Post by Scar on Aug 27, 2009 9:30:42 GMT -5
It didn’t take Scarven long for him to retrace his steps back to the hill where the Achmili had conducted their blasphemous ritual. He didn’t want to leave … great, he didn’t even ask her name! He didn’t want to leave the woman alone in the cold but the mission came first; he needed to know what exactly the Achmili were up to and bring proof of their deeds back to the Brotherhood.
Approaching the hillock cautiously, the low susurrus of the tall grass the only sound betraying his presence, Scarven glanced about and having decided that there was no one left at the site, proceeded to rifle through the bags and sacks strewn about the hill. As expected, he found half a dozen old tomes, pages yellowed by the passage of time, filled with strange runes he couldn’t begin to understand. He was no expert but it looked like Forbidden writing to him.
It was odd, holding these books of knowledge. He knew that these occult tomes contained dangerous magic conjured by unbelievers long before Belos but that was not all they were in his eyes. In his hands he held the history of a legendary race, their way of life, and with a mere spark from his firelighter it would all go up in smoke and ash. Funny how such powerful knowledge could be so fragile.
Carefully, he placed the ancient books into one of the abandoned knapsacks, padding them with what clothes he could find, before slinging the knapsack over his shoulders, heading straight back to camp where the woman undoubtedly waited.
As he neared their small campsite, he noticed that the only sounds came from the creatures of the night and the crackle of the small fire. Hoping that she was still there brooding instead of running away, he made his presence known by stamping noisily on the dry grass and twigs, coughing to let her know he was there.
The moment he stepped into the clearing he knew something was wrong. The woman was gone and there were heavy drag marks in the grass. He was already on one knee, drawing his knife with a small snick, as his eyes followed the drag marks.
“So you must be that heathen who murdered my brothers.” Scarven’s eyes narrowed as the man came into view, holding the young woman before him with a knife to her neck. The sniper growled deep in his throat when he saw the small line of blood on the pristine skin of her throat. “You don’t look to be a fiend, no … no, you look to me to be naught but a coward, an obedient dog for that blasphemous god of yours,” the man continued, a sadistic grin set on his livid face.
“I see it so clearly now, you are with this … this elf, this heathen. Oh yes, two mangy dogs trying so foolishly to take down a pack of wolves. You have FAILED!” the man spat out the last words with conviction, bringing the knife closer to the woman’s neck. “Stay your blade or this fiend of a woman shall join your god in whatever cesspool he calls his domain!”
Scarven breathed slowly … calmly, counting mentally to ten as he slowly dropped the knife to his feet. “Has he hurt you?” Scarven said to the woman, looking directly at her and ignoring her captor.
“SILENCE BELOS DOG!” the man shouted, causing birds to take to the air from fright. “Do you want me to kill this witch? Do you want her blood on your hands?” He spat. “I expected as much from a heathen!”
“Has he hurt you?” Scarven repeated. Ten. Nine. Eight …
Approaching the hillock cautiously, the low susurrus of the tall grass the only sound betraying his presence, Scarven glanced about and having decided that there was no one left at the site, proceeded to rifle through the bags and sacks strewn about the hill. As expected, he found half a dozen old tomes, pages yellowed by the passage of time, filled with strange runes he couldn’t begin to understand. He was no expert but it looked like Forbidden writing to him.
It was odd, holding these books of knowledge. He knew that these occult tomes contained dangerous magic conjured by unbelievers long before Belos but that was not all they were in his eyes. In his hands he held the history of a legendary race, their way of life, and with a mere spark from his firelighter it would all go up in smoke and ash. Funny how such powerful knowledge could be so fragile.
Carefully, he placed the ancient books into one of the abandoned knapsacks, padding them with what clothes he could find, before slinging the knapsack over his shoulders, heading straight back to camp where the woman undoubtedly waited.
As he neared their small campsite, he noticed that the only sounds came from the creatures of the night and the crackle of the small fire. Hoping that she was still there brooding instead of running away, he made his presence known by stamping noisily on the dry grass and twigs, coughing to let her know he was there.
The moment he stepped into the clearing he knew something was wrong. The woman was gone and there were heavy drag marks in the grass. He was already on one knee, drawing his knife with a small snick, as his eyes followed the drag marks.
“So you must be that heathen who murdered my brothers.” Scarven’s eyes narrowed as the man came into view, holding the young woman before him with a knife to her neck. The sniper growled deep in his throat when he saw the small line of blood on the pristine skin of her throat. “You don’t look to be a fiend, no … no, you look to me to be naught but a coward, an obedient dog for that blasphemous god of yours,” the man continued, a sadistic grin set on his livid face.
“I see it so clearly now, you are with this … this elf, this heathen. Oh yes, two mangy dogs trying so foolishly to take down a pack of wolves. You have FAILED!” the man spat out the last words with conviction, bringing the knife closer to the woman’s neck. “Stay your blade or this fiend of a woman shall join your god in whatever cesspool he calls his domain!”
Scarven breathed slowly … calmly, counting mentally to ten as he slowly dropped the knife to his feet. “Has he hurt you?” Scarven said to the woman, looking directly at her and ignoring her captor.
“SILENCE BELOS DOG!” the man shouted, causing birds to take to the air from fright. “Do you want me to kill this witch? Do you want her blood on your hands?” He spat. “I expected as much from a heathen!”
“Has he hurt you?” Scarven repeated. Ten. Nine. Eight …