Pursuing Legends (Expert K'Tesh - Fox)

[Nimavel Mynendil]

Month of Ioannes in the Season of Summer, Era III

"The monastery is in the depths of the desert, where the sands meet the mountains. It is nestled into a high mountain, the climb to which takes many brightenings..."

Lavender eyes winced as they scanned the horizon, briefly braving the ominous glares of the three suns before diverting to the base of the expansive mountain range. The alabaster elf stared stoically at the aesthetic scene, seemingly oblivious to the sense of awe and wonder that the setting normally provoked in the minds of those that viewed it.

Nimavel Mynendil, the Elf Lord of House Mynendil, tilted his head upwards to grasp the magnitude of the immense chain of rocks. As he did so the cowl of his ebony cloak drifted behind him and fell upon his back, revealing the resplendently chiseled and handsome face of the young assassin. His stern visage and obstinate countenance radiated the impression that he was not one to be trifled with, and frankly such a perception would have been quite accurate.

Ordinarily Nimavel's demeanor was relatively subtle and cool, but on this particular brightening there was an evident fleck of consideration buried beneath his mask of composure.

It was contemplation.

Not too long ago he had been gifted with a fortuitous exchange with a monk of some clandestine monastery, a man that solely presented himself as Phillippe. Though his interaction with the human had initially been irritable, the mortal had managed to rivet the assassin's interest.

The human had been a fellow practitioner of the martial arts.

An accomplished K'Tesh student in his own right, Nimavel had immediately been allured by the promise of future encounters with other adept Zinn'ka advocates in an alleged monastery situated within the coves of the mountains.

The thought of endeavoring to such a secluded compound had not originally been taken very seriously, but time had been the ultimate factor in swaying Nimavel to this course. Ever since his return to Silrosia and his unlikely meeting with the legendary Naloren en Vikaryl, one particular revelation had dawned upon the young Mynendil's mind...

He had much to learn.

The mere notion agitated the assassin, not only because it was a humbling blow to his pride, but also because it explained the failures that had hindered him so many times in life.

Drawing the folds of his ebony cloak around his slender frame, the Elf raised his chin and strode boldly towards the unknown.

If he were to progress at all, it would be here.

[Fox]

The great Mountain range seemed to be at least a full days walk through the desert. In truth, movement through the desert was at a fraction of the speed of travel through almost any other terrain. The brightenings suns beat down on the young assassin as he traipsed forward, one foot slowly in front of the other.

To walk through the desert is to trudge, slowly. It is to feel the heat of the suns peeling the skin from your bones with every step. It is to walk without hope of ever seeing another being. People come here and die, their bleached bones being slowly buried in the sand and whittled away in the time that they lay there.

And getting lost is so very easy. One dune looks like another dune, and the sand is everywhere.

However, Silrosia's assassin had at least a landmark to come towards, to move to. The first brightening, Nimavel learnt a number of things.

WIthout water, he would die. If he had not brought water, he would need to either know the tricks of the desert to get some (and they existed, but were as well hidden as the bones of those who never knew them) or return and have lots of water.

Should this not be an issue, then he would find something else but not for a few candlemarks. By day the desert suns would scorch him, but by night he would freeze without warmth and shelter.

And then, of course, there was food. How would he feed himself on the journey? Judging by the size of the mountains in the distance it would take one, maybe two brightenings. How would he feed himself, for once he had reached the mountains, quite *which* mountain and how to climb it remained.

[Nimavel Mynendil]

The assassin's leather-encased feet trampled through the sand, more laboriously than he would have hoped for. Though slender and light by physical standards, his diminutive physique was heavy enough to impress the golden grains with a trail of imprints. Unfortunately, as the rolling dunes were difficult to trudge through at a normal pace, the Syl'rosyan's mobility was greatly impeded.

But he pursued onwards.

As the three suns of Telath ascended to their pinnacles at noon, the Elfish assassin felt the scorching rays beat against his alabaster form. He felt his pale shell speedily warming at the lights' touch, and perspiration began to accumulate beneath the folds of his cloak. His attire, too, subsequently began to moisten.

Drawing the all-enveloping cowl of his mantle over his head to shield his eyes and face, the assassin's lavender orbs continuously fixated upon the range of mountains situated in the horizon. To those wandering aimlessly in the desert, death would be their only solace. However, for the Lord of House Mynendil, he diligently proceeded towards his destination.

He had to.

Fortunately, the elf possessed a number of items that would contribute to his progress. He had a flask of water and five brightenings worth of rations, and these he would have to use sparingly. There was no discerning how long it would take him to reach this secluded monastery, but one thing was certain: he would not be able to survive without the proper nourishments.

Even as he advanced through the labyrinth of sand, the K’Tesh practitioner maintained focused and concentrated. To succumb to his physical torment would be to forfeit everything that he embodied. Strength, perseverance, and tenacity, these were characteristics of any true Mynendil and qualities that the elf radiated in everything that he did.

Some of the only alleviation that the elf extracted from this excruciating experience was born from the enchanted gloves bedecking his calloused hands: the Claws of the Great Horn. They were his father’s chosen weapons, and his father’s before that. They reminded the assassin that he did not make this venture solely for himself, but for his people and all of Elfhame.

To protect the lands of his ancestors he required to become as strong as was possible.

With this mentality serving as the driving force behind his movements, the elf continued on. When the suns of Telath warned that they were about to depart into the night sky, the assassin would scan for any type of shelter that he might use to weather through the evening.

[Fox]

The movement of one foot in front of the other foot was never meant to be difficult. The movement of one foot in front of the other foot was meant to be as natural as breathing.... in..... out... in.... out.

Of course, amongst the Martial Masters of the Temple of the Whispering Waters there was talk of one master who had forgotten the Way. The Way that spoke of bending like bamboo, not standing stall to be blown over in the wind had been forgotten to this Master, and rather than allowing himself to grow, he had sought Mastery of a different sort. Not Mastery of himself, but Mastery of his world. And he understood that breath is life. That it is all in the breath that battles and wars are won and lost. That breath and blood are life and death.

And so, this Master had sought to control his own breaths. Control them, rather than allow them to push him further. He had overstepped the line. So the legend spoke, he had gained control over his breaths, but had done so at the cost of its automatic nature. Which did not bode well for him, as he then spent the next month focusing on breathing and nothing more. Should he stop focusing on it, he stopped doing it.

Eventually, so the story goes, he was driven insane and he jumped from the mountain to his death. Others say that he still lives in the Monastary, teaching and learning. Whichever is true is largely irrelevant, of course, but the Truth of the story is what is important.

Truth, so the people of the desert say, is a constant companion in treks through the arid land. The first Truth that Nimavel faced was the realisation that perception is deception. For as the first brightening finished, the mountains that had seemed no more than one, two brightenings away at the most, looked only a little closer. Not much at all.

For then, as he looked at how far he had come, he could see how enormous this mountain range was, how the mountains towered above the sandy desert,

He did not have candlemarks left to travel. He had brightenings, maybe cycles. And as darkness fell on his first full brightening on the solitary road, there was no shelter for him. There was nothing save the sand..... the dunes.... the bones.

And darkening would bring with it the freezing winds. Nimavel had best find the shelter that did not exist, or the winds would, so the stories go, rip the flesh from his bones and leave naught there but a skeleton to join Lady Deaths collection.

[Nimavel Mynendil]

The Elfish assassin had braved the tides of many conflicts in his life, most of which had resulted in no more than a few bruises and scrapes. He had performed marvelously in his career, possessing a record that had yet to be tarnished by failure. But although his hands were stained by the crimson blood of many enemies, his current opponent was one that could not be scarred by the calloused fingers of K'Tesh.

No, it was an intangible foe.

Nature.

The winds ripped against the assassin's robes, warning him of the keen zephyrs soon to come with the descending night. The Mynendil Lord still had a little bit of time at his disposal, and common sense advised him to seek out shelter to wade through the bitter cold destined to arrive.

But where?

Nimavel's lavender orbs flickered in the waning light, scanning meticulously for traces of the environment that he might use to his advantage. Unfortunately, all that the elf perceived was a vast sea of revolving sand. There was nowhere left to turn, and even more unfortunately, nowhere to hide.

Surprisingly, though, the assassin did not groan beneath the weight of these dreary indications. He was more concerned, however, by the prospect of the immense mountain range situated a short distance ahead of him. Now that he neared he understood that the single silhouette that he had originally seen now consisted of a number of less rock formations that would take him an exceptional amount of time to scale unless he knew the way.

If he could reach them in time...

The Mynendil heir tilted his head upwards as he traveled, noting the direction of the breeze relative to his location. If he could manage to arrive at the base of the mountains then he would be able to use the wall of earth to temporarily shield himself during the night. It was perhaps his best option.

Regardless, the elf was not about to do anything at a careless rate. Closing his eyes and filtering all of the extraneous thoughts from his mind, Nimavel readied to dive into the reservoirs from which the dark powers were born.

The Infernal Plane…

The apprentice of Syl’rosya’s half-Esh’lahier, Naloren en Vikaryl, Nimavel had indeed paid strict attention to the Mithania’s teaching. Having encountered the half-breed haphazardly, it did not take long for the assassin to make his connection with Naloren.

They were both sons of the shadows.

Nimavel’s life had changed dramatically ever since he had first delved into the art of necromancy. He had sacrificed much to gain this power, but ultimately for the longevity of Elfhame, or so he was led to believe.

Nevertheless, he required to draw upon these powers now.

Presuming that he entered clara, the assassin wove together his vis and some ara exuding from the desert to form the proper nexus. Upon completion he called forth to the spirits of darkness, commanding them to form a spirit shield around him as he had done in Syl’rosya several times before.

The magical barrier was resistant against physical attacks, and according to Naloren’s explanation, the shield was also defiant to cold attacks. Subsequently, Nimavel predicted that it might have an effect at partially safeguarding him during the night or while he treaded to the base of the mountain. At the very least it would enable him some more time to find shelter if he was unable to arrive at his destination.

[Fox]

He did not have candlemarks left to travel. He had brightenings, maybe cycles. And as darkness fell on his first full brightening on the solitary road, there was no shelter for him. There was nothing save the sand..... the dunes.... the bones.

Brightenings.. cycles. Before the mountains. And right here, right now, he was in trouble. Much more trouble than he had been in in any fight. And why?

Because physical opponents could be bested. Fights could be won or lost on luck. But this? This was, as Nimavel realised, Nature Herself. And She Was Red In Tooth And Claw. And She Came for him....

The darkening started to approach as he cast his spell. But he knew that Spirit Shield was but a temporary measure and would not last more than a candlemark, if he was lucky.

And the winds started to whip around him, the darkness beginning to envelop him.

And all there was, all around was sand. .... sand..... and sand.

Except for somewhere in the distance, where a predator howled, hoping that it would soon be fed.

[Nimavel Mynendil]

The assassin of House Mynendil paused to survey the landscape, which consisted of nothing more than an endless beach of sand. There was little hope of reaching his destination within the transpiring candlemark, and the elf would be lucky if he could weather through the grainy storm in one piece.

But what could he do?

Nimavel Mynendil was at a loss of ideas. There were no evident forms of shelter anywhere around, and the only materials from which he could construct a temporary residence was from the dunes, and these unfortunately, were hardly stable enough to remain stationary for long.

The elf was beginning to wonder if his venture had been worth the trouble. He pursued the knowledge necessary to enhance his skills, but at what cost? And why? Could he not have received a similar experience elsewhere?

No, it had been the assassin's curiosity that had inspired his journey. After his encounter with Philippe, the alabaster elf candidly wondered what it was like to dedicate oneself solely to their craft.

He would find a way to the monastery at all costs.

It was during his investigation that the assassin noticed many skeletal formations protruding from the sand. These were the only tangible tools that he could use to create a shelter of sorts.

Trusting that the Spirit Shield would remain long enough to erect a makeshift tent, the elf scanned for large bones. Presuming that he was able to harvest at least a few, he would remove the ebony cloak from around his shoulders.

Though reluctant to pierce his favorite black mantle, the assassin knew that he had to in order to survive from the bitter wind.

Jamming the largest of the bones vertically into the sand, he meticulously made sure that they were sturdy before tying two of the corners to the top of the bones for security. Afterwards he felt for the direction of the breeze.

Once discerning this factor, he would pin the bottom corners of his cloak into the sand with the remaining bones to shield against the wind.

Hopefully the improvised tent would last him the evening.

[Fox]

The makeshift shelter was one that Nimavel might come to bless in eras and patterns to come, truth be told. It was something that he might curse equally, of course, depending on how the darkening continued.

As darkness descended over Telath, the suns fell into the horizon and the desert froze. The winds whipped and howled around the young Mynendil, and the makeshift shelter was enough to do little more than prolong his agony, it seemed.

As he crouched under the tent, the wind pressed against it like an almost physical weight and the darkness outside was so black that no sharp eyes would pierce it. It was freezing cold, enough to kill in the space of candlemarks and the wind was ever present, pushing against the back of the tent... pushing and pressing like it was heavier than any man.

And as the minutes ticked by, for surely Nimavel had been in complete darkness only minutes, he would come to a realisation. That it *was* a physical weight pressing against the tent wall. It was the physical weight of sand. The sand storm, whipping the sand dunes around and forming new ones was raging and Nimavel had a long bone and a cloak. He was faced with two choices in that moment.

If he stayed under the cloak then the sand would, in all probability cover him and soon. The cloak would give him a small air pocket, but would it be enough?

If he moved out now, then he faced the storm. And had he at any point asked about survival in the desert, he would know the answer to the question "what happens if you go out in a sand storm at night?"

Sadly, he had not asked that question, and so the dilemma lay before him.

[Nimavel Mynendil]

Time descended like the grains of an hourglass, indicating that all was about to run out soon enough. The Lord of Mynendil posed several questions as he lingered beneath the makeshift canopy of his cloak, one that was bound to fail any minute now. There was a slim chance that he could weather through the storm and find other shelter, and there was another possibility that he could remain within his temporary 'hovel' to brave through the night.

Either way there was a risk.

The assassin's face contorted for one of the first times this season, clearly implying that he was not pleased with the grave situation. He felt as the weight of the sand pressed against his backside, and despite his vantage point against the wind he knew that the dunes would inevitably overcome him.

He would be buried alive.

Nimavel Mynendil did not fancy the notion one bit, and he meticulously concluded that he was a sitting duck out here in the sand.

Grasping the long bone within his grasp and retrieving the cloak, the elven assassin ascended from his sandy alcove and once again emerged in the face of the storm. He knew that he did not stand a ghost of a chance of reaching the base of the mountains through the haze of darkness, but perhaps there was one last option that he had not considered.

The predator of the night.

Nimavel had distinctly heard the sound of an allegedly vicious animal resonating a short distance away, and though he did not welcome the prospect of combating against the unknown, where there were other creatures there was shelter.

The abomination had managed to survive this night, and its howl probably was born more out of hunger than anything else.

There was a chance.

The assassin lord re-clasped the cloak around his shoulders to shield himself from the wind, and if necessary he would take a few moments to enter clara and re-erect the spirit shield long enough until he found the predator soon to be turned prey.

And with this mentality driving him to endeavor, the elf’s keen ears attuned to the sound of the creature’s voice.

It would be a dead voice soon enough.

[Fox]

If he moved out now, then he faced the storm. And had he at any point asked about survival in the desert, he would know the answer to the question "what happens if you go out in a sand storm at night?"

what happen if you go out in a sand storm at night?

You die.

It is that simple. And as the sand whipped across his skin, causing flesh to part from muscle and skin to part from bone, Nimavel was given the chance to realise something really quite important.

He might well die here

In fact, unless he did something and quickly, he *would* die here.

The predator of the night? Oh well that was a good idea in the clear darkening. But here? In this darkening with the sands whipping around, the predator was gone. Gone and hiding. Hiding from the storm.

because the storm is death.

[Nimavel Mynendil]

It was hopeless.

The violently swirling sand sifted through the elfish assassin's spirit shield, tearing thin cuts across his alabaster visage. Nimavel, however, was oblivious as droplets of blood began to appear along the crimson lines along his face. He was far more concerned with the raging sand storm that threatened to overwhelm him in the upcoming moments.

There was so little that he could do.

It was difficult for the elf to believe that the environment had changed so abruptly, yet there was no time to question nature and its haphazard decisions. He had only reached a few steps away from his makeshift tent when he realized that any efforts to flee from the storm would be futile.

No. It would mean death.

Nimavel's lavender orbs, wincing slightly to prevent the sand from whipping into his eyes, scanned the dune that he had previously constructed his temporary shelter under. By now most of the sand would have settled into place, meaning that it was possible for him to erect his bootleg tent once again. Of course there was still the risk of being covered beneath it, but he would much rather brave the weight of the sand than the razor torrents of the wind. At least in the former situation he could move his shelter to shield himself from the wind at the bases of other desert hills.

Dashing back to the growing dune of sand, the elf once again constructed the tent with his cloak and bones. He huddled beneath the mantle and continuously rubbed his chest for warmth. Nimavel would remain conscious through the night, preparing to relocate only if the storm threatened to bury him alive. Hopefully it would not come to that, but for some reason the thought of death was mildly comforting in comparison to the prospect of a night of agony. Likewise, he concentrated and prepared to cast another spirit shield once the other dissipated. It would at the very least protect him a little more from the cold.

[Fox]

It was harder work than it needed to be, in the middle of the raging desert storm. It was back breaking work, bending against the winds and feeling the sand flay him (surely now, the reason why the bones were so clean was clear).

But eventually, as the sands raged around him with razor cuts he crawled into his shelter, and waited for death. Outside the storm whirled and raged and was death to anyone who dared to step out into it.

And the wind whipped the sand atop him, the weight of it growing heavier as the night continued. But although it came close, there was no point where he thought that he would not be able to shift himself. Of course, there was a small and limited amount of air under there, but as long as Sylrosya's assassin breathed slow deep breaths and maintained as large an open space within his makeshift shelter as he could, that would be alright. In the morning, he was likely to be feeling nauseous from the slowly depreciating air quality, but that would be a small price to pay, surely?

And as the storm whipped and ravaged, killing anything so foolish as to be caught in it, Nimavel perhaps understood, truly understood the old saying "Nature is Red in Tooth and Claw". And as candlemark followed candlemark, time seemed to fold in upon itself.

And as suddenly as it had arrived, the storm subsided and then stopped. And within minutes he heard a strange sound. What was it? Oh....

... it was the sound of morning birds.

He was buried deep in sand and would have to work hard to get out, although he could do so easily enough, and the brightening started with clear skies and a completely changed landscape, the sand relocated throughout the darkening.

[Nimavel Mynendil]

The weight of the sand pressing against his back caused the elfish assassin to lurch forward in his sandy alcove. Not surprisingly, though, Nimavel Mynendil was far too stubborn to be buried alive. He planted his feet into the grainy earth and braced himself as the base of the dune began to formulate around him. Utilizing his makeshift tent as a shelter of sorts, the elf did everything within his power to maintain a relatively available cove for him to remain in.

Nimavel was glad, too, that he had risked the mountains of sand as opposed to the razor winds of the desert air. Despite his shelter he could feel the whipping zephyrs piercing through the sky and threatening all who confronted it with death. Fortunately, Jalat had not intended for the winds to be the cause of the assassin's demise this night.

No, Jalat planned for the elf to suffer.

The night elapsed rather slowly for the stationary elf, yet he managed to persevere regardless of all odds being against him. As the morning rays of sunlight heralded the conclusion of the storm, the assassin gritted his teeth and pushed upwards upon the balls of his feet to force himself onto the compact ground.

Grains of sand sifted through his clothes and onto the dry earth. This, however, was only a minor annoyance in comparison to the hordes of grains that were caught between his tresses. Shaking out his raven locks in aggravation, the elf's eyes narrowed dreadfully at the expanse of the desert.

His cower softened, however, when he understood that this was an unconquerable opponent that he faced.

With a newfound reverence for the forces of nature, the elf retrieved his makeshift tent and attached them to his physique. Beginning to fathom the horrors of another night in the desert, the elf took a swig of water to quench his thirst as he set his lavender stare to the mountains, his destination.

Applying the method known as the Feet of Aslan, a technique that enables users to move at a constant speed for great distances of time, Nimavel made his way to the base of the range.

He was determined not to brave another night in a sandy grave.

[Fox]

That would be a hard task. To walk to the base of the mountains in but two brightenings, that would be a task nigh on impossible.

But the Assassing of Sylrosya was no ordinary mortal. He was Elf and they overcome. He stepped, one foot in front of another foot, each step moving rhythmically and without hesitation.

The problem, of course, came as the suns reached their zenith. By daylight, at noon, the sands literally burn. They are so hot as to melt anything delicate caught upon them, and as much as he might be loathe to admit it, Nimavel fell into that category.

The suns burnt him, scorching his every exposed scrap of skin, even under any protection that he could manage to keep on himself under the heat.

So, to add to the cuts there was the scorching, death-inducing, dehydrating and terrifying heat of the suns beating down on him.


And still. One foot. In front of another foot. And so he moved.

And eventually, as the suns finally started to look like they would sink into the horizon, bringing on the freezing night once more, he found himself at the base of the mountains. Where, of all things, there appeared to be a path. A path. Blessed sight indeed. Other than....

.... there was a goblin, sitting on a boulder at the base of the path. Sitting and throwing stones at a rock a small distance away. Sitting, in apparent comfort and looking up at Nimavel with a cocky expression.

As the Shadow of the Night approached, the small creature said one word.

Wotcha

[Nimavel Mynendil]

The muscles in the elfish assassin's legs tightened as he glided atop the hills of sand. His feet dug into the heated earth with every step, propelling him forward and closer to his immense destination. Nimavel Mynendil was determined not to spend another night at the base of a dune, and what more, risk his life through that tremendous storm. He had personally braved one of the greatest adversities that nature could have thrown before him, and in truth he feared another encounter.

Unfortunately, the sand storm had not been the only obstacle to confront him. As he ran the elfish lord could feel the heat sift through his apparel and char his skin. Nimavel threw the cowl of his cloak over his visage to help repel some of the scorching rays, but even this was not enough to shield him completely. Gritting his teeth together, the elf nonetheless pursued his destined path without complaint.

It was not until the three suns of Telath began to maneuver away was the elf granted some reprieve. His tongue was dry and his throat parched, and thus he took another swig of water from his wine-skin. The liquid was alleviating as it coursed through his body, and the elf was gifted with yet another rare moment of comfort.

His lavender eyes glimmered, though, as he spotted a diminutive silhouette situated a short distance away on a small rock. Turning defensively, the elf’s gaze narrowed as he identified the creature as a goblin.

Even more interesting was the perceptible trail nearby the green bugger, leading upwards into the mountains. The elfish assassin had no doubts that this was the pathway that Philippe had taken to return to his monastery.

It was the elf’s to take as well.

But what would he do about the goblin?

Nimavel’s graceful and meticulous gait hinted at his cautiousness, and his eyes intermittently darted from left to right to distinguish any other forms lurking within or nearby the shadows of the rocks.

As the goblin spoke, the elfish assassin paused and analyzed the creature carefully.

“Who are you?”

Nimavel asked in his traditionally suspicious tone. This goblin clearly did not fear the upcoming night, but why not? They both had everything to lose with the dropping of the suns.

The goblin’s nonchalance indicated that he was a native of these parts, and thus he knew how to survive and possibly where the monastery was located.

Perfect.