S
sharpbits
Guest
He stood at the old silo peering into the distance, on one knee, his sword lain flat by his side. He gripped the handle tightly with his right hand, the leather bindings creaking loudly in the silence. His shield ready in his left, concealing him somewhat in the darkness. The night had already fallen as he waited, the sky was a vast expanse of black...
Occasionally the clouds broke and the moon lit up the valley for a few fleeting seconds, but not long enough to make out the shapes in the distance.
From the hilltop he could see the gates, shrouded in a grim mist. A well travelled path ran through the valley before him, but it had been strangely quiet over the last few days, and that made him nervous.
No one knew his real name as he didnt like to talk much, he always seemed to have his mind elswhere like he was focusing on something a great distance away, perhaps across the western seas. Rumours became legend quickly after his return to Jordheim, tales of war and ancient devilry in the far and unknown places of the world. He had seen more than he would have wanted.
His blade glinted in the moonlight, casting a reflection on his weathered face. The warrior had seen more than his share of battle, yet he had lived on beyond his years, unhindered by the foul memories which haunted his restless sleep. his eyes glanced to the right and he nodded to his companion as he returned. An assasin clad in dark blue like the night, gleaming weapons holstered on his back and sides. The shadowblade had scouted the area around them and the position was secure... safe enough for now.
The warrior trusted this dark soldier with his life, and he smiled as the assasin removed two small golden blades from his belt and wiped the crimson staining on the long grass... he knew what was coming.
The warrior stood up slowly and focused on the gates. His armour held a faint blue glow, somehow shining from within the metal. This was no ordinary chain mail, for he had obtained it at great cost from the finest dwarven craftsmen, and blessed by an aging norsewoman from a guild of foreign tongue from far away lands. The engraved runes on his weapons seemed to absorb all light, causing them to appear as deepest black. Spells of courage, power, and destruction enchanted long ago in a language now forgotten.
The shadowblade put a palm to the ground touching the soil... then nodded to the large norse warrior.
They drew over their black hoods, a pale blue glow illuminating their faces from the powerfully enchanted armour both wore. They readied their weapons, and prepared to move into the night.
They were coming...
Occasionally the clouds broke and the moon lit up the valley for a few fleeting seconds, but not long enough to make out the shapes in the distance.
From the hilltop he could see the gates, shrouded in a grim mist. A well travelled path ran through the valley before him, but it had been strangely quiet over the last few days, and that made him nervous.
No one knew his real name as he didnt like to talk much, he always seemed to have his mind elswhere like he was focusing on something a great distance away, perhaps across the western seas. Rumours became legend quickly after his return to Jordheim, tales of war and ancient devilry in the far and unknown places of the world. He had seen more than he would have wanted.
His blade glinted in the moonlight, casting a reflection on his weathered face. The warrior had seen more than his share of battle, yet he had lived on beyond his years, unhindered by the foul memories which haunted his restless sleep. his eyes glanced to the right and he nodded to his companion as he returned. An assasin clad in dark blue like the night, gleaming weapons holstered on his back and sides. The shadowblade had scouted the area around them and the position was secure... safe enough for now.
The warrior trusted this dark soldier with his life, and he smiled as the assasin removed two small golden blades from his belt and wiped the crimson staining on the long grass... he knew what was coming.
The warrior stood up slowly and focused on the gates. His armour held a faint blue glow, somehow shining from within the metal. This was no ordinary chain mail, for he had obtained it at great cost from the finest dwarven craftsmen, and blessed by an aging norsewoman from a guild of foreign tongue from far away lands. The engraved runes on his weapons seemed to absorb all light, causing them to appear as deepest black. Spells of courage, power, and destruction enchanted long ago in a language now forgotten.
The shadowblade put a palm to the ground touching the soil... then nodded to the large norse warrior.
They drew over their black hoods, a pale blue glow illuminating their faces from the powerfully enchanted armour both wore. They readied their weapons, and prepared to move into the night.
They were coming...
