Wednesday, March 18, 2015

Write Up- Rogue of Changes



The floor rushed up, but pain meant life. Murk landed on his feet but a metallic taste hit is palate with equal force. He knew he was poisoned. Sweating, he watched the hall moving off to the north. Illuminated a sharp orange, morning stars hung at ten paces apart, shedding the light on the cobblestone walls. The shadows stretched outward, moving unlike the fire. Murkstav quickly took a hold of his sword, eyeing the two bandits at the end of the hall; where the passage opened to a entrance at the top of wide steps. Once again the taste of metal, seemingly green even, flooded his palate. 

“We always have damned company, Silio” the one on the left in dark robes mentioned turning as Murkstav moved north to confront them. 

“Oh and this one seems quite intent,” the other said, dressed in leather and cape. 

Murkstav did not respond. Never respond to an enemy, he thought simply meeting the sword of the caped one, taking the deep breath away from him, but giving him just enough time to pull out his obsidian dagger. 

But something was wrong, really wrong, the caped one began to infer, wave, evoke and use the prefixes of a conjuring. Blast, a conjurer, by the time one enemy was dead, there came another two. The dungeoneer knew he had to make this fast. That metallic taste drove him, and things were beginning to get fuzzy.

The conjuring continued. Murkstav felt and heard a wind at the corner of his vision. Something was definitely coming. The bandit sliced downward, Murkstav blocked and slashed his wrist with the obsidian. The man reeled, an amateur, and the dungeoneer shoved his sword in a space in the leather armor. His torso slid off the blade as Murk kicked. 

Turning, the whisp slashed at him. Murk slid and pushed his way to the conjuror, knowing well it was the source of the summoning. Not expecting the attack, the summoner fell forward. Murk kicked with his heels and struck upward with the hilt of his sword and cut the man’s thigh. Going down, Murk impaled his dagger in his neck. Exhaling the metal taste, he knew he had to do something about that taste. 

“At least this one’s dead so…” he whispered to himself. 

Yet the whisp still churned in the air, still mixed with the lights and screeched for his blood. 

Who indeed was conjuring who?