Jenrak
08-06-2005, 02:57
OOC: Meh.
IC:
Footsteps clanged on the stone floor of the pillared sanctums, with the breezy air blowing into the open windows and flaming caskets. Giant swinging metal doors could scarcely portray the sanctity of this room, and very rarely could they seem to hide the lurking menace of the darkness that crept in the shadows, barely seen with the faintly lit candles, and the creaking trapdoors that clunked heavily on the floor, without any sign of stopping.
With fervent hands, and a mind in spinning thought, he gripped the shining handle and the clawed end, with the fairly dissy faint feeling overwashing his face once more. This time, there was a difference to his movement in this one, now. He was going to try and do something different, as he reached for his blade.
Ringing out loudly, and with all ears at full pounce, Arborgard the Twelfth, long after deep thought, emerged from the Halls of Torture, into the windowed sill of his castle, the giant and newly built tower of Maranezok. He cleared his throat, as the clapping of the thousands of hands and the many, many splinters of the noise smashed into the cold night air, as the lights from the nearby stands illuminated his position. Then, as his hand rose, and his blade along with it, Arborgard spoked loudly from his podium, Serrrin standing behind him, watching.
"Tonight," He began, his voice booming loudly from his top stage; "There shall start the beginning of another contest of will, and strength. But this one..." He trailed off, his face a gleam with sadistic amusement as his silvey eyes peered around at the onwatching crowd.
"This contest shalt be open to all fighters of all nationalities. Let any country send forth their greatest, and shall there be a great fight to commemorate their victory." Arborgard spoke loudly once more, his voice imperious. "Let all countries and their warriors show their faith and strength, against Jenrakian blood, on Jenrakian soil!" He rumbled again, as the applause boomed loudly once more.
IC:
Footsteps clanged on the stone floor of the pillared sanctums, with the breezy air blowing into the open windows and flaming caskets. Giant swinging metal doors could scarcely portray the sanctity of this room, and very rarely could they seem to hide the lurking menace of the darkness that crept in the shadows, barely seen with the faintly lit candles, and the creaking trapdoors that clunked heavily on the floor, without any sign of stopping.
With fervent hands, and a mind in spinning thought, he gripped the shining handle and the clawed end, with the fairly dissy faint feeling overwashing his face once more. This time, there was a difference to his movement in this one, now. He was going to try and do something different, as he reached for his blade.
Ringing out loudly, and with all ears at full pounce, Arborgard the Twelfth, long after deep thought, emerged from the Halls of Torture, into the windowed sill of his castle, the giant and newly built tower of Maranezok. He cleared his throat, as the clapping of the thousands of hands and the many, many splinters of the noise smashed into the cold night air, as the lights from the nearby stands illuminated his position. Then, as his hand rose, and his blade along with it, Arborgard spoked loudly from his podium, Serrrin standing behind him, watching.
"Tonight," He began, his voice booming loudly from his top stage; "There shall start the beginning of another contest of will, and strength. But this one..." He trailed off, his face a gleam with sadistic amusement as his silvey eyes peered around at the onwatching crowd.
"This contest shalt be open to all fighters of all nationalities. Let any country send forth their greatest, and shall there be a great fight to commemorate their victory." Arborgard spoke loudly once more, his voice imperious. "Let all countries and their warriors show their faith and strength, against Jenrakian blood, on Jenrakian soil!" He rumbled again, as the applause boomed loudly once more.