Virtue of Steel 5
Apr. 17th, 2007 01:31 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sparkindarknessThis, THIS VILE THING, is why I haven't been posting much fic lately. I have been wrestling with this shoddy, boring, torn up, twisted storyline for so long it has gone beyond not funny. I have had to force out ever damn word of this thing, edit it a dozen times and it's still the 2nd most ahted piece of fic I've ever written.
But it's done, alone with more world building than any sane person should ever do (so the reason I'm doing it should be clear). Now maybe the muses will play nice and the fic will flow, or I will start banging my head against a heavy flat surface
Asharra watched Teltherisir through slitted lids, the sun was too damn bright to do anything else. She hadn’t known the elf long, and reading an elf’s emotions was pretty bloody difficult at the best of times; she wondered sometimes if they even had emotions, but she thought he was worried. But then, he’d have to be stupid not to be, with two of them laid up.
Even staying on her horse seemed like too much effort. She’d had to take off most of the armour - not that it was in especially good condition anyway, but the weight had nearly pulled her to the ground. Her sword and axe were too heavy to life. The best she could manage was her dagger and even then she didn’t think she’d be able to wield it. She felt as weak as a kitten and was hating every minute of it. At least she was alive to hate it. She flexed her arm, still awed to see it clean and whole, without a single scar. She darted a glance at Simeon, noticing that Soravzha was doing the same. Priests were always good allies to have but she’d never known one who was this blessed by the gods. She wasn't sure she liked it.
She snorted. Well, obviously she liked being alive and liked still having an arm. She’d have neither life nor arm if the kid hadn't charged her with that magic and healed her wounds. But you never knew what was going to happen when the gods got involved. Gods were worse than kings when it came to screwing things up on a random, inbred whim. And they were even worse payers.
And Simeon was in an almost comatose state, they’d had to practically strap him to his saddle to stop him falling off. Probably some divine side effect or karmic retribution or deity mood swings or something. His power was incredible - really incredible, but there seemed to be limits and some harsh prices. Teltherisir seemed to think that he’d snap out of it eventually - Asharra didn’t know if that was an educated guess on the part of the mage or just plain making it up so he sounded impressive and knowledgeable to the magicless humans. You never really knew with elves or mages.
“The dwarf hold should be less than a day’s ride away at least.” Asharra muttered, as much to test if her voice was stronger than a little girl’s or still pathetic. She cursed silently, she wasn’t used to being pathetic.
The elf nodded, he had raised his right hand and seemed to be feeling the air, like he could smell with his hand or he could touch something in the wind. Asharra thought she saw brief sparkles of flame dancing around his fingertips, but couldn't be sure in the harsh morning light. “Not far, thankfully,” the elf’s gaze surveyed their battered company quickly. “But there is something ahead, something I can feel pressing against the world like a great weight on the land. Something that sends ripples through the elements.”
Asharra frowned, “and that is mysterious mage speech for?”
“Daemon,” Soravzha hissed.
Teltherisir blinked at her, seeming almost surprised. Finally he nodded. “Possibly, yes.”
“A Daemon. In the wilderness in the middle of these mountains and in the shadow of a Dwarf fortress city?” Asharra gaped. “I’ve never heard of Dwarfs summoning daemons before.”
“Because it never happens. Dwarfs have little talent for magic, no patience for daemons and no tolerance for nuanced speech or delicate negotiations. The few times when dwarfs have summoned daemons usually end when the summoner decides to cross his protective circle with an axe.” Teltherisir said, dryly.
“So it isn’t a daemon?” Asharra asked. Daemons were worse than the undead. They had no vital organs to target, were immune to most damage, regenerated even when you hacked bits off them and generally had enough nasty tricks to kill you three times over.
“Daemon,” they all turned in surprise as Simeon croaked, trying to rise from his saddle. Soravzha moved to help him when the ropes that tied him to the saddle snapped. She blinked and lifted one torn end, the inch thick rope had snapped like string.
“Daemon,” Simeon growled, pulling himself to his feet. His eyes began to glow with a burning white light, swallowing all trace of pupil; and iris. A scintillating aura surrounded him, making it painful to look at him. “Abomination unto the light!” His voice echoed as if an invisible chorus spoke with him, their words coming from all around. “He shall know our Lord’s anger and fea-”
Simeon collapsed, out cold. Soravzha moved like a snake to catch him before he hit the floor. She moved so quickly that Asharra barely saw the cosh she slipped out of sight.
“The gods use people poorly.” She muttered as she stepped back. “I have a blade that can kill the daemon.”
“Really?” Teltherisir asked. It was amazing how the elf could fit so much doubt into such a neutral tone.
She was already moving into cover along the side of the track. “Keep it busy, elf, I will do the rest.” With that she had faded into the sparse foliage, Asharra doubted even Teltherisir could see her.
Watching the elf walk down the road alone was while Asharra hid in the bushes with the comatose priest was almost more than Asharra could stand - and it had taken her far too long to argue him into letting her this close. She could still fight! She could... well, fall over on the daemon, but she bet that would be pretty distracting.
Then the daemon came into view and all thought stopped for a moment. Asharra couldn’t describe the daemon, she could see it, but her mind just wouldn’t form the image for her. She had an impression of wings and four arms and scales and talons, of fangs and claws and spikes and horns, with flaring colours of bronze and ebony and albino white... but the whole image wouldn’t come together. A drunken priest in Melanik once told her it’s because the untrained mind couldn’t comprehend the daemonic and refused to try lest it drive you insane.
Even with the image, the terror came through. It wasn’t like normal terror, it just seized you and overwhelmed you. She didn’t even feel terrified of the Daemon, she just felt utter terror - to overwhelming for it to be terror of anything. She was only dimly aware of her hyperventilating breath as the spots began to dance before her eyes.
Grimly she focused. Not on the daemon, but on the sword it carried. She knew weapons. She’d spent the last 8 years (a lifetime as an adventurer) with axes swung at her head, swords plunging at her stomach and spears stabbing at her chest. It was a huge sword, 6 feet long with a heavy curved blade. Her breathing began to slow. It ended oddly in 3 cruel spikes. Her heart began to calm. It had a heavy cross-guard that was spiked and bladed, so even if could cause damage. Her hands unclenched. She closed her eyes and took one deep breath before staring back at the daemon, she still felt the terror, but she controlled it now, rode it like a horse.
Teltherisir didn’t seem to blink or flinch as the daemon approached him. Asharra wondered if the elf even felt fear like humans did. The wizards hands were already glowing with a flickering orange-red light.
“Your kind can live a long time, Sinesgarei. Why sacrifice it now?” Asharra shuddered when the daemon spoke and had to close her eyes and force the terror back again. She could feel the words on her skin, like some kind of slime you should be able to wipe off. She was sure she would have been able to hear them even with her hands pressed over her ears - the words of the daemonic went straight to the mind and soiled the soul.
Teltherisir didn’t answer, he raised his hands and a vast boulder of fire streaked from them to explode against the daemon. Asharra cursed... the Daemon staggered back, but it didn’t burn. It didn’t die. Not good. Not good at all. It didn’t stop the elf though who now had both hands above his head sending a constant stream of fireballs towards the daemon. The daemon kept on coming, its laughter pouring over their skin like a constant rain of filth.
Asharra blinked and almost missed Soravzha darting out from behind the daemon. The other woman leaped out from bushes Asharra would have sworn couldn’t have hidden a rabbit and crossed the space to the daemon in an eye-wrenching blur. Through the blanket of flame, Asharra saw steel glint in Soravzha’s hands and then the daemon roared. It spun, sword passing within inches of Soravzha who was already streaking back to the bushes and shadowy hiding. Asharra couldn’t fault her reflexes.
She could fault the power of her magical knife though, she cursed angrily as the daemon laughed and turned back to Teltherisir.
“Metanir gaertal ri!” The elf muttered, taking a step back. He had both hands in the air now and a solid bolt of flames stretched from him to the daemon. The daemon moved forwards, pushing slowly against the fire. Asharra desperately staggered to her feet, stumbling towards the horses were hidden. She didn’t have to speak elvish to know a curse when she heard it. Some said discretion was the better part of valour, Asharra didn’t usually give a damn about valour or discretion but living was certainly better than a horrible death.
The priest was still tied unconscious to his saddle, at least. Asharra vaulted onto her horse and nearly collapsed. Muttering angrily she scrambled slowly and painfully onto her mount and desperately cluing to the saddle as the world swayed. She cursed again, reaching for another rope, desperately trying to secure herself to her own saddle. If this turned into a mad gallop they were dead.
She lead the horses back up the hill as fast as she could, spots danced in front of her vision and only the ropes prevented her falling from her saddle. “Teltherisir, the horses!” She called, hoping the elf’s hearing could catch her weak, rasping voice.
The elf had stepped back, losing ground to the daemon that was a lot closer. Sweat poured down his face as he staggered still further backwards. At least the elf was moving towards the horses.
Then the daemon threw back its head and screamed. Asharra fell from her saddle at the sound, Teltherisir collapsed to his knees. She cursed over and over, it felt like knives being driven into her bones. Nothing could sound like that, nothing. Eventually the last echoes faded and Asharra could open her eyes (and try to disentangle herself from her saddle). The daemon was gone.
Soravzha warily emerged from the bushes, eyes darting and moving in a strange darting motion, always on the edge of running. Asharra couldn’t even muster the strength to untie herself from her saddle and the elf didn’t look much better though he was trying to hide it (fool elf would probably collapse before admitting he needed help).
She stooped and pulled a knife from the floor, well, part of a knife. The blade looked half melted and part of the hilt had shattered. She sighed “That was expensive.”
“A Vengeance Blade? Unbound?” Teltherisir eyed the broken knife. Soravzha nodded. “Would you prefer to be dead?”
Soravzha managed a wry smile, “no. Better poor than dead.”
“And better rich and drunk, than poor.” Asharra cut in. “So someone help me up and get us to that dwarf city before something else goes wrong.”
But it's done, alone with more world building than any sane person should ever do (so the reason I'm doing it should be clear). Now maybe the muses will play nice and the fic will flow, or I will start banging my head against a heavy flat surface
Asharra watched Teltherisir through slitted lids, the sun was too damn bright to do anything else. She hadn’t known the elf long, and reading an elf’s emotions was pretty bloody difficult at the best of times; she wondered sometimes if they even had emotions, but she thought he was worried. But then, he’d have to be stupid not to be, with two of them laid up.
Even staying on her horse seemed like too much effort. She’d had to take off most of the armour - not that it was in especially good condition anyway, but the weight had nearly pulled her to the ground. Her sword and axe were too heavy to life. The best she could manage was her dagger and even then she didn’t think she’d be able to wield it. She felt as weak as a kitten and was hating every minute of it. At least she was alive to hate it. She flexed her arm, still awed to see it clean and whole, without a single scar. She darted a glance at Simeon, noticing that Soravzha was doing the same. Priests were always good allies to have but she’d never known one who was this blessed by the gods. She wasn't sure she liked it.
She snorted. Well, obviously she liked being alive and liked still having an arm. She’d have neither life nor arm if the kid hadn't charged her with that magic and healed her wounds. But you never knew what was going to happen when the gods got involved. Gods were worse than kings when it came to screwing things up on a random, inbred whim. And they were even worse payers.
And Simeon was in an almost comatose state, they’d had to practically strap him to his saddle to stop him falling off. Probably some divine side effect or karmic retribution or deity mood swings or something. His power was incredible - really incredible, but there seemed to be limits and some harsh prices. Teltherisir seemed to think that he’d snap out of it eventually - Asharra didn’t know if that was an educated guess on the part of the mage or just plain making it up so he sounded impressive and knowledgeable to the magicless humans. You never really knew with elves or mages.
“The dwarf hold should be less than a day’s ride away at least.” Asharra muttered, as much to test if her voice was stronger than a little girl’s or still pathetic. She cursed silently, she wasn’t used to being pathetic.
The elf nodded, he had raised his right hand and seemed to be feeling the air, like he could smell with his hand or he could touch something in the wind. Asharra thought she saw brief sparkles of flame dancing around his fingertips, but couldn't be sure in the harsh morning light. “Not far, thankfully,” the elf’s gaze surveyed their battered company quickly. “But there is something ahead, something I can feel pressing against the world like a great weight on the land. Something that sends ripples through the elements.”
Asharra frowned, “and that is mysterious mage speech for?”
“Daemon,” Soravzha hissed.
Teltherisir blinked at her, seeming almost surprised. Finally he nodded. “Possibly, yes.”
“A Daemon. In the wilderness in the middle of these mountains and in the shadow of a Dwarf fortress city?” Asharra gaped. “I’ve never heard of Dwarfs summoning daemons before.”
“Because it never happens. Dwarfs have little talent for magic, no patience for daemons and no tolerance for nuanced speech or delicate negotiations. The few times when dwarfs have summoned daemons usually end when the summoner decides to cross his protective circle with an axe.” Teltherisir said, dryly.
“So it isn’t a daemon?” Asharra asked. Daemons were worse than the undead. They had no vital organs to target, were immune to most damage, regenerated even when you hacked bits off them and generally had enough nasty tricks to kill you three times over.
“Daemon,” they all turned in surprise as Simeon croaked, trying to rise from his saddle. Soravzha moved to help him when the ropes that tied him to the saddle snapped. She blinked and lifted one torn end, the inch thick rope had snapped like string.
“Daemon,” Simeon growled, pulling himself to his feet. His eyes began to glow with a burning white light, swallowing all trace of pupil; and iris. A scintillating aura surrounded him, making it painful to look at him. “Abomination unto the light!” His voice echoed as if an invisible chorus spoke with him, their words coming from all around. “He shall know our Lord’s anger and fea-”
Simeon collapsed, out cold. Soravzha moved like a snake to catch him before he hit the floor. She moved so quickly that Asharra barely saw the cosh she slipped out of sight.
“The gods use people poorly.” She muttered as she stepped back. “I have a blade that can kill the daemon.”
“Really?” Teltherisir asked. It was amazing how the elf could fit so much doubt into such a neutral tone.
She was already moving into cover along the side of the track. “Keep it busy, elf, I will do the rest.” With that she had faded into the sparse foliage, Asharra doubted even Teltherisir could see her.
Watching the elf walk down the road alone was while Asharra hid in the bushes with the comatose priest was almost more than Asharra could stand - and it had taken her far too long to argue him into letting her this close. She could still fight! She could... well, fall over on the daemon, but she bet that would be pretty distracting.
Then the daemon came into view and all thought stopped for a moment. Asharra couldn’t describe the daemon, she could see it, but her mind just wouldn’t form the image for her. She had an impression of wings and four arms and scales and talons, of fangs and claws and spikes and horns, with flaring colours of bronze and ebony and albino white... but the whole image wouldn’t come together. A drunken priest in Melanik once told her it’s because the untrained mind couldn’t comprehend the daemonic and refused to try lest it drive you insane.
Even with the image, the terror came through. It wasn’t like normal terror, it just seized you and overwhelmed you. She didn’t even feel terrified of the Daemon, she just felt utter terror - to overwhelming for it to be terror of anything. She was only dimly aware of her hyperventilating breath as the spots began to dance before her eyes.
Grimly she focused. Not on the daemon, but on the sword it carried. She knew weapons. She’d spent the last 8 years (a lifetime as an adventurer) with axes swung at her head, swords plunging at her stomach and spears stabbing at her chest. It was a huge sword, 6 feet long with a heavy curved blade. Her breathing began to slow. It ended oddly in 3 cruel spikes. Her heart began to calm. It had a heavy cross-guard that was spiked and bladed, so even if could cause damage. Her hands unclenched. She closed her eyes and took one deep breath before staring back at the daemon, she still felt the terror, but she controlled it now, rode it like a horse.
Teltherisir didn’t seem to blink or flinch as the daemon approached him. Asharra wondered if the elf even felt fear like humans did. The wizards hands were already glowing with a flickering orange-red light.
“Your kind can live a long time, Sinesgarei. Why sacrifice it now?” Asharra shuddered when the daemon spoke and had to close her eyes and force the terror back again. She could feel the words on her skin, like some kind of slime you should be able to wipe off. She was sure she would have been able to hear them even with her hands pressed over her ears - the words of the daemonic went straight to the mind and soiled the soul.
Teltherisir didn’t answer, he raised his hands and a vast boulder of fire streaked from them to explode against the daemon. Asharra cursed... the Daemon staggered back, but it didn’t burn. It didn’t die. Not good. Not good at all. It didn’t stop the elf though who now had both hands above his head sending a constant stream of fireballs towards the daemon. The daemon kept on coming, its laughter pouring over their skin like a constant rain of filth.
Asharra blinked and almost missed Soravzha darting out from behind the daemon. The other woman leaped out from bushes Asharra would have sworn couldn’t have hidden a rabbit and crossed the space to the daemon in an eye-wrenching blur. Through the blanket of flame, Asharra saw steel glint in Soravzha’s hands and then the daemon roared. It spun, sword passing within inches of Soravzha who was already streaking back to the bushes and shadowy hiding. Asharra couldn’t fault her reflexes.
She could fault the power of her magical knife though, she cursed angrily as the daemon laughed and turned back to Teltherisir.
“Metanir gaertal ri!” The elf muttered, taking a step back. He had both hands in the air now and a solid bolt of flames stretched from him to the daemon. The daemon moved forwards, pushing slowly against the fire. Asharra desperately staggered to her feet, stumbling towards the horses were hidden. She didn’t have to speak elvish to know a curse when she heard it. Some said discretion was the better part of valour, Asharra didn’t usually give a damn about valour or discretion but living was certainly better than a horrible death.
The priest was still tied unconscious to his saddle, at least. Asharra vaulted onto her horse and nearly collapsed. Muttering angrily she scrambled slowly and painfully onto her mount and desperately cluing to the saddle as the world swayed. She cursed again, reaching for another rope, desperately trying to secure herself to her own saddle. If this turned into a mad gallop they were dead.
She lead the horses back up the hill as fast as she could, spots danced in front of her vision and only the ropes prevented her falling from her saddle. “Teltherisir, the horses!” She called, hoping the elf’s hearing could catch her weak, rasping voice.
The elf had stepped back, losing ground to the daemon that was a lot closer. Sweat poured down his face as he staggered still further backwards. At least the elf was moving towards the horses.
Then the daemon threw back its head and screamed. Asharra fell from her saddle at the sound, Teltherisir collapsed to his knees. She cursed over and over, it felt like knives being driven into her bones. Nothing could sound like that, nothing. Eventually the last echoes faded and Asharra could open her eyes (and try to disentangle herself from her saddle). The daemon was gone.
Soravzha warily emerged from the bushes, eyes darting and moving in a strange darting motion, always on the edge of running. Asharra couldn’t even muster the strength to untie herself from her saddle and the elf didn’t look much better though he was trying to hide it (fool elf would probably collapse before admitting he needed help).
She stooped and pulled a knife from the floor, well, part of a knife. The blade looked half melted and part of the hilt had shattered. She sighed “That was expensive.”
“A Vengeance Blade? Unbound?” Teltherisir eyed the broken knife. Soravzha nodded. “Would you prefer to be dead?”
Soravzha managed a wry smile, “no. Better poor than dead.”
“And better rich and drunk, than poor.” Asharra cut in. “So someone help me up and get us to that dwarf city before something else goes wrong.”