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 Posted: Fri Jun 05, 2015 7:34 pm
This Quest is for Istanell who is striving to become an Archer.
 OOC
||. The quest prompt must be answered with a 2000 word reply (can be more).
||. Respond to the prompt given with an adventure of your own creation as long as it meets the requirements of the specific tasks.
||. NPCs may be used as long as they advance the quest in an interesting manner.
||. You cannot include any playable characters other than the quest taker.
||. Your responses will be graded with a Pass or Fail. Those who fail will have to continue with assistance from the staff.
||. Questions about quests can be asked here.
IC
One night, while Istanell was practicing his bowmanship a voice spoke up to the side.
"You have a sword by your side yet use a bow... what a waste." The deep growl belonged to an older Oban warrior; "Why keep using that thing when you've got no skill? A sword is the best weapon a warrior can have!" His words echoed the words of Istanell's father.
Over the next few nights the man would show up again and again; always with words of critique, offers to 'make him a real warrior.'
Quest Tasks
||. The quest should begin with Istanell practicing with his bow at night, away from his brother.
||. The Oban warrior is very skilled with his sword and will try to show Istanell that the sword is a better path. He will act very much like Istanell's dead father.
||. Istanell needs to prove to the Oban that he does have skill with the Bow.
||. It should come down to a duel between the two of them, not to the death, but the Oban - finally tired of words - has decided to convince Istanell with actions instead. Whether he wins the duel or not does not effect the outcome.
||. The quest should involve Istanell confronting the ghost of his father that this Oban acts like.
||. The quest should end with Istanell choosing the bow over the sword.
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Posted: Sat Jun 06, 2015 9:06 am
P A R T • O N E
THE UNFORTUNATE APPEARANCE OF THE STRANGER IN THE NIGHTTIME For the past few nights Istanell had made it a habit to move off into the night after his brother was asleep, knowing the younger shifter would have liked the idea of Istanell practicing while his ribs were still healing very little. When he'd went for supplies after the brawl he'd gotten some sort of herb tea that really had dulled the pain in a fantastic manner! He knew not to over do it... but he also felt like he couldn't sit idly by after seeing how his brother had grown in leaps and bounds and he himself had gotten much worse with both the bow and the sword, if anything. He wasn't sure why it was so calming, to have this time to himself, but there it was. He felt slightly guilty for wanting the night for himself, his private training sessions. He would lay there waiting for sleep to come, listening to the pleasant sounds of his brother sleeping and trying to match his breath, but after a little bit when he felt more alert than anything he would quietly get up and grab his bows, his quiver of arrows and even his sword. He never went so far away that he wouldn't be able to hear cries of help or terror from Illian.
Though the moon was waining Istanell had never felt closer to Serin, as though she was looking down and sharing her strength with him. Istanell wondered how bad it was to have rejected her for so many years and then fully embrace her like he was now. He supposed it didn't matter either way, he couldn't change what he'd felt in the past and was not about to change what he felt now.
When he got to an area he liked he did a careful scan of the land. He really hated Oba, there weren't enough trees. In fact, there were hardly any trees. The one he'd found had been pure luck, or perhaps something more. Fate, just like when he'd found Illian. He didn't need anything to practice with his sword except for determination, really. With a bow and arrow it was hard to practice when one didn't have a target.
It was true that each night Istanell brought his sword with him when he came to his little spot… but it was also true that each night he ignored the weight of the weapon hanging against his hip, having no motivation to practice with it. In the very back of his mind he could feel a slight nagging voice, trying to disgrace him for his decision. He ignored it, shaking his head and shutting his eyes. He was getting back to a place where he could clear away all of his emotions, all of the things that had been bothering him for the day and days past. He had forgotten how liberating it was to empty your mind, to focus only on his target, on how the bow felt in his hands and if the fletchings were in pristine condition. One bad fletch and the arrow would likely miss it mark.
Still with his eyes shut, envisioning the tree ahead, Istanell pulled and arrow and nocked it, drawing his bow string back and letting himself settle. He listened to the sounds of the night, busy and plentiful but somehow quiet. White noise. He opened his eyes and located his ideal spot, just above a beautiful knot in the tree. A lone tree with a lone not where he could come to be alone… he figured a more emotional earthling could probably turn the situation into some sort of poetry.
His arms were steady and just as he let loose the arrow he heard it; footsteps of another approaching. Close. How could he have missed it when he'd been concentrating so hard? His head turned though he kept his stance, all to aware of his ribs. It was weird, they felt slightly uncomfortable but they didn't really hurt, and he was glad now that he'd spent a substantial amount of coin on healing supplies. His dark gray eyes landed on an Oban man some feet from him. "You have a sword by your side yet use a bow... what a waste." Istanell's head tilted slightly to the tree to listen for the pleasant thunk of the arrow as he accessed the stranger. Older, clearly a swordsman himself. He was grizzled and obviously battle worn… still, he had no business being here.
Istanell turned his head away again and took out a second arrow. He elected to ignore the Oban intruder, hoping that if he didn't pay attention the older man would just leave on his own. He nocked and pulled back, letting loose. This time he'd not taken his time to concentrate, he'd been shaken by the presence of the stranger. The arrow sailed passed the tree and Istanell shut his eyes in annoyance at the booming laughter coming from his right. "Why keep using that thing when you've got no skill? A sword is the best weapon a warrior can have!"
Istanell's stomach twisted and dropped simultaneously. His brow wrinkled as he took in those words, glancing again to the unwelcome man. For an instant Istanell could see his father. He gasped slightly at this, moving his hand up to wipe his eyes with the back of his hand. He blinked a few times, not appreciating the trick his mind was playing on him. The Shifter eyed the Oban evenly, reaching for a third arrow and thinking of shooting it in the intruder's direction. If this had been five years ago that's exactly what he would have done, he would have let it sale so close to the nasty man's head… show him who had no skill!
He saw no reason to provoke him though, saw no reason to think about his father. He needed to focus, to concentrate. He turned away again and lifted his bow, shifting his feet and relaxing his body so he could get back into the proper stance. He drew back and this time reminded himself to be patient. He would one day be able to shoot off arrows in quick succession once again; tonight was not that night.
He let the arrow fly, feeling a slight twinge of pride when it hit close to his first. How close he couldn't tell from this distance, but the general area was sound enough. He took another and drew back, let loose. Thunk… istanell thought that might have been one of his favorite sounds in the universe. It was much more pleasant than the intense clang of metal hitting metal.
He looked again in the Oban's direction to shoot him a smug look, see what I can do with these arrows?, but he was greeted with the display of the stranger's back, the man was retreating. Istanell frowned softly, wondering what that had been about. He moved to collect his arrows, trying not to dwell on the weird occurrence. He remained in his spot for half the night, going through the same motions over and over. Even with such a subpar bow he was getting better and better at grouping his arrows, and felt relieved that his natural skill with the bow hadn't been completely diminished.
By the end though he felt like the weight of his sword was pulling him down. His shots seemed sloppier, less careful from the exhaustion creeping through his veins. He was fairly sure the effects of the tea had started wearing off, and fast! His ribs throbbed with each breath and he knew it was time to return to his and Illian's camp. On the whole walk back to his brother he could not congratulate himself on the progress he made, he could only keep repeating back the Oban's words to him. What gall the Oban stranger had had! What misplaced pride… he was wrong though. It wasn't a waste, what Istanell was doing. Was it?
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Posted: Sat Jun 06, 2015 3:39 pm
P A R T • T W O
HOW TO MAKE FOES AND INSULT PEOPLE The next night had been much the same, although when Istanell reached his lone tree he'd unbuckled his sword and placed it on the ground, not wanting to feel it's weight dragging him down. Really he wasn't sure why he'd even brought it with him. He had taken longer to center himself because images of the man kept popping into his head. Worries that this man would come back itched at his brain. How silly for him to get so shaken after something so minor… he couldn't help but feel displaced with that man's eyes on him, with even the thought of that. It had to be because he'd been reminded of his father… he liked it little.
The second night had been better, he'd taken two doses of the tea in hopes of prolonging the practice session. He'd gotten in several shots with his arrows before a twig snapping had signaled the approach of another. When Istanell looked, sure enough, it was the Oban. His mood sunk considerably. What was this guy's problem? "You can't even hold that bow properly! Why bother? Look at those scrawny arms… weak boy. Let me show you how to use that sword you've deemed so useless." Istanell's stare was cold, his mouth pressed in a thin, hard line. He deliberately was slow as he dragged his eyes away. I don't want to speak to you, leave me be. I'm going to ignore you now! Was what he hoped he was conveying in the look and the action. His eyes flickered down to his hands though as insecurity whispered through his thoughts.
"You a mute, boy? Deaf and dumb? Can't answer a simple question?" Can't answer your old man, boy? Radaku got your tongue, boy? Better not be crying, boy. You're not that pathetic are you? Pick up the sword Istanell! He shook his head slightly, trying to distinguish the Oban's words from past memories. Memories he didn't like to think about… memories he'd hoped had disappeared for good. Istanell caught movement from the side and turned his entire body, taking a step back.
The Oban had stumbled some, obviously having partaken in some drink for the evening. At least, he seemed intoxicated to the shifter. Istanell found himself nocking an arrow and aiming it at the Oban's chest. "Don't set another foot near me. I want you to leave." He felt his blood warming as the man started to laugh, laughing so hard a hand came to his stomach. Istanell hated this man, he decided. "Oh-ho, a big shot are you? Go ahead, you can't aim for s**t anyhow." The taunting made Istenell's skin prickle hot with shame and doubt.
He found himself lowering his bow, moving for the tree. "If you won't leave then I will."
The next few nights were much the same, though each night the Oban became more brazen in his insults, nastier and nastier. Istanell should have just went and found a different spot to practice but his pride had not let him. He wanted to show this Oban scum that the bow was as good as any sword, better! It didn't help that what little sleep he did get was filled with dreams of his late father. Always berating him, always telling him he wasn't good enough. Always arguing how alike he and Istanell were, and wasn't it time to stop running? Why had Istanell taken up the bow again now that his dear dad was dead? How shameful! How pitiful! How cowardly!
On the seventh night Istanell felt almost glad to be going to his nightly training… he felt like tonight was the night he could prove something to the older man, that he could shut him up. His fingers were blistered in odd places and his arms were sore and in pain, but he knew part of that was the amount of growth he'd been through over the week to get back to being even half way decent as he used to be. His supply of the tea was diminishing though and he figured he would really have to take it easier in a few days, and pray that his ribs were healing even with these nightly sessions. When he got to the tree his gait slowed, became unsure.
The Oban was there, standing in the partial moonlight. It was the first time the Oban man had been at the clearing before Istanell, and something about it made the Shifter's skin itch.
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Posted: Sun Jun 07, 2015 7:49 pm
P A R T • T H R E E
I CAN'T HELP BUT MOURNING JUST A LITTLE EACH NIGHT
Istanell felt his hand go automatically to his sword, his bow strapped across his back. He rested his hand on the hilt, not necessarily and overly threatening gesture, just a precaution. He continued to move forward, though keeping a wide berth of the Oban. Well, if the Oban had done something different tonight so too would Istanell. "You're here again tonight." It was a simple statement, nothing more. The night was dark, the sky was cloudy, the world went on. "Aye boy, and you keep returning. You know why, don't you?" Istanell eyed the Oban carefully, watched as he moved away to rest on a large rock. At least tonight he wasn't inebriated. He felt his gut twist again and guiltily he pulled his hand away from the hilt of the sword. Whimpy boy, lying to yourself. The sword is your weapon, you fool! He could hear his father now, as though he were standing right beside the filthy Oban who had come to torment him every night.
"A precaution." He partially lied, moving to the vacant spot. He was ready for the berating tonight though, he'd built up a wall to protect himself from the constant shower of words that seemed to echo perfectly what his father had said to him in the past and what he probably would have said to him in the present. The Oban man snorted in an obvious display of disbelief. Istanell refused to look over. Tonight the man would not get to him, tonight he wouldn't keep playing over the words the man spat in his head until they formed in his father's voice. "I am not unskilled with the bow, though you keep saying so." He pulled an arrow as he said this, "I've simply been out of practice." He shot and it hit his mark, as he'd been doing for the last two nights.
"Oooh, but you and I know that's not true.You give yourself convenient excuses because you're so ashamed of how weak you are. Fragile little boy… but you refuse to see that the sword is the better weapon. Grace, power, reputation. When has anyone ever hear of a legendary archer." Istanell could hear the man spit after his words, as though the very idea of a legendary archer was something disgusting and unholy. "You need to let go of your own cowardice, boy." Istanell stiffened his shoulders, lowering his bow and turning toward the Oban. He was sick and tired of this, at the Oban's refusal to see that a bowman was just as good as a swordsman, both were important. Istanell could give reasons on why the sword was important and the benefits of sword fighting, he'd never once doubted this… but he would not understand was how one could be so purposefully blind to an opinion. His father had been the same, and it made him angry. His father too had said whatever he wanted, making things up just to make Istanell doubt himself and feel bad. When he had been younger he would doubt his fathers words but embrace them all the same, and it caused great distress. He wondered how things his father said could even be possible… archers weren't important, archers were weak, archery was suited for hunting and nothing more. The bow was a female's weapon of choice in battle, too afraid to face their opponents face to face. How could any of that be when Istanell was able to see powerful archers every day? When his mother and uncle told him stories of fantastic marksmen and markswomen alike?
"That isn't true, you're just saying whatever you want." The shifter snapped. It… it felt good standing up for himself. "You're wasting your time here." Istanell turned away again, his veins thrumming with energy and anger and even joy for finally speaking up rather than just avoiding the conflict at hand. He recalled the numerous times he should have done so with his father, wishing beyond anything that he hadn't been so quick to give up on standing up for himself when he'd been younger. He couldn't really help that though, he'd had his brothers to take care of then. But at this moment now, when it was just him and this rude stranger? He only had himself to think of.
The Oban was silent, not even mocking laughter slipped passed his lips. Istanell took this as a good sign, hoping that maybe he'd shut the man up for the evening. He turned away, biting down on his lip as a small pain shot from his ribs and seemed to radiate through his entire body. Just as he was nocking his first arrow of the evening the night seemed to crackle with invisable electricity.
The Oban man was suddenly moving from the stump and drawing his weapon in a fluid motion. "Not going to listen to words, boy? I'll show you!" Istanell twisted sharply and stepped to the side as a sword was suddenly swinging inches from his body. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" The shifter was shocked, afraid. What was going on?
"What will you do when you're finally confronted by the enemy boy? Can't shoot them all down! What happens when a band of thieves ambush you?" Istanell grunted as he had to actually throw himself out of the way of the sudden onslaught of attacks. "ARE YOU MAD?!" His ribs cried out in protest, even with the effects that the herbal blend of tea had provided.
"Going to stab me with your bow, boy?" Istanell was angry, angry that this man had the gall to keep calling him boy when he was no longer such and even angrier that this violence-crazed Oban was trying to prove a point by attacking him! "GET UP" The words were barked out in their own anger and Istanell had to twist as the sword came down at him, his bow making the movement incredibly awkward. His other hand was still holding tight to the arrow he'd been going to shoot, but at some point the shaft had snapped. He swung his arm hard, a sick feeling overcoming him as he felt it sink into flesh. It was horrifying… and gratifying. Especially when the older man cried out, falling back enough for Istanell to get back on his feet.
"So you do have some fire in you! I'm doing this for your own good, boy!" You'll thank me later, Istanell. He could feel sweat coating his body already, probably from the sudden adrenaline rush. "Admit it! A bow is no good in battle!" Istanell jumped back as the sword came slashing near his stomach, bringing his now free hand to the bow and swinging hard. It cracked against the man's face and Istanell stared in horror as blood splattered. The oban grunted, shaking his head and raising the back of his hand to wipe the blood from his eye, the area near his eyebrow had split open. Istanell was backing up, wanting to run but knowing not to turn his back on his enemy. "Fast… fast little feet. Have to be fast if you're always running away, though." A warrior doesn't run, Istanell! A coward runs, a coward hides in the trees and shoots his little shower of arrows. Coward.
Istanell shot off an arrow but he was ashamed of how hard his arms were shaking, the arrow sailed through the air and went no where near it's mark. The Oban's resulting laughter helped change the course of Istanell's fear into anger. It wasn't the stranger's laughter ringing in his ears, no. What he heard was his father's nasty laughter, booming all around him. Trying to shame him, trying to drive home the point that he was nothing. The Oban was on him again and this time Istanell wasn't so quick to move out of the way. The sword caught him in the arm, but the slash was shallow and the Shifter would be thankful of it later. The sword was suddenly being thrust forward and Istanell jerked his head out of the way, finally starting to take into account his opponent's movements.
When the Oban thrust the blade again Istanell was ready, moving his bow and body both into the Oban's space, twisting hard and slamming down on the arm. The Oban yelled and Istanell feared for his bow, he could feel the strain on the already old and worn wood. He heard the sword clatter to the ground as he yanked himself away and glanced down, moving to kick the blade. He felt a hard jab to his face and gurgled out a curse, stumbling back as the stranger retrieved his blade. "You're not bad! You might even stand a chance if you just use that sword you have around your waist, like it's there for show!" Istanell scowled, he needed to create more space from this man. He felt the blade smack against his side, crying out at the pain shooting from his ribs and almost dropping his bow. He was just thankful it was the flat of the sword.
You'll never do anything in life with the bow, Istanell. You can feed your family, nothing more. You won't be great, you won't win the respect of other men.
He was panting, all his focus going into keeping at least an arm's distance from the Oban, but that wasn't enough. His arm received a smack as he blocked and he could only think the man was using the flat of his blade intentionally, mocking him.
What does it matter, silly boy? You can't even hold that thing right. I could beat you in a sword fight with my hands tied behind my back and my eyes blinded… you're pathetic.
Istanell pivoted and gasped as he twisted, automatically bringing up his bow as he fell back, the Oban swinging down hard. The crack of the wood was heartbreaking. His bow had snapped, and though it'd saved him the trouble of having his chest slashed open again he couldn't help but feel it wasn't worth it. Istanell kicked out, nailing the Oban in the sin as he rolled and dropped the bow, furious. And even with his weapon broken and useless the Oban wasn't stopping!
The Shifter rolled to his feet, he found his sword in his hands before he could think it through, his only thought was to survive. "THERE WE GO!" This man's stamina was unnatural! Istanell winced as the cold clang of metal rang out in the clearing, parrying the other man's movements as they circled around.
His movements were sloppy, unpracticed. He was fueled with rage now, no longer caring about proving his worth to this man. He only wanted to hurt him, to break him like he'd broken Istanell's bow.
They circled around each other like this for what felt like a very long time, Istanell barring way more of the hits taken. When he finally saw his opening he found himself slamming the flat of his blade into the Oban's side, once, twice, a third time! He slashed up, again sickened and satisfied with the blood he spotted. He suddenly had the man on the ground and Istanell's sword was at his throat, freezing when the stranger yelled out. "Yield! I yield!"
Istanell's ribs burned and sweat rolled down his back and into his eyes. His muscles all felt numb and he knew how much pain he'd be in come morning. He stood there a moment longer, kicking away the man's blade when he finally let go of it.
He couldn't understand the wild look in the man's eyes that seemed delighted and triumphant all at once, nor could he fathom the smile spread on the Oban's lips. Istanell stepped away, stumbling a little and falling to his knees when he finally got what he deemed a safe distance from the a*****e. "You see, boy? Do you see?!" Istanell shut his eyes, trying to steady his breathing.
The sword, Istanell. That is the weapon for you, that is the weapon of the greats. Of legends!
"You held out a pretty long time with the bow… it was good skill, I'll give you that. But the sword, that is where the real power lay." Istanell took a deep, shaky breath and ignored the agony of his protesting ribs. His eyes moved to the sword, still held in a knuckle white grip. He'd wanted to kill that man, he knew that. He dragged himself to his feet, turning to eye the man, wondering why? Why was something like this so important?
Istanell felt himself walking towards the Oban, who was still laying on the ground and catching his own breath. As Istanell approached he sat up though, eyeing him in a way that did make Istanell feel powerful. "My father was a man very much like you…" He said as he walked, slowly and quietly. Anger and sadness mixed in equal amounts in his tone. "Always quick to call anyone unlike him a coward, always thinking what he wanted should be what I wanted…. so aggressive and angry all of the time…" Istanell didn't blame that sort of behavior on the sword, par say, but he couldn't help but link the two in his mind. Just like his father thought of archers as cowards, eternally linking cowardice to smart fighting tactics. "He told me once that the power of the bow was to kill animals… but the power of the sword? That would never be used for animals… that served to kill people like you or I." Istanell's voice had gone cold, the sadness had seeped out and only the anger remained.
As he stopped in front of the Oban he finally saw the fear in his eyes… and although Istanell thought he would relish it… he didn't. It made him feel disgusting. "You're a terrible man… and so was my father." He lowered his sword and shook his head, moving away.
When he got to his bow, broken in two pieces, he stared down at it. He looked to the sword in his hand, and after a moment he tossed it to the ground carelessly.
He leaned down and picked up two pieces of the bow, not bothering to look back at the Oban as he left the clearing, and the sword, behind.
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Posted: Sun Jun 07, 2015 7:51 pm
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Posted: Mon Jun 08, 2015 9:05 am
Class Quest Result
Pass!
Istanell has passed and received a rank of Archer!
Congratulations Istanell!
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