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~*Illuminating Shadows*~

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Poller5
Dec Member 2023

Poller5

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Welcome, one and all, to my newest thread, and, of course, story. This is going to be a full length story, my second one on this forum, and it will be significantly better than my other one, "The Story of Castle Wars". At least, that's the goal.

For those of you who hated my Tolkien-esque style of writing used in Ardhonmeth and Tulessëvala, fear not, for this will be written using more... conventional English. Easier to write and read ;)

My Credentials:

~^~Member of the Incredibly Gifted Authors~^*
*-*^*Supreme Writer of The Writer's Pen~^~–‡
^v^Member of The Yanillian Library^v^
~\^/~ Maestro of The Amethyst Library ~\^/~
(_.·°¯°·._) Master•of•the•Opal•Quill (_.·°¯°·._)
(¯`•._)Mëmbër×Ïñ×Wrî†êrš×Õƒ×Rûñë§cåpë(¯`•._)
(_.·°¯°·._) Horus Of The Golden Novel's Guild (_.·°¯°·._)
(±÷÷¥¥÷÷±)~Vøid~Writer~Óƒ~The~Ñew~Åge~\/\/riters~(±÷÷¥¥÷÷±)

As you may've guessed, I'm really no good at this introduction thing; without further ado, I present to you "Illuminating Shadows".

Enjoy.

21-Mar-2008 23:01:14 - Last edited on 29-Nov-2013 21:59:37 by Poller5

Poller5
Dec Member 2023

Poller5

Posts: 11,421 Opal Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile
~*Prologue*~

One's homeland is one of the most important things in their life. No matter where they go, where they might end up, their homeland will always hold a place in their thoughts. Whatever happens to it, whatever befalls a person there, they will always be linked to it, will never forget it. And, on this day, Halldór Finnólfsson was fighting to defend his homeland.

The Varrockians attacked while the sun was at its zenith, illuminating but not heating the northern tundra. Fate, however, did not smile upon them, for the Fremenniks knew of their coming and were prepared. Before the first attack came from the Varrockians, the Fremenniks charged, crying out to their gods.

Halldór ran at the head of the charge, his greatsword, Eldrágæti, cleaving through finely crafted shields and armor. The Varrockians' attack was well carried out, though, and the warriors were highly skilled. Around Halldór men on both sides fell, with the Varrockians killing at a rate of two to one. Soon the wild charge was halted, the tight formation of the attackers preventing any breaches in their lines.

Outnumbered and outclassed, the Fremenniks fought with a savage rage, fuelled by their heritage and fiercely proud unwillingness to lose, and the battle was at a stalemate for almost an hour. Halldór remained at the vanguard for the duration of the battle, cutting down foe after foe; his blade drank deeply of the blood of his enemies.

The raging style of fighting used by the Fremenniks, however, left them at a disadvantage in the drawn out fight, and pure adrenaline could not keep them going forever. Soon Halldór's blade slowed, fatigue clutching at him and dulling his reaction times. He took one hit, then another, and another as his comrades fell around him. Blinded by rage, he felt no pain from the wounds, felt no pain when the flat of a blade smashed into the side of his head; he felt no pain as he fell to the ground, unconscious.

*~*~*

21-Mar-2008 23:01:20 - Last edited on 29-Nov-2013 21:59:48 by Poller5

Poller5
Dec Member 2023

Poller5

Posts: 11,421 Opal Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile
The air before Lacerus crackled and split as a lightning bolt blasted from his extended fingers. The crowd cheered wildly as it struck the approaching warrior square in the chest, sending him flying. Another lightning bolt exploded from his hands, driving the man into the ground. The cheering was deafening this time: the crowd was well used to this display by now.

Lacerus paced forward slowly, seeming to grow with the cheering of the crowd, feeding off their enthusiasm. Inside, however, his emotions were mixed. Killing, he felt, should be born of necessity, not the bloodthirsty whims of Varrockians. Sighing silently, for in this he had no choice, he pointed his hands downward at the warrior. His eyes rose slowly as he looked up at the King, seated on his balcony.

The king's thumb was up: the man was to die. He smiled, albeit resignedly, and silently cursed. So much waste. His mouth formed the words, and as he looked he saw the fear on his foe's face a wave of revulsion hit him, and not for the first time hardened himself to the reality of his life: it was kill or be killed. And he wasn't going to die. Swallowing his pity, five bolts of magical energy flew from his hand to strike his foe, exploding upon impact. The man was dead before he realized he'd been hit.

Lacerus put on a wonderfully rehearsed fake smile as the crowd cheered. He had been here a long time, and knew his role: he was a crowd pleaser, sent to awaken within the spectators a bloodlust that would fuel the later, more physical fights. He walked slowly around the edges of the amphitheatre, granting to all the spectators an unimpeded view of his face. Then, with the same practiced pace, walked out through the Gate of Life, and the games began in full.

21-Mar-2008 23:01:25 - Last edited on 29-Nov-2013 22:00:32 by Poller5

Poller5
Dec Member 2023

Poller5

Posts: 11,421 Opal Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile
*~Chapter One: He Shows Promise ~*

Halldór no longer had any comprehension of time. Lying on a cold, steel bed, wearing only trousers sheared off above his knees, he was unsure of whether a day, a week, or a year had passed since he was defeated in combat by the Varrockians. Taken prisoner and stripped of his pride, his enemy had not given him an honourable death, for dying in combat was no source of shame, but rather imprisoned him, which was.

As more days passed, he began to pay more attention to his surroundings, for were he to escape, he would need at least a good knowledge of the room in which he was imprisoned. It was a dull stone room, windowless, and the only light source was a pillar in the corner, covered by a magical, heatless flame that filled the room with a cold light. There was no furniture in the room, with the exception of the bed, which barely qualified. The thin mattress did little to stop the spikes of metal, proof of the poor quality of the bed, from digging into his back, and he had more bruises now than he did when he first entered the room. A momentary flash of inspiration exploded in his mind, but to his disappointment, the bed was firmly chained to the ground.

Many more uneventful days passed, and soon his hopelessness and disappointment in himself turned into a bitter boredom. He took to pacing the room, and for many days he occupied himself with that simple task, and while doing so completely familiarized himself with the room. The walls were made up of many large blocks of stone, each firmly mortared to the surrounding blocks, and, though he did not know it, fixed together with stiff, iron bars. The floor was tiled with simple cobblestones, and his meager knowledge of rocks could not identify them as basalt, not that the knowledge would have helped him much.

A few days later he turned his attentions outward once more, and made note of the door.

21-Mar-2008 23:01:30 - Last edited on 29-Nov-2013 22:01:22 by Poller5

Poller5
Dec Member 2023

Poller5

Posts: 11,421 Opal Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile
It was made of a thick panel of wood re-enforced with steel bars, and, on the other side of the door, was an iron portcullis. The Varrockians had noted his strength during the battle, and recognizing him as a potential threat, he was contained within one of the most secure rooms in the complex.

At the bottom of the door was the sole weakness: a small flap that allowed food to be transferred through to Halldór. The food was simple: a serving of bread in the morning (it was from the times of food delivery that he once more became acquainted with the sense of day and night), and a serving of lukewarm stew in the evening. The flap opened inward, and fit tightly into the surrounding door, so Halldór had little success in trying to open it, and gave up on it as hopeless fairly quickly.

The first exciting event of his incarceration happened three weeks after he arrived in his cell, though Halldór's skewed sense of time placed it closer to two months. That morning, instead of the plain, semi-stale bread and pitcher of stagnant water to which he had become accustomed, he received a large hunk of beef, still warm and oozing with juices. Weak from the poor diet of the past weeks, he fell upon it ravenously, not questioning his good fortune.

Later that day he heard a great rattling from outside his cell, then the sliding of bolts. The door then swung open, and a thickly built dwarf entered the room. He was short, but his girth and obvious muscles marked him as a powerful foe. He moved with the graceful ease of a warrior, and on his back hung a mighty warhammer. "Stand," the dwarf commanded, his voice gruff and deep. Halldór, who was sitting on his bed at this time, did not quite know what to make of the dwarf. He was powerful, surely, but also small and short, something Halldór did not equate with power; he had never before encountered a dwarf.

A sharp slap to the face soon dispelled any doubts he may have had, and he stood without protest.

21-Mar-2008 23:01:35 - Last edited on 29-Nov-2013 22:02:10 by Poller5

Poller5
Dec Member 2023

Poller5

Posts: 11,421 Opal Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile
The dwarf paced around him, making note of his powerful muscles on his arms, legs, and stomach. He grunted, obviously impressed by the power this man seemed to exude, even in his depleted state. "Down," the dwarf ordered, and Halldór, remembering the sharp slap, did not protest and lay on the cold, stone ground. "Push up," the dwarf ordered, and he made the mighty Fremennik repeat the simple motion time and time again until the strain was obvious and sweat soaked his hair.
The dwarf watched the man pump his arms up and down repeatedly, amazement growing on his previously nonchalant visage as the man continued for minutes. Finally Halldór collapsed; his mighty arms had given out. The dwarf, amazed at the strength and endurance of the massive Fremennik did little but stand there and stare at the collapsed warrior. Then, gathering his wits, he returned to the door and gave a short but furious series of knocks. Bolts slid open and the portcullis drew upwards allowing the dwarf to exit the cell.
His attendant stood outside the door, and as the portcullis swung shut once more he asked about the newest prisoner. The dwarf simply gave a small smile, and as he walked away stated: "He shows promise."

21-Mar-2008 23:01:39 - Last edited on 22-Mar-2008 22:02:37 by Poller5

Poller5
Dec Member 2023

Poller5

Posts: 11,421 Opal Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile
*~Chapter Two: Long Awaited News~*
Lacerus sat in a great armed chair, thinking. Despite his status as a gladiator, a slave kept merely to satisfy the blood-thirsty whims of the Varrockian citizens, his room was richly decorated and he was hardly contained within it. No, he was not held prisoner in his cell, but wandering the great hallways of the underground complex beneath the Amphitheatre did little to entertain him. He had long since passed the stage where he was locked within a cell: his fame and power, along with his seeming submission, had made the king more than willing to lift the stringent security measures around his cell many years ago. Containing any being of great strength is hard, but when that strength is in magic, it is nigh impossible.
His mind wandered then to a time many years ago, shortly after he had been freed from imprisonment within his cell. For days he had wandered the passageways, investigating the security measures around the complex. An uncharacteristic confidence, along with interest in the effectiveness of the defences, had formulated a haphazard escape plan. It had failed miserably, but the main purpose of the attempt had succeeded: to garner intelligence on the defences. He had done nothing else of that ilk since then, but he retained the intelligence he'd gained.
His mind returning to the present, his thoughts shifted to the fights three weeks previous. They had not been particularly eventful, but the announcement made by the king at the end was most important. He had proclaimed that one month after those fights, now only one week away, would be the next event in the amphitheatre: a great competition involving all slaves. More pointless bloodshed, he thought morosely. More pointless deaths, more pointless killing: the thought of it sickened him.

21-Mar-2008 23:01:44 - Last edited on 22-Mar-2008 22:05:07 by Poller5

Poller5
Dec Member 2023

Poller5

Posts: 11,421 Opal Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile
A knock on his door startled him from his reverie, and he stood swiftly, his silk robes swirling around him as he did so. Striding confidently over to the door, he unlocked the simple mechanism and swung the door open. Roghr, the dwarven overseer and weapon master of the gladiatorial prisons stood before him, his eyes glowing with unrevealed information. "Come in, come in," Lacerus said, surprised to see the dwarf, a rare sight in his apartment recently.
After they had both settled into comfortable chairs, Lacerus spent a moment surveying the dwarf. He had been working with the gladiators since before Lacerus became one some twenty years in the past. Since then he had proven himself to be an honourable man, a genius with all manner of weapons, and, after a while, a trusted friend. The dwarf was significantly more fond of battle than was the mage, but he respected, and recognized, Lacerus's dislike of pointless bloodshed, something no one else had done.
"I think I may have found your man," Roghr said after a few minutes of silence.
"Really?" a surprised Lacerus found himself asking with perhaps a bit too much eagerness. He'd waited for that news for many years.
"Aye, one of the newer prisoners, taken in the conquest of the Fremennik lands," the dwarf stated simply. "His strength is incredible, and he will be a great asset to you in your plans."
"A Fremennik, though," Lacerus mused aloud. "Shan't he distrust me and my manipulation of magic? To my knowledge, the men of the north are not well disposed to those who share my...talent."
"I daresay he'll come around to you," the dwarf grunted, his interest in the conversation waning. "Now, I must be off. For this Fremennik to be an option to you, he must survive the upcoming competition, which means I must get him from the barren, apathetic wastelands of defeat to a point where he's willing to do battle."

21-Mar-2008 23:01:49 - Last edited on 22-Mar-2008 22:09:41 by Poller5

Poller5
Dec Member 2023

Poller5

Posts: 11,421 Opal Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile
Lacerus nodded his agreement, and the dwarf exited the room, once more leaving the mage to his thoughts. Lacerus was not slated to fight in the upcoming competition – it was to be purely melee – but was required to attend. An auspicious requirement, it would seem, for it would allow him a perfect chance to watch the Fremennik in his element.
Long had he awaited the news that a man had been found for him, a man capable of aiding his plans, plans that would be dubbed by many insane, if they knew of them. Lacerus reminded himself then that in the past a few candidates had been found, and all had died well before they could be informed of the plan; many before they'd even met the mage. However, the confidence Roghr had shown in the man, as well as the apparent awe he felt at his strength gave Lacerus a measure of confidence.
Perhaps, after all this time, this would be it. He would at last find an accomplice willing enough and capable enough to aid him. Truly had he anticipated the day he received this news for a great amount of time, and the previous disappointments did nothing to quench his excitement. Surely this Fremennik would be willing to help him, for there was no greater dishonour than imprisonment. He would want just as much as Lacerus to escape.

21-Mar-2008 23:01:53 - Last edited on 22-Mar-2008 21:49:36 by Poller5

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