imported_Pantera
14-09-2003, 04:19
The Lord Reaver was tired. War raged about the Free Lands, and many would die in the weeks to come. Still, he took pleasure in his new son, Valanus. The day had been peaceful as Bastien and his wife, Aquila Windwail, had swam with thier son in the hotsprings. He smiled at the thought of it, shaking his head.
Walking through the great corridors of the Seastone Palace, he felt almost alone. He didn't keep many servants, and the halls were empty and dark, lit by an occasional torch hung in an ancient iron sconce.
His thoughts wandered from his family to the war at hand, Melkor coming to the Allied Powers, Tilsitsin poisoning many... A terrible thing, that. Not a way for warriors to die, or fight. No honor in it.
He made his way slowly down the corridor and into his chambers. As he threw open the doors he grunted, pausing a moment and allowing his eyes to adjust to the pitch-black of the room. Finally he felt his way along the wall and touched a switch, and as he did a roar filled his ears.
He felt something slam into his chest, throwing him sideways. As he fell he saw two men, masked and heavily armed looming above him. Crashing through a table and to the floor, he held still, measuring his breathing lightly.
One of the assassins spoke in a tongue Bastien did not know before advancing and drawing a silenced sidearm.
The wounded Reaver held firm until the last second before stomping at the killers knee and surging to his feet, grappling for the pistol. The second assasin gave a shout, leaping for the Reaver. Bastien swung the other to block him, clamming one into the other and stuffing his thumb deep in the firsts eye, gouging and twisting.
The mans screams were horrible and pained as the Reaver let him fall, turning on the second. The killer took two quick steps backwards before being grabbed by Bastiens great arms and hauled into a sickening headbutt, the assassins cheekbone disintegrating under the blow.
Roaring his rage, the great Reaver dropped the limp body. Spinning and moving for the first and stomping the mans piteos cries into silence.
Reaching down he rips the hood free of the mans face and grunts, shaking his head in disgust. No wonder they were as piss-poor at thier trade as they were.
A fukcing elf.
Walking through the great corridors of the Seastone Palace, he felt almost alone. He didn't keep many servants, and the halls were empty and dark, lit by an occasional torch hung in an ancient iron sconce.
His thoughts wandered from his family to the war at hand, Melkor coming to the Allied Powers, Tilsitsin poisoning many... A terrible thing, that. Not a way for warriors to die, or fight. No honor in it.
He made his way slowly down the corridor and into his chambers. As he threw open the doors he grunted, pausing a moment and allowing his eyes to adjust to the pitch-black of the room. Finally he felt his way along the wall and touched a switch, and as he did a roar filled his ears.
He felt something slam into his chest, throwing him sideways. As he fell he saw two men, masked and heavily armed looming above him. Crashing through a table and to the floor, he held still, measuring his breathing lightly.
One of the assassins spoke in a tongue Bastien did not know before advancing and drawing a silenced sidearm.
The wounded Reaver held firm until the last second before stomping at the killers knee and surging to his feet, grappling for the pistol. The second assasin gave a shout, leaping for the Reaver. Bastien swung the other to block him, clamming one into the other and stuffing his thumb deep in the firsts eye, gouging and twisting.
The mans screams were horrible and pained as the Reaver let him fall, turning on the second. The killer took two quick steps backwards before being grabbed by Bastiens great arms and hauled into a sickening headbutt, the assassins cheekbone disintegrating under the blow.
Roaring his rage, the great Reaver dropped the limp body. Spinning and moving for the first and stomping the mans piteos cries into silence.
Reaching down he rips the hood free of the mans face and grunts, shaking his head in disgust. No wonder they were as piss-poor at thier trade as they were.
A fukcing elf.