Aerlyn sees, clouded, as if through thick glass, a black figure. The cloaked apparition holds an object at its’ side. It stands at one end of a narrow garret, the floor scattered with straw. There are bars on the window. At the other end of the room, a hunched figure sits, covered only by a few rags. Strands of blond hair, sweaty and matted, hang over the prisoner’s face. The black figure steps forward, becoming more visible, and says, in a low voice.
“Renounce your God.” No tone, no inflection is heard in the delivery. It has the unemotional ring of an order. The man does not respond. He remains crouched, given no sign he has heard the command.
“Renounce your God.” The man does not move. Again the order.
“Renou-.”
“Burn in hell, pagan. Both you and your false demon-god.” Cutting the other speaker off, the man raises his face so his hair falls back. A vicious cut into Aervir's forehead is still slowly bleeding, but the bloody streaks down his face only accentuate his defiance and fury. The other figure slowly raises the object up. It is a mace, the head in the shape of a skull.
Aerlyn wakes, the vividness of the dream still with her. Though startled, she makes no sound. Fallon is hooting crazily. Caedren is watching both of them from his seat across the dying embers of the fire. It is early morning, the sun just rising.
Dravis stands in the beaver pond next to the campsite. He has stripped down to his pants, and one arm rests beneath the water. Intent on something beneath the surface, he waits. Drilk, his wolf, waits on the shore, pacing slowly up and down, somewhat expectantly, it would seem. As the wolf turns, Dravis moves, in a blur of motion, and hurls something out of the water, a spray of droplets moving towards shore. Drilk moves, his black form moving to something on the ground. A large, gasping bass flops around on the grass of the bank, and Drilk quickly bites down.
Aerlyn looks around again. The campsite is no longer the culvert where Dravis slew the orc chieftain, but a beaver pond in the woods to the north of the keep. The sunlight glitters off the water, which laps lazily against the dam – a chaotic jumble of sticks and logs. Several freshly gnawed tree stumps are around the fire pit. On a slight rise, the fire is well situated to see across the pond (about twenty feet) but set back in the trees for cover. Dravis’ backpack and Caedren’s bow hang from a nearby elm branch.
“Renounce your God.” No tone, no inflection is heard in the delivery. It has the unemotional ring of an order. The man does not respond. He remains crouched, given no sign he has heard the command.
“Renounce your God.” The man does not move. Again the order.
“Renou-.”
“Burn in hell, pagan. Both you and your false demon-god.” Cutting the other speaker off, the man raises his face so his hair falls back. A vicious cut into Aervir's forehead is still slowly bleeding, but the bloody streaks down his face only accentuate his defiance and fury. The other figure slowly raises the object up. It is a mace, the head in the shape of a skull.
Aerlyn wakes, the vividness of the dream still with her. Though startled, she makes no sound. Fallon is hooting crazily. Caedren is watching both of them from his seat across the dying embers of the fire. It is early morning, the sun just rising.
Dravis stands in the beaver pond next to the campsite. He has stripped down to his pants, and one arm rests beneath the water. Intent on something beneath the surface, he waits. Drilk, his wolf, waits on the shore, pacing slowly up and down, somewhat expectantly, it would seem. As the wolf turns, Dravis moves, in a blur of motion, and hurls something out of the water, a spray of droplets moving towards shore. Drilk moves, his black form moving to something on the ground. A large, gasping bass flops around on the grass of the bank, and Drilk quickly bites down.
Aerlyn looks around again. The campsite is no longer the culvert where Dravis slew the orc chieftain, but a beaver pond in the woods to the north of the keep. The sunlight glitters off the water, which laps lazily against the dam – a chaotic jumble of sticks and logs. Several freshly gnawed tree stumps are around the fire pit. On a slight rise, the fire is well situated to see across the pond (about twenty feet) but set back in the trees for cover. Dravis’ backpack and Caedren’s bow hang from a nearby elm branch.
