Post by warraven on Nov 4, 2007 0:42:51 GMT -5
((just moving this story over to the new forum...))
Eonthane felt a pang of sharp regret seconds before he fell. That perhaps he was wrong in what he did… but there was no time for regret, really. The human’s face was set and without emotion, barely inches from his own, and Eonthane finally closed his eyes as sickening pain overtook his frail body. A hand closed around his neck, the elf gasped, and the short sword was pulled free and the last thing Eonthane felt was being shoved hard backwards, and then the sensation of falling…
There had been another time of despair. Sitting on the bank, the walls of Silvermoon City so far in the distance he only knew they were there because that was his home. It was as if he could see them through the trees and through the cold in his veins. On one side of the bank lay the dead. The Wretched, curled up in agonized positions with not a mark on them. That was his doing. He’d torn them apart, one by one, the arcane magic pulsing in his veins like a beat he could hear, roaring in his ears as he summoned up the magical energies he needed to work his destructive intent. It was so seductive. It set his nerves afire and beckoned him to give in and listen to it forever. He hated it and so he slaughtered the Wretched, hating them. They were every weakness his race had… they were the weakness he had. And so he hated them as he hated himself and the addiction that all Sin’dorei had to fight.
Realization had come slowly. Only once they lay dead scattered around him and he was utterly exhausted and pushed to his limits. He’d swam the river then, curling down to the very bottom and hugging the sandy floor until he was nearly out of breath. As if the water could wash everything away. He regretted that now. Symbolism couldn’t erase the bodies on the opposite shore; it couldn’t erase his own addiction or the cold fact that he had enjoyed killing those creatures that had once been his kin.
He wondered what his brother and sisters would think of him now. Wondered if they would have done the same – or if they already had.
So he shivered and felt deep within his heart despair settle in. In that act, killing the Wretched who had been causing so much trouble for the rangers, he had also erased his last bit of hope and compassion for those who had succumbed. The shivering was only partly due to the water. As much as he despised the cold the weather in the forest was fair and he could not blame this entire affliction on his physical weakness. Mostly, it was because he had passed some sort of a line… stepped over some boundary and watched the last of what he had hoped for and wanted die with those Wretched.
Already the ones he had left alone were starting to pick over the bodies. The fact their fellow Wretched had died in agony did not seem to bother them. They had died suffering, sure enough – Eonthane had seen to it. Part of him had died in suffering as well.
He despaired the fact he did not want that part back.
There was always one last spell Eonthane kept in reserve. A last resort, for when things went bad. He had long ago realized his own physical weakness. He was scrawny, unable to hold his own in a fight, and his prolonged use of shadow magic led him to bouts of extreme weariness. The cold also bothered him, constantly. As did direct exposure to the sun. He knew he could die easily, that he had to rely on his cunning and what magic he had learned as a priest to preserve himself. So there was one last spell, something that bound his soul to his body no matter what injury was inflicted.
A death-like trance that would hopefully fool whatever creature bested him. Apparently it had worked with the humans. Eonthane came to slowly, fighting the nether off and forcing himself to feel what damage had been done to his body. The pain helped. He clung to it. The ache in his ribs, the sharp throbbing in his left shoulder, and the sickening wave from his abdomen that said something was horribly wrong and the body had no idea how to tell his mind just how badly injured he was. Eonthane rolled his head to the side and coughed up blood, tasted copper and dirt on his lips.
The healing spells came easy to him. Warmth flooded through his form, he shivered at its sudden effect and sucked his breath in to keep from crying out at the sudden release from the pain. He ached though. Badly. But at least he would live. He moved, slowly, opening his eyes and looking around him. There was brush – broken and crushed by his fall – and trees. The crumbling wall of Durnholde Keep to his right. He peered upwards and saw the shape of a human, standing watch along the wall. Might even be the one that had stabbed him and thrown him off. He didn’t know. Time had passed but he was unsure of how much.
Carefully, Eonthane rose to a crouch. He felt dizzy and after a moment summoned up more strength to send another wave of healing through his battered frame. The warmth was soothing and for a moment he relaxed into it, breathing slowly. He’d lived. The humans thought him dead but he was not.
Still. So… weak… Eonthane closed his eyes tight and his hands closed in on themselves in frustration born of despair. He had always been frail. There was so much he wanted to do – and it always seemed out of his grasp!
He had seen Silvermoon when he fell from the wall. Before he blacked out he saw Silvermoon. Not as it was before – he was too young. Not as it was now. But as it should be. And he had not the strength of will or dedication to do anything.
He had killed two of those humans before their numbers overcame him. Magic alone had held them off but as soon as that failed and he felt his resources growing thin they overcame him within minutes. A few sharp blows and one sword…
The elf shuddered and put his hand to his stomach. The fabric of his robe was torn and soaked with his own blood. The skin underneath was smooth to the touch, healed by his own magic. He was very cold though. It must be growing close to evening.
He’d need to find a place to hole up in for the night. Tarren Mill was too far away as of right now. He wanted to find a place to rest before nightfall. He’d have to get away from the Keep. Grimly, he shoved his own doubt aside and stood. Picked up his staff from where it had fallen. The thing had served him well for quite some time.
The guard appeared to be alone on the wall. Apparently they thought the threat was eliminated. Not yet though. Eonthane pulled his lips back in a snarl and felt that familiar hatred swell inside him. It was an old friend, made back on that bank in Eversong Woods. Confined as he was to this path of a priest, it was this hatred that allowed him some freedom within it.
He wanted to make them hurt as he did.
It was a single word, hissed, and the magic surged through his veins and beat in his ears like the tempo of his own heart. The human let out a strangled gasp and doubled over. Eonthane could only imagine what he was feeling. The nerves dancing with fire along them… like poison in the veins. Dulling the senses with the constant demand, a sourceless agony ripping through flesh and muscle and mind. This was far more terrifying than a sword. A sword could be held and understood. Its violence was real, hard and fast. Eonthane’s magic was something else entirely and the human was helpless before it.
He unleashed the power of his mind against the guard, backing away from the wall and concentrating, shadow energy growing about him, and then he released it against the human’s mind. Images danced in his thoughts. The pain at finding an empty home. The years of confusion and uncertainty. The last vestiges of hope drifting away on the tide of a river. Giving up. The sick feeling he had at the very pleasure he took in making others hurt. All these things wrapped into one single blast and slammed into the mind of his victim. He’d make them suffer as well.
The human reeled. He had finally realized where the attack was coming from and had drawn his bow but the sudden mental assault sent his arrow wild. Eonthane chuckled darkly and readied his fire. Holy light lanced through the human – such a pure substance turned into something else entirely by his will. The beast fell with a cry, weapon clattering from his hand. Eonthane squinted up at the wall, no longer able to see his quarry. He was uncertain if he were dead or not. Part of him hoped that no, he was merely knocked helpless. The shadow word he’d laid on him would last then, inflicting injury upon small injury as the human shuddered and cried for help.
Of course, he couldn’t linger any longer now. That would attract attention and they’d search for whoever had done it. They’d discover that they hadn’t managed to kill the elf. He had to be gone, quickly.
Laughing under his breath, Eonthane turned and ran from the keep, slipping along the embankment. He’d find a place to spend the night and in the morning he’d try again. They’d be licking their wounds, carrying off their dead, and he’d hit them again tomorrow. Slink in through the gap in the wall and kill them off, one by one, until his task was accomplished.
He didn’t even really care about the reason he’d been sent there. All he knew now was that he wanted to make them suffer tenfold in turn.
There was no remorse. It was washed away, like on the tides of the river.
Eonthane felt a pang of sharp regret seconds before he fell. That perhaps he was wrong in what he did… but there was no time for regret, really. The human’s face was set and without emotion, barely inches from his own, and Eonthane finally closed his eyes as sickening pain overtook his frail body. A hand closed around his neck, the elf gasped, and the short sword was pulled free and the last thing Eonthane felt was being shoved hard backwards, and then the sensation of falling…
There had been another time of despair. Sitting on the bank, the walls of Silvermoon City so far in the distance he only knew they were there because that was his home. It was as if he could see them through the trees and through the cold in his veins. On one side of the bank lay the dead. The Wretched, curled up in agonized positions with not a mark on them. That was his doing. He’d torn them apart, one by one, the arcane magic pulsing in his veins like a beat he could hear, roaring in his ears as he summoned up the magical energies he needed to work his destructive intent. It was so seductive. It set his nerves afire and beckoned him to give in and listen to it forever. He hated it and so he slaughtered the Wretched, hating them. They were every weakness his race had… they were the weakness he had. And so he hated them as he hated himself and the addiction that all Sin’dorei had to fight.
Realization had come slowly. Only once they lay dead scattered around him and he was utterly exhausted and pushed to his limits. He’d swam the river then, curling down to the very bottom and hugging the sandy floor until he was nearly out of breath. As if the water could wash everything away. He regretted that now. Symbolism couldn’t erase the bodies on the opposite shore; it couldn’t erase his own addiction or the cold fact that he had enjoyed killing those creatures that had once been his kin.
He wondered what his brother and sisters would think of him now. Wondered if they would have done the same – or if they already had.
So he shivered and felt deep within his heart despair settle in. In that act, killing the Wretched who had been causing so much trouble for the rangers, he had also erased his last bit of hope and compassion for those who had succumbed. The shivering was only partly due to the water. As much as he despised the cold the weather in the forest was fair and he could not blame this entire affliction on his physical weakness. Mostly, it was because he had passed some sort of a line… stepped over some boundary and watched the last of what he had hoped for and wanted die with those Wretched.
Already the ones he had left alone were starting to pick over the bodies. The fact their fellow Wretched had died in agony did not seem to bother them. They had died suffering, sure enough – Eonthane had seen to it. Part of him had died in suffering as well.
He despaired the fact he did not want that part back.
There was always one last spell Eonthane kept in reserve. A last resort, for when things went bad. He had long ago realized his own physical weakness. He was scrawny, unable to hold his own in a fight, and his prolonged use of shadow magic led him to bouts of extreme weariness. The cold also bothered him, constantly. As did direct exposure to the sun. He knew he could die easily, that he had to rely on his cunning and what magic he had learned as a priest to preserve himself. So there was one last spell, something that bound his soul to his body no matter what injury was inflicted.
A death-like trance that would hopefully fool whatever creature bested him. Apparently it had worked with the humans. Eonthane came to slowly, fighting the nether off and forcing himself to feel what damage had been done to his body. The pain helped. He clung to it. The ache in his ribs, the sharp throbbing in his left shoulder, and the sickening wave from his abdomen that said something was horribly wrong and the body had no idea how to tell his mind just how badly injured he was. Eonthane rolled his head to the side and coughed up blood, tasted copper and dirt on his lips.
The healing spells came easy to him. Warmth flooded through his form, he shivered at its sudden effect and sucked his breath in to keep from crying out at the sudden release from the pain. He ached though. Badly. But at least he would live. He moved, slowly, opening his eyes and looking around him. There was brush – broken and crushed by his fall – and trees. The crumbling wall of Durnholde Keep to his right. He peered upwards and saw the shape of a human, standing watch along the wall. Might even be the one that had stabbed him and thrown him off. He didn’t know. Time had passed but he was unsure of how much.
Carefully, Eonthane rose to a crouch. He felt dizzy and after a moment summoned up more strength to send another wave of healing through his battered frame. The warmth was soothing and for a moment he relaxed into it, breathing slowly. He’d lived. The humans thought him dead but he was not.
Still. So… weak… Eonthane closed his eyes tight and his hands closed in on themselves in frustration born of despair. He had always been frail. There was so much he wanted to do – and it always seemed out of his grasp!
He had seen Silvermoon when he fell from the wall. Before he blacked out he saw Silvermoon. Not as it was before – he was too young. Not as it was now. But as it should be. And he had not the strength of will or dedication to do anything.
He had killed two of those humans before their numbers overcame him. Magic alone had held them off but as soon as that failed and he felt his resources growing thin they overcame him within minutes. A few sharp blows and one sword…
The elf shuddered and put his hand to his stomach. The fabric of his robe was torn and soaked with his own blood. The skin underneath was smooth to the touch, healed by his own magic. He was very cold though. It must be growing close to evening.
He’d need to find a place to hole up in for the night. Tarren Mill was too far away as of right now. He wanted to find a place to rest before nightfall. He’d have to get away from the Keep. Grimly, he shoved his own doubt aside and stood. Picked up his staff from where it had fallen. The thing had served him well for quite some time.
The guard appeared to be alone on the wall. Apparently they thought the threat was eliminated. Not yet though. Eonthane pulled his lips back in a snarl and felt that familiar hatred swell inside him. It was an old friend, made back on that bank in Eversong Woods. Confined as he was to this path of a priest, it was this hatred that allowed him some freedom within it.
He wanted to make them hurt as he did.
It was a single word, hissed, and the magic surged through his veins and beat in his ears like the tempo of his own heart. The human let out a strangled gasp and doubled over. Eonthane could only imagine what he was feeling. The nerves dancing with fire along them… like poison in the veins. Dulling the senses with the constant demand, a sourceless agony ripping through flesh and muscle and mind. This was far more terrifying than a sword. A sword could be held and understood. Its violence was real, hard and fast. Eonthane’s magic was something else entirely and the human was helpless before it.
He unleashed the power of his mind against the guard, backing away from the wall and concentrating, shadow energy growing about him, and then he released it against the human’s mind. Images danced in his thoughts. The pain at finding an empty home. The years of confusion and uncertainty. The last vestiges of hope drifting away on the tide of a river. Giving up. The sick feeling he had at the very pleasure he took in making others hurt. All these things wrapped into one single blast and slammed into the mind of his victim. He’d make them suffer as well.
The human reeled. He had finally realized where the attack was coming from and had drawn his bow but the sudden mental assault sent his arrow wild. Eonthane chuckled darkly and readied his fire. Holy light lanced through the human – such a pure substance turned into something else entirely by his will. The beast fell with a cry, weapon clattering from his hand. Eonthane squinted up at the wall, no longer able to see his quarry. He was uncertain if he were dead or not. Part of him hoped that no, he was merely knocked helpless. The shadow word he’d laid on him would last then, inflicting injury upon small injury as the human shuddered and cried for help.
Of course, he couldn’t linger any longer now. That would attract attention and they’d search for whoever had done it. They’d discover that they hadn’t managed to kill the elf. He had to be gone, quickly.
Laughing under his breath, Eonthane turned and ran from the keep, slipping along the embankment. He’d find a place to spend the night and in the morning he’d try again. They’d be licking their wounds, carrying off their dead, and he’d hit them again tomorrow. Slink in through the gap in the wall and kill them off, one by one, until his task was accomplished.
He didn’t even really care about the reason he’d been sent there. All he knew now was that he wanted to make them suffer tenfold in turn.
There was no remorse. It was washed away, like on the tides of the river.