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Snippet #1837875

located in Norr, a part of The Gift: Chapter Three, one of the many universes on RPG.

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The Paragon

Talos City Square


It was no secret that the world as everyone knew it was divided in to five parts: The Children, the Paragon, the Civil, the Savage, and those who wanted nothing to do with any of this. The city of Talos, its inhabitants and its residents were of the latter variety. The modest plains trading post was not interested in the war. Most people had stopped believing in The Gift years ago, and even fewer cared who won. Given the mercurial nature of the gods that once were, those that did still cling to belief in The Gift feared that it was some sort of trick. A little incentive to make the mortal races squabble, dig up bad blood, and foster rifts in civilization that would take generations to heal.

Still, the four largest, most well established factions made a point of fighting for the supposed gift of godhood. The number of inhabitants that called Norr home quickly figured, why simply stay out of it when there is profit to be made? Talos was a rising star in this mercenary mentality. The city, made up of mostly elves, orcs, harpies and halflings, hired out to, sold to, and took in any force that passed through--provided they all paid in coppers, silver and gold. Thus, it was not so far fetched to come to the conclusion that the citizens of Talos sold any information they could wring out of travelers to any that were willing to pay.

Still, as the lanky dark elf presented himself in a fashion approximating military decorum, Wrath could not suppress an irritated surge of anger. Sid's snicker of bemusement did not help. Perhaps sensing this, Iridanias opened a single eye to peek at the potential confrontation.

Wrath halted him with an upraised hand. He fixed the dark elf with an appraising eye. Sid tried to look even busier in her ministrations to the oversized crossbow. She'd heard of ElanessΓ«. A killer for hire with some modicum of skill, but just as generic as any other dark elf fighter. If Wrath found out that Lyn fancied himself an assassin, she was sure the general would shit a brick. One of his pet peeves were people that killed for a living and had the gall to call themselves assassins. Especially dark elves. Of course, the last two dark elf assassins to join up with Wrath's group were drastically different. One, Talae Shanir, had grown out of knife-fighting to become one of the premiere fencers within the Paragon. The other, Krealthanos Veladrin, had died an inconspicuous death in the very first fight alongside Wrath's legion. Which would Lyn prove to be?

"I am general Liu-Wen." Wrath said, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. The rising heat kept any sort of joviality from showing in his voice. "You're in. Recruits are placed in the probationary squad, so you'll tag along with Sid." he indicated the halfling fiddling with her weapon, who waved in response. "You make one false move and it's a bolt in the back. Can't have traitors, you know. Welcome to the Paragon."

Wrath had nothing else to say to the darkling at the moment and dismissed Lyn with a wave. It was at that moment when a leather-clad halfling finished his approach and came to a salute. "Shanir's boy. She's finished already?"

Fak'ir proceeded to gloss over the major details of Talae's mission, focusing on the key points and not much else. Wrath was not pleased.


Xeron grinned. The scarred dark elf was hovering several hundred feet over the square of Talos, rendered invisible by the graces of psionic manifestation. The heat did not bother him as much as it should have, due to the level of nerve damage he had sustained during his own initiation into the ranks of the Silenced some years ago, but it was just fervid enough to warrant stripping down. As it was, there was a naked, invisible darkling floating high above the other soldiers. Of course, only one person knew of this nudist tendency of his.

Neira. Such an exquisite creature, he thought. Xeron focused some power in his eyes to sharpen his vision, spying on the statuesque nightmarian as she so expertly handled those long rods...of steel. Yes. Steel. Xeron refused to believe he had been thinking she was handling rods of any other sort. She was talking to an orc that looked like he belonged back in the plains hunting wild things and dancing in the moonlight. Xeron sneered.

A sudden shift in the emotional charge surrounding the pair drew the attention of the dark elf. There was the conflict and pride of the orc, that was obvious enough. Neira's annoyance and crude, probing sense of friendship that she so often stumbled over--an endearing attribute, Xeron thought--was apparent as well. But there was something...there! Xeron focused on a single soldier nearby. He was familiar enough. An orc, green skin, brutish features, dressed in legion-pattern half-plate. That was the point, Xeron thought. To look like every other orc.

Neira, my love, Xeron said, projecting his voice directly in to her mind, There's a young greenskin moving in on your nine. I believe he is making a show of examining the supplies. Xeron allowed some of his emotion to bleed in to the connection, giving the faint impression of a snide smile. He is not one of ours.

At that point the orc was within striking distance of Neira. Without drawing any attention, he adjusted the hand crossbow at his hip and fired up at the the nightmarian's exposed eye.


Turha growled in annoyance. It would be so easy--too easy--to have Bane, his personal golem, separate this fools head from her shoulders. A portly, pinch-faced woman sat behind the counter on a stool two sizes to small for her monumental rump. Turha felt like he could hear it squeaking in protest.

So far, they had been arguing for over twenty minutes within the cramped confines of her shop. Turha had been forced to leave hi golem back at camp for fear of breaking something in town, leaving him alone with the merchant and he two admittedly intimidating bodyguards. Turha sneered.

"Fourty silver, and not a coin more."

The trader set down the earthenware jug she'd been sipping from and steepled her thick fingers, mocking Turha as if contemplating the offer. She glanced at the two pieces of plated metal he wished to buy and shrugged. "I suppose I can part with one of them for that price, but two? You must be kidding me, human."

Never once had Turha wanted to punch an elf in the face this badly, much less a woman. How could this gelatinous mass be in the same species as Lily? With a grunt of exasperation, Turha slid twenty more silver out of his pouch on to the counter. "Sixty for both, or I walk."

"I see. Well then, I suppose that I have no choice but to" the elf moved with speed belying her size. Turha managed to get away from the counter with only a small cut across his collarbone. The elf cursed loudly and readied to throw her knife. Turha had his mace unslung and in a high guard. As the weapon clanged off of his own, he realized belatedly that the guards were approaching.

Twisting, the linker managed to avoid having his ribs cracked open by a maul. Turha got cracked in the jaw by a gauntlet-clad fist for his trouble and stumbled back in to the counter. He slapped a small rune on his belt just before a cinch encircled his neck. Using his off-hand, Turha prevented to rope from garroting him to maximum efficacy. At least for the moment. Eventually, the two larger elves would get past his flailing mace, or the trader would pull tight enough to choke him out despite his interference.

Above the city, the Mark II cut a sharp turn and hurtled down into the streets, gunning for the shop that Turha resided in, carrying Lily in tow. It emitted a high-pitched screech.


Without even the slightest provocation, a peasant man and his two 'associates' turned in their cart and unleashed a trio of crossbow quarrels at Talae and Kisikoni. The deep human was the primary target, but the elf could prove to be a liability if she reported in. As a result, one of the bolts was aimed at her.

Quietly, without so much as a whisper, another pair of assailants converged on the sleeping Mercy, knives drawn and kept under tawny summer-robes.


The Children of Fire


Dresinil and the other half of the Children were the second and last group to arrive at the ceremony. Each and every single one of the newer arrivals were shocked by the displays of strength and astonishment around them. Before entering, a middle-aged man had informed them that they were to drink of the chalice and nothing else. Apparently this group had not made as much of an impression as the first.

As Dresinil and the others approached the viscous liquid that stained everybody's hands, he noticed the human pugilist from earlier. Gatan was gingerly flexing his muscles in a controlled manner. This one obviously knew that doing more would prove problematic, and was easily the most graceful of the initiates. Not wishing to be beaten a second time, Dresinil took a deep swig and steeled himself. The effects were immediate and harsh.

The elf felt as if he were breathing the exact same breaths as everyone else for a brief moment, and it was stifling. Soon enough, the atmosphere returned to normal and the surge began. Dresinil felt like he could break a mortar wall with his bare hands! Pivoting on his foot, the elf made to search for his ally--and nearly stumbled over the human. In his avoidance, the elf's hand shot out to steady himself on a stone pillar. The resounding crack left splintered stone and two of Dresinil's fingers bent at awkward angles.

Grimacing, he held up his mangled hand for Safir to see. "I blame you."

Yulni had been among the second group, having opted to sleep in instead of attend the ceremony. SHe made no complaint when drinking the dragon blood. The odd halfling did not so much as even grunt when the full force of the Children's connection hit her. Oddly enough, she approached Pylarea and bowed, muttering and apology before staring at the moth, wide-eyed and awaiting a similar response. It was only proper, considering the moth had flayed her comrade alive.