Crimson Menagerie: Act 2
"My name is Elim," he said as he nodded, a type of formal bow. He held the crossbow ready, reloaded already, the case of bolts hanging on a belt at his side. Like the rest he was naked and had been for some time, modesty had been burned away a long time ago.
He took stock of his companions.
Adama stood across from him, breathing heavily, dripping with gore. His shortsword gleaming dully, the runes glowing with soft blue light and sizzling faintly as the blood dried and began to flake off. The ruin of Thuzzar lay behind him, barely recognizable.
He stood nearly as tall as Elim himself, though he was more muscled and covered in a coat of wiry fur turning from russet-red on top to darker black-brown on haunches and legs to his cloven hooves. His upper body was well-developed, despite his incarcertaion, because of his endless hours of practice.
In most ways he seemed a man, except for the coat of fur, the cloven hooves and the decidedly inhuman head. His goat-eyes, backward curling horns and the nose and mouth that somewhat merged into a corvid-like face. To those who knew, he was Ibixian. To those that did not, he would be a 'monster'.
Kilmor stood closest to him, also much spattered, the tall bull-like being seemingly like a Minotaur though with subtle differences. A gleam of sharp intellect came from his brown eyes and his face had the more-forward facing eyes of a predator rather than those of cattle. His horns, now much-ground down from the small space he had been kept it, had once spanned a width slightl wider than his shoulders, which were of themselves massive. At full height he stood fully nine feet tall and weighed more than the three others here, his rippling muscles and powerful hands a testament to that.
And anyone who thought him a minotaur deserved what the got, for those they resembled one another, the Yak-folk were far more.
S'lanneneth crouched in his little hole, still too timid to emerge. He had snatched up Thuzzar's dagger at some point and held it low and to the side, shielding it from easy view, but Elim had seen and understood. He might look like a defenseless elf-child but Elim had seen both his true form and knew he was more skilled than he had been permitted to display before.
His voice could be sweet, he knew that and they all knew to what uses the Master had put the shapechanger, especially in his own quest to understand the inherent magic of such creatures. And yet, he had not discovered what it was that gave them that power.
Thankfully.
Still, S'lanneneth was a useful sort, his mind full of all sorts of tidbits that could prove helpful at any point.
"We should leave," he added, hoping to prompt more from the others. He knew they were all, including himself, in some level of shock. But from the sounds of weapon's combat in the corridors and the roaring and calls of the inmates, a pitched battle would be in progress. Escaping was going to be 'diffcult' at the least. And as if to puntuate his words, a dull rumbling from above, a vibration and more sifting dust from the ceiling pulled all their gazes upward. "Whatever that is doesn't sound healthy for us. It sounds as if Bloodtwist is having a party and the guests were insulted."
"My name is Elim," he said as he nodded, a type of formal bow. He held the crossbow ready, reloaded already, the case of bolts hanging on a belt at his side. Like the rest he was naked and had been for some time, modesty had been burned away a long time ago.
He took stock of his companions.
Adama stood across from him, breathing heavily, dripping with gore. His shortsword gleaming dully, the runes glowing with soft blue light and sizzling faintly as the blood dried and began to flake off. The ruin of Thuzzar lay behind him, barely recognizable.
He stood nearly as tall as Elim himself, though he was more muscled and covered in a coat of wiry fur turning from russet-red on top to darker black-brown on haunches and legs to his cloven hooves. His upper body was well-developed, despite his incarcertaion, because of his endless hours of practice.
In most ways he seemed a man, except for the coat of fur, the cloven hooves and the decidedly inhuman head. His goat-eyes, backward curling horns and the nose and mouth that somewhat merged into a corvid-like face. To those who knew, he was Ibixian. To those that did not, he would be a 'monster'.
Kilmor stood closest to him, also much spattered, the tall bull-like being seemingly like a Minotaur though with subtle differences. A gleam of sharp intellect came from his brown eyes and his face had the more-forward facing eyes of a predator rather than those of cattle. His horns, now much-ground down from the small space he had been kept it, had once spanned a width slightl wider than his shoulders, which were of themselves massive. At full height he stood fully nine feet tall and weighed more than the three others here, his rippling muscles and powerful hands a testament to that.
And anyone who thought him a minotaur deserved what the got, for those they resembled one another, the Yak-folk were far more.
S'lanneneth crouched in his little hole, still too timid to emerge. He had snatched up Thuzzar's dagger at some point and held it low and to the side, shielding it from easy view, but Elim had seen and understood. He might look like a defenseless elf-child but Elim had seen both his true form and knew he was more skilled than he had been permitted to display before.
His voice could be sweet, he knew that and they all knew to what uses the Master had put the shapechanger, especially in his own quest to understand the inherent magic of such creatures. And yet, he had not discovered what it was that gave them that power.
Thankfully.
Still, S'lanneneth was a useful sort, his mind full of all sorts of tidbits that could prove helpful at any point.
"We should leave," he added, hoping to prompt more from the others. He knew they were all, including himself, in some level of shock. But from the sounds of weapon's combat in the corridors and the roaring and calls of the inmates, a pitched battle would be in progress. Escaping was going to be 'diffcult' at the least. And as if to puntuate his words, a dull rumbling from above, a vibration and more sifting dust from the ceiling pulled all their gazes upward. "Whatever that is doesn't sound healthy for us. It sounds as if Bloodtwist is having a party and the guests were insulted."