Post by Al'verith on Dec 19, 2003 17:45:01 GMT
*graphic* 
An ancient runic castle, covered in rusted spikes, looms above its forest surroundings, its ominous portcullis open to any passerby, like a gaping maw ready to swallow. Sounds can be heard, raised voices deep within the keep, mulled by soured wine and aged liquor, shouting and ranting at eachother above an otherwise quiet, midsummer night.
A crows' eyes gleam in the darkness, its gaze flickering between the cold fireplace and the two furious blackplated warlords. Various instruments of torture and pain line the walls, some still dripping with fresh blood. Their newest victim, or what remains of him, lays in his own red pool, flayed bits of flesh and skin decorate the walls and his chair. He is clearly dead.
The left warlord, a stout fellow with ruddy cheeks, opens his mouth to speak.
"Lord Hazgingi won't be likin this. We weren't supposed to kill him yet. You should'a left him after you had your fun."
The second warlord, tall and lanky with a growing baldspot, laughs crudely. He carelessly throws down a whip, sticky with dried blood, and stares at his companion with bloodshot eyes.
"Whos you to be sayin what I can and cannot do, Thomas? Besides, the Lord 'll never know if we don't tell him. I think ... *he turns and smiles cruelly at the flayed corpse* ... that he died when we tried to capture him."
His companion continues.
"Don't you remember what happened to ol' Kercher Lamguin?"
"Sure I do, he died in his sleep he did, the old bloke. *smirk* More profit for us, so nothing lost, I'd say"
"He didn't die in his sleep, Rendil. The maid who came to wake him in the morning ... found his heart .. pinned to his bedpost with a spike. Someone had taken a bite of it .. "
"Listen, Thomas. *he walks with his companion out of the room and into the main hall* Just caus' some spooks' been tell'n ya her stories don't mean ya gotta listen to them. I'd hang mine. I tell ya, I'd cut 'er throat right .... "
"My Lord Hazgingi .. " they both chime.
A figure, etched in black, stands covered head to toe in dark, concealing leather. Only his eyes can be seen, glowing red spots in otherwise utter blackness.
"Thomas, Rendil ... You have failed me. Your assassin let loose my 'gift' at the wrong time, binding that accursed celestial to another outplane, instead of destroying him indefinitely, as was planned. A location, only the user, your assassin, can ever truely know. And now, that assassin is dead."
The stout man gives a start.
"My lord, I can explain. You see, Rendil, he ..."
"I care not for excuses. You have failed, and shall now recieve your reward."
With a muttered incantation and a flare of glowing eyes, what was once the man called Thomas is instantly torn inside-out, rending muscle, tendon, skin and bone into nothingness as the rest of the once mans' body is obliterated into worthless ash.
Dropping the empty whiskey bottle with a crash, Rendil drops to his knees, shivering like mad. "My Lord, I live only but to serve your will. My mind and soul are yours for eternity."
"Indeed, they are."
Some time later, the concealed dark lord gracefully walks back through the entrance of the roughened castle, pausing only once to attempt a second scry for the meddlesome celestial at the center of this. Absently, he rubs at a never fully healed wound beneath his robes, and thinks calmly of vengence.
To be continued ..
An ancient runic castle, covered in rusted spikes, looms above its forest surroundings, its ominous portcullis open to any passerby, like a gaping maw ready to swallow. Sounds can be heard, raised voices deep within the keep, mulled by soured wine and aged liquor, shouting and ranting at eachother above an otherwise quiet, midsummer night.
A crows' eyes gleam in the darkness, its gaze flickering between the cold fireplace and the two furious blackplated warlords. Various instruments of torture and pain line the walls, some still dripping with fresh blood. Their newest victim, or what remains of him, lays in his own red pool, flayed bits of flesh and skin decorate the walls and his chair. He is clearly dead.
The left warlord, a stout fellow with ruddy cheeks, opens his mouth to speak.
"Lord Hazgingi won't be likin this. We weren't supposed to kill him yet. You should'a left him after you had your fun."
The second warlord, tall and lanky with a growing baldspot, laughs crudely. He carelessly throws down a whip, sticky with dried blood, and stares at his companion with bloodshot eyes.
"Whos you to be sayin what I can and cannot do, Thomas? Besides, the Lord 'll never know if we don't tell him. I think ... *he turns and smiles cruelly at the flayed corpse* ... that he died when we tried to capture him."
His companion continues.
"Don't you remember what happened to ol' Kercher Lamguin?"
"Sure I do, he died in his sleep he did, the old bloke. *smirk* More profit for us, so nothing lost, I'd say"
"He didn't die in his sleep, Rendil. The maid who came to wake him in the morning ... found his heart .. pinned to his bedpost with a spike. Someone had taken a bite of it .. "
"Listen, Thomas. *he walks with his companion out of the room and into the main hall* Just caus' some spooks' been tell'n ya her stories don't mean ya gotta listen to them. I'd hang mine. I tell ya, I'd cut 'er throat right .... "
"My Lord Hazgingi .. " they both chime.
A figure, etched in black, stands covered head to toe in dark, concealing leather. Only his eyes can be seen, glowing red spots in otherwise utter blackness.
"Thomas, Rendil ... You have failed me. Your assassin let loose my 'gift' at the wrong time, binding that accursed celestial to another outplane, instead of destroying him indefinitely, as was planned. A location, only the user, your assassin, can ever truely know. And now, that assassin is dead."
The stout man gives a start.
"My lord, I can explain. You see, Rendil, he ..."
"I care not for excuses. You have failed, and shall now recieve your reward."
With a muttered incantation and a flare of glowing eyes, what was once the man called Thomas is instantly torn inside-out, rending muscle, tendon, skin and bone into nothingness as the rest of the once mans' body is obliterated into worthless ash.
Dropping the empty whiskey bottle with a crash, Rendil drops to his knees, shivering like mad. "My Lord, I live only but to serve your will. My mind and soul are yours for eternity."
"Indeed, they are."
Some time later, the concealed dark lord gracefully walks back through the entrance of the roughened castle, pausing only once to attempt a second scry for the meddlesome celestial at the center of this. Absently, he rubs at a never fully healed wound beneath his robes, and thinks calmly of vengence.
To be continued ..
