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Story Hour
The Journey across Midnight (Updated 07SEP03)
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<blockquote data-quote="Tokiwong" data-source="post: 1099397" data-attributes="member: 961"><p><strong>Originally posted on Against the Shadow, as <em>The Journey</em>... this is a story of heroism, or something <img src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" class="smilie smilie--sprite smilie--sprite2" alt=";)" title="Wink ;)" loading="lazy" data-shortname=";)" /></strong></p><p></p><p><strong>In Medias Res</strong></p><p></p><p>The corpse rose from the broken soul, its hands worn, from digging, the flesh was charred, and crisped, to a darkened black, yet still clung to the bone and muscled underneath. It dragged itself into the darkness of the night, and stood to its full height, just less than five feet, with a stocky build of decaying muscle and blackened flesh. It lacked a head, as it fell to its knees and fumbled around, feeling for its wayward head. The hands despite the lack of living tissue were still nimble, as nimble as a dead dwarf could be, but they were nimble. His fingers led him to his head, and placed it top his neck, and spent a few moments readjusting his head, the flesh and bone growing to reattach the head back to its errant body. The dwarf chuckled, its voice raspy, the laughter was the only sound in the darkness amidst the grassy planes of Central Erenland. </p><p></p><p>Even death would be denied to this warrior. The dwarf had nothing left, no family, no life; all it had was vengeance, and a means to kill. The sword, it was his only salvation, and the instrument of his corruption, when everything else was lost to him, it had been there, a constant friend, always looking out for his best interests. The creature had not even realized it was digging, digging like a frantic madman, but there was no lethargy in his bones, no exhaustion of effort, it could keep this up forever if it wished. But the sword was not deep, only a few scant feet under the damp soil, wrapped in a bundle. The bundle was quickly ripped away, to reveal a gleaming short blade, the pommel was bound in tight black leather, at the bottom blossomed into a black jewel, which seemed to have limitless depth. As he held it the blade took on an ephemeral glow of fire, the flames licked the air, but did not harm the dwarf in the slightest.</p><p></p><p>“Welcome back Borca, you didn’t think I would let you go that easily, did you dear?” the blade spoke in a soft female voice, in a whisper that only the dwarf could hear.</p><p></p><p>Borca grinned, a teeth falling from his wretched skull, “What have you done to me?” his voice giddy, despite his irritation.</p><p></p><p>“I did what you wanted me to do, you made the choice to jump the chasm, you never wanted to be alone, and you must know that despite your best hopes your family is not waiting for you on the other side, because there is no other side,” the blade replied in the soft sultry voice.</p><p></p><p>“So you gave me the mockery of life,” Borca scowled, “I did not ask for this.”</p><p></p><p>“Then blame the ones who did this to you, I can help you regain what death has taken from you, but it will take some sacrifice on your part, my dearest Borca. I must feed, feed the blade, and I can help you regain what you have lost,” the blade whispered softly.</p><p></p><p>Borca grinned once more, “You best not be lying to me, but for now I will do what you ask. Besides I can repay the favor the ugly Dorn, and that harlot did to me.”</p><p></p><p>“You will have vengeance, Borca, and more, you can always rely on me, I will never forsake you my dearest Borca,” the blade replied lovingly.</p><p></p><p>Deep within the steel folds of the blade, a darker essence brooded. The foul essence trapped with the prison that was the blade. The dark spirit lashed out at the prison, a female essence of temptation, she fumed, for nearly two centuries she had railed against her prison, and for two years she had railed to no avail. The demon was a mighty temptress and sorceress in her time, and had been a consort of several legates, until one of her lovers tricked her, and then betrayed her to create the blade she was now housed in. Her only consolation was that she was able to corrupt one of his closest allies to slay him, and claim the blade for himself.</p><p></p><p>She has passed through so many hands that that the demon could not even recall all of their names, nor did she care to. They were of simple consequence, but Borca, he had potential. If only because he could possibly bring the demon closer to her freedom; the heart’s blood of an elven virgin would free her from her prison, and she would be free to wreak her terrible vengeance on those who would dare control her. Of course she was even more incensed because none of those responsible still lived, but she could always pick someone to take her anger out on. She was quite flexible in focusing her always-present hatred.</p><p></p><p>But first she had to get free…</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Tokiwong, post: 1099397, member: 961"] [b]Originally posted on Against the Shadow, as [i]The Journey[/i]... this is a story of heroism, or something ;)[/b] [b]In Medias Res[/b] The corpse rose from the broken soul, its hands worn, from digging, the flesh was charred, and crisped, to a darkened black, yet still clung to the bone and muscled underneath. It dragged itself into the darkness of the night, and stood to its full height, just less than five feet, with a stocky build of decaying muscle and blackened flesh. It lacked a head, as it fell to its knees and fumbled around, feeling for its wayward head. The hands despite the lack of living tissue were still nimble, as nimble as a dead dwarf could be, but they were nimble. His fingers led him to his head, and placed it top his neck, and spent a few moments readjusting his head, the flesh and bone growing to reattach the head back to its errant body. The dwarf chuckled, its voice raspy, the laughter was the only sound in the darkness amidst the grassy planes of Central Erenland. Even death would be denied to this warrior. The dwarf had nothing left, no family, no life; all it had was vengeance, and a means to kill. The sword, it was his only salvation, and the instrument of his corruption, when everything else was lost to him, it had been there, a constant friend, always looking out for his best interests. The creature had not even realized it was digging, digging like a frantic madman, but there was no lethargy in his bones, no exhaustion of effort, it could keep this up forever if it wished. But the sword was not deep, only a few scant feet under the damp soil, wrapped in a bundle. The bundle was quickly ripped away, to reveal a gleaming short blade, the pommel was bound in tight black leather, at the bottom blossomed into a black jewel, which seemed to have limitless depth. As he held it the blade took on an ephemeral glow of fire, the flames licked the air, but did not harm the dwarf in the slightest. “Welcome back Borca, you didn’t think I would let you go that easily, did you dear?” the blade spoke in a soft female voice, in a whisper that only the dwarf could hear. Borca grinned, a teeth falling from his wretched skull, “What have you done to me?” his voice giddy, despite his irritation. “I did what you wanted me to do, you made the choice to jump the chasm, you never wanted to be alone, and you must know that despite your best hopes your family is not waiting for you on the other side, because there is no other side,” the blade replied in the soft sultry voice. “So you gave me the mockery of life,” Borca scowled, “I did not ask for this.” “Then blame the ones who did this to you, I can help you regain what death has taken from you, but it will take some sacrifice on your part, my dearest Borca. I must feed, feed the blade, and I can help you regain what you have lost,” the blade whispered softly. Borca grinned once more, “You best not be lying to me, but for now I will do what you ask. Besides I can repay the favor the ugly Dorn, and that harlot did to me.” “You will have vengeance, Borca, and more, you can always rely on me, I will never forsake you my dearest Borca,” the blade replied lovingly. Deep within the steel folds of the blade, a darker essence brooded. The foul essence trapped with the prison that was the blade. The dark spirit lashed out at the prison, a female essence of temptation, she fumed, for nearly two centuries she had railed against her prison, and for two years she had railed to no avail. The demon was a mighty temptress and sorceress in her time, and had been a consort of several legates, until one of her lovers tricked her, and then betrayed her to create the blade she was now housed in. Her only consolation was that she was able to corrupt one of his closest allies to slay him, and claim the blade for himself. She has passed through so many hands that that the demon could not even recall all of their names, nor did she care to. They were of simple consequence, but Borca, he had potential. If only because he could possibly bring the demon closer to her freedom; the heart’s blood of an elven virgin would free her from her prison, and she would be free to wreak her terrible vengeance on those who would dare control her. Of course she was even more incensed because none of those responsible still lived, but she could always pick someone to take her anger out on. She was quite flexible in focusing her always-present hatred. But first she had to get free… [/QUOTE]
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