"Good lady, I would speak with you."
Many would consider the term 'good lady' laughable when addressing a lady standing openly in such sparse dress, not Aorle, instead he saw a good lady struck by miserable circumstances, circumstances in need of correction.
"Would you like a nice time sir?" asked the young woman hopefully, in part hopeful because winning looks were rare among her customers, but more because the courtesy in his speech implied that this one would treat her more gently than any of the men she had serviced today. She wore a makeshift garment that was not even a dress, a Y-shape of pale grey on the front and back, looping over her shoulders and under between her legs to grant her the bare minimum coverage, leaving her naked arms, legs, and much of her chest exposed to both viewers and to the chill night air. Even where the outfit did cover was barely hidden by the flimsy pale cloth.
Seeing her in such a mess, wearing smudged make-up in the hope of finding a man to solicit her, wrenched at Aorle's heart. "Nothing like that." Reaching over his own shoulder, he unclasped the grey woolen cloak he was wearing over his armour, then handed it over to her. "To keep you warm. What is your name?"
Few men ever stopped to consider that she might have a name, fewer still offered her cloaks to keep her warm during discussions. It was sweet, this one was worth winning over. "Oh you make me warm already." she purred as much as her sniffle from being out in night's chill would allow, "Call me Cherie, and you get me half price." Easy to offer without a set price, although the flirtation and compliments were designed to draw his interest in further. By everything she had seen so far, she wanted to make this one a regular.
Not that any of this mattered.
"That shall not come to pass. Women are not to be bought and sold as chattel." declared the other, draping the cloak around her shoulders, which had been ignored in the effort to seduce him. "I am here for a friend, last seen in these parts. A warrior, in armour, with a crest of blue horse-hair from his helm. Do you know anything of him, Cherie?"
Cherie shook her head nervously, and even half-stepped back, before furrowing her brow in seeming puzzlement. "Not heard of him."
"You know the people and the area. You can help me find him. Where would be a good place to start? Where could a man get lost or delayed?"
She shook her head, as if trying to will the words away. "No. I can't help you."
Asking someone else was a possibility, but Aorle expected to go through the exact same fuss as now, and to simply move on and ignore her plight was utterly against his nature. "Cherie. This is important. Do you know what happens if you wont help me?"
At that Cherie looked afraid, and would have backed off were she not so close to the wall.
"Nothing." Aorle continued, "My friend will still be missing, probably at risk. And you will still be streetwalking, cold and afraid, selling your body to strangers who take advantage of your desperation for a next meal. Is that what you want?"
Cherie grimaced in her despair and shook her head, struggling to believe that there was another option.
"I can offer you food and shelter. You will have no need to sell your body anymore, and you will be safe. There is a reason why my friend is missing, and there is a reason why you fear to help me. If you fear retribution from someone, I intend to kill them." All stated plainly and gently, signalling that his promise to kill an oppressor was no moment of anger, instead a simple certainty.
Relaxing slightly, she smiled again. A pleasant sign. Nothing was said just yet.
"You can guide me, and I will take you to our shelter once we have found my friend." On the edges of his mind he realised that he did not wish to spread Julen's name too loudly, in case of any dangers that would come. "Or if you are afraid to lead me there yourself, go to Central Inn. In the stables is a horse called Arjen, glossy black and white patches, he should be the largest horse in the stable. Call him by name, you will be quite safe with him, and tell him to guide you. He knows the way."
For a moment Cherie just blinked, in disbelief that horse could do such a thing. Nevertheless, she answered. "Walk along the south wall of the ruins, what was the south wall of the Fort." Her certainty was such that Aorle did not question it, the voice shook as if struggling with her terror of her oppressors.
Then she began removing the cloak, which she assumed the armoured man would want once the conversation was finished. "Keep it. You need it more than I do. And you no longer need to show your body for your next meals, I promise you. Farewell for now, Cherie." Then the armoured man departed down the narrow street, slowly fading away as shadow hungrily took him.
Had he scanned again for Echoes, he would have heard a new voice in the presence of Cherie. The voice of a fresh victim. The voice of one abandoned to a dire fate. Her struggle with terror had failed.
The voice in the Echoes was Aorle's own.
"I'm sorry." Cherie whispered to the night, with a teardrop rolling down her face. A man had come here only for the sake of his friend. A man wanted nothing from her but that she be safe, fed and well. A gentle and kind man who sought only to protect her. That was the measure of man sent to his death.
She hoped the horror at the wall had not taken the man's friend too, there were few worse ways to die.
The Horror That Lurks
-
Sir Karsimir
- Citizen
- Posts: 714
- Joined: Wed Jan 10, 2007 8:12 pm
- Name: Karsimir Von Greyssen
- Race: Reichvolk human
The Horror That Lurks
My faith protects me, my kevlar helps.
-
Sir Karsimir
- Citizen
- Posts: 714
- Joined: Wed Jan 10, 2007 8:12 pm
- Name: Karsimir Von Greyssen
- Race: Reichvolk human
Ancient stone and mortar crumbled, grit tumbling free from the walls to announce the all-consuming presence of decay in these desolate surroundings. Isolation hung over this place like a vengeful and malicious cloud, eager for the chance to rain misfortune on those so near.
Emerging from the night was a young boy, not more than ten, who ran towards Aorle with the excited dread of a child eager to share his tale. "Mister! Mister! There's a monster over there!"
Puzzled by this sudden event, Aorle did not know how seriously to take the claim. "How do you know?" he asked gently, since the child was obviously afraid of something, and he would not dismiss anyone's fears so thoughtlessly.
"Because it killed me." replied the ghost-child, slowly fading from sight.
Well, that convinced him. Drawing his sword from his scabbard, he gripped the hilt in a gauntleted fist, advancing slowly and cautiously. Best not to give away his position until he was sure of the murderous creature. Open battle was what he favoured, but no sense in giving his foe the advantage of surprise, or engaging in combat unaware of what he faced.
Knowing his strengths, Aorle made some distance between himself and the wall. Away from cover in which foes could lurk, away from the loose stones and debris which made for poor footing. This way, a foe would be forced to approach over open ground, to engage in honest battle with a contest of skill at arms. A contest often favouring him.
Measured steps gradually crossed the distance to a suitably clear space, from where he could scan for a clearer sign of the creature. Deep down, he knew it was hunting, and that it needed to be stopped.
What he saw was a gap in the broken wall, creating a chamber-like alcove bathed in cool illumination, like a chalice filled with the moon and starlight. Wide cracks in the rock and mortar made shadowed dwellings for evil to lurk.
Stretching along the ground to meet the wall was a jagged patch of blackness, moving like macabre shadow play, with crooked spines and flared edges. Dragging his gaze from the looming shape, he trailed down to where he thought would be the creature's feat.
And found nothing.
Spiteful croaking cried out a taunt, "Such a delightful soul we have here! And broken too! Oh this will be a feast to enjoy, all the sweeter when you know there is nothing you can do!" The source of such words of malice was the shadow.
Pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter.
Those feet were not tiny.
On the edge of his mind was the sound of dozens of high-pitched squeals, the sound of struggling agony and terror, the sound of victim upon victim upon victim who had suffered. And were suffering still.
The unholy outcry drawn his attention to where the true threat was.
Rushing from the shade beneath the mockery of a ceiling was a dark figure swathed in tattered blackness, with corpse-blue skin and jagged fangs, milky white in the eyes without pupil or iris, conveying a suitably soulless gaze. From gnarled fingers extended foul claws of dark iron, sickly to sight, more sickly to blood.
Aorle was right. The creature was hunting.
And he was the prey.
Emerging from the night was a young boy, not more than ten, who ran towards Aorle with the excited dread of a child eager to share his tale. "Mister! Mister! There's a monster over there!"
Puzzled by this sudden event, Aorle did not know how seriously to take the claim. "How do you know?" he asked gently, since the child was obviously afraid of something, and he would not dismiss anyone's fears so thoughtlessly.
"Because it killed me." replied the ghost-child, slowly fading from sight.
Well, that convinced him. Drawing his sword from his scabbard, he gripped the hilt in a gauntleted fist, advancing slowly and cautiously. Best not to give away his position until he was sure of the murderous creature. Open battle was what he favoured, but no sense in giving his foe the advantage of surprise, or engaging in combat unaware of what he faced.
Knowing his strengths, Aorle made some distance between himself and the wall. Away from cover in which foes could lurk, away from the loose stones and debris which made for poor footing. This way, a foe would be forced to approach over open ground, to engage in honest battle with a contest of skill at arms. A contest often favouring him.
Measured steps gradually crossed the distance to a suitably clear space, from where he could scan for a clearer sign of the creature. Deep down, he knew it was hunting, and that it needed to be stopped.
What he saw was a gap in the broken wall, creating a chamber-like alcove bathed in cool illumination, like a chalice filled with the moon and starlight. Wide cracks in the rock and mortar made shadowed dwellings for evil to lurk.
Stretching along the ground to meet the wall was a jagged patch of blackness, moving like macabre shadow play, with crooked spines and flared edges. Dragging his gaze from the looming shape, he trailed down to where he thought would be the creature's feat.
And found nothing.
Spiteful croaking cried out a taunt, "Such a delightful soul we have here! And broken too! Oh this will be a feast to enjoy, all the sweeter when you know there is nothing you can do!" The source of such words of malice was the shadow.
Pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter.
Those feet were not tiny.
On the edge of his mind was the sound of dozens of high-pitched squeals, the sound of struggling agony and terror, the sound of victim upon victim upon victim who had suffered. And were suffering still.
The unholy outcry drawn his attention to where the true threat was.
Rushing from the shade beneath the mockery of a ceiling was a dark figure swathed in tattered blackness, with corpse-blue skin and jagged fangs, milky white in the eyes without pupil or iris, conveying a suitably soulless gaze. From gnarled fingers extended foul claws of dark iron, sickly to sight, more sickly to blood.
Aorle was right. The creature was hunting.
And he was the prey.
My faith protects me, my kevlar helps.
-
Sir Karsimir
- Citizen
- Posts: 714
- Joined: Wed Jan 10, 2007 8:12 pm
- Name: Karsimir Von Greyssen
- Race: Reichvolk human
Prey though he might be, Angelsworn were most uncooperative in the business of dying.
Recognising the hungry creeping shadow as a distraction, the intended prey readied to receive the charge, dipping his sword to bring a swift end to this evil with a strong lunge that would see the foul creature writhing on his blade.
Before the charge struck, he began, struggling against weighted and leaden limbs that had always been eager to obey his commands before. A heavy weight constricted his chest, urging him to be still. By sheer effort and might of will, he forced his arms and body to carry out the strike.
Yet the struggle had betrayed him. Slowed by the malign power, his sword-thrust was delayed for the moment needed for iron talons to sieze the blade of the weapon and turn it aside with a strength that more than matched the warlord's own. Knowing better than to withstand the impact of that mighty charge, he released his sword-grip with his second hand and dropped his shoulder to thrust his forearm across to strike the running legs below the waist. Momentum folded the striking monster over the dropped shoulder while the forearm thrust forth and up, catapulting the dread being overhead and into the air using her own rush.
Flying and then falling, the creature hung onto the blade with her talons of iron, skin crackled and popped as if burning where the unhallowed being gripped steel once-quenched in holy water. Efforts were made by Aorle to adjust his footwork as he twisted to keep hold of his weapon, but a binding grip was wrapped around his ankle, the hands of the hungry creeping shadow.
Indeed, a hungry creeping shadow was a distraction. Some distractions were more persistant than others.
So Aorle hit the ground with a crash, yet the hag struck the ground much harder, winded by her collision with the earth. Taking the moment given to him, Aorle cut to free his legs from the shadow's grasp, to be once again delayed by the malignant hex. A talon gripped at his shoulder, creating a foul schreech from his pauldron as if the metal of his armour protested her befouling touch, and although his arm was still mobile he was now denied sufficient extension to reach the living dark.
No room existed to swing his sword, and from the ground there was no leverage for a meaningful strike behind him. No cut or thrust would serve. However, knowing that he was unable to match strength with the foul entity against him, and the tainted will that bound him prevented him from matching speed, another option existed. Technique.
Aware of how the skin of her hands hissed and boiled from the contact of his sword, he sought alternatives to leverage and room, instead merely tilting the blade behind him to press against the hideous face. Judging by the roil and hiss and ragged cry, this was working. A second claw reached over his other shoulder, seeking to find the slot in his helmet to rake his face and eyes. Leaning away back and rolling his shoulder away from the claw, he shook his head to prevent the iron nails from finding a solid hold to work their way towards flesh.
Having abandoned her grip with the right talon, the infernal crone swung at the weapon being pressed against her like a branding iron and managed to force it aside. Ever tenacious, Aorle held his grip, although the demonhag next gripped the back of his wrist to force his blade against the floor rather than against her. With her victim pinned on his side, next tactic was to stretch her target's arms along the ground, overhead where he would have no leverage, then mount him.
Said victim was having other ideas. Overpowered, his counter to the attempted mounting was to fold a knee up against his chest between him and the mounting hag. Leaning forward, she inhaled near his face, and a stream of white fog flowed from his lips to that of the horrid thing above him. Bright sparks lit up the trail of mist, motes of light from the very Heavens, essence of such a pure soul. A fine dish for the unholy.
All breath escaped Aorle, and then he felt the presence of crack deep inside of him, deeper than his chest or body. Then sparkling mist rushed out of him like the torrent of a waterfall. Cold agony filled his chest and flooded his eyes, joy and hope and light and life exited him like the gains of the thief that claimed them.
Because it killed me.
Death was not an option. That boy was not the only one to die from this fiend, and would not be the last if Aorle failed. In that moment, he knew agony, exactly the agony which had been inflicted on every victim to have his soul consumed by the demonhag.
And Julen was still missing. He could not die now. Not until after Julen had been found.
That could not be allowed.
Bunching the free leg under him, Aorle pushed off the ground as he straightened. Strength gained from dark power was unlike strength from muscle, as it did not add to weight. Pushing upwards with his leg, he was able to partially lift the hag, enough that he could power his body towards his arms, able to bend his elbows and shoulders and gain leverage.
Forcing his elbows together, he formed a barrier with his arms that disrupted the outward flow of his life, denying the hag the power to draw out his breath. More yet, his leg was freed, although too tight to kick off the thing atop him. Instead, he slid it out sideways and hooked it over the hag's shoulder, locking boot and then greave under her chin.
Straightening his leg, he forced the hag up again, then slid his other leg free. That leg came up behind the hag's head and hooked the ankle of the leg across the monster's throat. Pulling her back with leg strength, suddenly the unholy fae was on her back, with one arm running along the inside of her foe's leg, gripped tight at the wrist by Aorle.
When blinded by the agony of the drawing out of his soul, he had lost his grip on his sword. Now the hungry creeping shadow was making sure he never reclaimed it by fetching it away from the fight. As it grasped at the sword, shadow parted around the sanctified weapon, holy water that tempered the blade wreaking vengeance upon the accursed construct.
Jagged fangs sought to bite against the leg pinning the hag, only to find that biting at steel greaves leads to nought but aching teeth. Talons from the free hand sought to scratch and rake, but struggled to slip under the hem of his armoured hauberk. Seeing an opportunity, Aorle straight-drew his dagger from his right hip and thrust it under the creature's ribcage, attempting to drive it up into lungs.
Wrathful screeching followed, like the ferocious yowl of an incensed cat. Black iron talons finally slipped under the armoured skirting, drawing lines of blood and torn flesh through his thigh.
Unhooking his leg, Aorle kicked off and kicked hard, gaining room by rolling the creature away while he reached for his sword. This time, his movements were for once unhindered, the leaden feeling binding his limbs seemed gone. The unholy spell now broken.
It had been broken from when the sword parted the hungry creeping shadow, as the loss of her bound construct had cost a piece of her unholy power.
Rising to one knee, Aorle now had his sword in hand, facing the beast of murder, whose unholy features were obscured by his own stretching shadow. Hissing in vengeance, the corpse-skinned hag swung her claws at the ground from her prone position, striking at where Aorle's shadow was cast.
Sudden pain from flesh parting struck both above and below the collarbone, as if her claws had not struck his shadow but his flesh itself, all bypassing his armour. He lunged low before she could make a second strike.
At that, the hag threw herself aside, losing her slash but avoiding the sword-point aimed for her. Then, she darted back, aiming to once again strike him through his shadow.
No longer slowed, Aorle made a deft sidestep and lashed a wounding cut against the back of the accursed crone's calf, cleaving through black robes and foul flesh. Nevertheless, iron talons reached to the shadow at dug in at stomach level. At that, Aorle doubled over, feeling warm blood flow down from his belly.
Nontheless, he made another step and another strike, one aimed for the shoulder so that the only retreat was away from his shadow. Then he began circling warily to keep his body between his foe and the most effective way that she could do him harm.
Blackness flocked to his foe like bats at that point, draped in countless layers of overlapping shadow, displaying only a distorted shape before him that was vaguely humanoid. Once concealed by her infernal power, the black fae darted in zig-zags, while Aorle attempted to thwart her. Wide cuts were swung waist high with the sword to compensate for the inability to truly aim. One was caught with a metallic clang against those tainted claws.
With the contact better confirming her location, Aorle bunched the shoulder that was leading and rammed with it, striking hard and causing the incarnation of wickedness to stagger back. No quarter was given. Valiant Edge flashed high in a thrust which licked through flesh at the height of neck and chin, the motion lifting the blade overhead, which returned with a turn of the wrist to make a slanting cut across from shoulder to hip, then was returned to a one-handed grip for a backhand swipe at the waist.
Chunks of darkness were cut off by the striking blade, as though the blackness was solid. What was cleared revealed a black ichor welling up from the wounded flesh, to bubble and pop into a twisted gel over the scorched and sliced wounds. Now the creature made a rush which nearly bowled Aorle over, although he widened his feet to stand firm. Again claws were scratching and grasping, which he took on his armour rather than losing his balance, only for those long arms to slip around his shoulders in a bear-hug.
Grappled again by the source of evil, Aorle began to see those traces of mist bridging the space between their faces, harbinger of the fate to come. At that, Aorle showed his usual regard for sportsmanship in combat and head-butted the monster right in the mouth with his metal crest. Puffing up his arms, he was able to cross his blade over the neck and chest of his foe, then wind powerfully to slam her against the wall to his side, searing steel pressed tight against her neck.
Reaching those talons to the side caught the crown of his shadow, drawing back with them caused blood to flow through Aorle's hair. Reaching under across her own hip and dragging the claws upwards opened a rising wound in the flesh of his side from hip to ribcage. Frantic attempts to maul him as the searing pain grew bounced harmlessly off steel armour. An iron-taloned hand gripped at his helmet and the claw on the thump pierced his brow beneath his helm.
Only then did he break the lock, dancing back to keep his shadow away.
Ragged and bleeding, scorched in places beyond all measure, the demonhag hunched over in agony, clutching at the ruined flesh of her throat.
Aorle struck. A two-handed thrust from the hip and shoulder, left side presented forward, sword thrusting from his right to glide between the ribs of the horror. An unholy shrieking started from what remained of the creature's throat, and it crumpled into shapeless blackness.
Panting from the hard fight, Aorle glanced around to see the small child from before. Where once was fear on his face, was only the expression of unfettered and relieved happiness.
"And I thought grown-ups never listened to us kids." laughed the child, before fading away to whatever afterlife he was now freed to. It would be a good place reserved for an innocent child, no longer denied to it by the horror that stole his life.
"Heaven awaits you, child. Be now at peace." prayed Aorle, before cleaning his sword and dagger from the stain of the anathema.
Recognising the hungry creeping shadow as a distraction, the intended prey readied to receive the charge, dipping his sword to bring a swift end to this evil with a strong lunge that would see the foul creature writhing on his blade.
Before the charge struck, he began, struggling against weighted and leaden limbs that had always been eager to obey his commands before. A heavy weight constricted his chest, urging him to be still. By sheer effort and might of will, he forced his arms and body to carry out the strike.
Yet the struggle had betrayed him. Slowed by the malign power, his sword-thrust was delayed for the moment needed for iron talons to sieze the blade of the weapon and turn it aside with a strength that more than matched the warlord's own. Knowing better than to withstand the impact of that mighty charge, he released his sword-grip with his second hand and dropped his shoulder to thrust his forearm across to strike the running legs below the waist. Momentum folded the striking monster over the dropped shoulder while the forearm thrust forth and up, catapulting the dread being overhead and into the air using her own rush.
Flying and then falling, the creature hung onto the blade with her talons of iron, skin crackled and popped as if burning where the unhallowed being gripped steel once-quenched in holy water. Efforts were made by Aorle to adjust his footwork as he twisted to keep hold of his weapon, but a binding grip was wrapped around his ankle, the hands of the hungry creeping shadow.
Indeed, a hungry creeping shadow was a distraction. Some distractions were more persistant than others.
So Aorle hit the ground with a crash, yet the hag struck the ground much harder, winded by her collision with the earth. Taking the moment given to him, Aorle cut to free his legs from the shadow's grasp, to be once again delayed by the malignant hex. A talon gripped at his shoulder, creating a foul schreech from his pauldron as if the metal of his armour protested her befouling touch, and although his arm was still mobile he was now denied sufficient extension to reach the living dark.
No room existed to swing his sword, and from the ground there was no leverage for a meaningful strike behind him. No cut or thrust would serve. However, knowing that he was unable to match strength with the foul entity against him, and the tainted will that bound him prevented him from matching speed, another option existed. Technique.
Aware of how the skin of her hands hissed and boiled from the contact of his sword, he sought alternatives to leverage and room, instead merely tilting the blade behind him to press against the hideous face. Judging by the roil and hiss and ragged cry, this was working. A second claw reached over his other shoulder, seeking to find the slot in his helmet to rake his face and eyes. Leaning away back and rolling his shoulder away from the claw, he shook his head to prevent the iron nails from finding a solid hold to work their way towards flesh.
Having abandoned her grip with the right talon, the infernal crone swung at the weapon being pressed against her like a branding iron and managed to force it aside. Ever tenacious, Aorle held his grip, although the demonhag next gripped the back of his wrist to force his blade against the floor rather than against her. With her victim pinned on his side, next tactic was to stretch her target's arms along the ground, overhead where he would have no leverage, then mount him.
Said victim was having other ideas. Overpowered, his counter to the attempted mounting was to fold a knee up against his chest between him and the mounting hag. Leaning forward, she inhaled near his face, and a stream of white fog flowed from his lips to that of the horrid thing above him. Bright sparks lit up the trail of mist, motes of light from the very Heavens, essence of such a pure soul. A fine dish for the unholy.
All breath escaped Aorle, and then he felt the presence of crack deep inside of him, deeper than his chest or body. Then sparkling mist rushed out of him like the torrent of a waterfall. Cold agony filled his chest and flooded his eyes, joy and hope and light and life exited him like the gains of the thief that claimed them.
Because it killed me.
Death was not an option. That boy was not the only one to die from this fiend, and would not be the last if Aorle failed. In that moment, he knew agony, exactly the agony which had been inflicted on every victim to have his soul consumed by the demonhag.
And Julen was still missing. He could not die now. Not until after Julen had been found.
That could not be allowed.
Bunching the free leg under him, Aorle pushed off the ground as he straightened. Strength gained from dark power was unlike strength from muscle, as it did not add to weight. Pushing upwards with his leg, he was able to partially lift the hag, enough that he could power his body towards his arms, able to bend his elbows and shoulders and gain leverage.
Forcing his elbows together, he formed a barrier with his arms that disrupted the outward flow of his life, denying the hag the power to draw out his breath. More yet, his leg was freed, although too tight to kick off the thing atop him. Instead, he slid it out sideways and hooked it over the hag's shoulder, locking boot and then greave under her chin.
Straightening his leg, he forced the hag up again, then slid his other leg free. That leg came up behind the hag's head and hooked the ankle of the leg across the monster's throat. Pulling her back with leg strength, suddenly the unholy fae was on her back, with one arm running along the inside of her foe's leg, gripped tight at the wrist by Aorle.
When blinded by the agony of the drawing out of his soul, he had lost his grip on his sword. Now the hungry creeping shadow was making sure he never reclaimed it by fetching it away from the fight. As it grasped at the sword, shadow parted around the sanctified weapon, holy water that tempered the blade wreaking vengeance upon the accursed construct.
Jagged fangs sought to bite against the leg pinning the hag, only to find that biting at steel greaves leads to nought but aching teeth. Talons from the free hand sought to scratch and rake, but struggled to slip under the hem of his armoured hauberk. Seeing an opportunity, Aorle straight-drew his dagger from his right hip and thrust it under the creature's ribcage, attempting to drive it up into lungs.
Wrathful screeching followed, like the ferocious yowl of an incensed cat. Black iron talons finally slipped under the armoured skirting, drawing lines of blood and torn flesh through his thigh.
Unhooking his leg, Aorle kicked off and kicked hard, gaining room by rolling the creature away while he reached for his sword. This time, his movements were for once unhindered, the leaden feeling binding his limbs seemed gone. The unholy spell now broken.
It had been broken from when the sword parted the hungry creeping shadow, as the loss of her bound construct had cost a piece of her unholy power.
Rising to one knee, Aorle now had his sword in hand, facing the beast of murder, whose unholy features were obscured by his own stretching shadow. Hissing in vengeance, the corpse-skinned hag swung her claws at the ground from her prone position, striking at where Aorle's shadow was cast.
Sudden pain from flesh parting struck both above and below the collarbone, as if her claws had not struck his shadow but his flesh itself, all bypassing his armour. He lunged low before she could make a second strike.
At that, the hag threw herself aside, losing her slash but avoiding the sword-point aimed for her. Then, she darted back, aiming to once again strike him through his shadow.
No longer slowed, Aorle made a deft sidestep and lashed a wounding cut against the back of the accursed crone's calf, cleaving through black robes and foul flesh. Nevertheless, iron talons reached to the shadow at dug in at stomach level. At that, Aorle doubled over, feeling warm blood flow down from his belly.
Nontheless, he made another step and another strike, one aimed for the shoulder so that the only retreat was away from his shadow. Then he began circling warily to keep his body between his foe and the most effective way that she could do him harm.
Blackness flocked to his foe like bats at that point, draped in countless layers of overlapping shadow, displaying only a distorted shape before him that was vaguely humanoid. Once concealed by her infernal power, the black fae darted in zig-zags, while Aorle attempted to thwart her. Wide cuts were swung waist high with the sword to compensate for the inability to truly aim. One was caught with a metallic clang against those tainted claws.
With the contact better confirming her location, Aorle bunched the shoulder that was leading and rammed with it, striking hard and causing the incarnation of wickedness to stagger back. No quarter was given. Valiant Edge flashed high in a thrust which licked through flesh at the height of neck and chin, the motion lifting the blade overhead, which returned with a turn of the wrist to make a slanting cut across from shoulder to hip, then was returned to a one-handed grip for a backhand swipe at the waist.
Chunks of darkness were cut off by the striking blade, as though the blackness was solid. What was cleared revealed a black ichor welling up from the wounded flesh, to bubble and pop into a twisted gel over the scorched and sliced wounds. Now the creature made a rush which nearly bowled Aorle over, although he widened his feet to stand firm. Again claws were scratching and grasping, which he took on his armour rather than losing his balance, only for those long arms to slip around his shoulders in a bear-hug.
Grappled again by the source of evil, Aorle began to see those traces of mist bridging the space between their faces, harbinger of the fate to come. At that, Aorle showed his usual regard for sportsmanship in combat and head-butted the monster right in the mouth with his metal crest. Puffing up his arms, he was able to cross his blade over the neck and chest of his foe, then wind powerfully to slam her against the wall to his side, searing steel pressed tight against her neck.
Reaching those talons to the side caught the crown of his shadow, drawing back with them caused blood to flow through Aorle's hair. Reaching under across her own hip and dragging the claws upwards opened a rising wound in the flesh of his side from hip to ribcage. Frantic attempts to maul him as the searing pain grew bounced harmlessly off steel armour. An iron-taloned hand gripped at his helmet and the claw on the thump pierced his brow beneath his helm.
Only then did he break the lock, dancing back to keep his shadow away.
Ragged and bleeding, scorched in places beyond all measure, the demonhag hunched over in agony, clutching at the ruined flesh of her throat.
Aorle struck. A two-handed thrust from the hip and shoulder, left side presented forward, sword thrusting from his right to glide between the ribs of the horror. An unholy shrieking started from what remained of the creature's throat, and it crumpled into shapeless blackness.
Panting from the hard fight, Aorle glanced around to see the small child from before. Where once was fear on his face, was only the expression of unfettered and relieved happiness.
"And I thought grown-ups never listened to us kids." laughed the child, before fading away to whatever afterlife he was now freed to. It would be a good place reserved for an innocent child, no longer denied to it by the horror that stole his life.
"Heaven awaits you, child. Be now at peace." prayed Aorle, before cleaning his sword and dagger from the stain of the anathema.
My faith protects me, my kevlar helps.
-
Sir Karsimir
- Citizen
- Posts: 714
- Joined: Wed Jan 10, 2007 8:12 pm
- Name: Karsimir Von Greyssen
- Race: Reichvolk human
Once again, this unhallowed site drew the utmost revulsion from it's visitor. Truly, he hated this place. Hated it for the crimes performed here, hated it for the lingering brutality from when the fort was founded, hated it for the accursed creatures drawn here by the black and twisted aura. Entities of malice grew strongest in such areas of heavy taint, and worse yet, there were many innocents nearby for these horrors to prey and feast upon.
Not that mankind was doing a poor job of preying on itself.
A kick disturbed the debris which had once been a fearsome foe, debris like ebon cobwebs, jangling from the iron talons drowned out the scuff of his boot. Hoping for reassurance that the damnable thing was obliterated. The nails made him wonder. Clinging to his boot was a sooty black stain, acquired from the remains, and one which would never fade.
Leaving behind a rotten heap of black corruption, he limped his way back to the market. Unwelcome a diversion as this was, Aorle could not regret that this thing was now slain, and would never again prey on another.
So back to the search.
Limited success. None at all, in fact. Many openly fled from the sight of a bloodstained man in armour, one who was in no state to chase after them. Others knew nothing, some claimed knowledge which they would share for money, knowledge which faded when they were required to serve as guides. Pointing out that he had been sent into one trap already tonight frightened the shantytowners more than anything else.
One interesting discovery was what Julen had been doing. Coming here and handing out bread to the locals, providing food for those who needed as a simple act of charity. Hearing this tale caused his heart to swell at the news, at the worthy and noble behaviour from his friend.
Further news was less welcome. The speech, using Aorle's name. Just knowing that much boded ill of what was to come. Danger. More to come, more than merely how close Julen came to being lynched at the time. Enemies had heard word, and drawn Julen into danger by reaching him back at base. Which meant that these enemies now knew where to look.
Any troubles with his kin from use of the name 'Aorle Anstrun' will have to wait. A good man was in danger, that took priority.
Scenting blood, rodents clustered around, eager for the weary soul to collapse. Fresh meat. Very fresh. Eventually a cluster became a swarm, and a swarm became trouble, trouble became pain, pain became a serious fight to avoid being chewed to death. Lots of minor scratches and bites dotted his legs from that encounter.
Rats were not the only thing to gnaw at him, his own hunger did the same, since he had skipped the chance for an evening meal due to the urgency of his search. Of course, his stomach was less concerned with the reasons, and protested vociferously thorought the night.
Thirst as well. It had been hours now since he had partaken of anything to drink. Yet another distraction from the task at hand. At least the constant discomfort was able to keep him mostly awake.
Instead of blackness above, there was now a shade of blue bordering on indigo. These colours were more beautiful from waking early than staying up late. They also spoke as the herald of dawn.
Finding Julen was clearly more important than meeting Asiona, however, finding Julen did not appear to be happening. So this left Aorle with the need to tackle the task from different angles. This meeting with Asiona could cover such an angle.
Meeting him on his way out of the shantytown was Arjen, fully saddled and ready. One of these days, Aorle would figure out how the hell his charger managed such a thing.
Not that mankind was doing a poor job of preying on itself.
A kick disturbed the debris which had once been a fearsome foe, debris like ebon cobwebs, jangling from the iron talons drowned out the scuff of his boot. Hoping for reassurance that the damnable thing was obliterated. The nails made him wonder. Clinging to his boot was a sooty black stain, acquired from the remains, and one which would never fade.
Leaving behind a rotten heap of black corruption, he limped his way back to the market. Unwelcome a diversion as this was, Aorle could not regret that this thing was now slain, and would never again prey on another.
So back to the search.
Limited success. None at all, in fact. Many openly fled from the sight of a bloodstained man in armour, one who was in no state to chase after them. Others knew nothing, some claimed knowledge which they would share for money, knowledge which faded when they were required to serve as guides. Pointing out that he had been sent into one trap already tonight frightened the shantytowners more than anything else.
One interesting discovery was what Julen had been doing. Coming here and handing out bread to the locals, providing food for those who needed as a simple act of charity. Hearing this tale caused his heart to swell at the news, at the worthy and noble behaviour from his friend.
Further news was less welcome. The speech, using Aorle's name. Just knowing that much boded ill of what was to come. Danger. More to come, more than merely how close Julen came to being lynched at the time. Enemies had heard word, and drawn Julen into danger by reaching him back at base. Which meant that these enemies now knew where to look.
Any troubles with his kin from use of the name 'Aorle Anstrun' will have to wait. A good man was in danger, that took priority.
Scenting blood, rodents clustered around, eager for the weary soul to collapse. Fresh meat. Very fresh. Eventually a cluster became a swarm, and a swarm became trouble, trouble became pain, pain became a serious fight to avoid being chewed to death. Lots of minor scratches and bites dotted his legs from that encounter.
Rats were not the only thing to gnaw at him, his own hunger did the same, since he had skipped the chance for an evening meal due to the urgency of his search. Of course, his stomach was less concerned with the reasons, and protested vociferously thorought the night.
Thirst as well. It had been hours now since he had partaken of anything to drink. Yet another distraction from the task at hand. At least the constant discomfort was able to keep him mostly awake.
Instead of blackness above, there was now a shade of blue bordering on indigo. These colours were more beautiful from waking early than staying up late. They also spoke as the herald of dawn.
Finding Julen was clearly more important than meeting Asiona, however, finding Julen did not appear to be happening. So this left Aorle with the need to tackle the task from different angles. This meeting with Asiona could cover such an angle.
Meeting him on his way out of the shantytown was Arjen, fully saddled and ready. One of these days, Aorle would figure out how the hell his charger managed such a thing.
My faith protects me, my kevlar helps.