It was a dreary day in the land of Norath. The sun had been swallowed by the forces of nature, the god Karana was deffinatly disturb about something across this great land. The rain poured down upon the rangers head like gravel from up on high. The wind whipped at his face and hands trying to dislodge his grip and expose him to the elements. Finding shelter under an old grove oak, the ranger takes pause to attune him to his surrounding in an attempt to comprehend why the God is so angry. While the ranger is preparing for his meditation ritual to commune with the nature that surrounded him he could not help but remember a different time. A time when the land was cursed by great plagues, minions of Discord and petty fighting among the Gods and of childhood.
Thinking back to the beginning the ranger remembers how he found his calling among the tree tops of Kelethin, home of his Wood Elf kin. Those where better days he lamented and smiled, full of hope, joy and happiness. Like everything else in the land this ranger knew all to well that times like those are fleeting and never last in this turbulent world. He remembered how he and his sister use to go down to the forest floor to gather sylvan berries in order to help their mother create the most wonderful and delicious desserts for them. How his father, a master Druid, had taught him about all the ways of nature and how to be one with his surroundings no matter what the situation. The days of wood Elvin games in the forest canopy and the races along the forest floor where only a sad reminder of why he became the ranger he is today.
The Orcs had moved into the mountains near to his home city when he was still considered a child, to young to concern himself with the burden of choosing his future life. For elves this can be many happy years of Elvin games and joyous times or it can be a tragic few. All the wood Elvin children had been told to stay below the city and to not wander to the north. The ranger could still hear his father speaking to him in his gentle and compassionate voice, “Acoma, do not venture past the Elvin canopy while on the forest floor for the Orcs are among the mountains now. Pay attention to your surroundings and always remember to keep your sister close at all times.†A slight chill crept up the rangers’ neck as a flood of emotions well up inside of him and he fights to keep himself calm. “One time, it was only one timeâ€, the phrase just kept coming back again and again in his mind. The same phrase he repeated to his mother and father, after.
It was a beautiful day among the flora and fauna on a fresh spring morning in the wood. The air was full of life and fresh scents of lavender and sylvan permeating all of the senses. Acoma and his sister had been sent to the forest floor in order to gather items for a celebration to honor the coming of spring and it was considered a great honor to be chosen by the priests and priestess of Tunare for this task. With his quiver and bow Acoma and his sister traversed the land of Greater Faydark colleting the numerous items that had been tasked to them. Spider silk and flowers from the south, elder bark and morning dew from the west, and then wolf fur and pixie dust from the east. The last task was the collection of the mountain sap from the north, now Orc country. But it was still early in the spring and cold so the Orcs should have been hold up in their mountain hole in their filth and scat. Keeping his sister close they took the safest route along the eastern boarder of the wood to get to the base of the mountain.
A great burden was lifted from his shoulders as his sister stepped back off the mountain to his side smiling with a childish satisfaction. Reaching out to place his hand upon her shoulder to confirm that she was indeed next to him and not an apparition of the goddess Tunare. He was gleeful at the touch of his kin and the bond they shared in finishing this most honorable task. While turning to the path behind them to return to their home among the trees he felt his sister become ridged and felt a great sadness and pain that he had never know before assault his being, wholly. Instinctively he had bow and arrow in hand faster then the eyes could comprehend only to drop them almost as fast as he had acquired them as he turned to face his sister. His eyes met hers and instantly he knew that life was draining from her, grasping desperately he tried to catch her as she fell to earth like the rain falls from the sky. Heaped on the forest floor Acoma tries desperately to understand why his sister is indeed dying in his arms, what could have done this, why her? Searching her being he finds the culprit lodged in the base of her neck, an orcen dart, covered with a black tar that is no doubt some form of foul poison by the odor that emanates from it. Desperately pulling the dart out he calls upon his surrounding and uses the limited druidic magic his father had taught him, pulling the life out of all surrounding flora, dumping the new life force into his sister. Again he tried to pull the life. Reaching up from the ground she gently touches his face, a sense of calm in her eyes and on her face. Taking her hand he tries to understand what is happening, trying to comprehend why. The poison worked so very fast, her body jerked and tightened, then nothing. Like a blade of grass she lays in his arms, bent and broken while a rage and fear well up with in, REVENGE!
Just as the rage culminates into movement Acoma springs to his feet in order to scan for the Orc that will incur his great and powerful wrath. Just as he begins to turn a great pain begins to radiate from his hip, causing him to pause. Looking down he sees the point of an orcen spear protruding from his hip. While the rage is fresh and his strength has not yet ebbed from his body Acoma makes a concentrated spin snapping the spear while placing him face to face with the foul beast of an Orc. With a power he had never felt Acoma reaches out and places his hands on the shocked Orcs chest creating an explosion of fire and ice that seemed to be fueled by the hate and anger he had with in him, literally tearing the Orc in half from the waist up. Calling upon the earth, reaching out with his mind, trying desperately to send a message to his kin, Acoma collapses into a heap of blood and gore, blackness surrounds him "death has come to take me".
Blinding light, green haze, no pain. Snapping to attention Acoma puts his past out of his mind, letting his emotions retreat back behind the wall he built for them years ago during his ranger training. With the ground now prepared for his commune with nature Acoma takes his place in the ring he drew on the ground, removing his tunic and letting the elements ravage his flesh, he begins the ritual. Focusing his mind he begins his chant to his goddess, paying homage to her legacy and her creations. Slowly, the wind begins to fell less cold, the rain stops stinging his flesh, and life radiates from everywhere. The Goddess Tunare appears before him smiling and taking his hand in hers and caressing it, “Welcome ranger Acoma, champion of my name and my creations, I have been awaiting your arrivalâ€. Confused by the strange greeting Acoma begins to feel a force enter his mind, slowly, blinding, power, knowledge all flood over him creating a vortex within his mind. Visions of strange happening begin to form, strange sights of battles that look familiar yet different becoming clearer and clearer. Recognizing what is going on he realizes that Tunare is recounting for him his triumphs in her name. Showing him what she has seen him do on the lands she helped create. The battles for the plane of time and the release of Zebuxoruk from his prison, the wrath of Vishimtar and his hordes of dragons, the battles with discord and the muramites that tried to ravage the lands he called home, faster the images flood past, feeling the killing blows as they cleave his enemies, imbuing him in some fashion with a strange power.
Calm, serenity, mist, a figure approaching, two figures. Tunare now stands in front of Acoma with his sister holding her hand, astonishment, bewilderment, joy, sadness all come around at once enveloping the ranger. A smile comes over the face of his sister and Tunare and instantly the ranger understands, knows that she is proud of him for what he has done and that this is a reward of some kind. Bowing down to kiss the hand of Tunare Acoma is overwhelmed when his sister grabs him in an embrace that seemed longer then time itself while expiring at exactly the same time. Gone, nothing, no one, jus the mist again, but feeling a warmth from within that he never had felt. Tunare appears next to the ranger and takes his hand, the mist around them disappears and they are standing on the lands of Norath again, on a great plain of grass and rolling hills. She points to the west where a very old, very large man is screaming at the side of the mountain that is next to this great and peaceful plain. It is Karana, and he is angry. Now Acoma sees why the land has become unstable the god of the weather is beside himself with anger, not anger, something else, fear? A voice pierces the air around them a great rift appears in the mountain side, a spiral of matter turning and spinning, pulling the mountain and the land into it. Karana begins to move again and grow in stature, reaching out to his full width and height he begins to cover the hole with his body, Tunare suddenly appears beside the rain God. The land begins to well up between Karana and the mountain and Acoma realizes that she is aiding him, trying to close this ever gapping hole that is forming using the land as a barrier.
It has worked; all three are now standing side by side, staring at the now covered hole, listening to the ever grinding sound emanating from the other side, like a dog trying to scratch itself out of a mithril box. Karana places his hand upon the rangers shoulder and speaks to his mind,
“Champion of Tunare, ranger of the glade, I have called upon my sister’s aid in order to stop a new rift that has appeared on Norath. I have called upon you, her champion, because all others have failed; you are Norath's last chance at salvation. None of the gods can go forth from this plane and close the disturbance that has opened this rift. Only you can go forth and complete the closing from the other side. Where this rift will take you I cannot say, only that once closed you may never find your way back to Norath. My sister and I have prepared all that you will need in order to create an incantation that should seal the rift from the other side. Only one with a heart of nature can complete this since you will drawl from your surrounding the power you need, just like before.â€
The ranger once again feels the life force drain from his surroundings as he remembers pulling it out to give to his sister all those years before, this is why he was chosen, and this is why he has trained all these years. This is why the priests of Tunare chose him and his sister all those years ago, preparation for his ultimate quest and sacrifice to his goddess. Bowing low and taking a knee the ranger pledges his loyalty once again to his goddess and with a conviction that made the Gods smile he vows to complete this most noble of quests for his goddess.
At his feet materializes a mound of dirt, no, changing, forming, becoming something else. A great flash of light surrounds the ranger and he is now standing on the plains alone. Looking around he realizes that he is no longer meditating, nor is he still in the wood. He is standing in front of the blocked rift, surrounding him are a ring of flowers and gifts, the mound? At his feet lay a great sword, sparkling like a thousand diamonds held up to the sun. Picking the sword up he hears the sword speak to him, “I am Aurora, the Heartwood Blade. I am a gift from the gods and I will never duel nor will I ever break, your will is my command.†Placing the sword in its sheath the voice of the sword leaves as he places it upon his belt. A tiny pack lies on the ground, picking it up it seems almost weightless. Opening the pack reveals that this is no ordinary pack but magic, for inside are all the ranger will need to survive for many a years without seeing another living creature, again he attaches it to his belt. Next he finds a shield, but made of nothing he had ever seen before. Picking it up he believed it must be made of some king of paper, light, fluid, forming to his grasp, becoming an extension of his arm, like it was always there and it was right. Fearing he would never get it off desperately he grabbed at the shield trying to free it from his arm, “Silly ranger, just ask to be let go.†The voice echoing in his mind, deafening. “I am Vishimtar the Fallen Scale, no material, no magic; no creature other then you may bend my will or break my spirit. I am imbued with all the knowledge of dragon kind and I shall serve you until there is no magic left within me.†Strapping the shield to his back the ranger cannot believe that a dragon will be his companion, he always wanted a familiar. Lastly on the ground lays what appears to be a scroll? Reaching down to retrieve it the ranger realizes that he is different, stronger, and more magical. Stranding back up Acoma thinks about the scroll being in his hand and the magic begins to flow from his new weapons and the scroll appears in his hand, the power from the scroll burns, it pulses, it travels up his arm and courses through his body, hardening it, strengthening it, preparing him for his journey he knows.
Stepping from the ring of flowers his goddess’s voice becomes apparent in his mind once again, “Fair champion, be safe on thy journey and be comforted that by your sacrifice the world of your kind will be able to survive. We will spread your name across the land so that you shall be immortal in song and story. Your new weapons hold the key to shutting the rift once you arrive on the other side, fear not for they are prepared so that all you have to do is touch the source of the rift and you will channel the spell that will close the rift and save Norath.†As the last word disappears from his mind the rift tears open, pulling everything close to it inside, spinning, ever spinning, Acoma leaps forward visions of his sister smiling in his minds eye as the blackness once again consumes him, sucking him down into the rift, total blackness again.
Solid, sensations, feeling, substantial, real, still black. Not so black, gray giving way to something else, something bright. Suddenly Acoma realizes that he is no longer spinning, he is no longer floating in nothingness, how long had he been consumed. Where was he, where is he, how did he get here. “Get up you silly ranger, we don’t have all day.†The Voice of his shield booms in his head causing him to snap to attention as the flood of memories come back to him as to what has happened. Surveying his surroundings he makes an account of all his body parts and positions and realizes that he has made it through in one piece and alive, but to where he did not know. He could breathe the air fine, it smelled and tasted fresh, like a fresh spring shower had just passed by. Searching for some king of sign of life or the rift source or anything the ranger starts to spin around. Stopping him in the middle of his spin he sees a sun peaking up over the horizon, like the hand of God unveiling the land before him in a wash of color and light.
Instantly he equips his sword and shield but is not sure why, the land looks lush and healthy with trees and plants similar to those on his world, did I even leave Norath?
Sounds start to become apparent, his senses begin to return, the sound of metal on metal, of men dying, of howls of pain and anguish become apparent. Spinning around to put the sun to his back the ranger is able to survey the valley before him. A great battle is taking place; men of some kind are battling a horde of strange creatures. They appear to be barbarians like those of the frozen lands of Everfrost in Norath, but somehow different. It appears that the line of men is faltering, the line is breaking, they will be destroyed. Not even thinking the ranger sheaths his sword and wishes his shield would have been a bow, “silly ranger, all you had to do was ask†and with that the shield morphed into a bow of the blackest wood and steel the ranger had ever seen, mystical runes began to form on the shaft of the bow forming a word, DRUZZIL. With the transformation complete the ranger draws on the bow to test its strength to find a magical arrow appear ready to fire. Taking aim at the monster at the front of the Horde Acoma lets loose his magical arrow hoping it will hit its mark from such a great distance. Drawing again and again the ranger proceeded to release a barrage of arrows that would put a good sized archery squad to shame, fast as light itself the ranger continues to fire into the horde.
Raising his hammer above his head the Great barbarian warrior Marcelo lets loose a mighty war cry as he comes down for the final killing stroke upon the monster before him. Utterly destroying the creature he steps back to parry the incoming blow that must be coming from the next beast in line to die to his great and powerful hammer. Confused the barbarian warrior watches as the creature stops moving forward, a strange glow behind its eyes, getting brighter, then red. The arrow proceeds to pierce the front of the monsters skull, covering the barbarian with gore, and then falling to the ground as the arrow disappears. Yelling to his captains Marcelo orders the line to form up as the monsters around them begin to fall, one after another, by some strange and magical effect that has utterly confused the warriors. Wave after wave of beast falls to the magical barrage of arrows, the barbarians using the distraction to flank the horde and begin their onslaught once again. A young barbarian points to the summit and begins to shout that the gods have come down to ensure their victory this day. As all the Barbarians begin to all look to the summit the ranger realizes that he is now unveiled, “You might as well wave silly ranger†the bow speaks up in his head. Without thinking the ranger raises his bow to the sky and moves it back and forth in a show of good faith. The warriors taking this as a sign from their gods charge forth and lay waste to the remaining horde.
Acoma suddenly realizes, the rift, must stop the rift, where is the rift? Turning around and around he begins to look for the rift. On the ground a few feet from him down on the hill side there seems to be a person or thing chanting or talking or praying? Jumping over the side Acoma pulls forth his sword and thinks of his shield again, the bow now changes back, and he plows right into the figure on the hillside. Trying to speak to the man kneeling on the ground rocking is futile. There is blood pouring from his ears and his eyes and yet the strange chanting continues. Finally with out knowing what else to do the ranger reaches down and grabs the man to try and shake him into awareness, burning pain surges throughout the ranger’s body. A piercing scream comes into the rangers mind and he recognizes it as the sword and the shield simultaneously screaming, but not in pain. The burning begins to subside and Acoma starts to focus on the man before him, a strange incantation begins to pour forth from the ranger mouth, the man begins to shake and twist in the rangers grip. A final scream ends the mans chanting, the rift is closed, as the ranger picks him up gently in his arms and begins to head down the mountain to the now ended battle.
Upon reaching the bottom of the mountain the wood elf ranger begins to realize just how large these men are. They are much larger then the barbarians of his world and they are all coming toward him. Acoma lays the dead priest down on the ground and takes a step back and takes a defensive non threatening posture. From the handful of giant men before him a loan warrior begins to come forward with a hammer bigger than the wood elf in his hands. The ranger senses that the warrior is sad and confused as he is not looking at him but the dead priest on the ground. Without looking at the ranger the warrior speaks:
“I am Marcelo Chief of the barbarian tribe, before you lays a great and powerful friend. He had said that he had found a way to aid us in our last stand against the horde that now lay dead before us. We where outnumbered hundreds to one and yet here I am alive and victorious. Fair warrior I am not sure of where you come or of even what you are but I thank you for your help in the battle that was supposed to be our last. We men of the land of Hyboria are grateful to you for the aid that you showed us in our time of greatest need, does this great warrior have a name that we may pay homage to you?â€
I am Acoma Soulskinner, Ranger of the Earthen Guardians, Servant of Tunare and champion of the lands of Norath.
Edited, Apr 21st 2009 4:13pm by Acoma
Edited, Apr 21st 2009 4:23pm by Acoma