The sorceress' dark eyes flew open in alarm. She couldn't breathe…something was cutting off her air, choking her. Chantelle struggled to throw off the clinging effects of the odd slumber while her hands clumsily found the object that had been strangling her – a vine! To her surprise, the vine pulsed and constricted even as she attempted to remove it. It was a living noose! The girl let out a frightened gasp as a huge shadow loomed over her in the predawn light. She looked up, terrified that the Gorebellies had finally returned. "No…please, no more," she whimpered inaudibly. The thing above filled her with almost as much dread as one of the massive humanoids. A gargantuan plant with sinuous, undulating vines slithered closer to her immobile body, as graceful as a viper poising for a strike. It reached out with grasping tendrils and bound the sorceress, firmly pinning her arms to her chest. Spikes resembling jagged teeth hovered over her face.
"My magic!" Chantelle thought desperately, "I need my magic!"
Tiras felt sluggish, as if he were moving underwater. Each arm seemed to weigh a hundred pounds. What had happened to him? The last memory he had of the night was drinking the mellifluent water. The barbarian groaned. The liquid must have been poisoned or enchanted. His sharp ears caught a rustle behind him. Cautiously rising to his feet, he cursed the water that dulled his reflexes. The warrior glanced around warily, slowly drawing his swords. But before he could extract the long blades, a thick vine ending in a club-like knob shot into his chest like a battering ram, propelling him into the deceptive pond.
The barbarian instinctively took a deep breath, just a second before submerging. The big man thrashed his arms wildly, thankful that he wasn't wearing any armor. Even a breastplate would have ensured his doom beneath the surface. Tiras regained the calm and detached state so often necessary in combat, and concentrated on getting air. In a few powerful strokes, he reached the surface, drinking in the revitalizing air in deep gasps. Then, he realized the water felt firmer and more viscid than it should. Peering back into the depths of the pond, the warrior discovered to his horror that it had completely changed. The formerly appealing waters had turned a sickly green, and it was difficult to see further than a few feet. It was deeper than he'd ever imagined and the environment was ideal for an underwater predator. As he thought of the possibilities this information could entail, a rubbery tentacle snaked around his ankle and dragged him into the murky underworld.
"You can do this," Chantelle thought through a haze of pain. She whispered with numb lips the words to an early defensive spell designed to break an opponent's hold. Frost spread over the vines covering her body, and she shivered with cold. The sorceress tried to crawl from the binds, but the creature suddenly whipped its ropelike appendages, shaking off the frost and slamming her battered body hard into the ground, taking what breath she'd retained away. Its grip tightened, and she heard a crunching sound in her left arm. Long spikes impaled the other, and the girl screamed when she felt the plant drinking her blood, sucking her life away greedily. Black spots swam in her vision as pain, shock, and loss of blood threatened to overwhelm her.
Vladimir desperately called out to her, "Fire! We need your fire, Chantelle!" The necromancer's commanding voice roused her from the dangerous stupor. The sorceress concentrated hard, hoping the peculiar words would form on her lips again. But nothing happened. The magic had failed her.
She rage and seethed with the unfairness of it all. "When I want it, it doesn't work. When I don't want it, it comes so easily! What is this!"
Vladimir shouted encouragement, "Remember how it worked for you before! Remember, and believe in yourself! You can do it! Give us fire!"
I was angry. I was desperate. I wanted revenge.
Chantelle remembered the dark emotions, remembered them easily, and they gave her a strength she had never felt before. Fire! It blazed deep within her soul, burning and purifying. But it was not painful. Instead, it whispered to her heart. Its voice was soft; its words were sweet and seductive, like a gentle caress inside her mind… The fire released her confused feelings, promising power and control. It poured from her, a river of heat and smoke and flame. It bled out of her skin, out of her hands, out of her heart.
The inferno swallowed the carnivorous plants whole. The creatures writhed in agony, quivering and shaking as leaves were incinerated. Each screamed with unholy fury as it burned into wispy ashes. Chantelle's veins were aflame with exultation as she watched the glorious sight. A feeling of pride filled her. She had called on the capricious element, and it had finally come to her.
Tiras twisted, trying to pry off the clinging tentacle. But it suddenly jerked, bringing him face to face with a prehistoric horror. There was a peculiar arch on its head covered with interconnected plates, possibly for ramming an adversary or as some sort of armour. Glaring yellow-brown eyes hungered for his death, reflecting what little light penetrated the opaque green of the water. The creature snapped its jaws, revealing rows upon rows of long razor-sharp teeth. Its muddy coloring spoke of effective camouflage and silent death. The vague silhouette of its sinewy form led the fighter to wonder just how large the beast was. Another impossibly strong tentacle snaked out of the shadows, wrapping around his neck. The beast's slender neck leaned perceptibly forward, positioning for a strike.
The barbarian had heard of creatures such as this but had made the mistaken assumption that they dwelt solely in Kurast. Called tentacle beasts, they secreted a powerful poison with unpredictable effects, which might explain the quality of the pond. But what was one doing out here in the desert? The aquatic creature bared its huge incisors at the warrior as he thought hysterically of ancient legends. Supposedly, the monsters liked to toy with their victims, teasing and frightening their prey for hours – unless they were very hungry. This one looked positively ravenous.
When the monstrous head was no more than two feet away from incapacitating him, Tiras leaned toward the leviathan and jabbed his fist into its left eye. As it reared back in pain, he slipped free of the suddenly slack grip and, running out of oxygen, frantically raced for the surface. Lack of air forced alien visions into his mind, menacing bubbles and sinister clouds that obscured hope. The barbarian saw the dim outline of the bank and surged forward with renewed vitality, frenziedly scrambling in the liquid of the colossal creature's hunting grounds. He hauled himself onto the shore, crawling and slipping in his haste to escape the treacherous water. His usual adrenaline was replaced by a worrisome lassitude, but he could not worry about that now. Exhausted, the warrior flopped to the ground heavily, gasping deep breaths of the sweet morning air.
The terrible head of the behemoth rose up from the cloudy liquid like some vengeful god. It screamed, a ghastly, stentorian keening. The sound shattered the air, making the ground tremble in fear. Tiras rolled back and forth on the ground, covering his ears with both hands in agony as the noise reverberated through his head. It felt like his head would explode at any given moment. The fighter pressed his hands harder against the sides of his head to keep his skull in one piece. He was being reduced to a mindless nothing, defeated before the fight had begun. If the creature chose to struck now…
Surely it will end now, he thought. Death would be preferable to this immobilizing fear. The warrior had never before known such fear. He crawled wretchedly, pathetically, as not a fighter but an infant. He imagined how his people would react, the embarrassment of his tribesmen, the dishonor of his family. How they would suddenly fall silent when his name was mentioned, or worse, how the tribal villagers would laugh at his faltering, his fear, his shame. Tiras cringed and writhed in agony. He would not die this way! There was no honor in this, only shame and disgrace. The barbarian growled with defiance. He would die, but he would at least die the glorious death he'd imagined all his life. Not as a sniveling coward. Not ever. "You can kill me, but you cannot stop me!"
The leviathan eyed the warrior hungrily, and grew still higher, and higher, and higher until it filled the sky with its slimy, dripping mass. Its grotesque shape demanded all attention, shielded as it was with bulky muscle and lean brown-grey skin. Reptilian eyes shone slanted, the left tinged an angry red. The creature screamed without warning again, this time in surprised pain. A pale, shimmering spear had impaled and passed through the monster's tough hide as if the tough, leathery armour of its skin were nothing. Tiras, grateful for the respite, guessed it had probably come from the necromancer. He drew out a long, curved dagger, felt the perfect balance of the barbarian-crafted blade, and flung it into the beast's gaping maw.
It sank home, far into the thing's throat. But even with a knife lodged in its throat, the monster refused to die. Foot-long teeth flashed in the pink dawn, shredding the warrior's chest with a sickeningly wet noise. Tiras managed to just barely avoid a deathblow, throwing himself back. Standing with great difficulty, pain shooting through his body with each movement, he grasped his remaining sword and leapt high into the air as the creature struck again. The barbarian cleaved the air with every once of strength left within. Blood, lots of blood, gushed into the waiting waters below. Its color was hard to determine, mixing with an overpowering green. A cleanly separated head slid from its body with a spray of blue, viscous blood. The wounded warrior landed on the far side of the pond with a snarl of agony. At least he had conquered the debilitating fear that had threatened to steal his very soul. "Now I can die with peace…" he thought as he sank into merciful darkness.
Vladimir surveyed the scene of carnage with a small smirk. Burned husks of plants lay arbitrarily scattered. The monstrous leviathan's body had sunk back into the pond after its demise, leaving not a trace of the epic struggle, except for the jagged, torn flesh of Tiras' chest. The skull of the creature could have been very useful for a certain necromantic spell, rare as the cranium of a tentacle beast was in the Aranoch deserts. But he had not acted quickly enough to save the skull, and now the effort to retrieve it would drain strength that would soon be necessary. "Soon," he said to himself with eyes of flame, "I won't need it!" With a self-satisfied smile, the dark sorcerer drew out a large blood-red vial and prepared to administer the combatant's wounds.
"Don't charge so recklessly into unknown areas anymore, warrior."
The warrior in question looked up from the meticulous work of sharpening his last word. Extensive cleaning and polishing earlier already rendered the blade a gleaming glory. The group had been nursing its wounds at a safe distance from the supposed desert oasis. Healing potions had knit the worst of Chantelle and Tiras' wounds, stopped the bleeding, and given additional resistance to infection and disease, but rest was still a critical factor in recovery.
Tiras scowled. It was obvious that he had wanted his mistake to go unnoticed in all the commotion. "Well, it's not like you did much to help when there was fighting to be done. You just threw a spear. And where were you when the plants attacked?"
"I merely used a few illusions to disguise myself as one of them. Don't question me. If I hadn't thrown that spear, you would've been killed! I saved your life!"
"I didn't ask you to help me. You were only interfering with my fight!" Tiras grimaced with the probable truth of the blond man's words. Hopefully no one had seen his awkward fear. But the next words shattered this hope.
""What fight? You were crawling around like an infant child!" The warrior was too ashamed to reply, falling prematurely silent.
Chantelle sighed inwardly to herself. More senseless bickering as usual. When would they ever stop? "Can we go on our way now? Tiras, we should thank Vladimir for his aid in saving our lives, not condemn and question him. Besides, we did go and drink the poisoned water." The sorceress smiled at Vladimir in gratitude. Once more, his entrancing eyes caught hold of hers in its dark mystery. Dimly, she heard Tiras still talking, but the dark sorcerer held her attention in his gaze. His lips twisted into a cynical smile, and Chantelle broke her stare, flustered.
Tiras repeated his question patiently. "What do we do now?" The two seemed unaware that he still existed. Since when had Chantelle become so interested in the dark-eyed magic-user? Any uneasiness she had felt about necromancers had obviously vanished. What was happening to her lately? Tiras tried to deny it to himself, but he found that he was growing more attached to the girl by the day. He admired her determination, her beauty… The sense of agitation he had felt before had all but vanished, replaced by regret on his part for not capitalizing on his natural advantage over the foul death-wielder. When had this happened? The sense of unease he had felt before had vanished entirely. Was he... jealous? Of a necromancer? When had he become so attracted to Chantelle?
Vladimir's sharp voice cut into his musings. "We must take inventory and check our supplies. I believe we are running low on food and water, and finding these will be difficult in the open desert. I also recommend that we not approach any more supposed oases," he finished dryly.
Tiras flushed, but struggled to calm himself. There had been enough shame in one day to last for the rest of his life. Instead, he recalled how his movements had seemed so lethargic and weak earlier. "The poison. It's not in me anymore. It is your doing?"
The necromancer shrugged. "I am, after all, proficient in the knowledge of herb lore, due to my calling. One of the first things every priest of Rathma learns is how to treat a poison, in the event that he or she accidentally absorbs the toxins. This particular miasma dwelt in the waters, a virulent strain that insinuated itself into your bloodstream. It is relatively slow moving, as poisons go. It spread throughout your bodies and would have rendered your muscles useless. It would not, however, have caused your death. Instead, indigenous predators like these plants would kill you, and the liquid would absorb the blood from the plants' roots."
"You're saying that water is alive?"
"In a sense, yes. Those are living waters, but they do not actively move about. But they do feed, and their food is your blood, which carries many useful nutrients essential to its life."
The barbarian snorted in disgust, clearly disbelieving. "I've just about had enough nonsense for one day. Living water! It's like saying that you are Duriel!" At the invocation, the land shuddered and Vladimir's eyes flared brightly. His mouth twisted in a harshly arrogant sneer. Chantelle did not seem to hear them, shuddering as if reliving an unpleasant memory. "It was drinking my blood!" she whispered brokenly.
Tiras longed to stroke her sleek black locks, breathe in her lovely scent, and perhaps…but the necromancer acted first. "We are safe now, Chantelle. The morning's horrors have wearied you, but they are gone now. Relax, and rest."
Giving in to the soft, intense words and closing her eyes, Chantelle sank into the dark sorcerer's warm arms. His hand stroked her long hair soothingly, tracing the curve of her neck in soft trails of fire. Tiras could only watch in helpless frustration and consuming jealousy. That was exactly what he had wanted to do! How could this Vladimir just…take her like that? He didn't even like her, did he? Completing his thoughts, the dark sorcerer left the girl standing there with a few last words. "We must go."
Confused, the sorceress opened her eyes, only to confront Tiras' grim, pained look. Without a word, he stalked off too, leaving the girl alone in the sands of the vast desert.
"My magic!" Chantelle thought desperately, "I need my magic!"
Tiras felt sluggish, as if he were moving underwater. Each arm seemed to weigh a hundred pounds. What had happened to him? The last memory he had of the night was drinking the mellifluent water. The barbarian groaned. The liquid must have been poisoned or enchanted. His sharp ears caught a rustle behind him. Cautiously rising to his feet, he cursed the water that dulled his reflexes. The warrior glanced around warily, slowly drawing his swords. But before he could extract the long blades, a thick vine ending in a club-like knob shot into his chest like a battering ram, propelling him into the deceptive pond.
The barbarian instinctively took a deep breath, just a second before submerging. The big man thrashed his arms wildly, thankful that he wasn't wearing any armor. Even a breastplate would have ensured his doom beneath the surface. Tiras regained the calm and detached state so often necessary in combat, and concentrated on getting air. In a few powerful strokes, he reached the surface, drinking in the revitalizing air in deep gasps. Then, he realized the water felt firmer and more viscid than it should. Peering back into the depths of the pond, the warrior discovered to his horror that it had completely changed. The formerly appealing waters had turned a sickly green, and it was difficult to see further than a few feet. It was deeper than he'd ever imagined and the environment was ideal for an underwater predator. As he thought of the possibilities this information could entail, a rubbery tentacle snaked around his ankle and dragged him into the murky underworld.
"You can do this," Chantelle thought through a haze of pain. She whispered with numb lips the words to an early defensive spell designed to break an opponent's hold. Frost spread over the vines covering her body, and she shivered with cold. The sorceress tried to crawl from the binds, but the creature suddenly whipped its ropelike appendages, shaking off the frost and slamming her battered body hard into the ground, taking what breath she'd retained away. Its grip tightened, and she heard a crunching sound in her left arm. Long spikes impaled the other, and the girl screamed when she felt the plant drinking her blood, sucking her life away greedily. Black spots swam in her vision as pain, shock, and loss of blood threatened to overwhelm her.
Vladimir desperately called out to her, "Fire! We need your fire, Chantelle!" The necromancer's commanding voice roused her from the dangerous stupor. The sorceress concentrated hard, hoping the peculiar words would form on her lips again. But nothing happened. The magic had failed her.
She rage and seethed with the unfairness of it all. "When I want it, it doesn't work. When I don't want it, it comes so easily! What is this!"
Vladimir shouted encouragement, "Remember how it worked for you before! Remember, and believe in yourself! You can do it! Give us fire!"
I was angry. I was desperate. I wanted revenge.
Chantelle remembered the dark emotions, remembered them easily, and they gave her a strength she had never felt before. Fire! It blazed deep within her soul, burning and purifying. But it was not painful. Instead, it whispered to her heart. Its voice was soft; its words were sweet and seductive, like a gentle caress inside her mind… The fire released her confused feelings, promising power and control. It poured from her, a river of heat and smoke and flame. It bled out of her skin, out of her hands, out of her heart.
The inferno swallowed the carnivorous plants whole. The creatures writhed in agony, quivering and shaking as leaves were incinerated. Each screamed with unholy fury as it burned into wispy ashes. Chantelle's veins were aflame with exultation as she watched the glorious sight. A feeling of pride filled her. She had called on the capricious element, and it had finally come to her.
Tiras twisted, trying to pry off the clinging tentacle. But it suddenly jerked, bringing him face to face with a prehistoric horror. There was a peculiar arch on its head covered with interconnected plates, possibly for ramming an adversary or as some sort of armour. Glaring yellow-brown eyes hungered for his death, reflecting what little light penetrated the opaque green of the water. The creature snapped its jaws, revealing rows upon rows of long razor-sharp teeth. Its muddy coloring spoke of effective camouflage and silent death. The vague silhouette of its sinewy form led the fighter to wonder just how large the beast was. Another impossibly strong tentacle snaked out of the shadows, wrapping around his neck. The beast's slender neck leaned perceptibly forward, positioning for a strike.
The barbarian had heard of creatures such as this but had made the mistaken assumption that they dwelt solely in Kurast. Called tentacle beasts, they secreted a powerful poison with unpredictable effects, which might explain the quality of the pond. But what was one doing out here in the desert? The aquatic creature bared its huge incisors at the warrior as he thought hysterically of ancient legends. Supposedly, the monsters liked to toy with their victims, teasing and frightening their prey for hours – unless they were very hungry. This one looked positively ravenous.
When the monstrous head was no more than two feet away from incapacitating him, Tiras leaned toward the leviathan and jabbed his fist into its left eye. As it reared back in pain, he slipped free of the suddenly slack grip and, running out of oxygen, frantically raced for the surface. Lack of air forced alien visions into his mind, menacing bubbles and sinister clouds that obscured hope. The barbarian saw the dim outline of the bank and surged forward with renewed vitality, frenziedly scrambling in the liquid of the colossal creature's hunting grounds. He hauled himself onto the shore, crawling and slipping in his haste to escape the treacherous water. His usual adrenaline was replaced by a worrisome lassitude, but he could not worry about that now. Exhausted, the warrior flopped to the ground heavily, gasping deep breaths of the sweet morning air.
The terrible head of the behemoth rose up from the cloudy liquid like some vengeful god. It screamed, a ghastly, stentorian keening. The sound shattered the air, making the ground tremble in fear. Tiras rolled back and forth on the ground, covering his ears with both hands in agony as the noise reverberated through his head. It felt like his head would explode at any given moment. The fighter pressed his hands harder against the sides of his head to keep his skull in one piece. He was being reduced to a mindless nothing, defeated before the fight had begun. If the creature chose to struck now…
Surely it will end now, he thought. Death would be preferable to this immobilizing fear. The warrior had never before known such fear. He crawled wretchedly, pathetically, as not a fighter but an infant. He imagined how his people would react, the embarrassment of his tribesmen, the dishonor of his family. How they would suddenly fall silent when his name was mentioned, or worse, how the tribal villagers would laugh at his faltering, his fear, his shame. Tiras cringed and writhed in agony. He would not die this way! There was no honor in this, only shame and disgrace. The barbarian growled with defiance. He would die, but he would at least die the glorious death he'd imagined all his life. Not as a sniveling coward. Not ever. "You can kill me, but you cannot stop me!"
The leviathan eyed the warrior hungrily, and grew still higher, and higher, and higher until it filled the sky with its slimy, dripping mass. Its grotesque shape demanded all attention, shielded as it was with bulky muscle and lean brown-grey skin. Reptilian eyes shone slanted, the left tinged an angry red. The creature screamed without warning again, this time in surprised pain. A pale, shimmering spear had impaled and passed through the monster's tough hide as if the tough, leathery armour of its skin were nothing. Tiras, grateful for the respite, guessed it had probably come from the necromancer. He drew out a long, curved dagger, felt the perfect balance of the barbarian-crafted blade, and flung it into the beast's gaping maw.
It sank home, far into the thing's throat. But even with a knife lodged in its throat, the monster refused to die. Foot-long teeth flashed in the pink dawn, shredding the warrior's chest with a sickeningly wet noise. Tiras managed to just barely avoid a deathblow, throwing himself back. Standing with great difficulty, pain shooting through his body with each movement, he grasped his remaining sword and leapt high into the air as the creature struck again. The barbarian cleaved the air with every once of strength left within. Blood, lots of blood, gushed into the waiting waters below. Its color was hard to determine, mixing with an overpowering green. A cleanly separated head slid from its body with a spray of blue, viscous blood. The wounded warrior landed on the far side of the pond with a snarl of agony. At least he had conquered the debilitating fear that had threatened to steal his very soul. "Now I can die with peace…" he thought as he sank into merciful darkness.
Vladimir surveyed the scene of carnage with a small smirk. Burned husks of plants lay arbitrarily scattered. The monstrous leviathan's body had sunk back into the pond after its demise, leaving not a trace of the epic struggle, except for the jagged, torn flesh of Tiras' chest. The skull of the creature could have been very useful for a certain necromantic spell, rare as the cranium of a tentacle beast was in the Aranoch deserts. But he had not acted quickly enough to save the skull, and now the effort to retrieve it would drain strength that would soon be necessary. "Soon," he said to himself with eyes of flame, "I won't need it!" With a self-satisfied smile, the dark sorcerer drew out a large blood-red vial and prepared to administer the combatant's wounds.
"Don't charge so recklessly into unknown areas anymore, warrior."
The warrior in question looked up from the meticulous work of sharpening his last word. Extensive cleaning and polishing earlier already rendered the blade a gleaming glory. The group had been nursing its wounds at a safe distance from the supposed desert oasis. Healing potions had knit the worst of Chantelle and Tiras' wounds, stopped the bleeding, and given additional resistance to infection and disease, but rest was still a critical factor in recovery.
Tiras scowled. It was obvious that he had wanted his mistake to go unnoticed in all the commotion. "Well, it's not like you did much to help when there was fighting to be done. You just threw a spear. And where were you when the plants attacked?"
"I merely used a few illusions to disguise myself as one of them. Don't question me. If I hadn't thrown that spear, you would've been killed! I saved your life!"
"I didn't ask you to help me. You were only interfering with my fight!" Tiras grimaced with the probable truth of the blond man's words. Hopefully no one had seen his awkward fear. But the next words shattered this hope.
""What fight? You were crawling around like an infant child!" The warrior was too ashamed to reply, falling prematurely silent.
Chantelle sighed inwardly to herself. More senseless bickering as usual. When would they ever stop? "Can we go on our way now? Tiras, we should thank Vladimir for his aid in saving our lives, not condemn and question him. Besides, we did go and drink the poisoned water." The sorceress smiled at Vladimir in gratitude. Once more, his entrancing eyes caught hold of hers in its dark mystery. Dimly, she heard Tiras still talking, but the dark sorcerer held her attention in his gaze. His lips twisted into a cynical smile, and Chantelle broke her stare, flustered.
Tiras repeated his question patiently. "What do we do now?" The two seemed unaware that he still existed. Since when had Chantelle become so interested in the dark-eyed magic-user? Any uneasiness she had felt about necromancers had obviously vanished. What was happening to her lately? Tiras tried to deny it to himself, but he found that he was growing more attached to the girl by the day. He admired her determination, her beauty… The sense of agitation he had felt before had all but vanished, replaced by regret on his part for not capitalizing on his natural advantage over the foul death-wielder. When had this happened? The sense of unease he had felt before had vanished entirely. Was he... jealous? Of a necromancer? When had he become so attracted to Chantelle?
Vladimir's sharp voice cut into his musings. "We must take inventory and check our supplies. I believe we are running low on food and water, and finding these will be difficult in the open desert. I also recommend that we not approach any more supposed oases," he finished dryly.
Tiras flushed, but struggled to calm himself. There had been enough shame in one day to last for the rest of his life. Instead, he recalled how his movements had seemed so lethargic and weak earlier. "The poison. It's not in me anymore. It is your doing?"
The necromancer shrugged. "I am, after all, proficient in the knowledge of herb lore, due to my calling. One of the first things every priest of Rathma learns is how to treat a poison, in the event that he or she accidentally absorbs the toxins. This particular miasma dwelt in the waters, a virulent strain that insinuated itself into your bloodstream. It is relatively slow moving, as poisons go. It spread throughout your bodies and would have rendered your muscles useless. It would not, however, have caused your death. Instead, indigenous predators like these plants would kill you, and the liquid would absorb the blood from the plants' roots."
"You're saying that water is alive?"
"In a sense, yes. Those are living waters, but they do not actively move about. But they do feed, and their food is your blood, which carries many useful nutrients essential to its life."
The barbarian snorted in disgust, clearly disbelieving. "I've just about had enough nonsense for one day. Living water! It's like saying that you are Duriel!" At the invocation, the land shuddered and Vladimir's eyes flared brightly. His mouth twisted in a harshly arrogant sneer. Chantelle did not seem to hear them, shuddering as if reliving an unpleasant memory. "It was drinking my blood!" she whispered brokenly.
Tiras longed to stroke her sleek black locks, breathe in her lovely scent, and perhaps…but the necromancer acted first. "We are safe now, Chantelle. The morning's horrors have wearied you, but they are gone now. Relax, and rest."
Giving in to the soft, intense words and closing her eyes, Chantelle sank into the dark sorcerer's warm arms. His hand stroked her long hair soothingly, tracing the curve of her neck in soft trails of fire. Tiras could only watch in helpless frustration and consuming jealousy. That was exactly what he had wanted to do! How could this Vladimir just…take her like that? He didn't even like her, did he? Completing his thoughts, the dark sorcerer left the girl standing there with a few last words. "We must go."
Confused, the sorceress opened her eyes, only to confront Tiras' grim, pained look. Without a word, he stalked off too, leaving the girl alone in the sands of the vast desert.