Vand & CO
Winter terns circled high above the sky. Their flight like a mesmerising dance against the wind, through which their black-tipped white wings like blades would cleave through. And yet, it was not cold; enough for one's breath to freeze, enough for the snow to fall in scarce volleys – paltry yet glistening, shame they will meet their doom on the mild, watery grave below.
Sh-ssssh – sh-ssssh – sh-ssssh
Only the waves reigned here. Steadily advanced against the shore, sweeping forth crustaceans and uncovering molluscs as it retreated into the sea. And it would ebb and flow, ebb and flow.
And the terns flew while the gulls lamented their hunger to the world.
HRRRRRRR
The waves splashed against the wooden boat, hastening it towards the shore until it eventually stranded against the gravel floor. It would not go further from here.
A figure of deep blue skin, a dark elf by the name Sannoru from the southern isles would stand high. Shaky and wobbly, their descent into the water sluggish. It was cold, frigid, viscid due ice, but all San wore were mere rags.
Brrrr.
Their eyes would gaze back at the land from which they came. Nevermore their home, for Sannoru of The Thousand Valleys died there twenty years ago.
They warily stared at the island from which they came before their eyes shifted to the two other elves in the boat. They were shivering as much as Sanno was, but not from the cold. Fear.
»None followed us, that is good,« Sannoru spoke tiredly before grabbing the other two by their collars and dragging them off to the shore. Neither of them could speak or scream, for their mouths sealed shut, and even if they could; all curse words would have been used up by the time they reached the sea. San's people rarely came here, mostly as skirmishers, sellsword-thaumaturges.
No wintery gown was there to kiss San's bare feet. Only mud, thick, watery, cold mud.
With the two struggling it only became harder to move further up, often forcing the exerted Sannoru to trip over the mud and trod deeper into it. »And to know you two were once revered as the wise and merciful. Pitiful.«
Eventually, San dropped the two onto the frozen floor and standing high above them; there was no feeling of regret or bad conscience. Sannoru of the Thousand Valleys would have risked their life for the two and all over whom they ruled from Sanno of today.
Times have changed indeed.
Now... They were but a means to an end.
Exhaling slowly, San sat down and took a black scroll from their back. It was battered and muddy from the falls. Before rolling it out slowly with the tips of their fingers, Sanno would steady their focus on it. San knew the maker of it. Knew what followed.
Now true sorcery began.
From both victims, blood was drawn, trailed across the ground and towards the scroll. The due tried to move off in their weakened state, but the moment Sannoru added their own blood to it: Chains erupted from the drawn blood, quickly binding the victims to the scroll by their source wound. As this spell began, it cancelled the effects of the voice seal that was put on them.
Once seated in the lotus pose, Sannoru began to channel their seven subtle body energies onto the scrolls. First, marking the start of the spell with two hand sigils, earth, blood, then with the left touching the scroll centre. Slowly characters began to form out of the blood, all while the empty space between them erupted in painterly flames.
San's breath and wounds turned to the very same flames. These flares were not benign, for each wound they inhabited, old and new, they were over time widening them and creating new ones.
San keeled over, trying to keep their energy outflow focused.
The flames would as if they had a life of their own, dart towards the bound victims and stabbed into them repeatedly.
-
After a long and excruciating while, San was left collapsed on the floor. More brown and red than blue. Hair and clothes an equal mess. Flames were faintly emerging from here and there, like vapour off fields on a warm early morning.
The scroll had disintegrated, and the pair was dead.
Winter terns circled high above the sky. Their flight like a mesmerising dance against the wind, through which their black-tipped white wings like blades would cleave through. And yet, it was not cold; enough for one's breath to freeze, enough for the snow to fall in scarce volleys – paltry yet glistening, shame they will meet their doom on the mild, watery grave below.
Only the waves reigned here. Steadily advanced against the shore, sweeping forth crustaceans and uncovering molluscs as it retreated into the sea. And it would ebb and flow, ebb and flow.
And the terns flew while the gulls lamented their hunger to the world.
HRRRRRRR
The waves splashed against the wooden boat, hastening it towards the shore until it eventually stranded against the gravel floor. It would not go further from here.
A figure of deep blue skin, a dark elf by the name Sannoru from the southern isles would stand high. Shaky and wobbly, their descent into the water sluggish. It was cold, frigid, viscid due ice, but all San wore were mere rags.
Brrrr.
Their eyes would gaze back at the land from which they came. Nevermore their home, for Sannoru of The Thousand Valleys died there twenty years ago.
They warily stared at the island from which they came before their eyes shifted to the two other elves in the boat. They were shivering as much as Sanno was, but not from the cold. Fear.
»None followed us, that is good,« Sannoru spoke tiredly before grabbing the other two by their collars and dragging them off to the shore. Neither of them could speak or scream, for their mouths sealed shut, and even if they could; all curse words would have been used up by the time they reached the sea. San's people rarely came here, mostly as skirmishers, sellsword-thaumaturges.
No wintery gown was there to kiss San's bare feet. Only mud, thick, watery, cold mud.
With the two struggling it only became harder to move further up, often forcing the exerted Sannoru to trip over the mud and trod deeper into it. »And to know you two were once revered as the wise and merciful. Pitiful.«
Eventually, San dropped the two onto the frozen floor and standing high above them; there was no feeling of regret or bad conscience. Sannoru of the Thousand Valleys would have risked their life for the two and all over whom they ruled from Sanno of today.
Times have changed indeed.
Now... They were but a means to an end.
Exhaling slowly, San sat down and took a black scroll from their back. It was battered and muddy from the falls. Before rolling it out slowly with the tips of their fingers, Sanno would steady their focus on it. San knew the maker of it. Knew what followed.
Now true sorcery began.
From both victims, blood was drawn, trailed across the ground and towards the scroll. The due tried to move off in their weakened state, but the moment Sannoru added their own blood to it: Chains erupted from the drawn blood, quickly binding the victims to the scroll by their source wound. As this spell began, it cancelled the effects of the voice seal that was put on them.
Once seated in the lotus pose, Sannoru began to channel their seven subtle body energies onto the scrolls. First, marking the start of the spell with two hand sigils, earth, blood, then with the left touching the scroll centre. Slowly characters began to form out of the blood, all while the empty space between them erupted in painterly flames.
San's breath and wounds turned to the very same flames. These flares were not benign, for each wound they inhabited, old and new, they were over time widening them and creating new ones.
San keeled over, trying to keep their energy outflow focused.
The flames would as if they had a life of their own, dart towards the bound victims and stabbed into them repeatedly.
-
After a long and excruciating while, San was left collapsed on the floor. More brown and red than blue. Hair and clothes an equal mess. Flames were faintly emerging from here and there, like vapour off fields on a warm early morning.
The scroll had disintegrated, and the pair was dead.
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