Tiras walked slowly off by himself, brimming with unfulfilled questions that failed to produce answers. How was his family doing? How could they live without growing any source of food? Even hunting game had become scarce when he had left to seek a permanent source of victuals for the clan. What sort of conditions would he find in his home village when he returned at last? Would this quest yield the treasure he so desperately wanted?
The warrior grimaced, regretting his frankness with Chantelle earlier in telling of his people's predicament. How could he have been so blind as to not see her obvious supercilious manner in the casting of her spells? It must have been hidden in her beauty, for he did not foresee this cruel manner at all. I should have known better, he thought angrily. But that had always been his problem. He was too trusting, his parents said. One day he would be burned. And that day had come; Chantelle openly flaunting an indescribable force to destroy their hapless foes. She had shown herself more powerful than he too, shaming him in his most formidable aspect. That necromancer was very strong too, shocking Tiras to the core of his being, who had always considered them rather weak, craven cowards.
Chantelle watched as the undead creature set Vladimir's limp body down near the pair. Her eyes widened. In the shadows of night, she had not a chance to study the creature up close. Its head had caved in from the assault of those it might once have called friends, and loose bits of brain and cranial bone fell off regularly. The healthy, albeit mottled, brown of its skin had faded to bloodless chalk. Desiccated muscles still bunched up, though bone jutted from twisted joints. Its head rolled loosely, hanging at an awkward angle. The eyes were wide in an endless stare… The thing was an abomination! The creature from beyond the grave repulsed every fiber of her being. Death was much better than such tortured unlife…
"Are you okay?"
The question distracted Chantelle from her dismal thoughts. It was not a question of real concern or care. Instead, it reminded her of her own voice, when she felt threatened and uncomfortable. Tiras' sea blue eyes did not quite meet hers; he shifted from foot to foot, and as she studied him, he grew even more agitated, fidgeting to adjust buckles and straps with tense hands. What was wrong? Why was he behaving like this? She hoped that her catastrophic spell had not frightened him nearly as much as it had scared herself.
"I'm fine."
Tiras didn't press the issue. He knew the young sorceress had sensed his new estrangement to her. But though the girl was probably hurting inside and needed someone to comfort her, he couldn't bring himself to trust someone who killed with such devastating powers. Plumes of smoke still crept into the sky, grasping for the nebulous clouds that were swiftly vanishing into oblivion. Who would be next to disappear like those clouds? Who else would feel the retribution of nature, with no chance to escape?
Chantelle couldn't understand. Her crepuscular eyes were watery from the ravages of smoke and emotion. Her skin was raw from the stinging sand, and bruised from the long fall. The meteor had scorched and burned her. The spellcasting of the strange magic had left her so weak and drained she could barely stand. Every muscle hurt; fatigue settled in her arms. Vladimir was in an unknown condition. For all the girl knew, he could be dead. And Tiras was just standing there, staring at her with a strange expression on his soot-covered face. That irritated her beyond relief.
The girl dragged her aching body over to Vladimir. Breathlessly she watched for a sign of life, feeling for the pulse in his neck. It was very weak. Chantelle reached into a brown leather pouch she wore at her side, urgency in every movement. The valuable contents within two of the bottles had spilled with the shattering of the glass vials, staining the pouch in a color reminiscent of blood. Gingerly, she shook numerous shards of sharp glass, plucking out those that had impaled the pouch itself. Too tired to worry about the future health those potions could have offered, she reached inside and drew out the last. It had miraculously remained intact, for which she was profusely thankful. She uncorked the container and began to slowly trickle the liquid into the blond-haired man's mouth, tilting his head back slightly to avoid choking.
Guiltily, Tiras shook himself out of his reverie when he saw the tired magi weakly administer the healing potion. Her hands shook so much that the heavy vial barely remained steady. The warrior quickly strode over and kindly removed the glass from her trembling hands. He resumed dripping the blood-red substance. "Rest, Chantelle. I'll take care of him," he said reassuringly.
"Will you?" the girl asked wearily.
He couldn't look away from those bright, hurt eyes if his life depended on it. How could such a sweet, innocent face hide the murder of the Gorebellies? But then again, why did he care so much? Why was there this sharp pain in his chest when he thought of her? Unconsciously, she turned away from his intense scrutiny and shuffled over to the pack that held her provisions, perhaps sensing his thoughts.
Chantelle could feel Tiras' eyes on her again as she reached into her pack and drew out a light tan cotton blanket. She cocooned herself within the soft folds, noticing that already, gritty, clinging sand adhered to its underside, warming the downy surface. Why was he treating her so coldly? The sorceress slumped to her makeshift mattress. It was getting harder to remain awake with each passing moment. She looked up at the big man. The thought of the barbarian taking advantage of her exhausted condition did not occur to her. "You'll wake me up…when it's time…right?"
"Of course."
"Wake up, Chantelle."
"I'm asleep…" she mumbled drowsily, throwing a slender arm over her drowsy eyes. Tiras gently shook her.
"You asked me to wake you when it was time, remember?"
The sorceress propped herself on her side and groggily shook her head, clearing the fogginess in her mind. "I'm sorry. I was very tired," she murmured, embarrassed. The evening had passed, and pale strands of dawn were beginning to peek out from the horizon. Hopeful light brightened her spirits, clearing away the fatigue and doubts from the nightmare of the previous day. Tiras stood outlined by the expanse of surrounding vista, the very image of an ancient warrior-king. Life and vigor pulsed into the blue, glowing tattoos that sketched his face.
"The necromancer's awake."
Chantelle looked past the awe-inspiring warrior to Vladimir. The light traced the fighter, but shone directly on the dark magic-user, enveloping him in a halo of dazzling power. His short-cropped hair seemed even lighter than usual. The fervid smoky eyes caught her own again. They hinted of secrets and hidden knowledge. "Tiras explained…to you I owe my life," the dark sorcerer told her softly.
Chantelle protested, blushing, "I only gave you a healing potion –"
The man responded by taking her hand firmly. "But you gave it to me in time."
Unsure of what to say, the young girl looked away from his piercing gaze. Inwardly, she couldn't stop smiling. How good it felt to be the one saving others! Then she felt a slight tremor beneath her feet. The ground shifted slightly, gathering its strength for a second uprising. Startled, Chantelle slowly backed away. An earthquake? "Did anyone else feel that?"
"Feel what?"
Chantelle saw a pinch of sand fly in the air. "I think–"
The world exploded under her. Heaps of warming sand blasted up into the yellow-pink of the sunrise. Chantelle sprawled as the ground buckled. Ochre mandibles cleaved the air where she had been a moment before. The sorceress quickly took stock of their situation as she lay there. Enormous insects gushed onto the desert surface from cunningly crafted pits, trying to catch the adventurers off guard. A shiny metallic golem lifted its creator from harm, effortlessly taking crippling blows on its own iron skin while the barbarian jumped clear of the emerging sand maggots.
"Damn!" Tiras swore, "They just keep coming!"
Long ago these vicious monsters had been harmless, but the return of the Prime Evils had triggered a vast mutation. Sand maggots had been a favorite treat of the desert dweller, supplementing a diet of succulent cactus fruit and small mammals and reptiles. The insects had grown to become killing machines, hunting those whom had dined on their ancestors. Seven feet long, with wicked scythe-like pincers, grasping mandibles, and hundreds of legs to swiftly track their prey, the creatures were among the most feared denizens of the land.
Chantelle drew within herself, retaining a sense of calm and peace amid the chaos. She thought of her home in the north. From her palm grew a gelid shard, formed by the will of her mind. The wizardess launched the sliver at a group of beasts, guiding it with magic to inflict as much damage as possible. As it touched, each froze in their movements, encased in a thick layer of ice. Her heart jumped, and she gave a ragged cry of joy. But the heat of the rising sun and the maggots' flailing soon melted the frosty confines.
Whispered chanting soon culminated in a rush of electricity slicing through the air. The monsters, still dripping with melting ice, attracted the lightning like a metal bar. Flashes erupted through each, made more potent by their wet shells. Hissing green acids spilled out of the dying desert sharks, corroding away the sands that supported their bulks. High-pitched screeches resounded in Chantelle's ears as the maggots emitted their last gestures of defiance. Momentarily deaf, she never heard the frenetic scrabbling at her ankles.
Incredibly powerful jaws smashed her to the ground. A red haze covered her vision as she strove to recover, frantically trying to twist away. But the sand dweller did not let up. Holding her firmly, it hurled her bodily into Tiras. The barbarian stumbled and nearly fell into the mandibles of his own adversary. Holding off the mutated maggot, he spun around, determining the source of his distraction. A fierce glare pinned Chantelle for a moment as Tiras tried to control his bloodlust. The deep blue eyes were rimmed with criss-crossing blood vessels, staining azure diamonds with crimson rubies. He offered an arm, already turning back to his opponent. The raven-haired girl rose and backed warily away from her deadly attacker.
Thunder boomed across the desert. Thunder? The skies were cloudless; there was no sign of lightning. The noise shook the earth, growing louder and stronger. With growing dread, Chantelle realized what it was. The pounding feet of many, many Gorebellies, coming to claim their revenge on her. Another clan of giants, ready to avenge their fallen brethren. The sorceress could envision it. The humanoids would growl their human roars, angry at the world itself for attacking them. The clubs would descend from the sky, and all would turn to nothing. She barely resisted as her assailant caught up and seized her in its twitching mouthparts. So soon…she would become part of the desert.
A dagger lanced into the brain of the sand maggot, driven by an obsidian gauntlet. Vladimir materialized beside her, prying open the creature's jaws with superhuman strength. Swirling cerulean energy suffused those hands, attributing to recent spellwork. The girl desperately scrambled out from the death-grip. "Thanks," she wheezed appreciatively, breathing heavily.
"Just returning the favor."
Vladimir suddenly gasped. A foot-long mandible sprouted from his ebony-armored chest, glistening wetly with dark blood. The piceous plates had done nothing for its wearer, helpless against the sharp mandible that still lodged in the white-blond man's chest. The jagged wound sprayed resentful blood; twitching mouthparts dripped hungrily.
The man looked down uncomprehendingly as his lifeblood spilled into the desert sands. Enchantments laid upon the armour, connected to the life of the magi, sputtered and died in quick flashes. Time changed into hundreds of images devoid of color and vision faded into a few shades of grey. The necromancer's hand shook, and his kris dagger slowly dropped to the ground. Its owner slumped down with it, seeking out and clenching the blade tightly with his dying grasp. The curved white blade reflected the otherworldly white shine of the sun across the horizon.
"No!!!" Fire burned in Chantelle's eyes as the words came to her again. Strange words… words that spoke of flames and destruction. She could not see anything but the inferno that rose up all around her, purifying her mind of the guilt at Vladimir's death. Anger powered her words as she spoke again, driving the conflagration to new heights. Her last words were nothing but mournful shouts of grief that held no meaning.
Vladimir's body evaporated with the flames, his spirit freed into the sky to seek the peace of the heavens. My one tribute, Chantelle thought as she watched his ashes float high into the air, crisping and sparkling with the last remnants of embers. A hastily conceived cremation, born of a blend of magic and spiritual energy, to send off the departed. What would her own end be like?
Tiras! Where was he? Chantelle frantically stopped her spells, wishing Tiras was safe. Then she saw him, a blackened lump on the ground. The sickeningly sweet smell of burned flesh contrasted oddly with the reek of the maggots' acidic blood. The sorceress ran, dropping next to the charred shape. "Tiras, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to. Vladimir died, and I was so angry. Please…"
Then she saw to her horror that he was still alive. How could anyone…? Tiras weakly grasped her hand, his own disfigured and smelling of ashes. The blue seas of the barbarian's eyes had melted into a red, pus-filled goo. "It's not your fault. I know you didn't mean to–" His voice drifted off as the words became obscured with death. The hand holding hers lost its grip and slipped to rest on his chest in the manner of demise traditionally reserved for fallen warriors.
Chantelle saw that the handsome, tattooed face had caved in, opening gaps where white bone clearly shoved through. Severe burns marked the back of his skull where his long, brown tassel of hair had once been. His skin was leathery and raw, bearing a frightening resemblance to Vladimir's undead. She remembered the necromancer saying to Tiras at the beginning of the battle with the Gorebellies, "You wouldn't be worth raising from the dead." Perhaps the necromancer could have restored life to the robust fighter. But Vladimir was dead too.
The thunder of the Gorebellies increased in volume as the creatures stampeded toward the kneeling girl. She could not see, blinded by her tears. Chantelle knew that the monsters were coming, but she didn't care. She had failed her friends… She had failed everyone, and now it was time to pay the price. It was too late… nothing could absolve her guilt but death. The sweet darkness of the calling oblivion appealed her like nothing else. How beautiful it would be to let the shadows of her mind overcome her at last. The bright light of the sun was blinding, and Chantelle bowed her head as the first club whistled through the air…
"Wake up, Chantelle."
The warrior grimaced, regretting his frankness with Chantelle earlier in telling of his people's predicament. How could he have been so blind as to not see her obvious supercilious manner in the casting of her spells? It must have been hidden in her beauty, for he did not foresee this cruel manner at all. I should have known better, he thought angrily. But that had always been his problem. He was too trusting, his parents said. One day he would be burned. And that day had come; Chantelle openly flaunting an indescribable force to destroy their hapless foes. She had shown herself more powerful than he too, shaming him in his most formidable aspect. That necromancer was very strong too, shocking Tiras to the core of his being, who had always considered them rather weak, craven cowards.
Chantelle watched as the undead creature set Vladimir's limp body down near the pair. Her eyes widened. In the shadows of night, she had not a chance to study the creature up close. Its head had caved in from the assault of those it might once have called friends, and loose bits of brain and cranial bone fell off regularly. The healthy, albeit mottled, brown of its skin had faded to bloodless chalk. Desiccated muscles still bunched up, though bone jutted from twisted joints. Its head rolled loosely, hanging at an awkward angle. The eyes were wide in an endless stare… The thing was an abomination! The creature from beyond the grave repulsed every fiber of her being. Death was much better than such tortured unlife…
"Are you okay?"
The question distracted Chantelle from her dismal thoughts. It was not a question of real concern or care. Instead, it reminded her of her own voice, when she felt threatened and uncomfortable. Tiras' sea blue eyes did not quite meet hers; he shifted from foot to foot, and as she studied him, he grew even more agitated, fidgeting to adjust buckles and straps with tense hands. What was wrong? Why was he behaving like this? She hoped that her catastrophic spell had not frightened him nearly as much as it had scared herself.
"I'm fine."
Tiras didn't press the issue. He knew the young sorceress had sensed his new estrangement to her. But though the girl was probably hurting inside and needed someone to comfort her, he couldn't bring himself to trust someone who killed with such devastating powers. Plumes of smoke still crept into the sky, grasping for the nebulous clouds that were swiftly vanishing into oblivion. Who would be next to disappear like those clouds? Who else would feel the retribution of nature, with no chance to escape?
Chantelle couldn't understand. Her crepuscular eyes were watery from the ravages of smoke and emotion. Her skin was raw from the stinging sand, and bruised from the long fall. The meteor had scorched and burned her. The spellcasting of the strange magic had left her so weak and drained she could barely stand. Every muscle hurt; fatigue settled in her arms. Vladimir was in an unknown condition. For all the girl knew, he could be dead. And Tiras was just standing there, staring at her with a strange expression on his soot-covered face. That irritated her beyond relief.
The girl dragged her aching body over to Vladimir. Breathlessly she watched for a sign of life, feeling for the pulse in his neck. It was very weak. Chantelle reached into a brown leather pouch she wore at her side, urgency in every movement. The valuable contents within two of the bottles had spilled with the shattering of the glass vials, staining the pouch in a color reminiscent of blood. Gingerly, she shook numerous shards of sharp glass, plucking out those that had impaled the pouch itself. Too tired to worry about the future health those potions could have offered, she reached inside and drew out the last. It had miraculously remained intact, for which she was profusely thankful. She uncorked the container and began to slowly trickle the liquid into the blond-haired man's mouth, tilting his head back slightly to avoid choking.
Guiltily, Tiras shook himself out of his reverie when he saw the tired magi weakly administer the healing potion. Her hands shook so much that the heavy vial barely remained steady. The warrior quickly strode over and kindly removed the glass from her trembling hands. He resumed dripping the blood-red substance. "Rest, Chantelle. I'll take care of him," he said reassuringly.
"Will you?" the girl asked wearily.
He couldn't look away from those bright, hurt eyes if his life depended on it. How could such a sweet, innocent face hide the murder of the Gorebellies? But then again, why did he care so much? Why was there this sharp pain in his chest when he thought of her? Unconsciously, she turned away from his intense scrutiny and shuffled over to the pack that held her provisions, perhaps sensing his thoughts.
Chantelle could feel Tiras' eyes on her again as she reached into her pack and drew out a light tan cotton blanket. She cocooned herself within the soft folds, noticing that already, gritty, clinging sand adhered to its underside, warming the downy surface. Why was he treating her so coldly? The sorceress slumped to her makeshift mattress. It was getting harder to remain awake with each passing moment. She looked up at the big man. The thought of the barbarian taking advantage of her exhausted condition did not occur to her. "You'll wake me up…when it's time…right?"
"Of course."
"Wake up, Chantelle."
"I'm asleep…" she mumbled drowsily, throwing a slender arm over her drowsy eyes. Tiras gently shook her.
"You asked me to wake you when it was time, remember?"
The sorceress propped herself on her side and groggily shook her head, clearing the fogginess in her mind. "I'm sorry. I was very tired," she murmured, embarrassed. The evening had passed, and pale strands of dawn were beginning to peek out from the horizon. Hopeful light brightened her spirits, clearing away the fatigue and doubts from the nightmare of the previous day. Tiras stood outlined by the expanse of surrounding vista, the very image of an ancient warrior-king. Life and vigor pulsed into the blue, glowing tattoos that sketched his face.
"The necromancer's awake."
Chantelle looked past the awe-inspiring warrior to Vladimir. The light traced the fighter, but shone directly on the dark magic-user, enveloping him in a halo of dazzling power. His short-cropped hair seemed even lighter than usual. The fervid smoky eyes caught her own again. They hinted of secrets and hidden knowledge. "Tiras explained…to you I owe my life," the dark sorcerer told her softly.
Chantelle protested, blushing, "I only gave you a healing potion –"
The man responded by taking her hand firmly. "But you gave it to me in time."
Unsure of what to say, the young girl looked away from his piercing gaze. Inwardly, she couldn't stop smiling. How good it felt to be the one saving others! Then she felt a slight tremor beneath her feet. The ground shifted slightly, gathering its strength for a second uprising. Startled, Chantelle slowly backed away. An earthquake? "Did anyone else feel that?"
"Feel what?"
Chantelle saw a pinch of sand fly in the air. "I think–"
The world exploded under her. Heaps of warming sand blasted up into the yellow-pink of the sunrise. Chantelle sprawled as the ground buckled. Ochre mandibles cleaved the air where she had been a moment before. The sorceress quickly took stock of their situation as she lay there. Enormous insects gushed onto the desert surface from cunningly crafted pits, trying to catch the adventurers off guard. A shiny metallic golem lifted its creator from harm, effortlessly taking crippling blows on its own iron skin while the barbarian jumped clear of the emerging sand maggots.
"Damn!" Tiras swore, "They just keep coming!"
Long ago these vicious monsters had been harmless, but the return of the Prime Evils had triggered a vast mutation. Sand maggots had been a favorite treat of the desert dweller, supplementing a diet of succulent cactus fruit and small mammals and reptiles. The insects had grown to become killing machines, hunting those whom had dined on their ancestors. Seven feet long, with wicked scythe-like pincers, grasping mandibles, and hundreds of legs to swiftly track their prey, the creatures were among the most feared denizens of the land.
Chantelle drew within herself, retaining a sense of calm and peace amid the chaos. She thought of her home in the north. From her palm grew a gelid shard, formed by the will of her mind. The wizardess launched the sliver at a group of beasts, guiding it with magic to inflict as much damage as possible. As it touched, each froze in their movements, encased in a thick layer of ice. Her heart jumped, and she gave a ragged cry of joy. But the heat of the rising sun and the maggots' flailing soon melted the frosty confines.
Whispered chanting soon culminated in a rush of electricity slicing through the air. The monsters, still dripping with melting ice, attracted the lightning like a metal bar. Flashes erupted through each, made more potent by their wet shells. Hissing green acids spilled out of the dying desert sharks, corroding away the sands that supported their bulks. High-pitched screeches resounded in Chantelle's ears as the maggots emitted their last gestures of defiance. Momentarily deaf, she never heard the frenetic scrabbling at her ankles.
Incredibly powerful jaws smashed her to the ground. A red haze covered her vision as she strove to recover, frantically trying to twist away. But the sand dweller did not let up. Holding her firmly, it hurled her bodily into Tiras. The barbarian stumbled and nearly fell into the mandibles of his own adversary. Holding off the mutated maggot, he spun around, determining the source of his distraction. A fierce glare pinned Chantelle for a moment as Tiras tried to control his bloodlust. The deep blue eyes were rimmed with criss-crossing blood vessels, staining azure diamonds with crimson rubies. He offered an arm, already turning back to his opponent. The raven-haired girl rose and backed warily away from her deadly attacker.
Thunder boomed across the desert. Thunder? The skies were cloudless; there was no sign of lightning. The noise shook the earth, growing louder and stronger. With growing dread, Chantelle realized what it was. The pounding feet of many, many Gorebellies, coming to claim their revenge on her. Another clan of giants, ready to avenge their fallen brethren. The sorceress could envision it. The humanoids would growl their human roars, angry at the world itself for attacking them. The clubs would descend from the sky, and all would turn to nothing. She barely resisted as her assailant caught up and seized her in its twitching mouthparts. So soon…she would become part of the desert.
A dagger lanced into the brain of the sand maggot, driven by an obsidian gauntlet. Vladimir materialized beside her, prying open the creature's jaws with superhuman strength. Swirling cerulean energy suffused those hands, attributing to recent spellwork. The girl desperately scrambled out from the death-grip. "Thanks," she wheezed appreciatively, breathing heavily.
"Just returning the favor."
Vladimir suddenly gasped. A foot-long mandible sprouted from his ebony-armored chest, glistening wetly with dark blood. The piceous plates had done nothing for its wearer, helpless against the sharp mandible that still lodged in the white-blond man's chest. The jagged wound sprayed resentful blood; twitching mouthparts dripped hungrily.
The man looked down uncomprehendingly as his lifeblood spilled into the desert sands. Enchantments laid upon the armour, connected to the life of the magi, sputtered and died in quick flashes. Time changed into hundreds of images devoid of color and vision faded into a few shades of grey. The necromancer's hand shook, and his kris dagger slowly dropped to the ground. Its owner slumped down with it, seeking out and clenching the blade tightly with his dying grasp. The curved white blade reflected the otherworldly white shine of the sun across the horizon.
"No!!!" Fire burned in Chantelle's eyes as the words came to her again. Strange words… words that spoke of flames and destruction. She could not see anything but the inferno that rose up all around her, purifying her mind of the guilt at Vladimir's death. Anger powered her words as she spoke again, driving the conflagration to new heights. Her last words were nothing but mournful shouts of grief that held no meaning.
Vladimir's body evaporated with the flames, his spirit freed into the sky to seek the peace of the heavens. My one tribute, Chantelle thought as she watched his ashes float high into the air, crisping and sparkling with the last remnants of embers. A hastily conceived cremation, born of a blend of magic and spiritual energy, to send off the departed. What would her own end be like?
Tiras! Where was he? Chantelle frantically stopped her spells, wishing Tiras was safe. Then she saw him, a blackened lump on the ground. The sickeningly sweet smell of burned flesh contrasted oddly with the reek of the maggots' acidic blood. The sorceress ran, dropping next to the charred shape. "Tiras, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to. Vladimir died, and I was so angry. Please…"
Then she saw to her horror that he was still alive. How could anyone…? Tiras weakly grasped her hand, his own disfigured and smelling of ashes. The blue seas of the barbarian's eyes had melted into a red, pus-filled goo. "It's not your fault. I know you didn't mean to–" His voice drifted off as the words became obscured with death. The hand holding hers lost its grip and slipped to rest on his chest in the manner of demise traditionally reserved for fallen warriors.
Chantelle saw that the handsome, tattooed face had caved in, opening gaps where white bone clearly shoved through. Severe burns marked the back of his skull where his long, brown tassel of hair had once been. His skin was leathery and raw, bearing a frightening resemblance to Vladimir's undead. She remembered the necromancer saying to Tiras at the beginning of the battle with the Gorebellies, "You wouldn't be worth raising from the dead." Perhaps the necromancer could have restored life to the robust fighter. But Vladimir was dead too.
The thunder of the Gorebellies increased in volume as the creatures stampeded toward the kneeling girl. She could not see, blinded by her tears. Chantelle knew that the monsters were coming, but she didn't care. She had failed her friends… She had failed everyone, and now it was time to pay the price. It was too late… nothing could absolve her guilt but death. The sweet darkness of the calling oblivion appealed her like nothing else. How beautiful it would be to let the shadows of her mind overcome her at last. The bright light of the sun was blinding, and Chantelle bowed her head as the first club whistled through the air…
"Wake up, Chantelle."