Kalanth
05-24-2008, 08:38 PM
A faint mist filled the air deep in the woodlands of Cyre. The sirens of war were far from this particular crop of trees where men gathered and discussed the tools of the trade. In the earth a small rise in the dirt gave entrance to a labyrinth of tunnels were magewrites manipulated the metal, stone, and wood into the sentient beings know as the Warforged. This was one of many House Cannith outposts that supplied the Cyrian army with the creations meant to replace men. Each design was different, but all carried a specific function. Some were meant to bolster the moral through spoken word and song, while others wielded mystic arts and healing powers. Most, however, were built with the simple function to kill with blade or bare hand.
Inside the tunnels supply crates were stacked high making it difficult to traverse the tunnels for those unfamiliar with the passages. This was both for function and defense, as the Cannith workers used the halls for storage and to prevent invaders from flowing into the tunnels with ease. White marble walls made the tunnels reflect the light of the Everbright lanterns with an elegant glow and the traces of black giving the appearance that the walls were filled with the blood of the earth. Cannith artificers toiled in the rooms, diligently working on their creations in the thick, hot air of the tunnels.
As the hour’s pass and hammer met anvil, a lone rider approached the encampment, pushing his steed forward in a mad rush. The rider was dressed in lose fitting clothes that barely covered the mark of making that marred his near perfect flesh. It was clear that the rider was haggard and beaten from the road as he struggled to bring his horse to rest. He fumbled about in his pouch as he pulled forth identification papers and presented them to the House Thurask guards that bared his progress. Nodding at the documents the guards pulled their halberds from the door and gave the man entrance to the facility. Wasting no time the rider made for a room deep in the labyrinth of tunnels where the commander of the outpost resided.
“Commander!” the sound of metal on metal as swords unsheathed to the unexpected arrival of another was the response to his cry.
Raising a hand, the Commander gave the order to lower swords. The room was filled with weathered wooden shelves lined with books nearly as old. Curled in the corner of the room an Iron Defender lazily watched the man that had entered the room. The furniture here was sparse and all of purely functional need. Accommodations that would please any artificer as they worked on whatever inventions came to mind. The Commander stood in the center of the room with robes of blue and gold flowing around his body. His fingers were clad with many rings and his pockets filled to capacity with scrolls and wands. The man looked old and wise, with silvery hair and wire thin glasses perched on his nose. When he moved he did so with a slow and cautious grace. Without a word the Commander took in the rider that had come to see him, scanning the figure with deep green eyes as though he were reading the instructions to some new arcane device.
“You seem distressed, Korin? Speak your words,” folding his hands into the sleeves of his robes, the Commander stood silent as he waited to hear what news had brought Korin in such a rush.
Korin straightened himself slightly and looking to the guards who had yet to return their blades, the rider gave the report to the Artificer before him, “Cyre rides to us, Commander Aaron. They have learned that we have been supplying Warforged to the Thranish military from within their borders and plan to have us hung for high treason.”
A slow nod confirmed that Commander Aaron heard the words and the man turned away from Korin. Withered and aged hands lifted scrolls and wands from the many pockets of his robes. Many of the scrolls bore the broken wax that once resembled the mark of the Church of the Silver Flame. As a lover would caress the skin of their mate the Artificer slid his fingers over the surface of the scrolls. With a sudden swiftness the Commander slammed a hand down onto the stack of scrolls and turned to Korin.
Pointing to the Korin with a single scroll in hand the Commander gave his order, “We have completed the first four of the order. Release them on their way with orders to find their owner, Bishop Xavier. We may not live the night, but Khyber take me before I let the Cyrians destroy my finest works.”
With a sharp salute Korin spun on his heel and ran from the room just as a blast of arcane energy struck the entrance to the tunnels. Dust and dirt rained down as the entire structure shook from the force. The Cyrians had arrived and it appeared they had little intention of allowing Commander Aaron time to explain his actions. More dirt cascaded from above as another blast struck the complex. Korin shielded his head as he ducked into a large room where kilns burned white-hot making the room much like a furnace. A muscular man wearing a red and green kilt and a leather apron stepped up to Korin with a sooty smile. The blacksmith held the final piece to yet another warforged, a pair of tongs clutching the glowing metal that was shaped like the Silver Flame. A sweeping gesture from the smithy revealed the four near complete warforged that lined the wall in the back of the room. Each of the creations sat devoid of life, awaiting the wisp of arcane energy to be injected into their bodies so that they may complete their purpose in this world.
Korin looked to the ceiling as the sound of swords clashing could now be heard and the echoes of booted feet rushing into the grand halls reverberated off the marble walls. There was precious little time for Korin to work the magic required and only a sliver of hope that it would work at all under such conditions. As the blacksmith attached the final piece Korin removed his shirt to allow the Dragonmark chance to breath freely. The room was hot enough without the additional heat that the mark would add. Low he bowed his head and raised his arms wide, whispering words of magic that were barely audible. As the words slipped from his lips the eyes of the warforged before him began to glow with a faint blue light. With hands clutching the pommel of a Greatsword, the blacksmith half watched the door and the warforged that were now crackling to life.
Korin lifted his gaze to the four beings that now stood before him, their blue eyes affixed on the Magewright, “Go west, find the Bishop Xavier of the Silver Flame, and fight well against the Cyrians!”
With a thundering crunch the door exploded open as a wizard and his soldiers rushed the smithy. Korin turned to face the new threat drawing a short sword and charging into the fray. The newly erected warforged ran toward a small opening in the back of the room as the death throes of the blacksmith filled the room. A swift exhalation of air was the only sound Korin could make as the life was stolen from him with the words of a spell. As they retreated from the room two of the warforged followed their orders diligently into the woods where their tireless bodies would make short work of the distance between North Cyre and Thrane. However, the other two warforged turned to make that escape possible as moved to face the soldiers. Hefting a nearby anvil hammer into his hand, the adamantine body of one of the warforged glistened from the firelight. While the other warforged’s body sparkled bright from pure mithral as he flexed his own tools of war, his hands.
Cyrian steel shrieked across the adamantine chest as the soldier swept forward with a skilled attack. The soldier’s eyes widened in realization as he watched his blade leave no mark on the newly created creature. With a guttural snarl rivaling rocks grinding together the warforged lashed out with the hammer, slamming the thick metal into the soldiers head with a wet thud. The lifeless body crumpled to the floor in a heap. The wizard slowly slinked back toward the door they had come from. Bellowing with rage the mithral warforged rushed forward to prevent the wizard from leaving. Massive metal arms clutched the wizard, lifting him from the floor and squeezing the struggling body in a lethal embrace. The popping of bone and gurgling of a man drowning on his own blood seeped from the mage as the remaining soldier slashed desperately at the arms of the enraged Warforged. A three-finger hand enveloped the soldiers face and muffled the screams of the soldier before the adamantine Warforged brought the anvil hammer down onto the soldier’s head. Just as the last moments of life left the bodies of the soldiers another Warforged stepped into the room. Massive blades protruded from the shoulders of this new threat, and a thick, black adamantine maul clutched in his hands. The crest of Cyre stood proud on the chest of the new arrival, and his eyes shown like emeralds as he sized up his newly created brethren.
With speed unknown the newly arrived warforged rapidly moved forward and brought his weapon across the chest of the adamantine warforged. With great ease the adamantine head of the maul dented the chest of the warforged in a manner that no creature could survive. The blue light that had shown life in it’s eyes rapidly faded, leaving only the mithral warforged to tackle the enemy. Pouncing like a cat the mithral warforged was greeted by the head of the maul in mid flight, sending the body to the stone floor with a crunch. Silently the new warforged brought the maul down onto the head of the mithral warforged just as a well-armored Cyrian entered the room with an entourage of troops behind him.
“Well done, Sledge. These treasonous heathens have seen their last day,” the man spoke with a calming voice as he turned to the soldiers behind him, “I want the ones that escaped found and destroyed. We will erase this place from memory.”
Inside the tunnels supply crates were stacked high making it difficult to traverse the tunnels for those unfamiliar with the passages. This was both for function and defense, as the Cannith workers used the halls for storage and to prevent invaders from flowing into the tunnels with ease. White marble walls made the tunnels reflect the light of the Everbright lanterns with an elegant glow and the traces of black giving the appearance that the walls were filled with the blood of the earth. Cannith artificers toiled in the rooms, diligently working on their creations in the thick, hot air of the tunnels.
As the hour’s pass and hammer met anvil, a lone rider approached the encampment, pushing his steed forward in a mad rush. The rider was dressed in lose fitting clothes that barely covered the mark of making that marred his near perfect flesh. It was clear that the rider was haggard and beaten from the road as he struggled to bring his horse to rest. He fumbled about in his pouch as he pulled forth identification papers and presented them to the House Thurask guards that bared his progress. Nodding at the documents the guards pulled their halberds from the door and gave the man entrance to the facility. Wasting no time the rider made for a room deep in the labyrinth of tunnels where the commander of the outpost resided.
“Commander!” the sound of metal on metal as swords unsheathed to the unexpected arrival of another was the response to his cry.
Raising a hand, the Commander gave the order to lower swords. The room was filled with weathered wooden shelves lined with books nearly as old. Curled in the corner of the room an Iron Defender lazily watched the man that had entered the room. The furniture here was sparse and all of purely functional need. Accommodations that would please any artificer as they worked on whatever inventions came to mind. The Commander stood in the center of the room with robes of blue and gold flowing around his body. His fingers were clad with many rings and his pockets filled to capacity with scrolls and wands. The man looked old and wise, with silvery hair and wire thin glasses perched on his nose. When he moved he did so with a slow and cautious grace. Without a word the Commander took in the rider that had come to see him, scanning the figure with deep green eyes as though he were reading the instructions to some new arcane device.
“You seem distressed, Korin? Speak your words,” folding his hands into the sleeves of his robes, the Commander stood silent as he waited to hear what news had brought Korin in such a rush.
Korin straightened himself slightly and looking to the guards who had yet to return their blades, the rider gave the report to the Artificer before him, “Cyre rides to us, Commander Aaron. They have learned that we have been supplying Warforged to the Thranish military from within their borders and plan to have us hung for high treason.”
A slow nod confirmed that Commander Aaron heard the words and the man turned away from Korin. Withered and aged hands lifted scrolls and wands from the many pockets of his robes. Many of the scrolls bore the broken wax that once resembled the mark of the Church of the Silver Flame. As a lover would caress the skin of their mate the Artificer slid his fingers over the surface of the scrolls. With a sudden swiftness the Commander slammed a hand down onto the stack of scrolls and turned to Korin.
Pointing to the Korin with a single scroll in hand the Commander gave his order, “We have completed the first four of the order. Release them on their way with orders to find their owner, Bishop Xavier. We may not live the night, but Khyber take me before I let the Cyrians destroy my finest works.”
With a sharp salute Korin spun on his heel and ran from the room just as a blast of arcane energy struck the entrance to the tunnels. Dust and dirt rained down as the entire structure shook from the force. The Cyrians had arrived and it appeared they had little intention of allowing Commander Aaron time to explain his actions. More dirt cascaded from above as another blast struck the complex. Korin shielded his head as he ducked into a large room where kilns burned white-hot making the room much like a furnace. A muscular man wearing a red and green kilt and a leather apron stepped up to Korin with a sooty smile. The blacksmith held the final piece to yet another warforged, a pair of tongs clutching the glowing metal that was shaped like the Silver Flame. A sweeping gesture from the smithy revealed the four near complete warforged that lined the wall in the back of the room. Each of the creations sat devoid of life, awaiting the wisp of arcane energy to be injected into their bodies so that they may complete their purpose in this world.
Korin looked to the ceiling as the sound of swords clashing could now be heard and the echoes of booted feet rushing into the grand halls reverberated off the marble walls. There was precious little time for Korin to work the magic required and only a sliver of hope that it would work at all under such conditions. As the blacksmith attached the final piece Korin removed his shirt to allow the Dragonmark chance to breath freely. The room was hot enough without the additional heat that the mark would add. Low he bowed his head and raised his arms wide, whispering words of magic that were barely audible. As the words slipped from his lips the eyes of the warforged before him began to glow with a faint blue light. With hands clutching the pommel of a Greatsword, the blacksmith half watched the door and the warforged that were now crackling to life.
Korin lifted his gaze to the four beings that now stood before him, their blue eyes affixed on the Magewright, “Go west, find the Bishop Xavier of the Silver Flame, and fight well against the Cyrians!”
With a thundering crunch the door exploded open as a wizard and his soldiers rushed the smithy. Korin turned to face the new threat drawing a short sword and charging into the fray. The newly erected warforged ran toward a small opening in the back of the room as the death throes of the blacksmith filled the room. A swift exhalation of air was the only sound Korin could make as the life was stolen from him with the words of a spell. As they retreated from the room two of the warforged followed their orders diligently into the woods where their tireless bodies would make short work of the distance between North Cyre and Thrane. However, the other two warforged turned to make that escape possible as moved to face the soldiers. Hefting a nearby anvil hammer into his hand, the adamantine body of one of the warforged glistened from the firelight. While the other warforged’s body sparkled bright from pure mithral as he flexed his own tools of war, his hands.
Cyrian steel shrieked across the adamantine chest as the soldier swept forward with a skilled attack. The soldier’s eyes widened in realization as he watched his blade leave no mark on the newly created creature. With a guttural snarl rivaling rocks grinding together the warforged lashed out with the hammer, slamming the thick metal into the soldiers head with a wet thud. The lifeless body crumpled to the floor in a heap. The wizard slowly slinked back toward the door they had come from. Bellowing with rage the mithral warforged rushed forward to prevent the wizard from leaving. Massive metal arms clutched the wizard, lifting him from the floor and squeezing the struggling body in a lethal embrace. The popping of bone and gurgling of a man drowning on his own blood seeped from the mage as the remaining soldier slashed desperately at the arms of the enraged Warforged. A three-finger hand enveloped the soldiers face and muffled the screams of the soldier before the adamantine Warforged brought the anvil hammer down onto the soldier’s head. Just as the last moments of life left the bodies of the soldiers another Warforged stepped into the room. Massive blades protruded from the shoulders of this new threat, and a thick, black adamantine maul clutched in his hands. The crest of Cyre stood proud on the chest of the new arrival, and his eyes shown like emeralds as he sized up his newly created brethren.
With speed unknown the newly arrived warforged rapidly moved forward and brought his weapon across the chest of the adamantine warforged. With great ease the adamantine head of the maul dented the chest of the warforged in a manner that no creature could survive. The blue light that had shown life in it’s eyes rapidly faded, leaving only the mithral warforged to tackle the enemy. Pouncing like a cat the mithral warforged was greeted by the head of the maul in mid flight, sending the body to the stone floor with a crunch. Silently the new warforged brought the maul down onto the head of the mithral warforged just as a well-armored Cyrian entered the room with an entourage of troops behind him.
“Well done, Sledge. These treasonous heathens have seen their last day,” the man spoke with a calming voice as he turned to the soldiers behind him, “I want the ones that escaped found and destroyed. We will erase this place from memory.”