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((Note: the following was done with the consent of Firechicken. I did not take liberties here. That said, please enjoy))
Not a night had gone by in the shadows that Amenia did not feel pained by the actions of her past and questioning what was truly her deserved end. Every step away from those that would willingly bring the shedding of her blood was taken for reasons she could no longer understand. Guilt found a fierce opponent by the name of instinct in the pits of her soul. While she wept for deeds done, it was those same deeds that made her fear what awaited her beyond the final stretch of this life.
So tense her face had become. In the reflection of the small pool beside the trail she could not help but notice the large bags beneath her almond shaped eyes and the few strands of hair peeking out from her hood being little more than tangled strands with the color of dying roots. In the aftermath of great stress and many nights without a proper reverie, she was hardly a prize illustration of the elven beauty her kin were typically associated with. It was as though she was dying, despite having successfully fled from any and all acts of violence cast her way.
It was then she saw him, a lone hooded figure walking along the trail, broad shoulders revealing themselves to be pads of thick leather with metallic studs reflecting the moonlight in small, brief glints that almost insulted the far more beautiful glow of the fireflies out this night for mating courtships. In this man’s step and strange emerald eyes she quickly sensed the same intent as others that had wished to bring about her untimely end. He walked with a long casting shadow that encompassed her own and forced her legs to quake mildly. It was happening again. Another one had come and she would be forced to make a choice once more.
Stay or flee?
Was she afraid of death?
She knew that no mortal was immune to such fears entirely. She had been taught well about the deep complexities of fear itself and how it worked. Through the service of one she had looked upon as a god, her god, she had come to understand what true fear was all about.
Was this her mark upon society?
Was this the only legacy to leave behind now?
What was the point?! This was all supposed to bring order and stability to a chaotic land! So why was this happening? She never wanted this in the first place and now she was staring down the metallic surface of a drawn greatsword by a hooded man in leather and a fierce stare in his emerald eyes.
“Amenia…” he spoke her name. She was not surprised much. “You know why I am here.”
“Indeed I do.” the elf retorted.
Not much in the way of small talk. However, considering that at least one of them would die this night, Amenia could not help but hold some level of thankfulness that this man spoke her name with at least some level of respect and compassion. Despite that much however, her sensitive ears could hear the stretching sound of the man’s leather gloves upon the handle of his blade. It sounded in many ways like stretched hemp rope, perhaps arranged as a noose to await the carrying out of one’s execution. It illustrated well the man’s determination to do more than simply take her as a prisoner.
The elf moved first, bolting away from the shadowed swordsman in attempt to put distance between them and give her time to delve into the depths of her memory and inner energies to unearth the proper arcane abilities to help her survive another night… even if she was uncertain if survival was what she truly wanted.
She turned when convinced of holding a useful distance, only to see the man’s speed increase dramatically out of the blue with the last ten feet between them.
How did he suddenly move so quickly?!
Too late, the spell was already in mid cast! Could not stop now!
The burning instinct pressed her forth once more. Again she surrendered to almost animalistic necessity to help her see the light of another day. From the fires of her instinctual drive came fires of arcane through her outstretched palm. Red energies shot forth upon the hooded swordsman just as he was close enough to bring the smell of his leather attire to her delicate senses. A part of her hoped to be smelling burning leather in the next moment, but the assault had only seemed to graze her attacker. In the distance a spear of red fire shot forth to land harmlessly amongst rocks and dirt, the trajectory only mildly altered by grazing the man. This was enough to stun him momentarily though, and the fires were quickly beginning to encompass his hood, forcing him to quickly remove and discard it, along with the cloak attached to it.
It was now clear why those emerald eyes were so familiar. They belonged to Osclow Wiltenholm, human bard of Sundren and member of the Legion, the established law enforcers of the land. It was this same bard that arrested her and gave her barely a word but many a look of pity as he brought her in, hands bound and spell book taken away. She could not help but be surprised by the fact that a man who seemed to take the duty of bringing her to justice with a quiet dedicated passion and flame of pride was skulking about like an assassin in the night. Such a thought she knew she could not dwell upon however and made those familiar eyes the target of her next attack. Though her aim seemed to be a little off from a shaky tired hand, her blow landed in the form of a much quicker casted spell; a flurry of white bolts reaching outward, a good half of them slamming into the man’s chest. She had brought him down, but given his earlier speed, she was not convinced of his defeat. A mild groan escaped the swordsman as he pulled himself up, leather’s ripped open from the second assault, but the damage to his flesh was minimal. The clouds begin to part, bringing more of the moon’s light upon them and with such brought an even greater surprise to the elven mage than the mere identity of her attacker.
Upon the center of the attacker’s now bared chest stood a symbol she was well associated with; a black hand clutching a starburst. She could hardly believe it. Upon Osclow, a man who had supposedly once saved the entire valley was the mark of Bane, the Dark One. What came next from the bard was a look that could only be described as embarrassment and shame. The gloved hand not clutching his blade moved to cover the mark; a truly desperate attempt to hide an already revealed secret from her. Not about to be caught up in the confusion of the origins of such a mark, Amenia’s hand lanced forth once again in the channeling of arcane energies. This time however before her powers could even bring forth a spark, the bard’s blade swung upward, taking advantage of its long reach and digging into the flesh of the elf’s exposed arm. A howl of pain escaped the air and a second sound much deeper in the back of her throat and much harder to give volume to came with the second of the bard’s assault.
Amenia’s eyes turned downward to the sight of her own teary-eyed reflection staring back at her from the metal surface of Osclow’s blade, which had found itself lodged into her mid section. With that one blow and the mild twisting of the blade from the bard’s hand, a shock raced to the elven mage’s mind stripping her of her ability to bring forth anymore magic and even of her ability to stand. To her knees she fell, still staring at her own reflection until a thick coating of red overtook it. Quickly her strength began to slip away at a rate not slowed down even with the fierce yank free of the bard’s blade from her form. She fell forward with a final surprise as she was taken by the arms of the same man who had delivered the deathblow. He felt warm, even as she could feel herself growing colder. Upon her face, even her own tears felt like chilling little streams cascading down her features. To the bard she looked up, reminded of the same look of pity he had given her upon the day of her arrest.
“You’re not one of them. You don’t have the same look in your eyes as they do.”
The bard could not seem to give an answer beyond the shaking of his head. Amenia spoke of the other Banites of course, to which her words could not be more true about him.
“You’re fighting too. Only you have not lost yet.” With the last bits of strength still in her, she reached to Osclow’s bared chest, tracing a finger along the mark of the Dark One.
“Please…” she practically begged, her voice growing raspy “…don’t try so hard to look so serious, like this is something you have to do. I just want one more look.. One more look of compassion. Don’t speak, don’t cry. Just look upon me as something other than a monster before the Hells take me.”
A light sniffle escaped the bard as he turned away. The barely maintained look of neutrality melting away and his own tears barely held back from reaching the surface. There was only so much that even a master of illusions and trickery both mundane and magical could do to keep the truth of overwhelming emotion from cascading forth. The bard’s hold tightened, more like an embracing of the elf’s light and quickly paling form.
“The church of Waukeen.. There is a secret account of mine under the name of Lezla Renaltis. Take the parchments within my pack and show it to them. Let that which I have gathered …go toward a cause ..you …deem …worthy.”
No words were given, just as she requested. However, the bard nodded in a way to make sure her narrowing eyes would be able to take note of.
“Andy … tell her I am sorry.”
No longer could he fulfill her request to not shed any tears and with a light whimper a few fell free upon Amenia’s robes of black.
“Don’t … give up Osclow.” her voice had reached barely a whisper at this point, every syllable draining what little life she had left.
“Don’t .. let any of them ever give up…Especially not my.. my..."
Not a night had gone by in the shadows that Amenia did not feel pained by the actions of her past and questioning what was truly her deserved end. Every step away from those that would willingly bring the shedding of her blood was taken for reasons she could no longer understand. Guilt found a fierce opponent by the name of instinct in the pits of her soul. While she wept for deeds done, it was those same deeds that made her fear what awaited her beyond the final stretch of this life.
So tense her face had become. In the reflection of the small pool beside the trail she could not help but notice the large bags beneath her almond shaped eyes and the few strands of hair peeking out from her hood being little more than tangled strands with the color of dying roots. In the aftermath of great stress and many nights without a proper reverie, she was hardly a prize illustration of the elven beauty her kin were typically associated with. It was as though she was dying, despite having successfully fled from any and all acts of violence cast her way.
It was then she saw him, a lone hooded figure walking along the trail, broad shoulders revealing themselves to be pads of thick leather with metallic studs reflecting the moonlight in small, brief glints that almost insulted the far more beautiful glow of the fireflies out this night for mating courtships. In this man’s step and strange emerald eyes she quickly sensed the same intent as others that had wished to bring about her untimely end. He walked with a long casting shadow that encompassed her own and forced her legs to quake mildly. It was happening again. Another one had come and she would be forced to make a choice once more.
Stay or flee?
Was she afraid of death?
She knew that no mortal was immune to such fears entirely. She had been taught well about the deep complexities of fear itself and how it worked. Through the service of one she had looked upon as a god, her god, she had come to understand what true fear was all about.
Was this her mark upon society?
Was this the only legacy to leave behind now?
What was the point?! This was all supposed to bring order and stability to a chaotic land! So why was this happening? She never wanted this in the first place and now she was staring down the metallic surface of a drawn greatsword by a hooded man in leather and a fierce stare in his emerald eyes.
“Amenia…” he spoke her name. She was not surprised much. “You know why I am here.”
“Indeed I do.” the elf retorted.
Not much in the way of small talk. However, considering that at least one of them would die this night, Amenia could not help but hold some level of thankfulness that this man spoke her name with at least some level of respect and compassion. Despite that much however, her sensitive ears could hear the stretching sound of the man’s leather gloves upon the handle of his blade. It sounded in many ways like stretched hemp rope, perhaps arranged as a noose to await the carrying out of one’s execution. It illustrated well the man’s determination to do more than simply take her as a prisoner.
The elf moved first, bolting away from the shadowed swordsman in attempt to put distance between them and give her time to delve into the depths of her memory and inner energies to unearth the proper arcane abilities to help her survive another night… even if she was uncertain if survival was what she truly wanted.
She turned when convinced of holding a useful distance, only to see the man’s speed increase dramatically out of the blue with the last ten feet between them.
How did he suddenly move so quickly?!
Too late, the spell was already in mid cast! Could not stop now!
The burning instinct pressed her forth once more. Again she surrendered to almost animalistic necessity to help her see the light of another day. From the fires of her instinctual drive came fires of arcane through her outstretched palm. Red energies shot forth upon the hooded swordsman just as he was close enough to bring the smell of his leather attire to her delicate senses. A part of her hoped to be smelling burning leather in the next moment, but the assault had only seemed to graze her attacker. In the distance a spear of red fire shot forth to land harmlessly amongst rocks and dirt, the trajectory only mildly altered by grazing the man. This was enough to stun him momentarily though, and the fires were quickly beginning to encompass his hood, forcing him to quickly remove and discard it, along with the cloak attached to it.
It was now clear why those emerald eyes were so familiar. They belonged to Osclow Wiltenholm, human bard of Sundren and member of the Legion, the established law enforcers of the land. It was this same bard that arrested her and gave her barely a word but many a look of pity as he brought her in, hands bound and spell book taken away. She could not help but be surprised by the fact that a man who seemed to take the duty of bringing her to justice with a quiet dedicated passion and flame of pride was skulking about like an assassin in the night. Such a thought she knew she could not dwell upon however and made those familiar eyes the target of her next attack. Though her aim seemed to be a little off from a shaky tired hand, her blow landed in the form of a much quicker casted spell; a flurry of white bolts reaching outward, a good half of them slamming into the man’s chest. She had brought him down, but given his earlier speed, she was not convinced of his defeat. A mild groan escaped the swordsman as he pulled himself up, leather’s ripped open from the second assault, but the damage to his flesh was minimal. The clouds begin to part, bringing more of the moon’s light upon them and with such brought an even greater surprise to the elven mage than the mere identity of her attacker.
Upon the center of the attacker’s now bared chest stood a symbol she was well associated with; a black hand clutching a starburst. She could hardly believe it. Upon Osclow, a man who had supposedly once saved the entire valley was the mark of Bane, the Dark One. What came next from the bard was a look that could only be described as embarrassment and shame. The gloved hand not clutching his blade moved to cover the mark; a truly desperate attempt to hide an already revealed secret from her. Not about to be caught up in the confusion of the origins of such a mark, Amenia’s hand lanced forth once again in the channeling of arcane energies. This time however before her powers could even bring forth a spark, the bard’s blade swung upward, taking advantage of its long reach and digging into the flesh of the elf’s exposed arm. A howl of pain escaped the air and a second sound much deeper in the back of her throat and much harder to give volume to came with the second of the bard’s assault.
Amenia’s eyes turned downward to the sight of her own teary-eyed reflection staring back at her from the metal surface of Osclow’s blade, which had found itself lodged into her mid section. With that one blow and the mild twisting of the blade from the bard’s hand, a shock raced to the elven mage’s mind stripping her of her ability to bring forth anymore magic and even of her ability to stand. To her knees she fell, still staring at her own reflection until a thick coating of red overtook it. Quickly her strength began to slip away at a rate not slowed down even with the fierce yank free of the bard’s blade from her form. She fell forward with a final surprise as she was taken by the arms of the same man who had delivered the deathblow. He felt warm, even as she could feel herself growing colder. Upon her face, even her own tears felt like chilling little streams cascading down her features. To the bard she looked up, reminded of the same look of pity he had given her upon the day of her arrest.
“You’re not one of them. You don’t have the same look in your eyes as they do.”
The bard could not seem to give an answer beyond the shaking of his head. Amenia spoke of the other Banites of course, to which her words could not be more true about him.
“You’re fighting too. Only you have not lost yet.” With the last bits of strength still in her, she reached to Osclow’s bared chest, tracing a finger along the mark of the Dark One.
“Please…” she practically begged, her voice growing raspy “…don’t try so hard to look so serious, like this is something you have to do. I just want one more look.. One more look of compassion. Don’t speak, don’t cry. Just look upon me as something other than a monster before the Hells take me.”
A light sniffle escaped the bard as he turned away. The barely maintained look of neutrality melting away and his own tears barely held back from reaching the surface. There was only so much that even a master of illusions and trickery both mundane and magical could do to keep the truth of overwhelming emotion from cascading forth. The bard’s hold tightened, more like an embracing of the elf’s light and quickly paling form.
“The church of Waukeen.. There is a secret account of mine under the name of Lezla Renaltis. Take the parchments within my pack and show it to them. Let that which I have gathered …go toward a cause ..you …deem …worthy.”
No words were given, just as she requested. However, the bard nodded in a way to make sure her narrowing eyes would be able to take note of.
“Andy … tell her I am sorry.”
No longer could he fulfill her request to not shed any tears and with a light whimper a few fell free upon Amenia’s robes of black.
“Don’t … give up Osclow.” her voice had reached barely a whisper at this point, every syllable draining what little life she had left.
“Don’t .. let any of them ever give up…Especially not my.. my..."
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