Post by Adyanna79 on Dec 19, 2003 5:12:02 GMT
I am posting this on behalf of Achelles he wrote it...
His head swam. He stumbled, his side hurt, he could still feel the sting of the humming
blade in his side. "Blasted heretics" he thought. He'd been at this war for so long the time
seemed to blurr. Tomorrow, he would be leaving this island back to Waterdeep, Maria at his side.
He must be prompt,and kill as many of these heathens as he could manage before his departure.
It was necessary to him that the fewer remain the fewer there were to murder the innocents of
this land.
Innocents. he laughed bitterly as his head throbbed. He'd fought long and hard trying to defend
those that he thought were innocent. The innocent were guilty, the guilty innocent. So hard to
dispense justice.
He stumbled through the cave. he could hear them looking for him, their mad screams of insane
ravings echoing off the stone walls. The words she said echoed through his head as the noises
against the walls,her tone, the look on her face. He had been judged and the testimony had not
even been issued. He knew better than to talk to her. After all he'd done, put the brakes on one
war, was attempting to stop another, but it fizzled out for lack of support, which was glorious.
"Just like before" he spat through bleeding, gritted teeth. Before. he allowed his heart to lead
him, he allowed his love for others blind him until it cost him sorely. he haddn't loved one
before or after romantically, but it was still there. Now there was chaos. The watchers disbanded,
the other guilds in disarray...now...all that was left between chaos and destruction and the town
were a group of dwarves. He prayed to tyr to guid them that they would succeed where he had
foolishly failed. Failed because he dared uphold the law. Failed for his even handed justice,
because others refused to accept it. He would no longer waste his steel on these transgressors,
harlots, ignorers of truth. Why was it acceptable for others to kill for foolish reason, and
be loved and adored still, but he...he upholds the law and is taunted, crucified and hated?
Mockery. That is what did it for him. Mockery in her voice, the laughter with which she spoke to
him. The gleam of an animalistic preditor in her eyes as he floundered not to insult her, the
the look of a wolf that had seen the killing blow.
He whispered hymns to clear his angry mind, it was all too much. He knew he was just angry and
blowing it out of proportion but why couldn't he let it go? Why was it so hard to forgive her?
Maybe because every time he thought of her face he saw Talias. A tear leaked from his bleeding
eye as he let out a soft sob, stiffled quickly by pain. Blood smeared the stone wall as it
trailed his side, leaning on it as he was for support. Fifty heretics had fallen this day,
but there were so many more to kill.
They were close now as he fell forward, his vision blurring. His head hit the stone surface, the
end to his journy and his world rocked, the false passageway leading to nowhere but his doom.
His vision swam again, the world rocking left and right as if on a thrashing ship, he could feel
fresh blood pouring from the wound as he fumbled for his ring. He sliped it on, but it had
been taxed, and there was no time to recharge it, no longer able to reach that ethereal state
that would allow him to exit and return after his wounds had healed.
"Oh Maria!" he sobbed, wishing dearly his beloved were here beside him, but then shaking away
that thought as he shook the cobbwebs from his mind. He was glad she wasn't here. This was
his death and his death alone to have. He hoped she would understand. He hoped she wouldn't
wait long for him. His lucidity lapsed as the wound began to crack open upon his brow, sparks
before his eyes as his vision turned red. He could hear them again, closer than ever.
His eyes narrowed. "NOT LIKE THIS!" he roard, he heard them stop, shocked at the noise but
finding its source nonetheless, jibbering and babbling amongst themselves. He turned on the spot,
his bastard sword at his face in a knights salute as he kissed the blade. "You've served me well
one last time Swordfellen. I ask you now, serve me again, with all your might" he whispered.
Scriptures flowed through his lips like water as he held out his blade, bleeding in a hundred
wounds, his face a mask of blood. He began the rites of death as the hoard bounded the corner,
wading into them, wading into the soft touch of death, spinning to avoid a blade, taking the
warped fighters wrist and snapping it, pulling his arm back and thrusting its own sword into
its chest, hearing its screems as it convulsed and fell to the floor. as he spun again, the
scriptures still whispering from his lips, rites of forgiveness, of wrath, of pain and of death,
he waded into that soft night.
His head swam. He stumbled, his side hurt, he could still feel the sting of the humming
blade in his side. "Blasted heretics" he thought. He'd been at this war for so long the time
seemed to blurr. Tomorrow, he would be leaving this island back to Waterdeep, Maria at his side.
He must be prompt,and kill as many of these heathens as he could manage before his departure.
It was necessary to him that the fewer remain the fewer there were to murder the innocents of
this land.
Innocents. he laughed bitterly as his head throbbed. He'd fought long and hard trying to defend
those that he thought were innocent. The innocent were guilty, the guilty innocent. So hard to
dispense justice.
He stumbled through the cave. he could hear them looking for him, their mad screams of insane
ravings echoing off the stone walls. The words she said echoed through his head as the noises
against the walls,her tone, the look on her face. He had been judged and the testimony had not
even been issued. He knew better than to talk to her. After all he'd done, put the brakes on one
war, was attempting to stop another, but it fizzled out for lack of support, which was glorious.
"Just like before" he spat through bleeding, gritted teeth. Before. he allowed his heart to lead
him, he allowed his love for others blind him until it cost him sorely. he haddn't loved one
before or after romantically, but it was still there. Now there was chaos. The watchers disbanded,
the other guilds in disarray...now...all that was left between chaos and destruction and the town
were a group of dwarves. He prayed to tyr to guid them that they would succeed where he had
foolishly failed. Failed because he dared uphold the law. Failed for his even handed justice,
because others refused to accept it. He would no longer waste his steel on these transgressors,
harlots, ignorers of truth. Why was it acceptable for others to kill for foolish reason, and
be loved and adored still, but he...he upholds the law and is taunted, crucified and hated?
Mockery. That is what did it for him. Mockery in her voice, the laughter with which she spoke to
him. The gleam of an animalistic preditor in her eyes as he floundered not to insult her, the
the look of a wolf that had seen the killing blow.
He whispered hymns to clear his angry mind, it was all too much. He knew he was just angry and
blowing it out of proportion but why couldn't he let it go? Why was it so hard to forgive her?
Maybe because every time he thought of her face he saw Talias. A tear leaked from his bleeding
eye as he let out a soft sob, stiffled quickly by pain. Blood smeared the stone wall as it
trailed his side, leaning on it as he was for support. Fifty heretics had fallen this day,
but there were so many more to kill.
They were close now as he fell forward, his vision blurring. His head hit the stone surface, the
end to his journy and his world rocked, the false passageway leading to nowhere but his doom.
His vision swam again, the world rocking left and right as if on a thrashing ship, he could feel
fresh blood pouring from the wound as he fumbled for his ring. He sliped it on, but it had
been taxed, and there was no time to recharge it, no longer able to reach that ethereal state
that would allow him to exit and return after his wounds had healed.
"Oh Maria!" he sobbed, wishing dearly his beloved were here beside him, but then shaking away
that thought as he shook the cobbwebs from his mind. He was glad she wasn't here. This was
his death and his death alone to have. He hoped she would understand. He hoped she wouldn't
wait long for him. His lucidity lapsed as the wound began to crack open upon his brow, sparks
before his eyes as his vision turned red. He could hear them again, closer than ever.
His eyes narrowed. "NOT LIKE THIS!" he roard, he heard them stop, shocked at the noise but
finding its source nonetheless, jibbering and babbling amongst themselves. He turned on the spot,
his bastard sword at his face in a knights salute as he kissed the blade. "You've served me well
one last time Swordfellen. I ask you now, serve me again, with all your might" he whispered.
Scriptures flowed through his lips like water as he held out his blade, bleeding in a hundred
wounds, his face a mask of blood. He began the rites of death as the hoard bounded the corner,
wading into them, wading into the soft touch of death, spinning to avoid a blade, taking the
warped fighters wrist and snapping it, pulling his arm back and thrusting its own sword into
its chest, hearing its screems as it convulsed and fell to the floor. as he spun again, the
scriptures still whispering from his lips, rites of forgiveness, of wrath, of pain and of death,
he waded into that soft night.