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About DhaiMon

  • Birthday January 1
  1. Endric was less and less sure what to make of these people. One of the women snapped at the man, something about him watching it. Endric couldn't make it out too clearly, what with their slurring speech and him still dazed from the man's fist. Next, that same woman adressed him, his eyes still focused on the ground in front of him, blood dripping down: To answer your question, the oath you are to take is to await the Return, to serve and obey the Empire once called upon. Take this oath, and we'll let you go. Endric did not like it in the least: He did not know whether these people even walked in the Light, whether they were Darkfriends or not. Yet he had not set out for Amador just to die somewhere on the way. Me, I better serve the Light by getting out of here alive. Taking in his breath, trying to compose himself as good he could while avoiding to look up at the woman's face, Endric intoned: "I, Endric Liander, hereby swear, under the Light, to await the Return and to serve and obey once called upon." What other choice did he have? Someone had to verify the existence of these invaders, after all... OOC: My turn to apologize...just somehow forgot about this. :/
  2. Endric did not know too much about soldiering, yet when he found himself surrounded by outlandish looking soldiers he knew he could do only one thing: Surrender. He had never seen their like. He could barely understand their strange, alien way of putting words, although figuring out that they wanted him to stay where he was wasn't too difficult. Nor had he ever seen nor heard of helmets shaped like...insect's heads? It's only a rumour. It can't be. All of a sudden an opening formed within the circle, and two of the horsemen unmounted and headed straight to Endric. Two riders, clearly not soldiers, one bald, passed through the men, both again in garbs Endric had never seen before. "Off that horse. Now.", one of the two slurred, clear enough, pushing him off his horse to the ground together with his compatriot. Endric did not even think of reaching for his sword. Judging by the force with which he was forced down they could easily break his neck. 'What is your name, stranger? Have you given the oath?', a woman's slurring voice sounded from up above. "My name, it is Endric Liander, I am just a traveller on the road. The oath...what oath would that be?" He tried to look upward saying that, yet was weighted down by his two captors' grip. Endric recalled that, according to rumour, the strange invaders demanded some oath to be taken...he just could not remember what exactly that oath entailed. In any case, he did not think he would willingly take that oath, if the other rumours about these...people being allied to the Aes Sedai should prove true as well. "Besides, who would-" An iron-gauntleted punch into his face silenced him. "Only talk to the Blood when talked to", one of the two men holding him captive barked. I walk in the Light..., Endric started to incant in his thoughts, his head still ringing and blood sliding down his chin. Yet he wondered why they hadn't taken away his sword if they wished to take him prisoner or worse.
  3. The wind seemed to be the only thing that kept Endric in the saddle. It was a strong blast from out west, ever present since a few days ago. The border to Amadicia was close now, so he'd been told in the last town he'd frequented a tavern, a mere two day's ride. It wouldn't be long now, Endric Liander knew. Weary of weeks upon weeks of constant traveling on horseback, Endric still knew one thing for certain: He never looked back at his decision. My father, a Darkfriend... He still shuddered at the mere thought, was horrified that over all these years suspicion never rose within himself. Not once, not even a stir. My own father... This treachery did not bode well for the rest of the household. If Lord Azan was a Darkfriend, then who else? Who else of those residing in the manor served the Dark One? Who? He just hoped his brother would soon return to succeed their deceased father...But then, couldn't he be a Darkfriend too? Soon he'd be with the Children. And one day he would return to his home and root out the corrupted seed, Light willing. Rumors had been flying around lately among the peasants and merchants, of weird happenings out west, weird even in times when more False Dragons than ever before were loose in the world. Endric and most others did not believe a word of them: Hawkwing's armies returned, the coming of the Return and some Empress...yet the gossip wouldn't vanish and the rantings persevered. Endric did not have the time to concern himself with these tales that either came from Darkfriend scum or deranged fools. His way led eastward, in any case away from where they originated from. Riding on, he suddenly heard sounds. Cries, shouts. Up ahead, beyond the steep rise. In the Light, what is...? He soon found out. OOC: Okay...Hope that's well enough for a setup. Your turn, Mys. ;D
  4. Simmen could not decide what could have been...worse: The darkness all around, the power flowing through himself, acid flames scourging his soul, a flood of mountains crashing home inside of himself, the men around him, the Asha'man, he one of them, all vibrating with what must be the One Power... The Dragon Returned himself, Jarron al'Tanin. Simmen did not know where they were headed, what place they were in...he knew one thing for certain, though: He dared not step closer to the edge of where he was...standing. Finally, they exited the darkness. Through a gateway. They were back to the Farm. But why, Light and Creator be good? He could not fathom what by the Pitt was going on, but still he followed the group of black-coats at the Dragon's order: "Lead on boys," that with a tone close to laughter. "Lead on." They proceeded to the M'hael's quarters, where Simmen had been headed to earlier on, what seemed thousands of winters ago. The M'hael...Simmen had heard of the man, but never seen him. Before this day, he would have shrunk away at the mere look of the man. A cruel man. Yet merely wooden compared to al'Tanin, the Dragon. "I've heard about your ... efforts ... in Shienar, Brent. I must say, it's a little disappointing." Isn't Shienar somewhere north? That was one of the few thoughts that went through Simmen's head, distantly, while he stood pressed in among the other men come with the Dragon Reborn. "You are my weapons. My tools to do my bidding. Though it seems your effectiveness is less than I could have hoped for." That Simmen knew already, else he would have...he stopped that thought right there. It dawned on him that this must be about the disaster that everybody seemed to know yet hush about. What can possibly kill channelers except...? "You will make peace with the White Tower." That with the Sword That Was Not A Sword pointed at Brent. The power that seemed to run through the blade seemed a bright flame to Simmen. The room erupted in outrage. ...Peace with the Ladies? Father and... Simmen did not know what to make of it. The White Tower, the Light's will itself in the world, making peace with male channelers...? Those doomed with Storm-wrought Saidin? Yet, he remained silent...only then did he realize the tense air in the room, those that must have been all Asha'man both in rank and name, marked by lightnings and flames around Brent, the M'hael. The group he was with, around the Dragon... I'm not afraid to die... Yet he wondered whether he would die now by the hands of a madman or those of the Dragon... The mountains of flame that were saidin continued to envelope him, call to him, trying to crush him with a weight thousand times greater than any mountain. The taint continued to sweep through that which was Simmen. He tried to recall within the nothingness how he had weaved Air on the day he had left his old self behind forever, ready for the worst.
  5. Simmen was roughly pushed out of his brooding by the door slamming into his back. A man emerged, red-haired, tall. He was not wearing a black coat...Behind him, the other Asha'man came, following him as if drawn by strings. The noise of their talk had ever grown louder towards the end. But Simmen couldn't make too much sense of what he had caught. It didn't matter now, though. He followed along. That must be the Dragon. Somehow, he knew that as soon as the man threw open the door. He knew it as certain as a storm was black when the man, weaving the power in ways that Simmen could just describe as a shining beacon of light, drew out the sword in the middle of the room Simmen had entered the Stone through. It was the Sword That Was Not A Sword, known all-too well in Storm's End as well. Dragon to cleanse, Dragon to break. Simmen knew he was in the middle of it all, now. The Dragon channeled yet again. A hole opened in front of the man. Instead of a place, though, there was only...darkness. "Hurry up now boys. It's time you all had some real training" Simmen obeyed, together with the men around him. Who took the order quietly. Mostly. Some seemed torn between stopping right there, running away or something entirely else. Most just came along, in perfect silence. Somehow, none of them would enter through the hole just now...For some reason, Simmen felt the suicidal urge to just step up and be the first. ...This is madder than the Pit already... For whatever reason, Simmen started to grin broadly. Two Asha'man, he thought they were his instructors Stonebridge and Sereth, were the first to be through, though. Simmen followed, forcing that which was him into the hole. The power tempting him in the void.
  6. Well....done, check the post above...Rest of the post here will be a placeholder
  7. No need to be, Mys. :P Mh....sounds good, heh. That aside....how about an undercover Seanchan Seeker getting cornered by the Child? :D Check. Exams are around the corner at that point, from around April 14th on....
  8. The only thing that kept Ibram from falling over in a heap was his spear. He clutched to it, his sinews standing out white. "You've all done very well today. This is the end of the lesson, but that doesn't mean that you're masters yet. However, as far as I can see you all are proficient enough to practice on your own. Make sure that you do so." No doubt that. Ibram tried to stand up more rigidly and forced himself to breathe when the instructor passed him. Although his lungs were screaming pain. He wanted to pant. "You all have potential. I don't know if I'll personally be teaching you another class, so good luck in the days ahead. You're all dismissed." "Tree's lu...luck to you...Master T-Talavin." Only now Ibram noticed how dry his throat was, it seemed to him. Looking at the gal and the one she'd parried, he thought he wasn't that much worse off than those two. Collecting himself and his spear, he dragged himself off, sleep in mind. Instead, he marched off to the canteen, his growling belly in mind. The sun was still shining, and to Ibram it seemed that the shadows hadn't even lengthened that much. No surprising...
  9. "Now you try Delving the next man. Soldier, can you touch the Source? If you can, try as well." What in the Pit is he talking about? Simmen felt axed. For not knowing what he was to do as much as for being where he was right now. And for what he was seeing. He failed to describe it: It seemed to be light, noise and smell, all things together. Or something more than all those. Above all, he could...smell...and see... But then again, that likely were the wounded. Ladies and Father take me, I am...mad... Or was he? He did not know. But then again...who could possibly remain sane here, among channelers doomed to madness and death? "I..." He gulped. Hard. "I-I was no intr-introduced to the...Power?...Yet. Asha'man. Sir." He thought that he could make out some sort of...pattern...in that mix-up of light and darkness and...was it filth? He thought he could sense something, somewhere in the back of his head. Or not really that. Something was calling. And he knew it. All too well. Yet, he wouldn't grasp it. He feared what it meant. No, not again, not...yet... The place felt...hot. Too hot. He wanted to get out. He endured, though. He was committed, after all. Storms take me.
  10. OOC: Mh...in netspeek-terms, Ibram would be a n00b, though. :P IC: Ibram had thwacked the instructor's lathe more often than he cared to count. Keeping up both concentration and force started to grow tiresome...Yet it was good as well, as it numbed his thoughts all the more. Besides, he couldn't get rid of the feeling that slowly, ever so slowly, he started to get used to the relative unpredictability of his weapon. Adding up, adding up, it does... He couldn't help smiling a little in turn at Master Talavin's approval. "Obviously you can use this to attack, but it can also deflect a strike towards your chest or middle. The other form is Parting the Silk. It is mainly an accurate block, but it can be used offensively as well." Ibram tried it, and to his eyes, it very much looked like presenting his weapon. Except for the tightness in his arms, legs and everywhere else, of course. He tried it a few times over, hoping to get a grip on it. "Ibram, we'll be alternating this time, so that you can practice attacking and defending." He began attacking again, trying out the slashes and movements as well he could remember. Talavin knew what he was about and now blocked, parried and evaded his attacks more often than not. Off-hand. Pressing his attack in turn, he forced Ibram into just that, the defensive. There he couldn't stay his ground too long any longer. As Talavin proceeded, Ibram tried to back off all the more to have his staff between the two of them. This, now, is how I need do it, the thought came to Ibram, somewhere far away from the smell of sweat, gust of cold wind and the stinging sun.
  11. Alright.....any ideas, Mys? :p My take would be that I'd roleplay my once-to-be-Hand of the Light member on his way to the Fortress of the Light. Now what happens on the way there would be another story... PS: Will have to do some extensive preparations for the graduation exams and all these next few weeks, so I'll likely be online on weekends only most of the time...
  12. "Ibram, you'll be attacking the whole time." Ibram wasn't exactly...certain...what the meaning of it was. But then again, eying the two others, he thought he could come up with the why of it. Me, I am no swordsman. He never was, since the day he'd taken up the spear over the sword. The knife only came as an afterthought. Standing in front of Master Talavin, he tried to measure the distance, and very carefully advanced on him, trying to stop his staff in midair before he could hit him. Somehow, it worked. Although every once in a while he hit him in the leg or arm. Which produced a grunt, but nothing more. "Alright, now I'll show you The Grapevine Twines." The instructor whirled his lathe, smoothly. Calmly. "This one is a little different with a spear, but it's still doable. You just have to be a little further away than one would if they had a shorter weapon." Ibram knew of this all too well. Had it not been for the length of his spear, the two brutes would have grabbed him. And killed him. Two-handed, he tried to imitate the movement, one hand at the butt-end, one somewhere farther up.
  13. OOC: I try to be for sure. :P IC: Ibram mechanically repeated the two movements shown so far untill he was somewhat certain that he could come up with them instinctively. Battles, they are won on instinct. He learned that lesson when he had taken down his two "companions"... "Excellent. Now that you've all learned those we can start on a few more. However, remember that you've by no means mastered them- you still have to practice. We'll learn a couple more offensive forms next." Ibram did not doubt that it would take a good long time for him to reach mastery. Warders do not grow like trees, no? The instructor stabbed in front of him, off-hand with such a force that Ibram was certain that someone beneath that stab would be certain to spill blood. "This one is called Hummingbird Kisses the Honeyrose. It's just a quick stab forward, generally into someone's face or neck. The key to this one is speed- it's a fast stab intended to surprise the opponent and catch him off guard. Go ahead an practice that; if you feel confident enough you can go ahead and find a nice tree to try it on." Smacking into someone's face. And that, it's called "hummingbird"? Ibram almost felt like laughing out loud when he tried, to some degree, to smack into the air an arm's length away from his face. As fast as he could. Whoever it was that come up with that, he is- "Alright, here's Arc of the Moon." Arath's dull weapon flew through the air. "As you can see whoever named it wasn't very creative. Start around mid-body, then arc upwards as if you're trying to chop someone's head off- which you are." "Moon's Arc" or whatever it was called reminded Ibram awfully much of the one strike he'd taken out the first of the two with, his spear-butt coming down on that one's neck. With a sickening crunch. "For now, just do it slow and worry about getting the technique down. You always have to work on your technique before you can add strength to your blows. This is probably the first time you've done it so don't feel bad if you need to work through it slowly." Ibram was not Light- and Tree-blinded fool enough to doubt that. Therefore, he kept trying, trying to more or less well recall the movements' and stabs' names.
  14. "Alright, for now this will be your general stance. If I tell you to 'get ready', I expect you to be in Lion on the Hill. Of course, there are other ready stances, but they're primarily for sheathing and unsheathing a sword. We won't worry about those until you start using a real blade." Ibram hoped that he wouldn't get exhausted enough to mistake his staff for something akin to a sword. Least of all awkward it would be, he thought, drily. He still tried to imitate the stance as good he could with his staff. He watched his instructor's movements, closely, so as to remember it. He doubted that he could every get used to the idea of calling movements by certain names... Now it was time for them to move their "blades" a bit. "The first offensive form I'm going to teach you is The Courtier Taps His Fan. This one is fairly simple, just an overhand blow. The obvious purpose for this one is to split open someone's head, but if you have an opening it can strike right here," Master Talavin pointed out his own neck to show them. Courtier indeed...no...? Ibram shrugged that off. "But that's a harder target. For now, just worry about going for the head." Indeed, worry... Ibram tried to imitate it, using his staff like some oversized club. He did not doubt that he could do just that with it, though: Crack people's heads open. And all the easier, it is with a spear's head, yes?
  15. In our world, it depends on whether the patient truly wants it, or not. Whether motivation for life has truly been blown out, or not. Society should not make that decision. The individual should do that. And have the free means to do so. Doesn't mean that it should be, generally, discouraged by education. It should not be treated as something akin to a major, prime sin, however. My take as far as our world is concerned... Now, what of channelers in Randland? Situation is entirely different. Channelers are, compared to those not born with the ability, potentially omnipotent individuals. Whatever those individuals' motivations, they can literally play around with non-channelers as much as they want. Therefore, it is more than understandable that, in general, Channelers found organisations for the sake of the rest of their societies, so that they are not automatically the despotic rulers of everyone else because they were born with it. Doesn't mean that such "despotic rule" doesn't work, though...see Shara and Seanchan. It works almost perfectly well- if you ignore "truth" and "freedom" for one minute, highly subjective matters. It can be compared to real world-phenomenons, but such comparisons just ignore the major differences between a "sickness" and a "talent" inborn. Aes Sedai may be misguided, but they mean well. Sea Folk want nothing but their own gratification. Do they? Might be that they are just not willing to sacrifice hundreds of fighting men for a single daughter-heir...see the "glorious" rescue of Elayne. It was idiotic. ::) Yet somehow...sick fun to read, admittedly.
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