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Chapter Two: Déjà vu
"Sir, sir wake up!" called a barmaid at the Inn of the Last Home in Solace. A restless mage begun to stir awake, heavily hung-over from all the dwarf spirits, "Wha...what time is it?" Nearby sat an elf carefully sipping the same glass of wine, waiting for his friend to regain composure. "Finally awake I see; by the way do you mages always get drunk off your lazy asses?" mocked Asylthas, jolting Seraph to reality. "While we mages get drunk..." Seraph toppled off the bar stool and vomited the remainder of his ailment. "You lazy elves take hours to drink a small glass of wine!" Asylthas and the barmaid could definitely tell Seraph was far too drunk and hung-over to be a threat. "Just to be sure you cannot burn us all to a crisp..." Asylthas joked as he struck the mage across the face, knocking him out, "it wouldn't hurt if you took another nap."
Gently turning Seraph to his side, just incase he vomited again, he wouldn't drown. Raistlin would seek vengeance upon the elf's soul if he failed to keep his great nephew from harm. One way or another, like it or not, Asylthas was stuck in this predicament. Besides that, if he did fail, how would he be able to stand against the most powerful archmagus to ever live, a Golden Robe, and on top of all that, a Demi-God! "This was supposed to be nothing more than an accompany trip and then back to Silvanost," the elf murmured as he took another sip of wine, "why did it have to be me?"
Retracing his steps throughout the last week or so, Asylthas stared blankly into the hearth of the Inn, just as another pair of golden eyes stared back. Jumping nearly a foot, the elf bowed to the flames licking the wooden oak inside the fireplace. "Um, may I ask you kind sir, why are you bowing to the fire in the fireplace?" the barmaid humbly asked. Turning his attention back to the hearth instead of the absent-minded maid, he realized the eyes were gone. Were those truly Raistlin's eyes, or a trick of his own fears? Either way he wasn't going to stick around to find out. Lowering himself from one of the stools a gang of heavily cloaked figures stepped before him as he lifted the mage unto his shoulder.
Four in all, each were armed with massive two handed broadswords and matching daggers to boot. Without his bow, and without the aid of Raistlin or his nephew's magic, how was he going to get out of this one? Carefully Asylthas began to back up toward the bar, but before he took more than three steps back, the cloaked figures reached for their daggers, mainly for easy prey and close quarters. As each of them skillfully drew forth their weapons, Asylthas saw four black objects spiraling toward their defenseless backsides. With a thud four skillets bashed into the brutes' heads and fell helplessly to the floor, knocked well unconscious.
Taking this only chance, Asylthas dashed out of the Inn of the Last Home, narrowly missing Raistlin as he entered the Inn. Not even noticing the mage, the elf continued to run toward the stables, hopefully able to catch a few horses to Silvanesti. Raistlin's golden eyes stared at the battle seen, if you could even call it a battle. The second the hourglass pupils met the four skillets lying on the floor, he knew what had happened. "Déjà vu" was all Raistlin could say. Reminiscing about the days of old, back during the War of the Lance, and the skillet bashing Tika Majere had found such professional talent in.
"Yes, Caramon had somewhat a good choice in women" Raistlin reluctantly admitted, "Tika was just as stubborn as he, and quite the warrior too." Stepping over the unconscious figures, the archmagus sat down in the corner, near the hearth. Allowing the heat of the flames to warm his body, Raistlin drifted off to sleep, just like old times. "Déjà vu" was the last thing Raistlin said before slumber took him.
'Regretting past decisions...Wishing to be mortal only to reminisce of life's grand adventures...Similar to the one hated kender...A mage shall for once, doubt his judgment.' Third of Seven, Chaos' Prophecy.
Chapter Two: Déjà vu
"Sir, sir wake up!" called a barmaid at the Inn of the Last Home in Solace. A restless mage begun to stir awake, heavily hung-over from all the dwarf spirits, "Wha...what time is it?" Nearby sat an elf carefully sipping the same glass of wine, waiting for his friend to regain composure. "Finally awake I see; by the way do you mages always get drunk off your lazy asses?" mocked Asylthas, jolting Seraph to reality. "While we mages get drunk..." Seraph toppled off the bar stool and vomited the remainder of his ailment. "You lazy elves take hours to drink a small glass of wine!" Asylthas and the barmaid could definitely tell Seraph was far too drunk and hung-over to be a threat. "Just to be sure you cannot burn us all to a crisp..." Asylthas joked as he struck the mage across the face, knocking him out, "it wouldn't hurt if you took another nap."
Gently turning Seraph to his side, just incase he vomited again, he wouldn't drown. Raistlin would seek vengeance upon the elf's soul if he failed to keep his great nephew from harm. One way or another, like it or not, Asylthas was stuck in this predicament. Besides that, if he did fail, how would he be able to stand against the most powerful archmagus to ever live, a Golden Robe, and on top of all that, a Demi-God! "This was supposed to be nothing more than an accompany trip and then back to Silvanost," the elf murmured as he took another sip of wine, "why did it have to be me?"
Retracing his steps throughout the last week or so, Asylthas stared blankly into the hearth of the Inn, just as another pair of golden eyes stared back. Jumping nearly a foot, the elf bowed to the flames licking the wooden oak inside the fireplace. "Um, may I ask you kind sir, why are you bowing to the fire in the fireplace?" the barmaid humbly asked. Turning his attention back to the hearth instead of the absent-minded maid, he realized the eyes were gone. Were those truly Raistlin's eyes, or a trick of his own fears? Either way he wasn't going to stick around to find out. Lowering himself from one of the stools a gang of heavily cloaked figures stepped before him as he lifted the mage unto his shoulder.
Four in all, each were armed with massive two handed broadswords and matching daggers to boot. Without his bow, and without the aid of Raistlin or his nephew's magic, how was he going to get out of this one? Carefully Asylthas began to back up toward the bar, but before he took more than three steps back, the cloaked figures reached for their daggers, mainly for easy prey and close quarters. As each of them skillfully drew forth their weapons, Asylthas saw four black objects spiraling toward their defenseless backsides. With a thud four skillets bashed into the brutes' heads and fell helplessly to the floor, knocked well unconscious.
Taking this only chance, Asylthas dashed out of the Inn of the Last Home, narrowly missing Raistlin as he entered the Inn. Not even noticing the mage, the elf continued to run toward the stables, hopefully able to catch a few horses to Silvanesti. Raistlin's golden eyes stared at the battle seen, if you could even call it a battle. The second the hourglass pupils met the four skillets lying on the floor, he knew what had happened. "Déjà vu" was all Raistlin could say. Reminiscing about the days of old, back during the War of the Lance, and the skillet bashing Tika Majere had found such professional talent in.
"Yes, Caramon had somewhat a good choice in women" Raistlin reluctantly admitted, "Tika was just as stubborn as he, and quite the warrior too." Stepping over the unconscious figures, the archmagus sat down in the corner, near the hearth. Allowing the heat of the flames to warm his body, Raistlin drifted off to sleep, just like old times. "Déjà vu" was the last thing Raistlin said before slumber took him.
'Regretting past decisions...Wishing to be mortal only to reminisce of life's grand adventures...Similar to the one hated kender...A mage shall for once, doubt his judgment.' Third of Seven, Chaos' Prophecy.