It is currently Tue Jun 19, 2018 6:17 pm

All times are UTC




Post new topic Reply to topic  [ 1 post ] 
Author Message
 Post subject: Requiem for Benevolence
PostPosted: Wed Dec 07, 2011 9:30 am 
Offline
No secrets for me in MW
No secrets for me in MW
User avatar

Joined: Tue Dec 05, 2006 6:22 am
Posts: 554
Location: Kentucky
Introduction

Blood.

Sharp, smell of shorn copper and life, filling the nostrils as the battle rages. Darkening the ground, greedy thirsty soil. Life spent for precious seconds more. Life spent in Death to prevent Death. Irony, thick and hot as blood, battle thriving upon it. Acrobatic essence, spurting and dancing as it is released from fleshly prison, so bright in the briefest of moments. Spattering, a red paint of war more primal than the oldest of sigils. Barbarity. Life.

Others danced around him, the spear line advancing from the left flank. Sharp points pierced flesh, and the battle-scream soon turned to slaughter-scream. His mace flew about, not a graceful steel dart – not like Nisyrus' saber – but a hammer to break down the walls about him.

Living walls.

People.


No, not people. Adversaries. Enemies. Takers of life for the defense of other life. Fighting for a cause not his own. Detrimental. Garbage. Things to be destroyed. The mace's head came down, cracking a skull, the sharp noise of breaking bone lost to the din of battle. Eyes roll into head. Body falls. Sickening, sucking noise as mace pulls free from falling body.

Repeat.

Blood flows. Battle rages. He looks for another adversary, wary eyes finding only friends and corpses. Corpses of friend and foe alike. And blood. Always blood. He raises his mace, the worn steel covered in viscera and clotted blood. He breathes, finally. Long exhalation of breath held bated by adrenaline and instinct.

Sudden pain. An instant flash of agony – not a flash, no, a constant bright pain. He reaches back, feels hilt of dagger in side. Hands come away sticky. Red life covers them. His blood. His life. He spins, mace raised, and finds the girl waiting.

The girl.

Only a girl.

But not only a girl. Not a toddler, but not a woman. No, a fighter. Her hand – white-knuckled bony thing – grasped a short sword, covered in blood. Her face. Youth perverted by rage. Rage at what? He would not know for some time yet. But rage, nonetheless.

Instinct takes over. Mace rises, as if by itself. Sword strikes, clumsy but purposeful. Mace is more sure, quicker. A great clash, then silence.

A scream.

Piercing. Soul-rending. He could not be sure it was his or hers, or some combination of the two. Jagged metal dotted his arm. Blood trickled, a rivulet compared to the wound in his side. Scream he did, but not from pain. From action.

Hers was more primal. Pain not tempered by experience. Loss not tempered by conviction. Her eye was jagged metal protruding from ruined eye. Rage still welled there, but pain outweighed it. She screamed once more as he moved towards her. His hands held out to her. Shame etching his worn features.

And she only stares.

Stares with the ruined eye.

Stares as she would many years later.

And she condemns him.

---<>---

Ansol woke from the dream with a start. He hadn't had that particular dream in quite some time – not since Nisyrus had left, taking that particular girl, now a woman, with him. His hand found the scar on his side, and winced. Ansol did not relish the memory, but he did not regret it. She'd been an enemy then, intent on taking his life.

But she'd been so young...

He shook his head, trying to dispel the feeling of dread that had crept over him. The night sky was filled with stars, one of the benefits of winter this far north, and he could see for quite some distance. The hummock he had camped on was well-covered with scrub brush and trees, and he hadn't made a fire. The cold did not bother him – his armor was lined with fur pads to keep in the heat, and the heavy cloth undershirt did wonders to aid them.

Though the view was excellent, he wasn't there for that.

He was here for he line of lights coming up the southern road. He could just make out the form of a young elven man in dark blue robes, and two vague shadows that walked behind him. Nisyrus would answer his questions, and answer for his crimes.

His crimes against Charmelia.

_________________
Image


Top
 Profile  
 
Display posts from previous:  Sort by  
Post new topic Reply to topic  [ 1 post ] 

All times are UTC


Who is online

Users browsing this forum: No registered users and 1 guest


You cannot post new topics in this forum
You cannot reply to topics in this forum
You cannot edit your posts in this forum
You cannot delete your posts in this forum

Search for:
Jump to:  
cron
Maganic Wars Online Role Playing GamesPowered by phpBB © 2000, 2002, 2005, 2007 phpBB Group