Chapter 4: From Here to There Continued
Ummmm....no. I don't think I'd look very sexy in a tight, hot pink outfit.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Cassock swung the mace upward awkwardly, a feeble first attack, but was rewarded with a thud and the sound of the ogre’s breath escaping. He pulled the weapon backward, preparing to follow up with an overhand swing. Maybe with a small leap, despite the encumbering armor the priest wore, he could crush the monster’s head or face. Maybe.
Aramil’s eyes flickered open, the dull light of morning eagerly emphasizing the shifting flesh of the ogre easily within two paces of the rogue. He held his eyes closed and felt a seething rage boil, bubble and churn within his stomach. He gripped his blade slowly enough for the movement to go unnoticed. If any were to focus on the half-elf—a dim possibility in the midst of an attack—his knuckles shifting to a bright white with tension would be the only clue to his conscious state.
Gabrielle
Rage, white-hot and tearing at his muscles, compelled him to leap into action. He denied the urge, some last thin strand of control held his body in check.
Gabrielle
The rogue bit into his lip splitting the flesh nearly in half; a small stream of blood flooded into his mouth. It was enough, to keep control. The bitter, metallic taste ebbed with the anger…at least, for the moment.
Cassock jumped, pulling the mace over his head for the attack. His weight shifty unnaturally upon the rain and snow soaked muck and before the swing could be completed and even before the cleric could lift far enough off the ground, he tumbled back and away from the fight.
The priest grunted and swore. The full girth of the ogre shifted into the foundation. A flickering flame of hunger burned brightly in its mottled face. The tree trunk—or club—darted toward the sky. It drove down, the unusual strength of the large creature forcing it through the air to smash its dinner into submission, into a slightly crunchy and delicious paste.
Two arrows whistled above Cassock’s prone position. They pierced the flesh of the ogre, pushing it toward the door. The tree truck smashed into the soft earth, just a hair’s width from the priest’s face.
Either the beast’s skin was too thick, or it was just too stupid to realize it had been attacked. It shook its lumpy head and refocused its concentration on the cleric. The trunk was lifted again.
Gabrielle
Aramil’s eyes jerked opened. He moved from his sitting position to an attack form within a split second. Utilizing the wet muck of ground, the half-elf half-slid and half-ran to the foe. His short blade led the way, snaking easily under the massive arm. Despite the immediate assault of the ogre’s underarm stench, the blade finished its route—sliding through layers of fat, between two ribs, and into the lung of the monster.
The ogre yelped, dropping the trunk. Cassock crawled from the battle, from the doorway. Loud voices snarled and yelped from behind the first ogre—other ogres no doubt, maybe some goblins. The priest sighed and tried to get a decent footing.
Aramil ducked the beast’s flailing arm. He wrenched the blade from the punctured lung, a feral look in his eye. Snatching the ogre’s belt, the half-elf spun across its belly, slamming the blade into its other armpit. It screeched again, arms grasping futilely for the rogue. Aramil slipped down, dragging the blade through the soft, and usually hidden flesh. A spurt of blood arced from an opened artery, the crimson mixing eagerly with the snow, rain and mud.
Three more arrows pummeled the ogre, the dumb brute wavering unsteadily on his feet.
Cassock closed the gap, to finish the job, his mace smashed easily into its head, shattering bone and blood vessel alike. The beast’s eyes dulled, everyone scattering away from its form. And with a resounding boom, it collapsed to the earth.
Shock stretched across the company’s faces as they noted several arrows sprouting like little trees from the ogre’s back. Outside, the howls and yelps of the other creatures had all been silenced. Only the constant drizzle echoing upon the foundation filled the air.
A smallish form slipped through the doorway, followed by another slightly taller. Both were cloaked in emerald traveling clothes. The first held a long sword, perfectly balanced and poised to attack—the mark of a true fighter. The other held a yew bow, drawn with two arrows set and ready to be released.
They moved silently into the foundation, only the slight shift of cloaks making the smallest of noises. The long sword cut a vicious, twisting arc, disappearing into the robes of its holder. With her other hand, she tossed the hood of the cloak from her face.
The party’s eyes were drawn to her angular face, particularly the elongated ears. The elf smiled and relaxed her pose. “I am Mialee and this,” she pointed toward the other—still hooded—traveler, “is Zayda.”
