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The sibilant whispers in the darkness caused the elfs eyes to flutter open and he blinks in confusion laying on what feels to be a wooden floor. The unfamiliar drowsy feeling disoriented him as the whispers fade, and he quickly goes into a roll thinking he was in danger... and was met with the feeling of something hard banging into his ribs and the feel of a heavy object falling atop of him. It was until after the fact he realized he had knocked over a chair onto himself.
The clatter of the falling chair had helped regain his facaulties and Tarangil sits up realizing that he is sitting on the floor of the Sundren library. Odd.. He says to himself as he gets up, but inside a sense of worry grips him. I was sleeping?! He ponders the possibilities on how it came to be, but as he rights up his chair he finds his spellbook sitting on the desk, open along with a series of parchments he was studying. He sits down and moves the melted stub of a long burnt out candle that had served as his light source before he succumbed to the unelflike slumber. He gathers the ancient parchments, and he can't help but shake as he holds the precious rare magicks he had recently unearthed when he had taken it upon himself to clense the necropolis of as much undead as possible.
The scrolls were old, perhaps three times older than he, and whatever leather had served as the vellum for the scripts it was brittle enough as rice paper. The rare magic within them was certainly old, dangerous, and somewhat questionable. However he was confident enough with his studies and discipline that he can control whatever magic he can channel, was his family line and heritage not enough to master whatever arcane he chose to control? As he packs up his belongings he thinks of how he had escaped from the deep recesses of a crypt full of ancient undead. I should not have gotten out. He thinks to himself as he recounts what had happened earlier that week. He was trapped and had underestimated the creatures within, but he remembers using a duplicate of the scroll he had just rolled up to save himself and escape back to the sunlight. He had cast it without hesitation, confident in his abilities to control such power and he did, at least he thought he did. The nightmare he had summoned from the lower planes was certainly put to good use he justifies to himself. It only bit him once, but it was under control... and the damage it did to the monstrosities in the crypt! It was enough for him to consider that he can put evil to the use of good if he so wished, and so he did taking the spell into memorization and clensing the outside of the necropolis with an efficientcy that his planar binding spell couldn't match.
His thoghts are broken while he gathers his lore. The light in the small cubicle brightens to find a young page looking somewhat sleepy and holding a lamp. The lad, one of the ones who looks to the library at night when Marcus rests was coming to check on the commotion. Tarangil feels a surge of anger at the whelp for possibly witnessing the embarresing moment of having fallen asleep for the first time in his life. The anger had the same runes he had spent studying late into the night before he succumbed to slumber dancing before his vision, begging to be loosed on the lad. With a cry, the slender elf grabs his pack and rushes past the startled boy, rushing out of the library as fast as he can, confused by the unnatural emotion and urge that had welled up within.
I can fight fire with fire... He thinks to himself, ... I just need to get control first. He contemplates as he takes flight from Sundren city to the calm peace of the woods.
The clatter of the falling chair had helped regain his facaulties and Tarangil sits up realizing that he is sitting on the floor of the Sundren library. Odd.. He says to himself as he gets up, but inside a sense of worry grips him. I was sleeping?! He ponders the possibilities on how it came to be, but as he rights up his chair he finds his spellbook sitting on the desk, open along with a series of parchments he was studying. He sits down and moves the melted stub of a long burnt out candle that had served as his light source before he succumbed to the unelflike slumber. He gathers the ancient parchments, and he can't help but shake as he holds the precious rare magicks he had recently unearthed when he had taken it upon himself to clense the necropolis of as much undead as possible.
The scrolls were old, perhaps three times older than he, and whatever leather had served as the vellum for the scripts it was brittle enough as rice paper. The rare magic within them was certainly old, dangerous, and somewhat questionable. However he was confident enough with his studies and discipline that he can control whatever magic he can channel, was his family line and heritage not enough to master whatever arcane he chose to control? As he packs up his belongings he thinks of how he had escaped from the deep recesses of a crypt full of ancient undead. I should not have gotten out. He thinks to himself as he recounts what had happened earlier that week. He was trapped and had underestimated the creatures within, but he remembers using a duplicate of the scroll he had just rolled up to save himself and escape back to the sunlight. He had cast it without hesitation, confident in his abilities to control such power and he did, at least he thought he did. The nightmare he had summoned from the lower planes was certainly put to good use he justifies to himself. It only bit him once, but it was under control... and the damage it did to the monstrosities in the crypt! It was enough for him to consider that he can put evil to the use of good if he so wished, and so he did taking the spell into memorization and clensing the outside of the necropolis with an efficientcy that his planar binding spell couldn't match.
His thoghts are broken while he gathers his lore. The light in the small cubicle brightens to find a young page looking somewhat sleepy and holding a lamp. The lad, one of the ones who looks to the library at night when Marcus rests was coming to check on the commotion. Tarangil feels a surge of anger at the whelp for possibly witnessing the embarresing moment of having fallen asleep for the first time in his life. The anger had the same runes he had spent studying late into the night before he succumbed to slumber dancing before his vision, begging to be loosed on the lad. With a cry, the slender elf grabs his pack and rushes past the startled boy, rushing out of the library as fast as he can, confused by the unnatural emotion and urge that had welled up within.
I can fight fire with fire... He thinks to himself, ... I just need to get control first. He contemplates as he takes flight from Sundren city to the calm peace of the woods.