Ranger v. Shadowed

[Ranger]

Ranger felt the blades move in a precarious fashion, borderline recklessness drove his opponent’s attacks and made him move and act in a completely unpredictable fashion. Most would have allowed the blade to catch their arms, the intellectual and physical prowess necessary to deflect and in turn shift the momentum and flow of the battle not within the scope of most human’s minds. This thing was neither human, nor common. The drow new both as soon as the gauntlet struck him across the face with a blow that made his head snap to the side. A thin line of blood trickled from the already tingling point of impact. It was a feeling that made him reel, a feeling that forced him to stumble back like a drunkard after a long night. His normally sure footed, graceful stride was broken. Staccato, unsure steps and a half turn bringing his profile and a single sword to bear against his opponent.

The beast was hardly finished with his onslaught though. Even as the prophet recovered and turned his bloodied lip and readied weapon towards his opponent he was being assaulted. In the darkness of the night, with the waning moons gentle touch tenderly stroking the face of Althanas, Ranger could see the milk white skin of his opponent. The drows own white knuckled grip on the hilt of his blades mimicked the man’s façade, for completely different reasons. Clad in black he moved like the Harbinger of Death, a corporeal messenger of Björmund the Gate Keeper of the Antifirmament. If the keeper of the Death-Gate had sent a herald to the lands of Keribas as a message, the prophet’s enlightenment was assumedly that the Thayne, in all their infinite wisdom, willed for his death. “How am I to fulfill the trials of the Thayne, the tribulations of Hromagh, if the first foe I face is to be the one to bring me to my final peace?”

The man moved forward to strike yet again, unrelenting and fearless. His blade was thrust forward. Instead of parrying the attack as he first had, the prophet instead retreated from it. The sword found empty air to empty baseless hate into. Unlike Ranger, the air did not protest the sudden swipe. It gave a sharp and deadly whisper to report the efficiency and strength relayed through the thrust. Once again the deft command of a defensive and waiting stance was assumed.

A follow through did not come, but a charge of electric magic suddenly and nearly instantly took the drow by complete surprise. The mammoth like man had magic at his command to accompany his adroit skill with the blade. His weapon was plunged into the earth, and what followed was an eruption that shook the ground as effectively as a minor earthquake. Soil and soft loam with patches of emerald grass rained down on a shield of pure darkness Ranger focused on. The defensive struggle continued on further as a wave of electricity made contact with the shadows and forced the drow to a knee.

He placed both of his blades of Hromagh before him. The dual, crossed blades were a protection against magic, created to cut through magic as well as act as a shield against the raw offensive power. In front of both of them the powers of N’jal were his first hope, a bastion and shelter. To rely on the Banished Goddess was a power he did not wish to require. The manipulation of light was his primary power, originally a blessing of a false god which in turn was truly the might of the Thayne being worked through him.

“Hromagh,” he called out in his time of need. “Guide my hands and let me bring honor to you, not through humility but through your divine wrath and pure fury.” As he finished his short prayer he rose and let his shield fall. At his feet were three daggers, falling to the edge of the undisturbed land as if they had been suspended after being caught by the shadow wrought shelter. He paid them little heed, instead focusing his silver eyes on the depression his opponent had produced. All around him, scattered in every direction the still crackling raw ore and mineral deposits sizzled their disgust at the destruction caused.

“Brother of the Thayne, Ambassador of Björmund,” the words were spoken confidently, with a drawn visage of determination masking the disquietude the prophet had deep in his mind. “I am Ranger Nailo, Tel’Amrach – Soul Keeper, Prophet of the Thayne, Second to the great clan of the Red Hand, and devout disciple of Hromagh. You stand to gain nothing from my death, from my loss, but I have the promise of my Lord and a path to continue to follow which will bring the Rise of the Golden Age of the Gods. For that I cannot, will not allow you to take my life this night.”