Too Much of a Good Thing (Scott)

[P.]

OoC: As I said before: I’m in a battle with Scott. *Passes out*

IC:
There was no darkness in this land. Long ago it had fled in terror.

Everything was picture-perfect, and lustrous valleys gave way to high hopes that knew not the wonders of the night. The only solace here was in the sun, because it was the only phase this world found itself in, perpetual-perfection. Such beauty was found only in this land, and there was no darkness, no black to stain it. Equilibrium had been flip on its edge, and had been swallowed by its own magnificence.

Standing upon a rock at the precipice of a cliff there was a figure. His eyes were closed solemnly, his hands folded behind his back. His shield lay on the ground, stained and bloody. His garments’ voluptuous folds cascaded down to his feet, which were bare and tattooed. His skin was pale, and intricate loops wrapped around his body, and they spoke of the darkness that no longer existed in this world. He boasted impressive, white wings that trembled at the slightest breeze, like instruments designed for the feeling of nature, not flight. Timaeus was the only balanced thing there, and he was out of place.

He contemplated.

The blue sky spoke of nothing but light, and the sun was an orange blot against the plain canvas. Vivid beams of thick light pierced through the air, tearing at the Demon’s skin, thinning the blood beneath it.

Timaeus could feel the emotions in this place, and all were hollow without darkness against which to compare.. The air was suffocating him, but he did not gag. He just watched with closed eyes, felt with numb hands. His hair was messy, tumbling in the wind.

Without opening his eyes, he gracefully stepped from the rock and lifted his shield into his hand. His eyes cracked open as he leapt from the cliff, hurtling towards the ground at an extraordinary speed. He did not flinch once as he spun slowly in the air, his feet smashing into the ground. Grass, dirt and stone were sent flying through the air, where they stayed only momentarily, before coming down upon the ground, crushing the flora beneath them.

Timaeus straightened himself, inhaling deeply. The breath came out calmly, yet Timaeus’ expression was exactly the opposite. His brow had deep trenches dug into them, and his eyes were worried. There was some beauty in the image Timaeus cast then, some handsomeness that belied a sinister, pain-wrought heart.

The Searcher could feel his thin blood slowly running through his veins, his soul tugged back and forth by the ebbing tide of his beating heart. He walked slowly, as if he carried some burden that was never intended for him. His heart screamed for battle, and his bloodlust soared. His eyes strayed to the horizon once more, before coming to rest on his shield, his only weapon and defence. He was encumbered forever by his love for war. It was his only desire and ambition. It was his only reason. Deep within him, always there would be a hunger unsatisfied, and he nurtured it quietly in the deep vestiges of his troubled soul.

The grass was greener here. The light was brighter. The taste was sweeter. All these exquisite things did not strike Timaeus as anything other than out of the ordinary. Glorious things existed here, but they were nought in Timaeus’ mind.

He walked a path rarely travelled upon by mortal feet. The grass on the ground stroked his feet soothingly, relieving him of some tension. The time he walked for was indefinite, and he knew not when it would end.

“And now, only battle shall alter my path,” he told the world about him, voice laced with doubt and concern. When will my path be altered, though? I shall find out some time. His thoughts echoed in his mind, bouncing back and forth, back and forth…

He heard the smooth movement of water nearby, and watched quietly the stream that flowed beside him, in no rush.

Silently, he cried. The tears were slow, and their bitter touch did nothing to stop the nauseating feeling that writhed in his stomach. It was a sharp moment, as those tears fell through the air, tumbling towards the ground. They shattered as they hit the soft earth, slowly absorbed to soon be forgotten. No more tears came.

He dipped his hands slowly into the cool water beside him, making sure that he still had feeling in his fingers. He was condemned to walk alone. Condemned to fight alone. Condemned to live alone. That was what war was about. That was what Timaeus was about. That was his life, and it was all he had left.

The world could shape him how it wanted to. But how he used himself was up to him. “I’m always going to be my own master,” he whispered, “For now, and forever.” Then, pathetically, he smiled.

The wind picked up, its gentle push and pull quickly evolving into a howl that tore up the dirt on the ground. Grass and earth was flung through the air, getting stuck in Timaeus’ hair, which danced with a rhythm of its own. Timaeus’ ears twitched, he looked behind him, and then upwards, but found nothing other than the perfection he found himself coming to terms with. His blood sang quietly, swaying through his veins. His grip upon his shield tightened, and he crouched.

He could feel it. In the soil, on the wind. He could taste it. That musty, familiar smell. It was a sound, too. The sound of his blood singing like a choir, his hand firmer on his shield, the sound of the wind in his hair, and it had a look. It looked like any world Timaeus found himself in, with him, exhilarated, in the middle. And he saw it in how the shine of Jeika’s blade was brighter. He knew battle. He knew it was coming.

[Scott]

OoC: Hmm. You like lots of description, I see. It works, I guess.

So, today we'll be seeing Tahredron make an appearance. If you wish to read about him, his profile can be found in post #2 of the Character thread. I plan on adjusting his bio sometime soon, but I haven't gotten around to it just yet. You might be interested to see a doodle I made of him lacking armor, located in the Artwork forum.

Also, I detest Power Play. I have no idea if you do it, but since 95% of the BA does it, I feel I should point that out.


IC:

Tahredron and his ilk were manipulators. They manipulated people, fate, whole star systems, to get whatever end they felt would be best suited to their future. It helped that the leaders of his sort could foresee the future, and how to modify it to avert certain disasters, or set in motion a series of events to accomplish something decades later.

He himself had once carefully followed that path, and had been skilled at it. More recently, he had chosen a different path that was generally more peaceful, although now and then he would find the need to influence events to cause another event elsewhere.

It was on just such an occasion that he found himself in a land without darkness. There was great evil in such a place; to exist without the darkness was to invite it in to take over completely. Balance will always be restored, although without specific guidance, the balance would shift the other way for just as long, if not longer, before finding its center again. Actions and reactions, even simple humans could understand such concepts.

To restore balance more safely, the darkness must be brought in in a more controlled manner. It happened that he arrived this day because fate had placed just such a source of darkness: A wayward demon of some kind, wishing for war. War: the ultimate darkness that simple beings can bring about on their own.

To that end, Tahredron stood on a slight hill in the peace of the place. It was almost sickening how decadent the whole place was. Deplorable. He stood in full battle garb: his internally powered white battle armor completely encased his body, protecting it from the more simplistic of assaults. Atop that, he wore his white and green Farseer's robes, serving both to protect him by way of his warding runes, and to show to others of his kind who he was, and what he was, Farseer of the Biel-Tann, even if he was no longer in the same realm of reality.

Floating lightly to his left was his channeling staff, with its red-glowing orb gyrating and pulsing slowly on the top. It stayed with him as he calmly walked across the grass, moving in such a way to almost seem like he was floating. Around him, the breeze began to pick up, and quickly whipped into a localized storm, tearing bits of plant up around him, debris swirling about. Nothing touched him, though, as he came to a spot where he could see his target.

Without a word, he brought his staff into his fingers, pointed it surely at the winged figure, and let loose a burst of energy, the windstorm around him streaking with the burst all the way to the demon.

[P.]

The blast startled Timaeus and he was sent reeling by the physical and magical impact of the incandescent energy. Long moments of logical decomposition bounced through the demon’s mind, half-echoes building up and blowing holes in his mental defences. Never before had he felt such psychic power racking his mind, sending him crawling on his knees both physically and in his own mind.

He stood in a half-instinctive slur of motion that was indefinite and unpredictable. After a minute or two, Timaeus’ mind straightened out and he though clearly and without the pain, but his skull still shook with the aftershock of the tremendous attack. He sent back his own fusillade of fiery hatred into the dust at figures of half-shadows that cast long, wiry illusions on Timaeus’ retina.

One blast had surely hit home, and Timaeus knew it as he saw the flame dissipate to close for it to have spun into the earth-mist. Then he suddenly noticed that that his half-hidden foe may have sent some psychic, physical or magical barrier to halt the onslaught; Timaeus was sure, however, that his assailant was a psychic, and a potent one too.

Timaeus could not focus with the psychic presence of his attacker around him, like a clot of energy in his mind. He growled in frustration at the silhouettes of psychic sludge that drowned his senses and made him slow to react. He stumbled at blurred shadow-representations of the opponent, only to find himself flailing about wildly at nothing but dust and earth. The winds howled around him incongruously, thunderous in his ears and sweeping, exploring, in his clothes. This gust, this gale, this zephyr, was incongruous with the perfection about it, and it torpidly wandered off. The valley was left in unsettling quietness that seemed to suck noise out of everything.

Timaeus untwisted his warped geometry and stood at his full height, thinking he was prepared for any assault his unseen foe could muster. Jeika gleamed in the perpetual heaven-light.

[Scott]

OoC: This is me being swift! ...Well, no, not really. We'll see if I can go faster.

You like your excessive description and inflection, don't you? ...Well, it's not nearly as lengthy as some.

As a comment, I've done a smattering (yes, smattering) of forum-based roleplaying in recent weeks, and this is possibly the longer than most I've done that didn't involve an NPC that I was controlling, or an introduction, in quite a while.

BiC:

It was refreshing, in a way, for Tahredron's opponent to not be so self-inflated as to believe himself impervious to the tricks of the mind. It was more pleasing to see them looking around confusedly, rather than confidently choosing a direction, whether it is right or not.

There was a certain satisfaction to the opponent choosing the wrong way, though.

This particular target had chosen, after a few seconds--enough time to let Tahredron get much closer to him--to 'stand tall' and face its attacker. Surely, it would be able to tell the general direction of where he stood, but Tahredron made it very difficult to perceive precisely where he stood. He was not impressed by this specimen. It was not even taller than he, and especially not given his full armor.

There was no point to get close enough to let this creature touch him, as it would be able to see him clearly if it got too close. Therefore, Tahredron kept back, and conjured all around a large storm of psychic energies; it was more of a distraction for anything more than a simple human, but it did often prove fatal or nearly so to those. In this case, he didn't expect it to do much more than be impressive, and perhaps knock this 'being of war' back down again.

[P.]

Timaeus felt the psychic energies swirl around him, in weird directions.

The Demon’s face was still as he was put at unease by the sloughs of energy that sluiced around his body. Then, like some wicked sorcerer he whispered and flicked his hands in complicated patterns. He lifted his right hand to the sky, and a flaming broadsword appeared in his grasp, a beacon of war.

As an ethereal dancer, he vaulted through the effervescent mists, his sword swinging in contorted motions. Many times he thought that he had come close, but his nemesis remained elusive. Nevertheless, Timaeus’ waltz continued along the gale and loam, his lodestar-blade conducting the aria of sparks and energy.

The effort made Timaeus’ blood croon and whine with delight. And silently, he made a vow to sate this carnal lust, no matter the cost. His visage become one of impish pleasure, smiling and laughing as he leapt and soared, swung and stabbed.

He soon discovered, though, that this psychic attacker was more than some desipient mortal. And that made him laugh all the more; Flames burst from his body, at all angles.