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Unread 8th of May, 2008, 00:16
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Cadrius
Refusing to Sow [Epic GM]

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Join Date: Jan 2002
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Location: The Emerald City
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Aswad

Among the men of the south, patricide is one of the gravest sins. Those that are caught are stripped of their rank and status, becoming sheol, never to be given the right of horse again. Further, they are banished from Sarcosan lands upon pain of death. Aswad was never caught. The orcish battalion that swept down upon the Lion’s riders killed without mercy. Those that were not butchered on the scene were scattered to the winds, fleeing across the great open plains.

None had seen him that night. None had borne witness to the ignoble death of Osrick, Lion of the South, Scourge of the Shadow. It was only Aswad’s eyes, brimming with rage and then tears, that watched as the heavy rock rose and fell, coming away crimson. It was only Aswad’s ears that heard the sickening crunch of his father’s skull fracturing. It was only Aswad’s skin that felt the terrible rush that marked his father’s spirit spiraling out into the ether. Did his father make it to the Sorchef for the eternal heaven ride? Did he deserve it? Does Aswad?

The smell of cooked man-flesh fills his nose. It turns his stomach and yet reminds him he hasn’t had a good, hot meal since he left the south. The fell’s head snaps up, rage interrupted, and turns to face the Sarcosan kinslayer.

The staff sits in his hand, feeling as much an extension of his arm as a cavalry spear. Once upon a time, he had watched with primal glee as the spear point disappeared beneath the folds of orcish mail, sending a stream of blood spraying onto the swordgrass. There was satisfaction to be found in death, even if the world would not mourn the passing of one orc. This is one cub that is well acquainted with the hunt.

Aswad spins the staff with his hand, a flourish, and beckons the monster onward. Its mouth, a lecherous rictus, twists into a ghastly smile. Blistered skin cracks and it moves forward, full of intent.

The boy becomes a man. The cub becomes a lion.


Heulwen

The way is slow.

Cytaill does not limp, but the patches of his body where the fur was burned away are still angry and red. Through their spiritual connection Heulwen can feel his pain. His sides and haunches hurt, but the wet of the air feels good on his skin. Beneath that is an undercurrent of pride. He had saved a life.

But despite their intangible link the mind of a wogren is entirely unlike that of a halfling. There are emotions and thoughts that swirl beneath the surface that she cannot fathom. At times when Cytaill looks at her with his lucent eyes she can tell that there is part of him that is not of this world.

The Sarcosan’s trail is not hard to find. Where his feet do not blaze a path of trampled grass and dented earth his smell gives him away. The scent of rage and determination linger in the damp air. There’s something else there too; something sour. Fey. She hastens her pace. Cytaill does the same.

They pass back into the weald, the world around them darkening beneath the thick canopy.


Aswad

The fell lunches for him, its great arms sweeping through the air. Aswad displays a grace and speed that belies his ragged appearance. He pivots, ducking away from its grasp, and swings his staff in a wide arc. It hammers into the fell’s shins with a satisfying crack, but whether it was the wood or the undead bone that splintered is unknown.

It falls forward, hissing in anger as it crashes into the ground. Aswad wastes no time, swinging the staff again. There’s a dull whoosh as it rushes through the air and hammers down upon the fell’s head. The impact drive’s the creature’s face into the ground. It shoves against the ground and rolls away from Aswad. The Sarcosan follows it, continuing his frenzied assault. Yet death has not slowed the fell’s reflexes and it eludes the strike.

Aswad watches as it rises to its feet with a fluid grace. The monster’s chest shakes and hitches. It takes a moment for the realization to dawn on the Sarcosan, but it sends a chill through his veins even though the heat of battle is upon him.

It's laughing.
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