//Closed//The Artificer's Arrival

[Midnight, overcast, chilly--Characters who enter this thread do so at their own risk (keep in mind though that without your permission, a character cannot die without the player's permision in any thread that is not an administrator sanctioned and regulated duel)]

The gravel of the drive leading to the gates of Caislin Hallows crackled like the crumpling skulls of rodents beneath the booted feet of the figure that strode towards the university. The form was shrouded in shadows as concealing as any cloak of cloth as it approached in the night. Overhead, the sky was veiled by dark clouds as if the heavens were blindfolded. Neither the moon nor the stars would watch as possibly the final chapter of Caislin Hallows’s history unfolded. If the man had his way, it would not be a happy ending.

As he neared the gate, he flicked his right hand upward and lighting launched from his fingertips. The bolt splashed against the metal lock, obliterating it. A shower of shooting stars, electrified shrapnel from the lock, cascaded to the stone pathway. The ruin of metal glowed orange in the darkness, seeping heat into the cool night air. Another electric lance stabbed into the gate, blasting it open on its ancient hinges. “I have returned home,” breathed the man as he trudged into the gloomy courtyard. He stopped in front of the long pool, its depths as dark as the night sky it reflected.

“Ailis! Ailis, where are you?!” roared the man while he stepped up onto the low wall surrounding the pool as if it were a stage. “Is this any way to greet me after all these years? Do you no longer leave the gate unlocked in hopes I might come back to you?” He scoffed, an evil sound that tore itself from his throat. While he spoke, his accent fluctuated as if each syllable was stolen from another region, another country, another continent, and while no pattern existed, his accent was predominately Irish, like a man always returning home between trips.

The man lifted his right hand again and sent bolt after bolt at the school. Lightning splattered on the stone, leaving scorch marks on the castle like the scars of a pox. Sparks rained into the courtyard to glitter on the grass like dew—all it would take was a dry patch to start a fire. With every lance of lightning, the man’s form brightened as if caught in the brilliance of a strobe. Light glinted on a framework of iron that surrounded his left eye, which was hidden behind an emerald lens. Every flash revealed another detail of the man: his dark, greased back hair, his fair skin with an almost invisible freckling across his cheeks, his right eye as blue as the most flawless sapphire, and the long leather coat buttoned shut over his clothing.

“Come out so I might kill you!” commanded the Artificer.

white / Fire rune.
red / Warrior rune.
yellow / Barrier rune.
blue / Dawn rune.

Ah, Distol Beoulve what could you possibly be doing up at this hour?! How do you expect to maintain that strict diet, exersize routine and pool cleaning duties if you’re tossing and turning in the midnight hour? Oh? Was it the girl with the purple hair again . . . who is she?


He sluggishly stood and ruined his thoroughly thought out clothing routine by fashioning himself in tomorrow’s attire of the simple t-shirt and jeans and prized Rune Guard which never left his right hand; Distol adored the current weather. A walk –yes, a walk. It was at such times he met exquisite individuals like Bruxa Vipir and Hunni Genova. Prior to escaping the males dormatory he had gathered up his celluar device and prized set of headphones. Oh, and of course his Col Moschin double-edged knife –you could never be sure with Caislin Hallows. Distol strolled out of his dorm room at the slumberous tempo and simply wandered with no clear amibition or calculation which was odd for the fautless youth who broke nearly everything down to mathematics and viewed the realism in everything. It almost seemed as if something unexplainable had set a predetermied course for the boy; destiny and inevitability had a hand in his sloppy footwork and were the guides to the razed courtyard. His thoughts were contested as they hustled to possibility to possibility. A firm grip seized the cord of the headphones and he tore them from his earlobes to catch the final words of the declaimer.

Distol became enraged.

He took the commination as an exclusive threat –this was the writing on the wall he had dreamt of. Distol had strategies for every encounter, but an ablaze courtyard must’ve slipped his mind. He had encounters plotted within his bedroom, the gymnasium, the pool and various other locations . . . a mistake that would require a remedy.

Kill me?

Ah, how such a question plagued Distol. It changed him –no, not physically, but mentally he was berserk. Fighting was part of him and it was something he would actually search for. He briefly tasted it when the Mathematics class was failing and he desired to pursue a fellow student, but was unentertained and allowed it to pass, but this –it was a golden invitation. “I am here,” stated a much different male. He stood elevated on an overpass that looked down upon the courtyard. “You seek a fight?” Quite the sadistic grin corrupted flawless features and he then leapt over the railing. A dangeorus jump, however, Distol prepared his body and landed with a powerful thud, one leg lowering to the grass where the flames had not yet spread.

Nothing else needed to be stated. Distol wanted a fight and within this man he saw the potential for an enemy. Distol did not judge his worth or skill as he saw past such things, but instead he saw a test. If he was destined to be the victor than he was more powerful than this man and that was the only thing he desired; strength.

Neihem had just - after removing the small, lazy gryphon from his pallet - lay down for a nice half-drunken nap. His consciousness was still drifting in and out when the booming voice and the sound of something large crashing against the castle walls bolted both him and Ashuur upright. The gryphon was a black blur as he tore out of their shelter in the garden and flew off over the wall to survey the situation. Neihem was glad he hadn't taken his robe off. He struggled to his hooves and grabbed his ever-present staff, as well as tucking the obsidian dagger into his belt. By the time he exited the shelter, Ashuur was back. The bond they shared conveyed confusion and chaos outside the walls. The smell of burning.

Neihem stepped out of the front doors of the castle to witness hell on earth. Fire was everywhere, burning the beautiful trees and bushes that surrounded the long pool that greeted everyone who graced the doors of this place. Fury rose in him, reflected in his familiar pet. He witnessed the man Distol, whom he had only seen in passing a couple of times, shouting back at the man Neihem surmised was responsible for igniting the front courtyard.

He stepped up and placed a hand on the shoulder of Distol. "Need a hand?" the satyr said, his other hand extended, palm outward, toward the intruder.

The man’s lips twisted into a sneer as the youth leapt over the railing to confront him. “Best run along, lad,” growled the Artificer, “This be no place for a wee one like you.” The ruddy glow of a nearby fire flickered across the youth, illuminating his features in the darkness, and those of the other that approached to lend support.

“Abomination,” seethed the man at the sight of the Satyr and its hawkish companion. The Artificer lifted his right hand, lighting crackling between his fingertips, and snapped his fingers. Seconds later, a trio tinny caws announced the presence of his contraptions scattered around the courtyard. The leaves of one tree rustled, a glint of brass twitched within a cage of branches. Another flapped its wings as it settled on one of the castle’s gutters beside a leering gargoyle, its metal claws grating the stone. The third fluttered to the Artificer’s shoulder, landing with an artificial chirp—the tinkling of a bell—and twisted its neck to survey the courtyards scene with two emerald eyes as small as a man’s shirt buttons.



As the fires sparked by his lightning spread through the courtyard, flames lapping at the masonry of Caislin Hallows like hungry devils, he threw his head back and laughed. “Are these your stalwart defenders, Ailis? I expected better knights!” roared the man, gaze floating above the pair to the darkened windows of the university.

If this very confrontation had existed years ago and this unfamiliar would embrace Distol Beoulve as he had yet another conflict would erupt, however, Distol’s standpoint was never without change and whilst standing and discovering the uninvited intrusion of the unknown Neihem Steelwynd, Distol hesitated for a juncture and relied on his impeccable brainwork. Distol had his eyes set on this ‘gate-crasher’ and nothing would change that fact. He was no patriot for the academy nor was he its protector –hell, he hadn’t even met the mysterious overseer this man cried out for, however, he had met Gunnar Sigmund who was curiously absent. It seemed such a man would never miss a chance to sweep the dust off of those six-shooters and prove his worth, but this was Distol’s chapter apparently and it involved he and this satyr.

He suffered from muteness for a few moments as he was spoken to by the infiltrator. A strategy . . . a plan. I’ll not be outshined. “I’ll handle this pompous bastard,” Distol declared in a haughty tone. He took a few prideful steps ahead, shifting his neck so it felt alleviation as it cracked. Next came his knuckles, crunching them in preparation. “These fires will spread if left alone,” he spoke while distancing himself away from the entryway and the satyr even more with each step carrying him closer to the Artificer, “I leave them to you.”

Vehemence: oh how he missed it. He could feel dynamism surge within, the mechanical energy energize and circulate until his right hand would detonate; a ferocious conflagration germinating and enveloping the diuturnal metalic armored fist. “Fear has you rambling, old man and I’m not one for chitchat.” His eyes adjusted to the spawned triad with some irritation, but perhaps the satyr would triumph with ousting the flames and set his eyes on the intruders metal creatures.

Distol’s left hand dipped to his side and digits embraced the Col Moschin and revealed his weapon. It was a fine blade; the finest Distol had found thus he owned it. Combining the thirteen and a half inches of the double-serrated blade long knife with honorable Eskrima arts Distol was an expert at melee combat without even mentioning his quickness, cleverness and discovered command over Runic Energy in the form of a Shockwave.

"Enjoy yourself and call should you need assistance," Neihem said, half under his breath, as he closed his eyes and began summoning a drenching rainstorm. He knew it would be dangerous for the two combatants, but if Distol contained half of the fighting prowess he appeared to, Neihem did not think the newcomer stood a chance.

As the rain clouds swept in at an unearthly speed and the rains began to fall, Neihem lowered himself to the earth with his staff across his knees. His hands rested on his knees and his head tilted back to greet the oncoming squall. Ashuur prowled into the shadows, awaiting the time he felt he would be needed.

The green glow from the focusing staff brightened and the light drizzle soon became a downpour. Fires began to sizzle and crackle as they slowly shrank. He hoped it was not too late to keep the fire from spreading, and he did not know how long he could hold the storm here. Perhaps others would heed the call to defend the castle from this madman. Whoever he was.

As Neihem impregnated dark clouds that blotted out the light of the stars and moon, veiling the world in a deep darkness save for the flickering light of the flames scattered around the courtyard, with his magic and they birthed droplets of rain, the Artificer’s uncovered eye narrowed on the mage. Given his lightning, the patches of rain would prove problematic to him. When the first fiery expanse was extinguished with a sputter and hiss, the Artificer charged, his heavy boots thumping across the fountain wall for a few steps before he dropped to the courtyard ground below, his pace never slowing despite the change of terrain or elevation. His speed was superhuman, steps pounding the pavement and earth like the frantic pulse of a frightened heart (2x Speed).

The youth separated the Artificer from his true target, but he was of little consequence and would be easily dealt with first. Distol would be just as easily as forgotten as his taunt. When the Artificer had begun to run, the three brass birds fluttered from their respective perches, including the one from his shoulder, and began circling the young man. Their shimmering forms revolved above him, gliding on glinting wings. Suddenly, one dove from three o’clock in respect to the Distol, plunging towards him with a raptor’s speed. Seconds before it entered the youth’s reach, it unfurled its wings like a parachute and flapped them to hover. Its break sparkle with electricity, the only warning before it launched a knife of lightning towards him, aimed at his left shoulder (Electric Dart--Piercing Attack, T1, Air). The other two remained aloft, twirling above Distol, watching and waiting for an opportunity to strike. The contraptions were also leery of the lurking gryphon, though their emerald eyes pierced any shadows (Night Sight) in which it hid, voiding any advantage it might gain from the stealth it thought it had. The pair still aloft was ready to intercept the miniature beast.

Counting on the distraction, the Artificer lowered into a slide as his momentum carried him forward, not unlike an American baseball player running for home, with his leading foot positioned to slam into Distol’s shin with bone-shattering force (2x strength). As he neared his first victim, the Artificer lifted his gloved hand, the metal of his cestus glimmering with sparks of electricity. A blast of electricity, a cone that extended roughly ten feet, shot from his palm, centered on the youth’s chest—even if he moved, it would be hard to completely escape the attack’s spread (Electric Blast--Orb Attack, T2, Air). Ready for the young man’s collapse, the Artificer already had his other hand ready to catch the wrist of the lad’s knife hand or the knife itself should he lose his grip. In the event that the Distol threw the knife at him as he neared, the Artificer would simply sacrifice the electric charge stored in his cestus to deflect the projectile with the power of the blast.

(Additional statistics gained : 0.75 strength(now at 2.00)(Warrior rune)-- passive.)

With Caislin Hallow’s champions absent the burden fell ‘pon the shoulders of this fearless defiant, but it merely seemed that way. Distol’s pursuit of conflict was ridiculous, but perhaps facing such a foe would be the lesson he needed to commit to memory –or instead be humbled by such a ridiculous display.

You see, there is an immeasurable difference between a prepared battler and one who generates craziness and absurdity by brutishly conjoining a multitude of attacks. Distol used his mind over robustness and did not base his calculations on the very wings of a substitute bird. Speaking of which . . . Distol was ever watchful. His eyes darted from the man and his hostile familiars and he was well aware of their positions as they became mobile. The first attack –the electrical/air discharge from the bird would not became forgotten, but instead avoided. It had made its attack as its owner approached so the quick-footed youth’s mobility revealed itself at a duplicated acceleration of The Artificer himself. Following his unexpected dash to the right, Distol Beoulve lifted his right hand, whipping it as if uppercutting a ghostly opponent, but the factual aftereffect was a fluctuation. Immediately the air around the bird-like creation became harsh and a noticeable crimson stains rushed towards it as it made it’s avoided attack and floated after it’s plummeting. Distol’s hand quickly returned to a defensive location as his eyes captured The Artificer’s approach and with no delay mocked the man, legs igniting into a sprint.

Runic Shockwave used - 'those in the air are kocked five feet away from the character using it in the direction of the shockwave. All effected characters suffer damage from a minor concussive force from the shockwave and any subsequent damage from falling...'

Everything seemed to occur at the same time. As Distol ran, The Artificer shifted into that slide with his favorable foot ahead. Distol’s thinking found this ‘slide’ interesting, but it was the second electrical/air-based assault that nearly overwhelmed Distol, but a life-saving bulwark seized Distol’s anatomy and appeared to swallow the magical attack suddenly, but afterwards the barrier vanished as if it too had been beaten by the attack.

(Barrier Rune used(replenishes in 5 minutes(or posts).)-- generates an effect similar to Medium Barrier, blocks both tier 1 and tier 2 spells.

Now came the fun. Distol had cancelled out The Artificer’s pitiful tricks and (primarily with his left leg)leap –yes, leap, his foot flawlessly aimed to address the leading limb The Artificer heavily relied on. If successfully contacted, Distol would jump a second time(also mainly with his left foot) and use the additional ‘push’ or force from The Artificer to not only jump over him, but allow his right leg which had been amassing strength to brutally kick forward and hopefully meet The Artificer head-on as the man remained traveling into it.

It took nearly all of Neihem's concentration to hold such a massive storm in place. His black eyes opened to view the effects; the rain had begun to quell most of the flames in the courtyard. He contemplated summoning a bolt from the heavens to strike the intruder, but thought better of it. Lightning was never a very loyal friend and could just as well strike Distol as his attacker.

Upon further inspection, the rain did not seem to be hampering Distol in the least, so Neihem concentrated on bringing the storm up to its full potential in the hopes of reducing the stranger's vision and movement.

Spying the metal mockeries of nature fluttering around the courtyard, Neihem looked to his long-time shadow. "Ashuur, birds." The familiar bond did not require more than this. An ebon blur streaked across the courtyard, a deadly missile of fur, feathers, and razor-sharp talons locked onto the bird that Distol had just blasted out of his way.

We will not be lifting this block until the situation has be handled completely. Thank you for your patience.

Admin

I apologize for trying something new and attempting to move the forum's overall plot-line along. I will not make this mistake again, as I am closing this event/thread and leaving.

'twasn't your fault at all... apparently I was the one that was doing some autoing. My first RP in this format, so I'm the one that owes an apology. For what it's worth, it was fun while it lasted.