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Unread 17th of July, 2008, 09:19
Cadrius's Avatar
Refusing to Sow [Epic GM]

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His growl matches the fellís own, stride for stride, in both intensity and malice. The pain that had wracked his body is banished with an all-consuming wrath. His fire burns just as brightly as the malevolent heat that dwells within the undead monsterís breast. His blood, the lionís own crimson, is up and it will not rest until one of them is broken and shattered upon this forest floor. Here, with none to bear witness save the mute oaks, maples and birches, his fate will be decided.

The growl becomes a roar, a primal scream of defiance and rage. It is more than a desire to live; it is a refutation of the abomination before him. Fear does not touch his soul. He has no room for it. There is only the staff in his hands and the song his blood sings in his ears. His roar would chill an ordinary man to his core, freezing the blood in his veins. The fell merely watches him with ravenous eyes.

Aswad launches himself at it, coming in fast. The staff is a blur in his hands. The blows land once, twice, thrice. Here, it crushes the creatureís nose sending a burst of steaming blood spraying onto the ground. There, it pounds into its midsection. He brings it around and down, hammering it into the fellís knee and a crack resounds through the woods.

He holds his staff, now broken in twain, its twin laying fractured on the ground. The fell grins its horrible grin and seizes Aswad by the throat. But it isnít the crushing strength that makes his eyes go wide. Itís the heat. It feels as if the fell has a handful of coals pressing against his neck, scalding his flesh. The grip is just loose enough to allow the thinnest stream of air into his lungs, but no more. A moment later the sickening aroma of cooked skin begins to waft into his nose.

It drives him backward. Aswad clenches his fists and flails at it with his hands and feet. He strikes head, throat, and manhood with every ounce of his strength. The blows give the fell no pause or harm, and it crashes his head into the rough bark of a broad tree, sending an explosion of pain flooding his vision. His head aches. The blood thrums in his veins.

Heís jerked forward until he can feel the raw heat waving off of the monsterís face. His vision focuses. Itís staring at him with eyes that are not dead at all, but instead blaze with a wrath that knows no reason or recourse other than to kill. He can feel the hatred intermingling with the foul magic that has cursed it with a purpose after death.

The fell smashes Aswad back into the tree again. And again. And again. The Sarcosanís blows become weaker and weaker until they are no more effective than a gentle breeze. A fleeting memory of her, dark hair flowing over her shoulders, conjures into his mind. Itís the last comfort before the final ride.

The darkness steals over him.
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