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The Elf knelt amongst the long grass of the hills clutching his side, his already blood slick fingers trying futilely to stem the flow of blood. His mind barely registered the gusting wind cooling his perspiring skin, sending his golden hair flying about wildly, instead struggling just to remain conscious. He had trusted to his keen senses to pre-warn him of any ambush, but he had underestimated the Goblinkin. To his dismay he had discovered that these hills were their territory, and he the interloper. Two of the three now lay dead, barely feet from where Elf knelt, breathing shallowly. The other stood far enough back that he had been in no danger from the Elf’s blade, but now seeing its quarry injured it crept closer, nervously scanning the surroundings. Gradually it seemed to become convinced that the Elf was indeed alone and not feigning injury, and a cruel grin spread across its stunted face. Shouldering the bow, it deftly drew out a long curved dagger and started toward the apparently helpless Elf with an eager step.
“You’re going to die, Altherion”, his own voice chided him, as he watched his grinning executioner’s steady approach through blurry eyes.
Unbidden, a memory now forced its way into his consciousness, the words spoken by a voice similar, yet clearly distinct from his own.
“You think you have what it takes to be a warrior, boy?” the voice is filled with disdain, “There can be only one result, you will end up dead, killed by some bandit or goblin or hedge wizard, of this I have no doubt. Best return to your cantrips and charms, at least you’ve an ounce of skill with them...which is more than I can say for your swordsmanship” the voice takes on a bitter edge, “Not that your petty cantrips were able to save your brother, were they boy?”
Suddenly unable to banish the memory of his brother’s face, the Elf looked down, biting back tears. To his surprise, his right hand still loosely grasped his rapier, the point resting amongst the grass. He looked down the length of the blade, remembering how it was that it had come into being. How shocked Master Alanathos was when a young Magus appeared at his doorstep, refusing to leave, refusing even to eat or enter Reverie until he accepted him as apprentice and taught him the art of weaponsmithing. Despite the Master’s reservations, the young Elf had proven an apt pupil, and had thrown himself into learning his chosen art with what some would call an unnerving single-mindedness.
“That’s right,” his whispered to himself, remembering the many weeks of practice and perseverance it had taken him to finally forge this blade.His mind was becoming clearer by the second now, “I made you for a purpose, didn’t I.”
The Goblin, stepping over the bodies of his fallen comrades, gave a whoop of delight as his prey finally came within reach. His glee fled quickly however as the Elf rose unsteadily to his feet, his grip on the sword now resolute. Perhaps realising it was too late to run, the Goblin rushed in, thrusting wildly with his dagger. The Elf intoned a few arcane words, his still blood covered left hand tracing sigils in the air with practiced ease. The dagger halted scant inches from the Elf’s hand, rebounding against an invisible shield, the jolt of the impact robbing the Goblin of his momentum. Summoning all his remaining strength, the Elf plunged his rapier through the creature’s heart.
The Goblin gave one last choked gurgle, eyes wide, before sliding backwards into the grass and joining its comrades in death. The Elf’s last strength had also fled, and he collapsed to his knees. The pain of his injury returned in full, threatening to overwhelm his mind, but he could smile with grim satisfaction as his consciousness fled. These Goblins at least would harm no more innocents.
“You’re going to die, Altherion”, his own voice chided him, as he watched his grinning executioner’s steady approach through blurry eyes.
Unbidden, a memory now forced its way into his consciousness, the words spoken by a voice similar, yet clearly distinct from his own.
“You think you have what it takes to be a warrior, boy?” the voice is filled with disdain, “There can be only one result, you will end up dead, killed by some bandit or goblin or hedge wizard, of this I have no doubt. Best return to your cantrips and charms, at least you’ve an ounce of skill with them...which is more than I can say for your swordsmanship” the voice takes on a bitter edge, “Not that your petty cantrips were able to save your brother, were they boy?”
Suddenly unable to banish the memory of his brother’s face, the Elf looked down, biting back tears. To his surprise, his right hand still loosely grasped his rapier, the point resting amongst the grass. He looked down the length of the blade, remembering how it was that it had come into being. How shocked Master Alanathos was when a young Magus appeared at his doorstep, refusing to leave, refusing even to eat or enter Reverie until he accepted him as apprentice and taught him the art of weaponsmithing. Despite the Master’s reservations, the young Elf had proven an apt pupil, and had thrown himself into learning his chosen art with what some would call an unnerving single-mindedness.
“That’s right,” his whispered to himself, remembering the many weeks of practice and perseverance it had taken him to finally forge this blade.His mind was becoming clearer by the second now, “I made you for a purpose, didn’t I.”
The Goblin, stepping over the bodies of his fallen comrades, gave a whoop of delight as his prey finally came within reach. His glee fled quickly however as the Elf rose unsteadily to his feet, his grip on the sword now resolute. Perhaps realising it was too late to run, the Goblin rushed in, thrusting wildly with his dagger. The Elf intoned a few arcane words, his still blood covered left hand tracing sigils in the air with practiced ease. The dagger halted scant inches from the Elf’s hand, rebounding against an invisible shield, the jolt of the impact robbing the Goblin of his momentum. Summoning all his remaining strength, the Elf plunged his rapier through the creature’s heart.
The Goblin gave one last choked gurgle, eyes wide, before sliding backwards into the grass and joining its comrades in death. The Elf’s last strength had also fled, and he collapsed to his knees. The pain of his injury returned in full, threatening to overwhelm his mind, but he could smile with grim satisfaction as his consciousness fled. These Goblins at least would harm no more innocents.
