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The Blade of Phoee (Updated 12/08/08)
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<blockquote data-quote="Funeris" data-source="post: 2525168" data-attributes="member: 22792"><p><strong>Chapter 2: Journey Into Darkness Continued</strong></p><p></p><p>Aramil sat in the gloomy shadows within the hedged maze. From behind, he could hear the slight breathing of his companions breathing. Ana had awoken him for his shift, the last watch of the night, maybe an hour prior. He struggled to keep his eyes open, his mind alert while the shadows lulled him toward unconsciousness.</p><p></p><p>The cleric had healed his remaining wounds. Aramil was, by all definitions, healthy again. For some reason, his body still ached from the attacks. Miraculously, the priest’s administrations had left the half-elf’s flesh perfect, without scars. Aramil’s mind would take more than a dose of divine power to heal completely.</p><p></p><p>Dim tendrils of light were pushing against the shadowy floor. Daylight was spreading and while it would not completely pierce the thick vegetation, it still made its presence known. Aramil tried to focus on the battle between light and shadow, an apt metaphor for his own existence. Racism, fear, and hatred, these were the aspects of humanity that pressed his once hopeful soul toward darkness. Humanity was crafting him into a monster by application of their emotion, their preconceived beliefs, and their sadistic torment. Aramil’s eyelids drooped.</p><p></p><p>The rogue’s head snapped upward and he slid silently back toward his companions. With a gentle shake he awoke his companions, his captives. “Scuffling, movement in the halls,” he pointed to the exit. “I’m guessing about four opponents.”</p><p></p><p>Cassock grimaced and stretched. Cassock silently thanked Cael for the ability to pray at night. If he had to pray in the morning, the priest would lose valuable time. The priest stood and whispered an order, “You and I will go around. Ana, Gabrielle use the elf-crafted path. Don’t attack until you hear us engage the murderers. Remain hidden. Come on.” The priest grabbed Aramil by the arm and dragged him down the hedge passageway.</p><p></p><p>They stopped at the marble hallway, peering carefully around the corner. Four humans crouched along the once virginal white floor. They examined the blood and followed the streaks with their eyes toward the alcove. “On three,” the priest whispered, raising one finger.</p><p></p><p>“What you thinkin’ mate?” One of the men questioned.</p><p></p><p>“You mean aside from our associates being dead?” He turned his head cautiously, searching for eavesdroppers. “I think that if we kill these adventurers, we’ll be awarded well. Keep your eyes sharp and your ears open.” The human raised a hand and motioned for his friends to stalk into the alcove.</p><p></p><p>Cassock raised another finger.</p><p></p><p>All four of the men cautiously stood. Their weapons slid from their scabbards as silent as an assassin’s blade. One step, the two and they were all slightly closer to the alcove.</p><p></p><p>The third finger went up, Cassock and Aramil poured from their alcove. The men spun toward their attackers and met fierce weapons. Aramil’s blade struck true and deep, an artery severed, an enemy fallen. Cassock’s mace, not nearly as precise a weapon, sought any target. In its hunger, the warmace refused to distinguish between bone, sinew and blood. It devoured all equally and hungrily.</p><p></p><p>Two men were down. The other opponents rushed toward their ends. Before they could even bring their blades to bear, arrows pummeled from behind. Shafts of wood, tipped with rough metal, shredded leather armor and flesh. All four opponents died as one, together and silent in the early autumn morning.</p><p></p><p>Cassock moved to rummage through the corpses even before all the last breaths were extinguished. He shuddered, the shadowed souls of the fallen grasping futilely at his physical body. They lashed outward complete in their hollowness; empty faces, empty expression, and empty attacks. Even their silent pleas for help were empty, lacking voice.</p><p></p><p>The priest could never forget the tormented expressions. He shifted tack, administering last rites but before his eyes the souls seemed ripped from the bodies upward. Within a second, all four spirits shot heavenward. Cassock merely shuddered.</p><p></p><p>“What did you find?” Aramil questioned. The half-elf’s left eyebrow arched slightly with suspicion.</p><p></p><p>“More masks,” the priest grunted. He tossed the brown masks embroidered with a single black leaf upon the ground.</p><p></p><p>“I think we should keep one of each of these for ourselves,” the half-elf stated. “They may come in handy if we need to move within the same circles as these men.”</p><p></p><p>“Agreed,” Cassock stated. “So that’s nearly twenty orcs now and a band of four humans. Still no elf and still no half-elf child.” The priest moved to drag the bodies into the hedged alcove with a sigh.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Funeris, post: 2525168, member: 22792"] [b]Chapter 2: Journey Into Darkness Continued[/b] Aramil sat in the gloomy shadows within the hedged maze. From behind, he could hear the slight breathing of his companions breathing. Ana had awoken him for his shift, the last watch of the night, maybe an hour prior. He struggled to keep his eyes open, his mind alert while the shadows lulled him toward unconsciousness. The cleric had healed his remaining wounds. Aramil was, by all definitions, healthy again. For some reason, his body still ached from the attacks. Miraculously, the priest’s administrations had left the half-elf’s flesh perfect, without scars. Aramil’s mind would take more than a dose of divine power to heal completely. Dim tendrils of light were pushing against the shadowy floor. Daylight was spreading and while it would not completely pierce the thick vegetation, it still made its presence known. Aramil tried to focus on the battle between light and shadow, an apt metaphor for his own existence. Racism, fear, and hatred, these were the aspects of humanity that pressed his once hopeful soul toward darkness. Humanity was crafting him into a monster by application of their emotion, their preconceived beliefs, and their sadistic torment. Aramil’s eyelids drooped. The rogue’s head snapped upward and he slid silently back toward his companions. With a gentle shake he awoke his companions, his captives. “Scuffling, movement in the halls,” he pointed to the exit. “I’m guessing about four opponents.” Cassock grimaced and stretched. Cassock silently thanked Cael for the ability to pray at night. If he had to pray in the morning, the priest would lose valuable time. The priest stood and whispered an order, “You and I will go around. Ana, Gabrielle use the elf-crafted path. Don’t attack until you hear us engage the murderers. Remain hidden. Come on.” The priest grabbed Aramil by the arm and dragged him down the hedge passageway. They stopped at the marble hallway, peering carefully around the corner. Four humans crouched along the once virginal white floor. They examined the blood and followed the streaks with their eyes toward the alcove. “On three,” the priest whispered, raising one finger. “What you thinkin’ mate?” One of the men questioned. “You mean aside from our associates being dead?” He turned his head cautiously, searching for eavesdroppers. “I think that if we kill these adventurers, we’ll be awarded well. Keep your eyes sharp and your ears open.” The human raised a hand and motioned for his friends to stalk into the alcove. Cassock raised another finger. All four of the men cautiously stood. Their weapons slid from their scabbards as silent as an assassin’s blade. One step, the two and they were all slightly closer to the alcove. The third finger went up, Cassock and Aramil poured from their alcove. The men spun toward their attackers and met fierce weapons. Aramil’s blade struck true and deep, an artery severed, an enemy fallen. Cassock’s mace, not nearly as precise a weapon, sought any target. In its hunger, the warmace refused to distinguish between bone, sinew and blood. It devoured all equally and hungrily. Two men were down. The other opponents rushed toward their ends. Before they could even bring their blades to bear, arrows pummeled from behind. Shafts of wood, tipped with rough metal, shredded leather armor and flesh. All four opponents died as one, together and silent in the early autumn morning. Cassock moved to rummage through the corpses even before all the last breaths were extinguished. He shuddered, the shadowed souls of the fallen grasping futilely at his physical body. They lashed outward complete in their hollowness; empty faces, empty expression, and empty attacks. Even their silent pleas for help were empty, lacking voice. The priest could never forget the tormented expressions. He shifted tack, administering last rites but before his eyes the souls seemed ripped from the bodies upward. Within a second, all four spirits shot heavenward. Cassock merely shuddered. “What did you find?” Aramil questioned. The half-elf’s left eyebrow arched slightly with suspicion. “More masks,” the priest grunted. He tossed the brown masks embroidered with a single black leaf upon the ground. “I think we should keep one of each of these for ourselves,” the half-elf stated. “They may come in handy if we need to move within the same circles as these men.” “Agreed,” Cassock stated. “So that’s nearly twenty orcs now and a band of four humans. Still no elf and still no half-elf child.” The priest moved to drag the bodies into the hedged alcove with a sigh. [/QUOTE]
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