Grey
Dialectical Hermeticist
Sol could smell death on the air. We know our own, he mused.
He plodded along, surly, behind the rest of the group, glancing warily across the blighted landscape. Somewhere out here a Necromancer made his lair, and Straker had demanded their aid in finding him. A chill wind made Sol's filthy, rot-eaten cape flap around his shoulders, as he lifted a bottle to his lips – Hrothgaard Rotgut, the only liquor powerful enough to drunken the dead. And how he longed to forget...
Inqusitor Malleus Straker boldly took the lead. Boldy? Righteously. Gloriously. Yes, that had the right fit, thought Straker. It was only right, of course. An Angel of the Lord had appeared to him, and told him it was so. A shining golden figure that had gifted him with a magical sword, and sent him forth to carve his place in history. This motley band of heretics and mutants would ably serve his purposes and tell his tale – and for now, that meant helping him kill this Necromancer. Both of his bodyguards had been left behind in Crowhaven, wounded in the melee of the night before.
He stroked the pommel of the sword – Lightbringer, he had named it – feeling whispers of the prestige due to him...
“So... the man we are looking for walks with the Cold River?” asked Navanniel, walking alongside Crimson Phoenix. The Monk shrugged, twirling her glaive idly around her left wrist, the silvery tattoos on her flesh glowing in the half-light of evening. “Perhaps? It is not for me to know how magic works. He raises the dead, and I am told he is a murderer; we will end his crimes if need be.”
Navanniel frowned. “I would speak with him, first. He must know mighty Spirits to beckon souls from the the Wheel.”
Phoenix simply shrugged again. She did not always understand Navanniel's curious Southern mysticism, anymore than Navanniel quite grasped the lore of the Gods, but the two women were kindred spirits of a sort, and had become firm friends on the journey so far.
Nova Van Forze stood aside from the group for the moment, strolling cheerfully along in his comfortable rangers' leathers, bow and quiver across his back. Brannock, the wolf, followed at his side, keeping a keen eye on the cracked, desolate plain around them, the deepening night no problem for him, at least. Nova had noted a structure in the distance, amidst some low hills and rubble – like an old shack. Hunting lodge, perhaps, or the home of a hermit. It had been suspiciously quiet... too quiet, he would think, were he not so grateful for the silence of that insipid, arrogant Straker.
In time, the mismatched quartet came upon this building. The stench of decay wafted from it's aging timbers, a rotted pennant declared it a lodge of Royal Huntsmen from Kelen. The sunset was just a band of gold across the horizon, the encroaching night silent as the grave.
The Hunters stood in a row, unconsciously ranked before the dilapidated entrance, perhaps fifteen feet away.
“You should take a look, Sol.” Suggested Nova.
“I don't see why I should.”
“...There might be booze inside? Old Hunter's lodge, afterall.”
“I've got booze here.”
Without speaking, Straker reached over, plucked a bottle from Sol's belt, and tossed it carefully in front of the door.
“There is booze over there now.” He said, smile like a snake.
“Nothing lives within.” Navanniel assured him, as Sol grumbled over to the bottle.
“Proves nothing.” Replied the dead man, gruffly.
He was right, of course.
It was a familiar sound, for Nova. A wretched, ear-splitting wail that dragged rusting nails down the spine and drove a sliver of ice into the heart. The hunting cry of Ghouls.
The entire forewall of the lodge exploded outward, the blow sending Sol reeling to the dirt, the bottle smashed by an enormous misshapen foot. The creature was no Ghoul – tall as three men, broad as four, and stitched together from another dozen. A vile, bloated mass of patchwork flesh, with a bony club made of skulls for a right arm, and the three fingers of the left hand made from entire arms. One mad, bloodshot eye in the piglike head fixed on Sol, and it tried to bellow through the ragged hole of torn stitching above the many chins.
“By Degra Veen!” Cried Straker, drawing his sword, “what in Hell is it?”
“Magic?” Shrugged Phoenix, with an enigmatic smile, the runes on the blade of her glaive tracing pale blue trails around her in the dark.
“Enough from you, heretic, or I'll-”
“Quiet, damn you!” Barked Nova, seeing the rest of the threat appear – Ghouls afterall, four of them. Baleful green witchfires glowing in their eyesockets, dripping talons at the end of lank, emaciated limbs. Nova nocked an arrow tipped with oily rag, taking it all in – one on the roof, one to the left, two to the right.
“Sol! Get up and hold that fucking thing back for a moment! Navanniel, the one on the roof, Straker to the left, Phoenix to the right!”
Straker was prepared to protest, but simply snarled to himself and took after the Ghoul. “That was my plan, anyway!”
Navanniel disappeared immediately in a blush of green mist – and stepped up behind the Ghoul on the rooftop, slamming her staff into the back of its head as the Tiger Spirit within growled and lashed out with spectral claws. With a howl, it whirled around, thick, blackish blood spattering from the slashes in its head. Agile things, Ghouls; it turned by gripping the edge of the roof, swinging off, and back on in a rapid movement, attempting to tear out the Dreamchaser's throat. Navanniel smiled as the claws passed through her like smoke, and with an upward swing drove the creature's jaw up into its sinuses, sending it broken from the rooftop.
Sol climbed to his feet. He looked muzzily from side to side, scanned the ground, and caught sight of something before the rotting behemoth that bore down on him.
“You BASTARD!”
With a ghostly whisper, a blade of blue-green light coiled from Sol's right hand, and he charged the beast.
“That was my last bottle!”
The roaring creature swung to grab him, but Sol ducked ably, swinging his blade up- only to find it was less monster than he thought, splitting the bilious skin to release a gust of foetid corpse gas.
And the abomination retaliated – before he could react, the bony club descended like the fist of a vengeful god, leaving Sol nothing more than a bloody smear in the dirt, disemboded arms and legs at the edges.
Phoenix stood ready, alone and to the right of Nova. Her stance was elegant. Regal. Imdomitable. Like a statue carven from marble and etched with spiralling silver, her weapon a dancing blue light in the dark. The pair of Ghouls were driven to frenzy by the sight of her, maddened by her defiance, and they charged.
The first leapt for her face, meaning to bury its tusk-like canines in her throat – but she sidestepped easily, sweeping her glaive up in an effortless arc that severed an arm. The second, cagier, circled to her other side and sought to tear out her calf. But Phoenix was too quick, batting the talons aside with the butt of her weapon before bisecting the Ghoul's face. The first barely had time to turn before she ran it through.
Straker felt the sword sing in his grasp. It was as though he needed only to think of parrying, and the blade made it so. But the Ghoul was that little bit too fast for him, its stikes wild and unrelenting. Fortunately, the Angel had granted him another gift...
A dodged back, outstretched his hand – and a searing golden light stripped the taut flesh from the Ghoul's skull. Dazed, but not dead – a pause long enough for him to cleave the head from the shoulders.
Nova watched in horror as Sol was struck down. But there was no time to hesistate. He had the lit the arrow, and now – he fired. It streaked like a comet across the firmament, striking home in the belly of the beast.
There was a moist, muffled explosion, followed by a rain of blood and gore.
“Well...” Nova said, untangling a hand from his hair, “We won.”
Phoenix prodded the splattered remnants of the monsters. “There were two more Ghouls inside.”
“Where is Sol?” Navanniel asked, appearing beside her.
Brannock dropped something at her feet. An arm that she picked up.
“Ah... I think this was his. A shame.”
But as she spoke, blue light spilled from the gory crater. A pool of blood and meat dragging itself back together, until Sol lay naked and whole, save for one arm, amidst the carnage. Shaking his head, he rose, unsteadily, staggered to Navanniel, and snatched the limb from her hands.
“That's mine, thank you.”
He plodded along, surly, behind the rest of the group, glancing warily across the blighted landscape. Somewhere out here a Necromancer made his lair, and Straker had demanded their aid in finding him. A chill wind made Sol's filthy, rot-eaten cape flap around his shoulders, as he lifted a bottle to his lips – Hrothgaard Rotgut, the only liquor powerful enough to drunken the dead. And how he longed to forget...
Inqusitor Malleus Straker boldly took the lead. Boldy? Righteously. Gloriously. Yes, that had the right fit, thought Straker. It was only right, of course. An Angel of the Lord had appeared to him, and told him it was so. A shining golden figure that had gifted him with a magical sword, and sent him forth to carve his place in history. This motley band of heretics and mutants would ably serve his purposes and tell his tale – and for now, that meant helping him kill this Necromancer. Both of his bodyguards had been left behind in Crowhaven, wounded in the melee of the night before.
He stroked the pommel of the sword – Lightbringer, he had named it – feeling whispers of the prestige due to him...
“So... the man we are looking for walks with the Cold River?” asked Navanniel, walking alongside Crimson Phoenix. The Monk shrugged, twirling her glaive idly around her left wrist, the silvery tattoos on her flesh glowing in the half-light of evening. “Perhaps? It is not for me to know how magic works. He raises the dead, and I am told he is a murderer; we will end his crimes if need be.”
Navanniel frowned. “I would speak with him, first. He must know mighty Spirits to beckon souls from the the Wheel.”
Phoenix simply shrugged again. She did not always understand Navanniel's curious Southern mysticism, anymore than Navanniel quite grasped the lore of the Gods, but the two women were kindred spirits of a sort, and had become firm friends on the journey so far.
Nova Van Forze stood aside from the group for the moment, strolling cheerfully along in his comfortable rangers' leathers, bow and quiver across his back. Brannock, the wolf, followed at his side, keeping a keen eye on the cracked, desolate plain around them, the deepening night no problem for him, at least. Nova had noted a structure in the distance, amidst some low hills and rubble – like an old shack. Hunting lodge, perhaps, or the home of a hermit. It had been suspiciously quiet... too quiet, he would think, were he not so grateful for the silence of that insipid, arrogant Straker.
In time, the mismatched quartet came upon this building. The stench of decay wafted from it's aging timbers, a rotted pennant declared it a lodge of Royal Huntsmen from Kelen. The sunset was just a band of gold across the horizon, the encroaching night silent as the grave.
The Hunters stood in a row, unconsciously ranked before the dilapidated entrance, perhaps fifteen feet away.
“You should take a look, Sol.” Suggested Nova.
“I don't see why I should.”
“...There might be booze inside? Old Hunter's lodge, afterall.”
“I've got booze here.”
Without speaking, Straker reached over, plucked a bottle from Sol's belt, and tossed it carefully in front of the door.
“There is booze over there now.” He said, smile like a snake.
“Nothing lives within.” Navanniel assured him, as Sol grumbled over to the bottle.
“Proves nothing.” Replied the dead man, gruffly.
He was right, of course.
It was a familiar sound, for Nova. A wretched, ear-splitting wail that dragged rusting nails down the spine and drove a sliver of ice into the heart. The hunting cry of Ghouls.
The entire forewall of the lodge exploded outward, the blow sending Sol reeling to the dirt, the bottle smashed by an enormous misshapen foot. The creature was no Ghoul – tall as three men, broad as four, and stitched together from another dozen. A vile, bloated mass of patchwork flesh, with a bony club made of skulls for a right arm, and the three fingers of the left hand made from entire arms. One mad, bloodshot eye in the piglike head fixed on Sol, and it tried to bellow through the ragged hole of torn stitching above the many chins.
“By Degra Veen!” Cried Straker, drawing his sword, “what in Hell is it?”
“Magic?” Shrugged Phoenix, with an enigmatic smile, the runes on the blade of her glaive tracing pale blue trails around her in the dark.
“Enough from you, heretic, or I'll-”
“Quiet, damn you!” Barked Nova, seeing the rest of the threat appear – Ghouls afterall, four of them. Baleful green witchfires glowing in their eyesockets, dripping talons at the end of lank, emaciated limbs. Nova nocked an arrow tipped with oily rag, taking it all in – one on the roof, one to the left, two to the right.
“Sol! Get up and hold that fucking thing back for a moment! Navanniel, the one on the roof, Straker to the left, Phoenix to the right!”
Straker was prepared to protest, but simply snarled to himself and took after the Ghoul. “That was my plan, anyway!”
Navanniel disappeared immediately in a blush of green mist – and stepped up behind the Ghoul on the rooftop, slamming her staff into the back of its head as the Tiger Spirit within growled and lashed out with spectral claws. With a howl, it whirled around, thick, blackish blood spattering from the slashes in its head. Agile things, Ghouls; it turned by gripping the edge of the roof, swinging off, and back on in a rapid movement, attempting to tear out the Dreamchaser's throat. Navanniel smiled as the claws passed through her like smoke, and with an upward swing drove the creature's jaw up into its sinuses, sending it broken from the rooftop.
Sol climbed to his feet. He looked muzzily from side to side, scanned the ground, and caught sight of something before the rotting behemoth that bore down on him.
“You BASTARD!”
With a ghostly whisper, a blade of blue-green light coiled from Sol's right hand, and he charged the beast.
“That was my last bottle!”
The roaring creature swung to grab him, but Sol ducked ably, swinging his blade up- only to find it was less monster than he thought, splitting the bilious skin to release a gust of foetid corpse gas.
And the abomination retaliated – before he could react, the bony club descended like the fist of a vengeful god, leaving Sol nothing more than a bloody smear in the dirt, disemboded arms and legs at the edges.
Phoenix stood ready, alone and to the right of Nova. Her stance was elegant. Regal. Imdomitable. Like a statue carven from marble and etched with spiralling silver, her weapon a dancing blue light in the dark. The pair of Ghouls were driven to frenzy by the sight of her, maddened by her defiance, and they charged.
The first leapt for her face, meaning to bury its tusk-like canines in her throat – but she sidestepped easily, sweeping her glaive up in an effortless arc that severed an arm. The second, cagier, circled to her other side and sought to tear out her calf. But Phoenix was too quick, batting the talons aside with the butt of her weapon before bisecting the Ghoul's face. The first barely had time to turn before she ran it through.
Straker felt the sword sing in his grasp. It was as though he needed only to think of parrying, and the blade made it so. But the Ghoul was that little bit too fast for him, its stikes wild and unrelenting. Fortunately, the Angel had granted him another gift...
A dodged back, outstretched his hand – and a searing golden light stripped the taut flesh from the Ghoul's skull. Dazed, but not dead – a pause long enough for him to cleave the head from the shoulders.
Nova watched in horror as Sol was struck down. But there was no time to hesistate. He had the lit the arrow, and now – he fired. It streaked like a comet across the firmament, striking home in the belly of the beast.
There was a moist, muffled explosion, followed by a rain of blood and gore.
“Well...” Nova said, untangling a hand from his hair, “We won.”
Phoenix prodded the splattered remnants of the monsters. “There were two more Ghouls inside.”
“Where is Sol?” Navanniel asked, appearing beside her.
Brannock dropped something at her feet. An arm that she picked up.
“Ah... I think this was his. A shame.”
But as she spoke, blue light spilled from the gory crater. A pool of blood and meat dragging itself back together, until Sol lay naked and whole, save for one arm, amidst the carnage. Shaking his head, he rose, unsteadily, staggered to Navanniel, and snatched the limb from her hands.
“That's mine, thank you.”
