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The Resurrection of a Legend

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The Resurrection of a Legend

Tips: 5.25 INK Postby Lord Saladin on Sun Mar 04, 2018 4:30 pm

The rising sun cast a coral glow on the ancient stone circle of the arena; a fiery warmth that defied the chill winds and gentle flutter of slow-falling spring snowflakes. But for the wind whistling through cracks in the wondrous structure's walls, silence laid heavy on the once-renowned venue of violence. What used to be varnished, cushioned benches for the masses to sit upon while enjoying spectacles of skill were little more than sodden, rotting planks. Gold adornments in the royal box had lost their shine where they'd not been looted and awnings had long been devoured by moths.

The wind blew small clouds of dust against the pure flakes as they fell. The dust could have been mundane, or the long-decayed bones of some ancient warrior forgotten in the passing of time - nobody cared. As a misguided sense of civility and advancement drove peasants to enlightenment and from their carnal, animal instincts and desires, the arena's sport ceased to hold an interest. Cast aside in their minds, the hallowed stage of combat was left to decay, its life lost from misuse but its soul tarried, yearning for warriors to grace its dark, dank underbelly once more, to be smothered in the blood and sweat and tears of men and women who understood the value of placing their lives in the hands of Lady Fate and her lover-sister, Destiny; to risk all for a mere moment's glorious, victorious glee.

Few warriors ever truly understood the sisters' wiles more than one millennia-old outsider from another world: A true partisan of combat who had lived for the thrill and glory until he'd no equal in any land, in this plane or any other.

The alluring siblings flirted with and pulled on the strings of this silver-haired fighter for so long, not one of the trio really knew the origin of their unique relationship. The sisters favoured him above all others and laid his path to a greatness that few ever even had the chance to eyewitness. They led him along paths and through thresholds that resulted in his becoming ruler of his world, loved, revered, near-worshipped.

Until they decided he didn't hold their interest. It was nothing the mighty ruler-warrior did; Fate and Destiny ever were and ever will be fickle - so they abandoned him to pursue some other venture that was sure to rattle cages in one realm or another. The might warrior did not despair, for the sisters' guidance had cemented his place in the history books of many a plane.

Yet, without their pushing, prodding, pulling, incessant interference, the warrior began to value other aspects of life that had been neglected. He raised a son as powerful as he was, tutored him in the finer art of rulership and once the penning of his collected wisdoms were complete, gladly gave his throne to his son.

The mighty warrior then wandered countless lands, learning, teaching, and even almost finding the true inner peace he'd heard philosophers preach. He was no philosopher, though. A fire burned in the very soul of the man, white hot, searing,
ever threatening to explode. A desire that left him unfulfilled in all other endeavours, turned food to ash on his tongue and even the most exquisite mead to water in the cup. He craved that for which he was born, in which he most excelled,
to what he owed his very existence.


He'd spent nearly three centuries trying to deny the fact, hoping his lies would render truth. But like the arena itself,
dusted with virgin snow that glowed with the reflected light of towering walls encircling a sandy heart, the warrior yearned beyond yearning. And on that snowy, ochre Spring morn, old friends were reunited.

The warrior had realised the futility of his quest, so succumbed to the tugging temptation to tear open his self-sealed vault of power. In doing so, instinct kicked in and a narrow, vertical beam of whitest light appeared in the centre of the arena and grew until it appeared as an opening door. The interior of what might have been a desert tent flashed into view as the Gateway opened, before the warrior stepped through and once again trod upon hallowed sand through soft boots and snow.

The filthy cloak wrapping the warrior was caught in the chill gust and pulled from round the seven feet, two inches tall warrior. His once long, smooth silver hair was trimmed to only a few inches and shaved around the ears; perhaps some new fashion he'd discovered and adopted. The chiselled visage was mostly unchanged, save that it seemed to have more angles,
like decades of softness had hardened him even further through the struggle.

His azure eyes took in the environment, the steel gates into familiar quarters had long since rusted, and the warrior noted the lack of any of the homely scents of an arena. Instead, the stench of damp mould flew into his nostrils and he shivered for an instant in grief for the dilapidation.

He trusted, however, in the hallowed ground beneath his feet, for it had served him well in many moments of hunger,
the arena had always delivered an opponent; even an unworthy one would be sufficient to sate the warrior's thirst for the purest of sports. His calloused hands ran down a muscle-bound physique in an attempt to run out the creases in his all-black mandarin suit, but landed on the golden dragon's head of his sword's hilt on the first fall.

His fingers seized the cold metal and it awoke in him. His eyes began to shine, and there was an involuntary flicker of sapphire flame as he heard the spirit of his Elementals once more. Familiar, comforting, his fingers tingled as he waited,
his lips curled upwards to show a smile and from his mouth escaped the slightest of chuckles. It was time.

To once again house a mighty warrior almost seemed to bring the arena back to life, an atmosphere enveloped it as though the rows of rotting planks were filled with people anticipating the bloodbath about to ensue as their greatest entertainer stood poised to deliver a spectacle. There was a moment the wind kicked up in a quick round-about in the ruins that made it seem the arena was announcing its first fighter, a grandiose announcement of, "Simtar Saladin Akara!"

Please tell me now what life is, Please tell me now what love is... Again, tell me what life is.

Tiko says: Saladin: Damn it, leave my hole alone.

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Lord Saladin
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Re: The Resurrection of a Legend

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby ColeMaibara on Sun Mar 11, 2018 12:12 am

The arena...once a home to many combatants - both young and old, experienced and inexperienced. Its scent and visage brought memories flooding back to the mind of one Aþalaric Esmund, King of the Atals. Despite being king from his own world, he partook in arena battles with the residents of his kingdom as well as his own soldiers. He gained respect from his fellows, especially those who took part in battles and spars with their king.

Snow crunched underneath his weight, he entered the arena with his head and spirits high. His sword was strapped to his hip, and a small buckler was strapped to his forearm. The white armor he wore covered only his chest and his shoulders, allowing for the most maneuverability he could get out his chestplate. Once visible and staring at the fighter from across the arena, he smirked and reached to his hip - pulling out the sword from its sheath.

Accompanying the scraping of metal across metal while pulling the sword out, his name would also be announced - Aþalaric Esmund. Aþalaric gripped the hilt of the blade in both hands, assuming a combat-ready stance as the snow fluttered down to the ground like millions of pure white butterflies.

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