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Thread: Cleric story (random creative writing because I had trouble sleeping)

  1. #1
    Rift Disciple
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    Jun 2018
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    Default Cleric story (random creative writing because I had trouble sleeping)

    “I won’t do it!” Her footsteps reverberated against the walls of the Shamanic temple. She threw her staff to the side and it slid across the floor, into the shadows.

    The seated council members raised their brows in surprise from this outburst from the normally-calm, young Cleric.

    She approached them with clenched fists covered in blood, her shoulders matted with rapidly-melting snow from Whitefall Steppes.

    “I won’t do it,” she repeated. “I won’t fight against my friends.” She stood tall and firm.

    Murmurs, glances, and hesitation from the small council. No one spoke for a long moment.

    She thought to herself, ‘Come on you old bastards. Can’t you see I cannot do this any more? This is breaking me.’

    She heard a scoff from her side. The cleric’s eyes darted over to the shadowy area of the room. A thin, old man in a black cloak emerged, holding the staff she’d thrown.

    “Friends?” His voice was ice-cold and raspy as he rotated the staff slowly in his fingers. The face under the hood was hard to see, except for two eyes that seemed to glow with a faint yellow flame. “How bold of you to use such a word. They would kill you in an instant.”

    The girl moved to say something but he continued, speaking to the council: “Leave us.”

    To her surprise, they stood up right away. Were they actually obeying this man? How could anyone so casually bark commands at the respected Shamanic council?

    They were out the door before she could protest and she found herself alone with this strange man who wore a face of death.

    “Friends,” he repeated with a quick exhale out of his nose. Was the look on his face pity? Or disgust. “Is that what you think they are?”

    She took a step back. He barely lifted a finger at her, and she felt glued to the floor. Was it a spell? Or just his unsettling presence?

    He circled her slowly as he spoke, the shadows seeming to follow him. “You know, I’ve been watching you. I’ve seen your every move on the battlefield. You like to think that some of the enemy might even be protecting you from harm, like some ill-fated love story.”

    He was behind her now, brushing her hair aside to whisper close in her ear. “Do you think they actually… like you?”

    A thin smirk on his lips. Her knees felt weak as he continued, “How quaint. Well… where is your Romeo now?” His words felt like daggers. Each time he spoke she felt dazed and hazy, as if there was some unknown spell underlying his words, blurring her mental concentration.

    “Friends,” he repeated as he traced the back of her neck with a long fingernail, giving a disappointed sigh. “This couldn’t be further from the truth. They mock you. You’re a joke. You know it is true and you’ve felt it for a while. It’s simple, isn’t it. It feels so good when you’re finally able to see this truth. You… are the laughing stock of both the Shamanic tribe and the Wardens—a pathetic healer who doesn’t even know the rules of the warfront. The enemy knows the truth. Your own team knows that you wander around without purpose. These are not your childhood friends from the playground—these are your enemies, every single one. Remember that.

    She shook her head. A tear that had made its way to her chin now fell to her damp chest, blending with the melted snow that dripped down to her fingers. The cold droplets only seemed to intensify the appearance of the red stains.

    The words barely escaped her lips: “I… I won’t do it. …I can’t.”

    She began to summon a watery spell of healing, but found she didn’t have the strength. Her hands fell to her sides in exhaustion, with nothing to show for it but a single drop of liquid which quickly evaporated back into the ether.

    The hooded man moved around to face her. That same look again…. Was it disgust? Or pity.

    They don’t care about you. Not like I do.” A bony hand stroked the side of her face. “None of them can truly protect you from harm, little one. That is why you’re going to do exactly as I say.”

    He smiled, exposing decaying teeth. “Your training continues. And yes, you will continue to fight. For me.”

    She opened her mouth to protest but he touched her forehead, commanding firmly, “Sleep now.” Sudden darkness enveloped her mind as the old man moved forward and kissed her lips. She fell into a daze and slumped in his arms.

    When she woke up, she found herself standing in Ghar Station, with no memory of how she got there. She glanced at the water at her feet and saw someone whose eyes glowed bright yellow. She detected hatred in that person’s face before she realized she was looking at herself.

    Something about the water reminded her of… ….No, the thought vanished. Unable to grasp what it was. Pushed away as if by some outside force.

    The horns of battle pierced the air. She looked up and saw someone approaching. Someone familiar. …Where did she know this person from?

    But the thought vanished again. She was surprised that her lips were already forming the incantation for Aggressive Inquisition, thrust out by her arms and hands before she even realized what she was doing.

    She was attacking someone who was her—

    Someone who she used to—

    …The thoughts were taken away a third time, as she released the spell onto the other person, and the yellow flame in her eyes ignited even brighter.
    70 Cleric Sarleaf@Hailol, BoS tank, PvP healer
    alts: Frazzleweed@Hailol (lvl 24 mage); Sarifiber@Typhiria (lvl 7 warrior)
    Rift PvP videos: https://tinyurl.com/y2dl6oym

  2. #2
    Rift Disciple
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    Default

    I had trouble sleeping possibly because of my thoughts of Rift. PvP is difficult for me whenever I play in a DPS spec (I prefer to heal, but I also feel under pressure to be DPS sometimes, to try and be more "useful" to the team).

    I really don’t like killing people who I like (which is basically everyone). It almost causes a mini turmoil and conflict within myself, and nothing feels right. I walk away from the Warfront feeling dirty, sad and pathetic, instead of happy, laughing and flirty.

    So writing is just a way to release those feelings of frustration. To those I have attacked, I would say I’m sorry, but I think that line is already taken.

    Plus, I like psychological thrillers, where one “evil” character is manipulating an innocent one (maybe that’s why I like playing against the rogues so much, because of all that damn CC). So this is a way for me to express creativity in that area.

    Also, for those who are unfamiliar with the Cleric soul trees, Warden is an AOE healer that uses water-based spells, Shaman is melee dps, and Inquisitor is a ranged caster. For some reason, when I switch to an Inquisitor spec, it seems to literally turn my character’s eyes into flaming yellow eyes (a very cool detail, if I may say!).
    70 Cleric Sarleaf@Hailol, BoS tank, PvP healer
    alts: Frazzleweed@Hailol (lvl 24 mage); Sarifiber@Typhiria (lvl 7 warrior)
    Rift PvP videos: https://tinyurl.com/y2dl6oym

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