Zonorhc

These three were present when the monster attacked the port. Odd... Trouble seems to follow them. Who are they? Marcus shifted slightly, taking care not to make any noise. He relaxed a little, but kept his crossbow aimed at Alexsander. "I agree with Aming," said Armaneth, "we really should try and get onto the main island soon." Alexsander nodded. "He's right. It's not healthy for us to stay out here. We're still being watched, though it doesn't feel as malevolent as it should. I'm sensing something along the lines of... curiosity?" "What are you on about?" asked Aming as they continued walking. "We're being watched. Whoever it is, they're good at staying quiet. I can feel that they're there, but I don't hear a sound. I don't feel hostility, but you can never be too careful." Alexsander readied his bow. "Still, it's not hard to be curious as to who it is, or what their motives -" he cut his statement short, and suddenly tensed. "There's something else." Armaneth and Aming glanced frantically around. "Not another useless lackey," muttered Armaneth. "Far from useless," replied a sinister voice from the rocks above. "I, M'xtralnioth, half-dragon progeny of the black dragon Kras'nuxoth, have been sent to destroy you, and that I shall." The figure stood tall, his green-black cloak flapping in the wind. A vaguely human face adorned his head, though forward-curving black horns jutted from his cheeks, and his skin was stretched tight, being absent in some places, leaving the bone exposed. His eyes burned with a cold hunger, and he held a single longsword, though he held something in his left hand, apparently sets of wooden orbs bound by cord. Alexsander let loose an arrow, barely missing their assailant's head, and both Armaneth and Aming dropped to the rocky ground as sets of bolas wrapped around their arms and legs. Armaneth swore loudly. M'xtralnioth leapt down from his perch, taking an arrow in his left shoulder and knocking down Alexsander as he landed. "I had been led to believe that you were a strong group," M'xtralnioth gloated as he pinned Alexsander down with a foot, holding his longsword to the blind archer's neck. "I am displeased at the lack of a challenge. Nevertheless, I shall feast on your corpses." Marcus crouched and took aim at the half-dragon. Interested in Alexsander's abilities, he would not let the blind archer die so easily. He quickly loaded a special bolt into the crossbow, one fitted with a rounded head designed to quietly incapacitate rather than kill. "Feast on this, scum," he called out as he let fly, striking M'xtralnioth in the temple, knocking him to the ground, unconscious. He approached the downed Alexsander and helped him up, before drawing his dagger and cutting off the bolas binding Armaneth and Aming. "You should tie that one up," he said, pointing to the unconscious half-dragon. "If you don't have any rope, I have some in my pack." He noted the surprised looks on the trio's faces. He added, extending his hand, "Oh, by the way, I am Kiran Amiel. Nice to meet you."

Smudge, Blur, Sharpen, Negative, brush in the white for the eyes then Blur that as well.

It's all very "there-but-not-there"-ish. :?

Marcus returned to the common room a little under a quarter of an hour later, and found Emlar mopping the last of the goblins' blood from the floor. The furniture, it seemed, had been returned to its original state earlier, and his unnamed assailant from before sat bound and gagged in a corner, feebly kicking and making muffled sounds. "I do not believe this would look too well if the authorities arrive, master Emlar," said Marcus, waving a hand towards the man in the corner, "considering how he has been bound in a fashion which would suggest that the one who had control of the rope is trained in subduing and restraining captives." The barkeep grinned. "Nothing much escapes you, master..." he trailed off, raising an eyebrow in enquiry. Marcus smiled. "Amiel. Kiran Amiel." Best not to let your identity slip out, he remembered. "Master Kiran," repeated Emlar with a nod. "I may have indulged in some rather, shall we say, unorthodox business in the past. I have settled down of course, and am perfectly happy here in Draynor with my daughter." Marcus' smile widened. "Of course," he said. Hearing boots grinding the dirt outside, he added with a wave to the bar, "You should hide that crossbow you keep over there a little better. It does not give a very good sense of hospitality. Try to keep your spare bolts under the bar, as well. Oh, and I would advise agaisnt that mace you have hidden behind the bottles - it's far too large to use in the event of a serious fight in here, and not very easily drawn." Emlar smiled again as he turned to tend to the bar. Marcus returned to his former table, and pretended to be napping, as the door opened, and several rough-looking men came in, some slightly bruised, and all wearing matching tabards. Soldiers, he thought. Muddy boots... Fresh into town. Black tabards... Khariddian army. Two to the left, barefoot with no colours... Sailors from Port Sarim. He was satisfied with what he found with that one glance, and sat still, listening in on conversations. "Nasty stuff earlier at the docks," one sailor remarked. "Huge beast attacked and destroyed a boat, luckily enough, two or three people fought it off. Nasty stuff." "I'd burn before I could identify what that thing was, though," the other chimed in, "but those people looked fairly strong, and they were heading to Entrana or something." Entrana? Interesting. You might want to check that out later, Marcus. Suspicious to flee a battlezone. Without a sound, he stood and returned to his room. He spent a few minutes oiling his rapier and dagger, and made sure that all his gear was in his backpack. His waterskin was there, as were his rations for the journey. A fifty-foot coil of rope lay in the bag as well, along with a grappling hook, climbing gear, several changes of clothes and a fresh case of crossbow bolts. Picking up all his possessions, he returned to the common room, left some coins on the bar and walked outside, ignoring the slight downpour. He noted that it was an hour and a half till dusk, and a full moon was due out tonight. Might be a little slow on foot. Appropriate a horse. Fishermen's boats should be coming in to Port Sarim. Commandeer one. Entrana isn't hard to find. Marcus arrived at the docks of Port Sarim an hour later, with enough light for him to see by and enough shadows for him not to be seen. He was thoroughly soaked, and his legs ached a little from the ride. The horse he had taken seemed to be tired as well. Not bothering to tie it to a post or take it to a stable, he deftly found a small, swift-looking fishing boat, noting it as the Swooper, property of Captain Thresnor. He quickly loosened the anchoring rope, and pushed off from the dock with a long pole. He set to maintaining the sails, and, taking his bearings from the port town, set a course for Entrana. It was a little over thirty minutes of favourable wind conditions and some course corrections that Marcus spotted a long chain of rocky outcroppings leading to a larger island. He picked out three figures on the rocks, though he did not wish to approach just yet. He raced ahead of them on the waves, confident that his appropriated boat had not been spotted. Finding a beach, he grounded the fishing vessel and ran along the predicted course of the three he had seen, and laid low behind some rocks, awaiting their approach, crossbow loaded and at the ready.

The relatively new White Knight Inn and Tavern in the village of Draynor was unexpectedly quiet, taking into account the time of day - which was mid-afternoon - and the current patronage. Marcus sat in a corner close to the fireplace, and marked three patrons who would be likely to cause trouble; one at the bar, a half-goblin, if one would note his slightly off-colour skin, sloping brow and tapering ears; another at the bar, a full-blooded goblin, not exactly taking pains to hide himself or his short sword; and a man at a table about fifteen feet away from him, whose eyes darted about, surveying the common room. There was a slight drizzle outside, as there had been since Marcus arrived earlier in the day. The roads from Lumbridge were just a little muddy, and he had been accosted by a would-be bandit. Surveying the patrons of the White Knight again, he silently cursed at this rural end of Misthalin. The barkeep and proprietor of the White Knight had earlier introduced himself as Emlar, and was a jovial, heavyset man of around forty, if Marcus' estimation was correct. He stood behind the bar, cleaning mugs and plates for the evening meal. From the smell coming from the kitchen, Emlar's daughter, Iris, was preparing geese. It was poor fare, though considering the supplies required by the standing militia, it was comparatively rich. Marcus' thoughts dwelled on the recent battle he had heard of. With respect to the circumstances and conditions regarding the western roads, he estimated that his journey to Kandarin would be delayed at least a week or two. Marcus chafed at the thought. He caught the stare of the man with the darting eyes, who quickly averted his gaze, to observe the two at the bar. Marcus curiously followed suit. The half-goblin had his tankard raised high, and was closely scrutinizing the contents. "Not pure ale," he said to Emlar. "This ale dirty. Demand new ale, on the house." The barman glared at him for the accusation, and the pure-blood laughed. "Half-breed no can take ale! Half-breed head too big for his shoulders! No stomach for a bit of dirt? Me thinking COURT-BRED half-bree - OOF!" The half-goblin struck the pure-blood with his still-full tankard, knocking the smaller greenskin off his stool. With a startled cry as the half-goblin advanced, the pure-blood tumbled away, drawing his sword and rubbing his jaw. Emlar stood calmly, one hand remaining under the bar, possibly to draw a weapon in case he was assaulted or too much damage was caused to his establishment. As it was, the only damage that could be caused was the death of any of the two troublemakers, so he left those alone. The two combatants exchanged attacks for a few moments, none finding their mark, before the man with the darting eyes stood, drawing his dagger. "Stop fighting, now! I command it!" Marcus perked up. "Don't interrupt. It's fun to watch this. Besides, you've no authority over them." The man spun around to regard him, bewildered anger in his cold blue eyes. "INSOLENCE! I will not tolerate your questioning my authority! I am... I am..." he paused for a moment, searching for a likely title. "I am a COURTIER OF VARROCK!" "Really? You don't behave like it. Besides, I'd recognize you if you were. Trying to cause trouble for the fun of it? Sit down. Be quiet." The man rushed at marcus with his dagger, but the courtier sprang to his feet, kicking his chair at his assailant and drawing his dagger in one fluid motion. The man jumped to the side just in time to avoid tripping over the chair, though he did not duck quickly enough to dodge the tankard that flew from Marcus' hand, striking him in the face and sending him to the floor. He quickly got to his feet, but found Marcus coming at him, dagger in hand. Marcus halted his advance, and pushed a table aside to allow more space for movement. The two combatants circled each other for a moment, before the half-goblin fell through the air, landing between them, with the pure-blood leaping over a table towards him, lunging with the shortsword, catching the half-goblin as he stood, plunging the blade into his stomach. The half-goblin clawed at the steel in his gut, gurgling as his blood poured from the wound as well as his mouth. His eyes rolled up into his head, then, slipping off the blade, he fell to the floor with a meaty thud. The goblin spat on the corpse, before turning to walk back to the bar. With a startled cry, he jerked as the man plunged his dagger into his back. He fell without another sound. "That wasn't particularly honourable," Marcus said pointedly to the man. "Staring down a goblin before you run him through is one thing. Stabbing him in the back as he walks away peacefully? Hell, that's just plain cowardly. I'm surprised you haven't - WHOA!" Marcus dodged to the side just in time to avoid the man's dagger, which flew through the air, lodging into the far wall. Surprised and off-balance, he fell to the ground as the man tackled him. His vision flashed red as he was struck in the face with a fist, and he retaliated with a knee to the man's groin. He was rewarded with a pained grunt as the man rolled off him, clutching the spot where Marcus' knee had struck. Marcus knocked him out with the pommel of his dagger, before heading up to his room to replace his ale-splashed clothes. He barely noticed the wide grin on Emlar's face as he mounted the stairs. He was too worried that the brawl would attract the attention of the authorities. He did not like being questioned, much less by a watchman or an upstart military commander trying to assert his authority.

This is turning into a routine for when I have a lot more spare time than usual. Anyway, it's a pair of rangers this time, but I didn't use pen or photoshop. Enjoy!

Guess I shouldn't have put the cloth on his belt?

It's amazing what you can do with a relatively small amount of time, a pencil, pen and Photoshop... So, that's my take on a paladin. I guess I can improve on it a little, but I'm a little lazy.

Do you expect anything better of an internet service mass-marketed to the American public of all ages?

Abbreviations in speech ruin the atmosphere of fantasy games. How would you feel if Aribeth in Neverwinter Nights spoke in abbreviations? It's ridiculous when people abbreviate words in forum posts, as well. You've got all the time in the world to make sure your post is at least coherent, with proper spelling and grammar, not to mention punctuation. Typing fast and sounding like a moron doesn't make you cool.

How old are you? It takes a while to begin to appreciate the social aspects of schooling, and the education will be helpful later. I don't know about the American school system, but generally, it WILL help in whatever career you will take. When you know what career you want to take as you grow up, you'll know what subjects you'll want to study at school. Knowing this, NEVER take a subject you're not completely interested in over something that you are, no matter how much pressure parents put on you, as it'll harm your performance in the long run. You say your sister is an artist, and thus didn't require schooling? There are courses in drama offered at most schools, and they develop technique, and act as a buffer against the self-consciousness common in people. Unless you have a large amount of natural talent, you will want to take a course in that. You also say your sister's a musician. She had to learn that. The violin isn't exactly the type of instrument you pick up and know instantly how to play. I'm not saying I know exactly what I'm talking about there - I'm a woodwind player - but I guarantee you, music requires a lot of study as well. That said, the social aspects are normally more enjoyable than the academic. You meet friends in school. You develop relationships with other people of your age. Friends are important in life, unless you want to be completely detached from society. You don't have to be in performing arts or sporting groups to develop friendships, though those activities are encouraged to help you develop more than one circle of friends. Believe you me, you'd probably rather be in school than not doing anything with all that time.

You have to stop being so protective. She knows what she's doing, and if she screws it up, at least she'll know better next time.

Oriel awoke with a splitting headache. It was as if he had just been assaulted with a club - no, six - then robbed of something. His consciousness, obviously, but there was the feeling of something else missing; it was just too difficult to focus his thoughts on anything. He had been here for days, or possibly weeks or months or years - he was not exactly sure. He was not exactly sure of where 'here' was, for that matter. Some days he was not sure of anything, and the only certainty in life was that he still existed, though he did sometimes doubt that - not a soul gave much attantion to him or anyone else, so his own existence was nothing more that a debatable certainty at best. Or maybe not; Oriel's senses had been relaying inconsistent information lately - or was that just his mind? He was almost certain there was indeed a dim lantern in the room, on a desk just past the bars of his cell. Now that he though about it, he was actually certain that he was in a cell. He half-heartedly raised a hand to rub his aching head, almost certain that a manacle - yes, he did have a pair of those, he was sure - would restrain him. The dull sound of heavy iron striking old stone made him jump. He frantically scampered to one side of the cell, and another of the sounds sent his heart jumping up his throat. He reached for his dagger, then realised it wasn't there on his belt where he had left it. At this point, adrenaline pumping through his body, he realized that his manacles had slipped off, and by the lantern's dim illumination, Oriel noticed them swinging where they had been bolted to the stone, clinking and thumping as they struck the wall. He stepped out of his cell, barely noting that the door was wide open, and tentatively picked up the lantern, almost certain that its rusty handle would break. Just as he turned away from the desk, his eyes caught sight of a book. He felt that he should ignore it, but at the same time, he felt a compulsion to read its contents. He gave in to the latter. The book appeared ancient. Its brown leather jacket was smoothed with age, and bore no title. He opened it carefully, unsure of whether he should touch the pages lest he destroy them. It appeared to be a diary, but only had three entries in it. Something about the handwriting was oddly familiar to him, and he found it quite an easy task to read. At the house. Nothing here. The house is empty. Don't know why I even bothered to take on the contract. At least the pay is good for so little work. It's late. I should spend the night here. He said not to sleep in any of the upstairs bedrooms. Normally I'd follow instructions, but the only alternatives are the dungeon, the study and the sitting room. I don't like any of them. Study and sitting room are too big for my tastes, and the walls feel like they're watching you. Don't want to sleep in the entrance hall either, can't stand the hellish shadows the glass paintings on the ceiling make. Don't like the dining room, the mural on the ceiling disturbs me. Definitely won't sleep on the balcony. Second day in the house. Barely slept. Felt like the walls were watching. Always feel like the walls are watching. Could have sworn the glass above the entrance hall was shifting last night. Might have just been the clouds passing over the moon. Won't sleep upstairs anymore. I'll try the dungeon next time. Have to search the house again to check if I missed anything, anyway. The whole place gives me the creeps. Feel like there's something in here. I'll try to remember the rest of those things he said. Don't sleep in any of the upstairs bedrooms. Don't touch the black books in the study. Don't touch the glass after the sun sets. Don't stare at the walls. No idea why. Broken one of those already, and I didn't like it. Better leave tomorrow. Last day in the house. Barely remembered I was going to leave today. Dungeon's so cold I can't think. Definitely nothing in the house. Waste of time. Think I touched one of those black books anyway. Can't be that bad. Better get ready to leave. Hope my horse hasn't go - the flowing hand ended abruptly, and was replaced by a more jagged, rough script - YOU DO NOT LEAVE. YOU STAY. YOU FORGET. YOU REMEMBER. YOU LIVE. YOU DIE. I WILL WATCH YOU. I WILL MAKE YOU STAY. I WILL MAKE YOU LIVE. I WILL MAKE YOU FORGET. I WILL MAKE YOU REMEMBER. I WILL TORMENT YOU. ARISHNETHA K'THUN ARISHNETHA K'THAKNA O-SIL RGUSH TLI'AST. DGRUSKNA ISK-ISK HARGRUUMTS NAVENDIS ORASHK- Oriel shut the book. He realized that he had been shouting as he read the foul text. Something in the letters chilled him to the bone, and he found that he could barely stand. He shook his head to clear it. Why was he feeling like this? He faintly remembered shouting a few moments ago, but not about what. Thinking nothing of it, he mounted the stairwell in the opposite corner of the room. He opened the door at the top, and found himself in what looked like an entrance hall. The vast chamber was made completely of marble, with several pillars supporting the elaborate stained glass ceiling above. The panes of glass were all uniformly dark blue around a single, clear, lens-like circle in the exact middle, and became lighter towards the edges. A shifting, perhaps caused by the flickering light of his lantern, or possibly the clouds moving over the moon above, caused a shape to form - something Oriel could not identify, but it made his skin crawl, and aroused a such a terror inside him that he almost collapsed. The terrible visage disappeared after a moment, and Oriel wondered why he felt so weak. He vaguely remembered something about a horrifying image, but thought nothing of it. He turned back and descended the stairwell. It was too late to go around and explore, anyway. Besides, his lantern looked like it was almost burnt out. He set it on the desk again, and went back into his cell. Oriel awoke with a splitting headache. It was as if he had just been assaulted with a club - no, six - then robbed of something. His consciousness, obviously, but there was the feeling of something else missing; it was just too difficult to focus his thoughts on anything. He had been here for days, or possibly weeks or months or years - he was not exactly sure. He was not exactly sure of where 'here' was, for that matter. Some days he was not sure of anything, and the only certainty in life was that he still existed, though he did sometimes doubt that.

Once more, for old times' sake! Name: Marcus Du'Gace Combat focus: Rapier Secondary focus: Crossbow Marcus hails from the lesser-known Du'Gace family of the Misthalin nobility. Taught from an early age the intricacies of duplicity and espionage, Marcus' duty to his family was to be a spy within the Camelot court. Now of age - at twenty-four years - he is nearing the end of his journey to Camelot, and is due to reach his destination within a week. Under the guise of a travelling duelist, he travels lightly and makes certain that it is impossible to track him within a city, keeping a low profile and giving false names, though no authorities are even aware of him. Standing at 6'2", with brown eyes and black hair, Marcus carries himself with a quiet, guarded nobility. He can trace his family line back to the now-legendary Zonorhc of the Royal Misthalin Lancers, but makes no outward sign that would indicate his heritage. He typically wears nondescript brown and black clothing, along with an ancient black cloak that, within the family, is said to have been worn by the Lancer himself. Marcus wears no jewelry on his person, save for a tiny brooch on his tunic which bears his family's crest, a double-bladed glaive of sapphire over an obsidian moon.