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[5E] The Kalarian Precipice - Chapter One
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<blockquote data-quote="97mg" data-source="post: 7342306" data-attributes="member: 6799460"><p><strong>Rikst: A Wounded Dark</strong></p><p></p><p>CLANG!</p><p></p><p>Brow loaded with cold sweat, once again the moisture was rubbed against the cloth of his pre-soaked forearm. A lantern flickered in the corner, it's wick dancing with each stab of the distant sea’s breeze. The erie yellow glow was a sacrilege, an affront to the surrounding dark. Black basalt listened, his witness from all sides save for a small hole in the ceiling of the cavern.</p><p></p><p>Many hours before dawn Rikst had left his hut on the outskirts of Kalair. Here though, within the southern cliffs was his real home. Something of an outcast, there was reassurance in being alone, working diligently, accepting both the risk of treachery and treasures.</p><p></p><p>Generations ago Rikst’s ancestors had cut these walls...</p><p></p><p>CLANG!</p><p></p><p>It was an addiction dictated by blood. Not that there weren’t other motives for blatant disregard of the law. It had been a year ago that Cil, his beloved daughter had taken ill. Priestly folk and surgeons alike had turned her away. “Untreatable,” they’d said, but the undertone was that this was a risk they’d not welcome behind their doors. The poor thing suffered from a most terrible and degenerative of afflictions. Fillock disease they called it, a stiffness of the limbs, lingering bouts of deafness and blindness, they had been hard times.</p><p></p><p>Until one day a stranger came knocking at his door. Over numerous days they met and spoke, the visitor a robed human who refused to reveal his face. Probably for the best. What they’d agreed could see both of them strung up and hung from Kalair’s great tower. The only punishment for those disobedient to Dolstian Law.</p><p></p><p>CLANG!</p><p></p><p>They’d taken her, a secret society of magic-wielding folk named the clan of Dorox. Some months later she’d returned home smiling, skipping upon the cobblestone streets, and greeted Rikst with an unsurpassed embrace of gratitude.</p><p></p><p>Rikst was truly in debt to them, and thankful. As agreed the services would be paid for. Paid in gems.</p><p></p><p>A short man with great musculature in his upper body and a mind just as firm, he was surely cut out for this work. The clan has provided directions, instructions, tools and everything a solitary prospector might require.</p><p></p><p>It took one final blow of the hammer against a short spike, positioned above a nodule on the wall to break it loose. Chunks of black rock fell and tumbled off into the shadows. </p><p></p><p>“Hell.”</p><p></p><p>He smiled. </p><p></p><p>There was a new source of light in this private stoney world. Within an air-pocket now exposed, some four fist-sized pieces of precious stone leaked beaming white rays. It almost blinded him for a moment, but shielding his eyes he moved closer and reached out to touch...</p><p></p><p>Who cared how the council named this year. Surely a great mass of folk would be seating themselves at the base of the great tower by now, waiting, waiting for a great booming voice to lay witness and say the word. Rikst needed none of that. Let them flock like sheep to a shepherd's call. It was them, not him, who lived in the dark.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="97mg, post: 7342306, member: 6799460"] [b]Rikst: A Wounded Dark[/b] CLANG! Brow loaded with cold sweat, once again the moisture was rubbed against the cloth of his pre-soaked forearm. A lantern flickered in the corner, it's wick dancing with each stab of the distant sea’s breeze. The erie yellow glow was a sacrilege, an affront to the surrounding dark. Black basalt listened, his witness from all sides save for a small hole in the ceiling of the cavern. Many hours before dawn Rikst had left his hut on the outskirts of Kalair. Here though, within the southern cliffs was his real home. Something of an outcast, there was reassurance in being alone, working diligently, accepting both the risk of treachery and treasures. Generations ago Rikst’s ancestors had cut these walls... CLANG! It was an addiction dictated by blood. Not that there weren’t other motives for blatant disregard of the law. It had been a year ago that Cil, his beloved daughter had taken ill. Priestly folk and surgeons alike had turned her away. “Untreatable,” they’d said, but the undertone was that this was a risk they’d not welcome behind their doors. The poor thing suffered from a most terrible and degenerative of afflictions. Fillock disease they called it, a stiffness of the limbs, lingering bouts of deafness and blindness, they had been hard times. Until one day a stranger came knocking at his door. Over numerous days they met and spoke, the visitor a robed human who refused to reveal his face. Probably for the best. What they’d agreed could see both of them strung up and hung from Kalair’s great tower. The only punishment for those disobedient to Dolstian Law. CLANG! They’d taken her, a secret society of magic-wielding folk named the clan of Dorox. Some months later she’d returned home smiling, skipping upon the cobblestone streets, and greeted Rikst with an unsurpassed embrace of gratitude. Rikst was truly in debt to them, and thankful. As agreed the services would be paid for. Paid in gems. A short man with great musculature in his upper body and a mind just as firm, he was surely cut out for this work. The clan has provided directions, instructions, tools and everything a solitary prospector might require. It took one final blow of the hammer against a short spike, positioned above a nodule on the wall to break it loose. Chunks of black rock fell and tumbled off into the shadows. “Hell.” He smiled. There was a new source of light in this private stoney world. Within an air-pocket now exposed, some four fist-sized pieces of precious stone leaked beaming white rays. It almost blinded him for a moment, but shielding his eyes he moved closer and reached out to touch... Who cared how the council named this year. Surely a great mass of folk would be seating themselves at the base of the great tower by now, waiting, waiting for a great booming voice to lay witness and say the word. Rikst needed none of that. Let them flock like sheep to a shepherd's call. It was them, not him, who lived in the dark. [/QUOTE]
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