EZ_Kooran Katshadow
08-17-00, 09:50 AM
He raced, full knowing, full fearing his fate.
He turned looking into the abyss of darkness that was behind him, eyes, a pair of them: Red, blood red.
More pairs appeared he darted away, scrambling, stumbling, throwing himself forward with each step.
Roots, trees, plants, eyes - eyes all around.
His efforts: valiant, brave perhaps, his end would be but a fury of blood and flesh in the mouths of these beasts.
His head swam with bone-numbing fear. His brags, always saying he feared no man or beast and yet now -- now he sprinted through the forrest with nothing but terror in his heart.
"Those bastards." He thought, a single and good ending thought as he stopped and charged.
Men speak of fools who claim to be brave when they die.
He was not being brave, he was so terrified he simply wanted it over.
His dying scream was as his thought, "Those bastards!"
The wolves took no notice of his cry, before long his voice was forever silenced except in the memory of those he knew.
Which brings me to tell you of those he knew, scoundrels, brigrands, theives, rapists, killers, all of them. A very evil and doomed motley crue.
Yet some tried to rise above, some simply died in the gutter. No diginfied death for the wicked I suppose.
Some strung by their toes, or ears, or neck. Dead all the same, and probably better that way.
His morning had been only slightly unusual, he had woken up sober. He knew he needed money, and as any freebooter would do he found a well standing rich man and killed him. Stealing his coin purse and his life all for the price of a few drinks.
But did he consider such a thing? Never.
His friends and foes were all much the same, even the law had to be brutal to keep up with them.
As he grew more red-nosed he sang, "Ahh be there a noose ready for me! Ahh but I be clever, I be swift, they'll never string me up -- I can always escape the crypt!"
Hiccups, dozens of them interupted his song but since noone heard it but himself it was the best song ever.
Guiltless they were, and many they killed, roaming rogues and bandits.
And did a chance encounter mean his death? Oh, you decided fair minded listener.
He zig-zagged into town, his sauntering pace swaying him back and forth.
To the guild in he marched, and did he proclaim himself the toughest, meanest bucaneer that Norrath had ever fear of knowing. The clerk, he chuckled at the boasting of the drunken bandit.
"Ahh why need you even come here then?"
Between his hiccups the man said to set example, then promptly sat in a chair and snoozed.
The clerk, still laughing continued writing in his dusty tomes of lyric and forgotten lore.
In stepped a corporal, a proud man, chest out, shoulders broad. He raised an eye at the man in the corner, boots unlaced and stinking of rum.
He sneered but ordered a room from the clerk, who acted as an inn keep to keep the guild a secret.
"And yonder, what foul man is that, that you let stay in your inn?"
"Ahh he is but a drunken passer-by."
The corporal stuck his nose up and walked up the creaking stairs to an inviting clean bed.
The man's eye peeked open, a great breath of relief and he jumped up, starting to leave.
Another rogue stopped him, grasping his shoulder tightly to the point of pain.
The man looked over his shoulder, and the other rogue took his hand.
Smirking he open the hand and put a peice of paper in it. He then closed the hand pushed the man out and walked back in, slamming the door behind him.
He opened his hand and as he did he nearly cried.
"No!" He shouted.
In his hand a crumpled peice of paper lay, it was bright red, stained in blood.
He shook, shivered and panted, knowing this meant only one thing.
He had accidentally or purposefully killed another rogue.
"The high standing man --" He thought, "had two daggers!"
The sun was setting...
In the distance he heard a faint bark...
<AUTHOR BLIRB>
Just a one episode story, experimenting with different things, tell me if you enjoyed it -- thanks.
He turned looking into the abyss of darkness that was behind him, eyes, a pair of them: Red, blood red.
More pairs appeared he darted away, scrambling, stumbling, throwing himself forward with each step.
Roots, trees, plants, eyes - eyes all around.
His efforts: valiant, brave perhaps, his end would be but a fury of blood and flesh in the mouths of these beasts.
His head swam with bone-numbing fear. His brags, always saying he feared no man or beast and yet now -- now he sprinted through the forrest with nothing but terror in his heart.
"Those bastards." He thought, a single and good ending thought as he stopped and charged.
Men speak of fools who claim to be brave when they die.
He was not being brave, he was so terrified he simply wanted it over.
His dying scream was as his thought, "Those bastards!"
The wolves took no notice of his cry, before long his voice was forever silenced except in the memory of those he knew.
Which brings me to tell you of those he knew, scoundrels, brigrands, theives, rapists, killers, all of them. A very evil and doomed motley crue.
Yet some tried to rise above, some simply died in the gutter. No diginfied death for the wicked I suppose.
Some strung by their toes, or ears, or neck. Dead all the same, and probably better that way.
His morning had been only slightly unusual, he had woken up sober. He knew he needed money, and as any freebooter would do he found a well standing rich man and killed him. Stealing his coin purse and his life all for the price of a few drinks.
But did he consider such a thing? Never.
His friends and foes were all much the same, even the law had to be brutal to keep up with them.
As he grew more red-nosed he sang, "Ahh be there a noose ready for me! Ahh but I be clever, I be swift, they'll never string me up -- I can always escape the crypt!"
Hiccups, dozens of them interupted his song but since noone heard it but himself it was the best song ever.
Guiltless they were, and many they killed, roaming rogues and bandits.
And did a chance encounter mean his death? Oh, you decided fair minded listener.
He zig-zagged into town, his sauntering pace swaying him back and forth.
To the guild in he marched, and did he proclaim himself the toughest, meanest bucaneer that Norrath had ever fear of knowing. The clerk, he chuckled at the boasting of the drunken bandit.
"Ahh why need you even come here then?"
Between his hiccups the man said to set example, then promptly sat in a chair and snoozed.
The clerk, still laughing continued writing in his dusty tomes of lyric and forgotten lore.
In stepped a corporal, a proud man, chest out, shoulders broad. He raised an eye at the man in the corner, boots unlaced and stinking of rum.
He sneered but ordered a room from the clerk, who acted as an inn keep to keep the guild a secret.
"And yonder, what foul man is that, that you let stay in your inn?"
"Ahh he is but a drunken passer-by."
The corporal stuck his nose up and walked up the creaking stairs to an inviting clean bed.
The man's eye peeked open, a great breath of relief and he jumped up, starting to leave.
Another rogue stopped him, grasping his shoulder tightly to the point of pain.
The man looked over his shoulder, and the other rogue took his hand.
Smirking he open the hand and put a peice of paper in it. He then closed the hand pushed the man out and walked back in, slamming the door behind him.
He opened his hand and as he did he nearly cried.
"No!" He shouted.
In his hand a crumpled peice of paper lay, it was bright red, stained in blood.
He shook, shivered and panted, knowing this meant only one thing.
He had accidentally or purposefully killed another rogue.
"The high standing man --" He thought, "had two daggers!"
The sun was setting...
In the distance he heard a faint bark...
<AUTHOR BLIRB>
Just a one episode story, experimenting with different things, tell me if you enjoyed it -- thanks.