Curse

Vedruk · Mar 03, 2007, 09:08 PM // 21:08

He fought knee deep in brackish water and seeping oil. Ascalonian steel carved a path through Charr fur and flesh, necromantic magics stole the life from shaman and fiend alike. The screams of the wounded and the howls of the Charr joined for a nightmarish melody. He fought, and knew the battle was only beginning.

He fought knee deep in snow. Ascalonian steel bit deep into dwarven flesh; dwarven catapults tossed their from hundreds off feet away, their payloads sending death in explosive contact with the ground. Spells joined with snow and screams to give the night a truly hellish quality. He fought, and knew the battle could only continue.

He fought in a realm of fire and brimstone. One hand held a well-used, bloodied sword, the other flickered with the casting of deathly spells and curses, entertwining themselves with the lives and deaths of foe and friend alike. His head turned, his eyes drank in his companions, and he knew that he was not alone in this march to a dark and dangerous destiny, for there were shadows of friends beside him, and countless gleaming eyes beyond. He wondered, then, if there was hope, and tossed it aside. There was battle, and he knew it could not end.
------
She sat on the boulder situated next to the campfire, staring across at a man, a companion and, technically speaking, her teacher in matters necromantic, turn slightly in sleep. She studied the scars that crisscrossed the part of his face and wondered how many were scars, and how many were ritual. She had asked him, once, if she would need to make her own such scars; -he- had merely given her a dour smile and told her that such would be unnecessary. Something about only those who found necromancy to be their first life's calling (his smile had grown just for a moment at the phrase) would gain any use from the scars, and she would not.

There was an aristocratic tint to his face; he had mentioned in passing once, the Ascalonian duchy he had been a baron of. Such hadn't been that important to her at the time; what use were Ascalonian titles to a Canthan? What import were Tyrian troubles when she had her own set to deal with? She had, for the most part, changed since then. No matter.

She had met this 'Vedruk Olbein' barely more than half a year ago, when he had been helping a friend in her native Cantha. She had been sent from Elonian, her home from an age earlier than the she currently claimed, to find the 'baron', to learn what she could, to grow into a more proper, well-rounded warrior. Already a skilled enough ranger, what use had she for necromancy? She was beginning to learn differently; however, the thought that not only had she needed to spend so much time -finding- the Ascalonian, but she had to spend time -convincing- him to teach her, and wait even longer afterwards still rankled her.

There wasn't any strength to the feeling, however, no real anger. But...She grinned. No harm, no foul, right?
------
Vedruk flinched in his sleep and awoke, hands going through his mostly short, dark brownish hair, seeking out what had awakened him. "Lyrin." He sighed and flicked the pebble into the near darkness heading away from the very small, near-fire. He spoke in a near whisper, avoiding waking their still sleeping comrades. "It is -not- time for my shift." Rising to a sitting position and opening his eyes (he had long learned to wake easily even when woken so abruptly), "Don't bother acting so innocent. I'm -sure- it wasn't you, madam." Stretching, one hand seeking out his old, strangely uncrumpled hat (a pointed affair with a wide, circular brim, with an image of a moon and stars sewn into the front, near the brim) despite being partially slept on, he continued. "Keep in mind, though, if you find yourself -sweating- tomorrow during practice, well, it wasn't me either, hmm?"