hobbit_killer
First Post
Bump.
Because its my 100th post.
Because its my 100th post.
The Blade of Phoee (Updated 12/08/08)
TheYeti1775
Adventurer
Ya know I ain't bumped the idgit in awhile now.
Funeris
First Post
Chapter 8: Devils in the Dark (Continued)
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.
Dead, he thought.
Not Dead, Child. Worse, a biting, metallic voice reprimanded within the half-elf’s mind. This One Will Walk Again. This One Will Feed On The Blood Of The Innocent.
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.
Just a few more steps, 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, Take Its Head Off. 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.
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.
Dead, he thought.
Not Dead, Child. Worse, a biting, metallic voice reprimanded within the half-elf’s mind. This One Will Walk Again. This One Will Feed On The Blood Of The Innocent.
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.
Just a few more steps, 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, Take Its Head Off. 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.
TheYeti1775
Adventurer
Yee-Haw
Yeti want more.
Yeti want more.
Funeris
First Post
Chapter 8: Devils in the Dark (Continued)
I'm still brushing the cobwebs out...
----------------------------------
Aramil wiped the blood off his blade with a rag. The bodies of the Empire’s soldiers were haphazardly stacked a short distance outside the stone walls of the ruined foundation. Cassock paced back and forth near the corpses, chanting a final prayer to speed the unworthy souls along to his god, no doubt. The cleric did not look happy; the combat had been entirely one-sided and for all Aramil knew, that meant the souls offered to Cael may be entirely unworthy(1). At any rate, the cleric seemed angry while the women appeared merely disgusted.
He struggled to hold back a childish snicker over the cause of that displeasure. Hovering upon the broken walls, a macabre shadow grinned wickedly. It had been Cassock’s idea to burn the body of the undead. Aramil had chosen that time to impale the detached head on a stick and to lodge it in the flames of the campfire. Now, the shadow of a crazily grinning corpse spread upon the walls and the half-elf almost felt truly alive.
“We need to discuss exactly what the plan here is.” The cleric startled the others from their thoughts. Aramil sighed. So much for having one moment’s respite.
The soldier’s neck snapped as Rhynos’ feet kissed just below the helm, just at the base of the skull. His talons gripped the bottom of the helm, wrenching the metal up and away from its perch along with sinew and muscle. Landing and rolling into a crouch, the monster tasted blood in the air, heightening his lust.
A labored sigh escaped the corpse behind. A shrill, curdling scream echoed ahead.
“One left,” he grinned. Then he was in the shadows again, hunting.
“The chalice must have some great power,” Cassock concluded. “We should not waste time. We have traveled at least half the distance—”
“Do you know anything of Orin the Red?” Aramil looked hopefully at the priest but Cassock could only shake his head.
“I’ve heard the name before,” Ana chimed in. Everyone shifted to focus on the rogue. “He’s a ruthless mercenary. I’ve really only heard the name in passing. He’s expensive but he’s one of the best.”
“No man can stand before us,” the priest declared.
“I’ve heard tale that he’s not a man,” retorted Ana.
“With the righteousness of Cael—”
Zayda smirked and coughed. Irritated, she stood and barked, “We should just keep moving. The sooner we’re through with this punishment, the sooner I can return to my people.” She tossed a disdainful look at the others and moved toward the horses.
Everyone moved to follow. Cassock grinned at Aramil. “Knowing what my personal punishment was, I cannot even begin to imagine what that elf had to go through.”
Aramil stopped to stare in confusion. “What exactly do you mean?”
The priest just smiled and mounted his horse.
Droplets of blood sprayed into the air as the chains constricted and shattered the rib cages. First, the three victims cried out as the bones split and popped. A few moments of silence—silence complete except for the loosening chains—followed until the bones popped again, this time reforming as the creatures healed.
I will only ask one more time. The shadowed form turned its mask upon each of the creatures, adding an undeniable permanence to the unspoken threat. I believe a group headed this way not so long ago. One was a priest of Cael. One was—
“YES!” Blurted one of the undead. The other two cocked their heads at their traitorous companion, allowing extra space for the chains to shift up their torsos, tighten around their throats, and tear through flesh and bone. The two bodiless heads would hold expressions of surprise for the entirety of their decay.
Go on.
“They passed this way not more than a fortnight ago. Left a trail of carnage. Many of my kin perished.”
Easily, the spawn was drawn closer to the cold mask. He reflexively and futilely tried to pull away. As my Lord instructed. Gather your kin, if you would seek revenge against this group. Meet us at Llewyllyn Manor. Your appetites will be sated there. The chain twitched, tossing the spawn carelessly to the side. He tumbled painfully to his knees and scampered into the nearby foliage.
End-Bringer turned to the north. His inquisitors fell quickly into step behind.
I'm still brushing the cobwebs out...
----------------------------------
Aramil wiped the blood off his blade with a rag. The bodies of the Empire’s soldiers were haphazardly stacked a short distance outside the stone walls of the ruined foundation. Cassock paced back and forth near the corpses, chanting a final prayer to speed the unworthy souls along to his god, no doubt. The cleric did not look happy; the combat had been entirely one-sided and for all Aramil knew, that meant the souls offered to Cael may be entirely unworthy(1). At any rate, the cleric seemed angry while the women appeared merely disgusted.
He struggled to hold back a childish snicker over the cause of that displeasure. Hovering upon the broken walls, a macabre shadow grinned wickedly. It had been Cassock’s idea to burn the body of the undead. Aramil had chosen that time to impale the detached head on a stick and to lodge it in the flames of the campfire. Now, the shadow of a crazily grinning corpse spread upon the walls and the half-elf almost felt truly alive.
“We need to discuss exactly what the plan here is.” The cleric startled the others from their thoughts. Aramil sighed. So much for having one moment’s respite.
* * *
The soldier’s neck snapped as Rhynos’ feet kissed just below the helm, just at the base of the skull. His talons gripped the bottom of the helm, wrenching the metal up and away from its perch along with sinew and muscle. Landing and rolling into a crouch, the monster tasted blood in the air, heightening his lust.
A labored sigh escaped the corpse behind. A shrill, curdling scream echoed ahead.
“One left,” he grinned. Then he was in the shadows again, hunting.
* * *
“The chalice must have some great power,” Cassock concluded. “We should not waste time. We have traveled at least half the distance—”
“Do you know anything of Orin the Red?” Aramil looked hopefully at the priest but Cassock could only shake his head.
“I’ve heard the name before,” Ana chimed in. Everyone shifted to focus on the rogue. “He’s a ruthless mercenary. I’ve really only heard the name in passing. He’s expensive but he’s one of the best.”
“No man can stand before us,” the priest declared.
“I’ve heard tale that he’s not a man,” retorted Ana.
“With the righteousness of Cael—”
Zayda smirked and coughed. Irritated, she stood and barked, “We should just keep moving. The sooner we’re through with this punishment, the sooner I can return to my people.” She tossed a disdainful look at the others and moved toward the horses.
Everyone moved to follow. Cassock grinned at Aramil. “Knowing what my personal punishment was, I cannot even begin to imagine what that elf had to go through.”
Aramil stopped to stare in confusion. “What exactly do you mean?”
The priest just smiled and mounted his horse.
* * *
Droplets of blood sprayed into the air as the chains constricted and shattered the rib cages. First, the three victims cried out as the bones split and popped. A few moments of silence—silence complete except for the loosening chains—followed until the bones popped again, this time reforming as the creatures healed.
I will only ask one more time. The shadowed form turned its mask upon each of the creatures, adding an undeniable permanence to the unspoken threat. I believe a group headed this way not so long ago. One was a priest of Cael. One was—
“YES!” Blurted one of the undead. The other two cocked their heads at their traitorous companion, allowing extra space for the chains to shift up their torsos, tighten around their throats, and tear through flesh and bone. The two bodiless heads would hold expressions of surprise for the entirety of their decay.
Go on.
“They passed this way not more than a fortnight ago. Left a trail of carnage. Many of my kin perished.”
Easily, the spawn was drawn closer to the cold mask. He reflexively and futilely tried to pull away. As my Lord instructed. Gather your kin, if you would seek revenge against this group. Meet us at Llewyllyn Manor. Your appetites will be sated there. The chain twitched, tossing the spawn carelessly to the side. He tumbled painfully to his knees and scampered into the nearby foliage.
End-Bringer turned to the north. His inquisitors fell quickly into step behind.
TheYeti1775
Adventurer
Glory to Cael!
Hadn't thought of Cassock in quite some time until Funeris started writing again.
Hadn't thought of Cassock in quite some time until Funeris started writing again.
TheYeti1775
Adventurer
HalfOrc HalfBiscuit
Adventurer
Crikey! I thought this story was well and truly deceased.
And I see that my last post here said "welcome back" to Funeris with the result that you didn't post again for nearly 15 months !!!!! So don't expect me to be polite this time.
Now if only I could remember what the Hells is going on ....
And I see that my last post here said "welcome back" to Funeris with the result that you didn't post again for nearly 15 months !!!!! So don't expect me to be polite this time.
Now if only I could remember what the Hells is going on ....
![:]](http://www.enworld.org/forum/images/smilies/devious.png "Devious :]")
Funeris
First Post
Chapter 8: Devils in the Dark (continued)
Not quite. Real life just became...complex for 15 months or so
Welcome back and now on with the story...
----------------------------
Tobus half-stepped, half-fell from the railing of the wooden barge and into the freezing waters of Lake Norda. The men aboard broke out into insulting laughter which, for a moment at least, replaced the priest’s chill with a flaring warmth. A draught or other curative would be necessary for the drill, he acknowledged as he stepped toward shore.
“What of our payment, priest?” shouted down one of the men, obvious contempt dripping from the title.
Tobus grunted and turned toward the ship, shouting, “I’ll pay you when you grant safe passage back to the southern shore.”
“You’ll pay us now, or you’ll walk your way back.”
“Half now, half when we return south,” he negotiated.
“Nay. All of it now, priest. Surely you’re not trying to cheat us.”
“It’s not honorable that you attempt to renegotiate our bargain halfway through the journey,” Tobus admonished with a sneer. “If you’re so dishonorable in this, how can I be certain that you will wait for me here?”
“Don’ speak to us of honor, Priest of Ara’kull. The word is a poison when it passes ‘tween your lips.”
“Fine.” He pulled a sack of coin from his satchel, careful to hold it at its drawstrings. With a flick of the wrists, the coin leapt into the air and crashed onto the wooden deck of the barge with a heavy clink. “There’s a little extra there to guarantee you’re here when I get back!”
Spiteful laughs erupted from the men. “Aye, thank ye much, priest!” yelled one of them.
“My pleasure,” Tobus murmured as he turned toward shore. Over the heads of the trees, a single spire towered in the distant moonlight. One short leg of this journey remained. Deliver the package personally to Blackrose and then return to town. Taking a step beneath the dark boughs of the forest, a wicked grin split the priest’s face. He wondered exactly how long it would take for the poison on the coin to circulate amongst all the men on the ship and wished that he had enough time to watch their agony.
“It’s been a ten-night already of near-constant riding,” Anastrianna whined. They all felt the weariness of the road and of travel. New layers of dirt clung to the older layers, slowly darkening the natural hues of their flesh. Soreness reached through their bodies and more importantly through the worn bodies of their steeds. The hard ride had left the horses borrowed from the Ladies Llewyllyn in a weakened state.
“We need to push on,” Cassock reaffirmed. His eyes drifted across the shadowy tops of the trees, noting the unnatural break where a tower pierced the boughs. A dim light flickered within the structure’s topmost window. The cleric cocked his head, catching the sound of faint cries upon the wind. His eyes locked onto the two moons, cresting above the landscape. Styg’s large steel face contrasted sharply with the unusually heavy, red hue of Enoch.
A passage the cleric had been required to verbally recite during his training returned to him like the faint cries on the wind. When blood and steel meet upon the divine’s field at night, when the weeping of the pure and mother unite, the dead rise to walk again in bodies crafted of flesh or iron. The two moons drew closer, looking to overlap above the tower. His eyes widened.
“We have to go now. There is not much time.” The orbs inched closer. Everyone stared blankly at the priest while he untied his own steed and climbed onto the saddle. “Now, damnit! Get up, there’s no time!” An uncertain look passed between his companions, but they followed his instructions, killing the campfire and mounting their own horses.
Cassock dug his heels into the horses’ flanks and it begrudgingly lumbered into a trot. Like a gentle thunder, the sound of the horses’ pace rolled through the forest, signaling their approach to the tower.
Tobus glowered at the large man. “I must deliver the package,” he wagged the leather scroll tube at the mercenary, “personally to Blackrose. It has been commanded.” The beast—for it was definitely more beast than man—laughed menacingly, its razor fangs glinting in the torchlight.
“I think not,” the Red’s gravelly voice responded coldly. He extended a hand covered in flesh as pale as bone. Only his lips and cheeks bore a rosy, life-like hue that was, no doubt, caused by a recent feeding. A red glow glimmered in Orrin’s eyes, daring the priest to continue arguing.
The old priest sighed and massaged his temples. “Look, beast,” he spoke but was interrupted as Orrin’s head snapped to the left, focusing on the forest. “What?”
“Guests are arriving.” He lifted a black helm, covering his face. “It seems you can continue with your orders. It is time for me to entertain.” The mercenary leapt down the stairs and sped to a midnight-black steed, mounting it quickly.
Tobus pulled on the heavy wooden double doors of the tower, impatiently. Soon, he would be on his way home, hopefully after watching the rest of the shipmen perish. The priest stepped into the darkened room, noticing a stairway that climbed along the inner walls. The large room was empty except for a circular wooden table supporting a wooden chalice and four large, shadowed forms. The forms were macabre statues of creatures with stitched flesh. He was nearly nauseated by the fine workmanship that captured and accented every gory detail.
“BLACKROSE!” the priest bellowed and then reactively fell back. Two of the stitched statues lurched forward, their arms reaching for him.
HalfOrc HalfBiscuit said:
Not quite. Real life just became...complex for 15 months or so
Might I suggest a re-read?HalfOrc HalfBiscuit said:
Welcome back and now on with the story...
----------------------------
Tobus half-stepped, half-fell from the railing of the wooden barge and into the freezing waters of Lake Norda. The men aboard broke out into insulting laughter which, for a moment at least, replaced the priest’s chill with a flaring warmth. A draught or other curative would be necessary for the drill, he acknowledged as he stepped toward shore.
“What of our payment, priest?” shouted down one of the men, obvious contempt dripping from the title.
Tobus grunted and turned toward the ship, shouting, “I’ll pay you when you grant safe passage back to the southern shore.”
“You’ll pay us now, or you’ll walk your way back.”
“Half now, half when we return south,” he negotiated.
“Nay. All of it now, priest. Surely you’re not trying to cheat us.”
“It’s not honorable that you attempt to renegotiate our bargain halfway through the journey,” Tobus admonished with a sneer. “If you’re so dishonorable in this, how can I be certain that you will wait for me here?”
“Don’ speak to us of honor, Priest of Ara’kull. The word is a poison when it passes ‘tween your lips.”
“Fine.” He pulled a sack of coin from his satchel, careful to hold it at its drawstrings. With a flick of the wrists, the coin leapt into the air and crashed onto the wooden deck of the barge with a heavy clink. “There’s a little extra there to guarantee you’re here when I get back!”
Spiteful laughs erupted from the men. “Aye, thank ye much, priest!” yelled one of them.
“My pleasure,” Tobus murmured as he turned toward shore. Over the heads of the trees, a single spire towered in the distant moonlight. One short leg of this journey remained. Deliver the package personally to Blackrose and then return to town. Taking a step beneath the dark boughs of the forest, a wicked grin split the priest’s face. He wondered exactly how long it would take for the poison on the coin to circulate amongst all the men on the ship and wished that he had enough time to watch their agony.
* * *
“It’s been a ten-night already of near-constant riding,” Anastrianna whined. They all felt the weariness of the road and of travel. New layers of dirt clung to the older layers, slowly darkening the natural hues of their flesh. Soreness reached through their bodies and more importantly through the worn bodies of their steeds. The hard ride had left the horses borrowed from the Ladies Llewyllyn in a weakened state.
“We need to push on,” Cassock reaffirmed. His eyes drifted across the shadowy tops of the trees, noting the unnatural break where a tower pierced the boughs. A dim light flickered within the structure’s topmost window. The cleric cocked his head, catching the sound of faint cries upon the wind. His eyes locked onto the two moons, cresting above the landscape. Styg’s large steel face contrasted sharply with the unusually heavy, red hue of Enoch.
A passage the cleric had been required to verbally recite during his training returned to him like the faint cries on the wind. When blood and steel meet upon the divine’s field at night, when the weeping of the pure and mother unite, the dead rise to walk again in bodies crafted of flesh or iron. The two moons drew closer, looking to overlap above the tower. His eyes widened.
“We have to go now. There is not much time.” The orbs inched closer. Everyone stared blankly at the priest while he untied his own steed and climbed onto the saddle. “Now, damnit! Get up, there’s no time!” An uncertain look passed between his companions, but they followed his instructions, killing the campfire and mounting their own horses.
Cassock dug his heels into the horses’ flanks and it begrudgingly lumbered into a trot. Like a gentle thunder, the sound of the horses’ pace rolled through the forest, signaling their approach to the tower.
* * *
Tobus glowered at the large man. “I must deliver the package,” he wagged the leather scroll tube at the mercenary, “personally to Blackrose. It has been commanded.” The beast—for it was definitely more beast than man—laughed menacingly, its razor fangs glinting in the torchlight.
“I think not,” the Red’s gravelly voice responded coldly. He extended a hand covered in flesh as pale as bone. Only his lips and cheeks bore a rosy, life-like hue that was, no doubt, caused by a recent feeding. A red glow glimmered in Orrin’s eyes, daring the priest to continue arguing.
The old priest sighed and massaged his temples. “Look, beast,” he spoke but was interrupted as Orrin’s head snapped to the left, focusing on the forest. “What?”
“Guests are arriving.” He lifted a black helm, covering his face. “It seems you can continue with your orders. It is time for me to entertain.” The mercenary leapt down the stairs and sped to a midnight-black steed, mounting it quickly.
Tobus pulled on the heavy wooden double doors of the tower, impatiently. Soon, he would be on his way home, hopefully after watching the rest of the shipmen perish. The priest stepped into the darkened room, noticing a stairway that climbed along the inner walls. The large room was empty except for a circular wooden table supporting a wooden chalice and four large, shadowed forms. The forms were macabre statues of creatures with stitched flesh. He was nearly nauseated by the fine workmanship that captured and accented every gory detail.
“BLACKROSE!” the priest bellowed and then reactively fell back. Two of the stitched statues lurched forward, their arms reaching for him.
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