The pounding of equestrian hooves into
the soft soil sent jolts throughout Malcear's frame. In one hand he
gripped the reins under white knuckles. In the other he tried to hold
his curved iron blade away from himself so he didn't accidentally cut
his own leg off. Both legs clung tightly to the saddle prolonging
what seemed like an inevitable spill to the ground at a high speed.
The smell of forest, blood (mostly his own), and horses blended with
the shouting and wind blowing against his face made him all but blind
and deaf. He had no idea what he was doing.
It had been an ambush. No sooner had
they passed the sad excuse for a wooden gate than deadly whistling
crossbow bolts came raining down on them. They caught him completely
off-guard. His first thought was how he let his allies down, having
lead them into this trap, foolishly proud of his idea to avoid any
bloodshed. Then he saw spears to the right and men running through
the woods to the left. He had to act.
It had been chaos. He had swung his blade like an angry woodsman. All power, no finesse. When he called on the white fire it belched from his hands burning everything in its path, even some of the horses. He looked like a fool. A child wielding the powers of an ancient God, hunting rabbits with a catapult. The dwarf moved with an air of experience, slamming and chopping those around him like a tempest. The rogue-devil seemed to keep disappearing in one spot and reappearing in another with a new knife in his hand ready to strike a killing blow. The elf maiden was even casting spells in this chaos. That level of focus bewildered him. But he put on a face of confidence, and pretended he knew what he was doing. And that had lead him to this.
He had exchanged shots with one of the guards who had been hiding in the forest. His arrows hit more trees than enemy, but the man had fled regardless. Without thinking Malcear leaped back into his saddle and chased the man down before he got away to warn the town. That dark confusing little town full of mystery and lies. It seemed like everyone there wanted to take a bite out of him and his friends. That night in the inn he had felt like a hen in a kennel. Just waiting to be ripped apart.
His thoughts focused as another crossbow bolt ripped through his chain armor and dug into his breast. He almost spilled backwards out of the saddle, but his hand never let go of the reins. He could feel his heart beating against the shaft of the bolt. That was an odd feeling. He grit his teeth, tightened the grip on his blade and spurred the steed into a full gallop. Another bolt came whizzing at him as the running man spun deftly and fired, but Mal was serious now. He could feel the fires burning behind his eyes. He struck out with his blade and slapped the bolt off course. That act slowed the man down enough for Maclear to overtake him.
Mal didn't so much leap from the saddle as go flying out of it as he tugged his steed to a halt. He crashed down onto the man blade first. That was an idiot move. He felt his wounds ooze out more of his blood. Why was it cold? He was a tangle of arms and weapons with the man. They both got to their feet, and as Malcear raised his blade to ready for combat, the man turned and fled AGAIN. Malcear had been trained not to curse, but he came pretty close. Throwing his blade aside in frustration, and halting his movement (mostly giving in to the pain wracking his body) Mal lifted his open hand towards his near murderer, and cried out for Noreal. He begged her to make it all end. The fighting, the pain, the anxiety.
There was a flash of white light and when his vision returned, Mal saw that the man had fallen, in smolders. All he could do was fall to his knees, say a thankful murmur to the goddess of the North, and crawl on his hands and knees looking for the sword he threw aside.
It took all his strength to get back into the saddle and ride back to the others. They were wounded as well, but their antagonists had been felled. Mal wasn't sure if he looked as shaken and terrified as he was on the inside, but nobody seemed to notice regardless. He rolled up his sleeves, climbed out of the saddle, and began to chant the prayer of healing. Where would he be without his goddess?
Where indeed.
It had been chaos. He had swung his blade like an angry woodsman. All power, no finesse. When he called on the white fire it belched from his hands burning everything in its path, even some of the horses. He looked like a fool. A child wielding the powers of an ancient God, hunting rabbits with a catapult. The dwarf moved with an air of experience, slamming and chopping those around him like a tempest. The rogue-devil seemed to keep disappearing in one spot and reappearing in another with a new knife in his hand ready to strike a killing blow. The elf maiden was even casting spells in this chaos. That level of focus bewildered him. But he put on a face of confidence, and pretended he knew what he was doing. And that had lead him to this.
He had exchanged shots with one of the guards who had been hiding in the forest. His arrows hit more trees than enemy, but the man had fled regardless. Without thinking Malcear leaped back into his saddle and chased the man down before he got away to warn the town. That dark confusing little town full of mystery and lies. It seemed like everyone there wanted to take a bite out of him and his friends. That night in the inn he had felt like a hen in a kennel. Just waiting to be ripped apart.
His thoughts focused as another crossbow bolt ripped through his chain armor and dug into his breast. He almost spilled backwards out of the saddle, but his hand never let go of the reins. He could feel his heart beating against the shaft of the bolt. That was an odd feeling. He grit his teeth, tightened the grip on his blade and spurred the steed into a full gallop. Another bolt came whizzing at him as the running man spun deftly and fired, but Mal was serious now. He could feel the fires burning behind his eyes. He struck out with his blade and slapped the bolt off course. That act slowed the man down enough for Maclear to overtake him.
Mal didn't so much leap from the saddle as go flying out of it as he tugged his steed to a halt. He crashed down onto the man blade first. That was an idiot move. He felt his wounds ooze out more of his blood. Why was it cold? He was a tangle of arms and weapons with the man. They both got to their feet, and as Malcear raised his blade to ready for combat, the man turned and fled AGAIN. Malcear had been trained not to curse, but he came pretty close. Throwing his blade aside in frustration, and halting his movement (mostly giving in to the pain wracking his body) Mal lifted his open hand towards his near murderer, and cried out for Noreal. He begged her to make it all end. The fighting, the pain, the anxiety.
There was a flash of white light and when his vision returned, Mal saw that the man had fallen, in smolders. All he could do was fall to his knees, say a thankful murmur to the goddess of the North, and crawl on his hands and knees looking for the sword he threw aside.
It took all his strength to get back into the saddle and ride back to the others. They were wounded as well, but their antagonists had been felled. Mal wasn't sure if he looked as shaken and terrified as he was on the inside, but nobody seemed to notice regardless. He rolled up his sleeves, climbed out of the saddle, and began to chant the prayer of healing. Where would he be without his goddess?
Where indeed.
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