Difference between revisions of "Enderal:Tales of the Wanderer: The Archer from the Steppe"

On my travels through Vyn I have had a lot of interesting encounters, some with a pleasant ending, others less so.

I met beings who could change their face like a woman does her clothing. Walking corpses. Lost Ones. Ghosts. Monsters that tried to tear me apart with their tusks and claws. The world's finest warriors and mages - even if they boasted titles and deeds later revealed as lies. I witnessed the madness and greed of two monstrosities, which might not appear to fit this list of tales at first glance, but does illustrate what can become of humans when under terrible duress...

Well, I could certainly tell a thing or two about my experiences and entertain a lively crowd for multiple evenings. But I'm neither a minstrel nor a vagabond, whoring and drinking my way from tavern to tavern. "The Wanderer" - that is my name and title.

The purpose of my never-ending journey is to track down the most fabled warriors of Vyn and learn of their legendary fighting methods to share them with a broader audience. So adventurers - whether aspiring or experienced -, read my tales so you might learn something useful.

One day I was making my way through the steppes and rocky caves of the sandy mountains of Arazeal in search of one such legendary figure. It was said that there, in that barren wasteland, the most dreaded marksman from beyond the Spice Canal lived.

I had gained some information about this warrior from a pockmarked drunk in a shabby pub located in the harbor of the great city of Al-Rashim, on the coast of Qyra. "Old Man," he had called me. He had reeked of seaweed, fish and saltwater, and was clearly a sailor who had seen much of the world. "Take off your hood. I want to see who I'm talking to. Oh, what a fine scar you have there. Got it from a fight, eh? Guess you ducked a little late there, Gramps. Hmm, your right eye doesn't look too healthy either - those colors aren't normal. You might want to get that looked at. But you asked me something, didn't you? Let me think. Did you hear the latest rumor from Arazeal?" he had asked with a thick Endralean accent.

I had looked sharply at the poor devil and shaken my head, even though I knew very well about the one who had reduced the number of bandits in the Sandy Mountains to a mere handful in a short period of time. "They call him the "Avenger of the Desert Dust"," the drunkard had continued. "By the gods, some fiend he is! Inhuman and tremendously powerful. They say that he kills without his victims even noticing - not until it's too late, anyway. One moment you are alive, the next you are dead. Best not get in the way of someone like that." He had leaned forward and added in a hushed, conspiratorial voice: "I heard he can bend time itself to his will."

After continuing my research for a while longer I eventually set out to see the "Avenger of the Desert Dust" with my own eyes. I traveled through the barren mountains and asked around the settlements of nomads, but no one knew the identity of the mysterious marksman or where I might find him. Several weeks passed before I finally came across a promising opportunity. At midday, under the sun's blistering glare, I climbed a tall ridge and suddenly heard sounds of battle. My heart leapt with excitement. This was what I had been searching for.

I followed the noise and hid behind some rocks for cover. It could hardly be called a battle anymore by the time I got to witness it. It was such a short encounter that even "scuffle" would have been a generous term... It was five against one: a peddler, slim and of tall stature - probably Arazealean - was being threatened by a group of bandits. They had knocked over his cart and killed the Steppe Beast pulling it. A dark red puddle pooled from under the massive carcass. The man pleaded for his life while the bandits tormented and harassed him. It was the perfect bait for the "Avenger of the Powder Desert". He did not even make them wait for long.

A peculiar sensation came over me. I recognized it immediately as the feeling of magic at work - over the years I had developed a sixth sense for it. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a hooded figure carefully creeping towards the bandits, with movements as dexterous as a cat's. Once he had gotten close enough, the figure raised a hand; the next moment lightning and fire rained down on the clueless bandits. The mysterious presence jumped up, revealing a bow in the other hand, and nocked an arrow - and that's when mere skill in magic turned extraordinary.

Silence at first, followed by a strange whirring. The world changed before my eyes; everything suddenly looked like it had been engulfed by a drab, gray sludge, devoid of color and slightly blurry. Each blink of an eye took an eternity. Everything was trapped in the spell cast by the stranger, including me. I knew what he had done, sensed how he dragged another reality from the Sea of Eventualities into life and how it became the new reality. Fractions and tiny splinters of time itself were forced apart, slowing the flow nearly to the point of completely freezing. For the stranger, the river of time was unchanged. He moved as if he were standing in the eye of a roaring cyclone, unaffected by what was swept up outside that space of calm. I swiftly freed myself from his power with the help of a warding spell so I could continue to observe without warped perception.

My second, special eye caught sight of the arrows which whizzed through the air, each followed quickly by a spectral counterpart. Once the spell subsided, the bandits lay at the peddler's feet - dead, their vitals pierced by multiple projectiles. I could not believe what I was seeing. The archer walked towards the peddler, made sure he was unharmed, and shoved a purse with coin into his hand to compensate for the broken cart and the pack animal. He did so in complete silence, never uttering as much as a single word.

The hooded figure disappeared in a cloud of dust, though not before casting a glance at my hiding spot. He knew I was there. I rose. The marksman was of slight stature. He had piercing green eyes the color of poison, with long lashes and a red strand of hair coiling from under the scarf which covered his head and most of his face. Not a marksman, I realized, but a markswoman. After she left, I accompanied the peddler to the nearest settlement.

I never met the warrior again, but what I had seen was sufficient to convince me of her talents.

Based on the combination of conventional mental and elemental magic she used to preemptively strike down the bandits, coupled with her bow skills and stealthiness, I decided to name her fighting technique the "Arcane Archer". If you take her most powerful talent of slowing down time into consideration as well, this set of abilities makes for one of the deadliest ranged fighters in the world. The only question I still ask myself is where she got the riches to compensate the trader, since she lived in a poor region and the nomads surely did not have enough to pay her for her deeds. There used to circulate rumors around Arazeal about a magically gifted noble's daughter - well-known by the people as a cheeky brat of quick and rebellious temper - who ran away from her home in one of the civilized coastal cities for no apparent reason. They say she took part of the family treasure from the Vol Tis, probably as a form of revenge against her overly-strict father. Physical features characteristic of this noble family were green eyes and red hair...