Forums » Fantasy Roleplay » A Fateful Journey (1x1, closed)

The sun did not shine on this day in Archaia. Jordan felt that the clouds were a bad omen, but that was superstition. So, he shoved those dark thoughts aside and focused on the task at hand: He was learning the art of prophesy. He sat in the middle of a round room in his small house, cold on the granite floor, sitting with his legs crossed. He focused his breathing and channeled the Magyras energy within himself. Then, he muttered a phrase in a stolen language: "Vayromeh o naxtuhra, taht meh pud oro mehsreh yparthe."

Suddenly, his voice changed to a dull, gravelly grumble.

Jordan's head slumped, and he slept against the stones for two hours. When he awoke, the words were clear in his memory, and the meaning was clear. He was going to deliver the scrolls, and he would die before he returned.

And he needed a companion.

Within the next hour, a sign had appeared on a board in the nearby hamlet:

A hooded figure made its way into the little village, the face obscured by shadow. The elven woman wearing the large cloak moved swiftly but delicately, her eyes scanning the area, searching. She needed more flour, for her dinner. The people here knew her, of course, but she was an odd woman, and often hid herself from them.

Every step purposeful, Azlea made her way to the center of the village, hoping to find her favorite vendor in his usual spot. She brushed past the message board on her way, and stopped, head turning to survey the board. Humans fascinated her, and the board always had something on it to entertain her.

It was then that she saw the message, asking for a brave adventurer. She crossed her arms over her chest, thinking. She'd been here for a long time, and nothing changed. Perhaps this was the opportunity for adventure she'd been waiting her whole life for.

Decided, Azlea turned on her heel and left the village, the villagers watching her as she left, curious.

Her legs carried her across the distance from the village to the mansion quickly, and it was not long before the woman stood in front of the door, her hand poised to knock. "Mr. Willow?" she called, her fist rapping on the door lightly but firmly.

The door was opened by a man who appeared to be quite young, despite the slight dusting of gray in his hair.

"Who is this?" he asked, his eyes dark.

The last time Jordan had posted something on that bulletin, he had wound up with a dying friend in a walled village populated by hellhounds. And although he did not know what would come of this journey, he was quite certain he did not want to go that way.

"Azlea Wolfsbane, at your service," the elven woman said, dipping down into a tiny curtsy. She pulled her hood back just enough to reveal a face with delicate features, large, inquisitive eyes the color of ripe plums, and just a glimpse of bright golden hair. "I'm here about the posting in the nearby village."

As she spoke, the woman's eyes studied the man in front of her, weighing his appearance in her mind; no opinion could be formed, however, until she knew more of his character.

"Oh, yes. I hardly expected anyone to be brave enough to accept that. Well, come in. We need to discuss this."

Jordan beckoned her into his house, where he led her to a small sitting room with a map set out.

"Would you like to know anything about where we are going? I can make it quick if you like."

Azlea followed him into the house, her eyes drifting over the interior. She was curious, about this man and about the posting. She looked back at him as he spoke.

"Of course. First things first, where are we going? And why?" Much as she loved dangerous adventures, a reason was always important.

"Simple answer: We're going to Hell."

Jordan set a scroll down on the table. It was old, incredibly old, made of ancient, yellowed leather, and on it was written a long-forgotten language.

"This scroll," Jordan said, "is the only scroll in existence that translates our tongue to Old Archaian, the eldest and most powerful of all the languages of power. It is now forgotten entirely except by those who have seen this scroll and lived to tell: Me. See, the language is powerful, but only a choice few can wield it properly. I quested out for it many years ago, with a friend I met the same way I have just met you. We traveled literally into Hell to slay a Hydra and claim the scroll, and soon after he died.

"My time is short. I fear this will be my last quest. My object is to return to the castle in the Fifth Realm, return the scroll, and return alive. To do that, we need to be at a small city a five hundred miles from here in a fortnight. It'll be hard riding, but we can make it if we leave soon. Do you have anything at your home you need to collect before we go?"