In a cataclysm known as the Nightfall, the worlds were almost completely destroyed by a harrowing surge of darkness.
In the shadows of the ensuing chaos a new group has taken shape. Led by an Aegyl named Kalos, the 11th Hour touts an esoteric knowledge of how to combat the darkness and restore the worlds. They might be the worlds’ best chance at survival; but nobody really knows enough about them to confirm or deny their claims.
On the brink of collapse, the universe holds its breath in anticipation. Of restoration? Of destruction? It is up to individuals like yourself to decide.
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There aren't enough praises in the world I'd like to give to wonderful coders for the Proboards community. The following have contributed to World Destiny in some way: W3 Schools for countless how-tos and countless of other souls who have helped get WD up to where it is.
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The question got lost somewhere in Saxen's mind as he tied off his makeshift bandage. All he knew was that she said something. "I'm fine," he grunted as he picked up his sword in his right hand. He let metal melt down his left arm to cover the "bandage" and formed it into his usual red, fingerless glove. He stretched his arm out and back a few times to make sure it wouldn't go stiff. He held his hand up and stretched his fingers, too. "That's gonna be sore for a few days . . ." he muttered to himself. "Maybe longer since Deathblade's not gonna help . . ."
He looked back up at Ink and slid his sword away. He moved so he was standing comfortably in front of her. "How about we rest for a minute. I'm sorry to have to stop so soon, but, you know . . . it happens, right?" He laughed, trying to keep his humor, despite the fact that he was a little dizzy and his arm hurt worse than he had ever felt it hurt before. He had never been hurt this bad without Deathblade. He was, in fact, only human. He went to sit down but, instead, ended up collapsing and falling on his rear end. He brought his right hand up to his head and rubbed his temples. "I'll be able to continue in a few minutes. For now, though, why don't we talk?"
"He's been stabbed in arm, but he tells me he's fine. Such an odd soldier." She thought, still watching Saxen as he stretched out said arm. Each second, her suspicions faded. His comment made her smirk, nearly laughing at the situation. All she caught was "That's gonna be sore for a few days," even though she swore he said something else as well.
"But, you know...it happens, right?" His laugh would have been reassuring, had he not collapsed at the end. Level-headed enough now to ignore her overactive suspicions, Ink dropped to her knees next to him. Her sword was also on the ground, but a bit off to the side. "C'est vrai. Because people nearly-" she paused, one hand moving to his forehead as the other slowly went to his injured arm, "-talk?" Ink blinked at him, curious as to what he'd want to talk about right after falling to the ground.
"Would you mind if I try healing you? Your arm." She asked, head tilting slightly to the side. "We can still talk." As if she needed to clarify. The more she thought about it, the more curious it was that he hadn't healed himself. Surely he could, being a soldier? But it wasn't her place to assume such things. "I know I'm slower than you, but trying to even things out this way is a bit insulting." Again, she was teasing him.
Saxen was slightly nervous when she sat down next to him. Lately, he hadn't been able to just have a normal conversation. They always seemed to be interrupted by something. Then, he felt he hand on his forehead and her other on his arm. His right hand reached up to the hand on his forehead, gently grabbed it and pulled it down, closer to chest level. Then, he heard her offer to heal him and her reassurance that they could still talk. "You know how to heal?" he asked. "I would appreciate that," he said, smiling at her. Then, he realized that he was still holding her hand and let go, pulling back, slightly embarrassed.
"I know I'm slower than you, but trying to even things out this way is a bit insulting."
Saxen couldn't help but start laughing at that. "Trust me, that wouldn't even things out enough for you. Not even close." Now, he was picking on her. He let that hang for a moment, waiting for her reaction, before adding "I fight just as well with my right hand." He laughed a bit and then sat back, looking at the sky. He thought about all of the worlds out there, and the several that he had been to. "So, where are you from, Ink?" he asked, and, upon his asking, he thought of another question. "And why do you go by 'Ink' instead of 'Alix?' I think 'Alix' sounds . . . nicer, for lack of a better word."
He reached out for the hand nearing his forehead and pulled it down to chest level. Ink blinked, seemingly indifferent but inwardly wary of the gesture. Did she almost do something people from this world considered offensive? It wouldn't be the first time that's for sure, but each offense was confusing until someone explained the situation to her. But she wasn't about to ask, not now. She nodded in response to his question, and grinned back at the sight of his smile. Unfortunately, she was planning on using both hands to heal his arm but one of the two were still held in Saxen's. Just as she was about to pull her hand out of his hold, he released it; she didn't notice his slight embarrassment.
"Trust me," he began, and as she listened she held both hands over his injured arm, silently casting Cura. It didn't take long at all for his comment to sink in, and she immediately smacked his upper arm- she wanted to believe she happened to do so with her own right hand simply because irony is oh so amusing. Ink narrowed her eyes at the soldier, but one could easily see the playful gleam within. His next two questions caught her slightly off guard; she blinked owlishly at him for a few heartbeats before pulling her hair to drape over her right shoulder.
"Paris." Ink told him, a short and simple answer. Whether or not he'd heard of her world before she wasn't sure. She almost asked the same from him, but his second question made her smile before she had the opportunity. A part of her was a bit surprised he actually remembered her first name, since many can only recall her odd nickname.
But, why did she choose to go by Ink rather than Alix? Again she blinked, unconsciously reaching out to run her fingers through the grass surrounding her. "Everyone called me Ink, back in Paris." She grinned softly, and everyone included family and friends. "I believe it is just a habit then, to introduce myself as Ink. But if you prefer Alix," she said, the name sounding like Ah-leeks due to her soft accent, "then you may call me Alix." The repetition of her name twice in the same sentence made her want to re-word the entire thing, but she stopped herself and shrugged instead. "Saxen is a nice name as well." The gypsy added as an after thought.
Saxen was glad that Ink had reacted to his teasing the way that she did: by smacking him on the arm. That just made him feel more comfortable with her. That was how he was used to people reacting to him; it was how all of his friends had always reacted. Then, she was finished healing his arm. He untied his blood-stained shirt and threw it on the ground a few feet away. "I'll take care of that, later," he thought. He stretched his arm a bit more and looked at where the wound had been. It had healed up pretty good. He smiled because he knew that he'd still be able to fight with it just as well as before.
While he was stretching, Ink was answering Saxen's questions and he made sure to listen. She told him that she had lived in a place called "Paris" and, basically, that she went by Ink for the same reason that he went by "Saxen" instead of "Caleb:" because that's what people called them.
Saxen couldn't help but smile at her accent. Suddenly, he thought of one of his favorite sayings: Emotions can be controlled, hormones can't. He shook his head for a second to clear it. He barely caught the last thing she said. "My name . . ." he muttered, staring at the ground again, "I'm just glad my mom gave it to me and not my 'father.'" His fist clenched for a second before he realized it and relaxed himself. He shook his head again, his hair lightly swinging from side to side, then looked at Ink. "What do you want me to call you? That's what's important. And what's Paris like? It sounds like a pretty place."
She watched in silence as he threw the bloodied shirt off to the side, hoping he wasn't planning on leaving it there. She also noticed the way he suddenly went tense right after mentioning his father, but something told her not to pry. If he wanted to talk about that part of his family, or that part of his past, then that was his choice. She wasn't about to bother him, and not just because he was obviously the stronger of the two.
"Whichever name you'd rather use," she said, shrugging her shoulders. "It honestly makes no difference to me." And it didn't. She'd been called both names for so long that she accepted either one of them instead of preferring one over the other.
"You're asking what Paris is like?" she asked with a grin, nearly repeating exactly what he just said. "It's...the same as this world, but completely different." She smiled; friends back home often told her she had a habit of saying silly things that didn't always make sense. To her they did, which was all that really mattered.
"It is nice, mainly in the early mornings and late nights because there aren't so many people around. It's a crowded city," she said, clarifying. "And there's a large cathedral in the center," she continued, lifting her arms and holding them far apart as if to show just how large the church was. "Called Notre Dame." Biting her lip, Ink was subconsciously proud at how short of time she needed nowadays to translate something from her native language into the more common tongue.
"It means 'Our Lady'- though, the bells are quite annoying." She nodded, caught up in her memories for a few seconds before remembering where she was. Then, she continued, "And your world?"
Her description of Paris seemed to hardly do the name justice, but she seemed to like it. And he thought it was funny that she spread her arms out when she talked about the cathedral. Then she returned his question. He closed his eyes to think for a moment. How would he describe his world? There was so much to it, and some things were very complicated. He decided to start with the simple stuff. "Well, Alix, my world is divided into two parts: the surface, and the underground. The people on the surface are totally unaware of the people underground. The surface society is pretty materialistic and has all sorts of entertainment systems and things that they don't really even need. As much as I hate it, that's where I was from. Eventually, my father kicked me out of the house and that's the best thing that ever happened to me. Because of that, I was able to discover the underground." At this point, he was beaming. "People are so different in Anhnyqueg. So different. They're pretty religious, but they're not ritualistic. They care. Unfortunately, though, there were creatures in the underground before they got there. These creatures were intelligent and, to make a long story short, they've been at war for about 1800 years." He closed his eyes and sighed. "The churches there are beautiful, though. They were built with as much care as the castle, which is quite a sight and a marvel of military strength, too. All of us soldiers . . . we're just ordinary people. We just want to protect our families, our friends, and our strangers." He paused to take a deep breath and look up at the sky. If Ink were paying attention, she'd be able to see the beginnings of tears in his eyes. "Is there anything else you want to know? Or anything you don't understand?"