House of the Rising Phoenix - Hall of the Arts

Da Turnip Farmer Thalior

A short story by Evialla Violetskye

Thalior and a group of other folks were sitting around a crackling fire at the Pinefar Trading Post one blustery evening defrosting their blue limbs, mending their wounds and battle scars, taking care of odds and ends of business, and chatting amongst themselves.

He had just finished checking for traps the iron-bound tanik strongbox he is shown holding, and asked for a basher. Geijon, being the helpful kind of guy that he is, volunteered, and withdrawing his imflass war-mattock from within his weapons harness, stood and swinging it through the air with the full force of his 300+ pounds of umm..muscle brought the mattack crashing down upon the strongbox.

Suddenly there was a blinding flash of light and one brief blood-curdling scream as tongues of fire spewed forth from the strongbox, incinerating the hapless Geijon and turning him into a heap of smoldering, charred flesh. The empaths set to work immediately piecing back together the scorched remains, and a priest being present raised the body once it had been sufficiently mended and cooled off.

Searching around in his essence blasted cloak, Da Farmer pulled out another box and carefully examined it for traps. "Seems clean, want to try again fiter?", he asked Geijon. Being the very helpful sort of guy that he is, Geijon didn't hesitate to help again.

"Just gonna give this a quick check mahself too," he said, and proceded to examine the box. Finding no traps, he once again got his his war mattock and gave the box a hearty smack.

Another blinding flash of light, the chilling squelched scream of agony just before his throat was charred to cinder along with the rest of his body.

Which just goes to prove that you are never to old for a "quick fry."

Lord Thalior Farthor the Dark Elf Sorcerer.
He appears to be in his 120's, has long, straight silver hair, grey eyes, and tanned skin.
He has a tattooed symbol of Fash'lo'nae on his neck.
He is in good shape.
He is holding an iron-bound tanik strongbox in his left hand.
He is wearing an inky black sheath of Onar with fine gold veins, a dark vultite shield, a pair of knee high gleaming black leather riding boots, a gold-trimmed jewelled eye, a spun glass anklet, a writhing, black-scaled serpent bracelet with fiery ruby eyes, a dark blue emerald eye, a gold rimmed monocle, a pitch black satchel woven through with images of tortured souls, a tin amulet, the gruesome visage of your face contorted in agony studded with rubies, an essence blasted cloak worked all about with golden threads, some extremely supple black leather body armor with a faint image of a bound dark reaver etched upon it, a dark elven battle shroud, a blood-soaked bag which writhes as if it has something living inside of it, a small useless object that dosen't appear to do anything, and a twisted skeleton ring which appears to be writhing in agony with pulsing deathstone eyes.