NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC: Okay, I said I would get this started on Monday.... and it's still technically Monday in my time zone! =p This is more of an introductory post- Sakkra and I are going to go at it first, probably starting tomorrow. If any of the sign-ups have a preference for when in the timeline they get their shot, let me know in the signup thread or by telegram (10,000-2,000 years ago is a rather long and wide open span of time, after all ^_~) I would prefer for OOC chatter to be kept to an absolute minimum, and when this eventually goes into the archive, I'll probably prune the OOC posts.

By the way, I played around in Doga, and did this render of Najoedo in Keeper form (http://rpstudios.ian-justman.com/junk/CGgoods/Najoedo-1.JPG), for those who want a better idea of what he looks like.

IC:

Most stories start with a purpose. This is not one of those.

Death. Always death, and fields stained red with blood and flame. That is where this story begins. In a place that would later be known to the world as the city of Arpia, capital of the Immortal Shogunate of Reploid Productions. But at this time, such places and names were not even the first glimmers of ideas. This story begins on the red field of victory and defeat, the birth of the first Pegasii Dynasty.

"Augh!"

Well, most people are not prone to intelligent conversation when they are being run through on a very pointy sword, poked full of arrow and spear holes, or being burned to a very crispy state by the powerful magics used by Lord Pegasii I's right-hand man... ur.... creature?

Standing atop the ridge and gleaming in the late afternoon sunlight, Lord Pegasii's ultimate weapon made an imposing sight. Standing close to six feet in height, with a wingspan easily twice that, and a bloodstained sword that all but emanated a fearsome energy, the man-beast that was Najoedo had all but ensured the victory for his lord.

His victim, a creature like himself only with black scales instead of white, slid to the ground, a wicked gaping hole in his torso charred black along the edges. The leader of the Drakonic clans had recruited one of the Boofohj ev kxo Wettojj Rcutoj as well, and the two had come to blows, an all-out duel of swords and the Arts, magic energies flashing across the battlefield as the two spiralled across the sky in a flurry of wings and weapons and spells.

With the black-scaled one defeated, victory for Lord Pegasii was assured. In a matter of days, the Drakonic clans were in retreat, and in a week, surrendering en masse.

The victory was celebrated in the manner of the Pegasii clans- lots of food, drink, and semi-barbaric entertainment utilizing Drakonic prisoners. Najoedo was quietly revered by the rest of the army; quietly revered and left to his own devices, as outside of combat, most people were extremely uncomfortable around the half-dragon looking man. Not being one for large parties, he quietly removed himself to the fortress roof- his own personal getaway place, since it was an effort for any normal person to climb to the top of the steep slate roof, but a breeze for one with wings.

Lord Pegasii is most pleased by our victory. But it is strange, to have to fight and kill my kindred in spirit. Both charged with holding one of the Blades, yet on opposite sides of a war. He mused to himself, stretching his wings and letting the wind ruffle the milky white membranes. They had seemed terribly awkward when he was first Changed by his weapon, but now he couldn't imagine life without them.

Hey, Naj, how did the battle go? The thought was not his own, the mental voice grinning impishly across the distance.

The Pegasii were victorious, the Drakonic are defeated. But one of us was serving in their army. He is dead. He sent back. I did not enjoy killing him. I did not even find out his name.

Eh, ill fate upon him then. You sound depressed.

I am just tired. It was a hard battle. I think I will go and sleep now. Najoedo had to work to keep annoyance out of his mindspeak.

Closing the telepathic link, he glided down from the roof and returned to the large cavern near the fortress where he prefered to sleep, opting to meditate for a time before settling in for the night.

Blacksmith.... what is your goal?

My goal? What do you mean? Who are you?

It was the first time a voice he did not recognize broke into his reverie.

What is your goal? The mysterious voice repeated in the same tone. In his mind's eye, he saw an indescript figure cloaked in flame, floating on a quadruple set of large golden wings over a lake of silver. What is your purpose?

I... to serve Lord Pegasii. His mindvoice did not sound certain.

To serve one who will succumb to time and rejoin the lifeflame of the world? Such a noble goal for one who holds a sword blessed with the Greater Powers itself. The mysterious voice sounded acidicly sarcastic.

Well, what would you have me do? I have already lived more than twice the span of normal men, and watched as my beloved wife Shimeki fell to sickness! What would you have me do then? Najoedo shot back.

You have much to learn of the balance. You do not yet see beyond the worthless borders of the mortal realm, borders laid by greedy men and women, borders which shift or disappear at the whims of life and death. The figure in his mind's eye and the lake below it both seemed to glow brighter, the figure forming a glowing golden spear in one vague hand, and a silvery chain from the lake in its other hand. If you will not learn on your own, then I must accelerate the teaching.

Before Najoedo could try to shut out the connection, the silver and gold weapons were launched upon his helpless mind, entangling him and pinning him helpless as the figure poured raw power into his spasming form. The cave faded around him as his vision went dark and a sensation not exactly painful, but terribly, terribly uncomfortable racked his prone form. He let out one long, loud scream that ended as a deep-throated roar that shook the cavern before finally passing out.

He awoke some time later to footsteps approaching the cavern, a voice calling for him. "Lord Najoedo? Lord Pegasii wishes to speak with... you..." The soldier rounded the corner of the tunnel and his shout died on his lips. Najoedo frowned, thinking the soldier looked unusually small. He still felt off-balance and in a slight daze, and opened his mouth to speak.

"KIIIIIIIIIIIYAA!!! DRAGON!" The soldier shrieked, turning and bolting back out of the cave at a speed that the Keeper would not have thought possible for a human to reach. The shout startled him, and he leapt to his feet, his head meeting the ceiling with a loud crack of stone that sent him back to the cave floor with a loud yowl as the rock formation fell from the ceiling and shattered.

The daze finally left him, and he was suddenly aware that something was very, very wrong. With one hand he rubbed his sore head, and realized that his normal ponytail was gone. Fending off panic, he slowly felt the rest of his head- the long curved horns, headcrest, ear fins, elongated snout. He swallowed hard and then looked down at his arms and hands. Instead of the soft darkly tanned flesh, he was greeted to the sight of arms covered in hard white scales, powerful fingers tipped in massive claws. He lifted his sore head from the floor and looked around, ultimately over his shoulder at the massive white-scaled bulk and large wings.

It dawned on him what the mysterious figure had done to him, flooding his body with the greater energies that power the Arts, and warping his form further than it had already been warped. Instead of looking like some strange cross between a man and a dragon... now he looked like a dragon.

He swore colorfully, voice shaking the cavern as his temper flared and he staggered outside on all fours, the morning sunlight striking brilliant flashes off his well-armored hide. There is no way under the sun and moon that Lord Pegasii will accept this! That soldier will report to the fortress and they will dispatch a force to deal with the threat! They do not possess the speech of souls, and they will not believe that I am Najoedo! He was not worried about the soldiers injuring him- a brief test showed the Keeper that he could still wield the Arts, in fact, he could channel for more of the energy than he could before. But they were people he had been helping, fighting beside on the field of combat. He could not fight them. But they would be frightened, and would seek to end his life.

I must find what that being meant. I cannot stay here any longer. He glanced at the fortress not too far distant, and could hear the sounds of a troop being amassed on the wind. I must depart, and soon.

With a sorrowful bellow, he crouched and launched his massive form into the air with a powerful downbeat of his wings, quickly spiralling higher on the morning updrafts. Gleaming in the sunlight, he overflew the fortress, the sunlight through his wings casting an eerie light as he departed the lands that he knew, riding on the winds to an uncertain future.

*catches the dragon, puts a TAG on it ear* :p

Josef cuts the tag out of his shirt, "Damn thing's itchy..."

<<This space reserved for future posting>>

(10,000 years in the past)

The wind blew in from the ocean on this damp and humid day. The scent of salt in the air was inhaled by Chieftan Rragg. Tribal war had been raging for years now. So many years, that the original reasoning behind it had faded into speculation. A ceasing of hostilities for the day, however, had bee ncalled so that the Ssoou Ghaaraa could be observed.

It was a day of prayer and worship of the Ancestral Spirits of the Mate, who were credited with producing strong hatchlings in the Birth Pits of the Sacred Swamps. Rragg, however, had other things on his mind. he sat upon a large stone on the beach, and thought.

This fighting gets us no-where. Something must be done to break this cycle of war. He picked up his War Maul, made of the finest iron and worked by his tribe's best craftsmen, and contemplated it.

How many lives have ended at my hand? How many........ His mate, Ssiil, had managed to creep within a few meters of him. Her dewlap was fully tucked back, and her eyes slitted. The shuffling sound of her footprint on the sand, however, was picked up by Rragg's ears.

"You are becoming quite the stealthy being, my love." Ssiil uttered a low epithet, and made a spitting motion. "I will never be stealthy enough to be able to surprise you, though. Do I intrude on your reflections?"

Rragg turns his head to face her now, taking her in. Her light-blue scaling shone brightly with the scent of sesame oil wafting into his nostrils on the wind. Her green eyes sparkled with intelligence, and her feet fell on the ground one in front of the other. He inhaled deeply, and savored her scent. "Your intrusion is most welcome. It is only the same thoughts as ever. How do I stop this war that has no purpose? And am I the one who can?"

Ssiil wraps her arms around his chest from behind, and rocks him slowly. "I have all faith and confidence in you. You are our greatest Chieftan in several hatchings, and the tribe has prospered greatly under your guidance. The Shaman foretell great things for you, and your future hatchlings. When have they been wrong?"

Rragg whiffs, and touches Ssiil's arms, tracing the edges of her scales with a claw. "Yes, the Shamans. Their visions have never been wrong yet. But no-one is infallible, save the Spirits. Can the Shaman truly see everything? I do not know....."

Ssiil raises up, and circles around him, locking her eyes with his. "Such a self-doubter! Pah! Take confidence in yourself! I did not marry some spineless vrelt! Now get up and prepare yourself. The hostilities have ended, for one night. Take this time and do more than sit around like some gnort. Your tribe is having the ceremonial dance tonight, and needs their Chieftan to head up the proceedings. The Chieftan of the Sseerad Tribe is coming soon, with his hatchlings and mate. Do you want to appear before him sans your splendor?" Rragg's eyes widen at this. "The Sseerad Tribe? Of the Mountains? Here? Why wasn't I told?"

"A messenger just arrived an hour ago with the news. While you sit here like a lump, life goes on. NOW MOVE, OR I'LL KICK THE DUST OFF YOUR SEAT!" Ssiil makes several swiping motions with the claws on her feet, sending a little sand scattering into the air.

"Okay, i'll go!" Rragg rises swiftly, and dusts off his hide. He casts a mischevious eye at Ssiil. "With such a ferocious mate, it's amazing I have time to think anymore." He dodges a piece of driftwood flung in his direction, and jogs off to the Tribal Village, with Ssiil in hot pursuit.

As Rragg comes upon the vast clearing of the Tribal Village, he sees the bonfire pit has been completed and stacked with dry Paroo trunks. The cocoa scent of this fire will carry far and wide, spreading the influence of the Ancestral Spirits.

(*Staples a tag onto the thread*)

How far have I flown?

Najoedo had asked himself the same question every sunrise since his sudden departure.

How far does this endless span of water go on?

He had asked himself that roughly every hour since he got the fool idea to fly beyond the horizons of the great western bay. He had thought he was a master of long distance flight before, but in the past few days he had learned more about flying than he had in the century since he was Changed. The cold ocean air did not offer many updrafts, and there was no way he could keep flapping for so great a distance. He had flown higher than he ever had before, and found the home of the wind spirits, the great rivers of air far, far above the ground, swift and strong enough to bear him in a prolonged glide.

However, after the sixth day, he was really, really, really sick of nothing but the vast field of mirror blue water far below him. The fact he was starting to get hungry and thirsty did not help any.

By the tenth day, he was wondering if his feet would ever feel solid ground under them ever again.

By the fourteenth day, he was fighting to stay conscious- he had learned to doze while flying with his wings locked, but if he fell limply unconscious, it would likely mean certain death, and a cold watery grave. It was a losing battle- two weeks without food, or water, and protracted exposure to the harsh elements of high altitude flight were taking their toll, even as he saw land approaching.

So close-! So...close...

With a loud bellow, Najoedo's vision darkened and he felt himself falling, vaguely aware before he blacked out entirely that he had shapeshifted back to his original Keeper form. By the time he hit the water, throwing a large plume of spray into the air, he was out cold.

The noise from such a non-graceful landing does not go un-noticed. A hatchling from the Tribe of Rragg is collecting driftwood to feed the Pyre, when the roar, crash and subsequent plume is witnessed.

By the Ancestors! The sky rains upon us! The hatchling (they are not given names until they reach neonate status) trots along the beach as close as he could get while remaining on land. Squinting one green eye, he scans the ocean for evidence of what has fallen.

After a little searching, a form is seen in the water. It looks humanoid for all intents and purposes. I better get to that being before it drowns! The hatchling runs into the water, and then dives in. Nictitating membranes close over his eyes, and his arms and legs are tucked at his sides. His strong tail is used as propulsion through the water.

Reaching the form in short order, the hatchling notices the wings. A devil, or an angel? Either way, I won't know if they're dead. He grabs the form under the arms, and clasps his legs around it. The tail, once again, is used to propel them to dry land, where the hatchling performs a crude form of resuscitation on the being to get the water out of the lungs.

Najoedo gradually struggles to wakefulness after his rescue, coughing up water and generally feeling like he took a bellyflop into a stone floor (which wasn't all that far off from what happened). While he's still gagging on water, he instinctively reaches out using the telepathy natural to the Keepers, even though he doesn't know if it will work.

Where-? Where is this? He tries to sit up, swearing colorfully in his native tongue when his fatigue forces him to lay down, quivering from the effort. Augh-! So hungry... how long has it been?

The hatchling looks quizically at the figure before him. Small clawed hands scratch at his head. "You are a Spirit Speaker? I thought only the Chosen of Tribes did that."

He stands up from the rotted log he was sitting on, and hunkers down before the strange thing. He opens a small bag with some dried Newt Jerky in it, and produces a water flask. These he hands over to the humanoid. "I cannot tell you, as I was not with you until I saw you land. But this may help some."

#tagged for future post...

Najoedo reaches for the offerings, succeeding on his third attempt, his eyes slightly glazed and unfocused, murmuring "Oei xulo mo kxudbj." (("You have my thanks.")) in a hoarse voice. It takes some effort, and likely some help from his rescuer, before he manages to get some of the food and water down his throat.

Thank you... you can hear the speech of souls? I do not understand your language. Oh, in Her name, am I weary. He groans and slowly manages to sit up, rustling and stretching his extremely stiff wings. I was flying for a very long time over the water. Several days on the high winds.

He shakes some of his lingering dizziness and finally gets a look at his rescuer, eyes widening slightly in surprise. Um.... I mean no offense, but... just what are you? I have never met anyone with such an appearance in my homeland.

A sound like rushing wind escapes from the hatchlings nostirls. "One could say the same to you, winged stranger. I am of the Tribe of Rragg. We are known as Sakkran. In case you didn't guess, you are in the land known as Sakkra." Standing at about 4'6", the hatchling offers a shoulder for support.

"I had best show you to the Chieftan. Plus, it will be dark soon. Very dangerous time for anyone in these lands. As for the ability to speak to souls, yes. Our Shaman speaks to the souls of our Ancestors." A small sign is made by the hatchling at this. Fingers splayed, and covering the eyes. Grrrhmmmmlur rrrmff "Ancestors watch us." "When he passes on, I am to take his place."

Walking through the dense rainforest, they come to a clearing, which a large village is located in. Many adult version of the hatchling are bearing loads of food and beverages. Some are strutting about in front of reflective surfaces, primping and preening. Others, mostly hatchlings, are bathing in a large vat of scented oils.

As the hatchling and najoedo breach the clearing, all eyes turn swiftly, focusing on the strange being beside the hatchling.

Najoedo staggers along with his escort, his large talons digging sizeable trenches in the soil with each step. Sakkran? I was of the Pegasii tribe, one of the Keepers of the Goddess Blades. He nods slightly to the large blade slung across his back. My name is Najoedo.

He drinks in the sight of the village much like a wolf cub leaving the den for the first time. He fidgets under the scrutiny, uncertain how to proceed, settling for a stiff (stiff, likely to keep from falling over) bow with a slight spread of his wings. Greetings, I come from a distant land, and was aided in my most desperate need by... His mindspeak falters briefly as he glances at his rescuer and escort. ... Um... I do not think I caught your name.

"I have no name. I must undergo the Rite of Title before that happens. Ah, the Shaman is here. He will understand you far better than I." The hatchling points at a hunched-over figure, dressed in dark leather robes, with a cowl covering his eyes. Cuniform runes and glyohs, painted in silver, cover his raiments. He stands, and uses a large metallic staff to support him. Shuffling slowly, he stops a few meters from the hatchling and Najoedo. He sniffs the air heavily.

<This is an odd one. Such a scent. You have a name?>

<He states his name is Najoedo. He may be a Spirit Speaker, but i'm not sure. he doesn't speak the Tongue, though.>

The Shaman places a gnarled clawed hand on the hatchling's shoulder. <You have done right to bring this one in from the dark. I smell great promise in this one, but the terrors of the Swamp may yet be greater still. Now prepare yourself.> He scoots the hatchling over to a large hut, covered in skulls of varying sizes.

The Shaman then turns his attention to Najoedo, his head swaying to and fro before him. The tribe members begin coming closer; some of the larger specimens holding massive iro mauls, and staring with one eye cocked.

<My apprentice says you Speak as the Spirits. This is most interesting. How came you here.>

King Georg stood in his balcony, overlooking the city beneath him.
Steam and smoke from the fires filled the air above the city, it was a beutifull sight for those who found a machine as a beutifull thing.
He took a deep breath and smiled, in his hand he held Malacin, the sword that led the armies of man into victory against the evil that tried to take over the lands that now were his.

Georg had heard news from the nations around him, about how they used magic and such. Steel and magic? he was repulsed.
And then there was the matter with Grimm, this man who had intrest an intrest in magic.. A Baron, a man of the people they called him.
Georg knew that Grimm wanted to bring the magic back into the lands of Danneland, however, Georg would not allow that.

He waved his hand a little and a servant came forward, "send word to Grimm that the King wishes to see him, most urgent. Take the fastest horse we have and ride like the wind. The future is uppon us."

"yes mi lord"

The servant went fast down to the stables and went to see Grimm.

Georg stood on the balcony, overlooking the city as the sun rose. He held Malacin, the sword of the mountain in his hand.
He knew that the men and women in Danneland, and the dwarves, would never accept magic again. He had made sure of that, propaganda an advisor had called it. A nice name for information, he peered at the sun.
He knew that it couldnt be macig, it had to be some sort of advanced steam technology.

Najoedo wavers uneasily on his feet as the hatchling is sent away, and direly hoping the situation doesn't turn violent, given his present condition. He manages another stiff bow to the Shaman, somewhat relieved that the apparent Elder does not seem to have hostile intentions.

My name is Najoedo, formerly a servant to the Pegasii clan, and a Keeper of one of the Goddess Blades. He introduces himself slowly. I fear I know not your words for it, but mindspeak, or the speech of souls as it is known among the Keepers, comes naturally to my kind.

He pauses to focus again, as he would love nothing more than to stuff his stomach and settle in for a nice long nap. For... complex reasons... I had no choice but to depart my homeland. I flew for several days over the great sea, with no sight of land or rest until the travel took its toll and I fell senseless from the sky. When I awoke, your apprentice had pulled me from the water, and gave me food and drink, and brought me here. He pauses and hastily bows again, very nearly falling over in his haste. I am deeply grateful, for without the aid, I am certain I would have gone to my death.

The Shaman nods knowingly. <A flight for ones life? Our tales are peppered with like stories. But after such a journey, you must be famished.> He raises up in heght, and points his arm without moving his head at a female.

"You! Get some meats, and some Paroo fruit. This wanderer will be my guest tonight." The female trots off. The Shaman then continues 'speaking' to Najoedo.

<You come at an interesting time. Representatives from the three other Tribes will be here tonight to pay homage to our Ancestors. The Burrowers, Grass-Walkers and Deep Ones will be here. It is rare that we all meet, but it does happen.>

The female returns, and the Shaman motions for her to bring Najoedo the food. A wine flask is pulled from the Shaman's side, and handed over. He then motions to a growing fire in the center of the clearing.

<Eat, drink and grow your strength. The night is long, and will be full of activity. If you desire sleep, my hut is available.>

Najoedo gratefully accepts the food and drink, carefully bowing again. I am in your debt- if there is anything I may do to repay you, do not hesitate to ask it of me. Such kindness I have not found even in the land of my birth. He glances toward the hut while trying to stifle a yawn. If it is permissible, I shall eat inside, and then sleep. I hope my presence will not cause offense to your kindred tonight- I know among the clans of my homeland, the presence of a foreigner is sometimes viewed as a severe offense.

That said, the winged Keeper staggers to the hut, very nearly asleep on his feet.

Watching Najoedo stumble along, food and drink cradled in his arms, the Shaman lets a whiff whiff sound escape his nostrils. He then turns to the assembled crowd with sightless eyes covered in his cowl. "Continue with the preparations. Everything won't set itself up!"

Much later, darkness has fallen. The pyre has been lit, signaling the beginning of the ceremonies. The heady smell of cocoa fills the air for miles around.

From the Khess Mountains come the Burrowers. Short and squat and very wide in comparison, they have fattened tails and hands ending in pads. Their walk has a touch of a waddle to it.

From the Whispering Savannah come the Grass-Walkers. Tall and lithe, they are the picture of reptilian grace and beauty. Scales glittering in silver and irisdescent tones, they stride slowly on long legs.

From the waters of Eeorouh Bay come the Deep Ones. Massive and lumbering at 3 meters high, their scales are covered in spiky armored plating like a lobster. A set of heavy claws are on their hands next to their fingers. Jaws gnashing and grinding, they shamble into the camp.

Najoedo peers out of the Shaman's hut, watching with wide eyes as these people he knows little of walk by and engage in their rituals. After his nap, he had spent some time trying to make sense of the language, trying to connect specific sounds to items or actions. For the most part, he might as well have been trying to learn to breathe underwater. He was fairly certain he had caught a few actual words, but he severely doubted he would be able to reproduce any of what he heard accurately. At least there are some here who can hear the speech of souls. Ah, Shimeki, what a mess I have gotten myself into.

He hesitatingly exits the hut, taking a long moment to fully stretch all his limbs, the firelight striking odd gleams from his scales and wide wings, and shining on the wide blade slung across his back in such a way as to not interfere with his wings. If he was to visit or stay in any strange lands, hiding away indoors would get nothing done, after all. Eyeing the mass of Sakkrans, he opens his mind to the speech of souls to seek the Shaman, lest he inadvertantly cause offense among these people during their big gathering. Elder, are you near? I have rested well, but am unsure my place in your gathering.

The Shaman keys in on Najoedo's mental 'sending', and responds.

<The other Tribe emissaries have been made aware of your presence. Your appearance would cause little, if any, consternation here. Come, and see our peoples in all their variety.>

Around the massive pyre, the heads of the four Tribes, and their heirs, sit and pass a large translucent amber bowl filled with a thick, crimson liquid. In a wider circle around them, musicians thump away in a heavy percussion rhythm as dancers twist and undulate to the rhythms.

The bowl is handed to the Rragg, the Tribe Chieftan for this part. He drinks a portion of the liquid, and passes it on to the lobster-like Deep One Chieftan. His massive claws grab onto the bowl at it's edges, and he takes a drink. it is then passed on the Burrower Chieftan, and so on.

Najoedo hesitantly comes forward at the Shaman's reassurance. He lsitens intently to the music, studying everything and everyone around him. More than once his wings or tail brush against somebody, and he finds himself half-bowing and mumbling an apology. Listening to the somewhat infectious drum rhythm, he finds himself wishing he had thought to bring more of his few belongings when he left the clan. He could play the clay flute relatively well, and would have liked to contribute to the merry atmosphere.

How many of those gathered can hear the speech of souls, by the way? By listening, I think I can understand a few words of your language, though I fear I could not reproduce the sounds.

<It is understandable, as you lack the tympanum to fully understand us. Each Tribe usually has at least on member who can Speak with Spirits.>

The Deep Ones clack their claws and gesticulate while making the difficult to interpret noises that work as a language for the Sakkrans. Large plates at the base of their jaws vibrate as they do so, and the plates of the other Sakkrans vibrate as well.

<The Grass-Walkers all can Speak, as they lack the ability to use their voices.>

Another 'voice' comes in, with the sound of soft chimes. One of the tall, slender reptilians looks directly at Najoedo with amber eyes.

<It is truth, wanderer. The Shaman has informed us as to your presence. Find yourself welcome here, for it is a night of celebration and ceremony.>

Najoedo bows in greeting, somewhat in wonder at peoples besides the himself and the eleven other Keepers being able to use the speech of souls. I am glad that at least somewhere in the world, there is peace. It is a good place to begin my journey. The thought took him aback, actually. His departure from the Pegasii had been so sudden that he had not given much thought to what would come after he left the lands he knew. Actually, he hadn't been sure at all... the Keepers usually drifted among the clans, but no clan would have accepted the huge form he had attained against his will. He wasn't even certain why he had reverted to his original form, though he could still feel the steady pulse of the raw power at the back of his mind. Whatever that figure in his vision had done to him, it seemed permenant.

My name is Najoeodo, Keeper of the Xeco Rcuto ev kxo Vuccod- the Blade of the Fallen, formerly of the Pegasii clan. He pauses for a moment, before his curiousity gets the better of him. Back in my homeland, only the handful of my kindred could use the speech of souls, and they could also wield the Arts.. I am curious- you possess the speech, can you also wield the Arts?

<The Arts? I myself am not familiar with this term. However, we can summon the Spirit's Influence, and make requests of it. The Burrowers tend to do this in the weapons they make; the Deep Ones summon the Influence to grant them physical might, and we use the Influence to allow us to see the future. The Grass-Walkers, I am not sure about. Sshahaad, would you care to go into detail about how you use the Influence?>

The silvery-skinned reptilian nods and closes his eyes briefly.

< We tend to use the Influence to bring physical manifestations of the Body of the Spirits here. This is a very rare occurence, and done in times of great need, for it taxes us so. It involves a long ceremony, with offerings made and rituals observed.>

Najoedo frowns in deep thought. What my kindred call the Arts draws power from the pulse of the world, what we call the source of all life, and that power is then shaped to suit the need, be it through mental concentration or ritual. In my lands, it has been used most often for war and killing. The few Keepers like myself are seen as valuable warriors, able to wield the Arts to a degree none else in my homeland can- in keeping the Goddess Blades, we come to be shaped by the greater powers we are tied to... and indeed, severing that connection is fatal to my kind. He briefly wonders why he added that tidbit, that information as to the greatest weakness to the beings often seen as demigods among the clans. For that matter, whatever the figure of his vision had done was still pricking at him. He felt oddly constrained by his current form, with a strong urge to take to the skies as soon as his strength was fully recovered. He shook his head at the thought. A foreigner suddenly shapechanging among them... no, that would not do. I must keep control of it.

Returning his attention to the conversation at present, he addresses Sshahaad. 'Body of the Spirits'? What is that, if I may ask?

< We will be summoning one of the Body of the Spirits tonight. The Ritual is to begin. >

The Grass-Walker known as Sshahaad stands, and raises up a hand. The musicians cease playing, and the dancers stand stock still. All the other Tribe members look, and wait.

Sshahaad uses his 'Spirit Speech' on all assembled. <Now it is time. Begin the Ritual, and we will ask Ssareeazaar Guanaar for guidance and wisdom.>

Immediately all the Tribespeople drop what they are doing, and some begin making marks in the soil with iron rods. Others gather together various items such as food, weapons and other things. The Grass-Walkers assemble together, and begin making wide circular marks, humming a low tune as they do so.

After three concentric rings are made, smaller rings are nowm made in locations within each of the Rings. Food is placed in some of the smaller rings; weapons in others and random offerings are placed in the remaining rings. The low tune begins rising in pitch; no words are hummed, but it is more of a sing-song tune like that of birds.

As this happens, the fire grows noticeably brighter, and as the circles and rings are completed and filled with offerings, the sing-song turns into something resembling wild squawking. The pyre has turned from the orange-yellow glow of a normal fire, to that of a deep red, with pale blue flames at the center. This goes on for about 2 hours, with chanting being added by the Burrowers, wild gesticulations and rhythmic clacking by the Deep Ones, and a low, throbbing hum coming from the Sakkran Tribe of Rragg.

The pyre seems to explode in a jet of deep-blue flame racing skyward, and spins wildly, throwing deep-blue sparks about. After a while of this, a form begins to take shape.

It is a massive 5 meter tall Sakkran, but with steam issuing forth from hollow eye-holes, irisdescent scaling of a prismatic fashion, and constantly circling jets of flame about the head, hands and feet.

The Spirit stretches its arms wide, and roars out a mighty bellow that shakes the earth around.

Najoedo watches the ritual, making certain to keep well out of everyone's way, fascination written all over his face. When the Spirit appears, the Keeper falls backward on his tail in surprise. This must be a working of the Arts... something no one would have considered possible among the clans!

He mutters a few words under his breath in his native language, his eyes glued to the Spirit in awe.

The Spirit looks down at the assembled peoples, and speaks. When it speaks, its voice sounds like a low rolling peal of thunder as steam escapes from its mouth. The sound is heard in the mind as well as in the ears.

"You have petitioned the body of Ssareeazaar Guanaar, the Spirit of the Pits, for an audience. It has been granted. What is it you seek, small ones? Questions will be answered, but be swift!"

The Chieftan Rragg steps forward, and prostrates before the flaming form of the Spirit. "Great Spirit Ssareeazaar Guanaar, I ask one question. Our tribes have been fighting for so long, that the reasons for it have been forgotten by us. What will it take to have the fighting cease?"

The Spirit considers for a brief moment. "It will take all the peoples of the Tribes not being in existence, yet still existing. Think on this, and understanding will come. Any other attempts to end your squabbling will result in the Finality."

The head of the Spirit swings about. "Other questions. My time is brief."

Najoedo considers for a long moment, waiting to see if anyone else is going to ask the Spirit anything, before he hesitantly steps forward, carefully mimicing Rragg's previous prostration. Great Spirit Ssareeazaar Guanaar- He was certain even in mindspeak that he would never quite be able to pronounce these strange Sakkran names properly. -I have come from afar in search of answers. I have seen a figure wrapped in gold fire, armed with a lance of golden light and a chain of silver light... do you know what this figure wishes of me, to have forced changes upon me that drive me from my homeland?

He keeps alert, unsure if his intrusion would offend those around him. It was a chance he was willing to take- he direly wished to know what was wanted of him, why he was sent in flight from the lands he knew.

The Body of the Spirit lowers its head to be almost level with Najoedo. The scent of sulphur, and death, carried in the air around this being. Steam wisped and whirled around its mouth. If one looked for more than a moment, the steam would almost seem to take shape. Of a creature in torment.

"You are not one of the Tribe, and yet they allow you to view one of the Rituals. Interesting........" The Spirit raises up again. "I do know of the one of who you speak. The whisperings of goings-on in the Spiritual Plane always reach me. I also know of the purpose for what has happened to you." The Spirit stops talking, and seems to cock its head in a quizzical fashion.

"However, to reveal these things to you would defeat the purpose of them happening in the first place. And as you are not one of the Followers of the Order, I will not burden you with my knowledge. But know that there is a purpose for what has happened, and it is of great import to you and your people. But I will aid you in another way, for your deeds may have farther reaching effects than you may imagine."

Pointing at one of the Burrowers, the Spirit commands him to bring the metals from the Heart of the Khess Mountain. The Burrower does so, laying out some good-sized chunks of raw platinum.

The Spirit picks up the metal with a flaming hand, and shapes, molds and forms the chunks into a solid fused piece. He breaths a fetid breath onto it, and glyphs appear on the metal, which looks much like a helmet.

The helmet glows white-hot for a time, and then cools. The Spirirt then extends it to Najoedo. "Wear this, and it will become a part of your being. It will reveal the truth, and the lie."

Najoedo is too dumbstruck to notice the Spirit's particular odor, and accepts the helmet with a formal wingspread bow. You honor me, and I thank you from the deepest places of my soul. If I have been called to serve, I shall serve, even if I know not yet the impact my actions will have. He manages a sort of wry grin. I would offer my service in return for such a favor, but I somehow doubt any service I can render would be of use to one such as yourself. He examines the helmet for a long moment before carefully fitting it over his head, not quite sure what the Spirit meant, but having a strong hunch he was about to find out.

(OOC: Reploid tell me when this is over, so I can interact with my character...)

(OOC: Reploid tell me when this is over, so I can interact with my character...)

((OOC: Will do- remember, this is a series of loosely connected one-on-one RPs, after all ^_~))

(OOC: Reploid tell me when this is over, so I can interact with my character...)

((OOC: Will do- remember, this is a series of loosely connected one-on-one RPs, after all ^_~))

(OOC: I know, I can't really butt in with my character considering he is practically on the other side of the world)

As Najoedo fits the helmet over his head, a tingling sensation like hundreds of spiders walking on bared skin is felt. After a time, it passes. To an outside observer, it looks like the helmet becomes absorbed into the skin. Najoedo would still see the helmet should he get the chance to look in a reflective surface, however.

"It is good. May your Spirits guide you to the Way." The Body of the Spirit then raises up, and fields a few more questions from the assembled Tribesmen. Topics such as the upcoming harvests, techniques for tool-making and the hunt are broached, and answered in turn.

"Our audience is now at an end. I must return and tend to the Cities of the Dead. You may call on my wisdom again in ten years. May you know the Way!" The form of the Spirit then becomes engulfed in blueish flame, which whorls and undulates. With the sound of sucking air, the Spirit descends into the pyre and disappears; a small shower of blue sparks scattering in the air. Then all is silent.

After a brief pause, the assembled Tribesmen begin playing their instruments again, with a different rhythm being played. Now they mingle about.

The atmosphere is significantly less tense as laughter eminantes from the nostrils of the Deep Ones, and the Burrowers show thier recent creations to the other Tribesmen. The Grass-Walkers show their crafts, such as scale-mail head-dresses and fine silks.

The Chieftan Rragg and the Shaman approach Najoedo. Rragg speaks, and the Shaman interprets psychically. <"You have been blessed by Ssareeazaar Guanaar. A rare gift indeed. If it is a journey of such import that the Spirit of the Pit Lord would bless it, then we will do so as well. You will be provisioned and equipped with the finest we have to offer. A full kit will be prepared for you when you depart us to continue your journey. These are the words of our Chieftan, and it will be so.">

OOC: Reploid, tell me to when this is over. As FCN said, its hard to do anything when on is on the other side of the planet.

Najoedo bows again, his fatigue beginning to catch up to him again. You have my eternal gratitude- if ever I may be of service to your kindred, you have but to ask it. I fear it may be some days before I am fit to fly again- my ill-prepared flight of departure from home has taken its toll on my strength.

He pauses to check his head, somewhat incredulous about the helmet. By the way, you spoke to the Spirit of ending a war among your peoples... is it like the wars of my homeland? The clans there battle eachother for honor, or land, or wealth... except clans that have a blood pact. He gives a shudder. I pity those forced to sign the blood pact, and more so the child of the pact. But it does keep something of peace among some of the clans.

The Shaman relays the message to Rragg, and Rragg replies. It is , once again, translated through the Shaman.

<"The Conflict has been going on for generations. WHether it was some slight to someone's honor or something else has been lost entirely to the winds. Now it seems that war is all we know, and some can not envision living without it.">

The Chieftan is then distracted by several hatchlings tugging on his arm, trying to drag him over to the Grass-Walkers and their swap items. The Shaman continues.

<"The hatchlings care much for our Chieftan. Now then, he was preparing to expound on the Conflict, so I will continue.">

<"Legend has it that there once was a stretchof river in the centre of our lands. It was teeming with fish, and precious metals could be seen at the bottom. Several members of each tribe attempted to figure out some way to divide it equally. But it is a river, and markers would never stay in place. The trib markers would shift without any knowing, and accusations flew. Then the fighting began. Those that did not fight, ran back to their tribes to tell of what was happening. It was most likely embellished, too.>

<And so the tribes began to fight over disgraced honor, thievery, double-dealing; whatever excuse was handy. In my opinion, when beings itch to fight, they will fight over nothing. And still the fighting continues in those with that itch.>

Najoedo shakes his head regretfully. The clans of the Pegasii and the Nekoite have been at war since time before remembering as well, though they recently had a blood pact which has reduced the border fighting. Perhaps such a pact would aid your tribes in reducing senseless war? I likely speak in ignorance, but having a child of both clans does reduce the desires of the two to shed the blood of the other.

He glances back up. But I speak of dark thoughts on what appears to be a festive occasion.... what instruments do your people play? Perhaps I may add what little I can to the merrymaking.

<"Ah, yes. The instruments of choice here are mostly percussion-based, save the duar.">

The Shaman picks up what appears to be an un-attended two-stringed guitar. The strings are quite thick. The body of the instrument is completely hollow. There is a sliding bar on what would be considered the 'frets' of the instrument that run over the strings, with two divots for finger-placement.

<"Right now it is a loose session, it seems. Almost like a 'reel'. It is a circular tune that loops at the end to mesh with the beginning.>

Very interesting... I fear my expertise lies more with wind instruments than any of these. Permit me a moment and I will show you. He closes his eyes in brief concentration, a simple clay instrument materializing in his hands. It has been too long since I last used the Arts for idle things like this. It is good, far better than in battle. He tests the simple flute's range quietly before he joins in the current melody, weaving the higher pitch of the flute around the dominant percussion. Ah, this is far more relaxing than the scant rests between battles. There is little time for music in a war fortress.

<"Very interesting. very interesting indeed. You most likely need to have lips to play that instrument, yes? In that case, we are ill-equipped.">

He runs his clawed finger around the edges of his lipless mouth. the skin gives only slightly.

<"And it is always good to have music. It balances the spirit and the body, binding and banding them together. One cannot hear the rhythm without giving pause for a time.">

A palanquin borne by three Deep Ones, loaded to the brim with a variety of meats and fibrous vegetables is brought into the clearing, and set down.

<"Ah! The wind carries the scent of the feast! It is time to eat. Come, and fill yourself to your content.">

No utensils are in evidence around the palanquin, as clawed hands reach and tear chunks of spiced meats off the bone.

Najoedo eyes the food, his stomach grumbling about it's recent two weeks of abuse, and he puts his clay flute down. Lacking claws on his hands, he edges in and carefully unslings his sword to slice himself some of the meats taunting his nostrils. Again, my thanks for your hospitality. It smells wonderful. Once he's acquired a satisfactory slab of meat, he backs out of the crowd to let others get their share, munching, well, not quite daintily, but not messily either. Perhaps when the meal is done, I can offer my limited services to entertain.

Najoedo finishes eating before many of the Sakkrans, and finds himself eyeing some of the unattended drums. The Keeper glances around to make sure he isn't imposing on anyone before taking a seat at one of the big percussion instruments and tapping out a simple beat, adding his voice to the simple rhythm, the words sung both aloud in his language and in the telepathic speech of souls, tone hovering between a cheerful and solemn pitch.

"Kxoho aj u kamo ke vawxk
U kamo ke vco
U kamo ke calo
Udt u kamo ke tao
There is a time to fight
A time to fly
A time to live
And a time to die

U kamo ke riact
U kamo ke rihd
U kamo ke kousx
Udt u kamo ke couhd
A time to build
A time to burn
A time to teach
And a time to learn

U kamo ke hajo
U kamo ke vucc
U kamo ke wuad
Kxod cejo ak ucc
A time to rise
A time to fall
A time to gain
Then lose it all

Ucc kxadwj semo
Udt ucc kxadwj we
Ucc jeicj wcato
Nxoho nadtj vcen
All things come
And all things go
All souls glide
Where winds flow"

The drumbeat turns to a more martial air, the singer's tone that of a soldier chanting a battle hymn, a soldier who has seen many battles.

"Je huajo kxo ruddoh
Heijo kxo jfouhj
Sxuhwo kxo cado
Udt jcuo ucc vouhj
So raise the banner
Rouse the spears
Charge the line
And slay all fears

Hajo nakx kxo jid
Vucc ke kxo dawxk
Muhsx kxheiwx tuhbdojj
Ke vadt kxo cawxk
Rise with the sun
Fall to the night
March through darkness
To find the light"

The first four verses are repeated twice, followed once more by the fifth and sixth and Najoedo lets his voice and the drums die out. That is a common teaching wisdom, hymn of battle, and prayer for the dead among the clans of my homeland. It is a very old song. He glances around at the gathered Sakkrans. I know a few other songs, though most of those are rather tasteless, borne of drunken soldiers chasing women.

The assembled members of the different Tribes have since stopped their eating and drinking, and were paying rapt attention to Najoedo. When he completes his song, there is a loud hooting sound that fills the air, and frightens several slumbering animals.

The Shaman 'sends' to Najoedo. <"It was a most excellent battle hymn. The Tribes appreciate the value of a warrior spirit. Your song has touched the heart of this old shell. A more ribald tune would do it no justice."> I must note this down in my tomes.

A massive crimson-shelled Deep-One comes up to Najoedo, towering at 3.5 meters high, and gnashes his teeth together in front of him while gesticulating with his hands which resemble lobster claws, but with fingers at the sides. A gold-scaled Grass-Walker accompanies him, and translates.

<"He says that his name is Grroughaa, and your song has stirred his men. they wish to hear more Songs of the Warriors from other lands.>

Najoedo looks up at the big Sakkran, standing easily twice the Keeper's height and then some. I will try to avoid the more raunchy of the warrior's hymns. He manages a short bow to Grroughaa. I am glad that the music of my homeland is well received here.

He sits back down at the drum, tapping it for a moment in thought before launching into a swift-paced beat.
"Wceho ro ke kxejo nxe calo
Wceho ro ke kxo wectod jawxk
Jidhajo ed u lahwad vaoct
Jidjok ed u xuht-ned vawxk
Jnehtj fuadkot hot
Eih odomaoj vuccod tout
Wceho ro ke kxejo nxe calo
Wceho ro ke kxejo nxe vawxk
Hucco ke kxo Sxaovkud'j Ruddoh
Hucco ke kxo Wectod Cawxk!
Glory be to those who live
Glory be to the golden sight
Sunrise on a virgin field
Sunset on a hard-won fight
Swords painted red
Our enemies fallen dead
Glory be to those who live
Glory be to those who fight
Rally to the Chieftan's Banner
Rally to the Golden Light!"

He repeats the song a couple more times, motioning for some of the others to join him on the drums or whatever other instruments are readily available. The 'Golden Light' was a common name for the banner of the Drakonic clan- a golden-rayed sun on a pale blue field. The thought idly occurs to him that at some point he would need to get or create a new banner with his personal sigil, a simple yellow insignia on a black field. Something to deal with later, after he was recovered. The festive mood was too good to be ruined by useless thoughts of 'what next?'

The Grass-Walkers ululate in their birdlike tongue, while the Burrowers take position on the kettle drums and long, hollowed tubes resembling bone, and the Tribe of Rragg accompanies on the two-stringed Duar.

Grroughaa and the four other emmisaries from his tribe come in with deep, heavy vocalizations that would rattle the bones of lesser beings.

Those not involved in instrument playing have taken to dancing. It resembles the undulations of snakes, as couples meet and twist around each other, turning slowly all the while.

Najoedo studies the dancing with rapt fascination as he launches into some of the other hymns he had learned over the past century and a half, and a handful of festive ceremonial songs as well. This is certainly a good way to begin a journey, with good food, good music, and a festive air before departing for the unknown.

In a brief lull, he bespeaks the Shaman again. If I may, I would love to learn some of the music of your people... and perhaps a flute could be improvised that your people could use, some sort of leather sack of air connected to the instrument, perhaps, leaving the pitch of it to be dealt with... I must think on it more. It could be an interesting challenge.

The Shaman stops rocking to and fro with the rhythm of Najoedo's music. <Hmmm....perhaps the song that tells the reason behind this Gathering, eh? The language will be quite difficult, unless you have the most keen of hearing, so I will translate.> He then waves his arms for attention.

Sshouu hrra! Sseelee hrra Sakkra! Jhoaa hrr ssloaa!

The Shaman 'sends' once again to najoedo as the assembled tribes grab up their appropo instruments. <I have asked the Ballad of Sakkra to be played.>

The Tribe of Rragg taking up large hollowed cylinders, stopped at one end. The Burrowers take to the kettle drums, while the Grass-Walkers take up the duars. The Deep-Ones begin gnashing the plates on their mouths together, creating a semi-screeching tune.

A heavy bass is played in an almost dirge-like fashion as all the percussion instruments play in time. After a moment, the throaty sound of the duar comes in, strings picked and slid slowly. The Deep-Ones vocalize a low, rhythmic humming sound that rises in pitch slightly as it continues.

Thruum

Thruum

Thruum

Thruum

(Translated)
Carry your hammers high, men!
Carry your hammers high!
For today we eat and drink
As tomorrow we surely die!

Greet your neighbor that stands beside you!
Tell your tales of glory and woe!
Greet his family and friends!
For at your hand
he won't be coming home.

We meet this day to honor
the families of the warriors brave.
For in order to keep your own skin,
somebody will have to
meet their grave.

So carry your hammers high, men!
Carry your hammers high!
For today we eat and drink
As tomorrow we surely die!

The song fades out slowly as the rhythmic thruuming gives way to the silence in the swamp. The assembled tribesmen then go about, clasping hands with members from the other tribes, and hoisting the hatchlings high onto their shoulders.

Najoedo's eyes widen in surprise as the implications of the song finally hit him and he gawks in slack-jawed shock. Why do you fight then? If you can gather in peace like tonight, what then makes the next day any different? Why fight, if there is no point? Even the clans of my homeland have remembered reasons for their wars! If there is no logical reason for combat, then there is none for the slaughter that inevitably accompanies it! The Keeper clenches one fist tight and sweeps a look across the gathering. I was told that none of you remember why you fight! Then why? Surely a blood pact could be signed among your clans, and peace achieved!

Some small voice of reason at the back of his mind tells him he's really talking out of place, and could quite easily be causing great offense, but he ignores it, too fired up about what appears to him to be an utmost pointless series of battles. You gather here to honor eachother's fallen, and yet you mean to continue fighting and killing for a forgotten cause? What honor then does that give the fallen? That they have died in vain, for no reason but the sake of bloodshed? Is killing such a mundane habit that you do not question 'why?' any longer? Let the fallen rest in peace, knowing their kin will no longer suffer the same senseless bloodshed, instead of watering the earth further with blood, snuffing out the lifeflames of so many who have no reason to die!

Najoedo looks around and remembers to furl his wings back against his back, having half-spread the silvery-white membranes in his agitation. Perhaps that is why I was driven from the lands I knew... He slumps back to a sitting position, fervor spent. The winds of chaos blow in strange ways... please, Shimeki, let it be that they blow us all toward better days.

The Shaman nods his head knowingly. <All these points you have made have been considered. And that is why we meet here today. Many do not think as we do, and would be content to continue fighting and dying for no cause. We here seek to find another way. If their Tribe Elders knew why we were here today, they would most likely be slain.> He sweeps his arm wide, encompassing the assembled group.

<The emmisaries hold the unpopular opinion that these battles with no point are dishonorable to our Ancestors, and should be ceased. But we can only meet at this time, in secret, to discuss this. The hostilities have decreased recently, but still there are those that have lost their teeth who wish to see the blood of the young spilled.>

A Grass-Walker approaches, and lays an iridescent-scaled hand on his shoulder. <It is true, and a great shame. The song is an ancient one, from a time before this war began. How this war has raged for so long, we do not know. I will be finding this out when I return to the Whispering Savannah. The Deep Ones here have stated the same, as well as the Burrowers. Hopefully, it is a beginning to an end.>

Najoedo slumps in thought, over this astoundingly tangled problem to puzzle out. There must be a way to convince them... or scare them into it. Sometimes when reason fails, one must use sheer volume instead- He jerks upright as an idea all but smacks him him upside the head. The raw power that still burned just beneath the surface, mystic fire just waiting to burst forth, the huge white-scaled form that had driven him from his homeland. I... think I have just come up with an idea. I do not know if I can do it again, but perhaps... it may just work, if you will permit this outlander to meddle in your affairs even further.

The Grass=Walkers and the Shaman all look to each other, puzzlement on their features. <We are open to suggestions. What is it you propose?>

OOC: Short post, yes? Couldn't think of other reactions. Brain hurts.

Najoedo unslings his sword and holds the shimmering silver weapon up, firelight dancing across the blade. These weapons are blessed with exceptional powers, and the figure that confronted me in my vision... did something... I am unsure what exactly, but where as before, the power of these blades shape the weilder to the form I bear now, what the figure did was like that, only a hundredfold. I was changed even farther... that is what sent me flying from my homeland. He describes the massive dragon form he had changed to before, wings half-spread and tail lashing slightly to emphasis certain points. Even now, I can feel that fire pulsing.... I dare not attempt it here in the midst of your gathering... but perhaps I can take that form again, and we can use that to help shock them into listening. I am certain that the appearance of a massive white reptilian, with all the trimmings of horns and claws and firebreath and the like would likely 'convince' people into listening.

The Shaman listens in on this, and considers a moment. <Yes, it could shock them into listening. Or quicken their blood at the thought of conquering such a creature. Take caution if you decide to attempt this. As it stands, I will take council with the emissaries of the Tribes, and decide our course of action should the worst occur. A moment?>

At this, the Shaman sends a private message to the golden-scaled Grass-Walker, who nods his head. The others are told of the Shaman's needs, and they convene in a large circular yurt just a bit from the central fire.

An hour passes, and the emissaries come forth. The Grass-Walker emissary sends a message to Najoedo.

<It has been decided. Should the Leaders decide that they will fight, then it will be a civil war amongst us. Each of us has supporters in the Tribes. We will band together, and fight for the insanity to end. This is in the worst case, however.>

The crimson-scaled Deep One picks up a massive hollow tube, and walks to the edge of the water about a few hundred feet from the camp. He places the tube in the water, and begins beating a slow and slightly irregular rhythm. He then begins making gnashing sounds with his mouth-plates, and gesticulating a bit with one hand. The Grass-Walker nods his head, and sends once again.

<Grroughaa has summoned his Armsmen, who will arrive in a short time. His message was sent in a code that they know. He tells me...> More gnashing and gesticulations. <Ah. He tells me that they will be ready for anything, but will be hidden until needed.>

Najoedo nods slightly. I am limited at the moment by the lingering weakness from my long flight... once that has passed however, I will again be able to wield the Arts to my full potential. Sadly, there is a very good reason it is sung of in my lands that the clans rise and fall on the whims of Keepers' wings. The Dragonspine mountains were formed during a conflict between two of the Keepers, and the highest of those peaks gleam with snow even in high summer. I shall abide your decisions, though, and help where I may.

He studies his blade for a moment, a distant gaze on his face. Before I became a Keeper, I was a blacksmith, many decades ago. In the very least, perhaps those abilities will be of good use to this cause.

<Hmmmm....perhaps if you were to take on this form of which you speak, it would give pause to the Tribe Elders. We do not get visitors very often, after all. Hmmm....> The Shaman seems engrossed in thought, and begins pacing to and fro a bit. <I must think on this, and consult the Scrye.> He enters his dwelling, and closes the flaps.

About 2 hours later, a rather loud noise could be heard coming from the shore. The sound of heavy feet and gnashing plates is quite audible, as well as an accompanying low guttural chant.

Naj jumps to his feet when his sensitive ears pick up the noise. What is that sound? Are Grroughaa's Armsmen here so swiftly?

He hopes that is the case, because he doesn't much cherish trying to fight a battle still weakened from his flight.

A loud bellowing sound is the answer to Najoedoe's internal question. This is followed by a score of bellowing and gnashing. A short time later, the forms of many Deep Ones can be seen entering the clearing. In a variety of colorations ranging from deep green to a rusty red, the Armsmen trudge in.

Grroughaa walks to them, and smashes a large lobster-like claw against his carapace-like chest. The Deep One in the lead of the group copies this movement. In short order, the clearing is completely surrounded by gnashing, gesticulating Deep Ones.

Najoedo stares at the display rather like a lost puppy. It is likely a good thing that our lands are seperated by a vast expanse of water... otherwise there would easily be a much more massive war to be fought, I suspect. A long yawn escapes the tired Keeper. I fear I may be unable to keep up with the evening's activity. The Shaman is otherwise occupied... is there someplace I may retire for the night?

The gold-scaled Grass-Walker looks to a gathering of tents. <You may use any one of those. I have summoned for the Brothers, and expect to be up all this night. There is planning that needs to be done here.>

Then I will take my leave... and hopefully awake refreshed and ready to attempt that shapechange in the morning. Naj stretches. Thank you again for your kindness, may the winds of chaos blow favorably in your endeavors.

He excuses himself and finds a tent, laying down and swiftly falling into the deep dreamless sleep of the exhausted.

((OOC: I suppose we ought to fast-forward to morning sometime soon, huh? ^_~))

OOC: Sounds good to me. I'll follow your lead on it.

Come morning, Naj yawns widely and drags himself back to wakefulness. The food and rest had done him a world of good, and while still not back in top form, he was much better than he'd been when he arrived. He looks around as he exits the tent, stretching his wings wide as he works through his morning stretches. Ah... amazing what a good night of rest can do.

The clearing was jammed with warriors from all four of the tribes. The Armsmen of the Deep Ones, the Svelt of the Grass-Walkers, the Punchers of the Burrowers and the Unseen of the Rragg, also known as the Skulk Lizards.

A head count reveals about 1,250 strong. The Punchers shining up their Battle Picks, drawing glyphs on their studded metallic armor and sparring amongst each other. The Svelt standing stock still and watching; ever watching. The Armsmen gesticulating and gnashing their mouth plates as they listen. The Unseen huddling in small groups and conversing amongst each other.

In the center, the obvious Leaders of the assembled horde, and several Shamans, sit and discuss their plans.

Najoedo surveys the crowd briefly, and decides it would be easier to reach the center by air than by winding his way through the crowd, so with a brief crouch, the winged Keeper leaps into the air, wings fanning rapidly to lift him before he catches a morning updraft and glides over the Sakkrans' heads, spiraling to a neat landing near the center of the gathering. I apologize for intruding, it seems that I have overslept. What tidings come with the dawn?

The gold-scaled Grass-Walker looks upon Najoedo, and nods. His chitinous armor gleams with a fresh polishing.

<Ah, good cycle to you Wanderer. News has been cast to us that the ineffectual Elders are gathering for a discourse. Most likely squabbling over boundaries again, which would lead to another few years of fighting. A gathering of available members of the resistance has been called. We will strike, and strike hard.>

Pointing to the ground below them, the Grass-Walker known as Ssaaraza Hweer shows a rough map of the area, with markings all over it. From the look of it, it's an island. (Actually, the Kastaa Islands)

<They think they will be safe since they are surrounded by water. They do not reckon with the power of a cooperative effort.>

Najoedo nods. They also do not realize that an approach by air is possible. He flutters his wings, shaking them out after the short flight. Then it is to be a battle? How many capable fighters can we expect to encounter?

While looking over the plans, Najoedo also turns over options in his mind, studying the mystic power that he can feel at the back of his mind, like a spark about to ignite into a raging inferno. And is there a large clearing nearby? I am hesitant to attempt any sort of shapechanging in a crowd.

<Air-borne assault is not a common tactic among us, as none of us have wings.> A slight chuckle is heard from the ranks of the Grass-Walkers. <As such, we could expect about 500 well trained guards and soldiers. There will also be, most likely, fortified positions around the complex that they will be meeting at.>

A stick is used to draw lines in the soil. <The Armsmen and the Unseen will approach from the West by water. Both Tribes are excellent swimmers. The Burrowers will use their skills at craft to make boats for landing on the Eastern coast. We will come in on our own crafts from the south. The Complex is located in the Shaara Hills region of the island.> Lines drawn on the make-shift map form an X over a central area.

Naj nods slowly. A solid plan to surround them. What manner of fortifications do your peoples use? Stone or wood fortresses and walls I am rather familiar with- both at defending them and at knocking them down, and I have had to deal with many large weapons called ballistas.

He points to the map, near the complex. I'm not certain how many I may carry, and that is assuming I can successfully change to that large form, but I could conceivably carry a large number of people on my back or in some sort of hand-held container. If they are already surrounded on all sides, then an assault from the air in their main fortress will catch them doubly by surprise.

<Hrrrr. We can always mesh a couple of longships together into something like a pod. That could carry about 30 of us Grass-Walkers, or 10 Deep Ones. The Burrowers will tunnel beneath the walls of the fortification, and undermine their foundations.>

<Normally, the fortifications are wood and stone. Sometimes there is an iron layering, and this is to be expected in this case. Their defenses are expected to be trebuchet and bows, as well as melee weaponry. The Deep Ones can counter those with their Talent, and their ranged weapon of choice.>

Ssaaraza gesticulates to a green Deep One, and he holds aloft a large 200 pound ball of iron attached to a long chain. <The Deep Ones use these to smash down the walls of fortifications, and can throw them a good distance. Between the tunneling of the Burrowers and the throws of the Deep Ones, the walls will come down.>

Najoedo gets that wide-eyed look at the weapon. Portable rams... amazing. As for my own skills... He closes his eyes and concentrates for a moment, holding his sword skyward. After a brief moment, ethreal flames swirl about the blade, before being lobbed skyward as a brilliantly gleaming orb of power that detonates a few hundred feet in the air with a loud explosion and flash. Hrm... I am still not in top form... that should have taken much less time to fire. How long until the attack commences?

<We still have to come up with a good strategy, and our recon still has to report back with information. We will not begin until that happens. I would guess 3 to 4 hours. In the meantime, we must prepare.>

The Deep Ones, in the meantime, have been hcanting to themselves and bashing their clawed hands against all parts of their bodies. To one sensitive to the bio-feedback of the body, almost mystical energies can be felt eminating from them.

The Grass-Walkers have begun their meditations, and sit on their haunches as they do so.

Then I had best prepare as well. Naj glances around before leaping into the air. I will be nearby attempting to shapechange.

The white-scaled Keeper circles up on an updraft a bit longer before peeling away from the crowd to find a nice large, empty area. I imagine if I am successful, you will know of it very quickly.

The advance recon team returns after about 5 hours. They give the Grass-Walker leader their findings, who then calls an assemblage of the leaders of the different Tribes, and the Shamans as well.

They confer for a time, drawing plans in the soil and discussing strategy.

Upon finding a suitably large clearing, Najoedo lands and glances around to make sure he is actually alone, before sitting down to meditate. It is with obvious hesitation that he mentally starts poking at the spark of power he can feel in the back of his mind, the memory of the first transformation still fresh in his mind's eye.

You are doing well, blacksmith. I am pleased.

The white scaled Keeper sits bolt upright at the unheard voice, glancing around in surprise and no small measure of fear. "Who is there? By all my ancestors, who is there?!" He cries out in his native tongue.

You will learn.

That flame-wrapped winged figure from before, burning lance in hand, hovering in a field of black. The Keeper mentally recoils as it reaches out again, a light touch to his mind, rather than the agonizing lance from before. The spark flares up again, a lightning flash of power.

Najoedo writhes, not quite in pain, though some rational part of him notes the sensation is decidedly uncomfortable, forcing himself to remain conscious this time. "Why have you done this? Who are you-AUGH!" His shouted inquiry is cut off as his jaw and vocal chords are forced into the unfamiliar configuration, turning his words into uncomprehensible roars.

Fly well.

Najoedo goes silent, the mysterious figure's mental voice fading into nothing, and the Keeper decides that for the moment, just laying still and getting his bearings again is a good idea. After several minutes, he staggers onto his hind legs, briefly tries to take a few steps, and after one very ungraceful faceplant into the dirt decides that obviously the larger form is meant to walk on all fours.

Shaking out his wings, the Keeper carefully makes his way back to the Sakkran camp, sending word ahead, and direly grateful at the moment for the speech of souls. I have done it. I am not quite certain how, but I have, and I am returning to your camp. You will not be able to mistake my approach. Even in mindspeak, Naj sounds somewhat mentally exhausted.

"Ok. We have a plan. All advance units, such as the Skulkers and Deep Ones. All will congregate at their points, and begin the assault on the mark. Go, and may you find yourself standing in the next cycle." The advance teams disperse to commit theirselves to their appointed tasks.

The Shaman receives Najoedo's 'send', and apprises the Warlord about it. <Good. We'll start lashing together some longships, and see what comes of it.>

Najoedo tromps up to the edge of the camp, exceedingly self-conscious now that even the tallest of the Sakkrans in the camp barely come up to his elbow. Winds willing, all will go well with this. This is most awkward... especially after decades of being accustomed to balancing on two legs.

The Keeper stays out of the way of the others preparing, and lies loosely curled in the grass. On what signal will the attack commence? I can make a suitably noticeable flare in the sky to serve, but I do not know what you require for the signal.

The assembled group eyeballs the metamorphed Najoedo. Some seem a bit itchy around the creature's presence, others begin chanting and gesticulating.

<You bear a striking resemblance to The Grand Newt, one of the Pantheon. Surely this is a sign!> The Shaman then turns and addresses the grouping. <Surely the Spirits favor us in our endeavor, for this is an omen! It can only mean we are in the right and will see victory! Go forth then, and commence the plan. We cannot fail!>

The Deep Ones and the Skulkers roar and bellow, and then turn and wade into the ocean. AT the correct depth, they begin using their tails to swim strongly. In the meantime, the Burrowers and Grass-Walkers begin constructing the pod as was discussed earlier.

Naj blinks in surprise at the Shaman's declaration. Um... I would imagine it is not likely mere chance that my... altered... appearance resembles a deity of your culture. The massive dragon lifts his head and looks back over one shoulder at his opalescent-scaled bulk. He had certainly seen dragons before- the creatures were a favored mount of the Drakonic clans- but they were much smaller, barely able to carry three people astride their neck and shoulders, and certainly not so decadent in coloring. He idly half-spreads one wing and studies the sunlight playing across the semi-translucent membranes, striking a range of soft pastel highlights. The thought occurs to him that had he descended upon one of the clans of his homeland as such, that they would quite likely have either tried to kill him on sight, or fall to their knees in worship. Neither option terribly appeals to the Keeper.

I am ready to take to the winds whenever you are ready. He notes with a wide yawn, sunlighting glinting off razor sharp fangs the length of a man's arm. If nothing else, today will certainly prove to be an interesting encounter.

<Not to worry. Sometimes one needs a motivating factor to fight better than they would otherwise. If a sign from the SPirits isn't motivation enough, i'll leap to my doom.> The Shaman turns his sightless gaze into the vicinity of where the Burrowers are working on the crudely constructed pod.

<This may take a small time. While I can not see you, I know that your scent has changed, and the echoes I hear tell me your size and shape. How is it you can become this?>

Najoedo shrugs his massive shoulders. I am not certain of it myself. The strange voice that shattered my meditations did something... not unlike what happens to the Keepers of the blades, but on a far larger scale. I am not entirely certain I am in control of when the change takes place, as that voice broke into my meditations not more than an hour past.... It is not a pleasant senstion, though I would not call it painful, either. He chuckles dryly at that, though the sound comes out as more of a grumbling hiss. But so blow the winds of Chaos, and I am able to do no more than to ride them best I can. That is all anyone can do.

<AH, yes. I would hear more of these Winds of Chaos at a later time. Right now, you most likely need a touch of rest. When events occur, they come at a hectic pace, yes?>

The time goes, as it often dos, and in short enough order, the makeshift pod is completed. After inspecting the structure, the Shaman has deemed it safe for use. <Very good. I will be aboard, as well as several members from the assembled tribes. Do you feel rested?>

Najoedo nods and stands up, careful to watch where he puts his feet, lest some unsuspecting Sakkran be underfoot - literally. I am ready. He intones solemnly, stretching his wing pinions slightly. My sword is yours, may She Who Sees All Things give Her blessing to those who go to death and to victory this day.

That said, the Keeper looks at the pod, and then down at his talon-tipped forepaws. I assume that I will have to carry this in my claws. I will have to be careful not to hold too tightly. He leans down slightly, so that the Shaman and others nearby can examine the back of his neck, adorned with sturdy ridges down the spine. I am no expert on dragonriding, but perhaps I can carry additional forces this way? Or would the danger of falling be too great?

<The danger of falling would indeed be great. But the pod does not need to be grasped, as it has several handling harnesses. These will allow ofr the pod to be dropped, as opposed to us having to disembark from your back, which would be a more time-consuming process. I would be honored, however, to ride upon you that I may direct you to the right area.>

A hatch on the pod opens, and the assembled group files aboard. As the last enters the pod, a wave is given, and then the hatch is sealed closed.

Naj nods slightly. I am not well versed in how the Drakonic clans rode their mounts, though I believe they use some sort of harness rather than ride bareback... Perhaps the ridges can serve as grips?

The Keeper tentatively handles the pod's harnesses, getting a feel for how best to heft the makeshift dropship, while trying not to jar it too badly for the sake of its occupants.

The Shaman climbs up in whatever manner would be the least discomfitting for Najoedo, and grips the spines on his neck. Feeling around a bit until he gets a firm hold, he 'sends' to the dragon-form.

<If dragon-riding is anything like riding the Guat, we use our knees to steer with. Pressing on one side indicates the direction desired, and so that would likely be the best way to proceed. We are prepared when you are. To the east and a bit north is the way we wish to go. It's about 45 minutes swimming, and the advance soldiers should be there already.>

Naj starts to nod, and pauses, remembering he's got a passenger. Make certain to hold tight- taking to the air is usually a rather rough thing. At least today is a good day for flying- I would dare not carry anyone through rough skies.

The Keeper crouches slightly, muscles tensing for the first vital spring into the air, and with a reverbrating bellow the massive white-scaled bulk leaps into the air, wings sweeping down rapidly. It is always much easier to take flight from a ledge rather than from flat ground. But once I hit the rising air, it will be much easier.

After a few rough minutes of gaining altitude largely by the rapid fanning of his wings, Naj heaves a slight sigh of relief as he finds a good thermal, spreading his shimmering wingsails wide, the pod clutched carefully against his chest. With little guideance from the Shaman, he wheels easily in the direction indicated, terrain and water flashing rapidly beneath. What would take 45 minutes of steady swimming looks as though it will take not even half that time flying.

The Shaman listens intently, trying to focus beyond the feeling of vertigo and the sound of the wind whipping against his ear-holes. After a couple of minutes of being airborne, he feels a shift in the air currents, and hears the sound of birds sounding an alert.

<We should be near. If you see an chain of islands below, aim for the south-most coast of the largest one. There should be a large, rocky hill about 3 kilometers away from that coast, and that is the destination.>

Right. I will approach from a lower height, so that they may not see our approach. Do not be alarmed when the ground rushes up to meet us. After a second, the feel of the Keeper's flight rhythm shifts, a minute change in the way his wings are held, and a tightly controlled spiral brings the dragon low to the water, making a beeline for the islands, particularly where the Shaman directed him. The Keeper's speed actually seems to increase, shooting a handful of feet above the water, wings barely flapping to maintain cruising altitude and speed.

We are nearly to the hill you describe. It looks to be an excellent place to land. Before long, the wind changes from the steady whistle to a cacophony as Najoedo shifts awkwardly midair, backwinging furiously into a hover before setting down on the hill, head darting about to check for hostiles. Shall I drop the pod now?

<Only if the contens of the pod will not be smashed. Hrr hrr hrrr. Drop the pod.>

After the pod is dropped, the passengers spill out in force, and begin erecting hasty shelters, and stacking nearby wood together in a tall pile. From their vantage point, they can see a fortification 1.5 kilometers away.

Najoedo peers into the distance. So that is the fortress? The Keeper narrows his eyes to thin slits, studying the structure. It does appear very secure. What role would you have me play in the battle? Distraction, shock and awe, fire support using the Arts? And is there a chance they may have seen my landing at this distance? I know not how sharp Sakkran eyes are.

<The eyes of a Sakkran are sharp indeed, but lack in long-range depth perception unless both eyes are focused on one object. I doubt they saw you, however. They have become complacent with the passing centuries. Complacent in their scheming ways.>

<As for your role in this, it would likely be best that you do not take an active part, as the Deity had mentioned that your fate is rather important to your people, yes? Or you have a journey of great measure to make. It would be unfortunate if something happened here that caused all that to fail to pass.>

<And as one of our ancient leaders said once, "All that transpires in these lands, will be at the hands of its people." This is our struggle. Your presence gives our soldiers the inner will to fight as never before. You have done more than enough.>

Naj pauses a moment to contemplate the Shaman's words before he bows his head in that odd sort of draconic rendition of a bow, wings half-spread. Understandable. If it is permissible, then, I should like like to witness the battle from the air, so that in the years to come the play of events shall not fall forgotten. Call it a feeling, but I believe that today will herald a turning point in history, at the very least, for your people. He stretches briefly. In any case, I shall abide by your wishes.

<That would be excellent, Sir Najoedo. Should none of us survive, it would be a great shame to let this pass without any mention in the times to come.> The Shaman then sniffs the air. "Ah. It is a good day. Ggarraal, light the pyre on my mark. Ffenree Outaah, send to your people at the pyre lighting. We move as one, or we don't move at all."

Several beats pass, and a Skulker stands at the large pile of twigs holding a pitch-torch. The Shaman raises one arm, and then lets it drop. "Now."

The pyre is lit, sending black smoke billowing high into the clouds. The Grass-Walker's leader Ggarraal sends to his men down below. As one, three large groups run from the cover of the woods towards the fortified complex.

The Deep Ones carry their large throwing hammers, whipping them around in a circle twice before loosing them at the fortified walls. Grass-Walkers loose scores of atl-atl launched spikes at the battlements.

Deep under the walls, Burrowers are hard at work undermining the foundations of the fortress walls. Skulkers chameleon themselves and trod 1 step behind the Deep Ones. As soon as a breach is made, they'll rush forward with their poisoned spears, and take down any who try to rush out from the breach.

The response from the sentries at the walls is a little slow, but quite potent when it does come. Arrows dipped in pitch are lit and then fired. Large stones are hurled to keep the invading forces from getting too close. Within the walls, a trebuchet is loaded with stones, and prepped to fire on the advancing group from the south.

As the battle commences, Najoedo crouches and springs into the air with an ear-splitting roar that sends a slight tremor through the ground. Before the counterattack is mustered, the great dragon makes one pass low over the fortress, the wind thundering beneath his wings. That trebuchet could prove a problem. Naj notes to himself as he hastily fans his wings to gain altitude after his shock and awe pass.

From his aerial vantage, the Keeper can easily see the lay of the battle. Najoedo nearly forms and flings a bolt of energy before he remembers he promised to stay out of the direct fighting. They have a trebuchet that is preparing to fire! It is aimed southward. I am fairly certain I can burn it from my vantage, if you will permit me the attempt.

<By all means. The fewer that die here today, the better.>

The Shaman routes Najoedo's message to the Grass-Walkers, who in turn alert the forces advancing from the south. They scatter swiftly while continuing their assault.

Indeed... I shall make this a show they shall not soon forget! A certain amount of pride tinges Najoeodo's mindvoice as he concentrates while circling high above the fortress, forming a large whorling ball of red-orange energy between his talons. A fireball, or rather, the idea, the concept of a ball of flame, and then the Keeper tucks his wings close to his body and drops into a near-vertical dive over the fortress, explosive blasts of red flame and blue lightning preceeding him.

A score of arrows clink against his scales as he pulls out of the dive, and Najoedo flinches involuntarily at the memory of arrows impacting meaning pain. Instead, the bolts merely ping off his shimmering scales, though a few stick uncomfortably between the white plates, their points halted from doing actual harm. The dragon's response is another rumbling bellow and another rain of magical attacks, calling up a blizzard in miniature within the confines of the fortress below as he returns to a safe altitude, not wanting to risk an arrow through his wingsails or in his face. How was that?

<MOst impressive. And just the distraction needed.>

As the 'send' completes, one of the walls of the fortification comes crshing down from the work of the Burrowers and the hammers of the Deep Ones. Immediately the Skulkers race forward with their spears and set to jabbing anyone who comes in range of them, hoping the poison on the ends of their blades would do the rest of the work.

Deep Ones, in the meantime, aim their hammers over the walls now, hoping to crush any opposition within. Grass-Walkers doing a hopping run launch their atl-atl missiles at the ramparts. The response from the fortification is the archers now shifting their aim from the rapidly ascending draconic being that assaulted then, to the advancing forces.

Scores of arrows find their marks, as Deep Ones perforated like pin-cushions, take the brunt of the assault. Several Skulkers get hit as well, and re-appear as they fall.

More excellent RP by Reploid Productions. Tag.

Najoedo gives another rumbling bellow and grasps a moderately large boulder a short distance from the fortress. After a moment or two of trying to heft the large stone airborne, he settles for a somewhat smaller boulder instead and flies at the fortress, charging the rock clutched in his talons with the Arts, and thus turning it into the world's first bunker buster.

Incoming! He 'shouts', pulling up sharply and letting go of the rock. Inertia kindly does the rest, sending the now-explosive boulder flying at the back of the fortress, opposite of where the invaders have breached the wall.

With the wall on the South-Western part of the fortified complex being brought down, and the explosive assault of Najoedo on the opposite wall, the defender's attentions were a little disorganized. The trebuchet had been rendered inoperable, so it was a matter of counter-attack for them, since it seemed the walls would not serve their purpose anymore.

Wave after wave of defenders charged over the rubble that once served as the fortification of the complex. The attackers charge as well, bringing their hand weapons to bear while theGrass-Walkers loose one final volley from their atl-atls, and then bring long, slim blades to bear. They do not charge, but weem to wait as the Deep-Ones and Skulkers prepare for melee battle.

The first wave of defenders find themselves sinking into the ground on occasion; the work of the Burrowers creating sink-holes in the battlefield. The Shaman and the leaders of the Tribes gather together, and begin a steady rhythmic chant, as the Grass-Walkers there draw circular designs in the ground.

The sky begins clouding over, and the winds begin to whip about. The battle is joined on the ground in a loud crash of weapon against weapon. Battle-cries are heard over the din, and screams of agony as well. For now, the two sides seem evenly matched.

What in Her name are they doing? Naj wonders to himself as he circles high above the battle, pondering what his next action should be. As the battle rages on, friend and foe become too mixed together for the dragon to use large scale attacks, and precision is not an option at his altitude, even more so with the weather beginning to act up.

Deciding to abandon his aerial vantage (he knows better than to fly about in a storm after all!), the Keeper lands with a loud thump and a roar near where he breeched the rear wall, talons splayed and fangs bared, while he keeps his wings tucked safely out of the way against his back. Anyone who comes this way will likely be an enemy.

Dark blue eyes gleaming eerily in the gathering murk, the dragon waits.

The wait is not long as opposing Deep Ones come charging towards the wall-breach Najoedo created, swinging large sledgehammers and yelling a loud warcry. A small glow surrounds their bodies as they charge, which the rain, which has just begun, seems to bead on.

The sky over the fortification darkens to a deep black, and a finger of it grows long. Spiralling downward, the twirling vortex, with flashes of lightning coalescing within, touches down kicking up dirt, debris and living beings. These are all lifted up into the air through the spiralling finger, where it can be seen that lightning licks all within its grasp.

On the other side of the wall, the Deep Ones of the Tribes also give off a glow of their own. The separate units have gathered into task groups, supplementing each other's strengths. Grass-Walkers concentrate on mental assaults against the charging defenders as Deep Ones batter them physically. Burrowers spring forth from their underground tunnels and use their axes to hack at the defenders while Skulkers hurl their spears.

Najoedo bares his fangs and swipes at the defenders trying to attack him, lashing his long tail like a plated whip, slashing with razor talons at anyone who gets too close. I do not wish to do this- stand down! He tries to order in a broad form of mindspeak on the off chance that he might be able to talk the defenders into surrendering even as he prepares another magical attack, drawing on Earth and Water to turn the ground underneath the nearest of his attackers to thick, sticky mud.

If the mind-speak was received, the results are not obvious as the defenders charge, swinging large sledgehammers as they do so. They seem to slow somewhat when the ground starts turning into a viscuous goo. Najoedo's swiping knocks some a distance away, blueish blood running where they are struck, but closing up again swiftly.

Within the now-partially demolished walls, more defenders pour out from within the structures, and level bows in all directions.

Najoedo winces when the occasional sledgehammer crashes hard against his armored hide, cracking away a scattering of scales and likely raising what will later be unpleasant bruises.

He growls, a low, earth-rumbling noise at the bows, powers beginning to crackle around his massive form as he begins to tap into a larger mass of power than he had been limiting himself to prior. This time drawing on Earth, Air, and Fire, the Keeper sends a mental shout to the Shaman to get back as he slams his forepaws to the ground, a large crack forming and shooting into the midst of the defenders before the ground erupts in a semi-molten shower, a jagged pillar of glossy black rock forming where the upthrust of the ground cools before it could go flying. If childs play of the Arts will not work, then I will not hesitate to defend myself with the full power of the Keepers of the Goddess Blade, the strength on which empires are born and then destroyed!

As molten magma erupts from the ground, and the earth shatters and cracks, multiple defenders could be seen engulfed in flames, and screaming in agony as the magma penetrates their armored hide, burning them severely.

<<An impressive display, indeed.>> The Shaman steps forward, his staff glowing with arcane energies. He holds it in front of himself, and several arrows find themselves embedded in an unseen barrier. "The way is clear. Advance!>>

From behind him, platoons of Grass-Walkers run forward with rapier-like swords drawn. When defenders are met, skirmishes are swift and conclusive. The sharpened tips of the swords find their way through vulnerable parts of the armored hides of the defending Deep Ones, and the poison at the tips do their work. A trio of Skullkers appear near the Shaman, and whisper to him swiftly.

<<The Tribal Elders are within, and have something up their proverbial sleeves.>>

Najoedo drops his jaw and hisses- a close approximation of a laugh. Let us see just what they have in mind then. Mayhap they will realize the irony of the situation- they have united after a fashion as well, to fend off the uniting of your tribes. Truly, your gods and mine must have a grand sense of humor. He raises one forepaw in the direction of another group of defenders, and the ground beneath them explodes in a cloud of rock and debris- more of a diversionary, stunning attack than one meant to harm, as the trend would seem that when the Keeper intends to cause harm, that it will be a swift end rather than something more prolonged. I do not think I will fit easily inside, so I will do what I can outside. After all, what lies within is your battle, not mine.

<<The Elders use words to hide what they truly plan. The preffered course would be to wipe them away before they have a chance to obfuscate....oh .... my!>> As the Shaman 'sends', the previously deceased defender's corpses seem to gain an eerie greenish glow, and dead limbs begin taking life again.

<<Necromancy! This is an insult to the Ancestors!>> Shambling crisped bodies, corpses with arrows poking out of them in all directions, and some with skin eaten away by poison animate again with lumbering deliberateness. They take up arms, and with a low guttural moan, shamble towards the attacking units.

Najoedo bares his fangs full to the gums and hisses angrily at this latest affront. In the name of all my ancestors, this cannot stand! The Keeper crouches to spring airborne again, tendrils of mystic energies crackling about his gleaming form. What would you have me do? The power of the Keepers has raised mountains and drained vast lakes in the past- the total annihalation of this place with cleansing fire would be no difficult task. Any who would so dare to defile the living deserves far worse than mere judgement by flame!

The Keeper leaps into the air with a thunderclap downbeat of his vast wings, quickly gaining height for a better vantage from which to gauge his attack. Give the word, and I swear on the grave of my long-dead wife Shimeki, and in the name of the Wings of Chaos, that these abominations shall be sent into a final oblivion from which there will be no rising!

<<Wait a moment. This is a native concern which casts the hand against the Pantheon itself.>> The Shaman confers briefly with the leader of the Grass-Walkers, and an aggreement is reached. The Grass-Walkers in the area assemble quickly, and begin a low sing-song chanting. The leaders of the other tribes converge on the area.

As the attacking tribes fight to keep the undead hordes occupied, the Tribal Leaders form a circle, and begin drawing lines and glyphs in the ground. The glyphs glow with life, and after a brief moment, a form comes into cohesion in the center. Its body seems to absorb all light, and its eyes seem to be void of anything save two yellow spots.

The form speaks mentally to all in the area. <<You have summoned the presence of the Scion of the Void God. What is the occasion?>> The Shaman steps forward. <<The bodies of the vanquished have been wrested from their sleep to serve means most foul. This abomination flies in the face of the Pantheon. We ask for the Judgement on this place.>>

The Void Scion takes in the scene for a moment. <<It is as stated. The Judgement will come to pass on this place. Do you know the penalty for this?>>

The Tribal Leader Rragg steps forward. "I know the penalty, and will pay it gladly to see things right for all our peoples." <<So be it. Prepare yourselves.>> The Tribal Leaders bellow out the call.

"All forces, disengage and retreat! The Judgement is upon us!' All within earshot immediately turn and flee into the ocean. The Shaman sends to Najoedo. <Dive into the ocean for your safety. It is the only place we will be given safe harbor.> The Shaman and the Leaders then turn and run as fast as possible.

Najoedo's rage is quickly tempered by confusion as he wheels overhead, his gaze locked on the Scion. What is this-?

He jerks his head back up to focus on his flying when he 'hears' the Shaman's warning. The ocean? What in the name of my ancestors is going on?! Not a fool to sit and stare idly when a warning is given that he doesn't understand, the Keeper banks sharply from his circling flight and dives low to the treetops, blasting over the contours of the island before pulling sharply into the air once he reaches the water, and diving into the blue, wings tucked carefully against his armored hide. Though his experiance with divine forces is relatively limited, he's not going to stand around staring when a event as ominously named as this Judgement is apparently about to go down.

I had not envisioned such a beginning to my journey. The gods truly must have a twisted sense of humor. Is there anyone who cannot make it to the water in time?

<That is not known right now, but if there are some who may not make it, it is not suggested to pursue them, for it begins.> As the Shaman 'sends' this, the center of the area where the battle was taking place begins to whip and whorl about, the air over everyone's heads begins to rush to the spot, and smaller pieces of debris fly towards it.

On the shores, the Shaman manages to reach the ocean, followed by hundreds of warriors from the Tribes. Deep Ones carrying the stout Burrowers, three to a man, race into the water and dive briefly.

The speed of the rushing air increases, and a small black whorling spot could now be seen from a distance at the place where the Scion stands. From what could be seen on the shore, small trees strain against the forces exerted against them, and are soon uprooted and flung into the whorling blackness, to vanish from sight. The same goes for smaller stones, and whisping sands that fly towards the center of the island.

Animals of the ground and air strain against the forces, some already in the water, others still pushing themselves against the winds whipping past them.

Najoedo stares at the display, his armored head barely above the water. This is madness! Is the entire island and everything on it to be destroyed? Such power! The Keeper watches in awe. Surely, the powers of the Keepers could achieve the same end- the destruction of the island- but not in so complete a fashion.

The sucking of the vortex continues, gaining strength slowly but surely as even now the very soil itself begins to get sucked into the inky black nothingness. The size of the vortex itself grows only slightly within the very center of the Void Scion.

The fortified building, the fortification's defending units and the reanimated dead find themselves sucked into the vortex, the weaker and least secure things in the fortification going first, and then the walls themselves, and finally the whole fortress. All of it seems to implode as it gets sucked into the void. This continues for 20 minutes before the Void Scion seemingly ends it.

Nothing is left of the island but bare rock where there once was soil and trees and such. Spotty places of soil still remain at the most extreme points on the island. <It is done.> is the only statement offered by the Shaman, as everyone begins making their way back to land.

The Scion appears before Rragg of the Skulker Tribe, and speaks. <It is finished. Now is the time to pay.> Rragg stands tall and straight. "I am prepared." The Void Scion lays a hand on Rragg's head, covering his skull entirely.

<The payment is this. You will spend the remainder of your days teaching your people of our way; the way of the Pantheon. Your sight will be taken so that you may 'See' more clearly. Your tongue will be halted if you attempt to tell others outside of your peoples of the secrets and power of The Way.> The inky texture of the Scion's hand seems to shift for a moment, and it almost seems that stars could be seen in it.

Rragg screams a high, keening scream, and falls. His eyes are gone, leaving only a pair of smoking pits in their place. His body wracks with pain.

Najoedo stands awkwardly at the back of the crowd of survivors, trying (and largely failing) to shake the water from his armored hide without showering everybody else.

At the Scion's blinding of Rragg, the white dragon visibly starts, but wisely does not rush forward to halt the pain inflicted. The Keeper knows better than to meddle with the affairs of higher powers, and the previous twenty minutes very firmly established the Scion in Naj's mind as a much higher power. While the crowd of Sakkrans are still recovering from the shock, he does stride forward, with as much dignity as his 158 years of living can muster, and offers the much shorter Scion as deep a bow as he can manage without toppling himself over. I do not wish to intrude, as these are not my people nor the higher powers the clans of my homeland place their faith in. However, as I too have been sent to some task by powers I cannot begin to grasp. As my journey is to gain knowledge, and it appears that you have tasked the leader of these people to spread knowledge, I know both will and have been paid for dearly, and I therefore humbly request permission to ease his pain. There has been enough suffering this day, and there will most certainly be more to come.

Wings still half-spread in the dragon's rendition of a formal bow of respect, Najoedo patiently awaits the Scion's response.

The Scion seems to be unmoved, as within his body various spots of light seem to blink, fade and then vanish, while others in differing locations flare to life.

<My Lord has informed me of your presence through the bond the They and I share. Ease that one's pain if you wish. The price for the Intervention is paid, and that is all that matters to us. A part of the prophecy is complete.>

The Scion raises a hand and brings it down swiftly, and a much samller vortex, similar in appearance to the one that was just present yet lacking the imploding pull of the maelstrom, appears through a rip in the air. <I offer you this. Tread lightly and warily in your journeys, and do not forget the blessing of my Lord. It may be the difference between success and failure.>

The Scion then steps through the rip, and it closes behind the being swiftly. A small grouping has gathered around Rragg, who is no longer convulsing, but lies still.

After the Scion's departure, Naj shakes himself slightly, not accustomed to conversing with gods or their minions. Squating as low as he can, the white dragon focuses briefly, tapping into the energies he knows as the lifeflame of the world. It is so simple a thing to inflict pain... taking it away is much more difficult. He muses to himself, one massive forepaw held above Rragg's prone form, surrounded by the pale gleam of complex workings of the Arts. It takes the Keeper several minutes to tune the energies properly- he is far more practiced in using his talents for destructive purposes, after all- and does what he can to close the Sakkran's wounds and take away the pain. Basic healing, a seemingly simple thing, yet it takes the Keeper far more effort than the destructive magics he was easily flinging about during the battle prior.

I have done what I can.

Rragg lies there, twitching on occassion. The Shaman swims back towards the rocky shore, followed by the cohort of Tribesmen. Grass-Walkers hoist up Rragg, and carry him to the rocks, chirruping softly in their sing-song language.

<And so a chapter closes, and a new one opens.> The Shaman shakes his head, and tamps his staff down on the rocks. He chants lowly, and waves his staff over his head. He grabs a handful of ashes from his satchel, and throws it into the wind. It carries over the rocks and settles. <This area is now consecrated. It will be forever more known as a sacred land.>

Rragg stands at this point, and feels around his face. "The price .... for the Intervention. When the Scion took my eyes ..... for a moment .... I saw into the Void. I saw our Ancestors. They watch us. All of us. They guide and show us the Way. They called to me in that brief moment. I know what I must do." His eye-holes smoke a bit still. He walks slowly, one foot probing in front of the other shakily. "It will take time for me to get used to this."

Seemingly looking at no-one in particular, Rragg addresses Najoedo. "I, and my Tribe; all the Tribes, thank you for your assistance. This day could have been tragic on a scale catastrophic. Now we must rebuild our people."

As with all things, time passes, and Najoedo recovers swiftly over the next week or so from the lingering effects of his earlier exhaustion. It is not long past that point that the Keeper finds himself gazing up at the heavens, the winds beckoning him to ride upon the great river of air to places unknown.

Soon after, with the blessings of the Sakkrans, and with bags of food and water supplies carefully draped and lashed to his back, the white dragon takes to the skies and departs, his time in the Black Swamp at an end.

Meanwhile, on a small island in the middle of the Pacific Islands, a ragtag group of refugees began to establish a new settlement. These refugees were both exiles and the last survivors of a once powerful empire. This island was known as Makx Island, a deserted island with an impressive volcano rising up from the forests. An island deserted except for the abundance of animals that lived and the plants that grew underneath the volcano.

10,700 years before the creation of the Five Civilized Nations (BCCN), the ancestors of my people lived in a group of volcanic islands in the middle of the Pacific known today as the Treaty Isles. At that time, a small maritime empire known as the Treatise Empire flourished. 10,689 BCCN, the Treatise Empire was at its zenith, its control spanning over much of the Pacific. But as it expanded, its empire became increasingly overstretched. With the power more and more decentralized, the Emperors of the Empire began to grow disinterested with their rule and formed a powerful cult, known as the Gems of Azshara. The members of the cult worshipped the Goddess of the Islands, Azshara, while the majority of the population worshipped the Goddess of the Seas, Rolsk. Finally one day, the last Emperor of the Empire, Jeremiah Assad, disgusted with the worshippers of the Rolsk banished them from the Treaty Isles and ordered all ties with the outside world to be destroyed and limited the Empire to the Treaty Isles. Three years after the banishment, Azshara appeared to Emperor Assad and with a mighty blow obliterated Assad's body. Then methodically, Azshara destroyed the remnants of the Treatise Empire. Thus the Isles passed out of history, until rediscovered 10,500 years later...

But, this group of refugees had managed to escape the disaster. Led by a man named Taqwa (in the old language of Chokaboska, "the price of freedom"), a worshipper of the War God Talisk, the survivors fled east. They had incurred the wrath of the Emperor and had been sentenced into exile, away from their homeland.

Atop a small hill, a worn man sat quietly surveying the landscape, glancing down at the settlement being established below. He was Taqwa, the leader of these exiles. A leader without a home… Reluctantly Taqwa stood and proceeded to descend from the hill, back to the settlement and to the work. Sighing deeply as he walked, Taqwa thought back to the destruction of his homeland… The massive tsunami that engulfed the islands and the screams of thousands with no hope of survival. Closing his eyes in great pain, Taqwa stopped, wiping the tears that began to flow down his face with his tunic.

Composing himself, Taqwa continued onwards towards the crude settlement, his thoughts now turned to the massive volcano in the center of the island. Although believed to be dormant, Taqwa did not accept as true the validity of his alchemists who had studied it. It was not a matter of trust, but a matter of survival. If the volcano suddenly erupted, Taqwa knew that he, his followers, the settlement, and the entire island would be engulfed by lava…

Sighing to himself at the conundrum that he faced, Taqwa mouthed a silent prayer to his god, the God of War, Talisk, praying fervently for the survival of him and his people and also praying for a guiding figure to lead these refugees back to the greatness that they had once savored…

The skies are rough.... there must be a storm.

Wide wings locked in an easy glide, the Keeper surveys the seemingly endless plain of water below, searching for a place to set down long enough to make a meal of some of his supplies and rest his wings. Najoedo had found a few islands and resupplied on the bounty of creatures and freshwater, and at other times had made do with barren rocky crags slick with sea spray.

The Keeper had been travelling for a few months since he left the Sakkrans, making certain to rest and gather new supplies as needed, as well as trying to perfect his control over the strange shapechanging ability he had gained. As he overflew one patch of sea, something stabbed at his sixth and seventh senses, making him nearly lose control of his flight. What was that? It feels as though the lifeflame of the world... surfaced here... or that someone... or something, used a level of the Arts unheard of, even among the Keepers!

Swooping lower to get a better look at the area, the dragon wrinkles his nose slightly in disgust, baring his fangs. This place stinks of death. Whatever happened here was not by chance... I doubt one would find a place that stinks of a battlefield in the middle of the sea!

As the Keeper wheels back up to a cruising altitude, he spies the high peak of a volcano to the east, and as he approaches, spots the forests, and the telltale pillars of smoke that indicate the presence of civilization. A town? Whatever it is, it is not very old. The white dragon makes a high pass over the island, noting the proximity of the forests to the crude structures, and the present lack of clearings for growing things. In any event, I need a place to resupply and rest my wings, if only for a night. I can easily avoid being seen if I approach from behind the mountain.

Unfortunately, the Keeper has yet to get a good grasp on just how visible his opalescent hide is when the sunlight shatters into a myrid of pastel colors across the shimmering scales as he spirals down out over the sea before approaching the island. The thick forests frustrate him in his search for a landing place, and he ends up backwinging to a landing on a small hilltop much closer to the town than he would have liked, also stubbing a toe on a boulder in the process, resulting in the dragon bellowing an instinctive equivilent to 'OUCH!'. So much for making a quiet landing for the night. Najoedo grumbles to himself as he stretches wings stiff from long hours of flight and shapeshifts down to his more humanoid form, his large sword slung easily across his back, his various packs and supplies laid in a clumsy heap nearby. I do pray that the locals are not hostile... that could be quite awkward. Besides... Najoedo cranes his neck to peer up at the volcano. Using the Arts in too great a strength here would easily decimate this entire island if it set that mountain off.

Taqwa awoke with a start. Sitting up, he gasped for breath. That dream was so real, he thought, It seemed as if Talisk responded to my prayers for help and has dispatched a champion to assist my cause. But that is not possible, no gods has ever heeded my cries for help.

For a minute, Taqwa stayed in his bed, listening to the deep breathing of his compatriots, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Sighing to himself, Taqwa climbed out of his crude bed. Stretching his sore, aching muscles. As he came fully back to wakefulness, Taqwa heard once agin the howling wind along with the sounds of the waves crashing upon the surf. It seems that the storm has come up, while we've slept, he thought, I must remember to post a guard during the night.

Just then, a loud bellow was heard over the crashing waves of the storm. Instinctively alarmed, Taqwa quickly grasped the sheathed sword near his bed. Strapping the sword to his back and pulling two javelins from the ground, Taqwa immediately awoke the others with a sharp cry.

Immediately, the other four occupants of the small hut sprang up, grasping their weapons. One of them, an aging man and a powerful alchemist, grasped his staff. Motioning his hand, Taqwa led the four men out of the building to investigate the sound.

As Taqwa and the four men moved silently through the howling winds, they noticed nothing, until they reached a small hill, where they saw something that seemed humanoid in appearance.

Steeling himself, Taqwa stepped forth and challenged the being. "Who are you!?! Identify yourself!"

Najoedo spins around, a stray flash of lightning brightly illuminating his scaley lower torso and tail, and casting eerie shadows accross his wings and less human features. "Nxe aj kxoho?!"("Who is there?!") He exclaims in his native tongue, his own blade, a large, intricately decorated broadsword, clasped tightly in one hand, a half-eaten slab of dried meat in his other.

The Keeper pauses for a moment, recognizing the language as sounding similiar to that spoken by a seafaring tribe of the Pegasii clan. He quickly composes himself and starts again, this time in the aforementioned language, his voice thick with his accent. "My name is Najoedo. I am here only to rest, as I have flown far from the lands I know." He sticks the point of his weapon in the dirt and bows over the hilt, spreading his wings slightly. "I wish no harm, but if I must, I will defend myself."

Taqwa slowly advanced, his sword lowered as he gazed in awe at the terrible creature that stood in front of him atop the small hill. Behind him, the four men gasped when they saw the unfurlment of the creature's great wings.

The four men behind Taqwa cowered in fear as they gazed up, fervently upon the impressive creature, while Taqwa cautiously continued his advance. And in a tone filled with both reverence and hope, he said, "Do you bring the Lisan-al-Gaib? Do you bring the Shortening of the Way?"

"Lisan-al-Gaib? Shortening of the Way?" Najoedo ponders to himself for a moment. Oh dear Shimeki, they must think I am some representative of their patron lord.

Neatly furling his wings and placing his sword back in its sling across his back, the Keeper chooses his words carefully. "I... do not know. If I do, then the words you use are unfamiliar to me." He casts a glance at the skies above. "Perhaps we may discuss it at length indoors somewhere near? The winds smell of rain and foul weather... I very much doubt anyone would enjoy being outdoors in it."

(OOC: Sorry, but the damn forum ate my post... I'll post something later...)

Taqwa bowed in acquiescence and replied, “As you wish, meneur (French for leader).” With a subtle hand gesture, Taqwa signaled for his followers to return to the village and prepare food for their “guest.” Meanwhile, Taqwa slowly led what he believed to be a representative of his God slowly towards the crude dwellings of the village. As the two beings walked, Taqwa slowly began to question the messiah, the meneur, the chosen one…

In a voice filled with great reverence and with unrestrained hope, Taqwa said, “My name is Taqwa. In the tongue before words, it meant the ‘price of freedom.’ Pardon the ill respect me and my brethren have displayed in gazing so intently upon your honored presence. We have never seen such a being like you ever before… What manner of being are you?”

Meanwhile, the four disciples that had accompanied Taqwa swiftly returned to the village and entered the largest of the buildings, a crude hut that served as both the village’s dining hall and as its worship hall. Swiftly, the men started a fire in the fireplace and fired the flames in the lanterns, bringing the once dark room into the light. Two of the men began to clear the table, while the remaining two men began to bring out the food that the survivors had saved, delicious racolsian bread and sumptuous tarragon soup, along with some of the priceless Aerlisan Wine, aged more than two hundred years. The men set the long table and waited for their leader to guide the strange creature to the hut…

Najoedo waves off Taqwa's overt concern about causing offense. "I am somewhat an oddity even in the lands of my home, a few more confused looks in my direction will not cause offense." The Keeper crosses his broad arms across his well-muscled chest, carefully draping his wings to fend off some of the first spotches of rainfall. "My name is Najoedo, and in the lands I call home, I am one of the Keepers of the sacred blades, hence my changed form."

The Keeper keeps his cringe to himself at Taqwa's reverence. He must truly believe I am here on the behalf of their god. I suppose it is entirely possible that I am, but I dare not presume such. "I do not wish to impose, Ceht Taqwa." He comments aloud, adding the honorific in his native language. "I came here to rest my wings for a night, but if there is something I may do to aid you and yours in return for your hospitality, you have but to ask it."

The Keeper drinks in the sights as he is led to the rough-hewn village. "If I may ask... what has happened here? This place is only newly raised, I can see that much, and the seas to the east stink of death. What disaster has occured? I have never felt anything like it."

Taqwa eyed Najoedo strangely, with a look that was both painfully and angry. His voice dropping suddenly to a hush, Taqwa spoke the painful words. "My people were once the rulers of an empire that spanned the seas. We were spawned from the islands to the east, known as the Treatise Isles. Alas, the jealous Emperor, fearful of the might of the merchants and the seafarers virtually split apart the empire... Consumed in his worship of the Goddess, Azshara, the Emperor neglected the kingdom... Seeking a way to reassert the right of the people, I began the worship and veneration of a new God, Talisk, the God of War, as I saw the inevitability of war... Alas, I did not imagine the horror that eventually struck the land... The worshippers of Talisk were banished from the islands... As we left, the sea consumed the islands, as Azshara manifested her anger at my people... None survived the destruction, save those that were banished..."

His voice suddenly hoarse, Taqwa took a deep breath and continued, "We are truly the Bakisk, the "Lost People," the people without a home..."

The Keeper bows his head respectfully as Taqwa describes what happened. "Muo kxo Uccjooh wiato kxo vuccod ke okohduc fouso..." He murmurs under his breath, his tone indicating it likely to be some brief prayer for the dead. "It would seem that the gods can be jealous overseers at times. Or if not jealous, than certainly vague in their guidance. I have found in my travels that oftentimes the foundation of change must be built upon the ashes of tragedy, as is the wont of the balance of all things."

Najoedo frowns in thought. "The loss your kindred have suffered is great though, I see why you speak of it the way you do. I know not if the Uccjooh has led me here to serve some purpose. Ceht Taqwa, if you would so oblige me, when I arrived you spoke of the 'Lisan-al-Gaib', and a Shortening of the Way. I am no stranger to prophesy, but know not of these things, or if I do, than not by such names. What knowledge have you about them? If it is within my power to assist, I will do so gladly. In the lands of my home, empires have risen to glory and been reduced to mere memory by the Arts of the Keepers."

Taqwa stopped and bowed reverently. Choosing his words carefully, he spoke, "The Lisan-al-Gaib is the champion of our God, Talisk... He is the manifestation of Talisk's will and his power is drawn from Talisk himself... The prophesy was written to suggest that a champion would arrive, sent by Talisk himself and bring order to the chaos of your lives and to help in the restructuring of our people, society, and culture..."

Pausing, Taqwa gazed at the Najoedo and queried, "Again I ask, Do you bring the Shortening of the Way, the Lisan-al-Gaib?"

Najoedo considers his response briefly. "Again, I must admit that I do not know. I will not lie and say that I am or am not. I come here as merely a wanderer, but it may well be that the Uccjooh has made the winds guide me to this place to serve some purpose for your god Talisk. I will not claim knowledge that I do not possess, nor am I so vain as to assume that I am."

The Keeper flicks his long ponytail back over his shoulder, deep in thought, tail swishing side to side idly. "I have all the knowledge gained from my long years of life that I would gladly share. Perhaps in that vast store is what you seek, some insight that will bring order to chaos and lead you and yours to happier times." He shakes his head slightly. "Prophesy tends to be written in such a vague manner that what one assumes it to mean may be entirely off the mark."

Naj briefly surveys the building. "But I digress. We are here, and I do not know the customs of your people regarding guests."

((OOC: Bump for FCN!))

(OOC: Sorry Reploid...)

Taqwa bowed reverently as he replied, "Then you will become the guiding light that leads my people and I from the darkness that threatens to destory us... You will be our savior, our messiah..."

His eyes shining brightly with renewed hope, Taqwa led the Keeper into the crude village. With buoyant steps that mimicked his joyous mood, Taqwa quickly led Najeodo to the main hut, now brightly lit by several lamps.

From the entrance, the two could see a sumptuous feast laid out with delicate care. The Bakisk had not stinted. Whatever they had, they were willing to give to these "messiah."

Bowing once more, Taqwa said, "After you..."

Najoedo half-bows in the manner of his homeland, and goes to step through the door before pausing and unslinging his sword, which he lays near the door gingerly. "I know not your customs, but in the lands of my home, it is an insult to enter a place intended for celebration armed." He smiles, surveying the spread and quietly worrying to himself. No matter what I may say, it would seem that Ceht Taqwa is absolutely convinced that I am come to bring salvation to his people. It may well be that I am, but I would certainly appreciate it if the powers that be would inform me of such things instead of leaving me to guess at it. One would think a savior of a people would be born of that people, rather than an odd stranger who happens to ride in on a storm... Hrm.

Seeing more food than he knows he could possibly eat (unless he shifted to his much larger dragon form), and well aware of the apparent distress of the village, he seats himself. "Will everyone in the village be joining us in this feast? If I am indeed here to aid you and yours, I would not presume to take what your people obviously are in need of. A celebration with good food and good music can work miracles in raising spirits."

"No, no," Taqwa replied, shocked at the Keeper's suggestion, "We have all already eaten..."

Taqwa turned and surveyed the four other men in the room and was shocked by the looks in their eyes. Taqwa knew that they longed for the food laid out before them. Sighing to himself, Taqwa said, "We will join you..."

Turning to one of the men, Taqwa said, "Avaric, break out your baliset and let this guest hear your music..."

The man called Avaric nodded and moved towards the back of the hut, coming back with a nine-stringed guitar-like instrument...

((OOC: Sorry about the ungodly delay... real life kicked my butt and then NS moved... oi!))

As the meal progresses, Najoedo takes careful stock of the attitudes and mannerisms of the people around him, making comments where appropriate, all the while feeling decidedly out of place. As much as I would like to stay and help these people find their way, how much help can I give? Despite my words, they still see me as their savior... and how will they react if they find out I am not what they see me as? Disillusioned people can be very dangerous, and all the well-meaning in the world will not soothe that. I cannot stay more than a few days. If the winds have led me here to save these people, then it ought to be revealed to me by then. In the meantime, perhaps I may help in smaller ways using the Arts.

(OOC: Its all good... You wouldn't mind if we jumped to the next day, right?)

(OOC: Its all good... You wouldn't mind if we jumped to the next day, right?)
((OOC: Yeah, that's cool =) ))

((OOC: Well, since we haven't jumped yet, I'll wing it =p))

Despite the festivities of the previous night, the Keeper is up well before the dawn and running quietly through some form of sword kata as the deep dark of night reluctantly eases into the soft pastels of predawn twilight, the psuedo-light striking eerie shimmers from Najoedo's iridescent scales and turning the flawless blade of his sword into a shaft of pale silver light. Few things can tell you as much about a place than the seeing of it at dawn.

With a whisper-soft sweep of his wide wings, the ground kata is turned into an aerial one as the Keeper leaps into the cool air, spiralling higher in a graceful battle with some unseen foe as the approaching daylight strikes brighter and more vibrant glimmers of color from his scales. The world wakes, and soon those who live here shall wake as well. May She who watches All guide me well.

(OOC: EEK!!! I feel like such an asshole right now, Reploid... Sorry about that... :( :eek: )

Najoedo was not the only being up early that morning. Taqwa had woken up an hour before dawn, his spirit restless, his mind unable to cope with the hardships that he and the remnants of his people had endured and would have to face. As he slowly dressed in the before dawn darkness, Taqwa shook his head in disgust, both at himself and at his people.

In reality, Taqwa was no more than a mere charlatan, a man who lied and cheated his way into his current position. No more than a mere street pedlar in the heyday of the Treatise Empire, Taqwa had through a stolen religious text from the derelict Temple of Talisk taken up the mantle of the High Warrior Priest of the War God and in doing so, created a following of otherwise innocent men and women. Taqwa lacked the conviction that he and his followers would survive and now hinged his hope of salvation in the hands of the flying being that appeared the night before.

With a stifled yawn, Taqwa exited his rude hut and headed for the mountains, intent upon meditating at the opening of the mountain in the center of the island...

*nudges the thread a little, causing a BUMP*

((OOC: Awk, gomen nasai! x_x))

His morning routine complete, Najoedo chooses to overfly the island at a lower altitude than he had on his first approach, to better learn the lay of the land. His flight does not take him long, and he is soon backwinging to a practiced landing at the outskirts of the rough-hewn village.

Taqwa is absent. The Keeper notes to himself, glancing about. Perhaps this would be a good chance to speak more openly with these people, to learn more of what they know and what they seek.

Mind made up, the white-scaled Keeper strides forward into the waking village to do something he seldom did even before he left his homeland- to mingle and socialize.

(OOC: Reploid, I'm on vacation, so the amount of posting will be quite erratic...)

In the center of the rude village, a small group of people stood, muttering quietly. Their thoughts malicious and insolent, they were fed up with the situation. The leader of this group, a dwarf of a man, a mere 147 centimeters, was a shaman. Although named Wentai, he was always called the Little Shaman, due to his height. His power springing from nature, the Little Shaman was particularly attuned to the situation on the island. This morning, with his eyes closed, he was feeling the status of the volcano in the center of the island. As his syncophants gathered around, lending strength to the Little Shaman with their presence, the Little Shaman discovered something.

His eyes flying open in shock, the Little Shaman began to shudder, muttering incoherently as he stared blankly ahead. He then collapsed. Astonished, his followers were frozen in place. Suddenly, the Little Shaman rose from the ground, his face worn and haggard as he sadly gazed upon the gathered few. With a quiet voice with a tone filled with deep regret and horror, the Little Shaman began to impart his discovery.

"We are doomed. To have followed a charlatan such as Taqwa has brought the wrath of the gods, of heaven, and oif nature. There is no way to avoid the fate accorded to us."

Next to the Little Shaman, a tall, handsome man said, his voice trembling with fear, "What is our fate?"

"To die on this island. From my senses, I have discovered that the volcano, although seemingly dormant, is in fact active. An eruption will occur at any time. From my calculations, the magnitude of such an eruption will rival the power of the disaster that befell our homeland. Dust, liquid fire, and ash will fall endlessly fro seven days. The sea within five hundred kilometers willb e shrouded in darkness. All life will be virtually snuffed out."

"Is there any way to stop this looming disaster from occurring?"

"Yes. There is a way. An arduous task must first be accomplished..." Suddenly, the Little Shaman stopped, allowing his voice to trail away as he watched Najeodo enter the village. "For now, we will wait. The time for action will come."

Without another word, the group scattered to the four winds, away from Najoedo...

((OOC: No worries- I just started college, so my posting is getting erratic too. Yay school and sleep deprivation!))

Najoedo notes the scattering of the group with mild interest- it was a reaction he had long since grown accustomed to. What does worry him are the snippets of conversation his sharp hearing had picked up, and the low tension that hung in the air, pricking at his sixth and seventh senses. Taqwa is a false prophet then? Perhaps I would have been better off resting on a wet craggy rock in the ocean than to sight this island and become entangled in its problems.

The Keeper half-turns to take a long look at the volcano with a thoughtful frown. He did not generally abuse his ability to read a person's feelings, but some of the villagers were all but shouting their inner worry about the mountain. If I am to understand my purpose here, I must speak more with these people. Taqwa has not been forthcoming with knowledge of use.

The white-scaled Keeper selects his target from among the dispersing villagers, and approaches the Little Shaman, easily closing the distance with his much longer stride. "Please forgive my intrusion-" He begins, fumbling briefly on how to address the shorter man before opting to use an honorific in his own language as he bows deeply. "-najo mojkas, but may I bespeak you for a short time? I cannot find Ceht Taqwa anywhere, and I can feel a great tension on the wind. It feels as though a storm is coming, though not one from the sky."

((OOC: *BUMP! for FCN*))

Before replying, the Little Shaman regarded Najeodo, his eyes smoldering with hatred as his eyes ate in the details of his new antagonist. "Ceht Taqwa!?! You speak with respect for so despicable a man!?! Are you mad..." Taking a deep breath, he continued, "No... Perhaps you are not. Just misguided. Taqwa is a charlatan, nothing more. He has tricked the survivors of our people with his false magic and deluded fortunes. He has doomed us to survival upon this blasted island, cut off from the salvation that we deserve."

With a defiant shake of his head, the Little Shaman moved on, his voice trailing behind him as he said, "Taqwa is probably meditating somewhere... Probably near the mountain. We will speak again, later..."

Meanwhile, Taqwa had completed his meditation, his concentration set as he slowly practiced the little ability that he had. I cannot lead these people forever with the paltry and meager skills that I currently possess. I must learn from this savior that has come from the skies. Perhaps there may be hope yet for these people that I have misled... Perhaps I can truly be the savior that I hoped that I could become...

Najoedo stands there after the shaman departs, staring after the little man with no small amount of confusion. Back home, no one would have dared speak to him, or any of the other Keepers in such an upfront or insulting manner, mostly out of fear. Then Taqwa may only be a false prophet. Perhaps it is time to stop this charade before it can become more obscure, and convince him to speak honestly. It is a shame that he cannot use the speech of souls, for that would be the easiest way to find the truth of things.

The white-scaled Keeper glances around briefly to make sure he has enough clearance, and then springs into the air, his wide wings kicking up some dust as he takes flight, mentally reaching out with the Arts to locate the man, and angling his flight in Taqwa's direction once the Keeper has found him.

((OOC: Alright, I can understand some measure of slacking off due to real life concerns, but this is getting ridiculous. I'm going to give the thread from here on out a week-long time limit on posts. If the person in the current story arc doesn't post within that time (and also doesn't let me know ahead of time, say family vacation or studying for finals or somesuch), that story arc will be dropped from the thread or simply shelved for later. There are other people in the queue for this thread, and it's not fair to them that the entire works get held up because one person slacks off.))

(OOC: Ack... I'm so sorry Reploid... *debases oneself* I definitely forgot about this stuff due to college process that I'm going through... I hate being a senior in high school... I'll try to make amends...)

IC:

With downcast eyes, Taqwa walked slowly back to the village, his mind in shambles as he could find no way to formulate a plan of action to save his people and himself. With a heavy sigh, Taqwa glanced at the approaching village and stopped. For the first time in nearly ten years, Taqwa felt despair, an acute feeling that permeated his very being. Suddenly exhausted, Taqwa sat down upon the ground and began to silently weep, distraught over the course of events that had brought him to these straits. I am a charlatan... My people hate me... I cannot condescend to see myself in any good light... I am a failure... Everything that I've tried so hard to create, every job that I worked to finish, I have failed... Nothing more than a miserable failure to cheat those who are gullible...

Glancing at the sky, Taqwa's eyes was attracted to a large thing flying across the sun. Taqwa's eyes widened as he realized that it Najeodo. Quickly brushing away his tears with his sleeve, Taqwa stood and brushed away the dirt. I must not show my misgivings and I must hope that those that I have mislead have not poisoned his mind towards me... There may still yet be hope. But I must act fast... With renewed vigor and determination, Taqwa waved at the flying being...

Najoedo spots the man and angles his flight into a tight spiral, backwinging to a neat landing a few moments later. "Ah, I have been looking for you." The Keeper states simply. "Those in the village have told me interesting things."

Noting Taqwa's apparent state of distress, he schools his face to a neutral calm. "What I have been told is not flattering, but I have lived long enough to know there are sides to every tale. The time for trickery is past, Ceht Taqwa. That mountain groans, and I fear it may breathe the earth's fire before long. Let us talk, in truth, and not in myth. I will listen."

Taqwa shuddered inwardly as he attempted to control his emotions and his face. Although, he maintained an expression of calm that bespoke a great deal of self-control, he was greatly troubled inside. HE KNOWS!!! The being with which I seek to bring myself to greatness knows a part of my secret! Taking a deep breath, Taqwa allowed his guard down for a second, revealing his emotions. Realizing what he had done, Taqwa quickly masked them once again and took on the appearance of a falsely accused man. In a truly innocent voice, Taqwa said, "Najoedo, I have no idea what you are talking about. Where have you heard this malicious accusation from?"

The Keeper's expression does not change, however one could nearly feel his attitude take a slightly more severe edge. "Taqwa-" He begins, noticeably leaving off the honorific. "-It is not wise to attempt falsehood with any of my Kindred, let alone the Eldest. Though you do not possess the Speech of Souls, the language of all-truth, I have been gifted in my journeys the ability to hear the truth in all things." Najoedo quietly sends a silent thanks to the Sakkran Pantheon for their blessing on his journey.

"I will not divulge who spoke of these things to me, but I have been told that this was not the first untruth you have told." The Keeper does shift his stance slightly, crossing his arms, tail flicking catlike from side to side behind him. "I ask only for truth, lest the lie destroy this island and everyone on it."

Attempting to maintain a front of perfect innocence, Taqwa frowned at Najoedo's harsh words, his fury temper raising as he regarded his antagonist. Slowly, Taqwa began to speak, his temper building up momentum as his words spewed from his mouth, challenging the Far-Searcher. "I still have no idea what you are talking about Najoedo. You speak in riddles that I find hard to comprehend. Why are you questioning me in this tone? Why are you accusing me, a person you do not understand or even know enough of to do so? Who are you to make accusations of me, someone you just met last night? How dare you to accuse your host, who has been gracious enough to provide you with both food and shelter?"

With a whirl, Taqwa departed, furious at the Far-Searcher, as he attempted to sort out his mind. Some bastard must have told him something... He will die before I finish... Alas, now I understand, Najoedo cannot help me, he is merely pawn in the cosmic events that have brought me to this step.

Najoedo watches the angry man whirl and depart, his ear fins laid back slightly. To anyone versed in the body language of the half-human Keepers, his stance would clearly show a readiness to take flight suddenly, and anyone versed in the mystic arts would see clear as day that he had pulled his aura close in preparation to snap off a spell of some variety. People can be so irrational. But I fear this does not bode well. I can survive well enough without his hospitality, and leave at any time I wish upon the Winds, but I am truly concerned for the well-being of those he has tricked.

The Keeper forces himself to relax from his momentary battle-readiness, chiding himself for being so jumpy. But the long years of fighting for the warlords does instill a well-honed battle sense.

With a powerful leap, he takes to the air, wheeling swiftly back toward the village. I must speak with their wiseman, and learn what I can from him, if Taqwa will deny the truth until the very end of him. An ill wind blows, and I must chose swiftly which side I shall alight upon.

Taqwa whirled around and watched angrily as Najoedo leapt into the air, flying swiftly towards the village. Taqwa cursed to himself, furious at the loss of both temper and face. God damn't. I have just severed the last hope for guidance that I have now. Now I have nothing to hope for and no goal to work towards... Failure is imminent, as is my death... Sighing, Taqwa turned and made his way back to the dormant volcano, his steps unsteady as he swayed from side to side...

-----

Back in the village, all was not normal, as the seditious comments of the Little Shaman had spread like wildfire. Before Najoedo had found Taqwa, Taqwa's falsehoods was already on everyone's lips. In a little hut on the outskirts of the village, the Little Shaman conversed quietly with the leaders of his rebellious group. Foremost among them was a swordmaster, the sole fighter to escape from the disaster that made these people refugees. The swordmaster was a man who had no name, having lost it in the turmoil before his birth, but he was widely admired for both his skills and his clear, honorable convictions.

In a low voice, the Little Shaman began the meeting. "Taqwa must fall in order for us to survive. Swordmaster, it is your duty to assist our people and free them from the tyranny of this charlatan."

Shaking his head, the swordmaster replied, "I cannot kill Taqwa. Although he has spread half-truths and lies during his leadership, he has done nothing dishonorable, nothing worthy of his death. I will not kill Taqwa."

"You must. You must save our people."

The swordmaster rose angrily as he glared down at the Little Shaman. In a low vicious tone, the swordmaster cursed at the Little Shaman. "Never, you bastard with three fathers. Find another man who will do it, but I will not. Unlike your preverse hypocrisy, honor and my convictions guide my actions. You can do nothing to change it..."

With a swish of his cloak, the swordmaster was gone, his strides taking him out of the hut and into the village. Taking a deep breath, the swordmaster grasped the sheathed sword at his side as he attempted to sort out the full weight of the words. Honor. The word that is the beacon of my light. I must not allow them to sway me... With a heartfelt sigh, the swordmaster gazed up slightly at the sky, bemoaning his fate. They have given me two paths to choose from. I can only choose one that I can follow with all my heart... But I cannot help but feel that I am making a wrong decision...

Covering the distance back to the village easily, Najoedo carefully drops to a landing at the outskirts, the tension in the area a near-physical sensation battering at his sixth and seventh senses. Ugh... the entire area reeks of ill intent... worse than when I left just a short time past. He walks through the area, fighting down the urge to unsling his sword and hold the reassuring length of enchanted steel in his hands.

Old instincts are hard to ignore, and the Keeper finds himself stepping with the catlike silent grace of a predator, the mystic arts of his kind held close and carefully banked, alert and almost expecting attack. "This is no different." He mutters quietly. "First the dissents and intrigue of the warlords, and it is the same here, though there are no warlords or fortresses."

With hasty movements, the swordmaster left the village, heading towards the jungles and away from the intrigues and dissension rampant throughout the village, his thoughts straying from the immediate problems, turning instead to the issues associated with his name. I have no name, nameless, a non-entity. I am lacking in something crucial, an important aspect that serves to define my being... Sighing deeply, the swordmaster continued to think. My master named me Aero, but I never fully adopted that name... I... I... With a growl of disgust, the swordmaster began to weep.

Najoedo slinks from one roof to the next, overhearing snippets of conversation. This does not bode well... my presence is beyond making a difference. It would be wise if I left now. But I can't take change and take to the winds in plain view of everyone.

The Keeper slinks away from the crude village with every intent of finding a large enough clearing to shift forms comfortably in, and then take flight and leave the island behind him. He gets distracted by a sound not normally found in the jungle, and as per usual, Najoedo lets his curiousity get the best of him and he goes to investigate, following the noise to find a man hunched over weeping. I saw this one in the village before... what drives him away from his kindred in sorrow?

The winged Keeper lingers silently for a moment, uncertain how best to announce his presence, knowing full well that some men did not like to be seen in their moments of weakness. After a moment of contemplation, he steps forward. "An ill wind blows over this island." He states simply. "Things are moving now, and it will end in blood, will it not?"

Although, the swordmaster was startled by the appearance of the Far-Searcher, he didn't exhibit any of his surprise, keeping his face neutral as he faced his antagonist. In a low quiet voice, the swordmaster spoke. "That will depend on fortune... But as it has been shown time and time again, fortune is against us, the Bakisk..." He sighed. "Many of us have been torn from our homeland, watching the slaughter of our people... All of us have been scarred forever by what we have experienced..."

Pausing, the swordmaster gazed serenely at the Far-Searcher as he extended his hand in greeting. "I am known as the Swordmaster, as I have no name of my own. I am the only pupil and adopted son of the Emperor's swordmaster Tyran Noret... I have never adopted Noret's surname and the given name that he gave."

Najoedo looks confused at the offered handshake for a moment before he accepts (obviously shaking hands is not a common practice where he's from). "Through hardship is often how one may find their Way." He pauses at the swordsman's declaration regarding his name, face momentarily unreadable.

"It is a rare gift-" He states, tone somewhat solemn. "-for one to be able to chose his or her own name. A birthname is given by others before one has learned their Way... but one who is granted the opportunity to chose for themselves..." He trails off, pausing for a moment to translate what he wants to say. "The is power in naming, and the one who chooses for himself gains greater power, for then there is undeniable truth in the naming, truth of self that none can deny."

He grins slightly, showing one pointed fang. "For instance, my mother decided at my Naming that I would grow up to be a wiseman, perhaps a mystic under one of the clan chiefs, hence naming me Najoedo. Had I been granted the chance to choose for myself..." The Keeper ponders for a moment. "I would probably have chosen Nudtohoh or perhaps Nakxeikhojk- wanderer without rest"

He frowns again. "Tell me... I have heard from your village shaman that Taqwa is false, and I heard the lie myself from him not an hour past, and now I return to find a foul wind over the people, and a nameless swordsman in a state of distress... what is happening? This place is stinking of ill intent and future bloodshed for a people who can ill afford to lose a single soul already. The people need a leader, and I find that neither Taqwa nor your shaman have the needed qualities."

The swordmaster shook his head sadly, as he began to recollect the events that occurred some time ago. "We have long known that Taqwa was not a true prophet and yet we have always believed in his lies, naively trusting a charlatan to guide us to salvation. Taqwa was strengthened by the destruction of our venerable homeland... Although that event was a mere coincidence, many accepted that Taqwa was a savior, a prophet ordered by the God of War, Talisk, to guide us to salvation, safety away from the lethargy and decadence of our homeland..."

Slowly, the swordmaster stopped, his mind returning to the present as he gazed solemnly into the eyes of the Far-Searcher. "Najeodo, it is not my place to question the actions of the leaders of my people, nor is it right for me to distrust those who I have trusted for so long... You can say that my honor blinds me to the justice that must be done... But I say that I do not have the will to perform the necessary tasks required..."

With a sad shake of his head, the swordmaster continued. "The feud that occurs between the shaman and Taqwa has been long standing and will not end until all is settled... As time passes, things change, hopefully for the better... Alas, it will be too late for our people, the sad remnants of the bygone glory days of a far stretching empire."

Najoedo shakes his head slightly. "Good cannot happen if righteous men let their blades lie idle when they are needed most."

The Keeper stands oddly, almost as if listening to something only he can hear. "There is... something... I feel it through the Arts, though I cannot identify it." He fumbles for words in the correct language. "It is the same... scent? It is like when I was first Changed, and again when I was sent on my journey. It smells of change, either good or ill. Certainly all the pieces to a bard's story are in place- a people in need, a nameless man in between dueling factions, and a land that is ultimately doomed unless something is done."

With this, the Keeper stands a little straighter, his wings half-furled, the milky sails shattering the sunlight into a myriad of pastels. "As I have said, there is power in naming. To find one gifted the chance to chose for himself in a place such as this cannot be mere chance. Whichever gods you have faith in, be it Jxo Nxe Jooj Ucc or Talisk or any other, this smells of their handiwork."

Bitterly, the swordmaster reflected upon Najoedo's words. "I am unwanted, unneeded upon this peaceful paradise. Although with the current rumblings of discontent and anger gives me, a soldier, the perfect opportunity to exercise my abilities. However, I am not a killer. Although the sole purpose of my art form is to kill, to maim, and to fight, I have vowed to never harm a single living creature unless it is absolutely necessary. Unless I find a reason to draw my twin blades, I will not do so."

Pausing briefly to allow himself to catch his breath, the swordmaster continued. "At this point, it does not matter which god is meddling in the affairs of mortals. What matters most is what goal this god is working towards. From what I've seen and experienced on this island, we must leave immediately. The real result of the enmity that exists between my people has been caused by the island. From the beginning I have sensed a certain barely detectable miasma emanating from the volcano which seems to place everyone on this island on edge. This island is death and we must leave it. Alas, the hindsight that we experience now is too late... Our fates are forever tied to this island and there is nothing to counter the meddling of the gods..."

((OOC: I should really try to follow my own edict about timely posting. Holidays happen!))

Najoedo puffs up briefly, drawing on the length of the years he has seen, some four centuries already. "At times one must cause a small harm to prevent a greater one. Should things continue on this course without any interference, then death will be certain." He tips his head again, listening to some unheard sound. "This miasma... I am fairly sure I have felt something similar before in the lands I come from. A great mountain, a volcano like this one, slumbering quietly. The quiet murmurings of the ground set the entire clan on edge, and then one night, the mountain awoke, breathing poison into the air and bleeding the earth's fire. It took nearly all my strength in the Arts to halt its advance long enough so that the clan could reach safety. A fortress that no enemy had ever breached, its walls toppled and buried in red fire and grey ash, with no more thought than a river gives to a rock in its path."

The Keeper stops listening to whatever unheard thing he was paying attention to. "I do not think the gods of any people mean ill to those they watch over. Perhaps this island is but a test, to remove the unworthy and prove the chosen? The gods I have dealt with seem fond of such tactics, testing their charges time and again to push them farther. I have yet to meet a people ruled by a truly vengeful god. There is time yet to depart this place. People just need to be convinced." The Keeper raises one hand, palm up, a small sphere of light forming harmlessly in the air above it. "And there are many ways both noble and of trickery to convince people with."

The swordmaster wearily sighed as he began to speak bitterly. "None of us have the barest hope of being chosen by the gods for already we have surrendered ourselves and our lives to whichever fate that the gods have selected for us. The torment that we have undergone has ripped our souls from our very bodies... As we now lie adrift upon the tides of the ocean, our souls wandering through the waves, we are faced with an unsurmountable task, which we, however loath to concede defeat, finally see that we can no longer continue... We, the Bakisk are without hope, doomed to perish in the bowels of destruction..."

((OOC: Sorry for the delays... finals week in college = teh suckage. x_x))

His aura suddenly snapping into the visible light end of the spectrum, Najoedo half-spreads his pale wings, the air about him suddenly seeming charged, the Keeper having been struck with inspiration. In his homeland, he had often been revered as a messenger of the Goddess of the clans, She Who Sees All, and he had learned the dramatics to act the part. A slight manipulation of the air using his power kicks up great billowing plumes of sea spray from the waters surrounding the island, gathering the individual whirling specks of saltwater into a massive torus hovering in the air above the island, white-blue arcs of lightning lancing from the aquatic anomaly to the ground, to the Keeper's similarly gleaming aura.

"Four hundred years ago, I was without any hope." Najoedo intones, using another trick of the Arts to enhance his voice. "That I should be doomed to die in a deal to save the life of my heart's fire, the woman I swore to protect."

Another flash of lightning and he raises his sword, its mystic orgins now unmistakable, the blade gleaming unnaturally. "But my doom was not that I had thought it to be. I am a soldier, I am the First and the Eldest of the Keepers of the Blades, bound by my life to guard the Xeco Rcuto ev kxo Vuccod, the Sword of the Falling Star. In the fires of its forging was I born, and I will not perish from the land until the Blades are but memory and mine lies broken."

His dark blue eyes glowing, Najoedo levels the shining blade at the swordmaster, not a threatening motion, merely using the weapon to point at the man. "If those who are capable of saving these people refuse to act out of fear or despair or cowardice, then my blade shall not rest idle, though my judgement may not agree with yours."

To complete the demonstration, the white-scaled Keeper points the blade toward the heavens, launching a shining bolt of mystic energy upwards at the torus overhead, blasting it and tearing it apart to scatter across the sky in all directions. His brilliant aura fading to a more reasonable level, Najoedo continues in a softer voice. "I do not wish bloodshed, but I have learned that it cannot always be avoided nor simply ignored. If none will act, then there will be no hope and you and your kindred will be truly lost."

The swordmaster closed his eyes, his mind torn with indecision. Mournfully, the swordmaster shielded himself from the majestic aura that Najeodo released, as his mind raced, as the swordmaster recalled certain events in the past, the recollection of painful memories with his long dead master. With a sigh of newfound determination, the swordmaster opened his eyes and lowered his arms, as he gazed resolved at Najeodo. In a sharp, biting voice that carried well in warm, stifling jungle air, the swordmaster spoke. "Now I truly understand what my master said, just before his death, as we, the Bakisk were about to leave. He said, 'A leader is a dealer in hope,' for he did not trust Taqwa and through his years of experience and knowledge, understood the falsehoods that Taqwa represented. And yet, I refused to listen. And as I left my master's bedside, he died, refusing to believe that his only disciple would reject his advice.”

The swordmaster paused, as he bit his lower lip. As blood began to flow, he continued. “My master also said that ‘Each man is a little war,’ a great understanding of the torn qualities that all mortals display as he exist their lives.” Pausing for effect, the swordmaster regarded Najeodo. “I will do everything in my power to save my people. Thank you, Najeodo. Thank you.”

Releasing his aura entirely back to the level of unseen, Najoedo folds his wings neatly back again. "Your master sounds as though he was a wise man. It is unfortunate that I should not have had the chance to speak with him. Indeed, a true leader is but a servant of those he leads. Both the shaman and Taqwa seem to me to seek only glory for themselves at the cost of those they are supposed to serve. Even the fiercest of the nuhcehtj of my homeland were dedicated to leading their clan and keeping its people safe."

The Keeper frowns slightly in thought before planting the point of his sword into the soil and slightly bowing over the hilt, wings spreading slightly in the formal sort of bow his kind often used. "Many times I have pledged my sword to a cause, and if you will have it, my power is yours to command. Everyone on this island must have seen my display a moment ago. Things will begin to move, and move quickly. All leaders must have a name, and the more truth of it, the more power there is in the Naming, for truth cannot be denied long."

The swordmaster cocked his head in surprise, startled at Najeodo's last comment about a name. As his skin paled, turning paper white in what seemed to be nothing more than pure horror, as he shivered, feeling the goosebumps rise all over his body.

In a quivering voice, the swordmaster spoke. "A name... I cannot name myself... For I am nothing more than a brainless weaponmaster... For a name is nothing more than a useless thing that symbolizes a person... A name to me, means nothing... It is a merely an adornment that I can do without."

Shaking his head to dispel his unease, the swordmaster regarded Najeodo, as he gathered the strength to steel himself once more. "If you need a name, call me 'Crusade,' for our mission is nothing more than crusade to rectify a wrong..."

Najoedo nods slightly. "Very well then. Obviously we have differing concepts about names and Naming, but it is a trivial difference in the greater scheme of things. How then shall we commence this venture?"

The Keeper flutters his wings briefly, shaking the white sails out slightly. "Those who will doubtless oppose this change must be dealt with, either convinced to forfeit, or forced to. Then those who live here must prepare to leave this island. Ships will not be easy to build, but it must be done."

The swordmaster inaptly named the “Crusade,” pondered Najeodo’s suggestion. Glancing about at the lush vegetation surrounding the two, the swordmaster spoke. “There is enough vegetation on this otherwise dismal island to produce the wood that we need to build the ships that we require. But, time is against us… I fear that the volcano will erupt before we can finish our task…”

The swordmaster frowned. “But I believe there is a way for us to escape… From my conversations with the Little Shaman, the coming eruption is not a natural phenomenon. The Little Shaman believes that something or someone using subtle means is fueling the bottled rage and destruction of the volcano… If we can find the cause, we may be able to stop the eruption…”

The Keeper nods. "I thought I felt something unnatural in this place. If it serves your cause, while you get the people to build their ships, I will use what Arts I may to decipher the Way of things here."

Najoedo allows the barest hint of a fanged grin show. "In the lands of my home, the mystic powers of my kindred Keepers have often been viewed as the powers of our Goddess, She Who Sees All, and we have mistakenly been revered as gods in our own right. Though it is not the proper truth of it, our powers are great. If it is within my power, I shall find the source and if I can, destroy it."

The swordmaster frowned before he acquiesed. "Agreed. However, we must understand the enormity of our task. My people and I, number in the hundreds. The construction of oceangoing vessels will take time, vital time which we do not have. At the same time, you are proceeding to seek out the source that fuels the fury of the volcano that overlooks this island. This task will not be easy. For I fear that we face a greater foe than what we have ever seen..."

Pausing briefly, the swordmaster continued. "In addition, to these problems, we also face the opposition of the Little Shaman and Taqwa. Both using their three-inch limber tongues have gathered and cultivated a strong following that will be hard to break. I fear that my people will destroy themselves over a few words, while salvation is at hand..."

"Such is the way of it when factions collide. Would those followings turn violent against a third faction, or could they perhaps be convinced to change their loyalties in the face of a suitably divine show of power?" Najoedo gestures toward the sky where he had held a small lake's worth of water aloft with his power earlier. "There are myriad ways I can fling the Arts about in a finely acted show of divine wrath. There is a saying in my homeland that empires rise on the wings of the Keepers, and fall by their blades, and that saying is not without cause."

He glances in the direction of the volcano, already reaching out with his sixth and seventh senses, trying to find the flow of energy to the mountain and trace it to its source. "I will do what I can to dely the volcano. If I cannot find the source of this energy you speak of, then I can resort to sheer force to suppress it. When delicate scheming fails, one must resort to brute force."

(OOC: Sorry about this Rep... I'll post something tomorrow...)

The swordmaster grimaced at the thought of trying to convince hundreds of cynical survivors of the current plight that they faced. Although they had trusted Taqwa and his three-inch limber tongue in fleeing from the Empire, many had fallen under the sway of the Little Shaman, Wentai, while the remainder stayed on as the most reverent followers of the false prophet, Taqwa. The swordmaster knew that it would be difficult, if not impossible, to convince his people to heed his warnings and tune out the carefully worded falsehoods that the Little Shaman and Taqwa spouted.

His eyes fired with determination, the swordmaster answered Najoedo's questions. "My people have grown weary of outsiders and change. We have lived on this island for more than a year and many of us have decided to remain here forever, citing the famous words, 'Here I Am and Here I Stay,' refusing to budge. Even if I can warn every one of them of the looming catastrophe, the chances of them trusting my words will be slim. For I am not an axle upon which the wheel spins, but a spoke that serves the axle..."

Najoedo shakes his head slightly. "I prefer not such sayings, but if you must use them, remember then that without the spoke, the axle is nothing. No lord can rise to power without support, and without that support, he is nothing."

Listening in case someone finds them after the earlier magical display, and already trying to use his magical skills to track the volcano, the Keeper lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Tell me, are your people familiar with thuwedj? I think the term in your language is 'dragon'."

(OOC: I'm going on vacation, which I need... 1st semester senior year sucks... I'll be back 2/5/05...)

((OOC: Okay folks, I can understand having to take time from NS to do stuff that is actually important, like school, so I'm going to cut FCN some slack on that 7-day thing I declared. Instead, I'd like to try running multiple parts of the Far-Searcher epic at the same time in the thread, since there are quite a few people who have been waiting quite a awhile to participate. So please comment over in the signup thread if you're still wanting to do this, and where in the timeline you'd like to be. If you give a brief description of the events you'd like to transpire, I can help pinpoint where in that 10,000 year span your stuff would best fit. Hope we can get some great RP out of this =) ))

(OOC: I’ve decided to stay, so I’m going to continue this RP.)

The swordmaster frowned at the mention of dragons. In the history of his people, there were but brief mentions of the existence of legendary monsters known as dragons that served as caretakers of the land. As he racked his brains to remember all the lessons that he had learned in his studies, one particular story stuck out.

In a low voice filled with dread, the swordmaster told the tale. "It is spoken that in the past, a great mystical dragon known as the Ithals appeared to terrorize our people. Our gods were incapable of driving it away and our people were scattered to the winds. At this time, a great hero was born, the son of Azshara and a mortal man. The hero slew the dragon and with his mighty power cast the corpse underneath an island. From then forth, a volcano formed and molten lava spewed forth."

Pausing, the swordmaster considered the implications of the story. "From my knowledge the events of this tale occurred nearly five thousand years ago . . . The volcanic island eventually disappeared. Could this accursed place be the burial ground of Ithals?"

((OOC: Good to have you with us still ^_~ ))

Najoedo nods slowly as he listens to the tale. "The story may not have the whole truth of it, but something like that would explain the ill will to be felt here."

The white-scaled Keeper tips his head in thought. "And perhaps there is another angle of the story that could be used to turn the support of the people away from Taqwa and the Shaman both. A re-enactment of sorts, with a wicked dragon razing the village, and being defeated and thrown into the sea by a new hero." Najoedo grins slightly, showing his fangs. "Such displays, whether true or false, have a great power over the hearts and minds of people."

(OOC: Thanks. Leaving would make me think too much of NS...)

Once again the swordmaster frowned, his brow furrowing at the words that Najeodo has spoken. After a moment of thinking, the swordmaster finally answered the questions that Najeodo had posed.

"I'm afraid that I cannot answer your question. I have never fully believed in that legend, though it is possible that the legend has been warped in the passage of time... But it is particularly worrying that the legend bears great similarities to the present..."

((OOC: Many apologies for the lack of action... my computer is borked so I'm with very limited access until it's fixed. Sorry x_x))

(OOC: No worries... I'm pretty brain dead RP wise...)

((OOC: Yay, comp's fixed!))

Najoedo nods. "Those similarities I believe are the key to turning the minds of the people. I do not know how many saw me the day I arrived here, but the form you see before you is not the one that is natural to me."

The Keeper slings his sword across his back and takes several steps back from the swordmaster, his aura kept close. "Perhaps my real form will inspire ideas. And the least, I will be better able to use my Arts to find the source of what ails this place."

With a silent thunderclap, Najoedo's form grows, and changes, massive wing pinions stretching upward, talons the length of a grown man's arm springing from massive forepaws that a moment ago were unremarkable human hands, the armored faceplate of the great dragon quickly bowing low the the ground so as not to loom so high above the swordmaster. In an instant, where the half-human form of Najoedo stood on two legs, a massive white dragon crouches on four, long tail coiled easily about the large form. The beast stays as low to the ground as possible, but it must surely be visible above the treetops from some distance away.

"This, one self-named Crusade, is my real form, granted by powers I do not presume to understand." The dragon speaks, the voice Najoedo's, though much deeper.

((OOC: Geez, it's almost finals week here and I'm still managing to post and stuff. What's the hold up?))

(OOC: I'm very sorry for my lack of posting... I have two weeks of APs for me... My brain's been fried... Please excuse this bad post...)

IC:

The swordmaster trembled involuntarily at the appearance of such a terrible creature. Although he was fearless, the swordmaster knew that to attempt to combat such a powerful creature would be suicide. Controlling his convulsions, the swordmaster bowed, acknowledging the power within the dragon before him. In a voice barely audible, the swordmaster spoke. In awe, the swordmaster slowly sank to the floor, as he gazed worshipfully at the dragon. "Legends of spoken of such elegant and massive creatures, creatures that with each beat of their hearts, serve as the caretakers of this world. But I could never imagine such splendor and beauty."

In the rude village, many people witnessed the appearance of the dragon. Although they were mesmerized by the size and beauty of the creature, cries of alarm and surprise echoed throughout the settlement. Swiftly, men and women bearing what arms they had and forming what magic they could, raced to offset any movement by the dragon towards the village. Faced with such a creature, the Little Shaman and Taqwa formed an uneasy alliance as they prepared to face the coming struggle.

The massive creature bows at the praise- well, more like he raises his head briefly and lowers it, the motion flowing like a wave down the length of the sinuous neck. "Rise and do not fear. I should like to care for the world in which I roam, but I do not presume the will of the powers that guide all."

Najoedo opens his mouth to speak further, but stops and lifts his head, peering into the distance, apparently listening to something, the large fins that appear to be ears twitching slightly. "It seems I have not escaped notice." He rumbles. "I can hear a great commotion in the village. I suspect we will have company before long."

The armored faceplate of the dragon does not betray much expression, but the wry grin can be heard in Najoedo's voice. "What do you suppose we should tell them when they arrive?"

((OOC: Not to be a nag here, but it has been a few months since there was any activity here. Should we just close off this storyline and say that everything worked out or not, so I can sic Naj on some other ancient country?))

(OOC: Eep... Sorry... I took a mental holiday to prepare for my high school graduation and got loaded down with tons of work helping the administration and my grade. I kinda disappeared off of NS for about two months... If you want to close it off, it's fine with me as my activity is almost nonexistent.

Sincere apologies. If you wish this to continue, I'll start RPing soon...)

((OOC: Eh, probably easier to close it off- it was feeling like we hit a snag anyway. Prolly easier to just say "Yay, evil was vanquished, the day is saved, and the dragon guy is awaaaaaaaaay!" =p))