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Rivals (Shattered Vengeance)
After actually getting a few replies for my earlier post, I decided I should post another of the short stories I wrote for the rulebook of Shattered Vengeance, my RPG.
This one isn't really very good, in my opinion. It exists merely to give a background example for the Magic-User duels that now take place in the Shattered Realm. In this case, it's a Warlock meeting a hated foe - a Necromancer.
Remember, these short stories here are unrelated in everything but their setting.
I have far better stories, but I'll hold off on posting them until/if this one gets a reply or two. Comments and criticism are welcome.
Rivals
It was cold. Cold and eerily quiet. The broken remnants of ancient structures jutted from the dusty, bare earth like the ragged bones of some long dead beast… each a lifeless monument to what was once a breathing civilisation. The only remains of the Golden Realm here were crumbling rocks, dust, and ashes.
Occasionally the silence was broken by the woeful keening of the wind, whistling through the ruins. Usually, this cursed place would remain undisturbed. But not today.
Two pairs of figures walked forth from the vast open expanses of the Windstorm Plains. The pairs of silhouettes approached each other from opposite directions. Caution was written plainly in their steps. They all headed towards one of the larger ruins…something that may once have been a mighty gleaming temple.
The walls of the temple were blackened with soot, its mighty pillars now collapsed and broken upon the ground. The rocks were crumbling, still dying a gradual death after all these years. The roof of the temple had caved-in long ago, and lay forlornly over the landscape. Two archways still stood at opposite ends of the temple, ruined steps leading up to them from the dry and cracked ground. The figures stepped through those archways into the temple.
From the Northern entrance came two impressive men. The first was slim but sinewy. His red hair was combed neatly back on his head, and he wore an ornate red and orange silk cloak that whipped in the wind. His eyes were ringed with black Kohl. Gold bracers glittered on his wrists. Behind him was a massive warrior. Though the man who walked in before him was not small, this warrior stood easily a head over him, his broad shoulders only barely allowing him passage through the archway. A chainmail vest glinted on his body, and a worn brown travelling cloak was wrapped around his shoulder. He wore a broadsword and shield strapped to his back.
At the same time, from the Southern entrance, two others also entered the ruins. The first was a thin, hunched man dressed in a coarse grey robe, the hood pulled low over his face. One pale, claw-like hand held tightly at the robe, covering a body shivering with cold. With the other hand he leaned heavily on a gnarled wooden staff for support. Behind him walked in a shifty-eyed woman, her long brown hair falling over her shoulders and framing her face. She was beautiful, her appearance marred only by a long scar running down one side of her face. Her metal-studded leather armour did little to conceal a row of glinting daggers strapped to her body.
The figures approach each other, meeting at opposite ends of a large, strange stone table in the middle of the temple. Its dark granite surface did not seem to have been marred by the passage of time. A strange warmth emanated from it.
The two robed figures looked at each other warily. The red-cloaked man spoke first, his eyes narrowed in unconcealed contempt.
“I’m surprised the maggot saw fit to crawl forth from its corpse, Canarith! I would have expected you to employ one of your cronies to stab me in the neck in my sleep! After all, you had no qualms murdering my brother in cold blood!”
The grey-robed man, Canarith, replies in a quiet, rustling voice. It is inhumanly emotionless.
“Vondor, your brother’s position on the council was… inconvenient. He had been given a choice – it was he who chose to be so uncooperative. There are greater things at stake than his own petty ambitions. Your later interference in my plans cost me dear.”
Vondor’s face twisted into a mask of hatred, and a steel-bladed dagger appeared in his hands. The leather-clad woman quickly reached for her own weapons… but was halted by a wave of Canarith’s hand.
“I hardly think that that is appropriate, Vondor. We have come all this way to settle this dispute in a… honourable fashion. It would be unbecoming for you to strike me down after making such a long journey.”
Vondor sheathed his dagger back into a hidden recess of his cloak, but his face stayed filled with anger.
“Very well then, Canarith! Let’s get on with this… the sooner we begin, the sooner I can see you burn!”
The two robed men placed their hands upon the stone slab, and whisper arcane words of passage. Blue runes became visible upon the flat granite surface, glowing with a cool inner light of their own.
With a sound like the whooshing of a hot wind, two beams of light shot from the ground, one behind each of the two Magic-Users. They grew in width, expanding into a scintillating oval portal of deep blue light. The Magic-Users removed their hands from the altar and looked at each other once more. Before they stepped through the portals and towards their respective destinies, they exchanged one last set of words…
“For vengeance!”
“For vengeance.”
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Women like movies where one person dies very slowly.
Men like movies where many people die very quickly.
If you seek immortal knowledge, then visit Soul Reaver's Black Library at www.soulreaver.50g.com
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