The Wedding Reception

The stink of the seashore loomed heavily in the humid night air as Neverlin took another long swig from the bottle of blackberry wine. Smacking his lips, he slunk against the side of an abandoned warehouse. He strained to keep his eyes open as the soporific effects of the sweet liquor dulled his senses.  Normally, he did not condone drinking to excess, being a firm believer in keeping one’s facilities optimal.

But it had been a particularly tough week and the life he led now seemed a grim caricature of the one he envisioned.  So he sighed and indulged himself with another swallow.

Hot Gardack Nights

A mosquito zipped and buzzed about the mammothskin tent, bumping up futilely against the soot covered ceiling searching for an escape.  Neverlin sighed, dabbing the moister from his forehead with a silk napkin and sunk deeper into an arrangement of satin pillows.  Even in the late evening the sticky hot weather was intolerable, and he was sweating like a virgin in the Pyramid of Ancients.  A pile of searing red coals in the center of the tent certainly didn’t help matters either. The mosquito dove towards him suddenly, perilously close, but still just out of the Necromancer’s grasp. With a blink, Neverlin snuffed the life force out of the tiny insect and watched it spiral downward onto the smoldering coals, incinerating it with a faint sizzle.

He really hated the swamps.

The sky was obscured by a dense arboreal canopy; the stars and full moon, in turn, were largely obscured by thick cloud cover.

Beneath it all she lay. Still. Ears imagined as twin vessels into which liquid sound would pour. The soundscape clicked and popped with the rustle of foliage and howled with the frigid winds. Beasts stalked prey; the insects sang paeans to would-be mates. Alien noises in an alien place.

The soft rasp of slumbering bodies also could be heard, plaintive and oddly comforting.

The darkness was receding now, and she turned her head, peering over at the Mitran. He had promised to be up for the final watch, a promise now as ethereal as his dreams. Not that it mattered. Unused to the nighttime cacophony of the Cimmerian lowlands, Axun had laid awake for most of the night, drifting in and out of fitful slumber. She had woken the bald pale-skin at one point, only to find him sound asleep again when next she woke.

The river’s gentle pulse very nearly drowns out the small clacking of the prayer beads. Tk-tk-tk, they are chiding.  The Mitran – Cleric, more technically – intently regards the archer bathing there in shallows. She has gone under thrice now and for a third time she rises up from the water, head flung back and then forward, sunrays catching silver strands of riverwater thrown in lazy parabolas from her cropped dark hair.

Act 3: Love and Bloodshed

Begin here listening to the soundtrack: Deathbed and Maelstrom by Bear McCreary, click this link to begin listening now: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Oi3cvpILRr8

Act 2: I’m falling…

(Mirnea’s origin story, parts of which are still a mystery to Mirnea herself. I hope you all enjoy it and there is more coming as I begin to articulate her story on in text that is all my mind at the moment. I am looking for constructive criticism, encouragement and whether you like it or not!

Thorgard lay against the large willow tree in a soundless sleep. The ground beneath him was slightly wet, and the grass was cold and frozen. Behind the tree he lay his head against was a rushing river which sparkled in the dim sunlight. The waters were pure and clear as crystal. The dirt road was ahead of him which led west to the huts in Conarch Village and to the east where the wilderness rested. The skies were grey and murky and the pale colorless sun was at the highest.

Young Thorgard was only 19 winters old, his muscular body was well toned and his flesh was pale. He was dressed in leather pants and a black wool tunic. His snow boots were slightly worn, and beside his sleeping body was a large axe and a long sword.

It was a grim time for everyone in the clan. They were soon to meet blades with the Clan Swiftfeather which long held a grudge against War-Cheif Steel, Thorgard's father.

http://forums.ageofconan.com/showthread.php?t=197820

That's the link! :D Please post comments there and tell me what you think! Cheers! ^_^

Maziken had prepared much of the week for the celebration.  He made sure that the servants of the temple cleaned the marble floors and polished the statue of the Goddess.  He had them prepare several tables for the refreshments and retrieve a few bottles of wine from Nebyet's cellars.  He meticulously put together his gift for the mother and child, wrapping it in fine, deep violet silks. 

The day had finally come and the hour was near.  He stood near the entrance to Nebyet, waiting to greet any that would come help honour this mother and child.  From the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of Sybaryss approaching.  She carried a small basket at her side, a smile written across her lips.  Maziken returned her smile and looked curiously to her basket before he saw the little bundle of wolf pelts inside.

"Are we all prepared for tonight, Syb?" he asked with a bit of excitement.

“It’s called a blind spot.” 

Mandisa’s sour expression remained the same, Neverlin sighed.  Time was short and the concept complex, but he knew Mandisa required a more comprehensive explanation to ensure her participation. He must focus, but found himself distracted with the impudent Fenixx at Mandisa’s side.  It irked him terribly to watch this concupiscent jackal sniffing around the priestess.  The Herald had a taste for Tempests. Last week Sekhmitt, this week Mandisa…next week who knows, perhaps Satet-Ka. Neverlin wondered briefly if Mandisa would cave to the demon’s steady stream of smooth lines and juvenile innuendos.  He blocked the thought from his mind and breathed deeply, setting to his task. 

Chapter IV - Reckoning

Chapter III - Downfall

Chapter II - The Face of Crom

((Disclaimer: Some chapters from this long tale are written by myself, by other members of the Clan, and former members of the Clan))

Story I - The Rise of Adharca Cathair

Prologue - The Gathering

Inside the temple stood a man and woman, both staring at each other as though the world had melted around them. Their hands were placed palm to palm, laurels on their heads. Allomi's curls almost covered the bright green leaves, which caused Tholden to laugh as he brushed them down again and again between the priest's chanting. The prayer seemed to last forever, the steady hum of the priest's voice washing over them. As they did, Allomi's eyes fixated on Tholden's face. With the candles lit, the incense lit to send a sweet fragrance through the air, it felt more like a dream. I love you... He didn't have to say the words for her to hear them whispering in his mind. They were visibly shining deep in his eyes.

I lick the air and as always it tastes like a thunderbolt.

How Long have I been in the Serpent's Head?  I've smoked all my Lotus.  The Petals are all gone.  I have not seen these people before.

No Matter, we will adjust as we always have..

The cricling storm of Chaos swirls over Kheshatta.  Khama-Srim's hips sway mechanically as she walks through mayhem, eyes squinted and keen.  Heads fly through the air like tumbleweeds, warriors are charred like BBQ, sweet Mitra look at what happened to that one...

I wonder where Xilous is...

A stab in the back, turn, swing, run, jump, strike, knock them down, a second comes in and her head is gone.

Thump.

((Ok, Me and Zubair were RPing last night and have a AWESOME storyline going... So this is the start of something VERY intresting and worthwhile. Zubair plays an alt in this RP, so Rasoul is played by one of Hyperborea's most awesome role-players and in game buddies, Zubair. =) ))