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Message: <blockquote data-quote="manji" data-source="post: 1464119" data-attributes="member: 12462">----Scene Two----The Dorns struggled for cover amongst the ferny undergrowth. Their large frames were not accustomed to crouching at length and even with the darkened skies and shady braken to hide them, their pale skin practically beaconed their presence. As the last rays of the sun filtered through the trees the sky took on a more menacing palor, something creating an unholy red glow in the overcast heavens. Silently they watched from their vantage point overlooking a Sarcosan town, its low domed buildings of stone radiating out from a tower in the centre, the slope of the land gently leading down to rivers edge. Then beside the road leading east a massive pit had been dug some thirty yards long, the source of the night sky's glow and the greasy streak of smoke that snaked its way into the sky. It was here that the smoke emenated from, its fuel the bodies of fallen Sarcosan townspeople, the Odrendor still piling corpses onto its raging flames. Anlon flinched somewhat, even with the horrors of his past he still felt the pang of pain when faced with such scenes of slaughter. Ehram's eyes glazed over, heavy set inside his thick brow, Anlon recognised the look of someone who's mind was blocking out what he saw, something he'd done many times before. After years on the run though, Anlon felt a fair degree of comfort here, for once he could see Odrendor were preying upon someone else and derived some disconnected ease from the scene before him. And on they watched from the safety of the hill. Ehram's thoughts drifted, Gareth considering his next meal and Anlon trying his best to subdue the feeling as if some insidious beast was gnawing away at his insides as he looked on, eroding his very soul with its every bite. As the procession of Odrendor out of the town thinned to a trickle the companions considered their options. Though most of the Shadow's warriors had left the town to the east, a few still stalked the streets, occasionally seen kicking in a door here, or chasing a screaming inhabitant there. Finally the night sky went quiet, save for the crackling sound of the pyre as its flames lept high, reaching for the bloody canvas of clouds. Almost without a word the three Dorns, of a tall and proud race, noted for their prowess in ages past on the open battle field, skulked their way past the borders of the town. Silently they made their way door to door, taking food and trade item, looting abandonned larder from houses whose owners now rested on their final fiery bed. With guilty grace Anlon went about his task, the necessity of this final age playing heavily on his thoughts. The slave-brand on his forehead ached as it did in these times, when he knew he took from those in a worse position than his and who likely would suffer more, if indeed they were still alive. He tried as the others did to still his mind and cast out any thoughts of compassion for others, eyes aged beyond their bearer's generous years squinted with resolution, but Anlon's intentions could not overcome his breeding. For ageless generations his people were the proud bearers of traditions bold, courageous and heroic. Stealing from the victims of war just wasn't in his blood. It was then they came across the tavern. Two horses, tall in the withers and solid around the barrel, patched with mail, quilt and plate in places, tethered at the front of a two-storey Sarcosan drinking house. Their standards fluttered in the smokey wind, bearing a penant to some unholy general. The companions retreated to a nearby alley and considered taking the horses, casting glances around when the scream shrill and tear-soaked flew from the tavern. Their attention drawn they honed in on the sounds coming from within.</blockquote>

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