Post by The Sergeant / Alisha on Jan 26, 2018 11:50:50 GMT
Two figures walked through a desert as sleet chilled their bare skin. The sand beneath their feet lasted late into the night. And still they walked. Even through sleep they walked. For if they stopped they knew they would freeze, dying alone in the wilderness. Few words were passed between the two, the wind howled enough for both. Their muscles shook, their breaths panted, and their skin grew darker shades of grey with each hour.
But for Val this hell was a finer sight than the horror he had fled. The wounds in his legs had dug deep, the blood now frozen to his skin. His glanced to Leocanto’s chest. The Half Elf’s skin was covered in small pierce marks from a smattering of darts. As if a giant had tried to prick him with several forks. Val looked to the stars and thanked the heavens he was alive. As he looked to the darkness, he saw patterns in the stars make shapes that transformed into images, figures of humanoids with dog heads sacrificing and killing, trap doors opening, stone crushing, spikes piercing, then the overwhelming fear that each step may end in pain, blood or death rode a terroring image in is mind, until he blinked and saw only stars in the night sky again.
The wounds and the cold bit and stung with each step. But deeper it was the guilt keeping Val silent during the long hungry march back to Daring. The fear of being trapped for eternity within those ancient walls is why he fled, leaving the friends he had fought with for many months. The dungeon weaved it's magic and shat Val and Leocanto and Tugark the Half Orc out, naked and traumatised, while Dorian and Rholor fought on. Val’s hammer gone. Leocanto’s harp. Every potion vanished. Each arrow. Every piece of armour and weapon. Not a single copper coin remained on their persons. Val had watched Tugark return into the horrific maze to rejoin their friends, and seen the look on Leocanto’s face as the Half Elf considered returning too. Val had stopped the Bard, insisting only death remain there. Val did not want to return to the dungeon, but did not want to be left alone. And so they walked South through the desert.
After countless hours turned into days, the two naked figures saw Daring Heights on the horizon. With no energy even for a smile, the two parted. Leocanto headed into town for the Ettin. Val skirted around town for his small home on the Eastern side. It was cold and dim. Val didn’t know if it was night or day. His legs begged him to stop and minute and sit on the cold ground. He knew if he did, his body would simply let go and die only ten minutes from home.
No one saw the naked man walk through the farmsteads, and into the small house he had built himself. His hands shaking, he wrapped whatever he could find around his large frame, poured oil onto the dried logs in the fireplace, and sat staring as a spark lit the oil and the flames lit up the dim wooden house. Val stared into the fire until sleep took him.
When he woke the house was warm and the fire continued its dance, but still Val was cold, his hands shaking. His dreams had menacied him. Taunted him. Telling the proud man of his cowardice, of how he ran, leaving his comrades. Of how he nearly died. This man who had come to Kantas full of arrogance, who had ran into battle with his hammer high, who had announced his arrival with the blow of his horn, who had thought he was invincible. This morning the cold that filled Val’s body humbled him and a voice from his dreams echoed in his mind, telling him of his mortality, his foolishness, and of how close he was to his final breath.
With this in his mind tears left Val’s eyes, self loathing ranged, and his bruised and cut arms lifted his fists which pounded against the hard floor. His punched again and again until blood stained the wood, and the skin broke on his knuckles and the tears formed small pools of water. When the little remaining energy in Val was spent, he collapsed to the floor, panting, watching the fire through his tears. He felt ashamed of the drunken, arrogant fool he had become. What he would do now he did not know. Sleep and dreams took him once again.
But for Val this hell was a finer sight than the horror he had fled. The wounds in his legs had dug deep, the blood now frozen to his skin. His glanced to Leocanto’s chest. The Half Elf’s skin was covered in small pierce marks from a smattering of darts. As if a giant had tried to prick him with several forks. Val looked to the stars and thanked the heavens he was alive. As he looked to the darkness, he saw patterns in the stars make shapes that transformed into images, figures of humanoids with dog heads sacrificing and killing, trap doors opening, stone crushing, spikes piercing, then the overwhelming fear that each step may end in pain, blood or death rode a terroring image in is mind, until he blinked and saw only stars in the night sky again.
The wounds and the cold bit and stung with each step. But deeper it was the guilt keeping Val silent during the long hungry march back to Daring. The fear of being trapped for eternity within those ancient walls is why he fled, leaving the friends he had fought with for many months. The dungeon weaved it's magic and shat Val and Leocanto and Tugark the Half Orc out, naked and traumatised, while Dorian and Rholor fought on. Val’s hammer gone. Leocanto’s harp. Every potion vanished. Each arrow. Every piece of armour and weapon. Not a single copper coin remained on their persons. Val had watched Tugark return into the horrific maze to rejoin their friends, and seen the look on Leocanto’s face as the Half Elf considered returning too. Val had stopped the Bard, insisting only death remain there. Val did not want to return to the dungeon, but did not want to be left alone. And so they walked South through the desert.
After countless hours turned into days, the two naked figures saw Daring Heights on the horizon. With no energy even for a smile, the two parted. Leocanto headed into town for the Ettin. Val skirted around town for his small home on the Eastern side. It was cold and dim. Val didn’t know if it was night or day. His legs begged him to stop and minute and sit on the cold ground. He knew if he did, his body would simply let go and die only ten minutes from home.
No one saw the naked man walk through the farmsteads, and into the small house he had built himself. His hands shaking, he wrapped whatever he could find around his large frame, poured oil onto the dried logs in the fireplace, and sat staring as a spark lit the oil and the flames lit up the dim wooden house. Val stared into the fire until sleep took him.
When he woke the house was warm and the fire continued its dance, but still Val was cold, his hands shaking. His dreams had menacied him. Taunted him. Telling the proud man of his cowardice, of how he ran, leaving his comrades. Of how he nearly died. This man who had come to Kantas full of arrogance, who had ran into battle with his hammer high, who had announced his arrival with the blow of his horn, who had thought he was invincible. This morning the cold that filled Val’s body humbled him and a voice from his dreams echoed in his mind, telling him of his mortality, his foolishness, and of how close he was to his final breath.
With this in his mind tears left Val’s eyes, self loathing ranged, and his bruised and cut arms lifted his fists which pounded against the hard floor. His punched again and again until blood stained the wood, and the skin broke on his knuckles and the tears formed small pools of water. When the little remaining energy in Val was spent, he collapsed to the floor, panting, watching the fire through his tears. He felt ashamed of the drunken, arrogant fool he had become. What he would do now he did not know. Sleep and dreams took him once again.