The Harlequin

[font=gothic][color=indigo]Jubei, no private conversations in threads. Use the PM function. For the last time.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=indigo]Threads are not the place for private conversations. Akki, you've been told to leave, do so. Daermon_Nashabe, double posting is against the rules, and slipping into an rpg uninvited is too. Jubei, if you need to say something, PM the person. Dayday, random out of character posts, especially one line ones, aren't really neccessary. This thread is really, really on shaky ground.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=indigo]Second warning people. Four line posts are not acceptable. Next time, it gets closed. It's that simple. My apologies to those who you who are actually putting effort in.[/font][/color]

[color=indigo][font=gothic][I]After weeks in the forest, the sunlight stung with cruel malice, as the forest thinned into a few small stands of trees that eventually gave way to bare rock. He was slightly off course, the twin mountains that bordered one side of the forest reared up in front of him, rather than to his left. The gap between the jagged lines of stone held the glaring orb of the sun, sending Qyrain spinning aside, cursing for lost vision. He attempted to scour out his intended location from this vantage point, but found his line of sight marred by trees. He sighed, and turned back to the mountain. His intended course was not that important, and he didn't particularly feel like backtracking through the wood. He'd simply scale one of the peaks, traverse the gap, called Vohin, he remembered vaguely from some long forgotten source, and work his way out from there. He didn't really have anywhere to be, after all, and he had more than enough time. There was a thinly traced rocky path, perhaps remnants from a past game trail, when the mountain had too been forested. Now it was little more than a section of rock not quite so covered in debris. It was fairly easy to pick out, though following it may be another matter. Qyrain started the ascent nevertheless, the mountain rising smoothly for several hundred metres before the slope's gradient increased markedly. Qyrain eyed the veritable escarpment in front of him, nonchalant, but certainly not happy. Not an experienced climber, but certainly no novice, Qyrain did not falter to find a handhold, leather gauntlets finding easy puchase on rock, the material finding friction his hands would not. His boots posed more of a problem, but were a solid foundation once set down. He scrabbled for yet another handhold, braced off one foot, and hoisted the other one up, pressing it against the rockface and sliding it downwards until it struck something solid, something that held. The other foot up, and reach. The process repeated interminibly. Always a fit being, Qyrain was nevertheless struggling for breath after several minutes. He scryed the remaining face above him out, and found it to be more than he had already done. However, not more than 10 metres above him, a thin, foot wide ledge, from what he could judge. He aimed for that, hands closing over stone with renewed vigor. At last, his fingertips brushed air before touching stone. He hauled himself bodily upwards, lying back against the rock face. The sun behind him lit the world with a bright aura,yellow tinged orange, that was now appearing washed out and faded. The last vestiges of light as the sun was covered by the mountains. Qyrain was still left in shadow. The cool rock felt good against his back, and the view of the forest and its environs was savourable for the moment. Small movements caught his trained eyes are were dismissed. For now, on this exposed face, he need not worry about stray creatures coming for him, or an arrow or quarrel arcing in to take his life. He relaxed against the rock, flexing stiff fingers, and closing his eyes a moment. His feet hung over the edge, calmly moving slightly in space. His pose was one of respite, calm, unconcern. For now, he was that.[/font][/color][/I]

[color=indigo][font=gothic][I]Quin sat, somehow bored and morose at the same time. But that about summed up his life, so as a normal state of being, it was unsurprising. The world was probably moving around him, people still lived out their lives. But that wasn't much of a concern, all things considered. It wasn't that bad either. Amused apathy did somewhat relieve the need for most emotions, and didn't require a lot of human interaction. Solitude was never something he disagreed with. Needles didn't bother him either, a fact that seemed to set him apart from quite a few of the people he saw around him. He didn't know any of them, always a convenience. Of course, he tended not to have the kind of presence that inspired conversaton, but it never hurt to be sure. Quin smiled slightly at that, wondering just how much of his life he devoted to making sure he didn't have to put up with anything he didn't want to.[/font][/color][/I]

[font=gothic][color=indigo]For reference, a current list of the people involved: The Harlequin, Jesus Chicken, Okhami, Raiha, Ravenstorture, DeathKnight, Shinkoru, Anti, Gold_Angewomon, Sage. [I]The trees around him shivered their fresh load of rain off, soaking him to the skin. Qyrain Alethyne, former captain of the Empire's Dervishes, sighed. Gone were the days when he would have checked the surrounding foliage for worms, as Exile's troops were known to surface dwellers, for their pasty skin and sneaking temperament. Qyrain looked around his makeshift campsite nevertheless, finding nothing untoward. His small fire had long since gone out, but he had no need of its meager heat. His bedroll, stowed under an outcrop of rock, remained undisturbed. Birds still sang in the trees around him, insects repeated their mindless song. He was, truly and finally, alone. After aeons of company, the situation wore strangely on him. The solitude, the quiescent air of peace that lent him no small measure of comfort, left him nevertheless a quivering mass of nerves, a violent past combining with a paranoid world to induce the belief that there was always a threat. His years in combat, normally behind enemy lines, reinforced that. His field-trained instincts were quiet, but his habit screamed warning. With a master's discipline, he locked his mind into silence, leaving him only vaguely disturbed. His experience with this woodland setting was minimal anyway. He was no ranger or druid, to be at ease among normally hostile animals. He returned to his bedroll, moodiness not fought off through complaisance. The shattered pristine of a non-linear mind, a being that existed only through an anomaly contrary to all natural order, his disquiet was not surprising. Ever since his existance was drawn through the veil to this level of reality, his void-born psyche had been strung out and abused, overload mixing with what was, to him, a horrible auric dissonance to leave his senses, those not tied in with this mortal body, a wreck, to put it succinctly. This world exists as something contrary to his very nature. Despite that, he was happy here. Here was learning, experience, feelings that could never have entered his life in the void. The woods were slowly growing inhospitable though. Displaced creatures, both sentient and not, invaded his sanctuary on a daily basis. Some were hostile, and had to be dealt with. Some were merely desperate, and how to be avoided. There were a scant, select few who bore tidings, none of them pleasant. But those few meetings told Qyrain what he needed to know. He needed to return. To some measure of civilisation, to sentient contact. He needed to realign himself, to learn to live in this world, until he was bound to depart. He was sure that somewhere on this world, intelligence existed in enough measure to stave off boredom. He had heard rumours of a Vahnati assult, a nightmare storm of magic and energy that resonated through the planet's magnetic flux even to his remote vantage. Whether he stayed on the surface or returned to Exile was irrelevant. He could secrete himself the worms, the Sliths, the Nephils, a roving band of wemics, it didn't matter. With his point of view so far removed from normal mortality anyway, he could fit in anywhere. He had so much to learn, it would be beneficial to experience as much as possible. This realm's art of magic intrigued him, perhaps that was a place to start. He had heard captured Exile soldier's talk about some Tower Of High Magery or whatnot, apparently where their new portal had been opened. From what he knew, it was yet to fall to a Vahnati assult. As a hole, mages tended to be openminded, not least because of the prejudice directed against them in the first place. Surely, he would be able to find haven for his burgeoning mind, even if it were at the cost of giving out a few secrets of his own. Perhaps he could even find explanation for the duality phenomenon that had taken him to the place. Perhaps he could insure that it would not happen again. Perhaps he could secure himself a way home, shoul d he ever require one. Qyrain rose to his feet, keeping his human form solid. He prefered it to the dizzying, bizarre method of locomotion normally adopted by archons. The moil of energy changes inherent in it alone was enough to drive him to a rank headache. He quickly dismantled his makeshift campsite, a feat born of long experience in the field of war, where survival depended on secrecy. Perhaps this new war would call for his services. Qyrain realised, at that moment, his greatest flaw was not a lack of experience in this reality, but more a lack of discernment as to exactly what in this realm would best serve him. Maudlin thoughts replaced by conjecture, Qyrain gave a last, exacting survey of the forest around him, and set off for the nearest break in the trees, some several miles away.[/font][/color][/I]

[color=indigo][font=gothic]Ilmiwyrth: Don't do that, you'll upset your admirers. Lifé: Who appointed you as my tormentor of the month? Ilmiwyrth: It's a thankless job, but I've got a lot or karma to burn off. Anyway, I'll leave you to your delights, and find myself some entertainment. [I]Ilmiwyrth found another seat some distance away, and ordered a few drinks. He raised a glass to Lifé, and a few to her newest round of suitors. She glared back at him, and turned to snap at some overbold creature. As soon as she turned away, Ilmiwyrth walked out, keeping the drink. There wasn't a lot of interest, but what could one do. Besides, whatever was in his tankard deserves to be allowed to sublimate.[/font][/color][/I]

[color=indigo][font=gothic]Ilmiwyrth: In [I]most[/I] situations, so do I. Lifé: But not this one? [I]Ilmiwyrth sighed, and his response was a tempered drawl.[/I] Ilmiwyrth: Temperature's dropping. It'll get cold enough to freeze, how soon do you think? [I]She gave him a look of pure contempt. He could have put it into practice, but this diplomacy thing may as well stick. Still, he could dream. Strange that he was dreaming about that, all things considered, but what could you do.[/font][/color][/I]

[font=gothic][color=indigo]Once again, I must ask that people stop with the short, almost completely contentless posts. If you can't be bothered to write more than five lines, don't post at all. Considering that to some, this is not the first time I have given this warning, if this level of post quality or lack thereof continues, the thread gets closed. Simple as that.[/font][/color]

[color=indigo][font=gothic][I]Ilmiwyrth rolled his eyes and ignored her. He somehow doubted she was in any position to speak of annoying. Of course, he was willing to admit a slight bias, but that didn't really avoid the facts at all. [/I] Ilmiwyrth: Can we finally get around to going somewhere? Vichante: What the hell is it with you and rampant impatience? Ilmiwyrth: Call it a character defect. Lifé: I was intending to. [I]Ilmiwyrth considered dropping a few large rocks on her hair as she walked. Probably wouldn't be worth the effort, but hearing the scalp get ripped off did sound somewhat tempting... He sighed, and dismissed the idea. He'd upset more than enough kingdoms in the past by getting into fights with relatively important citizens. Ah well. Even if one more would make no difference, he might actually try diplomacy.[/font][/color][/I]

[color=indigo][font=gothic]Dark elves are dark elves the way gold elves are gold elves, etc, meaning they are shadow elves of a kind, while drow refers to a particular race of normally evil elves. TSR didn't make the distinction, which then went and corrupted the minds of oh so many people. I'm right for a picture, I think I have one or two floating around, and everybody knows what I look like anyway. And the last thing I need is another "apprentice". Egad that was trying. Just thinking up things to do was a stretch at times. Oh, and if we are going to have conversations in threads, make sure they stay on topic, no?[/font][/color]

[color=indigo][font=gothic][I]Ilmiwyrth shrugged.[/I] Ilmiwyrth: Not really. It's normally only a matter of seconds before transumting my unclothed spirit into something else. Full destruction might well end me, but having been in a null state before, and gotten out of it, it's very unlikely. Lifé: And just how many times have you done that? Ilmiwyrth: A few thousand. Not too bad a track record, considering the company I keep. Lifé: Now I remember why I wanted to kill you. Ilmiwyrth: Most do. If not, they tend to redevelop the urge without outside interference. [I]He shrugged again, absently rolling his left shoulder through the joint. He cast a critical eye over Lifé, and drew in a cloak, and threw it to her.[/I] Ilmiwyrth: What are the odds of refusing it out of pride hmmm?[/font][/color]

[color=indigo][font=gothic]Brian Molko's voice is fine when he sings....but have you ever heard him speak or laugh? Trust me...it's bad. I'm seeing them at Splendour in The Grass, hell yeah. My favourite songs would have to be Second Sight, Sleeping With Ghosts, Ashtray Girl, Spite And Malice, Special K, Commerical For Levi, Ask For Answers, You Don't Care About Us and Allergic. Oh, and Black Market - that track at the end of Peeping Tom on Black Market Music.[/font][/color]

[color=indigo][font=gothic][I]Ilmiwyrth shook his head, laughter spewing from his mouth. The world shifted around them, and they now hovered inside a volcano. Sunlight streamed down around them, mixing with the red glow of magma below them. Ilmwiyrth looked up, the roof collapsing inwards until it was without gap or opening.[/I] Ilmiwyrth: Even if you do get out, I welcome your attempt to work out which quantum zone, nevertheless which time zone, you're in. And I look forward even more to your attempt to return. [I]He disappeared, leaving Lifé in a more than slightly intenable situation. He reappeared in front of Vichante and Shalistrae, his eyes cold. [/I] Ilmiwyrth: No, I didn't outrightly kill her. It was tempting, but I gave her a stay of repreive.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=indigo][I]Ilmiwyrth gave her a smile full of teeth, and struck back. The intervening space between them was filled with rapidly expanding gases, mainly chlorinates. Ilmiwyrth kept the potency down, so that they merely threw Life back, rather than stripped the flesh from her bones. He allowed a few trees to bear the full brunt, reduced to pale grey skeletons in under a second. As Lifé hit the ground, a strange black substance formed over her, leaving only her face exposed. She struggled, and exerted power, both to no avail. Ilmiwyrth walked over and placed a foot idly on the make shift cage. [/I] Ilmiwyrth: This, my dear, is dark matter. Transplanted intact from a formerly material dimension that was unravelled a few years ago, in our time, by the sudden invasion of one of the Unliving races. As such, it can not, in any way, interact with real matter. Spiritual or physical. So you are, in a word, stuck. [I]He pulled another bottle out of the air and took a long swig, before tilting it so that it poured down over her face. He gave a mildly amused laugh, and stepped back, transporting the dark matter back to the nearest nullified area.[/I] Ilmiwyrth: That cage could have been two inches tighter without a problem.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=indigo]Ilmiwyrth: I'll leave that statement to dismiss itself as the falsehood it is. Lifé: Confident, aren't we. Ilmiwyth: Experienced. Tolerance is bliss. [i]Ilmiwyrth turned away, not interested in continued the current conversation. In the spirit of things anyway, he poured himself a few drinks. Perhaps he would see just how much alcohol he could consume before passing out. More than enough to put anything on this planet under the table, if his last month long binge was anything to go by.[/font][/color][/I]

[font=gothic][color=indigo][I]Vyrim swore, and checked the dart. It hadn't taken the artery, a good sign. The wound had yet to darken, and was in no other way immediately affected, showing that they had some time yet. He tapped into his old druidic lore, poisons having been a part of it. With no visible symptoms, he could not match it to any known agent. Still, reconfiguring her aura into a natural alignment was a possibility. Chances are, the poison was no inert thing, but a geas of malevolence. Her aura, sure enough, was snarled with disharmony, rending in front of his eyes. Almost an unbinding, but not quite. He placed one hand in the centre of her chest, over the solar plexus, the other over her throat. The flows he channeled were a careful mixture of air, fire and electromagnetism, with a hint of illict blood flux thrown in for potency. Raeven gasped, stiffened, but the dissonant corruption in her aura ceased its malicious attack, and slowly started to fade.[/font][/color][/I]

[color=indigo][font=gothic][I]Ilmiwyrth muttered something about not having done a bar course recently, and fervently hoped his playing around with existance was having impacts in one of his less favoured realities. Considering he didn't like 90% of them, it wasn't too bad odds. Still, this had better not get to be a habit. He wasn't even sure what wine he had gotten her, but she didn't seem to object.[/I] Ilmiwyrth: I was even nice enough not to spike it. Lifé: I doubt you'd find too effective a soporific. Ilmiwyrth: I was thinking thalium. [I]He let her have the glass and turned to Vichante and Shalistrae.[/I] Ilmiwyrth: I assume you two want something as well? May as well get ourselves all completely inebriated.[/font][/color]

[color=indigo][font=gothic][I]Ilmiwyrth blinked a few times, and fixed Shalistrae a cooly appraising look.[/I] Ilmiwyrth: I thought it was Lifé who wanted me pliable. Shalistrae: I'm not after pliable, I merely prefer quiet. [i]Ilmiwyrth turned and spun potential reality into amontillado, taking a long drink before looking askance at the tankard, then breaking it over his head. Strangely enough, it didn't invoke too much of a response. He didn't turn around to find out why.[/font][/color][/I]

[color=indigo][font=gothic]Considering that is not only more or less irrelevant to sign ups, considering you're trying to work out how to combine two adventures, and consists mainly of short, basically rule breaking posts, I think you two can continue this via PM. They're there for private conversations, the forums aren't. This is what, the third time? I've had to speak to this little group.[/font][/color]

[color=indigo][font=gothic]Sorry Dmitri, but I'm required to bring ye olde Lacroix back, and I'm afraid he's slightly similar to your character... Oh, and Danni, I'm diversifying him a bit. He's grown a bit since then and all, you know? Name: Lacroix s'Xalerian Age: What am I now? Hell, quite a few hundred years old now. Race: Drow Class: He's a lot of things. He was never one to be constrained anyway. Eye Color: Grey, with the occasional black fleck. Hair Color: Black Strengths: He still, in main, relies on speed and skill, but he's knocked his manipulation of etheric auras and shadows up to scratch. Weaknesses: Over-confident to the nth degree, doesn't accept help much, or friendship for that matter. Has a penchant for getting himself into trouble. Abilities: I'll think about it, and see what I can remember. Spells: Control of auric and shadow resonance. Decription: Six feet tall, and rather slender. Despite his drow heritage, his hair is black, and falls to his shoulders. His skin is a slightly more silvery shade of darkness. Eyes as mentioned. Bio: Since the last time anyone heard about him, basically. After Nilothakiir's defeat, and a few weeks of pacing boredom, Lacroix did what he does best, and disappeared. Given the longevity of most of his companions, chances are he would see them again anyway, and to hell with anything resembling a sentimental goodbye. So he slipped out, in broad daylight to make it more interesting, and of course was nowhere near caught. He spent a year or two simply wandering around, enjoying the silence and the solitude. He indulged his bizarre fascination with strange creatures, and got into trouble more than once because of it. Anyway, after that year or two, Lacroix loses track of time fairly easily, he ended up in the monastery of the Quiescent Soul. A group of monks who believed that one must first master themselves before trying to master the outside world. The mastery of self was acheived through intense physical and mental discipline, which in no small way included combat. Mainly unarmed. Lacroix learnt incredibly easily, and attained mastery within his first year. The remaining four years he spent getting bored and officiating, and sometimes participating at and winning, tournaments. Anyway, he broke vows with the order, did yet another disappearing act, and still dodges the occasional assassin. He drifted on from there, and ended up in the court of the Kingdom of Ralquire. After ..an altercation with several of the nobles, in main Ilmiwyrth, who gave him more than his share of headaches, Lacroix turned his nasty bent for uncanny subterfuge into politics, and spent a further five years as a diplomat and chief advisor to the realm. This time, it was Ilmiwyrth who got bored and left. He took Lacroix with him. Anyway, after a year or so of aimless, but amusing, wandering, the ended up getting caught on the wrong side of a planar gate that some annoyingly insane demon worshipping cult had opened when the two had intruded on a ritual, and ended up in a place called the Ovilkidein. Roughly translates to "The Bazaar". Indeed it was. Surrounded by inter-dimensional travellers and beings of all races and planes, Lacroix and Ilmiwyrth had a rather delightful year hiring themselves out as mercenaries and assassins. In due course, they got involved with a greater tanar'ri and his rather large assortment of magical artifacts, the rundown being that Ilmiwyrth ended up being able to manipulate reality at will. Any reality. In the successive struggle to gain control of his powers, Ilmiwyrth, after dumping Lacroix on several lower resonance planes, simply returned him home, so as not to kill him. The next thiry odd years Lacroix spent on the esoteric side of his being, using some contacts from his planar-hopping days. Intense study and concentration, compacted with a now iron discipline, lent Lacroix a rather interesting insight into auric resonance, and its manipulations. After that, he realised, finally, that he had absolutely nothing to do. He ended up opening a rather large, rather successful tavern, a few dimensions away from here, the catered to any sentient, no matter its race, alignment, or price on its head. He did a roaring trade, the frequent and often fatality ridden barbrawls kept him occupied, and the always diverse company was refreshing. That was, of course, until he was yanked out of behind a bar, where he was busy polished foresaid bar with an unruly patron's semi-liquid skin, and back where he'd started. The trace signature energy on the scrying turned translocatory spell bore a rather familiar signature. And there he was, thinking that matter had been dealt with long ago. And appearing out of midair infront of a more than slightly rundown inn isn't the most auspicious start he's had for a while now. Actually, now that he thinks about it, it probably is. Somewhat depressing really. Equipment: Lacroix displaced his scimitars a while back. He thinks it was at the monastery, but he can't quite remember. His old leather armour disappeared too, probably burnt off him by Ilmiwyrth at some point in time. Anyway, Lacroix now wears a set of black monk style robes he got from the Order. They have a grounding influence that tends to dispel hostile sigil or runic magic, or anything based in etheric energy. Elemental stuff still annoys him though... Lacroix hasn't really used a weapon in a fight for a long while, but he now carries a quarterstaff and a pair of hand axes, just in case. He also has a few odds and ends left over from some of his stranger places of visitation.[/font][/color]

[color=indigo][font=gothic]Yes Anti, this is spam. Which, I'm sure, is the very reason you continued with it? The only reason I let it continue is simply because I haven't actually looked at the thread for a while. Sign-ups are now closed, rpg will start sometime in the next two days. If you absolutely want to be this rpg, probably because you're insane... then PM me about it. People in are: Everybody except Cloricus and Orien Xel. Both of those sign-ups were nowhere near the quality I wanted, and neither were particularly original. If you wanted fair Cloricus, you should have put a little more effort in.[/font][/color]

[color=indigo][i][font=gothic]Ilmiwyrth was quite certain that his privacy, normally quite fragile, was on the verge of permanent collapse. And that was more than vaguely disturbing, all things considered. He looked at the faerie again, and shuddered. The gods knew, well, they probably didn't, but the metaphor serves, how long this little fiasco would last, and although the time period might be small in comparison to Ilmiwyrth's life, it would certainly be one of the more....trying periods of time. He had a lot of doubt he'd find consolation anytime soon either. Perhaps he'd become an alcoholic. It seemed to work for Vichante, after all.[/font][/color][/I]

[color=indigo][font=gothic]Ilmiwyrth: Somehow the thought of you babysitting such creatures is less than comforting. Lifé: Is there anything you would find comforting? Ilmiwyrth: Solitude tends to work. And small, dark rooms. Preferably in conjunction. [I]Ilmiwyrth eyed several of the creatures with a long-suffering air, and resolutely ignored them.[/I] Lifé: For an inter-planar traveller, you have a marked lack of tolerance. Ilmiwyrth: I know that. But it's okay. Bribes tend to take care of that.[/font][/color]

[color=indigo][font=gothic][I]Despite the offer, when he reached for it, she still stepped back.[/I] Ilmiwyrth: You took that back fast. Lifé: We'll talk about it later. Ilmiwyrth: Ath-forsaken.... [I]He cut off the curse and sighed. If nothing else, he was getting quite practiced at that.[/I] Ilmiwyrth: You do know that comparitively, I'm also a cradle snatcher? Lifé: That's alright. I'm sure my calming influence will offset that. [i]Ilmiwyrth just stared at her. He shook his head few times as if trying clear it, then gave up.[/font][/color][/I]