| Subject: Alright mates. I'm glad you like it so much...Here's the next part and if you still like it, there's plenty more where it came from. |
Author:
Sekin the Happy
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Date Posted: 03:14:10 10/16/03 Thu
In reply to:
Dakkan
's message, "*sits on the edge of his chair* Yes? Yes?? C'mon, don't leave me hangin', matey!" on 01:55:06 10/16/03 Thu
Coming up on the Captain’s right side, Fyrth tried once again for the ribs, knowing that if he could pierce that vital spot, the fight would be over. The long dagger sang viciously through the hot air, held loosely in those long fingers, whirring fiercely as it was thrust forwards, like a wasp positioning itself to sting.
The Captain brought his sword up and in a clear clash of metal the two blades met once again, the smaller dagger gritting stubbornly against the larger weapon. The Captain’s eyes seared into Fyrth’s face, as if seeing him for the first time. “Prehaps I have misjudged you, Serpent of the Night.”
It was as if that title was a key to the shutters behind Fyrth’s eyes, for once it left the Captain’s tainted lips and hung on the air, the dullness to the twin orbs vanished. They gleamed fiercely and were suddenly dangerously clear. Emotion flooded into his face. Pure, undisguised hate surged through his features as if the wall of a dam broke and his emotions poured out like water. He bared his teeth in a horrible snarl, and his fingers clenched so quickly and forcefully on the hilt of his dagger, that his knuckles blushed white.
He surged forwards; ignoring the two weapons locked together, until his face was as close to the Captain’s as it could get. The words came out harshly as if his throat was raw and he spoke them through clenched teeth. “Never, call me that!” Fyrth spoke each word so slowly and so filled with hate and anger that the horsemen surrounding them each moved a black guantleted a hand under their cloaks to their hidden weapons beneath.
The Captain stared at Fyrth’s face for a second or two then he doubled over and broke into sick, tortured laughter that grated on the air just as the dagger grated on the sword. If Fyrth’s face could have held more hate in it then it already did, the empty spaces were consumed with broiling rage. He kicked out with his foot viciously and it connected with the Captain’s chest. The man went staggering backwards, thrusting out a hand behind him to ward against the fall, his bright sword wrenching away from the dagger and swishing downwards as he fell. As his black cloaked back hit the dusty ground and the Captain sprawled in the dirt, Fyrth moved forwards and placed a foot on his chest. The Captain struggled to stand, but Fyrth leaned forwards, applying his full weight and the Captain stopped abruptly.
The rage in Fyrth’s eyes was fading as if a fire had exploded up only to be smothered down again. They were already dulling slightly as Fyrth stared at the man trapped beneath his foot and the ground, his teeth still bared in a snarl and his hand clenching the dagger tightly as he lowered it and placed it to his adversary’s chest.
The Captain showed no sign of fear. He gazed up at Fyrth, his eyes narrowing as he said softly. “You can’t win Fyrth.” Fyrth blinked heavily but remained silent. “If you kill me, my men can kill you.” There came a faint rasping as sixteen blades were drawn simultaneously but the two men never took their eyes off each other. “And Dama’zark shall be angry Fyrth. You think you have felt his wrath? You have no idea what his anger and hate feel like. You won’t survive his rage. You will die far slower and ten times more painfully than even what you felt at the Hunt. Whatever’s left of that ruined mind of yours will snap before the end and you’ll descend through the throes of madness before it’s all over.”
Fyrth didn’t say a single thing but the point of the dagger bit even harder into the Captain’s chest. Fyrth’s eyes were dull again as he gazed down at his adversary, but they were narrowed too, in a trace of the wild hate that had marked his face not a minute before.
The Captain’s eyes flashed. Without a warning and as quickly as a diving hawk, he brought up his sword and stabbed Fyrth’s foot, plunging the blade as deep as he could, with all his might. Fyrth’s face twisted in agony and pain as the Captain drove home his blade, stopping just short of piercing through his opponent’s foot. With a wrench, he withdrew his sword and rolled out from under Fyrth’s lifeless dagger, scrambling to his feet. He stared at Fyrth with a satisfaction that was hideous to see. Almost as if the cat was playing with the mouse, torturing it slowly before it died, and tasting the blood on it’s teeth.
Fyrth sunk down on one knee, dropping the dagger in the dust as his face twisted in pain and he grabbed his bleeding foot in both white hands. Blood streamed down and out from the top of the boot where the sword had entered and flowed down his hands to the dust beneath him. But, even though his face was screwed up in the horrible pain, his eyes were dull and un-shining and no cry of pain escaped his mouth.
The Captain circled slowly around him, grinning a smile that seemed so hellish it was hard to believe that it could contort the faces of anyone living. But it did, twisting his mouth upwards; his eyes glinting like chips of metal.
Suddenly, Fyrth raised his head and stared the Captain right in the eye. He rose suddenly, the dagger leaping into his hand, seemingly unaware of the horrendous wound in his foot, placing his full weight on it. The Captain stared at him in shock for a second and the smile seemed to fade.
Anger replaced it, anger that he couldn’t watch Fyrth writhe and scream at his feet and his brow furrowed in hate. When he spoke it was in a loud and grating voice, addressing his horsemen. “Get this idiot out of my sight, but keep him alive. We’ll let the Dama'zark have the pleasure of killing him.”
Immediately, the black clad men slid slowly out of their saddles, strange black blades held in guantleted hands, their features all but invisible under the dark cowls. They moved slowly forward to flank Fyrth, surrounding him in a circle of steel, all the sword points touching Fyrth’s chest and throat like needles, ready to jab downwards at the slightest hostile move.
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