Closed [The Vitrax]Selling and Stryfe[Nemesis/Crow]

[Clyde Sullins]

Clyde felt dried tears not echo from his eyes, as he recalled his past. Those he'd met, those he'd lost, and those who had died.

Cloaked within fire which burned away all and left something new in its wake. He was the source of the firestorm, its commander, and the thing it tried to consume.

Loss. Students. Lovers. Allies. Lost. Gone, in the burnt wake of time left by the tempest.

He felt his body and mind within the crucible of his memories, burnt and tested by the flames swathed in darkness.

He felt like he drowned in the heat, drowned as words clogged his throat and shoved their way down and obstructing his air as they entered him through his open mouth. Felt his skin left bare to the heat of the flame, feeling their memories they held, as a ghost of his past stirred and questioned his actions.

He understood, but didn't gain meaning. He forgot, but remembered. He wished, but was taken. His memories broke apart, pieces together in new jagged pieces of glass that spun about him, all melting in the heat of the tempest and leaving a whirlwind of sand to abrade away at him.

Finally with his dry throat he answered, looking at them, trying to make them understand.

“Because I must. Not for enjoyment, but because I must. Always because I must... Because events drive me, and I must. Choices are for those without power, for those who's lives are without consequence. For those without a purpose. I did as I did, left those I did, killed those I did, freed those I did, an taught those I did, because I must.”

He tried to push the voices and bodies away, not caring or wishing not to as they cried and wailed. He could feel the wail and sadness in his gut, echoing outward and reverberating back into him.

He felt the dead, felt those press upon him, press their sadness upon him, and at the same time felt their pulling. Felt himself be pulled at a deep level, pulled at death. Survival. He was survival. He would survive. He did as he must. No more, no less.

Clyde knew if he didn't silence them, was left exposed to their madness he would not survive. Survive he must.

“I did as I must!” Reaching outward, he grasped Cha in his hand, feeling for the familiar press of wood on his skin, the familiar calming presence of his bond to the staff. He focused on the flame, willed it, inverted it, and felt for the power within the staff flowing through him. Willing it to invert, he yelled and felt for the power to sweep into it, willing a cascade of freezing inversion to sweep across the flames and turn it into ice, hoping to freeze everything solid.

As he was attacked by the ghosts, pressed upon by their sadness, his mind wandered to Aello, to the girl he'd met long ago, to her dagger. The blade she had that was special, that had something to do with ghosts, though he couldn't recall what at the moment.

He wished he had that blade in his hand, wished that with Cha in one hand and that bloodied blade in the other he could cut through the ghosts and free himself from their sadness and madness.

[Crow]

TRIAL OF THE SOULS!!!!!!


The dryness of his emotions created a sandstorm which melted from the heat. Sand melted to glass in a glowing lava. His excuses bound by consequence. The wake of his mortality was seen through embers of the glowing lava as it all turned into a frozen wasteland. What once was lost was stilled by a cold heart. Ghosts remained untouched by the scalding ice as fog encompassed their bodies and faded.

His plea surrounding a weapon which could combat them appeared what looked like a mile away. On a dark pedestal covered by a thunderstorm glowing in the distance. Through the icy wastes of frozen glass and unwavering cold was the dagger. The dagger which could kill ghosts, but this was just an hallucination, or was it?

If he would venture through, he would combat a blizzard which would push at him. Every step he would make would face a challenge as the snow got deeper and deeper. Sickles of jagged ice would carve the landscape forming daggers of their own through the terrain. Cold wind would bit at his lips, ears, and nose baring no relief. If he was to look back, he would see a trail of ghosts follow him through the cover of the blizzard. Hiding themselves in the light snow which seemed to circle around him.

With every step the dagger would come closer, until finally he was met by yet another familiar face emerging from a void. Dark swirls encompassing a rather large hole in the fabric of his reality. Weathered clothing torn, stained, and tattered; dragging along chains by nightmarish creatures. It was none other than his sweet dear cousin, Annalisa Marin.

From the void came impeccable darkness that flames could not swallow. Her eyes piercing and cold, as cold as the wintery wastes biting at Clyde. “You did as you must?!” she simply said with anger and fury while pulling at her chains.

~A Ferrin Template, Thanks!

[Clyde Sullins]

Clyde stared onward as the fiery tempest turned into a icy wasteland. And still the ghosts pressed on, ungiving. Unaffected.

Cha was enchanted, could fight ghosts, was imbued with the essence of a spirit he'd met on Sahova and so was able to interact with ghosts and even strike them. But apparently that wasn't enough.

He watched onward as a pedestal appeared in the distance, with the blade he recalled from Aello sitting upon it. Or a dagger of some sort, even if not the same one. He couldn't be sure, not from this distance and not in such a state as he currently was in. Lightning flashed about it, covering it, cloaking it.

Clyde began to push forward, push at the blade, the only difference or change he could see. It was there for a purpose he knew, was there as a piece of the puzzle- perhaps its solution. Getting to it though wasn't so easy.

He was lost in a snowstorm, each foot pulled from a depth of snow, each foot of motion meaning he was further buffeted by wind driven snow.

He willed the snow and force before him to lessen, tried to push it aside and imagine his passage being eased. He willed it with his mind and his magic and expected his will to be met as it always was with his Reimancy. Desire, will, action- that was the way his magic worked. He expected no less even in the current state of his mind. If anything he expected it more strongly now than in a more normal state, expected it in the way a rich man expected his coin purse to be full when he reached for it.

He pressed through the cold, pressed through the snow, and willed his way forward by body and mind and magic. In his wake the ghosts followed, tracking him, stalking him, hunting him.

As he finally grew close to the pedestal, to the dagger on it, he was interrupted once more. Once more by a face of his past. His cousin Anna that he had met on Sahova. She seemed in a state of disrepair, though the last time he'd met her she'd seemed fine.

Clyde puzzled for a moment, unsure why she of all things in his past would be accosting him. He couldn't recall having wronged her, could see no reason for her to be after him as these other spirits would be.

She was also followed and held, captive to monsters, though of another sort. The emptiness was void, the void was empty, as she walked force from it but did not leave it. As it too stalked her. The utter empty and dark that was the void hovered behind her.

He didn't understand. Didn't understand her anger or vehemence towards him. But she was in the way... Recalling their past he summoned a grey light, the grey off light of the opalgloam, like the Magecrafted light device they'd made whose source of behavior was that stone. He willed it to rise, to flow, and to push back at the darkness and void. To push Anna aside and out of his way.

He must reach that dagger he knew, it was important... For some reason.

Pushing away with magic and light and hands and his staff he tried to go past Anna, to reach the pedestal and pull the blade off of it. He had forgotten his purpose in reaching it, had grown utterly focused on his destination and forgotten his reason for wanting to reach it.

He just knew he must reach it, that it was what he needed, for whatever need he was fulfilling. It was an action and a quest he could strive for, to push away the madness and to do as he must.

“Yes, I did as I must, just as you did. Now get out of my way Anna, I must reach it. I must. Its... Its important!”

He felt no guilt over Anna, even if she was trapped in the state she currently was. Whatever she'd done had been her fault, he knew he'd done nothing to put her in such a state. Though he knew if he'd had to, if he must, he would have. But he hadn't, and actions mattered more than what he might have done.

[Crow]

Trials of the Soul!



The lightning storm surrounding the altar subsided as light attempted to push past the void. Entrails of light gathered and swirled around Anna, disappearing into the far reaches of the darkness…swirling. Beams of light were captured and exploded outwards towards Clyde. Snow and ice reflected the light causing a momentary blindness. Disorientation. Hunger. Thirst.

With no guidance on his path, Clyde was left alone. To face the darkest reaches of his heart. To face Anna. To face Elaine… his father… his loved ones. He had attempted to betray them all. To get what he needed. For his own personal strive of power. During this blindness he was reminded of that betrayal. Images of his first crucible flooded through his head. His initiation. His devotion to Rhysol. Then he saw his body standing over each of them. The dagger stained with blood in hands with blood soaked into snow. Nothing for miles. Not a soul. Not a storm. Just the icy wasteland of his own soul.

Recognizable blinding pain coursed through his body. As it revisited every triumph that he had survived through during his crucible. Ervis Revine. Siriana. They all stood before him now once again, as loneliness was corrupted by fading images of his past. They each charged towards him. To kill him… He would scream in the pain. A scream that would penetrate his hallucination. Effectively waking him up.

He would wake up collapsed. Weak. On the verge of feeling some of his very last ounces of Djed fight to stay woven inside of him. He could feel his Djed slowly being manipulated somewhere else. Being absorbed and drawn into something powerful. Something more powerful than himself. There was magic elsewhere in the room as well. The dagger. Somehow it appeared in his lap. His mace, somewhere in the distance. He could feel their presence more now that his own Djed had slipped through his grasp.

His vision would blur. He wouldn’t be able to tell reality from dream, and he would still feel the biting cold from the metal of the floor. He would see figures of shadows dance from the lit torches of the room. Shadows cast from the ceiling as skeletons hung from the chains suspended above. The dead body of Kelsie Fell would look as if it was crawling to him. To redeem her dagger. Her skull crushed. Her tongue hanging out from an opening in her neck. Blood dripping from whatever skin, hair, and brain matter that would be dragging against the floor. Gargled moans of madness as her tongue would move and slide leaving behind a trail of blood.

It was sickening. Frightening. Until finally once again he would pass out and slip into yet another reflection of the path he has chosen. Reminded of conversations shared about chaos. About Rhysol. About his realization of truth behind the lord of chaos. His own devotion echoed throughout a shadow of his doubt. His words that he spoke so long ago of his realization.


"Yes... Yes I have realized something... I have realized... You are all petching hypocrites feeding Rhysol! Don't petching try to petch with me! I can see it!"”
“"You lie! Lie about who you are, lie to the people of Ravok, people around you. People people people! Petchers! Gobble's it up, Rhysol gobbles it up, you say you fight him, but your every action feeds him. You betray! You are betraying these peoples trust, lying about your motives, letting them think you are for them. And they are no better, they betray every citizen of Ravok simply by existing, simply by betraying those around you all, by fighting him. Ha! Chaos! You spread dissent and chaos! Breaking laws, destruction, stealing, chaos to the order of Ravok! You are all feeding him, worshipping Rhysol in all but name!"”

He chose to leave that day. To betray Ravok. To serve Rhysol with a dish of chaos himself. It was this choice. This path that he would have to reflect on. This path that he would have to decide if it was the right choice now. This path that now decide his fate as tormented images of Siriana stood above him tall and proud. Gloating at his weakness.

~A Ferrin Template, Thanks!

[Clyde Sullins]

It seemed nothing Clyde did fixed anything. Everything only added to his problems, or the existing things were unaffected. Or things reacted in ways he didn't expect.

In the dream like state of the hallucination though he didn't consider many things, didn't ponder the logic of his actions even those not possible within his magic such as the light. As was common for a personal mage he acted on instinct, and set into the confusing world of the hallucination he reacted and acted and performed without fully thinking through the actions logic.

Logic and planning were impossible in such a state.

His senses were overwhelmed as he faced challenge after challenge, but refused to give in to the insanity of the situation.

Memories. Pain. Hurt. Blood. Death. Pain... Magic. All mixed in a confused jumble of senses and sensed. Nothingness.

He stood alone, hounded by his past and his gone pain made anew.

A scream. His own. He was awake, only realizing as he awoke with a scream that he'd not been fully awake.

The past pain was quickly overriden by the current pain, the more mundane pains of thirst and hunger and his body. And the pain of sapped strength and djed, and a need to take to survive, lest he lose any more and truly die.

He felt the drain, the pull.

Looking over he saw the dagger, the blade from his dream or nightmare or false sight, sitting upon his lap. Real. He could feel its weight, could touch it. He clutched to Cha, clutched to himself, trying to hold himself together as in a daze he stared at the blade with confusion.

His staff, the mace, and the dagger. He needed all three. He couldn't leave without all three. In his confused state he tried to rise, to clutch Cha and the blade to him while searching out the mace to pick it up... He needed all three. The thought repeated in his head, as he clung to the action in his weakness, in his need.

The woman he'd killed, or perhaps that Silvas had killed, was coming at him in his weakened state. He'd seen Silvas crush her skull, but she still tried to come for him.

His reality vanished once more, whether he'd managed to move in that time in the real world he wasn't sure, though he'd been willing his body to move, to head towards the mace and pick it up, and to clutch Cha to him, along with the blade of Aello.

But as his reality was lost he fell once more into a memory, this time a memory of his own words.

He'd spoken from a state of weakness, after being tortured. He'd lashed out in the only way he could, in his first attempt at grasping Chaon logic and understanding the seeming Chaos of Rhysol and his actions. Understanding the underlying order and reason of the unreasoned.

He'd not known at the time that he'd been saying his revelation to Rhysol himself, and not a member of the Rising Dawn torturing him... Instead it had been Rhysol testing him.

He'd seen Rhysol's reason, his choice, and had grasped a smallest part of his logic, of his mind, of his idea and concept, of Chaos. On that day he'd come to realize something even Rhysol admitted no others not even his loyal Druvin had understood. A small bit of his why, of a small bit of a single plot, of a small bit of a single action, of Rhysol. But even in its tiny nature, a tiny bit of something as Rhysol was still something great.

He chose to betray Ravok, or at least to commit an action that Ravok would see as betrayal. In truth though, he'd served Rhysol, had followed his reasoning, and done what was needed to further Chaos, to further Rhysol. He had understood on that day that Rhysol was more than Ravok, more important than order in the city, and that so long as Rhysol was served what faction he worked for didn't matter. Even if he openly opposed Rhysol and Ravok, he could still be following and being faithful to him.

As he stared up at the woman he'd saved, who'd ended up dead anyways, Clyde tried to force a smile to his lips.

“Whats so funny? I am that I am. You were a fool, serving the person you plotted against and wished destroyed. I know what I am. I understand. Laugh all you want, your still the fool, and a dead one at that. I'm alive, and plan to keep it that way. You didn't understand. The Druvin didn't understand. None of them understood, as they railed and attacked and fought the Rising Dawn. If I had my way, I'd make them anew, bring them to strength, and let them serve him in their own foolishness. Maybe even lead them. Rhysol is what matters, not Ravok, and not you. I'd do it again, and again, and again, and laugh as you made the same mistakes over and over. You and those like you foolish enough to think yourself opposing someone whose tactics you use and whose domain you feed.”

[Crow]

TITLE



Siriana continued to gloat. To laugh. To point fun at the weakness that was below. “You are! What makes you any different from Rising Dawn? This was always about Rhysol, or have you forgotten? What prayers have you said in his name? Who have you slaughtered to benefit him? You feed off the same thing as I. Personal gain. Is that why you let me live? Is that why? You are like a gluttonous pig feeding off your own magic.”

Siriana delved into his past. Asked sensitive questions to distract him. He had been tested at every twist and turn of his fasting. The well of madness began to glow, but Clyde would not be able to tell. The only difference he would notice is that once again the milky white eyes appeared in Siriana. It was perhaps the only constant in his delirious state of mind.

He would doubt his very existence at this point. His mind and body would ache for relief. It would quiver in its furthering weakened state. No amount of meditation could fix this.

“Perhaps you have forgotten, Clyde.”

Those were the last words that Siriana said before everything turned dark. Before everything disappeared.

He would sit there in his own thoughts for the 4th day of the fasting. His mind as if a hurricane exploded with gyres of thoughts which trickled through his pores in the physical realm manifesting as sweat. Finally, the last day had come. Though, Clyde would have no idea of the concept of time in his current state. He would only hear a small whisper from the distance.

“The day the mind shapes and the mind the day shapes.” It would make absolutely no sense to him. It would sound like a chant. A paranoia of the magic he held so dear. Wishing and hoping through it all that this would end. That somehow through all of this grief and pain that finally something would subside. This was the time to reflect.

If he had chosen to protect himself from harm instead of crawling around in his weakened state looking for any source of power to cling to he might have been in a better state. If he had asked Rhysol for guidance during his weakest times… he might have been in a better state. If he had only done things differently… he wouldn’t face the hardest challenge he would ever have to face.

Himself.
Before him in the darkness was himself. Like a mirror image. Exactly the same save for one thing. His eyes were milky white, and he talked to himself.

“Is this what you want?”

“Did you not learn the first time you lost your magic?”

“Can you stare yourself in the face and be pleased?”

“Can you?”

“You will have kill all you have known about yourself. Relinquish yourself to your faith.”

“You have no hope.”

Before Clyde the mirror image conjured a staff similar to the disposition of Cha from a void, except it was pure black with a bright green glisten to it. Just as fast as the void had appeared so too had it disappeared. The other Clyde took the staff by name… “Izar.” Holding the staff with two hands the mirror image slammed Izar to the ground as thousands of miniature voids filled the room. A malicious smirk befell the mirror image as he thrusted Izar into one of the voids. In it went… and out it came from a void just behind Clyde’s head, and hit him. The impact was swift, with a strength that would off his balance. As Clyde would lose his balance he would be pulled into a nearby void where Izar would enter yet another void near the mirror image and strike at him again.

“This is your prison. This is your fate.”

Izar struck at Clyde deeply into his gut causing him to hurl and throw up into the darkness below. It was as if he was floating the pool of vomit remained as if there was a floor.

“Oh, I see now.”


------

~A Ferrin Template, Thanks!

[Clyde Sullins]

“The difference is I admit what I am, who I am, and you deny it. I admit my actions serve Rhysol, but your same actions do the same but you say you don't. The difference is denial, something you are in and I am not in regards to who I serve.”

Clyde shook his head as Siriana's eyes turned white, the dual white of a Druvin.

He had nearly reached his limit. Had nearly tired of his ordeal. For a moment he thought of just giving up, of lying down, of just ignoring his torment and resting, but he forced himself to continue. To push on. To work to survive. It wasn't perhaps in him to stop, to give in. Instead he just kept on going, kept on plodding along to his destination, not recalling why he'd set out for said destination or where he was going. But go he would.

As he entered another stage of his dream or hallucination he was faced with none other than himself. A version of himself with the eyes of a Druvin.

He listened as he questioned himself, taking in the words, pondering the answer as best he could in the state he was in. When he finally answered it was in a confused state, his words not making much sense, darting back and force in his conversation without finding a true train of thought.

“What... I... What else is there? What else, if not to seek this? Give and take. Take and give... I need... More. More to life. More to power. More to be. Its not enough. My power isn't enough. My weakness isn't enough... What else is there to fix this, but to be empowered through Rhysol? I need more...”

Out of the void came a mirror of Cha, a dark mirror. A black staff with a green glow. Izar.

A confusing display of magic, of voiding, of attack, pain, confusion, and a strike to the head.

He had long since passed his bodies endurance. Long since passed his limits. Long since pressed onward beyond and into the emptiness of nothing he held within. Pulled beyond his reserves and used those to, and yet still kept going.

His reactions were dulled, slow, and painful. The attack was painful, but he couldn't react, couldn't do anything.

He fell, was tossed, swaying and going into one of the open portals.

If his stomach still held anything, which he doubted after all of the time he'd been lost, he'd toss it forth. But by now the hunger ate at him, and he felt that surely he had nothing to give, nor to toss up.

He was weakened. Not weak, but weakened. No matter how strong at the start, after all of his ordeal he was spent. He had nothing left to give. As he fell, floated, rested in vomit, he tried to curl up, to pull his arms and legs up against him protectively, the most he could do in his defense against the attacks. The smallest of motions made to show he'd not given up. His words grew increasingly distracted and disjointed as he tried to speak, to keep speaking, but he could feel even that faculty leaving him.

“Rhysol... Why do you test me so... Haven't... Haven't I done enough... I am not weak... But I am human... I have limits, and they are met. Do not waste me with a unfair test I couldn't succeed at... What does it prove to give someone a test that they could never pass? Nothing... It proves nothing. When a mountain is ground to gravel, it is not weak for being small. When gravel is piled into a mountain, it is not strong for its size... Ambition... Ambition... That is my word. Do as you will, but that is my word. Ambition. The mountain is not enough, whether a mountain of gravel or a gravel of a mountain. This is not enough. I am not enough. I will be more... More... Ambition...”

[Crow]

TITLE



Clydes mirror image spoke just and true. Voids crashed into themselves causing a great amount of wind. It would form together into a series of scythes made from the wind itself and float about the room. Clyde’s despair; his insanity and madness was collected into the well of madness. For the well of madness was a mysterious artifact.

Suddenly in the moment of that insanity his mirror image started to speak softly. As if a wave of calmness had struck through the veil of nightmares.

“Remain flexible. One can’t rely solely on magic. One can’t solely rely on chaos. One can’t solely rely on sword, mace, or staff. There is always more. More out there to grasp. More out there to understand. More out there to focus on and adapt to. Without guidance chaos just consumes itself. Rhysol serves to provide that guidance, and the voice is his light in the darkness. Power is not the only thing that creates a willing vessel to his guidance.”

With swift and calculated movement all of the scythes came crashing down upon Clyde. It struck at his skin mysteriously cutting through his clothes leaving lashes of pain before finally becoming a gentle touch lifting him to his feet and forcing him to look at none other than Silvas towering before him.

Silvas walked before Clyde and picked up the shackles he had dropped before. He took the shackles and placed them into the well of madness then took Clyde in his weakened state and placed them upon his wrists. Just as he placed them on his wrist they locked down and absorbed into his skin.

“In the midst of Chaos these shackles will be a constant reminder. They are now bound to you in a way that only you can release them. You have the key, deep down inside of yourself.” Silvas walked back to the well of madness and looked deeply into it. In it he saw the most intriguing thing. Clyde’s Djed was consumed by the darker Djed held within and empowered.

“It was not Rhysol that was testing you, Clyde, it was yourself… of course I helped you along the way.”

“You are now linked to this well. It will feed off of your Djed, though much slower. If you ever manage to find the key to these shackles it will be released and you will find that your magic would for one day be stronger than you would ever dream. It will take a toll on your body and with every year that passes will act on your soul as if it was five.”

Silvas smiled before Clyde and mysteriously the doors to the room opened. He would give Clyde a chance if he desired to say a few more words and after would give a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Now go. You are to travel to Syliras, Commander. There you will be put to the test to gather resources to benefit Rhysol. Upon your return, and you better not return empty handed… you will report straight to me.”

oocMake one more post, and this will conclude this thread after I make one last post to tie things up ...if need be...

~A Ferrin Template, Thanks!

[Clyde Sullins]

Clyde listened as the mirror him spoke. Spoke with some level of profoundness, or at least clarity of thought that in his current state Clyde couldn't manage.

Don't specialize to much, and focus only on magic, to the lacking of other skills... Something that he supposed was true enough, as he'd met many instances where he had no access to magic, and was left weak and exposed because of that.

Ambition was Clyde demanding word, it rang in his head. He knew he had the ambition to meet the challenge, to do as needed, and to rise to the height required of him.

Pain, and then pressure, and then force, and then Silvas before him bringing him softly to his feet.

He watched as the shackles, dipped in chaos of the well, latched onto him and became a part of him, fell within and dripped into his being like dry soil accepting rain.

A key, for a shackle within himself without physical form... Clyde had a feeling that when he meant key he didn't mean anything as mundane as a physical piece of metal to unlock it.

At his statement on the test, Clyde let out a sigh, and stared up at Silvas.

“Well maybe I think a bit too highly of myself, if I went about setting myself a test like that... Though I suppose I survived, if not passed, so perhaps I do know myself if that's true.”

He wasn't sure what he meant about the shackles feeding on his djed, or their cost, or the toll. He had a feeling there was more to them than that, which hopefully he'd come to understand later.

Clyde started as the doors suddenly opened, allowing him to exit. He would pause, looking at Silvas, before attempting to collect his things and go.

But not before Silvas gave one final order, and spoke something that took a moment to register in his current state.

Commander. Commander. Clyde was a soldier. A rank. Commander was a rank. Silvas however had called him commander... Had he just been promoted?

In other circumstances he might have felt happier about this, or even excited. Instead he just felt tired, exhausted both mentally and physically, and ready to go sleep for a day straight after eating a large meal and drinking a small lake.

Clyde struggled for moment with his reply, unsure what to call the Druvin. Finally he settled on a simple appellation, and headed out of the room.

“Yes.... Sir. I will do as I must.”

[Crow]

TITLE




“Oh, and Clyde. That dagger, it isn’t what you think it is, but it could aid in finding the real one.”

Potential and ambition. Although Clyde did not pass his trials to be a paladin, he gained something far more. A personal and vague task assigned to him as a new commander. Silvas did not give much details over his assignment, but the pressure was now on. Especially so now that he was shackled. There was no telling of the exact effect that the shackles would have on Clyde, and all he knew is that it would slowly drain his Djed and cause his soul to age at 5 times the pace. If he was to inspect the invisible shackled that latched into him he would hit a dead end, literally.

Upon exiting the room, he would once again be escorted by Druvin. They would grab ahold of his shoulders and speak in a crazed mannerism.

“Lucky. Promoted by Silvas himself.”
“Not as much as luck as it is a curse.”
“Curse or not he’s being watched now.”
“Fool probably doesn’t even know how to ride a horse.”
“Elderbay Stables will take care of him regardless.”
“What do you think he will return with?”
“Probably nothing.”

Clyde was transported to his estate within Ravok and would most likely not have the energy to much at all. Through everything that he went through was clouded in mystery. The one thing he would be certain about is that he did indeed kill Kelsie.

~A Ferrin Template, Thanks!

Chaos left without guidance will just consume itself.

 

Clyde Sullins

Skills

• Negotiation +2
• Socialization +5
• Meditation +5
• Rhetoric +3
• Intelligence +4
• Investigation +2
• Persuasion +5
• Weapon Skills: Mace +1
• Weapon Skills: Staff +3
• Logic +3
• Evasion +2
• Unarmed Combat +1
• endurance +5

Lores

• Lore of Kelsie Fell: History of a Mad-Woman
• Lore of realization of Multiple Personalities
• Lore of Ranjat Mark 1: A dangerous mace
• Lore of Silvas: The current supreme commander
• Lore of Ravok: The Well of Madness
• Lore of Ravok: Clyde Sullins betrayal of the city
• Lore of Ebonstryfe soldier Browne: Killed by Ranjat Mark 1
• Lore of the mind: A scary place when fasting
• Lore of Ravok: Room of the Well of Madness
• Lore of Meditation: Can be enhanced by magic
• Lore of the mind: Hallucinations can injure you
• Lore of the mind: Madness is complicated
• Mirror Image: A powerful opponent
• Clyde Sullins: Ambition – Realization of strive.
• Clyde Sullins: A strange promotion to Commander
• Clyde Sullins: Linked to the well of madness
• Clyde Sullins: The effects of striving for personal power

Miscellaneous

Secret :

• The Fell Dagger: This dagger is a magical item said to be powered off the coldness of one’s heart. The dagger itself is cold to the touch and is made from a mysterious material that can’t be appraised. When used with the intention to kill it will glow with a bright aura and upon contact of flesh will burn with a cold effect that lasts up to two hours. It is rumored that the more that someone uses the dagger the colder their heart will become. Has the potential to cause frostbite to both the wielder and the victim, as such must be carefully wielded. The history of the dagger is unknown, but it is rumored to have been made when Kelsie Fell reached Marshall status in the Ebonstryfe made by Silvas himself; a sister blade to the blood stained dagger. As such the dagger will glow by itself when near the blood stained dagger. Coldness of one’s heart explanation: The dagger will only show effects of this enchantment if the PC shows personal struggle and interacts with other players solely to benefit themselves. As such this dagger will cause “evil or bad” characters to slowly fall into chaos the more they use it. They should show qualities of becoming withdrawn, hard to approach, and have qualities of just not caring for others at all.
  
• Soul Shackles of Madness: These shackles absorb into the afflicted’s soul and binds them to the well of madness. Their Djed will slowly be drained through time causing their soul to age at 5 times the normal rate. This effect lasts until it is unlocked by a feat of remarkable mystery to the PC. This feat must be accomplished upon which they will learn how to unlock it and choose to unlock it when they wish. When it becomes unlocked their Djed will surge causing one day of amplifying their magic beyond proportions of what would normally be possible. The longer the shackles are on the more powerful the effect; however, it comes with great risk. Aging one’s soul beyond what their body can handle… will pose a problem. Limit until effect has the greatest negative impact: 4 IC years.

Comments:Although fatigued and drained the only sign that Clyde would have through this is a series of welts all over his body. These welts will last for one full season as they mysteriously appeared from his hallucinations. He will have some mental blocks occur and may experience terrible flashbacks upon his return to Ravok somewhat like PTSD.

Promotion to Commander of the Ebonstryfe: Please update CS. Was a marvelous thread, and although things didn’t turn out the way you planned… it will add some great plots for the future. Any questions or concerns feel free to PM.

Seeing as how most of this thread occurred within your mind some skills were unable to be granted, everything was carefully placed - but if you feel I missed something send me a pm.