... Greywyn creeps down the rickety stairs without the sound of a step or scuffle. Hidden behind his invisible cloak, he quickly slide past the open door pouring out torchlight and guttural voices. Down the dark hall, a burly orc adjusts the rusted sword hanging from his leather armor. Sneaking up behind him, he slip his dagger through the back of the orcs neck with an assassin's ease.
His free hand catches the orcs chin but fails to slam its jaw shut. The orc's death rattle echoes down the hallways and the voices in the room beyond slow, then stop. A sharp command ruptures the silence and our hero hears clinking armor as five of the dead orc's comrades charge out the door and down the corridor at his direction.
He barely has time to taste the musky sweat in the air and see the gritted teeth when he drops his dagger for a warrior's sword and cut a gut-spewing swath through the first two.
More came at him. Heaving the closest one - his yellow nails claw at his shoulder looking for a hold - he sends the orc back into the shadows to the rear, then swing upward over the head of the next orc. He has no hope of finishing them all in a fair fight, so he slashes at the wooden plank supporting a line of shelves above their heads. The shelves splinter and crumple under the weight of the casks and moldy flour sacks tumbling to the stone ground.
White powder billows around the fallen orcs like a morning mist. The gurgling liquid from one fractured cask spills on an orc's neck.
Too late he remembers the orc he threw into the shadow behind him. It sinks jagged teeth into his shoulder and slaps aside his sword. A second attack smashes into Greywyn's head and sends him reeling to the ground.
The room spins. Greywyn has no sword. No dagger. The orc splits a grin that says he'll enjoy chewing on his bone marrow and sharing his entrails with his friends.
Concentrating just enough to remember the incantations, Greywyn fires a magical Flame Arrow between the orc's eyes. It kills him before the stunned eyes truly understand that they've been beaten by a "defenseless" human...
Unknown "GOLD" Sleepy - 15 years, 2 months, 28 days ago

... Greywyn's blade glinted in the dim greenish light of the Welkynd Stones. The bedraggled assassin was crouched behind a pillar, listening to the footfalls of the Bandits making their way through the main burial chamber. One hand was clutching his short-sword, the other nursing the blood-soaked wound on his side. He had broken the cardial rule of the assassin by allowing his presence to be discovered. The assault into the Ayled ruin had been going according to plan. Slaying the first Bandits with his trusty bow was easy for a master of shadows, and Greywyn had been able to sneak into the second level of the ancient complex with no further resistence. But then, on a ledge high above the burial chamber, he had missed it: a simple pressure plate hidden in the white-stone rock. Using his uncanny dodging abilities, Greywyn had rolled away from the hail of darts from the long-unused trap, but it was too late; the damage was done. The Bandits that had set up camp here heard the stone plate rumble to life, and his position was compromised. The Bandits loosed a volley of arrows, and one found its mark in Greywyn's side. Pain exploded from the wound, and Greywyn fell two stories to the ground. Fortunately, he had tumbled as he fell and was on his feet a moment after he had landed, just as his master had taught him so many years ago. The Bandits dropped their bows and drew their blades, looking for the intruder. Using his shadow teachings, Greywyn did the only thing he could--- he hid in the darkness and hoped that the Bandits couldn't find him. But now they were drawing closer, and Greywyn knew this was the time to face them. Giving a silent prayer to the Night Mother, he stood and yelled a battle cry as he prepared to face his fate...
Unknown "GOLD" Sleepy - 16 years, 3 months ago

Steamy nights eating seafood from earthenware bowls in bamboo huts. Long beaches with silky sand and an explosion of palms fronds. Lonely cloud-covered mountains rising from a arid desert landscape. Nowhere is so much more than a place to visit; it's a state of mind. Way, way off beaten track it may be, but who hasn't dreamed of taking roads less travelled, of following our instinct to explore, of being shaped by journeys through far-flung outreaches of the world? Nowhere is not for the faint-hearted. Nor is it for the ill-prepared. But arm your self with an appropriate sense of adventure and you will discover places mother nature will allow you trully call your own.
Unknown "GOLD" Sleepy - 16 years, 4 months, 14 days ago