Nightweaver
05-05-2008, 11:47 PM
The is my second short story, and I hope that yall enjoy this one; feel free to comment any time. I like to know that I'm not just typing the hear the keys as I do so.
Vorn rode by his dark kins' side, the drakes moving steadily, hungrily, onward for the small mirdain village that lay at the edge of the alfar homeland. An outpost, with fewer than one hundred mirdain, and even fewer warriors, it was ripe for the crimson harvest. And so they rode, thirty in all, archers, warriors, and death mages alike, for the village, for blood, for the glory of Melek.
The moon was high when they drew near to the outpost, and the alfar were uneasy, be it for the long ride, or something else, something not right. But none the less, Vorn remained calm, bow in hand and arrows near, ready for what was inevitably to be a bloody night. Their leader gave the signal to the dark wizards, and they rode forward, dismounted, and fell into quiet casting; Vorn smiled, recognizing their most favored spell, and remembering many a battle past, when so many had fallen to their sinister magic.
The air about them grew cold, and the light of the full moon seemed to fade; the spells reached their end, and the shadows gathered in the mages' palms. With a final word, the darkness leapt forth, roiling and dancing like flames, making swift their appoach for the village. The burst into the wooden wall surrounding the outpost, silently buring away the barrier, all the while stealing the light from wherever it may hide.
The group moved forward, the warriors outpacing the others, ready to take advantage of the frightened and disorganised mirdain, yet the archers and spellcasters remained at a distance, always ready to act if the need were to arise. Vorn ran his free hand over his smooth head, and continued to reach behind him to retrieve an arrow, laced in wicked poison, and prepared for battle.
They were within a stones throw of where the walls had stood, the remains now lying low as the shadow fire ate away at them, when the first scream arose from the village, though it was surely not the first death. In an instant the village awoke, the mirdain guards scrambling in search of some kind of unison, but to no avail. A small group gathered to the eastern end of the outpost, and the alfar leader gave word for the archers to make themselves usefull. A hail of vicious arrows rained death upon the mirdain, scattering those that had survived the initial volley.
Seeing the threat that hid in the darkness of the shadow fire, the mirdain attempted once more to organise. Their large cats leapt from the village, swiftly closing the distance between them and the archers. A few of them were unlucky enough to race onward into a fire ball or lighting bolt, and several fell to the archers, yet there remained fifteen or so, and they barreled into the small group, rendering the archers' bows useless, and forcing the ever dwindling group of wizards to fall back.
Vorn, realising that he needed to move, and knowing well the futility of his bow, cast it to the ground, and readied his spear...
Vorn rode by his dark kins' side, the drakes moving steadily, hungrily, onward for the small mirdain village that lay at the edge of the alfar homeland. An outpost, with fewer than one hundred mirdain, and even fewer warriors, it was ripe for the crimson harvest. And so they rode, thirty in all, archers, warriors, and death mages alike, for the village, for blood, for the glory of Melek.
The moon was high when they drew near to the outpost, and the alfar were uneasy, be it for the long ride, or something else, something not right. But none the less, Vorn remained calm, bow in hand and arrows near, ready for what was inevitably to be a bloody night. Their leader gave the signal to the dark wizards, and they rode forward, dismounted, and fell into quiet casting; Vorn smiled, recognizing their most favored spell, and remembering many a battle past, when so many had fallen to their sinister magic.
The air about them grew cold, and the light of the full moon seemed to fade; the spells reached their end, and the shadows gathered in the mages' palms. With a final word, the darkness leapt forth, roiling and dancing like flames, making swift their appoach for the village. The burst into the wooden wall surrounding the outpost, silently buring away the barrier, all the while stealing the light from wherever it may hide.
The group moved forward, the warriors outpacing the others, ready to take advantage of the frightened and disorganised mirdain, yet the archers and spellcasters remained at a distance, always ready to act if the need were to arise. Vorn ran his free hand over his smooth head, and continued to reach behind him to retrieve an arrow, laced in wicked poison, and prepared for battle.
They were within a stones throw of where the walls had stood, the remains now lying low as the shadow fire ate away at them, when the first scream arose from the village, though it was surely not the first death. In an instant the village awoke, the mirdain guards scrambling in search of some kind of unison, but to no avail. A small group gathered to the eastern end of the outpost, and the alfar leader gave word for the archers to make themselves usefull. A hail of vicious arrows rained death upon the mirdain, scattering those that had survived the initial volley.
Seeing the threat that hid in the darkness of the shadow fire, the mirdain attempted once more to organise. Their large cats leapt from the village, swiftly closing the distance between them and the archers. A few of them were unlucky enough to race onward into a fire ball or lighting bolt, and several fell to the archers, yet there remained fifteen or so, and they barreled into the small group, rendering the archers' bows useless, and forcing the ever dwindling group of wizards to fall back.
Vorn, realising that he needed to move, and knowing well the futility of his bow, cast it to the ground, and readied his spear...