Arden Urtica - Limitless
Posted: Mon Mar 18, 2013 11:01 am
Dark. That was the first concious thought that came to him, after hours lost in thought.
It had been morning, hadn't it? They'd struck at dawn. He looked around the cottage. Half covered in shadows. Unnerving shadows. The windows were darkened with soot and grime. He stood and wiped it clean. Outside, he could see the sky slowly turning, clouds streaked red as the day slowly gave way for the night. He -had- been wasting time.
He turned back to face the cottage. It was a pitiful thing, really. It could have housed perhaps two trappers during the winter seasons. Poorly furnished and poorly kept. As the case was, it housed not trappers, but corpses. Five in all, though really, only two of them were his doing. He spat on a corpse. Brigands all, they deserved this and no less.
It was not the deaths that disconcerted him. Nor the damage to the cottage. Ammends would have to be made, but such is the way of things. The way of war. Orcs and goblins, these beasts had threatened several towns in the vicinity. While he'd expected it of the halfers in the band, the fact that there were humans among them pained him. They should know better, shouldn't they? Still, even that he had seen before, and he had learned to accept it.
No, it was the way death was dealt. He'd always wielded knife and crossbow. Good ways to kill. Clean. Simple. You pushed something sharp through your opponent, and that was the end of it.
He looked at the corpse at his feet, his second kill. It most certainly had not died so... cleanly. The halfer's face was blackened and blistered, as though heavily burned. In some places, the skin had given way entirely, leaving only bone, equally scorched.
He'd heard of mages, of course. Men and women who could kill and maim with but a wave of their hands and a word. But he wasn't one. He was regular old Arden. Just a nameless man in just another mercenary band on the Sword Coast. Gods, he didn't even remember saying anything.
Just... The halfer's face. Unmarred. Still ugly, though. Grinning wickedly as it came at him. Swinging a miner's pick it'd probably filched somewhere. He'd cast his crossbow aside, but couldn't draw his blade fast enough, and his companions were busy with the other creatures. He'd raised his hand in a pointless, feeble attempt of shielding himself. He'd cried. Cried in rage. Cried in defiance. He'd simply... refused. He refused to die in such a manner.
Then a light, radiant and warm burst from his hand. Mesmerizing to him. Molten lead to the halfer. It cried. It writhed. It died in agony. And to him, it felt good. It felt right. The creature got what it deserved.
His mates had, by then, dealt with their own opponents, and were silently staring at him. They lingered but a moment before turning to run, possibly due to the grin still on his face. He'd sat then. To contemplate. What this power was and what it meant. He'd sat there most of the day, well after the fighting had ceased, abandoned by his companions. Cowards. Still, no answers had come to him. Perhaps he should travel farther south. Perhaps he could find answers nearer to Baldur's Gate. Gods knew all those bloody adventurers drifted there.
And now, with this... thing... He might risk the journey alone. If he mastered it, it could be a tool. A most useful tool indeed.
It had been morning, hadn't it? They'd struck at dawn. He looked around the cottage. Half covered in shadows. Unnerving shadows. The windows were darkened with soot and grime. He stood and wiped it clean. Outside, he could see the sky slowly turning, clouds streaked red as the day slowly gave way for the night. He -had- been wasting time.
He turned back to face the cottage. It was a pitiful thing, really. It could have housed perhaps two trappers during the winter seasons. Poorly furnished and poorly kept. As the case was, it housed not trappers, but corpses. Five in all, though really, only two of them were his doing. He spat on a corpse. Brigands all, they deserved this and no less.
It was not the deaths that disconcerted him. Nor the damage to the cottage. Ammends would have to be made, but such is the way of things. The way of war. Orcs and goblins, these beasts had threatened several towns in the vicinity. While he'd expected it of the halfers in the band, the fact that there were humans among them pained him. They should know better, shouldn't they? Still, even that he had seen before, and he had learned to accept it.
No, it was the way death was dealt. He'd always wielded knife and crossbow. Good ways to kill. Clean. Simple. You pushed something sharp through your opponent, and that was the end of it.
He looked at the corpse at his feet, his second kill. It most certainly had not died so... cleanly. The halfer's face was blackened and blistered, as though heavily burned. In some places, the skin had given way entirely, leaving only bone, equally scorched.
He'd heard of mages, of course. Men and women who could kill and maim with but a wave of their hands and a word. But he wasn't one. He was regular old Arden. Just a nameless man in just another mercenary band on the Sword Coast. Gods, he didn't even remember saying anything.
Just... The halfer's face. Unmarred. Still ugly, though. Grinning wickedly as it came at him. Swinging a miner's pick it'd probably filched somewhere. He'd cast his crossbow aside, but couldn't draw his blade fast enough, and his companions were busy with the other creatures. He'd raised his hand in a pointless, feeble attempt of shielding himself. He'd cried. Cried in rage. Cried in defiance. He'd simply... refused. He refused to die in such a manner.
Then a light, radiant and warm burst from his hand. Mesmerizing to him. Molten lead to the halfer. It cried. It writhed. It died in agony. And to him, it felt good. It felt right. The creature got what it deserved.
His mates had, by then, dealt with their own opponents, and were silently staring at him. They lingered but a moment before turning to run, possibly due to the grin still on his face. He'd sat then. To contemplate. What this power was and what it meant. He'd sat there most of the day, well after the fighting had ceased, abandoned by his companions. Cowards. Still, no answers had come to him. Perhaps he should travel farther south. Perhaps he could find answers nearer to Baldur's Gate. Gods knew all those bloody adventurers drifted there.
And now, with this... thing... He might risk the journey alone. If he mastered it, it could be a tool. A most useful tool indeed.