| Subject: Ok, before you read this, let me clarify one thing: I also RP as Elyas Daggerclaw, so no one think that I stole the name Nathair from him. It's actually Celtic for snake which fits Fyrth's title "Serpent of the Night" sp please no one think I stole it from him. Next part's INSIDE> |
Author:
Sekin Brightfall
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Date Posted: 02:01:06 01/04/04 Sun
In reply to:
Sekin Brightfall
's message, "*Laughs and salutes* I'll write more today, but not now cuz the stupid comp's actin' up!" on 20:21:32 01/03/04 Sat
Sarvin was continuing her lesson. “It was in the Battle of Power that the ability to Weave was stamped out…Equipped with incredible powers and with a thirst for conquest, the strongest mages began to wage war on each other. Whole cities were destroyed, mountains were broken and raised, seas drowned in blood, monsters never meant to be seeing by the living walked upon the earth.” She laughed again. “Seems like my kind of place!” Grisen’s hand clenched on his sword hilt. Definitely not sane.
“For sixty seven days the battle raged. Until, finally…they realized that the world was all but destroyed. Civilization was practically wiped out. Fearful of what they had done, of what others could do, they abandoned their magic, and ended the war. Memory for that war stayed with the people for ages. Academies were burned, rebellious mages –the few there were- were executed. The Weaving of magic was slowly but readily forgotten. The actual magic became feral, separated from human contact mutating and destroying itself until now, all that is left are a few strands called Flows. Only a miniscule percentage of people today can sense the Flows and only a smaller portion still, can Weave them. Know why?”
Grisen shook his head.
“Because Weaving requires amazing physical and mental strength. With the Flows as feral as they are, they will lash out at any human emotion, especially need. It’s like swimming in a raging river. You have to keep your head up, otherwise you’ll drown, go under. It’s a cautious fierce battle every step of the way. Sensing them and making them submit to you. That’s why I was so exhausted after Weaving…It drains you, the fight for control. Sometimes, finding the ability to Weave requires, shall I say, a traumatizing experience to unearth the talent…But look at Dama’zark, he’s managed to dominate them, turned them to his will, created a dream world where he rules supreme, and all it cost him was a part of his humanity. A slice of his soul to satisfy the Flows.” She sighed. Wistfully.
With the dead rabbit swinging at her hip, Sarvin turned at an angle through the trees, heading back to the wall and Fyrth. Grisen turned with her. “Why are you telling me all this?” he asked.
Sarvin didn’t glance at him. “Because you are part of the battle that Fyrth and I are waging.”
“Battle?”
Sarvin cocked an eyebrow over one glittering eye. “We deserted Rolark! Do you think Dama’zark will just let us get away?”
“But what are we going to do? We have no apparent plan, no apparent course of action, and we have sixteen Stabnars after us! What are we going to do?”
Sarvin’s knife rushed to her hand in the blink of an eye. Grisen’s sword had half left his scabbard, before he realized that she was only using the bloodied weapon to clip off a few leaves from a plant that he recognized as Sarnroot. A spicy, tangy herb at the best. Before she noticed, Grisen rammed the six inches of blade back into its sheath, feeling the complete idiot.
“Here’s our plan so far,” said Sarvin, tucking the leaves into her belt and twirling the knife back up her arm and into its hidden sheath. “Stay alive!” The Stabnar chuckled fiercely at her own wit but her eyes glowed.
They were silent as they walked back to the wall. Grisen was as tense as a hunting wolf as he strode slightly behind Sarvin, ready to counter any un-expected attack, but the Stabnar seemed calm almost, pacing steadily with graceful, collected steps. Calm one moment, insane the next.
The sun had been swallowed by the horizon completely, the light was dying, fading away as the shadows became one with the dusk. Sarvin’s black cloak hid her well. Except for her fiery hair, she could have been a prowling phantom in the dark forest.
Shadows. Grisen shivered as the evening chorus of insects and birds died down. Shadows, Dama’zark, and Stabnars…He jumped as Sarvin started humming to herself, a strange tune he had never heard before, one that rose and fell like a surging wind. She seemed to bounce lightly on her feet. Crossing them in what appeared to be a dance. Sidestep to the right, twirl, cross to the left, sidestep to the left, twirl, and cross to the right. Suddenly, she began to half sing, half chant a song that rose and fell like the tune she had been humming. Grisen growled as he recognized Dama’zark’s tongue.
“Utyuar e tamorac nathair,
Utyuar! Spequin al’ quisar!
Dama’zark akuar ye Tyrin!”
Spequin nathair! Spequin Shetan evinal!
Spequin tamorac nathair! Dama’zark sen utyuar!”
Grisen shook his head, eyes narrowing. “How do we know that we can trust you?”
Sarvin’s head swiveled around over one shoulder to fix Grisen with a frenzied eye. “Fyrth trusts me more than he trusts you…And why shouldn’t I be trusted?”
Grisen bristled angrily. “You don’t seem entirely…normal. Chanting in Dama’zark’s tongue, speaking as if you’re still in league with him…”
Sarvin’s face darkened, her eyes narrowing to burning slits, her jaw clenched, the muscles bulging in her cheeks. Grisen stared back defiantly and steeled himself inside. Sarvin’s voice was a hissed whisper. “You think me a spy? Did Demarkon look as if he was play-acting to add more cover to my ‘disguise’? Do you think that? Do you?”
Grisen shrugged. “It’s possible.”
“Possible! Possible! Dama’zark would never sacrifice a Stabnar for anything! Demarkon’s loss, Fyrth’s, and my own will be a sore blow to him.”
Grisen decided to let the matter drop. Nodding in understanding, he held up his hands in a dismissing gesture. Sarvin, seemingly satisfied, re-directed her gaze back to the trees ahead of her, lengthening her stride. Grisen followed at the rear. He didn’t like, trust, or believe Sarvin despite what she said, but there was an old saying that went, “Any man who lets the lion sleeps is a wise man.” He could let the lioness have her way, for now, and ask Fyrth about her later. When they were well and truly alone.
Sarvin began to continue her song. This time however, she didn’t dance and she chanted it in English, the words sending unexplained shivers down Grisen’s spine and drawing the night in closer.
“Hunt the Shadow Serpent,
Hunt as he flees.
Hunt the Serpent! Hunt him!
Dama’zark rules in the World of Dreams!
Run Serpent! Run!
Demons of the Night follow!
Run Shadow Serpent! Dama’zark comes!”
She laughed again, throwing back her head to howl in pure delight. “Free! We’re free!” Grisen shook his head and slowly eased his blade from its scabbard. Definitely not sane.
Fyrth hauled himself up the wall easily; the stone was pitted and scared with broad ledges for a foot or handhold. His cloak whistled around him, bunching under his shoulder as he swung himself up onto the wall’s top, landing in a graceful crouch. Rising smoothly, he balanced easily on the narrow rim, dead eyes staring off across the stream, towards the forest on its opposite bank. His face was as slack as usual, his eyes dull, and his arms hanging limply at his sides. His back was to the setting sun, the last rays highlighting his cape golden, turning the swirling dust motes to jewels of light. Of the storm last night, no sign remained. The deepening clouds were dark with oncoming twilight, not the presence of rain.
At his hip, his dagger gleamed in the rays, a glowing star of fire, fallen in the midst of the darkness of his clothes. Fyrth stared out into the forest. “Al’Sheen’al’Tamorac…” It was a whisper, low enough for only him to hear it, dull enough to be considered an echo. “You’re out there somewhere aren’t you? Hunting…But this gadfly has a sting now…This Serpent has a fang...”
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