Arena RP: The Chaos Altar, The Aftermath (Tuv and Crom)

"Argh" Artua exclaimed as he woke from a fevered sleep. The red herbs he had applied to his wound had fallen off, and his chest was caked with blood, and still bleeding slightly. His body felt cold, and he could only guess that he had been unconscious for several hours. The ground he layed upon was hard and earthy, he wasnt in the desert anymore, and above him he saw what he could only guess was a rocky outcropping.

Trying to summon his powers, his concentration straining to its limits, he searched his entire body for enough power to form at least a small barrier, but could not continue any longer. Artua grunted heavily in defeat. "Damn, still too weak".

Artua was alone, and without defence. He grew anxious, fearing that wild animals would come to feast upon him in his beleaguered state, then he noticed a smouldering fire near his legs, he immediately felt more secure."someone brought me here, but who? both of those warriors were strong, and either one could have brought me here, whoever it was, they didn't intend to kill me, i can only hope that the other does not come to finish the job" "It may still be a long time before i regain my strength, or someone comes back, i will need to pass the time" and with that Artua began to recount the events of his battle.

Crom:

Ashatair sauntered around the corner and into the side of the small crevice on the mountian side. He saw Artua stir and smile slightly.

"You're awake," he said as he walked over to the man. Ashatair held a small ceramic bowl in each hand. Sitting down cross legged he slid the bowl over to the man. A vaguely porridge like substance rested inside.

"Eat," he commanded before digging into his own bowl with his bare hands.

"so you are the one who brought me here" Artua said frailly. He picked up the small bowl, grabbed some of the strange substance, and sniffed it curiously. "atleast it isn't poisonous" he thought, as he began to eat with a renewed vigor.

"Why did you bring me here?, or rather, why did you even keep me alive"? Asked Artua, "and what were you doing in that battlefield?" Artua had many questions, and he doubted the man could answer many of them.

And who...or what was that third creature?

Crom:

Ashatair ignored him as he ravenously shoveled down his food. Once he finished he could took several large gulps from his water pouch before pouring the remainder of its contents over his hands. Only then did he turn to face him.

"My name is Ashatair," said the man, "But that is of little importance."

As for bringing you here," he continued his blue eyes -hard as as the frozen water of the north- staring directly into Artua's, " That is a long story. Would you care to hear it or would you rather just skip it and have me finish you off here and now?"

Artua layed there for several moments, stunned by the man's bluntness. Then realizing he was staring blindly the man who had just threatened his life, and tried to kill him but a scant few hours before, sat up being careful not to re-open the wound on his chest.

Then the whisper came, it sounded like a breath in a gale, but it was there. The Ashatair's lips were not moving, and then suddenly Artua got the same chill he had gotten, when he saw Ashatair amidst the bodies at the edge of the desert. The whisper grew louder, still incomprehensible, but he recognized the method of speaking, it was the same way that lords and gods spoke to mortals. *Usually the voice seems to come from something related to the lord or god, The Fire-Lord spoke through a roaring bonfire, but this voice seemed to be coming from the man, no... he is not capable of this... The Sword...*

There it was, strapped to the Ashatair's waist, a beautifully crafted blade of dark steel and obsidian, that seethed with tendrils of darkness. Artua concentrated on the blade, straining to hear the whispers, and then he heard it.

Ashatair was but Its pawn, an empty husk with an illlusion of will. Ashatair had only fought against him because it had wished to test him. The creature that had attacked them had been an accident. It told him of the power he could have. It told him of what he had seen when he had drained away part of his life and seen the power within him. It said he would need only his promise to cast away Ashatair and allow Artua to wield its powers.

Artua agreed.

Ashatair lurched up, a glazed look upon his eyes, like the eyes of a corpse, walked over to Artua, and smashed the pommel of the blade into the hard stony ground besides the remains of the campfire. He stood there indefinetely making no movement other then the slightest twitch or groan as if he was fighting some unknown force. Then suddenly he collapsed in a heap, like a marionette with no strings, upon the blade. There was a small broken scream and then Ashatair knew only blackness. The dead body slid from the blade, cutting a bloody wound through corpse, and leaving the sword sitting blade first in the sky. Artua reached for the blade, another chill running up his spine, he touched the pommel. It was icy cold and even as he tried to drop if he couldn’t let go, as though his hand drank thirstily from an invisible fluid, and he felt renewed, his wounds mending themselves before his eyes all.Artua stood up in disbelief.

“He will try to subvert my mind, but I have lived for centuries and am not easily swayed,” he told himself and with that Artua walked off, renewed and with a new weapon, to seek out the other source of rumors in the area.
A man of great power, who claims to convene with a god of light.