The battle rage coursed through his veins. Risen to the killing edge,
Aravar slashed his way through the circle of warriors surrounding him. With
a blaze of his Sapphire Jewel, he sent two flying, and vanishing the bow he
had carried, called in a bladed stick. Before they had time to react, two
of his pursuers had lost limbs.
A tiny, unimportant thought tugged at the back of his mind. How long had it been since he had eaten or slept? Aravar pondered this with distant interest. At least a week, he thought. He'd been slashing his way through Askavi, riding the Winds and setting down wherever a city was large enough- and contained enough tainted ones-that he could make a serious impact, on his way to his objective.
Running a hand briefly over his shorn scalp, the Warlord Prince moved fluidly and with deadly grace through the drills he'd done a thousand times. The screams of the fallen were music to his ears as he smiled a savage, feral smile. Calling in some daggers, he threw them at two more assailants, pausing for half a heartbeat to admire them as they buried themselves hilt-deep in the warriors' chests before calling the bladed stick in again.
The blade sliced through flesh and bone like butter, though Aravar was barely aware of it. Two weeks or more at the killing edge had driven him slowly into the Twisted Kingdom, and all he saw was a blood-drenched tainted haze. As he hacked his way through the lines of guards, he finally saw his objective. The Queen of Askavi looked startled by all the commotion, swift as the battle had been. She had called in a gold-hilted dagger and her Opal Jewel shone, but she would be no match for him.
Aravar could taste that bitch's blood.
As he vanished the stick and called in his hunting knife, he ran closer to the woman who now stared wide-eyed ahead at the blood-crazed man before her. Raising the knife triumphantly, he prepared to plunge it into her.
A jolt surprised him, and Aravar had fallen to his knees before he realised that a knife was buried up to the hilt between his shoulder blades.
As the Warlord Prince's breath grew shorter, the bloodred haze retreated, and he thought clearly again for the first time in weeks.
Naeharian! he thought in despair. A picture of his lovely wife swam before his eyes, her long, dark hair falling past her waist, amplifying her luscious curls. Tarian, their daughter, ran up and Naeharian embraced her, lifting the child up in her arms. She stared into the distance, looking troubled by something. Aravar would have worried if this vision weren't a figment of his dying imagination. As it was...
*I'm so sorry, love,* he sent, hoping the thought had enough power to reach her. Pouring the last of his energy into it, he thought dismally that he wouldn't have much strength left to make it to demon-dead-he'd drained himself completely over the preceding weeks. With a sigh, he closed his eyes. Perhaps, once his spirit had returned to the Darkness, had rested awhile, he would be back.
Perhaps.
*****
Naeharian Lartann surveyed her tidy home with pride. She'd had to attend to some people in the community earlier; as a Healer she took great pride in her work. "A Healer helps all who are in need," she said, reciting the first article of the Healer's Creed absentmindedly. It was well into the afternoon now, and golden sunlight streamed into her immaculate kitchen. Time for Tarian to get her lessons done, the Opal-Jewelled witch reflected.
"Tarian!" she yelled, sticking her head out the kitchen window. "Come inside now, love!" The energetic bundle of activity that was her four-year- old daughter came bounding into the kitchen and into her mother's arms.
And the something changed. The world seemed suddenly to be turned on its head, all rights turned wrong and all stability melting into spiritual quicksand.
*I'm so sorry, love.* The familiar voice rang in Naeharian's head, replaced too swiftly by an odd silence. An empty space where there should have been someone-where her husband should have been! She'd tried to stop him from going off, tried to argue that this taint could not be fought...but...to no avail.
Tears dotted her cheeks. "Aravar..." she whispered, holding her daughter close. After a moment, she put Tarian down. "Go read your book, love," she said softly. She sat at the kitchen table, head in hands. Thinking.
"The taint cannot be fought," she mused, "but..." She stopped. "A Healer helps all who are in need," she whispered. This taint put many in need, to be sure. And the desire for revenge already bubbled in her heart. "Tarian!" she called, crisply. "Pack up your things, love. We're leaving for awhile."
Naeharian was going to Heal the taint.
A tiny, unimportant thought tugged at the back of his mind. How long had it been since he had eaten or slept? Aravar pondered this with distant interest. At least a week, he thought. He'd been slashing his way through Askavi, riding the Winds and setting down wherever a city was large enough- and contained enough tainted ones-that he could make a serious impact, on his way to his objective.
Running a hand briefly over his shorn scalp, the Warlord Prince moved fluidly and with deadly grace through the drills he'd done a thousand times. The screams of the fallen were music to his ears as he smiled a savage, feral smile. Calling in some daggers, he threw them at two more assailants, pausing for half a heartbeat to admire them as they buried themselves hilt-deep in the warriors' chests before calling the bladed stick in again.
The blade sliced through flesh and bone like butter, though Aravar was barely aware of it. Two weeks or more at the killing edge had driven him slowly into the Twisted Kingdom, and all he saw was a blood-drenched tainted haze. As he hacked his way through the lines of guards, he finally saw his objective. The Queen of Askavi looked startled by all the commotion, swift as the battle had been. She had called in a gold-hilted dagger and her Opal Jewel shone, but she would be no match for him.
Aravar could taste that bitch's blood.
As he vanished the stick and called in his hunting knife, he ran closer to the woman who now stared wide-eyed ahead at the blood-crazed man before her. Raising the knife triumphantly, he prepared to plunge it into her.
A jolt surprised him, and Aravar had fallen to his knees before he realised that a knife was buried up to the hilt between his shoulder blades.
As the Warlord Prince's breath grew shorter, the bloodred haze retreated, and he thought clearly again for the first time in weeks.
Naeharian! he thought in despair. A picture of his lovely wife swam before his eyes, her long, dark hair falling past her waist, amplifying her luscious curls. Tarian, their daughter, ran up and Naeharian embraced her, lifting the child up in her arms. She stared into the distance, looking troubled by something. Aravar would have worried if this vision weren't a figment of his dying imagination. As it was...
*I'm so sorry, love,* he sent, hoping the thought had enough power to reach her. Pouring the last of his energy into it, he thought dismally that he wouldn't have much strength left to make it to demon-dead-he'd drained himself completely over the preceding weeks. With a sigh, he closed his eyes. Perhaps, once his spirit had returned to the Darkness, had rested awhile, he would be back.
Perhaps.
*****
Naeharian Lartann surveyed her tidy home with pride. She'd had to attend to some people in the community earlier; as a Healer she took great pride in her work. "A Healer helps all who are in need," she said, reciting the first article of the Healer's Creed absentmindedly. It was well into the afternoon now, and golden sunlight streamed into her immaculate kitchen. Time for Tarian to get her lessons done, the Opal-Jewelled witch reflected.
"Tarian!" she yelled, sticking her head out the kitchen window. "Come inside now, love!" The energetic bundle of activity that was her four-year- old daughter came bounding into the kitchen and into her mother's arms.
And the something changed. The world seemed suddenly to be turned on its head, all rights turned wrong and all stability melting into spiritual quicksand.
*I'm so sorry, love.* The familiar voice rang in Naeharian's head, replaced too swiftly by an odd silence. An empty space where there should have been someone-where her husband should have been! She'd tried to stop him from going off, tried to argue that this taint could not be fought...but...to no avail.
Tears dotted her cheeks. "Aravar..." she whispered, holding her daughter close. After a moment, she put Tarian down. "Go read your book, love," she said softly. She sat at the kitchen table, head in hands. Thinking.
"The taint cannot be fought," she mused, "but..." She stopped. "A Healer helps all who are in need," she whispered. This taint put many in need, to be sure. And the desire for revenge already bubbled in her heart. "Tarian!" she called, crisply. "Pack up your things, love. We're leaving for awhile."
Naeharian was going to Heal the taint.
