Vorston
Active member
A turn of the hand in angry dismissal, manifesting indignation with telekinetic rejection.
Vorston mid-sentence was hurled into bookcase, a flurry of robes that did collide with shelf that cracked, slumping, his head rained down by spines that described understanding of the Weave. Through winces was shocked breath drawn, books that did tumble shoo'd away as Vorston blinked passed such transient pains to his charge who had delivered such a force. The two looked at one another, one a wild sneer pulling at their features ugly and erratic, ochre robes a flutter with involving spite, the other, Vorston's, a scrunched set of scrutiny and fresh aches to endure along with this outburst.
Vorston removed himself from bookcase, eyes affixed to the one he had been charged to assist. To the book that he held close, as one might grasp a baby close in the face of some gnashing beast, hand aloft with trickling illumination that promised more of such displays. To those eyes that showed no remorse, just commitment to their outburst.
Vorston's voice emerged as they took to their feet again, a voice that rang more the pitch of disappointment than any sufferance.
"Well, you rejected the tea, the meditations, the tolerance breaks to reading that infernal thing, even a simple soothing bath. And now you bite the hand that feeds sense so."
A twitch of the eye. Fingertips played with what violence was but a beckoning away. But Vorston's own hands were filled with gestures of countermeasure and stalled what outburst might have arrived by the suggestion from the owner of the tower. The leering continued as Vorston made away from the bookcase with footstep akin that one might have about a tiger, eyes locked, goal in mind to make themselves scarce.
"I'd say, on behalf of the Association, you're on your own now, things simply can't be helped it seems," Vorston did say as they made small movement of the knees to reach down to wide tartan bag in the laboratory, filled with remedies and soothing methods to bewitched minds. Another step away, closer to the door of the height of the tower.
"No, I wouldn't say that you prattling decrepid, the book, the book is with me. We shall never endure anyone meddling ever again! The Association has had it's dues, and we have had our share of your ilk!"
Bag clutched in right hand, the other still warning of his preparedness, a full scale engagement an impulse away. The open book within the mage's hand did flip to pages that did read themselves aloud within his mind, a flutter of the eyelids and a look of hedonistic assurance, as if all was right, as if all was according to plan. Vorston dared not read what might be gleaned from what message the book did scribe unto itself to communicate. Ochre robes settled, eyes became focused again, and with disgust that ruled the mage's features was a swirling gesture was made with hand aloft. Vorston backed away to the door, their back not turning, their hands filled with handle of book and defences a snap of fingers away.
The air around the wracked claw did become thick with malice, sharp stabs of force warping the vision. As such weave was drawn from text self writing, the tower did pale and wane in colour, the stones becoming cracked and anaemic in strength. The doorframe behind Vorston groaned, the door itself did splinter.
Hands clutched what was theirs to grasp. A telekinetic blast, a shield to raise, a companion book to madness, a bag filled with solutions. And all at once they did collide, blast raging forward, shield flickering to untangle the hate from digits presented, tome arcane self writing more script to encourage such hate, bag gripped firmly despite the blast threatening to peel it from Vorston's fingers away.
The magics of one Ilban the Ochre, wild and yieldless to constraint did as torrent push against and past Vorston's defences, setting imperiled door to slam against it's hinges as Vorston's shield scarcely did protect him from such overwhelming force. The doorway did swallow him, the stairs scarcely navigated by feet that scarcely were able to touch the ground, shield still raised to bear what brunt it could. The bag still within his hands, shield crackling and obeying as the spiral staircase did guide him out and away.
The wave, ruthless in it's consistent shoving, did work it's way down the spiral stairway as did Vorston. The air was awash with curses that made no sense, ravings of punishment. A single word discerned.
Dungeon.
The tower itself was a host of lying geometries, but Vorston knew them of them well by good faith service and of contingencies prepared. To be sent too far down this staircase would mean to join the caged and sequestered forgotten things, to become as ink for the book's unreliable narration in longform compulsion.
The shield was abandoned as stubby hands of the gnome Vorston did place palm upon the tower wall that curved, his feet not even touching ground now as the telekinetic torrent galed uncontested. A single word of weave alteration as the weakening stone did yield to his passage, becoming as sand for but a moment as the squat figure did escape beyond the tower that stood as a pillar, a rush of robes, bag in hand, flying out and away.
The overwhelming glare of Suldaza shocked now squinting eyes, a further tumbling through air as his height was appreciated by jolt of adrenaline. The bag, all the while, held on as the brickwork forgave itself of sandlike nature.
The desert did rise to meet Vorston.
And Vorston met it as best one might.
A twist of a ring, a paltry thing, made too slow to truly take hold as he did descend at frightening speeds.
Cushioned by small buffet of air that did send much sand to rise as boots made deep imprint and knees were dug into coarse burning sands.
The sun glared down as fierce as the force that would have willed him into dark place to be forgotten and consumed. The sun was always watching in such places.
Gasping breath from Vorston, but a heartbeat to allow the pain to wash over him. A small thank you to what fortune was his to grasp in the form of the bag that had still been his to hold.
He looked to his right and left, and sought the shadow of the tower, pushing himself off the sand with elderly grunts. Concealment, cool from this oppression, and a moment to draw breath was what was sought. He left his imprint as if it might swallow him as well as the dungeon would have.
Another wave of pain, a furrowed brow already clamming with sweat as Vorston did hobble to the long finger of shadow that the tower did raise against the dune's rolling parchment.
The bag was opened with a grunt, much gasping in the gnome as pains dwelled within him, golden clasped unfastened with a practiced flick. Within, a spying glass, retrieved, elongated, and drawn towards the horizon as he did read the weaving air's design. Heading found after scrying for but a moment, another sigh and suppressed grunt, a gasp of air, and then a small holder of power to be spent in this effort. A stone, with black bands of onyx about it as if it contain it from the world, was clenched as Vorston did speak and bid the power be spent for this occasion. The telescope was tapped against the onyx band, relaying what heading must be chartered for his aid to arrive direct, for his message to be sent true.
"Amalgam."
The stone crumbled, the onyx bands did constrict and squeeze the power from it and left something akin to coal and soot to replace such a charged thing.
Vorston hunched against the wall of the tower, breathing deep but as quietly as possible, and awaited with what disappointment lived within them, and what survival they might employ from such a bag of help, and such a source of ends to mages. What pains of the desert were his to take shelter from, what madness lurked in the hearts of mages that were important to the world of the weave were his to entreat and assist, but as to what was the course of action when all was turned to be a cause lost?
There was Amalgam.
"Amalgam," did whisper Vorston to the winds as shaking hands sealed the bag, and consciousness relinquished itself for the presence of such pains, his trembling set to stillness as his eyes did flutter close in shock overwhelming.
The shadow of the tower crept slow around it's circumference as the day did spend itself in vigil of the doings of such tiny specks in the vastness of the ochre sands.
@Amalgam
Vorston mid-sentence was hurled into bookcase, a flurry of robes that did collide with shelf that cracked, slumping, his head rained down by spines that described understanding of the Weave. Through winces was shocked breath drawn, books that did tumble shoo'd away as Vorston blinked passed such transient pains to his charge who had delivered such a force. The two looked at one another, one a wild sneer pulling at their features ugly and erratic, ochre robes a flutter with involving spite, the other, Vorston's, a scrunched set of scrutiny and fresh aches to endure along with this outburst.
Vorston removed himself from bookcase, eyes affixed to the one he had been charged to assist. To the book that he held close, as one might grasp a baby close in the face of some gnashing beast, hand aloft with trickling illumination that promised more of such displays. To those eyes that showed no remorse, just commitment to their outburst.
Vorston's voice emerged as they took to their feet again, a voice that rang more the pitch of disappointment than any sufferance.
"Well, you rejected the tea, the meditations, the tolerance breaks to reading that infernal thing, even a simple soothing bath. And now you bite the hand that feeds sense so."
A twitch of the eye. Fingertips played with what violence was but a beckoning away. But Vorston's own hands were filled with gestures of countermeasure and stalled what outburst might have arrived by the suggestion from the owner of the tower. The leering continued as Vorston made away from the bookcase with footstep akin that one might have about a tiger, eyes locked, goal in mind to make themselves scarce.
"I'd say, on behalf of the Association, you're on your own now, things simply can't be helped it seems," Vorston did say as they made small movement of the knees to reach down to wide tartan bag in the laboratory, filled with remedies and soothing methods to bewitched minds. Another step away, closer to the door of the height of the tower.
"No, I wouldn't say that you prattling decrepid, the book, the book is with me. We shall never endure anyone meddling ever again! The Association has had it's dues, and we have had our share of your ilk!"
Bag clutched in right hand, the other still warning of his preparedness, a full scale engagement an impulse away. The open book within the mage's hand did flip to pages that did read themselves aloud within his mind, a flutter of the eyelids and a look of hedonistic assurance, as if all was right, as if all was according to plan. Vorston dared not read what might be gleaned from what message the book did scribe unto itself to communicate. Ochre robes settled, eyes became focused again, and with disgust that ruled the mage's features was a swirling gesture was made with hand aloft. Vorston backed away to the door, their back not turning, their hands filled with handle of book and defences a snap of fingers away.
The air around the wracked claw did become thick with malice, sharp stabs of force warping the vision. As such weave was drawn from text self writing, the tower did pale and wane in colour, the stones becoming cracked and anaemic in strength. The doorframe behind Vorston groaned, the door itself did splinter.
Hands clutched what was theirs to grasp. A telekinetic blast, a shield to raise, a companion book to madness, a bag filled with solutions. And all at once they did collide, blast raging forward, shield flickering to untangle the hate from digits presented, tome arcane self writing more script to encourage such hate, bag gripped firmly despite the blast threatening to peel it from Vorston's fingers away.
The magics of one Ilban the Ochre, wild and yieldless to constraint did as torrent push against and past Vorston's defences, setting imperiled door to slam against it's hinges as Vorston's shield scarcely did protect him from such overwhelming force. The doorway did swallow him, the stairs scarcely navigated by feet that scarcely were able to touch the ground, shield still raised to bear what brunt it could. The bag still within his hands, shield crackling and obeying as the spiral staircase did guide him out and away.
The wave, ruthless in it's consistent shoving, did work it's way down the spiral stairway as did Vorston. The air was awash with curses that made no sense, ravings of punishment. A single word discerned.
Dungeon.
The tower itself was a host of lying geometries, but Vorston knew them of them well by good faith service and of contingencies prepared. To be sent too far down this staircase would mean to join the caged and sequestered forgotten things, to become as ink for the book's unreliable narration in longform compulsion.
The shield was abandoned as stubby hands of the gnome Vorston did place palm upon the tower wall that curved, his feet not even touching ground now as the telekinetic torrent galed uncontested. A single word of weave alteration as the weakening stone did yield to his passage, becoming as sand for but a moment as the squat figure did escape beyond the tower that stood as a pillar, a rush of robes, bag in hand, flying out and away.
The overwhelming glare of Suldaza shocked now squinting eyes, a further tumbling through air as his height was appreciated by jolt of adrenaline. The bag, all the while, held on as the brickwork forgave itself of sandlike nature.
The desert did rise to meet Vorston.
And Vorston met it as best one might.
A twist of a ring, a paltry thing, made too slow to truly take hold as he did descend at frightening speeds.
Cushioned by small buffet of air that did send much sand to rise as boots made deep imprint and knees were dug into coarse burning sands.
The sun glared down as fierce as the force that would have willed him into dark place to be forgotten and consumed. The sun was always watching in such places.
Gasping breath from Vorston, but a heartbeat to allow the pain to wash over him. A small thank you to what fortune was his to grasp in the form of the bag that had still been his to hold.
He looked to his right and left, and sought the shadow of the tower, pushing himself off the sand with elderly grunts. Concealment, cool from this oppression, and a moment to draw breath was what was sought. He left his imprint as if it might swallow him as well as the dungeon would have.
Another wave of pain, a furrowed brow already clamming with sweat as Vorston did hobble to the long finger of shadow that the tower did raise against the dune's rolling parchment.
The bag was opened with a grunt, much gasping in the gnome as pains dwelled within him, golden clasped unfastened with a practiced flick. Within, a spying glass, retrieved, elongated, and drawn towards the horizon as he did read the weaving air's design. Heading found after scrying for but a moment, another sigh and suppressed grunt, a gasp of air, and then a small holder of power to be spent in this effort. A stone, with black bands of onyx about it as if it contain it from the world, was clenched as Vorston did speak and bid the power be spent for this occasion. The telescope was tapped against the onyx band, relaying what heading must be chartered for his aid to arrive direct, for his message to be sent true.
"Amalgam."
The stone crumbled, the onyx bands did constrict and squeeze the power from it and left something akin to coal and soot to replace such a charged thing.
Vorston hunched against the wall of the tower, breathing deep but as quietly as possible, and awaited with what disappointment lived within them, and what survival they might employ from such a bag of help, and such a source of ends to mages. What pains of the desert were his to take shelter from, what madness lurked in the hearts of mages that were important to the world of the weave were his to entreat and assist, but as to what was the course of action when all was turned to be a cause lost?
There was Amalgam.
"Amalgam," did whisper Vorston to the winds as shaking hands sealed the bag, and consciousness relinquished itself for the presence of such pains, his trembling set to stillness as his eyes did flutter close in shock overwhelming.
The shadow of the tower crept slow around it's circumference as the day did spend itself in vigil of the doings of such tiny specks in the vastness of the ochre sands.
@Amalgam