The Box (Part XIV)

Posted on December 8, 2013 by R. Richardsson

There was a deep burning sensation in the empty cavity where his eye had once been. It felt as if a thousand ants were feasting upon the newly exposed flesh, breaking it down piece by piece to return to their nest for later consumption. Added with the dull ocular throbbing of the broken nerve, he found himself struggling to remain conscious.

It had been several minutes since the sorcerer had passed through the cavern below but he didn’t yet feel strong enough to continue. He needed some time to think.

Oramiir had betrayed them! His magics had lured the Destrachan from the depths of the underdark for the sole purpose of getting them out of the way!

It had been pure chance that he was alive, but the poor elf hadn’t stood a chance. Even now, the creatures were gnawing at the bones of the once proud warrior. The sound of the teeth scraping against them sent shivers down his spine. One would occasionally lift its head as if scenting the air, but they seemed content to laze near their dinner.

Another blast of hot air passed through the junction, reminding him that even as he perched above the elf’s remains, the sorcerer was drawing ever closer to the lair of the dragon.

“Perhaps it’s time I use some magic of my own,” he spat venomously. Below him, each of the four creatures turned their heads in his direction, suddenly interested in the small bag of fresh meat dangling from the ceiling. One of them whistled softly, testing for a reaction from the small hobbit, but he seemed to be paying them very little notice.

As they continued to ‘watch’ him from below, he reached into one of his many hidden pouches and removed a small crossbow. Unlike the hand-crossbows of the Drow, this small folding instrument had very little use as weapon. He’d had it specially crafted some years ago as a tool to aid him in his more discrete activities.

A flick of his thumb and the tension bar snapped into place. With his other hand, he reached into another pocket and carefully removed a small cloth bundle. Careful as to not drop it or the contents inside, he opened it and loaded a small bolt into the small crossbow before replacing the bundle into the pocket from whence it came.

His stomach gurgled once again, a painful reminder that he was missing yet another meal, drawing the attention of the creatures back to his position. He needed to find a way out of this junction, soon, before his presence became enough of an annoyance to them that they decided to do something about it.

Moving slow and deliberately, he shimmied out from his perch and along the wall. It was over a half a dozen yards to the floor, but he was never one to be bothered by heights. Even as the creatures began to stir beneath him, his toes and fingers were expertly digging into even the smallest of cracks that only he could manipulate.

It was painfully slow going. There were a couple of moments where the hold he had gained crumbled, nearly sending him tumbling to the ground, but several minutes later he found himself resting outside of the junction. The Destrachan had either decided that he wasn’t big enough to be a threat, or were content to remain with their meal, and he was able to breath a sigh of relief.

He fished through his pouches before finding a suitable enough snack to placate the angry grumbles in his midsection, but his heart wasn’t in it. He slowly chewed on a bit of rabbit jerky as tears fell from the corners of his eyes, and he mourned the loss of his friend.

Every so often, he would look in the direction the sorcerer had traveled and absently touch the handle of the crossbow now hanging from his belt.

The Box (XIII)

Posted on November 28, 2013 by R. Richardsson

The sword was cold and unfamiliar in his hands, but it was a necessary inconvenience. While he possessed many powerful magics for the coming battle, he still needed something that would open the creature for them to be more effective.

“I suppose I could have allowed them to live,” he muttered thoughtfully to himself.

Despite his words, he knew that he had made the right choice. They would have been useful against the Great Flame, their unique skills would have given him a greater chance for survival, but the overall risk of the box falling into their hands was too great.

He would rather face the venerable wyrm when it was at the height of its power than to allow for that to happen.

As he continued to close the distance between himself and the lair, he silently appraised the condition of the longsword. The light blue substance Elladuer’d applied to the metal held. Though he hadn’t heard what the elf had claimed it was, it appeared to have temporarily enchanted the metal for one purpose.

“To slay the dragon,” he breathed.

The words echoed softly from the stone, disturbing the silent denizens of the underdark, big and small alike. Some acknowledged it with nary a glance, while others fled deeper into the nether.

“O’salum Na’eldraeya, Y’salonna Drak.”

As he incanted the words of the spell, he lightly drew the blade across the palm of his right hand. It bit into his flesh, parting it with its temped edge and drank of his blood. Not a single drop was spilled. The blade absorbed it greedily, prompted by the power he gave unto it.

“Fly, Dragonbane, I command you,” he shrieked. “Protect me from the abomination that is Malifgorranaka!”

At the pinnacle of his spell, he released the blade into the air where it hovered just as the hourglass had earlier. Only, rather than keeping time, this object’s purpose was much more deadly.

His knees wobbled beneath him and for the next few seconds, he fought to regain his strength. The magic was taking its toll on his body, years from his life and it threatened to consume him with every spell he cast. It was a price he was willing to pay, for once he had the box, these worries would be no more.

Safely hidden in the shadows behind him, a single red eye narrowed.

The Box (Part X)

Posted on October 14, 2013 by R. Richardsson

“…get a grip, rider…”

The elfin words rebounded off of the walls around him, forced backwards by the spell he had previously placed on his companion. The words trembled with fear, something that he had not known was possible in his companion, and were spoken by the lips of one who was no longer sure of himself.

It had been only a few moments since the gaping maw had been inches from his face. He could still smell the foul odor it had breathed onto him, coating his senses with its rotten promise of death.

He walked in long strides, the only sound from him being the soft whisper of his robes as they rustled with each step, following the path that the smaller creature had taken. The creatures were visibly agitated, but he had already expected that they would be.

“…gods…”

A sinister smile slowly placed the evil on his expression when he heard the single word prayer spit out by the elf.

It wouldn’t be long before the creatures swarmed in on the one he had scented as the intruder in their tunnels. The ruse had been easy enough. They had expected him to place wards against the dragon’s fire, but they knew very little about the nature of his magic. He had drawn the knife across his palm in the beginning of the ritual and spread his blood on the back of the elf’s armor.

Later, during the ‘show’ of silencing each of their loudest parts, he had enchanted the blood sigil with a scent that would drive any nearby predators mad with rage. It had worked sooner than he had expected, but then, he hadn’t thought of the Destrachan being the first creatures to come within range of the scent.

From what he knew of the creatures, they were more suited to the deeper regions of the underdark, where sounds were a precious commodity and smells got you killed. It was curious that they had wandered this close to the surface. More curious still that they hunted this close to a dragon’s lair.

“…give me strength…”

The desperation in the voice of the elf amused him. He had seemed so strong, so capable. And yet, the panic in his words betrayed him. It was the sound of one who had just realized how utterly alone he truly was. The words were of one who knew that he had little chance of winning.

He reached into a small pouch hanging from his right hip and produced the hourglass he had shown his companions earlier. What he had told them was that it revealed the remaining time on the Ward vs. Dragon Fire spell he had cast. What it showed him was the time remaining on the silence spells, for which was its only purpose.

As before, when he opened his hands, it drifted a couple of feet away where it would float until he willed it to return. There were very few grains of sand left in the upper portion of the device and his grin grew to demonic proportions. Had either of the two seen his expression just then, they might have had more than a second thought about the sorcerer.

He left the enchanted timer to float where it was, it would continue maintain its position even when he was moving. He didn’t often do this, for it drained the enchantment much faster when it was out, but he wanted to watch the last grain of sand fall to the small pile on the bottom. There was a grim satisfaction in knowing that he would soon be the only one who would know the secret of The Box.