User blog:Leea/The Tale of Voronwe, Chapter 10

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1st, 2nd, 3rd, 4th, 5th, 6th, 7th, 8th, 9th

4th Era 100, 24th of First Seed, Pyandonea
Hearing something behind him, he spun around, but there was nothing there. Turning to the hearth again, his breath caught in his throat as he stared in horror. Orthendar was standing there in all his bloody glory, the dried blood turning patches of his rich, scarlet hair maroon. His eyes bored through Markadil, an uncanny light in their depths. The half dried blood on his chin formed a horrible parody of a beard, and the slash and gaping hole in his heart were agonizingly visible, as if there was an otherworldly light shone on him. The dead Elf's mouth opened, and the haunting voice of the dead filled Markadil's ears.

"You may have gotten rid of me, but you can't dispose of Balasian so easily. He has picked up many skills to help him and his followers in the cause. He knows you, Markadil. He fears someone is coming, and has prepared himself. You will die in your foolish attempt at glory, and we will eventually free this land of Orgnum's taint."

On the assassin in one leap, Orthendar grabbed him by the shoulders and thrust his face close. The dead Elf's breath was cold on his face as Markadil struggled to get away, but Orthendar held him tight regardless how much he struggled. Showing his teeth, which were caked with gore, Orthendar slammed Markadil hard up against the wall, shaking the pictures hanging there, shoving him higher and higher, holding him up by the throat with one hand. The assassin's legs dangled as he tried to pry the hand from his throat, but to no avail. The dead Sea Elf spoke again, the awful hollowness of his voice reverberating in the assassin's head. "You cannot escape your fate, worm. You and all of your kind will perish in the cleansing of Pyandonea. The Gods will see to it."

With this last proclamation, Orthendar released his grip on the assassin, and he tumbled to the floor, gasping for breath.

* * *

Waking up with a start, he was in bed, and the warm sunshine filtering in his windows signaled the start of a new day. Shaking his head to dispel the dream, he got out of bed, and made for his dressers to pick out his uniform for his assignment. Glancing at himself in his full length mirror, he was startled to see fresh bruises in the shape of handprints on his shoulders and around his neck, and deep finger marks on his chest. Markadil recalled the dream last night. A ghost? No, couldn't be. "Must have been from my tussle yesterday," he thought, though he didn't recal being grabbed by Orthendar on his throat or shoulders before the man had killed himself. Was the dream really...? "No," he told himself, trying to sound convincing, but noticing the shake in his voice regardless. "It was just from my wrestle yesterday," he stated, turning away from the mirror.

Active contracts called for closer fitting attire, so he didn't wear the uniform he had worn yesterday. Instead, he put on the leather body suit, crafted from stingray hide and dyed multiple shades of blue, gray, and black. Given the shades of color, it was perfect for hiding beneath the waves for the intended target to pass by, and was often used in such a manner for ambushes. It was specially enchanted to feel weightless, allowing one to move as if they were wearing nothing, resulting in fluid movements with no restrictions that armor naturally has. The gloves were crafted from the same material, but had small bone spikes set in the knuckles, allowing for greater hand-to-hand combat ablilities, useful for both mages and weapon specialists alike. They were also enchanted to be able to deliver more force than was exterted, resulting in punches that could break a bone as if one had hidden a shaft of iron within the glove. The matching boots had special tempered steel supports in the arches, allowing one to jump farther than was normally possilble, because they acted like springs, or run longer distances before tiring, in addition to being enchanted to make all movements silent for the wearer, no matter if they were walking or running. Donning the hood last, he adjusted the supple, almost fabric-like leather around his neck with its silver clasp; emblazoned with the emblem of the Sea Serpents, it showed a serpent with mouth agape, showing fangs the size and appearance of daggers, with a tidal wave in the background, signifying both melee fighters and the mages in the Guild's ranks. Pulling the hood over his head, it shadowed most of the features of his face, barring the scar on his bottom lip and his keen white eyes.

Taking one last look in the mirror, Markadil spoke to his reflection, "You'll be a true hero. Just imagine the pomp and celebrations when you get back." Admiring the formfitting outfit a moment longer, he turned out and walked to the door, grabbing up his pack and starting his journey.