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The Blade of Phoee (Updated 12/08/08)
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<blockquote data-quote="Funeris" data-source="post: 3817325" data-attributes="member: 22792"><p><strong>Chapter 8: Devils in the Dark (Continued)</strong></p><p></p><p>I turned the coffee pot back on and look what came out...</p><p>--------------------------------------------------------</p><p></p><p>“How many?” Cassock hissed. The large priest looked uncomfortable crouched in the bushes surrounding the ruins. Night had fallen some time before.</p><p></p><p>Aramil focused his eyes, running from shadow to shadow, penetrating the dark. “Three,” he counted, “no, four there in the center. And it looks like two on the exterior. See that lumpy shadow on the ground—that’s a sentry. He may be asleep or he might just be lying in wait.”</p><p></p><p>Cassock grunted in acknowledgement.</p><p></p><p>Without a sound, Aramil motioned to Zayda and Ana across the dirt path. The two pairs stalked forward.</p><p></p><p>“We move in silently—giving the soldiers no chance of resistance,” the half-elf whispered. </p><p></p><p>“And then we send them to meet my God,” Cassock firmly declared. </p><p></p><p>Silence fell upon the night as Ana and Zayda disappeared around the northern wall of the crumbling structure. Aramil slid his most recent acquisition from its sheath releasing a soft hiss. </p><p></p><p>The sentry did not stir.</p><p></p><p>The half-elf twitched, his eyesight flickering into shades of black, white and gray. Vision distorted, the world shifted within his view as Aramil detached from his body and floated across the earth. While hovering above the body of the four crouching forms inside the ruins, rot and decay stretched fetid tendrils into his nostrils. </p><p></p><p><em>Dead,</em> he thought. </p><p></p><p><strong>Not Dead, Child. Worse</strong>, a biting, metallic voice reprimanded within the half-elf’s mind. <strong>This One Will Walk Again. This One Will Feed On The Blood Of The Innocent.</strong></p><p></p><p>Aramil shuddered and found his spirit safely encased again within his body. Cassock arched an eyebrow quizzically. “That sleeping sentry is not sleeping.”</p><p></p><p>“Good,” the priest whispered back. “One less we need to worry about.”</p><p></p><p>The metallic voice tickled Aramil’s spine with a chilling cackle. “No, we still need to worry. It is undead—just not stirring, yet.” </p><p></p><p>Cold crept over the black of Cassock’s eyes. His weapon was loosed and prepared. Aramil watched, waiting for the ladies to move into proper position. Minutes passed, creeping faster toward daylight than the Zayda and Ana toward the opposite side of camp. Nervousness raised Aramil’s hackles. A bead of sweat slipped down Cassock’s brow in annoyance.</p><p></p><p><em>Just a few more steps,</em> the rogue prayed. </p><p></p><p>Cassock surged forward with momentum, startling the rogue into action. The priest’s mace-arm lifted into the air. Aramil threw a glance at the ladies, noting they had also relinquished stealth in exchange for rapidity of motion on the priest’s foul up. </p><p></p><p>The metallic cackling was filling the space between Aramil’s ears. His eyes traced from the ladies to the slowly mobilizing guards around the campfire to the undead sentry upon the ground. It stirred, an arm twitched and clawed feebly at the ground. Cassock’s mace slammed into the thing’s chest, cracking the ribs like so much tinder. Its eyes opened wide in horror or pain—the tainted red light of the hells burning within their extents.</p><p></p><p>Aramil trembled as the cackling shifted to cool instruction, <strong>Take Its Head Off</strong>. The half-elf’s arm snaked out, carrying with it his instructor, his blade. She erupted in ecstasy as she tore through the spawn’s neck.</p><p></p><p>Its head tumbled uselessly across the ground as the women descended onto the still-readying soldiers of the Empire.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Funeris, post: 3817325, member: 22792"] [b]Chapter 8: Devils in the Dark (Continued)[/b] I turned the coffee pot back on and look what came out... -------------------------------------------------------- “How many?” Cassock hissed. The large priest looked uncomfortable crouched in the bushes surrounding the ruins. Night had fallen some time before. Aramil focused his eyes, running from shadow to shadow, penetrating the dark. “Three,” he counted, “no, four there in the center. And it looks like two on the exterior. See that lumpy shadow on the ground—that’s a sentry. He may be asleep or he might just be lying in wait.” Cassock grunted in acknowledgement. Without a sound, Aramil motioned to Zayda and Ana across the dirt path. The two pairs stalked forward. “We move in silently—giving the soldiers no chance of resistance,” the half-elf whispered. “And then we send them to meet my God,” Cassock firmly declared. Silence fell upon the night as Ana and Zayda disappeared around the northern wall of the crumbling structure. Aramil slid his most recent acquisition from its sheath releasing a soft hiss. The sentry did not stir. The half-elf twitched, his eyesight flickering into shades of black, white and gray. Vision distorted, the world shifted within his view as Aramil detached from his body and floated across the earth. While hovering above the body of the four crouching forms inside the ruins, rot and decay stretched fetid tendrils into his nostrils. [i]Dead,[/i] he thought. [b]Not Dead, Child. Worse[/b], a biting, metallic voice reprimanded within the half-elf’s mind. [b]This One Will Walk Again. This One Will Feed On The Blood Of The Innocent.[/b] Aramil shuddered and found his spirit safely encased again within his body. Cassock arched an eyebrow quizzically. “That sleeping sentry is not sleeping.” “Good,” the priest whispered back. “One less we need to worry about.” The metallic voice tickled Aramil’s spine with a chilling cackle. “No, we still need to worry. It is undead—just not stirring, yet.” Cold crept over the black of Cassock’s eyes. His weapon was loosed and prepared. Aramil watched, waiting for the ladies to move into proper position. Minutes passed, creeping faster toward daylight than the Zayda and Ana toward the opposite side of camp. Nervousness raised Aramil’s hackles. A bead of sweat slipped down Cassock’s brow in annoyance. [i]Just a few more steps,[/i] the rogue prayed. Cassock surged forward with momentum, startling the rogue into action. The priest’s mace-arm lifted into the air. Aramil threw a glance at the ladies, noting they had also relinquished stealth in exchange for rapidity of motion on the priest’s foul up. The metallic cackling was filling the space between Aramil’s ears. His eyes traced from the ladies to the slowly mobilizing guards around the campfire to the undead sentry upon the ground. It stirred, an arm twitched and clawed feebly at the ground. Cassock’s mace slammed into the thing’s chest, cracking the ribs like so much tinder. Its eyes opened wide in horror or pain—the tainted red light of the hells burning within their extents. Aramil trembled as the cackling shifted to cool instruction, [b]Take Its Head Off[/b]. The half-elf’s arm snaked out, carrying with it his instructor, his blade. She erupted in ecstasy as she tore through the spawn’s neck. Its head tumbled uselessly across the ground as the women descended onto the still-readying soldiers of the Empire. [/QUOTE]
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