Post by Ninmast on Feb 21, 2007 20:34:04 GMT -5
Power Level: Medium
Time Period: Medieval
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Because of the way this RP needs to unfold, I will not be giving out background information. Some of you already know, but I'm just not setting up a preset entrance. You'll need to come to Battleon, the capitol of the nation this takes place in. Whatever reason you want, a random traveler seeking adventure, a dimensional hopper, or someone coming in to pay a friend a visit, you're welcome to enter in whatever way you wish.
Here's a map to help you know where everything is a little better.
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Maxwell sat next to the Guardian Tower, off to the side of the entrance, his sword resting in his lap as he leaned back against the wall. He was thinking of what he could be doing. It was rather dull. That farming village was having some trouble with the frogzard population again ... But that was for younger members to take care of. One, a fresh new recruit, proud in his brand new Guardian armor, had already been sent off.
He sighed and shifted himself, rotating the Dragon Blade in his grip. The result of the last big adventure he had in his own land, the massive, red blade of the sword resplendant in the light, the edge ever sharp. Runes swirled almost decoratively along its side, words of its intense power spoken in an ancient, undecipherable language. As he ran his eyes over them, the memories of that adventure came back to him, the struggle against the hordes of monsters, and finally, the dragon that had guarded it, a big, ugly fire dragon. Though his armor protected him from the dragon's breath, the weaker enchantments of his Guardian Blade did not survive the battle.
His nerves, his muscles, his very skin sang out at the memory of that fight, and how he had staggered over the fallen dragon and grasped the hilt of the Dragon Blade, pulling it out of the beast's treasure horde and holding it above his head in victory.
The gold from the rest of the horde had gone to repairs for the village a few months later when the darker dragons amassed under the banner of an ancient plasma dragon, a war where that blade he had retrieved proved its worth, and the power behind its runes. Beasts whose scales rebounded the blades of a hundred warriors and countless arrows fell to the blade as if they were made of flesh the same as his. The buildings of the city were ravaged by the fight, but the dragons were pushed back, and the citizens of the city were saved. The buildings were rebuilt, and life had gone on.
He smirked as he thought on that. How he had been so glad that things would go back to normal. And now, he couldn't stand it. Nothing to do, nowhere to go. Others were glad, and he could see them in the town square down below, bustling about, shopping, laughing, talking. They were ecstatic. Maxwell Fueller was bored stiff . . .
Time Period: Medieval
----------------------------------
Because of the way this RP needs to unfold, I will not be giving out background information. Some of you already know, but I'm just not setting up a preset entrance. You'll need to come to Battleon, the capitol of the nation this takes place in. Whatever reason you want, a random traveler seeking adventure, a dimensional hopper, or someone coming in to pay a friend a visit, you're welcome to enter in whatever way you wish.
Here's a map to help you know where everything is a little better.
-----------------------------------
Maxwell sat next to the Guardian Tower, off to the side of the entrance, his sword resting in his lap as he leaned back against the wall. He was thinking of what he could be doing. It was rather dull. That farming village was having some trouble with the frogzard population again ... But that was for younger members to take care of. One, a fresh new recruit, proud in his brand new Guardian armor, had already been sent off.
He sighed and shifted himself, rotating the Dragon Blade in his grip. The result of the last big adventure he had in his own land, the massive, red blade of the sword resplendant in the light, the edge ever sharp. Runes swirled almost decoratively along its side, words of its intense power spoken in an ancient, undecipherable language. As he ran his eyes over them, the memories of that adventure came back to him, the struggle against the hordes of monsters, and finally, the dragon that had guarded it, a big, ugly fire dragon. Though his armor protected him from the dragon's breath, the weaker enchantments of his Guardian Blade did not survive the battle.
His nerves, his muscles, his very skin sang out at the memory of that fight, and how he had staggered over the fallen dragon and grasped the hilt of the Dragon Blade, pulling it out of the beast's treasure horde and holding it above his head in victory.
The gold from the rest of the horde had gone to repairs for the village a few months later when the darker dragons amassed under the banner of an ancient plasma dragon, a war where that blade he had retrieved proved its worth, and the power behind its runes. Beasts whose scales rebounded the blades of a hundred warriors and countless arrows fell to the blade as if they were made of flesh the same as his. The buildings of the city were ravaged by the fight, but the dragons were pushed back, and the citizens of the city were saved. The buildings were rebuilt, and life had gone on.
He smirked as he thought on that. How he had been so glad that things would go back to normal. And now, he couldn't stand it. Nothing to do, nowhere to go. Others were glad, and he could see them in the town square down below, bustling about, shopping, laughing, talking. They were ecstatic. Maxwell Fueller was bored stiff . . .