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The Blade of Phoee (Updated 12/08/08)
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<blockquote data-quote="Funeris" data-source="post: 4495888" data-attributes="member: 22792"><p><strong>Chapter 8: Devils in the Dark (Continued)</strong></p><p></p><p>Aramil moaned, his skin charred and cracked and bleeding.</p><p></p><p>Rhynos’ nose caught the scent of fire being born above. Below, the sweet perfume of death hung in the air. The vampire watched Aramil’s eyelids flutter open. He grinned and ran a tongue across the blackened skin and blood of the half elf. He spit, “I prefer my meals rare.” </p><p></p><p>Feebly, Aramil tried to use his sword as a shield. </p><p></p><p>Chuckling, Rhynos tensed and kicked away from the staircase, feeling the world lose its grip upon him. If blood still pumped through his body, he might have felt some exhilaration. Already, the blood from his last kill had burned away leaving only the cold distance of reality. </p><p></p><p>The priest of Cael—not THE priest but a priest similar in scent, power and, perhaps, bloodline—danced with one of the golems below. The dance was clumsy; burdened by the weight of the great sword the priest wielded. Perhaps if the priest had a few of Rhynos’ gifts he would not be so clumsy.</p><p></p><p>A feral grin split the vampire’s face as he landed nimbly on the golem’s shoulders, tearing into dead flesh and sinew with razor talons.</p><p></p><p>Some of the pain fled. Wounds knitted and blackened flesh sloughed off, replaced by sore, baby-pink skin beneath. Aramil rolled to his side, reaching for another potion vial. His eyes caught the flicker of fire above.</p><p></p><p><strong>DO NOT</strong>, the blade commanded.</p><p></p><p>Aramil struggled to his feet, swallowing the fourth vial. The monster had set him on the stair just before the pit trap. Typical. Aramil glanced at the simply carved stone, following the thin gap that could have revealed the pit’s presence. The stair had closed, resetting the trap for the next idiot to bumble onto it. </p><p></p><p>He continued to search. There had to be a trigger, a control of some kind to lock the trap and allow safe passage. He saw it; a tilted wall sconce on the high side of the trap. If he leapt, he might be able to make the distance and turn the trap off.</p><p></p><p><strong>DO NOT!!!</strong> the voice shrieked inside his mind again. He slid her into the scabbard.</p><p></p><p>“Have to,” Aramil calmly replied as he stepped back, leaned, and leapt forward. Three quarters of the way up, his feet grazed the floor. The trap swung open, hungry maw ravenously begging for its meal. </p><p></p><p>“Sh*t!”</p><p></p><p><strong>IDIOT.</strong></p><p></p><p>Aramil flailed his arms like wings as his feet entered the maw. By Caevari’s grace, Aramil slammed into the side of the pit, hands scrambling to cling to the stone. He slipped an inch, then two, before managing to swing an elbow out of the pit. Leveraging against it, he pushed up and out.</p><p></p><p>“I’m not that big of an idiot—See!” The half-elf stood and twisted the sconce. He was rewarded with a metallic grinding as the stairs lifted back into position to lock. </p><p></p><p>Drawing the sword again, he double-timed up the stairs. A glance back showed the rest of the group beginning the ascent. He pushed harder, trying to make it to the source of fire.</p><p></p><p>The stairs ended at an open room, sparsely decorated. A small cot relaxed in one far corner while a grand desk stood in the center of the floor, filling the room with smoke as fire massaged and devoured the parchments scattered across the desk.</p><p></p><p>A pallid, emaciated man stood in the far corner, dressed in robes crafted from utter darkness. His hands twisted, finishing an incantation. A black bolt of energy spiraled across the floor, slamming into Aramil. </p><p></p><p>The rogue gritted his teeth, clenched his eyes shut. Pain ravaged his body, reopening freshly closed wounds. </p><p></p><p>When the pain passed, his eyes opened. The desk continued to burn brightly. The pallid man had vanished.</p><p></p><p><strong>IDIOT</strong>, the cold, feminine voice judged again.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Funeris, post: 4495888, member: 22792"] [b]Chapter 8: Devils in the Dark (Continued)[/b] Aramil moaned, his skin charred and cracked and bleeding. Rhynos’ nose caught the scent of fire being born above. Below, the sweet perfume of death hung in the air. The vampire watched Aramil’s eyelids flutter open. He grinned and ran a tongue across the blackened skin and blood of the half elf. He spit, “I prefer my meals rare.” Feebly, Aramil tried to use his sword as a shield. Chuckling, Rhynos tensed and kicked away from the staircase, feeling the world lose its grip upon him. If blood still pumped through his body, he might have felt some exhilaration. Already, the blood from his last kill had burned away leaving only the cold distance of reality. The priest of Cael—not THE priest but a priest similar in scent, power and, perhaps, bloodline—danced with one of the golems below. The dance was clumsy; burdened by the weight of the great sword the priest wielded. Perhaps if the priest had a few of Rhynos’ gifts he would not be so clumsy. A feral grin split the vampire’s face as he landed nimbly on the golem’s shoulders, tearing into dead flesh and sinew with razor talons. Some of the pain fled. Wounds knitted and blackened flesh sloughed off, replaced by sore, baby-pink skin beneath. Aramil rolled to his side, reaching for another potion vial. His eyes caught the flicker of fire above. [b]DO NOT[/B], the blade commanded. Aramil struggled to his feet, swallowing the fourth vial. The monster had set him on the stair just before the pit trap. Typical. Aramil glanced at the simply carved stone, following the thin gap that could have revealed the pit’s presence. The stair had closed, resetting the trap for the next idiot to bumble onto it. He continued to search. There had to be a trigger, a control of some kind to lock the trap and allow safe passage. He saw it; a tilted wall sconce on the high side of the trap. If he leapt, he might be able to make the distance and turn the trap off. [b]DO NOT!!![/b] the voice shrieked inside his mind again. He slid her into the scabbard. “Have to,” Aramil calmly replied as he stepped back, leaned, and leapt forward. Three quarters of the way up, his feet grazed the floor. The trap swung open, hungry maw ravenously begging for its meal. “Sh*t!” [b]IDIOT.[/b] Aramil flailed his arms like wings as his feet entered the maw. By Caevari’s grace, Aramil slammed into the side of the pit, hands scrambling to cling to the stone. He slipped an inch, then two, before managing to swing an elbow out of the pit. Leveraging against it, he pushed up and out. “I’m not that big of an idiot—See!” The half-elf stood and twisted the sconce. He was rewarded with a metallic grinding as the stairs lifted back into position to lock. Drawing the sword again, he double-timed up the stairs. A glance back showed the rest of the group beginning the ascent. He pushed harder, trying to make it to the source of fire. The stairs ended at an open room, sparsely decorated. A small cot relaxed in one far corner while a grand desk stood in the center of the floor, filling the room with smoke as fire massaged and devoured the parchments scattered across the desk. A pallid, emaciated man stood in the far corner, dressed in robes crafted from utter darkness. His hands twisted, finishing an incantation. A black bolt of energy spiraled across the floor, slamming into Aramil. The rogue gritted his teeth, clenched his eyes shut. Pain ravaged his body, reopening freshly closed wounds. When the pain passed, his eyes opened. The desk continued to burn brightly. The pallid man had vanished. [b]IDIOT[/b], the cold, feminine voice judged again. [/QUOTE]
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