Solivagus

The three moons in the night sky of Heridor shone with a bright luminesence, as if struggling, vainly, to penetrate the thick layers of smog that clouded the skies of the industrial planet. Thier rays caught the sides of the tall towers of the rich and famous that occasionally managed to pentrate the layers of foul gasses, towers stained and pitted by the corrosive air, thier outsides as black and corroded as the hearts of the men who had built them. On Heridor, the only way to fortune and fame was through pain and suffering. Below the smog layer the world was dark and dank, a miserable world lit only by the occasional spotlights of passing Magistratum skimmers on patrol. Light was discouraged on Heridor, darkness was so much more preferable. As one sinks down towards the surface of the world, metal walkways and girders crisscross the sky. Covered in patches of rust, occasionally eaten away by the periodic bursts of acid rain, it was a wonder such walkways supported the weight of the people crossing them. Built out from the metal struts, cafes and shops plied thier trade, desperatly trying to make ends meet so they could pay the buisness bosses of the city thier protection fees. Without such protection, the shop owners knew they would be sent down to the bowels of the city, to the Underhive. The bosses got angry when they weren't paid on time. Deeper down, past all the steel and cabling, below the reach of the Magistratum, below the sight of any but the most powerful, there was the Underhive itself. Built from a mixture of materials, of stone and wood and steel and plascrete, the true scum of the city lurked. Mutants and scag heads, drug addicts pumped high of illeagle narcotics or coming down of off thier high and needing another fix, black marketeers dealing in just about anything one could desire, for a price. And the gangs. Identified by gang tattoos, they stalked the streets of the Underhive in packs, searching for easy prey and enemy gang members, clutching rusty guns scavanged from the dead and improvised pipes and axes, anything that came to hand. Each gang had it's own area and guarded it jealously. The death toll was high when two gangs met, but that was they way of life in the Underhive. It was all anyone knew. This is Heridor. This is a black pit on the outskirts of the known galaxy. And it is here that a hero will rise, to save of damn everything. Here, is where Mazrim Almardar is born.

Delinquent A person, usually young, who behaves in a way that is illegal or unacceptable to most people

Detriment 1. loss, damage, disadvantage, or injury. 2. a cause of loss or damage.

This one wasn't actually written by me, but by a friend of mine who found the previous two on LiveJournal and decided to write her own. She has strange notions, believeing frequently that things will turn out alright in the end and also that I am a good person. She also believes (or says she does) that the Weary Traveller is some obscure way of me writing about myself. Hmmm... Anyway, here is what she wrote "in answer" to the previous two. All credit goes to Rachel Jones for this one-I look forward to writing with her in the future. The weary traveller stood upon the cliff top, his ever restless mind running through his most painful memories and feelings, causing his soul to writhe in agony. His face twisted into a pity-inducing mix of self-hate, loss, and agony caused by the knowledge that what he wanted, what he need the most, was seemingly forever out of reach. He had lost his most valued friend, the one many had considered to be a soulmate and who he had looked upon as a sister. He had lost many other friends in a terrifyingly short space of time, and although he had avenged them, that was not enough to lessen his feeling of guilt. And now his attempts to block out his emotions, to clear his mind of feelings, to rid himself of at least some of the pain he was currently going through-all were foiled by just one person. And there wasn't a thing he could do about it. As his mind focused on this his face formed an unconciouss snarl, but though he fought to stop the images they were just too strong. He saw what he wanted more than anything, and saw at the same time the unreachability of it. His left hand formed a claw around his eye, as if seeking to tear the images from his mind by force. His nails dug into his skin, leaving deep marks that would take time to fade. His other hand went to his blue-black hair. Longer than he usually permitted it to grow, he grasped a clump of it, looking as if he was about to tear a great clump of it out. But he didn't. He couldn't. And still the images came on. And so there he stood, upon the cliff top, battered by the sea wind and gazing out across the sunset and sunrise upon the water. The one he had lost had loved the view, they had sat for hours just to see the sight. He wanted so much to bring the person who was out of reach to this place, to see the beauty he had seen, but it was impossible. So instead he stood and looked, and wished, while the images of pain and misery raced through his mind. He had lost most of his hope, forgotten much of who he was. He saw himself alone despite the friends that he valued, for he felt he would never truly fit in, could never truly fit in. He was too different from them. And the person who watched over him, the person who had done what she could to guide him from the destructive path he had chosen, the person who felt tears roll down her cheeks as she gazed upon his anguish-she swore to herself and to the Grey Lord that she would help him discover hope again.

The storm blew cold and hard, lashing the man with viscious droplets of water that stung his skin. Wind tore forcefully at him, threataning to throw him from the cliff edge and into the furious, hungry sea far below. The water tossed and heaved, eager to swallow the fragile figure who was trying to defy the storms strength with the same effort as he tried to deny his position in life. His denials were having about the same affect. Desperatly his broken mind skittered into what may have been some distant memory of a past life, or may just have easily have been a figment of his strange and pain-filled mind. The wind howled around the tower of granite, trying, as it had so many times before, to tear the construct from the edge and toss it into the sea. Upon the balcony of the tower, wrapped in a long black riding cloak that sheltered him from the cold, a tall man with a melancholy face stood and watched the storms progress. He was known only by the people round abouts as "The Watcher". What he watched for was a matter for idle tavern speculation, but that he was waiting for something was unmistakable. It showed in the way he walked, the way he distanced himself even when talking. It showed in his pain filled eyes, full of longing, and it could be heard in his voice as he conversed with those few who dared to climb the tower and speak to him. Gradually the storm subsided, and The Watcher sighed. Still it had not come. He began to fear it never would. Slowly he removed his cloak and made his way inside to lay on his bed. A fire burned in the simple room that was his home, driving the chill of the night into hiding. Curling up, the man closed his eyes and fell asleep. He awoke only once that night, when the cold steel blade was plunged into his chest and through his heart. His eyes opened, the pain and loss replaced by thanks. As he closed his eyes for the final time, he whispered his last words and they were full of gratitude. "At last, the pain ends." And so he died, creating more tavern gossip for the locals. The weary man tensed and clutched his chest as he returned to the present, his heart beating wildly, pain pounding through his head. How long he had drifted in the memory he didn't know, but it had been long enough for the seaes to calm and the storm to cease. He dropped to his haunches and waited for the pain to pass. The memories were getting stronger, more real. Why was he forced to live like this? Grimly he smiled, but there was no mirth in it. He knew why he was made to suffer, why he was forced to live as he did. He just didn't know who had managed to cause such things upon him. When finally he recovered from the instensity of his vision or whatever it had been, he stood, letting his hand fall down to his side. before moving on. His journey was still a long way from being over. Unnoticed by the weary man, the hand he had placed on his chest glistened red in the pale moonlight...

These stories are just short snippets that one day I hope to turn into a larger story. Currently they've taken between five and thirty minutes. The man strode wearily along the path, his mind full of images and ideas that were not his own. The once soothing sound of wind and water were lost upon him as he struggled to escape the tormented path his mind seemed destined to wander. As he closed his eyes in an attempt to disperse the images from his sight, he shuddered. And the rememberances claimed him again... The dry sand beneath his feet, shifting in the errant desert winds. The cool feel of silk on skin as it rippled in the rare, tantalising breeze that the desert provided. The comforting wieght of steel at his hip. Those were what the man knew. Slowly he knelt beside the oasis, and he prayed to the gods that he followed, repeating his oaths as he had done for so many years. He swore once more to protect the oasis from those who would harvest it, to guard it from those who would misuse it's purpose. All knew that oasis were a haven, yet few understood that havens cannot be transported and remain the same. And so he existed. It was all he knew. He had no friends, for those who believed as he did had been killed in his endless struggle to protect. Thier names were seared onto his soul, thier ashes spread upon the wind, as surely his must one day be. He had no emotions, for they had been culled by his constant battles, ripped from him by nessecity. He existed only to serve the oasis. Yet still he wished, wished while wishing was dangerous. He dreamed, and as he did so the small part of his mind that wanted more, the part he kept caged behind walls of loss and hurt and pain, struggled to escape its prison of darkness. One day, it would succeed, and then the man with only one purpose, the man who had never known anything except to serve, would have troubles anew to contend with. The weary man shuddered as he opened his eyes, ripping his mind away from the strange memory that still seemed somehow strangely familiar. As he continued on his weary path towards redemption and acceptance, the wind blew again, carrying with it the faint scent of cacti, sand, and water.

Delight What this place did to me when I came to the realisation that no matter how long I stay away for, I always seem to be welcome to return

Okay. Instead of creating a seperate OOC topic in the Greenroom, this will serve the same purpose. Any questions you may have or any requests to join the quest should be posted here. To those of you joining the quest after Richard has left the Keep should PM me first, as there's a chance the teleportation devices may take you somewhere unintended I have deliberatly left the description of the airship for the moment in case anyone wishes to post something in the meantime. The description will appear in about two days. I'd also like to take this time to apologise for the longer than anticipated wait. Real Life (translate that to "College") Has been interfering with my plans.

Richards usual aversion to apparent members of the press took a backseat for this mission. He had had few enough volunteers for the quest and besides, company policy must be expected to adapt when journeying to new worlds. Nodding a greeting to Christopher, he proceeded to gear up, talking over his shoulder as he did so. "As you may or may not know, recent reconissance that I have performed suggests an object of great power stored on islands a fair distance from here. I was unable to determine the exact nature of this artefact, but readings from my remote aircraft suggest that this artefact is guarded my immense power. I have been supplied by my company with an air ship to enable faster travel, along with a crew to pilot it. Currently there are only two of us going, but it is my hope that others will join us later." Christopher looked curiously at Richard. "How are they supposed to do that when we're so far away?" Holding up a strange blue circular device that seemed to be generating a strange, erie glow, Richard explained. " This is a teleportation device. It is linked to my biological enhancements. In theory, people will be able to activate the item by taking hold of it and be transported to my current location." Having geared up, Richard turned and left his quarters, Christopher in tow. On the way he picked up the girl known as Sweet, explaining the quest as he had to Christopher. He detoured to the Great Hall and placed the blue objects on the table along with instructions on thier use. He then made his way to the Courtyard, where the airship awaited them.

Richards mind scanned through the possiblities before him, and found only one. He had to get inside the tree, he could do no good from outside, short of blowing up the tree, and that might not be the best idea for his companions. He looked curiously at the toadstool he has recieved on Annael's dissapearence, but it was either sleeping or had nothing to suggest. It was hard to tell really. Command wasn't offering any advice either, they seemed to have been shocked into silence by the actions of what appeared to be a simple tree. One voice had suggested napalm, but he wasn't ready for such a drastic measure. He had always preferred stealth and guile over excessive violence, especially where comrades were concerned. Slowly he approached the tree that had taken hold of his butterfly surrounded companion, sitting down on the ground and leaning against the trunk, his muscles tense at the mystery of what might happen next. He felt the toadstool quiver in his hands, but it also seemed unable to suggest anything. He waited there, and hoped the tree would swallow him too, so that he might find some way to break out at a later time.

Richards eyes scanned the forest before them for some sign of a threat, some reason behind the vague feeling of uneasiness that seemed to be creeping over him. Something about the forest made him want to Cloak, but that was foolish. His eyes detected no unusual signs of life, no detectable threats. Slowly he began to make his way down the slope of the mountain side, placing his feet carefully. When he failed to hear the sounds of the other two, he stopped and looked curiously over his shoulder. "Coming?"

A thief of art, A stealer of effort, A criminal apart, They deserve all that they get. Topic: Fountain pen

Glorious Gadgets, how I adore you! Marvellous machines of life! I hope you like me as much as I do you, That never will you bring me strife... Topic: Smilies

Deadly warriors all in black, Enemy targets never do they lack, Killing with poison, killing with steel, Never to fail, murder's his deal... New topic: Travel

(OOC: Uh...don't seem to have permission to post in the AAV out of character room. Richards details are set out here) "Mine too I'm afraid, we don't have dragons where I'm from." Richard's voice was cool and unruffled as he gazed at the dragon, estimating it's damage potential. Annael noticed him slowly moving his hand out from under his coat however, and fervently hoped the dragon hadn't seen the movement. "It's a fascinating creature though..." Richard quickly noted the length and size of the creature, estimated muscle strength and calculated total mass. His head tipped sideways slightly as a voice heard only by him was heard to be cheering. Standing at ease, he gave communication a second try. "You wouldn't happen to have seen a medallion around here somewhere, would you?"