06-25-2009, 05:06 AM
2)
Campfires dotted the valley. Even in the barren wastes of Tegre, bands of marauders and cutthroats still roamed, practicing their trade. These were not unskilled bandits however. These practiced their trade with devastating skill and lethal accuracy. And some, with forces dark and sinister.
Only from the fires and tents themselves would one discern any presence. Not a soul seemed to stir, if any of the residents had any left. Had anyone stumble across the valley floor, they would soon find their lives cut short by a volley of arrows. Dressed in robes of red and pitch were sentries around the perimeter. With the moonless night, not a shadow was visible.
The center tent was the largest, befitting the master of these darkly clad figures. Using the fur skins of some large wild beast, he slumbered... dreaming of dreams dark and dire. To him, the murder of his parents was a splendid thing. In his sleep the same dream reoccurred. The look of shock and fear in his mother's face as the thin blade worked its way across and through his father's neck. Yet in his waking life, he only wished he could relive that experience.
Far from the tent flap was a table with parchments and trinkets of obscure value. A small chest with his vestments, armor and other belongings resided near his bed. Likewise, a smaller chest with gold rested beside it. And an end table with a small lit candle was at the opposite end of the table.
Yellow light shown from the candle.
It was dim at first like any candle. But the interior soon had an odd violet glow and a low buzzing started to sound. The light became brighter and brighter still as the hum continued to build. Waking with a jerk, the leader turned to face the puddle of wax on his table and the lavender sphere hovering above. And a feminine voice unusually commanding sounded from the orb.
"Olan," the voice spoke. "I have a mission for you."
Campfires dotted the valley. Even in the barren wastes of Tegre, bands of marauders and cutthroats still roamed, practicing their trade. These were not unskilled bandits however. These practiced their trade with devastating skill and lethal accuracy. And some, with forces dark and sinister.
Only from the fires and tents themselves would one discern any presence. Not a soul seemed to stir, if any of the residents had any left. Had anyone stumble across the valley floor, they would soon find their lives cut short by a volley of arrows. Dressed in robes of red and pitch were sentries around the perimeter. With the moonless night, not a shadow was visible.
The center tent was the largest, befitting the master of these darkly clad figures. Using the fur skins of some large wild beast, he slumbered... dreaming of dreams dark and dire. To him, the murder of his parents was a splendid thing. In his sleep the same dream reoccurred. The look of shock and fear in his mother's face as the thin blade worked its way across and through his father's neck. Yet in his waking life, he only wished he could relive that experience.
Far from the tent flap was a table with parchments and trinkets of obscure value. A small chest with his vestments, armor and other belongings resided near his bed. Likewise, a smaller chest with gold rested beside it. And an end table with a small lit candle was at the opposite end of the table.
Yellow light shown from the candle.
It was dim at first like any candle. But the interior soon had an odd violet glow and a low buzzing started to sound. The light became brighter and brighter still as the hum continued to build. Waking with a jerk, the leader turned to face the puddle of wax on his table and the lavender sphere hovering above. And a feminine voice unusually commanding sounded from the orb.
"Olan," the voice spoke. "I have a mission for you."