Excerpts
Probably this wasn't the best idea of her life.
Reverie eluded her this night, the foul smell of the wyvern's touch stuck to her hair and clothes, always triggering her mind to wake in alarm.
Night time or not, it was hard to tell so deep in the dungeon, the only sources of light being the shyly flickering torches on the walls of the ancient ruins.
She run her eyes around the small chamber, the tirelessly dripping water from the ceiling, the leftover crafting ingredients at the corner, and the bunch of rotten meat and poisonous mushrooms on the ramshackle table… Unmercifully, time was running out, the privilege of choosing between right or wrong methods forfeited by now.
The elf closed her eyes for a fleeting moment, trying to remember the lusty forest around Doron Amar, the inviting peacefulness of the village, the sweet words and warm hugs, the closeness of what once she knew as family...
Then, she remembered that so familiar color of blue, the gentle smell of lilacs - she remembered how Laeria warned her of the two ways, and remembered her own response, claiming to be able to fly above those paths.
Where did it go wrong then?
Somewhere inbetween falling free from the clouds, and being set down to the ground so shamefully?
Unintentionally, she recalled the disgust on Oth's face when they parted, which in turn made her remember her own speeches to Nathan..
Gods, this will need a hell of explaining.
She glanced down on the bed, at the weary face of the old gnome crafter, exhaustion dragging him into a deep slumber. Next to him, the hedge wizard rested in a tranquil sleep, and the elf couldn't help but feel jealous of his fearless composure towards this whole situation.
Quietly, she slipped down from the dusty bed on her feet, and sneaked out on the archway to the bigger chamber, fitted up with crafting equipment. The adrenaline of the last day was lost, and the sight of the skeleton soldiers still guarding the doors - so indifferently - made her nauseated twofold.
Soft smiles of painted clay dolls creeped at her while she passed the tables, fleeing towards the exitless stone corridors.
Carved runes marked the walls at one alcove, left behind neglected, waiting for decay to come. The undead never moved a fingerbone when she returned there again to ponder on the symbol's meanings.
Even while seemingly slumbering, this cursed army felt so formidable, dealing from the shadows with so gruesome nimbleness, feasting on unnatural magic of terrifying prowess.
A force too tremendous to be waved upon lightly.
Such power, forbidding the earthly remains of so many to rest at last. Since how long now? And for
such reasons?
The last flickers of a melted down candle eerily shimmered to her eyes when she glanced back towards the crafting tables.
This camaraderie of centuries should be put to a stop soon..