Sunday, January 27, 2008

Archmage Forum Posts

Tales from an age long gone.....

What follow are posts I made when I was one of the leaders of the Praetorian Crusaders, a role-playing Reincarnation guild. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I did playing the game that inspired me to write these mini-stories.

(Notes: 1. These are impromptu ones; I made them right before or after playing sessions in public cafes so they are not as polished as one might think they are. 2. One word here is an intellectual property of mine and I have replaced it with "lieutenant." 3. Except for Solanthar and Sylvrdark, all other names are not my creations but the names of guilds/characters of fellow Reincarnation players; some are downright weird :D . 4. The opinions of my character are not my personal opinion but are spoken in true role-playing fashion. I hope no members of the IA or Ronin guilds will take offense. 5. These were made as separate forum posts so they will have gaps among them. They follow a single guild war however.)

I think these posts were about a guild war we had with the IA guild.


Two figures scan the forests of an IA verdant mage. Where once stood verdant fields and towering trees, the landscape now has fused in a macabre way in shades of dead brown and festering purple. Its people ---- tiny specks seen from a distance ----- seem to be wandering around in a stupor as their forests and homeland slowly melt in a puddle of blight.

The mage named Sylvrdark turns to his companion, a Praetorian lieutenant. "It's done Slave of the Light." His companion merely nods, coldly satisfied at the spreading rot, taciturn as always. Then his robe-covered emaciated body stiffens and points to the horizon miles from the dying forests. Sylvrdark turns slightly and his eyes glow with holy light. He nods, expecting this.

"The Ronins come," he says "and while they are dishonorable, being the maw that grinds all those that fall from favor, they nevertheless have my respect as worthy opponents and formidable warriors. This is a siege we would do well to stay away from and do not need." With that the lieutenant makes a gesture and the Praetorians disappear.

The forests of the IceAge Verdant mage, now bracing the coming might of the Ronins, continue to melt, wilt, fester and die.


On another hilltop the mage named Sylvrdark materializes, this time with an ilithid. It is a different hilltop, miles away from the forests of McGravy, where he was sorely disappointed in the IA's successful dispelling of the lieutenant's spell, but the scenery was the same ----- a dying, writhing landscape.

"We'll make ssssssure it ssssticksss thisss time Ilitha'knosssss." The mind ripper and the Archmage keep a vigilant watch as the carefully placed sleepers inside the enemy realm do their work --- inside an invisible gigantic sphere of malignant magick that is marked only by the putrefying flora and fauna in its influence.

The towers of knowledge and vaults of arcana start to crumble.

Yes, Sylverdark thinks, I hope it sticks this time.


"Ilitha'knossss!!" the ilithid fairly screamed, "look!" All thoughout the land they stood guard over, the fauna starts to grow and prosper in a resurgence that approached chaos. As if on cue, peasants start to appear in large numbers though still sparse in relation to the realm they are desperately trying to revive.

The White-robed mage starts to cast a spell again. Sylvrdark once again feels the foul essence of the black wisps of growing energy he is conjuring forth when suddenly on the field below him and the mind ripper, a familiar figure appears. It quickly utters words of power. They could see the realm's nodes start to glow with pure white mana when a pall suddenly hits the surrounding area. The Praetorian lieutenant had recasted quicker.

For a fraction of a second, all is still as with an imperceptible silence the raging malevolence of a Death and Decay swirls into the hapless kingdom. Then the silence is destroyed with a loud boom as thirteen forts collapse; the nodes have continued to charge, innocently bringing about their owner's near demise.

The last of the settlers weren't so lucky. The nodes stop pulsating, but the damage is done.

"It'll stick now," Sylvrdark turns to his assistant, "though not in the fashion we had mistakenly foreseen." The mind ripper laughs, a sibilant laughter that echoes unheard in the desolation below.


Sylvrdark watches with grim satisfaction as 5 more forts crumble. In the valley near the borders of the stricken IA realm, the Praetorian lieutenant still maintained his spell that prevented the IA mage from breaking free of the deadly grasp of Death and Decay.

Only a single fort now remained.

"Come Bi'Marrzul", he says, beckoning the mind ripper, "he is inconsequential now. We have sieges to make on other IA magi more worthy of the might of our armies."

The Praetorian lieutenant remained, maintaining his hold on spells that slew all within the confines of their thrall.

One fort.

(Note: Hmmm, I don't know what was on my mind when I wrote this. Why'd the mind flayer stay? Lost, lost to the oceans of my turbulent memory the reason remains.)

(Note 2: Ah, I got it figured out now, there are three persons in the above narrative, Sylverdark --- who is also known as Solanthar ---, Bi'marrzul the Ilithid/Mind Flayer, and Fallenn, the Praetorian Lieutenant who is also known as Quel'thalaz.)


"As Dron, Quest and Suncrusher have betrayed us millennia ago, so now do their fold betray them." From the topmost observation chamber of Flarefortress, Sylvrdark watches the last of the rearguard of the armies of Yohan desert the realms of Suncrusher. "I may have abandoned the Ascendant Order because of this plane's imbalance of power but we see the Hand of indifferent Sun time and again eh Rhilanthos?" He turns to the Verdancy adept who was busy guzzling his flagon of lambanog. The two took in with satisfaction the ignominious disarray of the Ice Age's beleaguered lower magi.

"We share a rich history, Quest, Suncrusher, Dron, Uthiel and I." Sylvrdark pauses, reminiscing ages long gone. Then he smiles and says, "Why, you can almost write a play with it!"


A tugging in the fabric of the magical field prevalent in the plane cut short the mage's reverie. Even leagues away, they felt the last of Murmur's forts succumb to an offensive spell. Before Rhilanthos could react, a freezing cold that always accompanied the coming of the immortal known in this age as Fallenn billows across the chamber.

"He moved," the immortal lieutenant says simply, his first words ever spoken in this war.



Solanthar squats on the top of a hill, the Standard of Praetorius driven into the ground beside him. Fallenn had given it to the Ilitha'knos in the last hours of the war. Asked why, the lieutenant had simply shed off his battle armor and donned on the rotting black robes that had swathed him when he first came to Praetoria III and swore fealty to the Light. The crimson and black of Mage-monarch Uthiel swirls in the breeze. Solanthar looks at it with reverence and a tinge of nostalgia.

He stands up, unclenching his right fist, servos whining as the Gauntlet of Titan Strength unfolds. Its mana powerstones glint in the sun as the Hammer of Praetoria reaches out and pulls the Standard out of the ground effortlessly. Solanthar hefts it. "Years ago, I was given this gauntlet as a means to handle your great weight and use you not in just leading but in battle as well."

He gently murmurs words of activation only he knew and with a sound akin to that of a drawn sword, the Standard tranforms itself into a giangtic battle axe thrice the height of a man.

"Only I know your secrets Shadowsmite," Solanthar says grimly, "and now we are complete as Fallen is, having returned to his Nether ways." He scans the horizon, his eyes glowing again with holy light.

"Now we wait for our Mage-monarch's command." Behind and above him, thousands of angels in crystalline armor hover, giga-blades unsheathed.