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by Of planets » Sat Jun 29, 2013 1:21 am
by Flimxanthia » Sun Jun 30, 2013 1:27 am
by Vesperis » Sun Jun 30, 2013 10:36 am
by Flimxanthia » Sun Jun 30, 2013 3:30 pm
by Flimxanthia » Sun Jun 30, 2013 4:08 pm
by Flimxanthia » Sun Jun 30, 2013 5:52 pm
by Vesperis » Sun Jun 30, 2013 9:16 pm
by Of planets » Mon Jul 01, 2013 9:44 am
by Flimxanthia » Mon Jul 01, 2013 12:10 pm
by Shadyrya » Wed Jul 03, 2013 11:57 pm
by Joshulia » Thu Jul 04, 2013 12:00 am
Shadyrya wrote:I made a huge bio for this, and it's not done, but I'm gonna post it so you guys can see it. I spent too many hours on it for it to gather dust in my drafts.Alari Makarrehn A'khen was born to Diverius A'khen and Selenna A'khen, formerly of the house M'chalenn, two major nobles of Illia. The couple lived in the capital, Sy'livia, and had great influence on the Emperor and his decisions, as Diverius was part of the K'heyne Arakken, or the Great Council. They were very wealthy, and had the seventh largest treasury in Illia. When Alari, their seventh child and first son, was born, they wept with joy. They had thought themselves cursed, as male children were the only ones that truly mattered. They immediately set to work gathering the finest instructors in Illia, depleting near half their treasury. They didn't mind - Alari was grey eyed, and in Illian culture, this is an omen that signifies greatness. He was their prized posession, flaunted to all. They believed Alari would bring them greatness, and on his first name day, they held a feast and tourney that lasted nine days. Alari was given many gifts, gifts of gold, books, promises, fine silks. Not only did they pray Alari would bring glory to Illia, they daren't cross Diverius.
At age five, Alari began his academic instruction. Ravelin Aresstus, a learned man from Trevere, the scholar's city, was his first instructor. He began with letters; letters were the foundation to everything, Ravelin believed. At first, Alari despised this instruction; the games he played with other children held much more allure. Soon, though, Ravelin convinced him of both the importance and joy of words. Alari started to take great pleasure in reading, especially the fables about Illian heroes. One in particular caught his eye - the story of the great swordsman, Asticus Danse. Asticus was a renowned noble, a great swordsman, but completely incompetent at governing his lands. He borrowed insane amounts of money, and one day the Silver Bank sent a man to collect his debts. Asticus said, 'I do not have the money now. Come back tomorrow.' The man came back the next day, along with a debt collector from a Renederian bank. 'I do not have the money. Come back tomorrow,' Asticus said, and the two left. The next day the two men came back, along with a man from another great House. He attempted telling them to come back the next day, but they refused, and attacked him, fed up. Asticus slew two of the men, but the last drove a dagger into his eye. Even as young as he was, Alari got the message - no matter how martially skilled you are, debts will catch up to you. The third time he heard the tale, he vowed to never borrow anything. He would either buy it ... or take it.
At six, Alari began his histories. He was taught how Illia came to be, and how it prospered. Then came the histories of other cultures. Alari took a particular interest in Shadarian culture. Ravelin encouraged this; his ancestors were Shadarian.
'They are a noble people,' he said, 'to be respected.' Ravelin taught him their language, culture, diet, geography; near everything he knew. Alari devoured the knowledge with a passion, and he and Ravelin began to develop a bond as well. Alari's father wasn't around often, and so Ravelin took on the role. Ravelin attempted to instill virtues in the young man, and at the time he thought he had succeeded. Alari was usually kind, as well as patient and forgiving. No one thought he would become the man he became.
At the age of seven, Alari's martial training began. Ararik K'linn, a man whose fame spread all around the world, instructed him. Alari disliked the man; he said what he thought, and often criticized Alari. The young man took these as slights, rather than constructive observations to aid his development. At the end of each day, Alari would retire battered and bruised, with a wounded ego as well. After his swordplay lessons, he would join Ravelin for his academic studies. They had begun arithmetic, which Alari completely despised. The numbers confused him, and often Alari would shout in frustration. Ravelin attempted to both keep him happy as well as pound the equations into his head. Eventually, Ravelin acquired an acceptable understanding of the most basic maths. Ravelin deemed it enough, stating that he didn't need the advanced problems. He didn't believe this; he thought numbers were vastly important, but he thought keeping Alari's happiness intact was more important. It didn't really work, though; Ararik saw to that.
Eventually, Alari had to duel other children his age. They would use wood shaped into longswords, and spar until one child yielded. Ararik taunted him as too quick to swing, and judged his style and stance often. Alari underestimated himself; he thought Ararik's remarks meant he was unskilled. However, when he had his first fight, he saw the falsity in that belief. His opponent was a child called Perirac, a youth Alari hated. He was whiny and fat, and his only skill was eating. Alari attacked him with glee. He slashed in a diagonal arc, batting his opponent's stick toward the ground. He then brought his sword up, quickly, knocking the youth in the jaw. He stumbled backwards with a cry of pain. Alari then thrust forward, slipping past the fat boy's defense and hitting him in the throat. Perirac made a choked grunt, his eyes tearing up.
'Yield!' he shouted, and Alari laughed, disregarding his surrender. He swung the wooden blade again, like a club, hitting the other child in the temple. He fell to the ground, openly crying.
'Alari! What exactly was that? He yielded, you fool!' Ararik shouted, while Podd, a servant who had come to watch, helped Perirac to his feet, giving Alari a dirty look. Alari was brought to his father.
'You don't kick a man when he's in the dirt, nor attack him when he surrenders,' his father stated, harshly. 'You will have extra chores for a moon, as well as learning only math from Ravelin for the same amount of time. If this ever happens again, I will have a more skilled bladesman than yourself beat you into the dirt, to show you what it feels like. Do you understand?' Alari nodded gravely. His father's wrath was frightening to the young boy. He wouldn't repeat his mistake ... for a while.
Four years later, Alari was known as one of the best fighters. The other children began to be frightened of him in the yard - he could force them to yield in a matter of seconds. The only one who was real competition was Mallen, a boy of twelve, child to Entrues of Ar'tyena, a major Illian city. Ararik enjoyed seeing them fight; it went on for quite a long while, and the results were usually a draw. One day, Ararik scheduled for them to duel. Alari was tired of letting Mallen survive his attacks; this time, he would make him yield. They met at mid-afternoon, Ararik observing intently. He tried to define both of their styles. Alari seemed to favor speed over strength; he landed many medium strength blows, and was precise in his aiming and quite agile, dodging Mallen's slower, more powerful attacks and countering before dancing away. Alari had a tendency to strike first, and be quite aggressive; if Mallen was smart enough to see an opening that Alari left, he would be able to finish the fight. The problem was, Mallen had little mind for strategy. Ararik had a hunch that this was the match where one of the children emerged victorious.
Alari nodded to signify that he was ready; Mallen returned the gesture. Alari rushed forward, feinting for the head then redirecting for the torso. His blow connected with a solid smack, knocking the wind from Mallen. Alari then slashed downward, hitting Mallen in the head. He grinned, thinking he had won ... and then a wooden sword smacked him in the ribs. The crack that erupted was huge. Alari knew he had broken bones; he grit his teeth, trying to ignore the pain, and stepped back. He would not lose. Mallen swung horizontally, and Alari ducked. He thrust upward, his sword point connecting with Mallen's jaw. His head snapped back, and Alari pressed the advantage, delivering a flurry of blows. Each one pained him further, but Mallen cried out with pain as each one hit its mark. Chest, jaw, thigh, stomach, temple, throat; each attack further injured the muscled youth. Fed up, Mallen lashed out with his hand, the back of it smashing Alari's face. He stumbled back, half of his vision obscured by purple and orange. His ear rang, his sight swam. Mallen grinned, winding up for a huge blow. He swung, his blade speeding toward Alari's throat ... and connected. Alari collapsed to the ground, wheezing. Ararik rushed out, calling for one of the eunuchs who knew the healing arts. Mallen grinned, receiving pats on the back from his friends, while Alari lay on the cobblestone, barely able to breath.
Alari fully healed two months afterward, his broken ribs mended and his damaged windpipe healed. However, he had yet to return to the yard. He was shamed; how could he, Alari A'khen, son of one of the greatest nobles in Sy'livia, lose to some minor count's baseborn son? He fumed, venting to Ravelin, practicing his swordplay against a straw dummy in his quarters. He would kill Mallen. He would burn his arms, sever his legs, and strap a bucket full of hot coals and rats to his chest. He smiled at the thought. Yes, that's what he'd do. But first he'd shame him in front of his friends. He'd break him. Then he'd torture the bastard. He wrote about what he'd do to Mallen, and one day, Ravelin found it.
'Alari! This is disgusting and cruel! How could you even think of doing such a thing to a peer? I should give this to your father and let him punish you!' Of course, Ravelin didn't. He chastised Alari, and subjected him to math, but he wouldn't condemn him to his father. However, he did make Alari vow to never do any of the things he wrote, and he burned the journal. Alari swore, but he didn't mean it. He was going to kill Mallen.
A month after Alari returned to the yard, the other children were terrified of him. He had knocked four opponents out, broken three's ribs, and beat twenty within a minute. He was faster, stronger, and much smarter. Eventually, Ararik decided that he and Mallen should duel again. Mallen was twenty pounds heavier than Alari, and half a foot taller. He was much stronger, as well. But he was slower, and stupider, and less agile. Alari was confident in his ability. He wouldn't only beat him, he would kill him. His plan was to weaken Mallen, hinder him, then stab into his throat so violently he wouldn't be able to breathe. It helped that Ararik decided they would use blunted steel. When Alari heard that, he grinned. Of course, he didn't underestimate Mallen. He knew that if he made one wrong move, Mallen had the power to kill him. He would approach with caution.
The two entered the ring, shouts of 'Alari!' or 'Mallen!' filling their ears. Near all the children populating the Great Castle came to watch the rematch. Bets were placed, the majority on Mallen. Alari was an underdog. He liked that. The two nodded, then went at it. Mallen tried to end it quick with a bow to the head. Alari ducked, and brought his steel up with him as he stood, swinging. He hit Mallen in the face, and an audible crack sounded. Alari had broken his cheekbone; the degree of brokenness, he didn't know. Judging from the look of extreme pain on Mallen's face, likely pretty bad. Alari wouldn't repeat his mistakes; he didn't press the advantage, but backed off, waiting for Mallen to strike. He did - a diagonal arc, which Alari sidestepped. He then swung his sword into Mallen's face again, this time breaking his nose. Blood streamed from high inthe bridge of it, splattering on the ground.
'Yield, Mallen?' Ararik shouted, a worried look on his face.
'No,' Mallen muttered, the word audible only to Alari. He began swinging, blow after blow, and Alari parried and parried. Eventually, though, Mallen broke through, nailing Alari in the chest. It wasn't strong enough to break bone, but it smarted. Alari backpedaled, giving up ground and batting Mallen's blows away. Unexpectedly, he ducked under Mallen's sword and brought his own blade careening into Mallen's stomach. He exhaled with a large woosh, and doubled over. Alari brought his elbow down into the back of Mallen's neck. He fell, but rolled away quickly, then stood, taking labored breaths. Fury shone in his eyes, but under that, unmistakable, was hatred for Alari. Mallen rushed, putting his shoulder forward. Alari thrust and hit Mallen in the collarbone, but Mallen continued, and hit Alari so hard he flew back, landing on the stone with a dull thud. Mallen thrust downward, and Alari rolled out of the way, standing. Mallen swung, a huge downward blow. Alari put his sword up to meet it, and threw it to the side, but his sword was also thrown to the side, out of his grip. Mallen grinned, advancing with malicious intent. He swung, horizontally, and Alari rolled, avoiding the blow and moving toward his blade. He retrieved it, then adopted a defensive pose. Mallen finally realized that his offensive approach wasn't much working; he and Alari began to circle.
'I'm going to kill you,' Alari said in a low voice, only Mallen hearing. The older boy laughed.
'Try.'
Alari rushed forth, ducking Mallen's blow and hitting him with his shoulder. Mallen stumbled back, and Alari swung for the throat. He hit. Another crack told Alari he had broken the boy's windpipe. He hit it again, then again, making sure. Then he thrust his blade for Mallen's eye. The dull tip sunk in maybe a centimeter, rendering the eye useless, just in case Mallen lived.
'Alari! Are you fucking crazy?!' Ararik cursed, spitting the words out, running to the fence that closed the duelists in, leaping it. Mallen collapsed to the ground at about the same time. Alari laughed. Ararik arrived by the boy's side.
'He will die. That ... that's on you, Alari. You killed him.'
Alari grinned.
'Son.' Alari's father bore into him with eyes that seemed made of iron. 'No, you're ... you're not my son. I'm disowning you. You'll stay here for three more years, learning from your tutors. Then you'll leave, and never return.' His father stared at him with hatred. 'I can't believe I created such a monster. Ararik tells me you laughed after you murdered the boy. You ... you took pleasure. In murder.' Alari walked from the room. His father hated him. Alari didn't see why. Mallen had shamed him; he had made him pay. He was just a bastard, anyway. Why did it matter? Alari pondered the question all night. When he fell asleep, his dreams were of dead men.
Three years later, Alari finished packing his possessions. His father had given him quite a bit to leave with; a new sword, very finely forged, some armor, plenty of currency, food, a good, fast horse. Alari couldn't wait to be off. Everyone at the castle despised him, and feared him. It got boring, having no friends. The only person he still liked and who still liked him was Ravelin. He forced himself to look past his student's murder; he couldn't accept it. He had known the child since he was a toddler; his Alari couldn't be a murderer. He bid Alari a heartfelt goodbye, gifting him with a dozen varied books and a scribe's case, as well as a black leather-bound book with two hundred empty pages.
'Record your adventures in this, and one day, bring it back to me,' he said, before giving his favorite student a long, strong hug. Alari left the following morning. He was fifteen.
After about two months, Alari began to realize he needed a source of income. At first, he did odd jobs for farmers and such, but eventually he knew it wouldn't be enough. He needed more high-paying jobs. He knew his excellence with a sword would get him something; he had vastly improved over the last years, since his murder of Mallen. He thought about what he could do, and then it hit him. He could become a sellsword. He began advertising himself, and eventually, a travelling merchant named Xhao Illerius decided to hire him.
'I am travelling to M'arthus, to sell cinnamon,' he told Alari. 'Protect me.'
Alari promised to, and he began to negotiate terms. They eventually settled on a pound of cinnamon and a hundred gold coins. Alari went to the camp where the other guards stayed. He began to speak to them.
'I'm here to protect the merchant,' he told them.
'Really? I was und'r tha impression you was gonna squire fur one of us,' a drunk sailor off his ship said. 'I mean, what'r ya? Thirteen?'
'Fifteen,' Alari answered, 'and I could kill you in less than a minute.' The sailor drew his sword. It curved, and was quite short. Alari knew it was a cutlass; Ararik had taught him of the different blade types. His own sword, Bloodfyre, was unique, a blend between a rapier and a longsword.
'I'll see,' the man said. 'Draw yer sword.'
Alari did, the metal gleaming orange in the firelight.
'Castle-forged, ay? I'm dealin' with a pampered rich noblesson, huh?' He laughed. Alari swung. His blade bit deep in the man's arm.
'Fack!' the man shouted, swinging back, albeit lazily, as his arm was bleeding freely. Alari parried with ease, then thrust forward, his blade sliding in between two of the mans ribs, piercing his heart. Blood frothed from his mouth, and Alari withdrew his sword, allowing the corpse to tumble tp the ground. The other men stared at him.
'Don't underestimate me,' he said. Then he walked to his horse, taking the materials he needed to pitch a tent.
This'll be fun, he thought.
A week after the incident, the party was travelling down the road. Willyamm was making some crude joke, Elrikk laughing at it. Alari stood next to Xhao's carriage; the man trusted his blade the most, after his murder of the sailor, who he later found out was named Merwynn. The last wekk had been rather uneventful; they traveled the main road, and it was safe. Sometimes they encountered other travelers; for the most part, they were the only ones on the road.
'Men don't like to travel this close to winter,' Xhao said. Alari just nodded; he didn't speak much anymore. The men bored him, and he saw no reason to voice opinions that mostly went disregarded. He was paid for his sword, not for his tongue. Alari was in the middle of thinking this when an arrow struck one of the guards in the throat. Another whizzed past his head, striking Elrikk. He fell from his horse, quite dead. A group of highwaymen ran from the pine trees surrounding the group, crude swords and axes in their hands. Alari rushed forward to meet them, a wordless battle cry coming from his throat. He met one, swinging his blade down viciously. The man blocked, but Alari's blade moved rapidly for the man's neck. He met it, and the last three inches of his sword carved a mostly straight line into his flesh. Blood began to pour down in a steady rain, dousing his leggings and boots with crimson. Alari moved on to the next foe. This one wielded a battle-ax in each hand, and was quite bulky. He swung them both, downward. Ravelin batted one away, then sidestepped. He then thrust forward, his blade burying itself in the man's stomach. He jerked it out, after a moment's struggle. He surveyed the battlefield. His own men had taken only four casualties; the two initial bow victims, one man with an ax still buried in his neck, and another with a great gash in his chest. The last highwayman was in between four of the guards, being cut to death rather slowly. Alari laughed at the man. He had to pay the price for his crime. You didn't commit a wrong if you weren't prepared to deal with the consequences.
A week later, the company arrived at M'arthus. The city was beautiful; towering marble structures loomed over the horizon, the architecture genius. They said M'arthus was a sinner's heaven. The pleasure houses were renowned, the gambling aplenty, the ale cheap and high-quality. Alari had no interest in dice, or drink, or whores, though. He wanted his pay. Xhao sold his wares within three days; Alari spent them well.
On the first day, Alari searched for the Great Library Of M'arthus. The structure was half a mile wide and long, with so many books it would take three lifetimes to read them all. He started his search by walking towards the huge tower that loomed over it. On it was a large book; this was how you found places in the sprawling city. On the way, Alari felt a hand grab his coinpurse.
'Hey!' he shouted, looking around. He saw the man;he wore rags, and he ran fast. He gave chase. The man turned a corner; Alari turned it moments afterward. He spotted the man, but he was getting lost in the crowd. He pushed himself to go even faster, and he did; the man began to slow down, as well. Eventually Alari was within a foot of the thief. He dive-tackled him, drawing a belt knife and holding it to the man's throat.
'You do not steal. It is a crime,' Alari said, grabbing the man's hand. He pinned it down.
'Stop struggling, and one finger will be off, quickly. Struggle and I'll take them all.' The man relaxed. Alari raised his knife, and true to his word, cut the man's little finger off swiftly. He then took his coins and began walking toward the library again.
An hour later, he arrived. The bookcases were ten feet tall, packed with hundreds of books. Alari began to search for one to his liking. He found it rather swiftly; Illian Fables. It had been Alari's favorite forever, and though Ravelin possessed a copy, he had been loath to part with it. He took it into the reading room. Many other men, in much richer clothes than his leathers and chainmail, sat reading. They stared at him when he entered; he ignored it, and sat down to read himself. For near three hours, he read the book. The tales inside were very interesting; they were of heroes and villains, mythical creatures and storied cities. He drank it all in. When he finished, he looked for one of the many librarians in the city of books. He found one swiftly.
'Pardon, may I purchase this title?' he inquired, politely as could be.
'Thirty gold coins,' the man said with a lilting accent. Alari knew thirty gold coins was practically robbery, but he bought it anyway. The book brought back memories he was fond of.
The next day, Alari decided to go to one of the tourneys he had heard of. There was to be a competition in the Great Lord himself's castle, and the prize was five hundred gold coins if he won. He wanted to. Alari went outside of the inn the company of guards stayed at,complimentary of Xhao, and mounted his courser, Swifthoof. He began to ride the speedy horse to the castle. Supposedly there were three tiers, each consisting of five rounds. If you won your tier, you advanced to the finals, where the three winners dueled. The winner of tier One would sit out the first duel, as that was the highest tier. The winners of tier Two and Three dueled first, and the winner of that dueled the other victor. By the time he had finished explaining it to himself, he was at the castle.
An hour later, he began his first duel. His opponent was a man from Sy'livia with a old short sword.
'Until first blood!' the announcer shouted. 'Begin!'
Alari rushed forth. The man brought his blade up to block a blow that wasn't there, while Alari sliced the man's shin. He stood back. Winning the tier would be easy. After that would be the hard part.
Two hours later, Alari stood at the right end of a line of three people. There was him, a man from the southern deserts with a strange hooked blade, and someone Alari knew well - Ararik K'linn. First he and the southerner would duel. Then him and Ararik.
'Tier Two and Three champions, into the ring!' the announcer yelled, and they moved into the fenced-off circle. Blood already stained the marble floor from some of the deeper first blood cuts. The announcer shouted, 'Start!'
The man shrieked some guttural war cry, rushing forth, curved blade in hand. Alari parried, each blow harder to deflect, then sidestepped. He swung, very quickly, but the man was suddenly a foot away. The southerner was quick. The man began another onslaught. This time, Alari caught his blade with his own, tossing it back, and backhanded the desert dweller. He then thrust, missing quite badly due to the man's speed. He countered, and Alari barely dodged. Then Alari unleashed his own flurry of blows, and one slipped past ... only to miss. He kicked the man's knee, making him hesitate, then slashed. The man almost dodged, but the blade edged into his cheek, just barely. Alari extended his hand to shake. The southerner took it.
'I've never fought a man quick as you,' Alari said.
'Nor I,' the man replied with a strange accent. The man bowed his head, then left.
Alari stood in the arena with his once trainer. He stared the man dead in his near-black eyes. He saw hatred in them.
'I will destroy you, Alari,' he said with malice.
'Start!'
Alari circled his mentor, waiting for him to strike. He had never sparred the man; he knew nothing of his strategy, nor his skills. He only knew that they sang of his skill. He would be cautious. Ararik feinted, tricking Alari into raising his blade. He lowered it after realizing he hadn't actually been struck at. He would have to pay more attention. Alari stepped forward, readying a lunge, but before he could, Ararik lashed out, the tip of his sword flying toward Alari's face. He stepped back, watching the blade as it whizzed by. That blow would have cut his face in two. Ararik had murderous intentions. Alari slashed diagonally, three times, each blow being parried almost lazily. Ararik knew how he fought; he predicted his every move. Alari, on the other hand, didn't know Ararik's style, or his tendencies. He just knew that if he wasn't extremely careful and quick thinking, he would lose. The youth lashed out at the grizzled old man, a horizontal slash for the throat. Ararik brought his blade up, catching the blow and turning it back. Alari then lunged, throwing himself forward in an all or nothing attack. Ararik barely edged out of the way, and had a perfect opportunity to win. He brought his blade up ... and smashed the pommel into Alari's back. Alari winced, but he recovered soon enough, wondering why Ararik hadn't taken the opportunity.
Arrogant old man, Alari thought.
Ararik hacked at Alari's shoulder, a vertical blow that had enough power to sever bone. The youth sidestepped, the attack finding empty space, and slashed for Ararik's face, leaving himself off balance. The veteran spun from harm's way, avoiding the attack but also giving Alari time to recover. They circled, staring into each other's eyes. Alari's grey one's held contempt; Ararik's thoughtfulness. Alari then began a flurry of blows, hacking and slashing with great speed. Ararik parried, blocked, dodged ... but finally, the sword sunk into the man's thigh, a deep, long blow. Alari withdrew his blade, satisfied. The more challenging the opponent, the more pleasing the victory. Blood spilled from his mentor's leg, staining the marble a further shade of crimson. Ararik would live, and likely be the same as he was before, but for the next month or so he would be weak. He had lost a great deal of blood. Alari enjoyed knowing that.
On the third day, Alari strolled the city, taking in the sights. Slaves were sold in auctions, men advertised their wares, and quarrels erupted over petty things. Children played games in the streets, reminding Alari of his own childhood. He thought of Mallen, and how killing him had been like winning the hardest game. The ghost of elation passed through him at the memory. Alari made his way to the market where Xhao sold his cinnamon.
'I protected you on the way here. Now I'd like my payment,' Alari said. He wanted to leave the city. It was beautiful, but there was word of a war brewing, and the youth wanted to aid one side or the other. He figured his sword would be appreciated.
'You may have your reward on the morrow. Be patient.' Xhao stood there, biting his nails. Alari quite disliked the man. He was lazy, and uneducated as well.
'Fine.' Alari walked off in the general direction of the flea-ridden inn they were staying at. That was another reason Alari disliked his employer; he was cheap.
The next day, Xhao arrived back at the inn with everybody's pay.
'Alari, as promised, a pound of cinnamon and a hundred gold coins. I also added ten extra for you fighting well during that ambush.' Xhao smiled, his golden teeth gleaming in the torchlight. Alari nodded, taking the sack of cinnamon and coinpurse offered to him. Alari thought about ways to kill the man. He wanted to harm him, make him suffer, only because he annoyed Alari. He decided that he would cut his teeth out. Well, he wouldn't really, but oh, he wanted to. Those teeth were worth a fortune. Alari couldn't tell if he wanted a fortune. He still hadn't decided what he wanted in life. Glory? Riches? Peace?
by Joshulia » Thu Jul 04, 2013 12:26 am
Joshulia wrote:Shadyrya wrote:I made a huge bio for this, and it's not done, but I'm gonna post it so you guys can see it. I spent too many hours on it for it to gather dust in my drafts.Alari Makarrehn A'khen was born to Diverius A'khen and Selenna A'khen, formerly of the house M'chalenn, two major nobles of Illia. The couple lived in the capital, Sy'livia, and had great influence on the Emperor and his decisions, as Diverius was part of the K'heyne Arakken, or the Great Council. They were very wealthy, and had the seventh largest treasury in Illia. When Alari, their seventh child and first son, was born, they wept with joy. They had thought themselves cursed, as male children were the only ones that truly mattered. They immediately set to work gathering the finest instructors in Illia, depleting near half their treasury. They didn't mind - Alari was grey eyed, and in Illian culture, this is an omen that signifies greatness. He was their prized posession, flaunted to all. They believed Alari would bring them greatness, and on his first name day, they held a feast and tourney that lasted nine days. Alari was given many gifts, gifts of gold, books, promises, fine silks. Not only did they pray Alari would bring glory to Illia, they daren't cross Diverius.
At age five, Alari began his academic instruction. Ravelin Aresstus, a learned man from Trevere, the scholar's city, was his first instructor. He began with letters; letters were the foundation to everything, Ravelin believed. At first, Alari despised this instruction; the games he played with other children held much more allure. Soon, though, Ravelin convinced him of both the importance and joy of words. Alari started to take great pleasure in reading, especially the fables about Illian heroes. One in particular caught his eye - the story of the great swordsman, Asticus Danse. Asticus was a renowned noble, a great swordsman, but completely incompetent at governing his lands. He borrowed insane amounts of money, and one day the Silver Bank sent a man to collect his debts. Asticus said, 'I do not have the money now. Come back tomorrow.' The man came back the next day, along with a debt collector from a Renederian bank. 'I do not have the money. Come back tomorrow,' Asticus said, and the two left. The next day the two men came back, along with a man from another great House. He attempted telling them to come back the next day, but they refused, and attacked him, fed up. Asticus slew two of the men, but the last drove a dagger into his eye. Even as young as he was, Alari got the message - no matter how martially skilled you are, debts will catch up to you. The third time he heard the tale, he vowed to never borrow anything. He would either buy it ... or take it.
At six, Alari began his histories. He was taught how Illia came to be, and how it prospered. Then came the histories of other cultures. Alari took a particular interest in Shadarian culture. Ravelin encouraged this; his ancestors were Shadarian.
'They are a noble people,' he said, 'to be respected.' Ravelin taught him their language, culture, diet, geography; near everything he knew. Alari devoured the knowledge with a passion, and he and Ravelin began to develop a bond as well. Alari's father wasn't around often, and so Ravelin took on the role. Ravelin attempted to instill virtues in the young man, and at the time he thought he had succeeded. Alari was usually kind, as well as patient and forgiving. No one thought he would become the man he became.
At the age of seven, Alari's martial training began. Ararik K'linn, a man whose fame spread all around the world, instructed him. Alari disliked the man; he said what he thought, and often criticized Alari. The young man took these as slights, rather than constructive observations to aid his development. At the end of each day, Alari would retire battered and bruised, with a wounded ego as well. After his swordplay lessons, he would join Ravelin for his academic studies. They had begun arithmetic, which Alari completely despised. The numbers confused him, and often Alari would shout in frustration. Ravelin attempted to both keep him happy as well as pound the equations into his head. Eventually, Ravelin acquired an acceptable understanding of the most basic maths. Ravelin deemed it enough, stating that he didn't need the advanced problems. He didn't believe this; he thought numbers were vastly important, but he thought keeping Alari's happiness intact was more important. It didn't really work, though; Ararik saw to that.
Eventually, Alari had to duel other children his age. They would use wood shaped into longswords, and spar until one child yielded. Ararik taunted him as too quick to swing, and judged his style and stance often. Alari underestimated himself; he thought Ararik's remarks meant he was unskilled. However, when he had his first fight, he saw the falsity in that belief. His opponent was a child called Perirac, a youth Alari hated. He was whiny and fat, and his only skill was eating. Alari attacked him with glee. He slashed in a diagonal arc, batting his opponent's stick toward the ground. He then brought his sword up, quickly, knocking the youth in the jaw. He stumbled backwards with a cry of pain. Alari then thrust forward, slipping past the fat boy's defense and hitting him in the throat. Perirac made a choked grunt, his eyes tearing up.
'Yield!' he shouted, and Alari laughed, disregarding his surrender. He swung the wooden blade again, like a club, hitting the other child in the temple. He fell to the ground, openly crying.
'Alari! What exactly was that? He yielded, you fool!' Ararik shouted, while Podd, a servant who had come to watch, helped Perirac to his feet, giving Alari a dirty look. Alari was brought to his father.
'You don't kick a man when he's in the dirt, nor attack him when he surrenders,' his father stated, harshly. 'You will have extra chores for a moon, as well as learning only math from Ravelin for the same amount of time. If this ever happens again, I will have a more skilled bladesman than yourself beat you into the dirt, to show you what it feels like. Do you understand?' Alari nodded gravely. His father's wrath was frightening to the young boy. He wouldn't repeat his mistake ... for a while.
Four years later, Alari was known as one of the best fighters. The other children began to be frightened of him in the yard - he could force them to yield in a matter of seconds. The only one who was real competition was Mallen, a boy of twelve, child to Entrues of Ar'tyena, a major Illian city. Ararik enjoyed seeing them fight; it went on for quite a long while, and the results were usually a draw. One day, Ararik scheduled for them to duel. Alari was tired of letting Mallen survive his attacks; this time, he would make him yield. They met at mid-afternoon, Ararik observing intently. He tried to define both of their styles. Alari seemed to favor speed over strength; he landed many medium strength blows, and was precise in his aiming and quite agile, dodging Mallen's slower, more powerful attacks and countering before dancing away. Alari had a tendency to strike first, and be quite aggressive; if Mallen was smart enough to see an opening that Alari left, he would be able to finish the fight. The problem was, Mallen had little mind for strategy. Ararik had a hunch that this was the match where one of the children emerged victorious.
Alari nodded to signify that he was ready; Mallen returned the gesture. Alari rushed forward, feinting for the head then redirecting for the torso. His blow connected with a solid smack, knocking the wind from Mallen. Alari then slashed downward, hitting Mallen in the head. He grinned, thinking he had won ... and then a wooden sword smacked him in the ribs. The crack that erupted was huge. Alari knew he had broken bones; he grit his teeth, trying to ignore the pain, and stepped back. He would not lose. Mallen swung horizontally, and Alari ducked. He thrust upward, his sword point connecting with Mallen's jaw. His head snapped back, and Alari pressed the advantage, delivering a flurry of blows. Each one pained him further, but Mallen cried out with pain as each one hit its mark. Chest, jaw, thigh, stomach, temple, throat; each attack further injured the muscled youth. Fed up, Mallen lashed out with his hand, the back of it smashing Alari's face. He stumbled back, half of his vision obscured by purple and orange. His ear rang, his sight swam. Mallen grinned, winding up for a huge blow. He swung, his blade speeding toward Alari's throat ... and connected. Alari collapsed to the ground, wheezing. Ararik rushed out, calling for one of the eunuchs who knew the healing arts. Mallen grinned, receiving pats on the back from his friends, while Alari lay on the cobblestone, barely able to breath.
Alari fully healed two months afterward, his broken ribs mended and his damaged windpipe healed. However, he had yet to return to the yard. He was shamed; how could he, Alari A'khen, son of one of the greatest nobles in Sy'livia, lose to some minor count's baseborn son? He fumed, venting to Ravelin, practicing his swordplay against a straw dummy in his quarters. He would kill Mallen. He would burn his arms, sever his legs, and strap a bucket full of hot coals and rats to his chest. He smiled at the thought. Yes, that's what he'd do. But first he'd shame him in front of his friends. He'd break him. Then he'd torture the bastard. He wrote about what he'd do to Mallen, and one day, Ravelin found it.
'Alari! This is disgusting and cruel! How could you even think of doing such a thing to a peer? I should give this to your father and let him punish you!' Of course, Ravelin didn't. He chastised Alari, and subjected him to math, but he wouldn't condemn him to his father. However, he did make Alari vow to never do any of the things he wrote, and he burned the journal. Alari swore, but he didn't mean it. He was going to kill Mallen.
A month after Alari returned to the yard, the other children were terrified of him. He had knocked four opponents out, broken three's ribs, and beat twenty within a minute. He was faster, stronger, and much smarter. Eventually, Ararik decided that he and Mallen should duel again. Mallen was twenty pounds heavier than Alari, and half a foot taller. He was much stronger, as well. But he was slower, and stupider, and less agile. Alari was confident in his ability. He wouldn't only beat him, he would kill him. His plan was to weaken Mallen, hinder him, then stab into his throat so violently he wouldn't be able to breathe. It helped that Ararik decided they would use blunted steel. When Alari heard that, he grinned. Of course, he didn't underestimate Mallen. He knew that if he made one wrong move, Mallen had the power to kill him. He would approach with caution.
The two entered the ring, shouts of 'Alari!' or 'Mallen!' filling their ears. Near all the children populating the Great Castle came to watch the rematch. Bets were placed, the majority on Mallen. Alari was an underdog. He liked that. The two nodded, then went at it. Mallen tried to end it quick with a bow to the head. Alari ducked, and brought his steel up with him as he stood, swinging. He hit Mallen in the face, and an audible crack sounded. Alari had broken his cheekbone; the degree of brokenness, he didn't know. Judging from the look of extreme pain on Mallen's face, likely pretty bad. Alari wouldn't repeat his mistakes; he didn't press the advantage, but backed off, waiting for Mallen to strike. He did - a diagonal arc, which Alari sidestepped. He then swung his sword into Mallen's face again, this time breaking his nose. Blood streamed from high inthe bridge of it, splattering on the ground.
'Yield, Mallen?' Ararik shouted, a worried look on his face.
'No,' Mallen muttered, the word audible only to Alari. He began swinging, blow after blow, and Alari parried and parried. Eventually, though, Mallen broke through, nailing Alari in the chest. It wasn't strong enough to break bone, but it smarted. Alari backpedaled, giving up ground and batting Mallen's blows away. Unexpectedly, he ducked under Mallen's sword and brought his own blade careening into Mallen's stomach. He exhaled with a large woosh, and doubled over. Alari brought his elbow down into the back of Mallen's neck. He fell, but rolled away quickly, then stood, taking labored breaths. Fury shone in his eyes, but under that, unmistakable, was hatred for Alari. Mallen rushed, putting his shoulder forward. Alari thrust and hit Mallen in the collarbone, but Mallen continued, and hit Alari so hard he flew back, landing on the stone with a dull thud. Mallen thrust downward, and Alari rolled out of the way, standing. Mallen swung, a huge downward blow. Alari put his sword up to meet it, and threw it to the side, but his sword was also thrown to the side, out of his grip. Mallen grinned, advancing with malicious intent. He swung, horizontally, and Alari rolled, avoiding the blow and moving toward his blade. He retrieved it, then adopted a defensive pose. Mallen finally realized that his offensive approach wasn't much working; he and Alari began to circle.
'I'm going to kill you,' Alari said in a low voice, only Mallen hearing. The older boy laughed.
'Try.'
Alari rushed forth, ducking Mallen's blow and hitting him with his shoulder. Mallen stumbled back, and Alari swung for the throat. He hit. Another crack told Alari he had broken the boy's windpipe. He hit it again, then again, making sure. Then he thrust his blade for Mallen's eye. The dull tip sunk in maybe a centimeter, rendering the eye useless, just in case Mallen lived.
'Alari! Are you fucking crazy?!' Ararik cursed, spitting the words out, running to the fence that closed the duelists in, leaping it. Mallen collapsed to the ground at about the same time. Alari laughed. Ararik arrived by the boy's side.
'He will die. That ... that's on you, Alari. You killed him.'
Alari grinned.
'Son.' Alari's father bore into him with eyes that seemed made of iron. 'No, you're ... you're not my son. I'm disowning you. You'll stay here for three more years, learning from your tutors. Then you'll leave, and never return.' His father stared at him with hatred. 'I can't believe I created such a monster. Ararik tells me you laughed after you murdered the boy. You ... you took pleasure. In murder.' Alari walked from the room. His father hated him. Alari didn't see why. Mallen had shamed him; he had made him pay. He was just a bastard, anyway. Why did it matter? Alari pondered the question all night. When he fell asleep, his dreams were of dead men.
Three years later, Alari finished packing his possessions. His father had given him quite a bit to leave with; a new sword, very finely forged, some armor, plenty of currency, food, a good, fast horse. Alari couldn't wait to be off. Everyone at the castle despised him, and feared him. It got boring, having no friends. The only person he still liked and who still liked him was Ravelin. He forced himself to look past his student's murder; he couldn't accept it. He had known the child since he was a toddler; his Alari couldn't be a murderer. He bid Alari a heartfelt goodbye, gifting him with a dozen varied books and a scribe's case, as well as a black leather-bound book with two hundred empty pages.
'Record your adventures in this, and one day, bring it back to me,' he said, before giving his favorite student a long, strong hug. Alari left the following morning. He was fifteen.
After about two months, Alari began to realize he needed a source of income. At first, he did odd jobs for farmers and such, but eventually he knew it wouldn't be enough. He needed more high-paying jobs. He knew his excellence with a sword would get him something; he had vastly improved over the last years, since his murder of Mallen. He thought about what he could do, and then it hit him. He could become a sellsword. He began advertising himself, and eventually, a travelling merchant named Xhao Illerius decided to hire him.
'I am travelling to M'arthus, to sell cinnamon,' he told Alari. 'Protect me.'
Alari promised to, and he began to negotiate terms. They eventually settled on a pound of cinnamon and a hundred gold coins. Alari went to the camp where the other guards stayed. He began to speak to them.
'I'm here to protect the merchant,' he told them.
'Really? I was und'r tha impression you was gonna squire fur one of us,' a drunk sailor off his ship said. 'I mean, what'r ya? Thirteen?'
'Fifteen,' Alari answered, 'and I could kill you in less than a minute.' The sailor drew his sword. It curved, and was quite short. Alari knew it was a cutlass; Ararik had taught him of the different blade types. His own sword, Bloodfyre, was unique, a blend between a rapier and a longsword.
'I'll see,' the man said. 'Draw yer sword.'
Alari did, the metal gleaming orange in the firelight.
'Castle-forged, ay? I'm dealin' with a pampered rich noblesson, huh?' He laughed. Alari swung. His blade bit deep in the man's arm.
'Fack!' the man shouted, swinging back, albeit lazily, as his arm was bleeding freely. Alari parried with ease, then thrust forward, his blade sliding in between two of the mans ribs, piercing his heart. Blood frothed from his mouth, and Alari withdrew his sword, allowing the corpse to tumble tp the ground. The other men stared at him.
'Don't underestimate me,' he said. Then he walked to his horse, taking the materials he needed to pitch a tent.
This'll be fun, he thought.
A week after the incident, the party was travelling down the road. Willyamm was making some crude joke, Elrikk laughing at it. Alari stood next to Xhao's carriage; the man trusted his blade the most, after his murder of the sailor, who he later found out was named Merwynn. The last wekk had been rather uneventful; they traveled the main road, and it was safe. Sometimes they encountered other travelers; for the most part, they were the only ones on the road.
'Men don't like to travel this close to winter,' Xhao said. Alari just nodded; he didn't speak much anymore. The men bored him, and he saw no reason to voice opinions that mostly went disregarded. He was paid for his sword, not for his tongue. Alari was in the middle of thinking this when an arrow struck one of the guards in the throat. Another whizzed past his head, striking Elrikk. He fell from his horse, quite dead. A group of highwaymen ran from the pine trees surrounding the group, crude swords and axes in their hands. Alari rushed forward to meet them, a wordless battle cry coming from his throat. He met one, swinging his blade down viciously. The man blocked, but Alari's blade moved rapidly for the man's neck. He met it, and the last three inches of his sword carved a mostly straight line into his flesh. Blood began to pour down in a steady rain, dousing his leggings and boots with crimson. Alari moved on to the next foe. This one wielded a battle-ax in each hand, and was quite bulky. He swung them both, downward. Ravelin batted one away, then sidestepped. He then thrust forward, his blade burying itself in the man's stomach. He jerked it out, after a moment's struggle. He surveyed the battlefield. His own men had taken only four casualties; the two initial bow victims, one man with an ax still buried in his neck, and another with a great gash in his chest. The last highwayman was in between four of the guards, being cut to death rather slowly. Alari laughed at the man. He had to pay the price for his crime. You didn't commit a wrong if you weren't prepared to deal with the consequences.
A week later, the company arrived at M'arthus. The city was beautiful; towering marble structures loomed over the horizon, the architecture genius. They said M'arthus was a sinner's heaven. The pleasure houses were renowned, the gambling aplenty, the ale cheap and high-quality. Alari had no interest in dice, or drink, or whores, though. He wanted his pay. Xhao sold his wares within three days; Alari spent them well.
On the first day, Alari searched for the Great Library Of M'arthus. The structure was half a mile wide and long, with so many books it would take three lifetimes to read them all. He started his search by walking towards the huge tower that loomed over it. On it was a large book; this was how you found places in the sprawling city. On the way, Alari felt a hand grab his coinpurse.
'Hey!' he shouted, looking around. He saw the man;he wore rags, and he ran fast. He gave chase. The man turned a corner; Alari turned it moments afterward. He spotted the man, but he was getting lost in the crowd. He pushed himself to go even faster, and he did; the man began to slow down, as well. Eventually Alari was within a foot of the thief. He dive-tackled him, drawing a belt knife and holding it to the man's throat.
'You do not steal. It is a crime,' Alari said, grabbing the man's hand. He pinned it down.
'Stop struggling, and one finger will be off, quickly. Struggle and I'll take them all.' The man relaxed. Alari raised his knife, and true to his word, cut the man's little finger off swiftly. He then took his coins and began walking toward the library again.
An hour later, he arrived. The bookcases were ten feet tall, packed with hundreds of books. Alari began to search for one to his liking. He found it rather swiftly; Illian Fables. It had been Alari's favorite forever, and though Ravelin possessed a copy, he had been loath to part with it. He took it into the reading room. Many other men, in much richer clothes than his leathers and chainmail, sat reading. They stared at him when he entered; he ignored it, and sat down to read himself. For near three hours, he read the book. The tales inside were very interesting; they were of heroes and villains, mythical creatures and storied cities. He drank it all in. When he finished, he looked for one of the many librarians in the city of books. He found one swiftly.
'Pardon, may I purchase this title?' he inquired, politely as could be.
'Thirty gold coins,' the man said with a lilting accent. Alari knew thirty gold coins was practically robbery, but he bought it anyway. The book brought back memories he was fond of.
The next day, Alari decided to go to one of the tourneys he had heard of. There was to be a competition in the Great Lord himself's castle, and the prize was five hundred gold coins if he won. He wanted to. Alari went outside of the inn the company of guards stayed at,complimentary of Xhao, and mounted his courser, Swifthoof. He began to ride the speedy horse to the castle. Supposedly there were three tiers, each consisting of five rounds. If you won your tier, you advanced to the finals, where the three winners dueled. The winner of tier One would sit out the first duel, as that was the highest tier. The winners of tier Two and Three dueled first, and the winner of that dueled the other victor. By the time he had finished explaining it to himself, he was at the castle.
An hour later, he began his first duel. His opponent was a man from Sy'livia with a old short sword.
'Until first blood!' the announcer shouted. 'Begin!'
Alari rushed forth. The man brought his blade up to block a blow that wasn't there, while Alari sliced the man's shin. He stood back. Winning the tier would be easy. After that would be the hard part.
Two hours later, Alari stood at the right end of a line of three people. There was him, a man from the southern deserts with a strange hooked blade, and someone Alari knew well - Ararik K'linn. First he and the southerner would duel. Then him and Ararik.
'Tier Two and Three champions, into the ring!' the announcer yelled, and they moved into the fenced-off circle. Blood already stained the marble floor from some of the deeper first blood cuts. The announcer shouted, 'Start!'
The man shrieked some guttural war cry, rushing forth, curved blade in hand. Alari parried, each blow harder to deflect, then sidestepped. He swung, very quickly, but the man was suddenly a foot away. The southerner was quick. The man began another onslaught. This time, Alari caught his blade with his own, tossing it back, and backhanded the desert dweller. He then thrust, missing quite badly due to the man's speed. He countered, and Alari barely dodged. Then Alari unleashed his own flurry of blows, and one slipped past ... only to miss. He kicked the man's knee, making him hesitate, then slashed. The man almost dodged, but the blade edged into his cheek, just barely. Alari extended his hand to shake. The southerner took it.
'I've never fought a man quick as you,' Alari said.
'Nor I,' the man replied with a strange accent. The man bowed his head, then left.
Alari stood in the arena with his once trainer. He stared the man dead in his near-black eyes. He saw hatred in them.
'I will destroy you, Alari,' he said with malice.
'Start!'
Alari circled his mentor, waiting for him to strike. He had never sparred the man; he knew nothing of his strategy, nor his skills. He only knew that they sang of his skill. He would be cautious. Ararik feinted, tricking Alari into raising his blade. He lowered it after realizing he hadn't actually been struck at. He would have to pay more attention. Alari stepped forward, readying a lunge, but before he could, Ararik lashed out, the tip of his sword flying toward Alari's face. He stepped back, watching the blade as it whizzed by. That blow would have cut his face in two. Ararik had murderous intentions. Alari slashed diagonally, three times, each blow being parried almost lazily. Ararik knew how he fought; he predicted his every move. Alari, on the other hand, didn't know Ararik's style, or his tendencies. He just knew that if he wasn't extremely careful and quick thinking, he would lose. The youth lashed out at the grizzled old man, a horizontal slash for the throat. Ararik brought his blade up, catching the blow and turning it back. Alari then lunged, throwing himself forward in an all or nothing attack. Ararik barely edged out of the way, and had a perfect opportunity to win. He brought his blade up ... and smashed the pommel into Alari's back. Alari winced, but he recovered soon enough, wondering why Ararik hadn't taken the opportunity.
Arrogant old man, Alari thought.
Ararik hacked at Alari's shoulder, a vertical blow that had enough power to sever bone. The youth sidestepped, the attack finding empty space, and slashed for Ararik's face, leaving himself off balance. The veteran spun from harm's way, avoiding the attack but also giving Alari time to recover. They circled, staring into each other's eyes. Alari's grey one's held contempt; Ararik's thoughtfulness. Alari then began a flurry of blows, hacking and slashing with great speed. Ararik parried, blocked, dodged ... but finally, the sword sunk into the man's thigh, a deep, long blow. Alari withdrew his blade, satisfied. The more challenging the opponent, the more pleasing the victory. Blood spilled from his mentor's leg, staining the marble a further shade of crimson. Ararik would live, and likely be the same as he was before, but for the next month or so he would be weak. He had lost a great deal of blood. Alari enjoyed knowing that.
On the third day, Alari strolled the city, taking in the sights. Slaves were sold in auctions, men advertised their wares, and quarrels erupted over petty things. Children played games in the streets, reminding Alari of his own childhood. He thought of Mallen, and how killing him had been like winning the hardest game. The ghost of elation passed through him at the memory. Alari made his way to the market where Xhao sold his cinnamon.
'I protected you on the way here. Now I'd like my payment,' Alari said. He wanted to leave the city. It was beautiful, but there was word of a war brewing, and the youth wanted to aid one side or the other. He figured his sword would be appreciated.
'You may have your reward on the morrow. Be patient.' Xhao stood there, biting his nails. Alari quite disliked the man. He was lazy, and uneducated as well.
'Fine.' Alari walked off in the general direction of the flea-ridden inn they were staying at. That was another reason Alari disliked his employer; he was cheap.
The next day, Xhao arrived back at the inn with everybody's pay.
'Alari, as promised, a pound of cinnamon and a hundred gold coins. I also added ten extra for you fighting well during that ambush.' Xhao smiled, his golden teeth gleaming in the torchlight. Alari nodded, taking the sack of cinnamon and coinpurse offered to him. Alari thought about ways to kill the man. He wanted to harm him, make him suffer, only because he annoyed Alari. He decided that he would cut his teeth out. Well, he wouldn't really, but oh, he wanted to. Those teeth were worth a fortune. Alari couldn't tell if he wanted a fortune. He still hadn't decided what he wanted in life. Glory? Riches? Peace?
Ddddddaaaaaammmmmmnnnnnnn
by Shadyrya » Thu Jul 04, 2013 12:29 am
by Flimxanthia » Thu Jul 04, 2013 10:31 am
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