Solo Dark Tide

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While Sylira is by far the most civilized region of Mizahar, countless surprises and encounters await the traveler in its rural wilderness. Called the Wildlands, Syliran's wilderness is comprised of gradual rolling hills in the south that become deep wilderness in the north. Ruins abound throughout the wildlands, and only the well-marked roads are safe.

A Red Tide

Postby Elias Caldera on August 18th, 2016, 12:51 am

She awoke to the sound of thunder crashing against her skull.

W-what…? Argh! Ciril groaned as the pain pounding at her temples crescendoed into new heights of agony with her new found consciousness of it. There was something else she was distinctly aware in that moment of as well; a sharp, piercing sensation nestling itself rigidly just under her chest. She couldn’t tell what it was, but it remained troublingly constant, as if someone where standing atop her.

She tried to recall what the hell it was that had happened to land her in such anguish, but the memories were all a blur, lost in the deafening pulse of her heartbeat and the pain in her head.

Wincing, she tried to cup her head with her hand, to fight the pressure with pressure of her own at the very least, but soon found herself unable to move it. Not just her hand either, but both of her arms as well refused to adhere! Panic set it in immediately, and she struggled to open her eyes in spite of the unpleasant brightness she knew they were desperately trying to keep at bay.

The world was a muddied mess when the curtains were finally drawn back, but she was determined to make sense of it all. Pushing through the haze, she saw the sands of the beach first, smelt the salt in the air, felt the breeze on her face, and then realized quite abruptly she could taste it as well. Coughing, she spat and searched doggedly for something else -anything else- to grab unto, and eventually found a fuzzy shape on the floor lying next to her. Why can’t I move my damn arms! She blinked, fuming and confused, and all at once the world came into focus as she realized a pair of eyes were staring back at her.

It was Crassus, slumped over and lying on the ground. She could even make out the Svefra's beached ship wallowing in the surf behind him, but why was he just lying there, looking at her? Then she noticed it, the thing protruding from in between his eyes.

A blade… of ice.

She felt the stabbing against her chest deepen, and the pain elicited a gasp. “Ah, you’re awake then.” She jumped at the shock, reeled, screamed, or at least tried her damndest to, but a new wave of dull aches rumbled across the back of her head and she found herself helpless against its torment yet again. Dismayed but refusing to surrender, Ciril caught her breath and continued her struggle, to fight against whatever force held her down, even going so far as to summon her djed in hopes of seeing herself freed.

She could see everything clearly now, and she knew she'd need her magic now more than ever. The crew of the ship lay all around her, killed, just like Crassus as each bore a blade of shimmering, melting ice of their own. It wasn’t them she focused on however, but the one whose boots pinned her wrists, the one who stood hovering above her, his frame blocking out the sun and casting his features in perplexing shadow.

The one whose sword now pressed against her heart.

You know, it’s funny, they were actually surprised in the end.” The unfamiliar voice said again. Ciril dared no look to see who he motioned to, a fear gripping at her core and screaming not to look away. This was the man who’d killed her companions, her friends! Come on, come on! The magic confined in her core was slow to stir, just as dazed and bewildered as Ciril was, but she had no time to coddle it. She needed it now!

I don’t know why though. They should have known better than anyone else…” The face turned, and for the first time she could make out the features of her attacker against the backdrop of the sun burning behind his shaved head. Pale, mangled and sneering down at her, she suddenly wished she hadn’t.

In this world, you’re either the betrayed, or the betrayer.

Wait-” Was all she managed in a hoarse and raspy tone before she felt the blade dig into her flesh, piercing it and steadily making its way deeper and deeper. The pain instantly stole her voice and whatever little strength she had left. She could feel it tearing apart all she was, digging its way towards her heart and the end.

Then… it just stopped.

She had felt her self dying, felt her last moments upon her as steel sliced cleanly through meat, but something halted the push, a noise she now could hear too. She craned her neck, sand and tears clouding her vision, but she fought through it, just to get a glimpse, a peek at what was coming.

The pale man was visibly perplexed, the unexpected sound catching him off guard, but even as he looked up from his pleasures to see what was charging down the beach at him, it was already too late to stop it.

Joran.” She whispered.

What… What is- oof!

A veritable bull of tempered steel and ill will careened into the monster from behind, his blade sent flying as the impact rocketed him off his feet and out of his senses. The blow had been thunderous, glorious, and the two went crashing into the sand hard, ser Joran already reeling a steely fist back into the air to deliver the worst beating of that bastard’s life as he lay beneath him, utterly stunned.

Ciril struggled to stand, to just get the petch up. She knew Joran would need her help to defeat this evil, and there was no way in hell she was going to miss her chance at revenge.


Elias gasped and gaped for air like a fish out of water, all of it having been driven out of his lungs in an instant he was still trying to understand. He had barely managed his first desperate gulp when the first fist found his face. The second nearly put him to sleep, but the third woke him back up only to enjoy in full the fourth and fifth.

He looked up at the angry, surging mass that straddled him, pummeled him, buried his head in the sand with each blow, and saw a familiar face he couldn’t he couldn't quite believe snarling back at him. Joran? Petching Joran!? Another gauntleted knuckle met the bridge of his nose and he felt blood spew from the broken remains of the cartilage. As impossible as it seemed, the Caldera couldn’t afford to remain aghast any longer, he was about to be beaten to death by nearly three hundred pounds of pissed off knight. I should made sure he was dead! Gods damn it, I should have made sure! He had to think fast and the rain storm of fury battering down against his face wasn't making that any easier. The answer came to him as it always did however;


The answer was always djed.

He summoned all of it, screamed out within his own mind for it to obey him, to come racing to his call, and the magic answered. The flow within him shuddered to a halt, changing directions in strained desperation as it began forcing its way upwards. It was sloppy, and crude, and the mage knew he was going to suffer for it later, but for right now, he latched onto the roaring tides of the flux and shifted everything he had to his arms. Another fist struck him remorselessly before he could finish, as did the next.

The final strike however, never found a home. Instead, this one he caught.

Oh how he was starting to enjoy the look of surprise on this ser Joran’s face. It was so satisfying to see the brave, bold warrior caught unaware yet again by forces he failed or just simply refused to comprehend. He should have learned his lesson the first time; he wasn’t fighting a man, he was annoying a mage.

Joran growled and cried out as his arm was twisted around, wrist locked in the Ravokian’s unnatural grip as he began to push the bigger soldier away with startling ease. Elias had no intention of shoving the knight off of him however, he just needed to make room for his other hand to reach his goal. Joran saw what was happening and tried to react, but Elias was simply too fast this. The Ebonstryfer ripped the arrow head that had been buried in his shoulder with a roar, before burying it again in ser Joran’s neck as deep as he could.

The knight sergeant shuddered above him as the blade shredded his throat, but Elias was far from done. He tore the improvised weapon out and jammed it back in again, over and over and over until he was bathing in a torrent of the Syliran's blood. Even as he heard the screams of disbelief coming from the girl, he refused to relent. Unlike his enemy, Elias had learned his lesson. This time, he’d make sure Joran stayed dead.

It was only when the armor clad cadaver slumped motionless atop him did the mage cease his barbarous assault, releasing his shiv and his djed, but not before heaving the big man off of himself with the last of his flux enhanced strength. He struggled back to his feet as quickly as he could, not to celebrate or taunt as tradition dictated, but instead to finish the job. That scream earlier had curtly reminded him of what he had been doing before he had been so rudely interrupted. Elias knew better than anyone, an unchecked, ticked off mage was the worst thing to let sneak up on you, so he hurried to strike her down before the bitch had a chance to do the same to him. Unfortunately for the Caldera however, she had already struck, he just hadn’t been paying attention.

He saw her there, barely managing to hold herself up on one knee yet already a hand outstretched towards him, res swirling betwixt her fingertips and igniting into flame. Oh shyke.

He had zero time to react before the ball of flame erupted outwards from her grasp. Small, pitiful and hastily constructed, it was a fireball that threatened to get the job done regardless of its craftsmanship. Elias, frantic and madcap, raised his own hand and let loose what res he could muster, knowing full well he couldn’t manifest anything to stop it in so little time. Instead, with heinous and urgent fear fueling him, he called out for anything to answer the res’s summon. The ocean, the dirt, anything the reimancer could attract towards him in order to stop the fire before it collided with him head on!

To his surprise, something answered.

The stench was unbearable, almost as much as the hissing, seething noise the boiling bubble gave off after the remnants of the fireball that had struck it faded away. Elias had opened his eyes to behold his rescuer, but what he saw hovering there in front of his outstretched palm made him consider for a moment whether or not he was truly awake. It was blood! A swirling pool of it to be precise, and not just his own either, he could see multiple red tendrils still snaking their way through the air from both Joran and the fallen Svefra that littered the beach. His res was attracting it all, shaping and coalescing it as if it were water, and Elias didn’t have the words to explain just how petching confused he was at that moment. Nor did he have the time to think about it.

His opponent, though just as stunned, was already rousing up another spell.

A second fireball came screaming towards him without warning, and Elias recognized he could do little but embrace this new found ability and bend it to his will. The ball of blood shifted, uncomfortably and unsure at first, but eventually it began to demonstrate some of the same grace and control the reimancer had over his initial element. It intercepted the ball of rushing flames and extinguished it for the second time in as many ticks, and already the Caldera could the despair reawakening within the lesser mage. Now, she must have realized, it was his turn.

Elias released his control, letting the crimson serpent he had cobbled together from the remains of his fallen victims rain back down to earth. In his other hand he had already formed another ball of res to take its place, and he launched it at Ciril without hesitation, the magic contorting and transmuting as it flew into what was quickly become his new favorite toy these days; ice.

The sera yelped as the first blade struck her in the chest, but by the second and third, she was already done, too weakened and groggy to withstand the torrent, the sorceress was dead before she even hit the floor.

For a long time after she fell, Elias waited. Standing near perfectly still, nearly doubling over from the pain in his shoulder, his face, his petching ribs, he waded and suffered though it all, unflinching. He just wasn’t sure if anyone else was going to come attack him now. The mage, the sailors, hell, for all he knew ser Joran might have fancied a third round, who the hell could be certain anymore. No one stirred beneath his vigilant watch however, and Elias allowed himself a sigh before crumpling back down to the sands of the beach.

It was done then, he thought. His mission completed, though at obscene cost. Truth be told, he had expected as much at this point. These days there was rarely a fight with him involved that didn’t end with the Ravokian bloodied and bruised like dockside whore after shore leave. He was almost getting used to it.


He groaned, a tender touch finding his busted face for the first time to assess the damage. Not too bad he hoped, though he couldn’t be entirely sure. What he did know for certain however, was that his nose felt like it had just been reamed by battering ram. He turned and glowered at the corpse of the knight sergeant, delivering a swift and meaningless kick to the side of the dead man’s head for good measure. Oh, it was certainly broken, there was little doubt about, and that damn hole in his shoulder, oh gods above, he could already feel the mizas draining from his pockets as he pondered over the medical expenses. Petching Nykans were going to drain him as dry as his veins felt, he just knew it. … and how am I supposed to explain this away to Alija. Petch!

With a whimper he rolled himself back to something resembling vertical and began hobbling way over to the prize he had searched and suffered so much for. As he shouldered the satchel, his mind wandered elsewhere, back to the thoughts of his ‘emptied veins’ in particular. In a way, facing off against the knights had been a crucible all on its own, and perhaps held even greater importance than his first, and that alone should have sated him, but now this thing he had accomplished with the blood… He couldn’t explain it. Was it because of Viratas’s mark, or was it just plain reimancy at work? He imagined it was the former considering he was the god of blood after all, but even so, Elias would have known if his gnosis possessed such capabilities, and he very much doubted the lord of heritage would go so far as bless him with such a power in his time of need just to kill a few knights.

It was all just infuriatingly perplexing!

"What do you think?" the mage queried to other magic user, but Ciril seemed preoccupied with her own thoughts. A veritable pin cushion of ice, the girl simply refused to even acknowledge him, let alone answer his question. Perhaps she was still miffed about what he'd done to her, or maybe it was just the fact that she was just incredibly dead at that point, either way, Elias found her company wanting and felt something tugging at him to move on.

The Defiler never grew content or complacent, and neither could his sanctified servants. So much work was left ahead of him, and so little time to see it all done, but Elias was tired, so petching tired. All he wanted at that moment was to flop unto the beach and simply sleep his aches away, but knew his master have more tasks for him to handle, more lives for him to take, more holy work to be wrought.

He could sleep when he was dead, a little voice at the back of his mind whispered. Until then, he only lived to serve.
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Elias Caldera
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Location: Ravok
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Dark Tide

Postby Karyk on June 30th, 2017, 8:27 pm

Elias Cordas
Auristics: 1
Tactics: 5
Reimancy: 4
Climbing: 1
Stealth: 1
Hypnotism: 1
Weapon (Shortbow): 2
Running: 2
Weapon (Longsword): 2
Intimidation: 2
Weapon (Dagger): 1
Flux: 1
Brawling: 1
Waters around Nyka are freezing in Winter
Tactics: Distractions can be better than corpses
Syliran Knights: Men in lesser armor with a Knight must be Squires
Tactics: The momentary opening following a completed task
Reimancy: Firing a bow with confidence that hands lack
Reimancy: Using wind to better guide a bowshot
Tactics: Using clothing to mimic your form
Tactics: Its not fleeing if you have a plan in that direction
The fear of death in one's eyes is all too familiar
Infuriating Thought: Was it Blood Reimancy or the power of Viratas?
Injury: Arrow Shot to the Shoulder - Will require Competent Medicine or L2 Healing to heal decently. Expert or L3 to heal fully with no impediment on movement.
Injury: Severely broken nose - Will require competent medicine or L2 Healing to heal fully. Can be treated by novice or L1 but will lose most function if not all.
Injury: Broken facial bones - Will require competent medicine or L2 Healing to aid in healing. Without it, pain, swelling, will last for several seasons, along with permanent disfigurement.
Overgiving Injury: Random, concentration breaking spikes of pain when Flux or Reimancy is used in the arm that caught Ser Joran's fist

Notes and Comments
CS Checkmarked: ✓
CS Reviewed by Me: ✓
Season Request was Submitted for Grade: Summer 517
Season Thread was Started (IC & OOC): Winter 515 & Winter 515
Is that Season's expenses paid?: ✓
Eligible for grade? Yes

A very fun thread to read, and incredibly well written. Maybe pushed boundaries a couple of times, but nothing blatant. But a fantastic read. If you have any questions, let me know. Please mark your post in the Queue as graded.
Follow your heart, and the plot will follow.
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