'I need to get away from this place!'
Easier said than done, he thought, cutting down another slaver with a well-timed riposte with a dagger he'd nabbed from the Inn that now lay burning at his back. The village, whose name he'd now forgotten, lay in ruins and flames at the sudden arrival of Slavers and Blight Orcs - no doubt hailing from the outer fringes of the Blightlands, come for plunder and loot and slaves. Arathos didn't care...at least, he didn't want to care. But the flames that raged in and around the village had made it so that approaching was suicide - his curse would kill him before he could even save another soul.
So the best thing to do would be to just run away, right? Run away and find a place to rest and recuperate - run away to the hills, into a nice, dark, cave where there were no flames. He was lucky these slavers arrived just as the sun had set, otherwise he'd be nothing but ashes now; the perfect plan would've been to find a perfect hiding place and wait for the next sunset, wherein hey may move on to the next village and hope it doesn't suffer the same fate as this one.
So why was he running back towards the village with a dagger in one hand and a sword in another?
He didn't know the answer; it was stupid and impulsive, but 400 hundred years of life had done little to remedy both of those traits, it seemed. Despite his curse, Arathos still very much cared about the lives of the innocent.
A Blight Orc roared and charged at him, but his superior reflexes allowed him to lunge diagonally - avoiding the orc's war hammer as slammed unto the ground. With a hiss, Arathos leapt forward and sunk his fangs into the orc's exposed neck.
If he was going to save these villagers, then he might as well feed...
Easier said than done, he thought, cutting down another slaver with a well-timed riposte with a dagger he'd nabbed from the Inn that now lay burning at his back. The village, whose name he'd now forgotten, lay in ruins and flames at the sudden arrival of Slavers and Blight Orcs - no doubt hailing from the outer fringes of the Blightlands, come for plunder and loot and slaves. Arathos didn't care...at least, he didn't want to care. But the flames that raged in and around the village had made it so that approaching was suicide - his curse would kill him before he could even save another soul.
So the best thing to do would be to just run away, right? Run away and find a place to rest and recuperate - run away to the hills, into a nice, dark, cave where there were no flames. He was lucky these slavers arrived just as the sun had set, otherwise he'd be nothing but ashes now; the perfect plan would've been to find a perfect hiding place and wait for the next sunset, wherein hey may move on to the next village and hope it doesn't suffer the same fate as this one.
So why was he running back towards the village with a dagger in one hand and a sword in another?
He didn't know the answer; it was stupid and impulsive, but 400 hundred years of life had done little to remedy both of those traits, it seemed. Despite his curse, Arathos still very much cared about the lives of the innocent.
A Blight Orc roared and charged at him, but his superior reflexes allowed him to lunge diagonally - avoiding the orc's war hammer as slammed unto the ground. With a hiss, Arathos leapt forward and sunk his fangs into the orc's exposed neck.
If he was going to save these villagers, then he might as well feed...
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