Post by reik on Dec 23, 2008 9:02:16 GMT -5
…Some small town far in the north of Faerun, 1343…
The hammer crashed down.
‘Reik, called ‘The White’, ‘Deathstalker of Bhaal’. I hereby find you guilty of murder in nine cases – and that is only those we know of! – The sentence is clear. Tomorrow, you shall be hung.’
A chuckle sounded through the small, makeshift court. The ‘judge’ frowned. He himself had found his little speech most intimidating. Never would he have thought the accused would find it… amusing. He tilted his head ever so slightly towards the tied up young man in the white coat, eyeing him carefully for a moment before he finally spoke.
‘Something funny, Mister Reik? Do … enlighten us.’
The young man lifted his gaze, a defiant smirk plastered on his handsome face.
‘I have served my lord well. I fear not death, and even less to be… murdered by you. Hrmhrm.’
An expression of mild annoyance and anger crept upon the judges stern visage. Then …
He smiled.
‘Is that so?’
Suddenly he was in control again.
‘In that case, I take back the judgement. You may not fear death and being sent to your lord, but… I am certain you will mind sitting in a dark, damp, lonesome hole for the rest of your pityful existence. Have fun, ‘Reik the White, Deathstalker of Bhaal’.’
The judge concluded with a mocking imitation of the accused's ‘Hrmhrm’ and brought the hammer down again as two of the guards grabbed the young man and started to drag him away.
‘What?! You can’t do this to me! Let me go! You’re gonna die! ALL of you! You have no idea who you are …’
His protests faded from the ears of the judge as he was dragged out of the room.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
… a dark, damp, lonesome hole somewhere in a small town far in the north of Faerun, 1358 – The Time of Troubles…
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
There was nothing else to do here.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
He could only wait for death or freedom. Or maybe that was one and the same by now.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
The rhythm of his breath and that slight feeling of warmth, fueled by his faith, still strong after all the years, were all what kept the rest of his sanity here.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Breathe in. Breathe ou…
He shudders. Weakly he lifts his head.
The warmth.
Gone.
He speaks. A barely audible whisper.
‘Bhaal? Lord? Where are you? I can’t feel you anymore… Lord of Murder? I…’
His voice fails him. Of course. That must be it. After all this years, his Lord must have finally abandoned him, like the pathetic worm lying helplessly in a hole that he was.
A scream fills the air of the small town.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
… the same dark, damp, lonesome hole somewhere in a small town far in the north of Faerun, 1372…
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
The door flies open. ‘Y.. you there! I don’t know who you are, but you … you can fight, yes? You gotta help – the orcs, they… they…’
A shaky youth opens the old man's shackles.
A shaky youth shakes one last time as teeth dig into his throat.
He rises, licking his lips. How has he missed this taste. He grabs the youth’s knife and lifts himself up.
Oh, he’d help kill the orcs.
Or anyone else attempting to stop him from getting out of here, for that matter.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
… a small, comfy inn-room in a certain little hamlet somewhere in the Western Reaches, 1372…
The old man shakes with barely surpressed rage as his eyes wander over the pages of the tome again and again.
He had not been abandoned by the Lord.
The Lord of Murder… had been murdered. Struck down by some pathetic mortal with the help of the Lord of Shadows, that pityful, cowardly …
The book was thrown into a corner of the room angrily.
How could he have doubted his Lord for but a second?
He would make it up.
He would make it up to him.
The hammer crashed down.
‘Reik, called ‘The White’, ‘Deathstalker of Bhaal’. I hereby find you guilty of murder in nine cases – and that is only those we know of! – The sentence is clear. Tomorrow, you shall be hung.’
A chuckle sounded through the small, makeshift court. The ‘judge’ frowned. He himself had found his little speech most intimidating. Never would he have thought the accused would find it… amusing. He tilted his head ever so slightly towards the tied up young man in the white coat, eyeing him carefully for a moment before he finally spoke.
‘Something funny, Mister Reik? Do … enlighten us.’
The young man lifted his gaze, a defiant smirk plastered on his handsome face.
‘I have served my lord well. I fear not death, and even less to be… murdered by you. Hrmhrm.’
An expression of mild annoyance and anger crept upon the judges stern visage. Then …
He smiled.
‘Is that so?’
Suddenly he was in control again.
‘In that case, I take back the judgement. You may not fear death and being sent to your lord, but… I am certain you will mind sitting in a dark, damp, lonesome hole for the rest of your pityful existence. Have fun, ‘Reik the White, Deathstalker of Bhaal’.’
The judge concluded with a mocking imitation of the accused's ‘Hrmhrm’ and brought the hammer down again as two of the guards grabbed the young man and started to drag him away.
‘What?! You can’t do this to me! Let me go! You’re gonna die! ALL of you! You have no idea who you are …’
His protests faded from the ears of the judge as he was dragged out of the room.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
… a dark, damp, lonesome hole somewhere in a small town far in the north of Faerun, 1358 – The Time of Troubles…
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
There was nothing else to do here.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
He could only wait for death or freedom. Or maybe that was one and the same by now.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
The rhythm of his breath and that slight feeling of warmth, fueled by his faith, still strong after all the years, were all what kept the rest of his sanity here.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Breathe in. Breathe ou…
He shudders. Weakly he lifts his head.
The warmth.
Gone.
He speaks. A barely audible whisper.
‘Bhaal? Lord? Where are you? I can’t feel you anymore… Lord of Murder? I…’
His voice fails him. Of course. That must be it. After all this years, his Lord must have finally abandoned him, like the pathetic worm lying helplessly in a hole that he was.
A scream fills the air of the small town.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
… the same dark, damp, lonesome hole somewhere in a small town far in the north of Faerun, 1372…
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
The door flies open. ‘Y.. you there! I don’t know who you are, but you … you can fight, yes? You gotta help – the orcs, they… they…’
A shaky youth opens the old man's shackles.
A shaky youth shakes one last time as teeth dig into his throat.
He rises, licking his lips. How has he missed this taste. He grabs the youth’s knife and lifts himself up.
Oh, he’d help kill the orcs.
Or anyone else attempting to stop him from getting out of here, for that matter.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
… a small, comfy inn-room in a certain little hamlet somewhere in the Western Reaches, 1372…
The old man shakes with barely surpressed rage as his eyes wander over the pages of the tome again and again.
He had not been abandoned by the Lord.
The Lord of Murder… had been murdered. Struck down by some pathetic mortal with the help of the Lord of Shadows, that pityful, cowardly …
The book was thrown into a corner of the room angrily.
How could he have doubted his Lord for but a second?
He would make it up.
He would make it up to him.