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Watch For Falling Meteors [4E KotS] Updated Weekdays!
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<blockquote data-quote="Xorn" data-source="post: 4325573" data-attributes="member: 61231"><p>The muffled scrape and clack of talons on stone echoed softly off the walls of the staircase as a robed humanoid silently passed up the spiraling ascension. The air held a musty, old scent that hinted at a myriad of incenses and oils that had burned in the chambers above and below over the centuries. Everburning torches, casting a soft green light from their magical flames, cast the walls of the staircase into a sharp and eerie tint, and muted shadows followed the robed, hooded figure.</p><p></p><p>As the robed one reached the top of the steps, he strode out over a flat landing, coming up to an ancient door, which bore glowing runes of warding upon the center, and had no visible handles. A slender arm reached out from the folds of his robes, making a practiced sign of dismissal with his clawed hand. The runes intensified for a moment before dulling again, and the door swung open on easy hinges, with no apparent means of force. A cool breeze flooded into the stairwell from the room beyond, and the clawed hand retracted to shield the figure’s face from a flood of unexpected sunlight.</p><p></p><p>“Vrax. Thank you for coming so quickly!” exclaimed a very old human, sitting at a desk situated across the room, before an open set of stained windows. The elderly man was wearing a robe similar in design to those draped over the clawed hands, taloned feet, and leathery snout of the one who only now was growing acclimated to the sudden brightness of the chamber.</p><p></p><p>The figure pulled his hood back, revealing a pale brown ridge of scales and leathery flesh, framing a face that could only be described as ghostly draconic. Vrax was dragonborn, a race of dragonmen with a vague and lost history, to most. A proud, noble, and fierce race, which for the most part looked nothing like Vrax. He was thin and gaunt, and the scales that appeared on his body (much like humans have body hair) were soft and sickly looking. Rather than strong, mighty, and radiating a powerful presence, he looked meek, gaunt, and hunched.</p><p></p><p>“You summoned me, master,” he rasped in a soft voice, “and I obey.”</p><p></p><p>The old man looked up from a large book splayed out on the table he was seated before, and smiled warmly at the dragon-wizard, but shook his head in disagreement.</p><p></p><p>“You really must stop calling me ‘master’ my young friend.” The old man reminded him, though he knew the effort was futile—while Vrax was not like most dragonborn, he had an instinctual need for honoring his teacher that would never pass. Seeing Vrax start to protest, he interrupted him with an upheld finger, “There is nothing more I have to teach you; you’re mastery of the arcane arts has surpassed my own, my little dragon.”</p><p></p><p>Vrax felt something warm deep in his chest. Master Nimozaran only used that term a few times in his last few years of study at the Emerald Tower, the singular home of the Septarch of Fallcrest, Nimozaran. He only used the term when he was talking to Vrax as a friend, not as his teacher. He subdued the urge to disagree with his master, partly out of embarrassment, because it was true, and mostly from respect, as Master Nimozaran had been practicing magic longer than Vrax had been alive.</p><p></p><p>The old wizard rose from his stool and walked over to Vrax, who hobbled into the room with the familiar slide and scrape of his leathery, taloned feet that had become a common noise since his acceptance into the tower. There was some pain felt even with this slow gait—even his old master was more able-bodied than the dragonman was, but he had never shown him pity for his weak body, something Vrax respected even more. Nimozaran took his thoughts away from his failing body as he spoke.</p><p></p><p>“No, my boy, you have a gift for the arcana that I have not witnessed since I was an apprentice myself, before the Bloodspear Wars.” Vrax might have blushed if his sickly flesh were capable of it. “And it’s time you found your place in the world—because it’s not here, cooped up in this tower, with me.” The old master could see he had visibly stunned the young wizard, and explained.</p><p></p><p>“I’ve gotten a message from your father,” the old man smiled, and Vrax’s mind raced at the prospect of seeing his father again. “He’s in Winterhaven, and he claims he’s found the burial site of a dragon! It would mean very much to him if you could be there, for the find of his life.”</p><p></p><p>His master waited for what he had said to sink in, patiently watching his ex-student. “My father… I’ve hardly seen him for… over ten years.” Nimozaran nodded, smiling. “He’s very excited to see you, and I’m very excited to see what you’ve become.”</p><p></p><p>Vrax fumed inside, but it wasn’t a visible expression on the surface, at least not to humans. He was taller than when he last saw his father, a few years ago on his hatching day. Having lived in the Septarch’s Tower for the last decade, Vrax spent most of his life serving, and earning the discipline required to control the underlying fury of the arcane. His father had missed nothing, only a weak and broken body belonging to a runt that wasn’t meant to survive. His own people didn’t even want him.</p><p></p><p>He stuffed the thoughts back down into the bitter place they lived, and bowed before his master. “I will make arrangements to travel to Winterhaven then, master. I shall return as soon as I am able.”</p><p></p><p>“I don’t want you to return, Vrax,” the old man was smiling at the look of alarm on Vrax’s face. “Go see your father, and then go see your life.”</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Xorn, post: 4325573, member: 61231"] The muffled scrape and clack of talons on stone echoed softly off the walls of the staircase as a robed humanoid silently passed up the spiraling ascension. The air held a musty, old scent that hinted at a myriad of incenses and oils that had burned in the chambers above and below over the centuries. Everburning torches, casting a soft green light from their magical flames, cast the walls of the staircase into a sharp and eerie tint, and muted shadows followed the robed, hooded figure. As the robed one reached the top of the steps, he strode out over a flat landing, coming up to an ancient door, which bore glowing runes of warding upon the center, and had no visible handles. A slender arm reached out from the folds of his robes, making a practiced sign of dismissal with his clawed hand. The runes intensified for a moment before dulling again, and the door swung open on easy hinges, with no apparent means of force. A cool breeze flooded into the stairwell from the room beyond, and the clawed hand retracted to shield the figure’s face from a flood of unexpected sunlight. “Vrax. Thank you for coming so quickly!” exclaimed a very old human, sitting at a desk situated across the room, before an open set of stained windows. The elderly man was wearing a robe similar in design to those draped over the clawed hands, taloned feet, and leathery snout of the one who only now was growing acclimated to the sudden brightness of the chamber. The figure pulled his hood back, revealing a pale brown ridge of scales and leathery flesh, framing a face that could only be described as ghostly draconic. Vrax was dragonborn, a race of dragonmen with a vague and lost history, to most. A proud, noble, and fierce race, which for the most part looked nothing like Vrax. He was thin and gaunt, and the scales that appeared on his body (much like humans have body hair) were soft and sickly looking. Rather than strong, mighty, and radiating a powerful presence, he looked meek, gaunt, and hunched. “You summoned me, master,” he rasped in a soft voice, “and I obey.” The old man looked up from a large book splayed out on the table he was seated before, and smiled warmly at the dragon-wizard, but shook his head in disagreement. “You really must stop calling me ‘master’ my young friend.” The old man reminded him, though he knew the effort was futile—while Vrax was not like most dragonborn, he had an instinctual need for honoring his teacher that would never pass. Seeing Vrax start to protest, he interrupted him with an upheld finger, “There is nothing more I have to teach you; you’re mastery of the arcane arts has surpassed my own, my little dragon.” Vrax felt something warm deep in his chest. Master Nimozaran only used that term a few times in his last few years of study at the Emerald Tower, the singular home of the Septarch of Fallcrest, Nimozaran. He only used the term when he was talking to Vrax as a friend, not as his teacher. He subdued the urge to disagree with his master, partly out of embarrassment, because it was true, and mostly from respect, as Master Nimozaran had been practicing magic longer than Vrax had been alive. The old wizard rose from his stool and walked over to Vrax, who hobbled into the room with the familiar slide and scrape of his leathery, taloned feet that had become a common noise since his acceptance into the tower. There was some pain felt even with this slow gait—even his old master was more able-bodied than the dragonman was, but he had never shown him pity for his weak body, something Vrax respected even more. Nimozaran took his thoughts away from his failing body as he spoke. “No, my boy, you have a gift for the arcana that I have not witnessed since I was an apprentice myself, before the Bloodspear Wars.” Vrax might have blushed if his sickly flesh were capable of it. “And it’s time you found your place in the world—because it’s not here, cooped up in this tower, with me.” The old master could see he had visibly stunned the young wizard, and explained. “I’ve gotten a message from your father,” the old man smiled, and Vrax’s mind raced at the prospect of seeing his father again. “He’s in Winterhaven, and he claims he’s found the burial site of a dragon! It would mean very much to him if you could be there, for the find of his life.” His master waited for what he had said to sink in, patiently watching his ex-student. “My father… I’ve hardly seen him for… over ten years.” Nimozaran nodded, smiling. “He’s very excited to see you, and I’m very excited to see what you’ve become.” Vrax fumed inside, but it wasn’t a visible expression on the surface, at least not to humans. He was taller than when he last saw his father, a few years ago on his hatching day. Having lived in the Septarch’s Tower for the last decade, Vrax spent most of his life serving, and earning the discipline required to control the underlying fury of the arcane. His father had missed nothing, only a weak and broken body belonging to a runt that wasn’t meant to survive. His own people didn’t even want him. He stuffed the thoughts back down into the bitter place they lived, and bowed before his master. “I will make arrangements to travel to Winterhaven then, master. I shall return as soon as I am able.” “I don’t want you to return, Vrax,” the old man was smiling at the look of alarm on Vrax’s face. “Go see your father, and then go see your life.” [/QUOTE]
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