Fantasy Ideas:Idea 1
- With Nymphadora HERE
The snow came floating down.
Thick, wet flakes that clung to everything, covering the ground in a fresh layer of pure white snow. It brought a calmness with it, a stillness to the air. Barely a wind to whip it into snowdrifts. This was one of Sam's favorite times.
His breath billowed into puffs of moisture every time he exhaled. His cloak was bound tight against his body, hood up, to keep him warm, the snowflakes a stark white against the black of his cloak. His under layers were green wool and leather, helping him blend in with his surroundings. He was on the hunt, afterall, and winter was his favorite time to do so.
For one, there were rarely any other hunters or trappers out braving the cold. The crispness to the air made sound carry meaning he had to be extra careful. But, on the bright side, there were no twigs to snap, treeroots to get snarled in, and it was far easier to track an animal in fresh snowfall then in the otherwise dense brush and foliage. He had cut off the first two fingers of his right-hand glove, in order to grasp the bowstring better. But he had stitched them back on in a way that made them act like covers - able to keep his fingers warm when needed.
He was currently tracking a deer through the woods. He pressed himself up against the trunk of a tree before cautiously peeking his head around the corner. The deer was using its hoof to dig down through the top layer of snow to get at the food beneath it. It's side was facing Sam and he drew in a short breath, reaching for a bow before carefully notching it to his bowstring. He went to one knee, leaning around the tree and drew in a deep breath as he pulled the bowstring back.
Something was not right. He wrinkled his nose and relaxed his arm, letting the bowstring sag forward once more. The deer perked its head up, ears standing on end, but it wasn't facing him. There was something else. There was the smell of smoke on the air.
Sam sheathed the arrow and stood up, slinging his bow over his shoulder. The deer startled and bolted off into the woods. Sam felt a cold bead of sweat roll down his face as he realized just what was happening. This was no smoke from a campfire. No. This was the smoke from a burning village.
Sam started forward through the snow, snowshoes leaving large footprints behind, as he began to jog back to the village, trying all the while to suppress the growing fear and anxiety that built up in his chest.
The Warrior and The Boy
Richard felt a searing pain in the back of his shoulder and fell forward. His eyes remained open for a few seconds more, long enough to see a torch arch through the air and land in the thatching of his families tavern. The first flames began to lick at the thatch as darkness finally took him, his face resting on the soft grass where he had fallen. The soft laughter of the three men behind him was the last thing he heard.
They had arrived separately hours before. The Inn had been quiet at the time. A recent rain storm had kept travelers off the road. Only a few other patrons were in the Inn when the last had arrived and Richard had been tasked with serving them as he had finished rolling a fresh barrel of ale from the pantry. They had talked in hush tones and had gone silent every time he had approached. But Richard had learned what he could of them.
One man had a scar down the side of his face. His armor was dented in places and stained in others. Richard had instantly marked him as some one who was no stranger to combat or death. A dangerous man, if he had ever seen one.
The second man wore finer clothes and Richard had caught a glint of chainmail underneath his cloak. The man kept shifting uncomfortably and the mail had enough shine to it to let Richard know that it was rarely worn. Based on the livery, and the fancy hawk insignet on the mans ring, he had marked this man as a Noble of some sort.
The third man wore leather armor under his cloak and a bow was wrapped in deerskin to protect it from the elements. All of his clothing was dark and he kept his hood up at all times, shrouding his face in darkness. A hunter, Richard had thought, perhaps disfigured from an encounter with a wild animal.
Richard had gone to tend to the horses and was up in the hayloft, shifting a bale around, when he heard voices. He didn't mean to eavesdrop but he couldn't help it. And he wished he hadn't, over hearing the conversation as it was. He waited for them to leave before deciding to make his escape. But the cloaked one, he had been waiting, along with the other two. He tried to plead with them, that he wouldn't tell anyone. But they would have none of it. They were going to kill him and his family.
Richard had ran, back towards the Inn, when the soft twang of a bowstring preceded the thump of arrow into flesh. Richard had gone sprawling face first into the mud, a fire burning in his shoulder. He heard the men behind him laughing as they lit and torch and set fire to the Inn, having locked its outer door. And that was when the darkness had taken him.
If this interests you, I am looking for a female counterpart, a female warrior of a sort who has been wronged by the scar-face man in the past and has been trying to track him down ever since. PM me for further information.
An expedition to the west, to explore new lands and bring back untold riches. What could possibly go wrong?
Dargoth was thrilled to finally see land on the horizon after weeks of sailing with out a single sighting. Food supplies and fresh water were running low and he felt like he had salt from sea-spray all over his body. They itched his skin raw and he could not wait to bathe once more! His weapons and armor - foreign lands weren't safe were they? - were safely stored below in soft deerskins that were waterproof.
The sighting of land made all his pains and worries go away and he felt a renewed sense of energy among the crew. But not all was going to go well. Storm clouds gathered on the horizon and soon whipped the waves into a frenzy. He basked in the rain, mouth open, letting it wash the salt from his skin and fill his mouth with fresh, cool water. It was heavenly, until the storm took a turn for the worse.
Rogue waves washed men overboard and he lashed himself to the deck. Powerful winds snapped the mizen-mast and the main, sending more sailors to their death. The rest became a blur as the wind, rain, and waves battered and pounded the ship. A sickening crunch that jolted every bone in his body suggested they had run aground but the waves continued to batter the ship to pieces. It wasn't long before he was knocked out cold.
He awoke, sprawled on a sandy beach, wreckage all about him. He seemed to be in one piece, but where were the others?
Blood streamed down his body. He could not count the wounds he had suffered. Yet he fought on, ignoring the pain. An arrow through his shoulder, another protruding from his back, weren't going to slow him down. He didn't even feel the pain.
His skin glimmered in the fire light as his village burned. Flames licked out towards him, caressing his skin, but leaving it unmarred. The screams of the wounded and dying fell on deaf ears. His feet padded softly over the desert sand, his body moving gracefully. One could almost see his body tattoos swirling with his movements.
His bloodied sword in one hand, his hunting spear in the over, he danced the dance of death. The Iron Clads, as they were called, feel to spear thrust and sword slash. His powerful muscles bulged with each blow.
But he was waning. His foot slipped in a puddle of blood. A scimitar open a gash across his shoulders. His vision began to blur. He yelled in pain and anguish, bringing his sword down on the head of his nearest assailaint, splitting it clean in two, sword only coming to a stop when it was firmly between the mans shoulders. But it became stuck. He fell to his knee, sweeping his spear in a wide arc around him as he released the sword.
And then something hard hit him on the back of his head, causing the darkness to finally close in over him.
[This is a tale of a secret group of Assassins, the Dar'Shadur, who are born into their life, all marked by some form of tattoos. They posses special powers. My character, here, is a Tribesman who is captured and brought to a Slave Market, where a Mistress - a member of the Dar'Shadur - see's him for who he is and purchases him. But this is a new world and a new life to My Character - how will he respond to having his people murdered, his life now a slave, and being told he posses magic?]
I am Legend
Gori Ironhair was alone. He was the last living Dwarf of the Underhold.
His cloak was in tatters so he exchanged with a mostly whole one from a Dwarf who would no longer be needing it. His battle-ax was still sharp - all Dwarven steel was - but chipped. His arms were tired from using it in constant battle. His chest heaved as he gasped for air. Blood trickled down his face from a cut above his eye. He refilled his empty quiver and adjusted his bow across his chest once more. He drank the last of his Fire Ale, quenching his parched throat, and rummaged around for another drinking horn. Luckily, he found one.
Unearthly cries from behind him made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end once more. He patted the satchel at his hip and turned towards the Door. It was the singularly most terrifying thing he had known in his entire existence. It was even more terrifying to him then the creatures that had come forth out of the Underdark. This Door, carved in Dwarvish Runes, lead to the Overworld, a place no Dwarf had stepped foot in over 500 years.
And he was about to open that door and do just that.
The Kings Guard lay dead all around him, including the King who had given him this greatest task, this satchel, and the key to the door. Gori had never been a part of more units or full of more honor then he was now.
He had been part of the Dark Watch - a group of Dwarves who operated in the Underdark, protecting the miners seeking more materials. They guarded several key points and had been the first to fall. Gori had survived with a handful of others, making it back to the Second Watch - a defensive line formed long ago. When that had fallen, Gori found himself fighting with Moras Marauders, an elite unit. But they too had fallen and Gori had survived once more. Eventually he had fallen back to the Kings Guard as chaos descended on his peoples Kingdom. Runners had been dispatched along the Hidden Ways towards the other Dwarven Kingdoms, calling for aid, but the Hidden Ways had not been used in years and there was no telling what inhabited them these days.
So, with his dying breath, King Highar Runestone tasked Gori with traveling the Overworld.
And Gori was scared.
He didn't have much time though. Summoning the last reserves of his strength, he inserted the key into the Door and stood back, watching as it opened. Gori held his breath and found himself greatly disappointed when it simply revealed an old Miners tunnel. He had been expecting something so much more. Closing the door behind him, sealing it shut in the process, Gori began to march up the tunnel. The King had told him to go, so he would. He quickly noted that the slope of the tunnel led upwards and he could soon feel the breeze of a cool, fresh air.
He was getting close to the surface, to the Overworld.
[Basically looking for some one that Gori runs into in the Overworld. Dwarves are, for all intents and purposes, creatures of Legend, a race of humanoids who have not been seen on the Overworld (the surface, where Elves and Man live) in 500 years - so no one is around who has even seen a Dwarf before.]