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Sins of Our Fathers - 2/10 - Final Update
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<blockquote data-quote="Destan" data-source="post: 1014940" data-attributes="member: 12157"><p><strong>Harsh Times and Harsh Measures</strong></p><p></p><p>Amelyssan dragged Kellus to his feet as the world exploded into confusion.</p><p></p><p>The unnatural tempest, first born when Aramin slew himself, continued to grow in intensity. A halo of diseased-hued mist circled the crown of Olgotha, the smell of brothel beds sweet and heavy in the air. Amelyssan willed his gaze to pierce the vaporous berm surrounding him. It was useless – the fog was simply too thick. And everywhere – from the stones, from the air, from the ground – came the incessant whispers, the unearthly cackles. </p><p></p><p>Amelyssan, despite all his learning, had no idea what had occurred on the hilltop. Perhaps only Kellus knew. And Kellus…Kellus looked lost. Bewildered. The elf frowned and glanced downward. Aramin lay on the altar, bent backward like an Aradeeti hornbow. The dagger was still in his chest, standing upward like some grisly victory banner.</p><p> </p><p>A tempest of an altogether different sort raged outside the circling walls of mist. Amelyssan cocked his head to one side and listened to the battle cries of his companions. He heard John bark orders and Raylin answer in kind, caught the roar of the half-troll Vath. The clash of steel was unmistakable, the report of iron on shield. </p><p></p><p>“…too many!” That was Raylin shouting; Amelyssan was certain of it.</p><p></p><p>“More come!” Vath’s warning sliced like a schooner through the fog. “Ware the north face!”</p><p></p><p>Suddenly a number of anguished cries burst through the fog. Amelyssan bent, retrieved Kellus’ shield, and handed it to the former priest.</p><p></p><p><em>We must flee.</em> Then, as Amelyssan realized he had not spoken aloud, once again, “We must flee.”</p><p></p><p>Kellus stared at him dumbly for a moment, then nodded. The priest glanced about the clearing as if for the first time. “The demon?”</p><p></p><p>Amelyssan blinked. “I have seen no demon…” A dwem was shouting something in his own tongue when a terrible crunch broke through the mist, cutting him off mid-sentence. A sudden roar rent the air. The elf grimaced, looked to Kellus, “…though, I believe, I just heard one.”</p><p></p><p>“That was no demon.” Kellus adjusted the shield on his arm and hefted his mace. He had regained his senses. “That was the Axemarch dwarf.”</p><p></p><p>Amelyssan believed him. “Good. Let us be off, then.”</p><p></p><p>Kellus reached out and grabbed his companion’s shoulder. “Wait. The staff.”</p><p></p><p>They looked as one onto the weeds near the altar stone. The blackwood staff lay, nearly forgotten, only inches below the dangling hand of Aramin. Blood dripped upon it in a monotonous rhythm.</p><p></p><p>“We must not leave it.” Kellus stepped toward the item.</p><p></p><p>Amelyssan stepped in front of his companion. “You are weakened. Let me.” The elf did not wait for a response. He crossed the summit, leaned forward, and grabbed Margate’s Staff.</p><p></p><p>A wave of nausea slammed into him. He gasped, fell to one knee, coughed phlegm onto Aramin’s waxy countenance. The shaft was <em>alive</em> in his hand, pulsing as if blood coursed through its wooden veins.</p><p></p><p>Now it was Kellus’ turn; he pulled Amelyssan to his feet. The two men shared a knowing look – a look filled with the realization that Fate had found them, that the end drew nigh. </p><p></p><p>Kellus’ voice was almost tender, “Can you run, friend?”</p><p></p><p>“I will try.”</p><p></p><p>“I will not leave you.”</p><p></p><p>“I know.”</p><p></p><p>Then the time for words was over.</p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>Baden reveled from his perch atop the dwem bodies. One of his booted feet was upon a stone, the other sunken to the knee within a dark dwarf’s open rib cage. His face was streaked with gore, his beard matted with it. He had struck them from behind – had bowled into their leader even as the poor bastard was giving orders.</p><p></p><p><em>On a day such as this</em>, the Axemarch dwarf thought, <em>one should be ashamed to die.</em></p><p></p><p>Suddenly two creatures burst through the mist from the top of the hill. Baden adjusted the grip on his axe and pulled his foot from the cavernous corpse. It came free with a sucking sound, nearly claiming his boot. </p><p></p><p>“Behind you, from the mist - more come!” Baden scampered upward across the rocks.</p><p></p><p>Raylin and Vath had formed a living wall in front of John. A handful of black-armored dwem lay before the trio like driftwood. Those bodies furthest from them were pierced by the Pellman’s bolts; those at their feet bore the mark of the ranger’s swords or Vath’s talons.</p><p></p><p>John spun, frantically trying to finish loading his crossbow, then lowered his weapon when he saw it was Kellus and Amelyssan. “The Rornman – where is he?”</p><p></p><p>Before they could answer, Raylin strode forward, his face a mask of rage. “Why is the staff not destroyed?”</p><p></p><p>“No time,” Kellus panted. “We must run.”</p><p></p><p>As if on cue, another squad of dwem entered their view from around a nearby contour. Seven, maybe eight of them. And, even as the companions marked their new foes, yet <em>another</em> squad appeared. All bore axes, their ebony-faces set with determination.</p><p></p><p>John fired his last bolt then tossed the crossbow at his feet. He drew his rapier. “We are lost.”</p><p></p><p>Raylin nodded with finality. “Elf, go. Take the staff from here.”</p><p></p><p>Amelyssan ignored the ranger. His golden eyes were on the dwem. He tossed something translucent and flimsy into the air before him and murmured lilting syllables. Milky strands – spiderwebs as thick as silk rope – seemed to spring from the very air. They wrapped about the first squad of dwem, their sticky ends attached to the numerous standing stones nearby.</p><p></p><p>The elf smiled wryly. There was no time to waste. “We all go.”</p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>The light of hope entered John’s eyes and was reflected in his tone. “If we can reach the ridge surrounding the forest-”</p><p></p><p>“Aye,” Raylin interrupted. “We stand a chance.”</p><p></p><p>The pit of Baden’s stomach sunk like a dwarf in water. The distance to the shelter of the groves seemed vast to him. He had only just arrived and – now – needed to run that length again? <em>Moradin forgive me, but that is a cruel trick to be playing.</em></p><p></p><p>His companions allowed no time for self-pity. The party sprinted down the slope, away from the mist-wreathed mound. Baden, once again, fell behind. His saving grace was the fact that the dwem, like him, were slow and encumbered in their armor. </p><p></p><p>Yet the dark dwarves were not fools; they ignored his faster companions and concentrated on him. With each passing yard they angled closer, converging upon him alone. Soon the clanking of their armor, the pounding of their boots, was as loud as his own. An axe cut into the flesh behind his knee, sundering the strap of his greave and sending it into the weeds. He stumbled.</p><p></p><p>A dwem dove forward, wrapped his arms about Baden’s waist, and both dwarves crashed into the turf. Baden’s axe flew into the mud of a nearby rivulet. He pulled a dagger from his boot, twisted, and thrust it through the coif protecting the back of the dark dwarf's neck.</p><p></p><p>Baden rolled away from the down-swing of a crescent axe. He climbed to one knee, eager to gain his feet, but was again tackled. He fumbled for his dagger but the weight of his body prevented him from striking his assailant. His helm had fallen off. A gauntlet shoved his face into the muck and his heart pounded from lack of air.</p><p></p><p>Another dwarf must have joined the first. Both were on top of him. The weight of the Balantir Cor itself seemed to press him into the mud. He struggled, coughed, bit at the mailed hands clutching him. Baden desperately sought to twist, to move, to prevent the dwem from landing a telling blow.</p><p></p><p>Then the weight was lifted. <em>Gone.</em> He rolled upward, wiped the humus from his eyes. Vath was above him, the half-troll straddling him like the Colossus of Epth a’Non. The dwem were spreading out, eyes dark as they measured the new threat. More of the dark dwarves approached, warily now, axes held low.</p><p></p><p>Baden did not relish the idea of mimicking a sack of potatoes, but harsh times called for harsh measures. “Vath! Carry me!”</p><p></p><p>The half-troll looked down and Baden nearly recoiled from the rage in his eyes. Vath’s lips were pulled back, showing his fangs, and the pustules of his skin wept. Yet his companion seemed to understand their need. Without a word, the monk reached down, plucked Baden from the mud, and threw the dwarf over his massive shoulders.</p><p></p><p>“Meet me,” Baden called to the dwem, his breath coming in spurts as Vath loped toward the trees, “at the ridge.”</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Destan, post: 1014940, member: 12157"] [b]Harsh Times and Harsh Measures[/b] Amelyssan dragged Kellus to his feet as the world exploded into confusion. The unnatural tempest, first born when Aramin slew himself, continued to grow in intensity. A halo of diseased-hued mist circled the crown of Olgotha, the smell of brothel beds sweet and heavy in the air. Amelyssan willed his gaze to pierce the vaporous berm surrounding him. It was useless – the fog was simply too thick. And everywhere – from the stones, from the air, from the ground – came the incessant whispers, the unearthly cackles. Amelyssan, despite all his learning, had no idea what had occurred on the hilltop. Perhaps only Kellus knew. And Kellus…Kellus looked lost. Bewildered. The elf frowned and glanced downward. Aramin lay on the altar, bent backward like an Aradeeti hornbow. The dagger was still in his chest, standing upward like some grisly victory banner. A tempest of an altogether different sort raged outside the circling walls of mist. Amelyssan cocked his head to one side and listened to the battle cries of his companions. He heard John bark orders and Raylin answer in kind, caught the roar of the half-troll Vath. The clash of steel was unmistakable, the report of iron on shield. “…too many!” That was Raylin shouting; Amelyssan was certain of it. “More come!” Vath’s warning sliced like a schooner through the fog. “Ware the north face!” Suddenly a number of anguished cries burst through the fog. Amelyssan bent, retrieved Kellus’ shield, and handed it to the former priest. [i]We must flee.[/i] Then, as Amelyssan realized he had not spoken aloud, once again, “We must flee.” Kellus stared at him dumbly for a moment, then nodded. The priest glanced about the clearing as if for the first time. “The demon?” Amelyssan blinked. “I have seen no demon…” A dwem was shouting something in his own tongue when a terrible crunch broke through the mist, cutting him off mid-sentence. A sudden roar rent the air. The elf grimaced, looked to Kellus, “…though, I believe, I just heard one.” “That was no demon.” Kellus adjusted the shield on his arm and hefted his mace. He had regained his senses. “That was the Axemarch dwarf.” Amelyssan believed him. “Good. Let us be off, then.” Kellus reached out and grabbed his companion’s shoulder. “Wait. The staff.” They looked as one onto the weeds near the altar stone. The blackwood staff lay, nearly forgotten, only inches below the dangling hand of Aramin. Blood dripped upon it in a monotonous rhythm. “We must not leave it.” Kellus stepped toward the item. Amelyssan stepped in front of his companion. “You are weakened. Let me.” The elf did not wait for a response. He crossed the summit, leaned forward, and grabbed Margate’s Staff. A wave of nausea slammed into him. He gasped, fell to one knee, coughed phlegm onto Aramin’s waxy countenance. The shaft was [i]alive[/i] in his hand, pulsing as if blood coursed through its wooden veins. Now it was Kellus’ turn; he pulled Amelyssan to his feet. The two men shared a knowing look – a look filled with the realization that Fate had found them, that the end drew nigh. Kellus’ voice was almost tender, “Can you run, friend?” “I will try.” “I will not leave you.” “I know.” Then the time for words was over. *** Baden reveled from his perch atop the dwem bodies. One of his booted feet was upon a stone, the other sunken to the knee within a dark dwarf’s open rib cage. His face was streaked with gore, his beard matted with it. He had struck them from behind – had bowled into their leader even as the poor bastard was giving orders. [i]On a day such as this[/i], the Axemarch dwarf thought, [i]one should be ashamed to die.[/i] Suddenly two creatures burst through the mist from the top of the hill. Baden adjusted the grip on his axe and pulled his foot from the cavernous corpse. It came free with a sucking sound, nearly claiming his boot. “Behind you, from the mist - more come!” Baden scampered upward across the rocks. Raylin and Vath had formed a living wall in front of John. A handful of black-armored dwem lay before the trio like driftwood. Those bodies furthest from them were pierced by the Pellman’s bolts; those at their feet bore the mark of the ranger’s swords or Vath’s talons. John spun, frantically trying to finish loading his crossbow, then lowered his weapon when he saw it was Kellus and Amelyssan. “The Rornman – where is he?” Before they could answer, Raylin strode forward, his face a mask of rage. “Why is the staff not destroyed?” “No time,” Kellus panted. “We must run.” As if on cue, another squad of dwem entered their view from around a nearby contour. Seven, maybe eight of them. And, even as the companions marked their new foes, yet [i]another[/i] squad appeared. All bore axes, their ebony-faces set with determination. John fired his last bolt then tossed the crossbow at his feet. He drew his rapier. “We are lost.” Raylin nodded with finality. “Elf, go. Take the staff from here.” Amelyssan ignored the ranger. His golden eyes were on the dwem. He tossed something translucent and flimsy into the air before him and murmured lilting syllables. Milky strands – spiderwebs as thick as silk rope – seemed to spring from the very air. They wrapped about the first squad of dwem, their sticky ends attached to the numerous standing stones nearby. The elf smiled wryly. There was no time to waste. “We all go.” *** The light of hope entered John’s eyes and was reflected in his tone. “If we can reach the ridge surrounding the forest-” “Aye,” Raylin interrupted. “We stand a chance.” The pit of Baden’s stomach sunk like a dwarf in water. The distance to the shelter of the groves seemed vast to him. He had only just arrived and – now – needed to run that length again? [i]Moradin forgive me, but that is a cruel trick to be playing.[/i] His companions allowed no time for self-pity. The party sprinted down the slope, away from the mist-wreathed mound. Baden, once again, fell behind. His saving grace was the fact that the dwem, like him, were slow and encumbered in their armor. Yet the dark dwarves were not fools; they ignored his faster companions and concentrated on him. With each passing yard they angled closer, converging upon him alone. Soon the clanking of their armor, the pounding of their boots, was as loud as his own. An axe cut into the flesh behind his knee, sundering the strap of his greave and sending it into the weeds. He stumbled. A dwem dove forward, wrapped his arms about Baden’s waist, and both dwarves crashed into the turf. Baden’s axe flew into the mud of a nearby rivulet. He pulled a dagger from his boot, twisted, and thrust it through the coif protecting the back of the dark dwarf's neck. Baden rolled away from the down-swing of a crescent axe. He climbed to one knee, eager to gain his feet, but was again tackled. He fumbled for his dagger but the weight of his body prevented him from striking his assailant. His helm had fallen off. A gauntlet shoved his face into the muck and his heart pounded from lack of air. Another dwarf must have joined the first. Both were on top of him. The weight of the Balantir Cor itself seemed to press him into the mud. He struggled, coughed, bit at the mailed hands clutching him. Baden desperately sought to twist, to move, to prevent the dwem from landing a telling blow. Then the weight was lifted. [i]Gone.[/i] He rolled upward, wiped the humus from his eyes. Vath was above him, the half-troll straddling him like the Colossus of Epth a’Non. The dwem were spreading out, eyes dark as they measured the new threat. More of the dark dwarves approached, warily now, axes held low. Baden did not relish the idea of mimicking a sack of potatoes, but harsh times called for harsh measures. “Vath! Carry me!” The half-troll looked down and Baden nearly recoiled from the rage in his eyes. Vath’s lips were pulled back, showing his fangs, and the pustules of his skin wept. Yet his companion seemed to understand their need. Without a word, the monk reached down, plucked Baden from the mud, and threw the dwarf over his massive shoulders. “Meet me,” Baden called to the dwem, his breath coming in spurts as Vath loped toward the trees, “at the ridge.” [/QUOTE]
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