a thousand to my command, and there are whispers that one of the latest clutch might have the markings of a sea-witch!" She crossed her lower two arms across her belly, and began to breathe out slowly.
"Then you fear that there might be dissent, mistress?" Ah, there was the anger; he was ever so protective of her, for all his inadequacies. "If that is so, then I can root it out! Cut out the poison and leave the rest untouched…"
"No." She knew that Zolaresh's idea of subtlety was lacking. If she gave him permission to launch an inquisition, there would be riots against her in days. No, she had another in mind. "I do not fear it, but I sense that it is there. And we must be united in these dark times. The Stormfathom must be one mind in this, and the Saltpool…" She grimaced. "We must make do with the current arrangement."
"Why do we allow them such freedom, mistress?" Zolaresh's inanity left her speechless, even as she felt the stress drain away thanks to his tender ministrations. She allowed a rare smile as he moved on to one of her arms.
"Because we must, warlord. They outnumber us almost two to one, and not all of our people are warriors. Negotiation is a necessary evil; or do you believe that every one of your myrmidons could bring down three murlocs before succumbing?" She was satisfied to hear him hiss in frustration.
"No, mistress, I do not. Not as we are." There was silence for a time, and Charib'dishal sank into the calm that was enveloping her. For what seemed an eternity, she heard naught but the currents and the songs of the tribesfolk. "Rarely do you have such thoughts, mistress." Zolaresh's comment did not even anger her anymore. It was simply disappointing. For all his muscle and skill, he was entirely dependent on his duties to her, even to the point of forgetting any agency he may have had. "Do you wish me to go?" It was a complicated question, though he likely didn't understand that. But she already knew.
"Please, but do not go far. Your den will be far enough." With a quiet hiss, one last kiss to her hand and the shifting of sharkskin, he left her abode. At last she was in peace, and could make use of her far more effective tools.
Drawing three fingers across her lips, she whispered three notes of a song only she and one other knew. It was a summons, and she soon heard the sharkskin across her doorway move again.
"You summoned, Rajis?" The voice was softer, smoother. Opening her eyes again, she propped herself up to see the newcomer. In many ways he was typical of the males; the serpentine face, the spines and frills; but his scales were more blue, and he was more slight than Zolaresh, for all that muscle varied among them.
"Naj'azun." The smile this time was open, and she wasn't afraid to be so informal. "It is good that you have come." Her second warlord, and second of her consorts, bowed low, before rising again.
"I answer when I am called." Where Zolaresh had been a choice of practicality and image, Naj'azun had been chosen for his other talents. While he was still a warlord, and so a warrior, he was the more subtle of the two, and the one she trusted with more delicate work. "I also hear things more acutely. I assume by your ease that Zolaresh's work was pleasing?"
"For all his faults, he has skilled hands." She did not know how to feel about his phrasing. Had he been eavesdropping? If so, she would have to take action. Rivalry among a sea-witch's consorts rarely ended well, if her mother's teachings were to be believed. "But I think you have heard other things too. Breathy words spoken by the sirens, perhaps?" His fangs glinted in the shifting light as he smiled.
"In my efforts and indiscretions, Rajis, I may well have heard some of them before you." Ah. So one or two had said things to him while in the stupor of fondness and affection? How refreshingly direct. She had almost thought that he believed his dalliances were unknown to her. "But the mysterious egg is, I'm sure, your precise meaning." As she nodded, he took a seat in another patch of soft corals, tail coiling underneath him.
"If another witch is hatched and I don't have a part in it, then there will be divisions." Empress help her, was she afraid of an unhatched siren? "We cannot have that." Naj'azun nodded slowly, drawing one of his jaw tendrils between his fingers.
"Any divisions will leave the murlocs thinking of independence, and might split the tribe." He frowned. "And the clutch is already only large enough to recoup our losses and then add a few more. If the same hatch rates from the last continue, we'll still have under nine hundred naga under the Stormfathom banner." He nodded again. "I can see why you worry, my Rajis."
"I would hope that you do. If I am overthrown, you might be slain with me, and Empress knows what would happen to whatever hatchlings may be traced back to you." The displeasure in her voice was evident, and Naj'azun raised a brow.
"You think me so careless, Rajis? I take care to limit such… inconveniences." He waved a clawed hand. "And even if there were any such hatchlings, the chances of any connection are low, given the nature of the spawning pool."
"Even so, I want you to investigate. Find this egg, find if it will even hatch. If it exists, and if it could be a threat, I want you to find whether the clutch-mother is known. If not…" She twirled a finger through the air. "Well, it isn't unheard of for a sea-witch to take in promising hatchlings. I think you know what to do if the mother is known."
"Of course." He paused, obviously thinking. "I also have more to say, Rajis."
"Then speak, warlord. I won't rip out your tongue for it."
"I never dreamed that you would, Rajis. It would be to your detriment in many ways, I do believe." The cheek! He shifted on the corals, rolling a black pearl between his thumb and forefinger; a habit of his that he believed brought luck. "The murloc I sent out returned just a few hours ago. The mountains were difficult for it to cross, but it brought the casket to the newcomer." He looked up towards the den's ceiling. "I still cannot believe that the comet brought a mere human." The salvage from the shipwreck the girl had landed in had been plentiful enough, but the cloth and the book had stood out enough that she had - obviously rightfully - assumed that they belonged to her.
"A mere human with some potential, Naj'azun." Charib'dishal wagged a finger at him, her voice mocking a scolding tone. "Did the messenger convey her reaction?"
"As a matter of fact, it did. Apparently there was surprise and shock, and perhaps some relief. But that is immaterial, if I may dare to say so. I feel her companions are far more interesting." He leaned towards her, his voice falling slightly in volume. "The humans' Crusade seems to have taken her in." She raised a brow.
"Interesting, but not unexpected. They were in the forest when I saw her, after all." And saved her life, she didn't say. "Has she been sent to the Northern coasts? If she is there, we might be able to communicate sooner than my visions implied." The visions never lied, and she had seen the comet coming. They had foretold Light, and fire, and change. Glorious, unbridled change, which would no doubt ripple across the world, no matter how small.
"No, my Rajis." He was annoyed at the lack of results, if his tightening grip on the pearl was any indication. "She seems to be farther inland, where only you might still reach." Ah, the burdens of magic.
"Then we shall have to wait." It was unfortunate, but unavoidable. "We must content ourselves with the matter of this witch-egg, and we will deal with the newcomer when she is in the North." Naj'azun nodded.
"I already have one of my informants gathering rumors for me on it. I feel that I'll have an answer as to the egg's parentage in days, if that." He smiled again. "Even if there is a definite line of descent, I might think of something. These waters are dangerous, after all, especially with the goblins hunting us for hide." He shrugged. "Tragedies happen, and an orphaned egg will not be denied to one in a position of power."
Charib'dishal nodded, her own lips forming a smile again. Yes, it was all coming together. Soon, she felt, they would have a true home. They would have fortunes and power, and they would overthrow the vile usurpers who had claimed to rule in the Empress' name. Nazjatar would be freed, and the false edicts handed down in recent years would be shown for the corruption they represented.
"Good. Very good." She fell back, her eyes closing as she lay in the corals again to rest. "You may go, warlord." She was mildly surprised when, hearing him move, she felt Naj'azun bite her neck ever so lightly; a sign more of affection than aggression. Though it could be taken as the latter for some contexts. The feeling was left behind as she heard him leave.
As she drifted off into her rest, she was left with her musings on how she would keep Zolaresh occupied when she awoke.
A Hidden Place off the North Coast
Once, there was a land bathed in endless starlight. Upon it walked a people fair, and it was good.
Once, we walked among the trees, felt the grass beneath our feet. We called ourselves the Kaldorei, and it was good.
Once, we beheld a lady fair who surpassed us all in every way. The Light of Lights, the Queen of Stars, our beloved Queen Azshara.
And when the ungrateful masses rebelled, that land was shattered, and we were cast into the sea. And we knew only dark.
But we are the people. We are the rulers. Changed, but unbroken. There are always the Naga, always the Ocean.
And there is always our goddess Azshara…
Such was the story as it was told, from the Venerable who had lived it to the three generations since. But it was not so simple after the Sundering, and all knew it. Some had been cast farther afield than others, and so there were tribes of Naga who had not awoken in sight of the Empress at the dawning of the Empire of Nazjatar.
Such was the case for the Stormfathom, who had dwelt long ago in the city of Vashj'elan. The city's rulers named themselves the tribe of Vashj'elan, and were served by their lessers until the coming of Nazjatar's explorers. But the distance from Nazjatar made the worship of the Empress somewhat different. They came to view the Light of Lights as one would a distant star or a light on the horizon. Where those who dwelt within Her sight knew Her as Queen and Goddess both, the Stormfathom saw only the divine.
Some of the Sirens whispered that it was the cause of their lessened state.
Charib'dishal, Rajis of the Stormfathom, knew otherwise. It had been the false councils of Nazjatar and their pact with the Faceless One that had claimed leadership of Vashj'elan that had cast her tribe out.
The prayers were as she had been taught: whispered, only loudly enough for the Empress to hear, but never so loud that She would find them vulgar. The altar was forged of coral and the bones gathered from whale carcasses. Sharkskin veiled the altar around the sides, decoration and protection both.
Around her, the Sirens sang, and the sorcerers of the murlocs wove their rituals. As the song reached a crescendo, those present felt a wave of power wash over them, and the prayer was completed with Charib'dishal singing in the dialect of Nazja spoken only by the priests.
As always, she felt whole again; the gnawing of her hunger was lessened, and she would not need to seek out a source of magic for some time. The niceties and babblings of the sycophants did not register as she returned to her dwelling.
Their exile had meant a change in accomodations. Before, they had lived in the city they were born to. Now, they were forced to build new homes as their search and the tides demanded. Her home on this shelf was built of great stones and corals, luminescent crystals and finer things within forged by her own magical might.
The male waiting only stirred as she entered. He was great and wide, all rippling muscle and opaline scale. She admitted to some small satisfaction as he swam to her, profusely kissing her hand and arm.
"My Lady… It is good you have returned."
"Was there ever any doubt, Zolaresh?" She knew he couldn't hear the sarcasm in her voice. He never did.
Zolaresh was first of her warlords, the leaders of her soldiery, but only by virtue of his size and strength. He was a glorified bodyguard, and little else. His status as one of her consorts was one she used to its fullest as a matter of convenience. She raised a brow and the serpents wreathing her face hissed in surprise as he shook his head.
"No, of course not, mistress. There was never doubt. My faith springs eternal." Zolaresh backed away, bowing his head in shame, forked tongue snaking between his lips as he struggled to find some way to make up his supposed insult.
"Then why worry?" She sank into the softer corals that formed her bed, and he shifted behind her to knead her shoulders, his fingers pressing the tendons of her neck, which had been drawn tight by the stresses of prayer and politics. "Is there something of which I am not aware?"
"No, mistress. I am your servant, and I would not hide anything from you." She let out a contented sigh as she felt the muscles of her neck relax. She did not deny that he was good at that. "You are troubled, mistress?"
"And why shouldn't I be, Zolaresh?" He barely reacted to her sharp response. Good. "We are reduced to such meager places as this as we seek out the allies we need. We are exiles, untouchables in our own homeland!" She felt one of her hands curl into a fist and the serpents rising from her head began to writhe agitatedly. "I am left with less than a thousand to my command, and there are whispers that one of the latest clutch might have the markings of a sea-witch!" She crossed her lower two arms across her belly, and began to breathe out slowly.
"Then you fear that there might be dissent, mistress?" Ah, there was the anger; he was ever so protective of her, for all his inadequacies. "If that is so, then I can root it out! Cut out the poison and leave the rest untouched…"
"No." She knew that Zolaresh's idea of subtlety was lacking. If she gave him permission to launch an inquisition, there would be riots against her in days. No, she had another in mind. "I do not fear it, but I sense that it is there. And we must be united in these dark times. The Stormfathom must be one mind in this, and the Saltpool…" She grimaced. "We must make do with the current arrangement."
"Why do we allow them such freedom, mistress?" Zolaresh's inanity left her speechless, even as she felt the stress drain away thanks to his tender ministrations. She allowed a rare smile as he moved on to one of her arms.
"Because we must, warlord. They outnumber us almost two to one, and not all of our people are warriors. Negotiation is a necessary evil; or do you believe that every one of your myrmidons could bring down three murlocs before succumbing?" She was satisfied to hear him hiss in frustration.
"No, mistress, I do not. Not as we are." There was silence for a time, and Charib'dishal sank into the calm that was enveloping her. For what seemed an eternity, she heard naught but the currents and the songs of the tribesfolk. "Rarely do you have such thoughts, mistress." Zolaresh's comment did not even anger her anymore. It was simply disappointing. For all his muscle and skill, he was entirely dependent on his duties to her, even to the point of forgetting any agency he may have had. "Do you wish me to go?" It was a complicated question, though he likely didn't understand that. But she already knew.
"Please, but do not go far. Your den will be far enough." With a quiet hiss, one last kiss to her hand and the shifting of sharkskin, he left her abode. At last she was in peace, and could make use of her far more effective tools.
Drawing three fingers across her lips, she whispered three notes of a song only she and one other knew. It was a summons, and she soon heard the sharkskin across her doorway move again.
"You summoned, Rajis?" The voice was softer, smoother. Opening her eyes again, she propped herself up to see the newcomer. In many ways he was typical of the males; the serpentine face, the spines and frills; but his scales were more blue, and he was more slight than Zolaresh, for all that muscle varied among them.
"Naj'azun." The smile this time was open, and she wasn't afraid to be so informal. "It is good that you have come." Her second warlord, and second of her consorts, bowed low, before rising again.
"I answer when I am called." Where Zolaresh had been a choice of practicality and image, Naj'azun had been chosen for his other talents. While he was still a warlord, and so a warrior, he was the more subtle of the two, and the one she trusted with more delicate work. "I also hear things more acutely. I assume by your ease that Zolaresh's work was pleasing?"
"For all his faults, he has skilled hands." She did not know how to feel about his phrasing. Had he been eavesdropping? If so, she would have to take action. Rivalry among a sea-witch's consorts rarely ended well, if her mother's teachings were to be believed. "But I think you have heard other things too. Breathy words spoken by the sirens, perhaps?" His fangs glinted in the shifting light as he smiled.
"In my efforts and indiscretions, Rajis, I may well have heard some of them before you." Ah. So one or two had said things to him while in the stupor of fondness and affection? How refreshingly direct. She had almost thought that he believed his dalliances were unknown to her. "But the mysterious egg is, I'm sure, your precise meaning." As she nodded, he took a seat in another patch of soft corals, tail coiling underneath him.
"If another witch is hatched and I don't have a part in it, then there will be divisions." Empress help her, was she afraid of an unhatched siren? "We cannot have that." Naj'azun nodded slowly, drawing one of his jaw tendrils between his fingers.
"Any divisions will leave the murlocs thinking of independence, and might split the tribe." He frowned. "And the clutch is already only large enough to recoup our losses and then add a few more. If the same hatch rates from the last continue, we'll still have under nine hundred naga under the Stormfathom banner." He nodded again. "I can see why you worry, my Rajis."
"I would hope that you do. If I am overthrown, you might be slain with me, and Empress knows what would happen to whatever hatchlings may be traced back to you." The displeasure in her voice was evident, and Naj'azun raised a brow.
"You think me so careless, Rajis? I take care to limit such… inconveniences." He waved a clawed hand. "And even if there were any such hatchlings, the chances of any connection are low, given the nature of the spawning pool."
"Even so, I want you to investigate. Find this egg, find if it will even hatch. If it exists, and if it could be a threat, I want you to find whether the clutch-mother is known. If not…" She twirled a finger through the air. "Well, it isn't unheard of for a sea-witch to take in promising hatchlings. I think you know what to do if the mother is known."
"Of course." He paused, obviously thinking. "I also have more to say, Rajis."
"Then speak, warlord. I won't rip out your tongue for it."
"I never dreamed that you would, Rajis. It would be to your detriment in many ways, I do believe." The cheek! He shifted on the corals, rolling a black pearl between his thumb and forefinger; a habit of his that he believed brought luck. "The murloc I sent out returned just a few hours ago. The mountains were difficult for it to cross, but it brought the casket to the newcomer." He looked up towards the den's ceiling. "I still cannot believe that the comet brought a mere human." The salvage from the shipwreck the girl had landed in had been plentiful enough, but the cloth and the book had stood out enough that she had - obviously rightfully - assumed that they belonged to her.
"A mere human with some potential, Naj'azun." Charib'dishal wagged a finger at him, her voice mocking a scolding tone. "Did the messenger convey her reaction?"
"As a matter of fact, it did. Apparently there was surprise and shock, and perhaps some relief. But that is immaterial, if I may dare to say so. I feel her companions are far more interesting." He leaned towards her, his voice falling slightly in volume. "The humans' Crusade seems to have taken her in." She raised a brow.
"Interesting, but not unexpected. They were in the forest when I saw her, after all." And saved her life, she didn't say. "Has she been sent to the Northern coasts? If she is there, we might be able to communicate sooner than my visions implied." The visions never lied, and she had seen the comet coming. They had foretold Light, and fire, and change. Glorious, unbridled change, which would no doubt ripple across the world, no matter how small.
"No, my Rajis." He was annoyed at the lack of results, if his tightening grip on the pearl was any indication. "She seems to be farther inland, where only you might still reach." Ah, the burdens of magic.
"Then we shall have to wait." It was unfortunate, but unavoidable. "We must content ourselves with the matter of this witch-egg, and we will deal with the newcomer when she is in the North." Naj'azun nodded.
"I already have one of my informants gathering rumors for me on it. I feel that I'll have an answer as to the egg's parentage in days, if that." He smiled again. "Even if there is a definite line of descent, I might think of something. These waters are dangerous, after all, especially with the goblins hunting us for hide." He shrugged. "Tragedies happen, and an orphaned egg will not be denied to one in a position of power."
Charib'dishal nodded, her own lips forming a smile again. Yes, it was all coming together. Soon, she felt, they would have a true home. They would have fortunes and power, and they would overthrow the vile usurpers who had claimed to rule in the Empress' name. Nazjatar would be freed, and the false edicts handed down in recent years would be shown for the corruption they represented.
"Good. Very good." She fell back, her eyes closing as she lay in the corals again to rest. "You may go, warlord." She was mildly surprised when, hearing him move, she felt Naj'azun bite her neck ever so lightly; a sign more of affection than aggression. Though it could be taken as the latter for some contexts. The feeling was left behind as she heard him leave.
As she drifted off into her rest, she was left with her musings on how she would keep Zolaresh occupied when she awoke.
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- Location
- Hug the Moebot; Save the world
I suppose it depends on why they were banished. Naga as a rule are generally not people you really want to ally with if you can help it. Considering the connection they have to the old gods and their Queen being partially responsible for the Burning Legion finding Azeroth.
King Tharassian
Governor-Militant
- Location
- Victory Bay, Kronus
I should have specified: not all of the Interludes will necessarily be useful in the strictest sense. Some will be, others will just pop in and look at other parts of the world.
KhazintheDark
May or may not be insane...
- Location
- Not where you are. Probably.
Hmm, so those Naga worship Azshara yet do not believe that she has fallen to the Void. Interesting, especially since they were banished instead of killed. That implies Azshara has plans she requires them for. Or the Faceless Ones do.
- Location
- Versailles
Azshara and her Nagas serve Nzoth who is the Old God version of Tzeentch, plans within plans
King Tharassian
Governor-Militant
- Location
- Victory Bay, Kronus
Okay, I have need of a few rolls:
1d20 for Progression
1d10 for Event Progression
1d20 for ???
1d2 for Is that a Question?
1d20 for Progression
1d10 for Event Progression
1d20 for ???
1d2 for Is that a Question?
ThatGuyWithIdeas
Treize died for our sins
- Location
- Romania
I'll roll for Event Progression, if no one minds...
Here goes nothing...
Here goes nothing...
- Location
- United States
Mystery option power time?
Edit: ...
Edit: ...
King Tharassian
Governor-Militant
- Location
- Victory Bay, Kronus
Okay... so...
Roads are no longer a problem...
Duskwood this time...
..... No comment.
And you actually got the better option...
- Location
- canada
well at least the 4th roll went well, right guys?
but those other rolls.... JESUS!
KhazintheDark
May or may not be insane...
- Location
- Not where you are. Probably.
And the Old Gods were created by the Void Lords, by extension following the Old Gods includes following the Void.
Chapter 5.1: Revelations
King Tharassian
Governor-Militant
- Location
- Victory Bay, Kronus
The Templar is a path derived from far older traditions, reaching back to the very founding of the Church by the Prophetess Mereldar. Since the Light's revelation, there have been stories of warriors wielding it to combat evil in its myriad terrible forms.
While the development of the paladin is by far the most direct descendant of these traditions, and the first example of such warriors being -- by the Church itself, the Templar draws more upon the martial tradition than sheer faith, rooting their Light more in the physical world. This focus on the mortal plane and its troubles enables the Templar to hand down judgment upon foes both unholy and merely unrighteous.
The path of the Templar is not without trial, but those who progress to its greatest heights are often transformed by their dedication. Some Templars are capable of turning blade and hammer aside with a hand, never wearing mail or plate. Some are said to have eyes that glimmer with Light itself. Others have lost the physical imperfections that once marked them, becoming as living statues.
However, while The Templar is a living weapon of righteousness and justice, they must also know more mundane skills, and as such, this first chapter will begin with the humble spell of Healing…
It seemed to you that the formulae used to work the spell were deceptively simple. There weren't many steps, but the ways in which you had to shape the Light were more complex than those you had learned to apply in Smite.
You watched the runes spin around your hand, pushing the spell farther in increments as it stabilized. You were about two thirds of the way through your first casting, and tomorrow you expected to be capable of casting it much more quickly. Perhaps you were pushing your luck with trying to complete it in half the time, but you had to try.
You were far enough into the spell that when you heard a knock at your door, it didn't break the weave of the holy energies, much to your relief.
"Yes?"
"Jeanne, it's Thornby. I thought you should know that the village has some visitors." Visitors? You supposed that it had to be the High General and her entourage. "It might be a good idea for you to at least make your tutelage under Sir Morlune apparent. Command takes outsiders very seriously."
"All right. I'll be right there." You carefully unwound the magics of your spell, ensuring that it didn't cause a blinding flash or some sort of explosion. Apparently that was a distressingly common occurrence, and you didn't want to make that kind of impression. Once the energies had dispersed, you attached the sword to your belt, and glanced at the stand holding your armor. Would you really need it?
[] Wear it. You might get some odd looks, but even if it isn't necessary, it will show that your goals are aligned with the Crusade.
[] Leave it. It might be a significant faux-pas to have a Crusader's armor when you aren't technically a member.
You and Thornby walked in relative quiet on the path down from the Abbey, but he became more rigid as you approached the village proper.
"Anxious?" It was to be expected, with perhaps the most respected figure in the Crusade visiting.
"Somewhat." Thornby was honest if nothing else. "It isn't every day that the High General and the High Abbot of Tyr's Hand both visit this far out. This is either very good or very bad. The only thing that would make me truly nervous is if the Grand Inquisitor himself were here."
"Understandable. That wouldn't be a sign of anything good, after all. I take it he's a zealous man?"
"Zeal is putting it lightly." Somehow, despite the armor he wore, you could still see Thornby shudder. "Lord Isillien is infamous, even more so than Inquisitor Whitemane. If he thought that someone in the village was compromised, I wouldn't be surprised if half of the people here were arrested and interrogated." That was quite telling, and not in a good way.
"But he isn't here?" To your somewhat mixed relief, Thornby shook his head.
"No. General Abbendis apparently stopped at Hearthglen, but the Inquisitor isn't among her entourage." As you entered the square, you found a fair crowd standing at the edges. In the center of the space, Father Tobias was speaking with the woman you assumed to be the High General. Slipping into a space near Morlune, you noticed him give you a smile before returning to a professional stoicism. Thornby was to your right, with his squad, and you recognized a few from your journey across Tirisfal.
Turning your attention towards the General, you tried to make out what exactly she looked like. You could tell that her hair was red, as most anyone seemed to know when you asked, but it was only when Father Tobias shifted to one side that you saw her face.
Your breath caught in your throat momentarily as you realized that you had seen her before. When you had been traveling to Vandermar after the battle at the bulwark, you had seen her face in the River Darrow. You couldn't see the color of her eyes, but you knew that it was the same woman who had been glaring up at you from the water. You were broken from your confusion by the sound of Tobias' voice.
"The High General would speak with the commanders of the Hosts! Sir Morlune of Kul Tiras and Sir Karnwield of Gilneas, step forward!" Morlune did so without hesitation, and you saw another knight move from the other side of the square. He was not built as a mountain like Morlune was, but he was somewhat younger, and less swarthy. The commander of the Gilnean Host, and Master of Plagueshield Hold, if you had heard correctly.
There was an eerie silence in your ears as you saw the commanders speak with the General, and you became somewhat distressed at the concern that you saw cross Morlune's face. When he returned, his expression was dark, and there was a fear in his voice as he spoke to you.
"The General wants to speak with you personally, Jeanne. There's been some kind of misunderstanding." He put a hand on your shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. You were sure that the shock was clear on your face. "She wants to meet you in the cathedral." Glancing back, he whispered: "You'd best go now." Shaken somewhat by the change in his demeanor, you nodded and moved out of the throng, only catching a glimpse of Thornby's confusion at whatever he had heard.
Steeling yourself, you walked to the Cathedral of the Burning Light.
[] Wait outside.
[] Go inside and pray.
While the development of the paladin is by far the most direct descendant of these traditions, and the first example of such warriors being -- by the Church itself, the Templar draws more upon the martial tradition than sheer faith, rooting their Light more in the physical world. This focus on the mortal plane and its troubles enables the Templar to hand down judgment upon foes both unholy and merely unrighteous.
The path of the Templar is not without trial, but those who progress to its greatest heights are often transformed by their dedication. Some Templars are capable of turning blade and hammer aside with a hand, never wearing mail or plate. Some are said to have eyes that glimmer with Light itself. Others have lost the physical imperfections that once marked them, becoming as living statues.
However, while The Templar is a living weapon of righteousness and justice, they must also know more mundane skills, and as such, this first chapter will begin with the humble spell of Healing…
It seemed to you that the formulae used to work the spell were deceptively simple. There weren't many steps, but the ways in which you had to shape the Light were more complex than those you had learned to apply in Smite.
You watched the runes spin around your hand, pushing the spell farther in increments as it stabilized. You were about two thirds of the way through your first casting, and tomorrow you expected to be capable of casting it much more quickly. Perhaps you were pushing your luck with trying to complete it in half the time, but you had to try.
You were far enough into the spell that when you heard a knock at your door, it didn't break the weave of the holy energies, much to your relief.
"Yes?"
"Jeanne, it's Thornby. I thought you should know that the village has some visitors." Visitors? You supposed that it had to be the High General and her entourage. "It might be a good idea for you to at least make your tutelage under Sir Morlune apparent. Command takes outsiders very seriously."
"All right. I'll be right there." You carefully unwound the magics of your spell, ensuring that it didn't cause a blinding flash or some sort of explosion. Apparently that was a distressingly common occurrence, and you didn't want to make that kind of impression. Once the energies had dispersed, you attached the sword to your belt, and glanced at the stand holding your armor. Would you really need it?
[] Wear it. You might get some odd looks, but even if it isn't necessary, it will show that your goals are aligned with the Crusade.
[] Leave it. It might be a significant faux-pas to have a Crusader's armor when you aren't technically a member.
You and Thornby walked in relative quiet on the path down from the Abbey, but he became more rigid as you approached the village proper.
"Anxious?" It was to be expected, with perhaps the most respected figure in the Crusade visiting.
"Somewhat." Thornby was honest if nothing else. "It isn't every day that the High General and the High Abbot of Tyr's Hand both visit this far out. This is either very good or very bad. The only thing that would make me truly nervous is if the Grand Inquisitor himself were here."
"Understandable. That wouldn't be a sign of anything good, after all. I take it he's a zealous man?"
"Zeal is putting it lightly." Somehow, despite the armor he wore, you could still see Thornby shudder. "Lord Isillien is infamous, even more so than Inquisitor Whitemane. If he thought that someone in the village was compromised, I wouldn't be surprised if half of the people here were arrested and interrogated." That was quite telling, and not in a good way.
"But he isn't here?" To your somewhat mixed relief, Thornby shook his head.
"No. General Abbendis apparently stopped at Hearthglen, but the Inquisitor isn't among her entourage." As you entered the square, you found a fair crowd standing at the edges. In the center of the space, Father Tobias was speaking with the woman you assumed to be the High General. Slipping into a space near Morlune, you noticed him give you a smile before returning to a professional stoicism. Thornby was to your right, with his squad, and you recognized a few from your journey across Tirisfal.
Turning your attention towards the General, you tried to make out what exactly she looked like. You could tell that her hair was red, as most anyone seemed to know when you asked, but it was only when Father Tobias shifted to one side that you saw her face.
Your breath caught in your throat momentarily as you realized that you had seen her before. When you had been traveling to Vandermar after the battle at the bulwark, you had seen her face in the River Darrow. You couldn't see the color of her eyes, but you knew that it was the same woman who had been glaring up at you from the water. You were broken from your confusion by the sound of Tobias' voice.
"The High General would speak with the commanders of the Hosts! Sir Morlune of Kul Tiras and Sir Karnwield of Gilneas, step forward!" Morlune did so without hesitation, and you saw another knight move from the other side of the square. He was not built as a mountain like Morlune was, but he was somewhat younger, and less swarthy. The commander of the Gilnean Host, and Master of Plagueshield Hold, if you had heard correctly.
There was an eerie silence in your ears as you saw the commanders speak with the General, and you became somewhat distressed at the concern that you saw cross Morlune's face. When he returned, his expression was dark, and there was a fear in his voice as he spoke to you.
"The General wants to speak with you personally, Jeanne. There's been some kind of misunderstanding." He put a hand on your shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. You were sure that the shock was clear on your face. "She wants to meet you in the cathedral." Glancing back, he whispered: "You'd best go now." Shaken somewhat by the change in his demeanor, you nodded and moved out of the throng, only catching a glimpse of Thornby's confusion at whatever he had heard.
Steeling yourself, you walked to the Cathedral of the Burning Light.
[] Wait outside.
[] Go inside and pray.
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- Location
- PA
Hrrm...I'm thinking the public play ISN'T the move to make, tempting though it is, myself.
Like...It'll theoretically be good for proving ourselves innocent but...The trade off is that we're arguably avoiding justice and acting like we have something to hide.
Privacy might let Abbendis have her way with us but the flipside is possibly giving her a reason to suspect her visions might not be what she thinks they are.
RL Jeanne seems like she had a pretty good head on her shoulders, I think I'm going to have faith that Azeroth Jeanne is simmilar.
[X] Leave it. It might be a significant faux-pas to have a Crusader's armor when you aren't technically a member.
We've not signed up yet, let's not actually display our alliance with these guys, Abbendis seems wary to shenanigans like that.
[X] Go inside and pray.
Because if we make this political it means a wedge between anyone we befriend/work with and Abbendis and her forces, which won't do the Crusade any favors irregardless of how much she may or may not have fallen under the sway of the Dreadlord manipulator.
Like...It'll theoretically be good for proving ourselves innocent but...The trade off is that we're arguably avoiding justice and acting like we have something to hide.
Privacy might let Abbendis have her way with us but the flipside is possibly giving her a reason to suspect her visions might not be what she thinks they are.
RL Jeanne seems like she had a pretty good head on her shoulders, I think I'm going to have faith that Azeroth Jeanne is simmilar.
[X] Leave it. It might be a significant faux-pas to have a Crusader's armor when you aren't technically a member.
We've not signed up yet, let's not actually display our alliance with these guys, Abbendis seems wary to shenanigans like that.
[X] Go inside and pray.
Because if we make this political it means a wedge between anyone we befriend/work with and Abbendis and her forces, which won't do the Crusade any favors irregardless of how much she may or may not have fallen under the sway of the Dreadlord manipulator.
- Location
- nz
[X] Leave it. It might be a significant faux-pas to have a Crusader's armor when you aren't technically a member.
[X] Go inside and pray.
[X] Go inside and pray.
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ThatGuyWithIdeas
Treize died for our sins
- Location
- Romania
[X] Wear it.
[X] Go inside and pray.
[X] Go inside and pray.