His fingertips traced the smooth contours of the pale rock. The entire cavern was full of them. It was as if it had started growing teeth. The spines that hung from the ceiling were damp too, adding to the effect of the room being one large mouth. Draedamyr took his hand back, taking the glove from his mouth and putting it back on and picking up the lamp.
If he didn't return to the surface with one of the last heirlooms of his past, then at least he would return with a newfound appreciation of the strange beauty of the underworld.
Whilst his eyes had adjusted to the darkness he didn't have the low light vision of an orc or a dark elf. The lantern had been taken from the camp along with a stack of candles and a tinderbox. Whilst he was no magician he knew enough to conjure a very basic light with a bit of time to concentrate. It was enough to follow the trail left by the dark elves, but they would be marching at pace back to their camp or city.
By contrast Draedamyr had to pick his path with exceptional care. He had little knowledge of the dangers down below the surface. At one point he had hidden from the sound of some creature. Hidden in a crevice he had stayed quite still until the sound had passed.
Draedamyr continued down a tunnel. This time it wasn't a natural passage. There was signs that the smooth sloping floor had been shaped by tools. Part of him considered turning back.
He wore the garb of one of their dead with no notion as to how well it could conceal his identity. For all he knew the tunics were only worn by female warriors. The hood wouldn't hide his heritage beyond anything more than a cursory inspection. Then there was the fact that he didn't even know the language and if he did happen to catch up to the raiding party there were at least four of them left.
He almost watched himself make the poor decision to continue on with comolate detachment. Draedamyr knew that he was still recovering from hitting his head. At a much deeper level he was still in mourning from the pupil he had lost.
With his hand on the hilt of a dark elf sword he pressed on deeper into the endless darkness.
Vyx'aria Tor'Rahel
If he didn't return to the surface with one of the last heirlooms of his past, then at least he would return with a newfound appreciation of the strange beauty of the underworld.
Whilst his eyes had adjusted to the darkness he didn't have the low light vision of an orc or a dark elf. The lantern had been taken from the camp along with a stack of candles and a tinderbox. Whilst he was no magician he knew enough to conjure a very basic light with a bit of time to concentrate. It was enough to follow the trail left by the dark elves, but they would be marching at pace back to their camp or city.
By contrast Draedamyr had to pick his path with exceptional care. He had little knowledge of the dangers down below the surface. At one point he had hidden from the sound of some creature. Hidden in a crevice he had stayed quite still until the sound had passed.
Draedamyr continued down a tunnel. This time it wasn't a natural passage. There was signs that the smooth sloping floor had been shaped by tools. Part of him considered turning back.
He wore the garb of one of their dead with no notion as to how well it could conceal his identity. For all he knew the tunics were only worn by female warriors. The hood wouldn't hide his heritage beyond anything more than a cursory inspection. Then there was the fact that he didn't even know the language and if he did happen to catch up to the raiding party there were at least four of them left.
He almost watched himself make the poor decision to continue on with comolate detachment. Draedamyr knew that he was still recovering from hitting his head. At a much deeper level he was still in mourning from the pupil he had lost.
With his hand on the hilt of a dark elf sword he pressed on deeper into the endless darkness.
Vyx'aria Tor'Rahel