Other writing samples.

[swamp fairy]

staff: please feel free to move this thread if it's not in the right place.

 

[swamp fairy]

Around midday, the weather had taken a turn again and the snow began to fall once more, collecting in small piles on Masayuki's shoulders and blanketing the boughs of the pines in a thin white sheet. It was then that the convoy turned a corner and suddenly came to a stop, the warriors in the front signaling for a halt. Upon instinct, Masayuki's right hand gripped the hilt of his sword, his eyes darting throughout the landscape, searching for any signs of trouble. The trouble, as it were, was laying in the center of the road just meters ahead: a mass of absolute carnage. A merchant's over-tipped cart laid on its side, broken drums of sake scattered haphazardly on the road. There was blood. Lots of it. Scattered pieces of flesh and bone were strewn about.

A few of the warriors dismounted their horses to investigate. With a glance and a gesture aimed at him from Lord Tachibana, Masayuki dismounted his horse and joined them. He was the first to approach, a cautious warning in the back of his mind for the possibility of an ambush of some kind. But it was difficult to consider anything else once he got close enough to see the gruesome details of the attack. The ground was sodden with so much blood that his boots squelched in the ground as if he was walking through mud. There wasn't much left of the merchant's horse. Indeed, if the remains weren't still attached to the cart, it would have been difficult to identify as a horse. But there was one thing missing from the scene. Where was the merchant, the owner of the cart?

Examining the scene a bit closer, he noticed another pool of blood beneath the upturned cart. Brows furrowed, he gestured towards the other warriors, who quickly filed in to help him lift the heavy vehicle back up onto its broken wheels, revealing an even more grisly sight than the horse.

They had found the merchant. Or, what was left of him.

"A bear?" one of the younger warriors suggested, trying not to look sick.

Masayuki shot the man a stern glance and he shook his head, though he did not say anything. Something wasn't right about this scene. Could a bear truly have caused this much carnage? Even a rabid one? He doubted it, but there was one way to find out. If a bear was in the vicinity, they would surely find some tracks or scat. "Scout the area," he commanded. The warriors split up into two groups, each group taking a different side of the road, spreading out within the silent forest but remaining within earshot of each other in case of trouble.

It wasn't long before the one of the warrior's calls echoed through the woods. "Over here!" The rest of the samurai, including Masayuki, rushed to their comrade's position.

It was not on the ground, but splattered throughout the tree branches, tatters of flesh and clothing and innards swaying silently in the wind. The other half of the merchant's body, impaled on a branch, blood dripping into the snow, his face frozen in a slack-jawed, wide-eyed expression of horror.

For the Saito samurai, all doubts were put to rest. This attack was not the result of a rabid bear, but something much more dangerous. Something dark and ravenous. Something the Saito clan guarded secret knowledge of since the ancient times, and the techniques passed down through every Saito generation to slay such beasts. It had been nearly a century since the last sighting, and within that century, the Saito clan had lost much of its power and influence. There was no need for demon slayers if there were no demons, after all.

Knowing the right thing to do, some of the warriors returned to the convoy to inform Lord Tachibana of their findings and move the rest of the carnage out of the road while Masayuki and the remaining samurai in the forest worked together to pull the merchant's body down from the tree. They buried him in a quick, shallow grave before returning to the convoy, all silent, their expressions grave.

As he mounted his horse in preparation of continuing the journey, Masayuki reached for his bow, loosely nocking an arrow. To his knowledge, demons did not attack during the day, but there was always use in being prepared for anything. The rest of the warriors were also on alert, following suit with their bows or keeping a firm hand on their swords as the convoy finally started moving again, hooves and cart wheels sloshing in the bloody mud and snowy slush.

 

[swamp fairy]

By the time Fox left Lissa's house, it was mid afternoon. He still hadn't gone looking for supplies anywhere, but maybe there'd be a place to raid on this side of town. He left the residential houses untouched for now. Something about cramped spaces like that with the threat of zombies lurking around any corner made his skin crawl. He liked open areas better: big box stores, supermarkets... the mall. The mall! He hadn't thought of it before. Would the mall have been raided nearly as bad as the grocery stores? Maybe not. Maybe less people thought to go through the food court kitchens. There had to be something there. And if nothing else, there were bound to be other things that would be useful: clothes, tools, vending machine snacks, anything.

The mall's parking lot was practically empty. There were a few cars parked sparsely throughout the lot, some trash blowing in the wind, buzzards making a meal of something that smelled worse than death. There were some infected, a pair milling about in the heat of the afternoon, stumbling in circles and drooling like they were wondering which way to go. They made their decision quickly when they saw and heard the black Suzuki motorcycle and its rider coast into the parking lot. Fox saw them, too, knew they were about to try to follow him, so he rode around to the other side of the mall and lost sight of them, then parked the bike in the shade near one of the mall entrances.

The glass doors had been shattered, not surprisingly. Fox stepped carefully through the broken glass crunching beneath his boots. He held the crowbar in both hands and at the ready as he stepped through the threshold and into the huge building.

Ambient gray light filtered through the glass ceiling. Some birds inside the mall had been startled by his sudden presence, taking off into flight up into the rafters as he walked, cautiously, footsteps echoing throughout the empty halls. Some of the stores were gated up. Others had been broken into through glass display windows. A candle store had been raided thoroughly by someone who must have really liked pumpkin spice scent and nothing else, because the rest of the glass jars had been smashed, thrown, or otherwise destroyed with a blunt object, glass and colorful wax strewn about the floor like a weird, smelly kaleidoscope.

He passed a display vehicle that had also been smashed up, all of its windows shattered and the paneling dented, headlights smashed, tires slashed. "Jesus," he huffed under his breath, shook his head, then continued on. He nearly passed a kid's toy shop that was relatively untouched, then stopped, stepped back and went inside with Sara in mind. A new toy would brighten her day. Nothing big, but something. Then he continued on towards his true goal: food supply.

As he turned the corner towards the food court, he heard something wet, squeezing and squelching and crunching echoing in the open court. It was somewhat darker in here, and Fox could not pinpoint the source of the sound beneath all of the tables and chairs, though he knew exactly what it was. He stopped instantly, and the rubber sole of his boot squeaked loudly on the tile. The wet sounds stopped, and Fox froze. Dead silence settled on the food court. The sound of blood rushed through his head. He swallowed and inwardly swore it was the loudest thing he ever heard. He pursed his lips, breathing as quietly as possible through his nose instead.

After what felt like an eternity, but in reality was probably only a minute, the sounds continued. Slowly, and without moving his feet, Fox leaned down to a crouch and peered beneath the tables in the food court. He knew what he was going to see, but it was still frightening nonetheless. Disgusting. A whole group of infected were gathered in a circle around the lower half of a body, devouring its putrid flesh, sucking on bones and slurping on innards like it was Thanksgiving dinner. And the top half? The top half had become infected too, dragged itself back towards its own bottom half and had joined the feeding frenzy. All enjoying their lunch in the food court. Ironic.

Counting the top half as its own entity, Fox counted seven of them. Now what? He couldn't very well get around them without at least one noticing him. Hopefully they'd be too preoccupied with their meal. He didn't like the idea of just nonchalantly walking around them. Even giving them the widest berth still put him too close for comfort. He glanced around, saw some soda bottles from an overturned vending machine lying on the floor. He snuck between the tables and chairs and trash cans, staying as low as possible, making sure to pick up his feet so that his shoes wouldn't screech and give him away. He reached out, grasped an old Sprite can and chucked the thing as hard and as far as he could towards the center of the mall. A few seconds later, it hit something metallic out of sight, clanked loudly on the floor and exploded with a hiss. The infected were fast to chase the sound. With screams and growls of pure rage and hunger, they tore off at a sprint into the mall. The only one that still lingered was the top half, which was slower, dragging itself along the floor only with its arms, but Fox didn't pay much mind to it. It definitely saw him, but Fox didn't care. It wouldn't be able to catch him anyway as he hopped over the counter of one of the restaurant stalls, hid below sight and pressed his back to the counter. What he didn't realize was that when he threw the Sprite can, he alerted more than just the seven infected in the food court that he was there.

Unaware of the amassing crowd in the mall, he took a moment to collect himself, control his breathing and then went to work rummaging through the kitchen storage as quietly as possible, opening cabinets slowly, being mindful of anything on the ground that he might trip on or knock over. The zipper on his backpack was pulled open painfully slow and zipped back up just as carefully. Now that he was in one of the food court restaurants, he could easily move between them through the staff hallway instead of going back into the food court and risk being seen again. Everything was going well; his plan had worked and he found quite a few supplies. His backpack was full to the brim, and heavy. All he had to do now was exit the mall, walk back to his bike, and he'd be home free. Sara was probably worried and scared, and the light in the mall was beginning to fade into evening. Fox didn't want to be here when night came.

It only took one little mistake to fuck it all up. One wrong step to knock over a metal pan, and all of the infected roaming or otherwise hiding out inside the mall charged. "Oh my god, you fucking dumbass." Fox cursed himself and slung the backpack over one shoulder and took off at a sprint through the staff hall. It was dark as hell back here with no lights and the evening quickly closing in. No ambient lighting of the exit signs. He was practically running blind, tripped on something laying in the hall while the sounds of infected chasing him grew louder by the second. He scrambled back up onto his feet, hand still clutching the crowbar while the other held the strap of his backpack on his shoulder and continued running.

He burst through a door at the end of the hallway and into the twilit parking lot. It took him a few seconds to get his bearings on which direction he was facing and which entrance his bike was parked at. But in his panic, he soon realized he had judged wrong and that he was running the wrong way. It was too late to turn back, however, as a crowd of infected burst out of the exit door just meters behind him, others pouring out of the food court exit ahead of him. He had only seconds to react, turn his heel and continued running.

There was a big rig delivery truck parked at the back of one of the main department stores.

Panting, sweating and panicking as the crowd of infected behind him grew larger and closer, Fox made a break for the truck. Please, god, please be unlocked, please be unlocked! He yanked the door handle, threw himself inside the cabin of the truck and pulled the door closed, slamming the door lock just as the crowd converged upon him. The truck swayed from the furious impact. Bloody, rotten hands smacked at the doors from all sides. Their screams and groans and roars were muffled inside the truck's cabin, but terrifying all the same. There had to be at least a hundred of them out there, if not more, all pushing against the side of the truck as if they were trying to tip it over. Where the hell had they all come from?

Fox slung his backpack off of his shoulder and into the passenger seat. He looked around inside the truck, searching in haste, hoping against hope that there would be a key here somewhere. In the glove box, in the visor, on the dashboard -- on the dashboard! He almost couldn't believe his luck. Now that streak of luck had to hold out. He hit the clutch and brake with his feet, put the gear shifter in the center neutral and turned the ignition. Fox never thought he'd consider the sound of a diesel big rig engine the most beautiful sound in the world, but in that moment, it was. Intimidating, because he'd never driven one before, but beautiful. "Alright, you fuckers," he said, revving the engine a few times.

He threw the truck into first and hit the acceleration. There was a thudding noise underneath him as the infected in front of the big rig were effectively mowed down by the sudden lurch forward. He shifted to second, gained some speed but not enough to outrun the crowd. They were quick to surround the truck again, climbed onto the hood, blocking the windshield with their terrible, bloody faces, baring their teeth and rotten tongues in Fox's face.

Fox didn't know exactly how it happened. All he knew was that he felt the front left wheel of the truck hit a curb and drive up into a light pole at just the right angle, causing the truck to tip enough that gravity pulled it back down onto its side. With a sickly, metallic crunch that filled his entire head, the big rig crashed down into the pavement, throwing Fox out of the driver's seat and into the passenger side door.

The window now underneath him had shattered, but the windshield kept itself together somehow, still keeping the rampaging infected at bay. But for how long was a mystery. Fox was trapped, and it was going to be a long night.

 

[swamp fairy]

Never in his career had Lieutenant John Liu beheld a scene so grotesque.

When he ducked under the police tape and stepped through the open double glass doors of the Fill 'er Up station, a stench so foul permeated the air that he swore the hairs in his nose had burned off that instant. He reached into the pocket of his suit jacket and procured a pack of Big Red chewing gum. Last piece. He had never loved cinnamon, but the flavor was strong enough in most situations to at least muzzle the various horrid smells he was subjected to at homicide scenes.

Only, this looked nothing like a homicide.

The cash drawers were all locked, and no merchandise stolen. Rather, everything was strewn across the floor as if a rampant whirlwind had ripped through. One postcard rack had been tossed across the store with enough force that it broke the glass of the drink refrigerators, the exploded cans of soda still dripping onto the white tiled floor.

Nearby laid the victim. Or, what was left of the victim. An acrid stench emanated from the body, now no more than a wet pile of pulp: a porridge of blood with giblets of flesh and muscle and innards, topped with a slice of scalp with long black hair still attached and a few rib bones jutting out of the mess like bloody spires. Around the edges of the slop, the blood bubbled and settled into a blackened crust. John found himself swallowing a gag seeping up in his throat as his mind turned through the possibilities of such a scene.

A sudden white light and the click of a shutter snapped, pulling John out of his nauseated stare. The crime scene photographer peered out from behind his camera with a look on his face as if he had eaten something too sour. He was the only other responder with a stomach strong enough to stay at the scene, and even he was starting to look a little green. "I never seen anything like this, Lieutenant," he managed to say, words murmured through the medical mask covering his face.

John knelt down, snapping on a pair of latex gloves as his eyes scanned the sizzling pulp. "Me neither." He gestured with a point to the black frame of burnt flesh and shook his head, eyes starting to burn from the fumes. The body is practically melted…

With a quick exhale to rid his lungs of the thick air, the lieutenant pulled out his tool kit and reached out to the chunk of scalp with a pair of tweezers, dropping it in an evidence bag marked with a fluorescent red biohazard symbol. After carefully taking a few more samples, he stood and studied the rest of the convenience store. Above the register was a single security camera dangling by a wire after it had been apparently knocked from its mounting on the wall. If there was any evidence of what happened here, that camera was the only chance. John made his way through the maze of toppled displays, stepping carefully over torn bags of potato chips and other debris towards the door labeled 'Employees Only.' Behind it was a small stock room, an even smaller office, and the emergency exit door flung wide open on its broken hinges, hanging crooked.

Was there a possible witness who had escaped? Or had this been the exit for whoever, or whatever, had liquefied the attendant?

With these questions turning in his mind, John turned to the tiny office. Bright blue light cast an eerie glow in the cluttered room. With no other light, the shadows in the corners seemed darker and almost fluid in nature as they danced with the flickering of the aged computer monitor. He leaned over the desk and eagerly rewound the recording...

The monitor showed nothing of interest at first -- just the attendant standing at the counter reading the latest issue of Cosmopolitan. The time stamp read 2:11 AM, just thirty minutes ago. Then, what looked like tendrils of steam wriggled inside the store from between the cracks in the automatic sliding door. The attendant lowered the magazine and looked when the door slid open, but nobody came inside. Instead, the fog rolled in like a wave, obscuring everything in ubiquitous grayness.

There was only grayness for what felt like hours. John watched with his face inches from the screen, waiting for something to happen when an object was flung out of the fog and smashed into the camera, distorting the feed and ending the recording. “Damn,” he cursed under his breath. He switched the view to the outside camera, but only got the same dense fog rolling in through the station, swallowing everything in its path.

With a shake of his head, he climbed back out of the stock room door and traversed back through the store to inspect a few more things. On his way out, he grabbed a package of Big Red gum from the display by the counter and stuffed it in the breast pocket of his suit jacket.

“Keep the media away from this place,” he mentioned to the team of forensic analysts who were just now arriving at the scene.

“That bad, Lieutenant?”

But John didn’t answer. He kept thinking about the security tape, rolling it over again and again in his mind. That fog was strange; certainly he’d never seen anything like it. Perhaps it was dry ice? A criminal’s unorthodox mode of concealment? But why go to such trouble? And why completely trash the entire store? The motive must have been to murder that attendant, but why? There were no footprints in the mess. No other cars were at the station. It couldn’t have been an animal-- he didn’t know any animals that could melt a person. Nothing added up.

At the end of his wit trying to conjure a lead, he stood at the edge of the sidewalk, his dark eyes gazing down the desolate road, streetlamps flickering intermittently. It was quiet for a summer night. No crickets, no frogs, and perhaps most strangely, he could see no fireflies. It was as if all of the creatures were hiding. He squinted in the darkness, catching movement further down the lane. A puff of smoke -- no, that fog! He could see it twisting and curling, extending those long, wispy tendrils like fingers beckoning him closer. Tentatively, he glanced back at the scene of the crime, everyone bustling about their jobs, then looked back down the lane. With a quick decisive breath, he jogged towards it, 9mm in hand.

As soon as he passed through the dense mist, the light from the streetlamp above quivered out, shrouding the street in complete darkness. He reached for his Maglite flashlight, finding in dismay that either it had a malfunction or the batteries, though recently replaced, were dead. “Shit,” he cursed under his breath, shaking the light with the dim hope that it would come back on.

The sound of scuffling pattered on the blacktop. Quick and heavy irregular footsteps circled in the darkness. “Federal agent! Stop where you are!”

The shuffling sound stopped. John was engulfed in a sickening silence, the fog so dense, his lungs began to burn for clean air. He strained to see or hear any hint of who was stalking him in the darkness. His eyes flashed back and forth, ears ringing, heart racing, sweat beading on his forehead. “Identify yourself!”

A minute passed, maybe more. The rush of blood in his ears was too much to bear.
The smell of asphalt was strong as a powerful blow knocked the lieutenant to the ground, his breath leaving his lungs, the pistol knocked from his grip. Hot blood streamed from the cuts on his face into his left eye. Instincts now ignited, he rolled to the right just before the sound of something metallic scraped and clinked loudly on the pavement where he had lain.

Without a weapon and severely disadvantaged by the lack of visibility, John pushed himself off the ground and began to run. Suddenly, he was clear of the fog and back on the street, but none of the streetlamps were working, and the weather had turned from clear to overcast. The air was stagnant and foul. He continued to jog towards the gas station, glancing back as the fog dissipated into the air.

A shrill cry echoed from the darkness behind him, unholy and inhuman in its nature. The hairs on his arms stood up in gooseflesh and a fresh wave of panic gripped his heart, but John swallowed the fear and focused his breathing. In the nose, out the mouth. Keep the oxygen in your brain. He ran faster, eager to get back to the scene he had left, but when he arrived, the station was dark and in a state of decay, as if it had been abandoned for a hundred years. The windows were broken out, the roof caved in, paint peeling into dust. Nobody was around. Not even his cruiser was there where he had parked it.

He turned in a quick circle, searching in vain for a sign of life. “Hello?” his voice cracked as he called out into the perpetual night. The radio on his belt was no use. He tried to call the station, hail any nearby officers, but the only response was loud, hissing static.

As the adrenaline in his veins began to subside, he felt the stinging pain of the cuts on his face and the blood and sweat mixture dripping into his eye. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and was dismayed at the amount of blood there.

Something shrieked again from the darkness. Closer this time. John snapped towards the direction of the sound, backing away from it slowly, his eye catching staggered movement in the shadows of the trees. What the hell is that? He reached for his pistol -- only to find that the holster was empty. Only then did he remember he had dropped it.

That was when he saw it. Three heads, three sets of eyes, unblinking, obscured by disheveled mats of black hair. Three mouths of grinning needle teeth. The heads were humanoid, though that was the creature’s only resemblance to humanity. Attached to the heads, serpentine necks curved at unnatural angles to its body, four legs like a deer, with gray, hairless skin glistening in the tepid light. Six limbs total, though it had no feet-- it seemed to balance on needles -- with an absence of hands or fingers on its arms; instead, it sported bladelike appendages that clicked on the ground as it slowly stalked towards him, the heads twisting and turning in unnatural directions as if it was inspecting him from every angle. One of the mouths coughed up an acidic fluid that hissed and bubbled as it splattered onto the ground just a few yards away.

Every fiber of his being screamed -- run, run, RUN! -- but John was completely frozen in place, overcome with an unmatched fear that seeped into his bones. The unholy creature approached him without reserve and stopped just inches away. He could smell its awful breath, the stench of acrid death, as its heads inspected him, its greasy hair brushing against his face. One of the heads opened its mouth, a slimy, foot long tongue like a worm snaked out and dragged across his face, licking up the blood from his wounds. John fought the urge to gag as the strangely cold tongue trailed from his face down his neck to his collarbones, flicking back and forth, lapping up any trace of blood that might have trickled down. He stared at the ground, not daring to look the creature in the eyes as it finished its taste of his wounds. Now seemingly satisfied, the three-headed horror lost interest in him, turned, and hobbled away into the blackness.

John finally exhaled, though he stood in his place for some time, just breathing. When he was finally sure that the creature was long gone, he began to turn, slowly and warily, and began up the road in the opposite direction that the creature had gone. With exhaustion creeping upon him, he wiped his face with the sleeve of his suit jacket, quietly hissing at the burning sensation. It was then, also, that he felt his right wrist throbbing in pain. Not broken, I think.

All he could do was continue walking. To where, he knew not. This place was dark, and stifling, and strange. He was alone and didn’t know how he got there, or how to get back, only kept moving in the hopes of finding somewhere, or someone …

 

[swamp fairy]

"And your sword I have returned for different reasons," Sanraya said, pointing behind them to the shores of the river. He arched a brow for a moment in question, then turned and looked over the other side of the boat where a party of mounted warriors quickly approached, the thunderous sound of their armored steeds and clanking metal echoing within the walls of the canyon.

"There they are! The thief and the traitor!" The knight commander in charge of the attack party stepped forward on his grand white horse. Both he and the beast were clad in shining silver armor, and his sword was drawn, gleaming brightly in the sun. Behind him, the crimson banner adorned with the Artur crest -- the image of a sword piercing a dragon's heart -- and one with his own family crest flapped in the wind. "I will finally have the chance to repay you for making an embarrassment out of me, Articaster. I will collect your head and present it to King Sigurd on a silver platter!"

Ah yes. The old captain of the guard. He was the last man Taecemorys had defeated in a duel and had subsequently taken his place and his job a few years ago. The man's name was Sir Lorenz Abram, a fierce rival, and he had always had an intense hatred and jealousy for the black knight, with due reason.

Taecemorys grinned as he stood up in the boat, twirling his sword and loosening his shoulders in preparation for the coming battle. "I look forward to kicking your ass a second time!" He called back, and immediately the rain of arrows fell upon them.

As the arrows were blocked by the magical barrier and turned to dust, Taecemorys was immediately impressed. He shot Sanraya a quick glance of approval and nodded at her request. He would do the ground fighting while she protected him from stray arrows. He had to admit he was at a big disadvantage here in terms of ground and number though -- the knights were all held high on their horses, while he was stuck in the middle of the river where it would be nearly impossible to fight. That had surely been Abram's plan: to catch him disadvantaged and avoid a real duel he was certain to lose again.

The knights then charged forward through the water towards the boat. Taecemorys wasn't sure how he could defend against all of them at once, however, Sanraya must have thought the same thing, or something similar, and the Dragonkin was once again impressed with her skill when a blast of purple energy erupted forth, knocking the knights off of their steeds and into the water. Their horses, stunned and startled, galloped off in different directions. Some of the knights did not resurface from the water, weighed down too much by their armor, and drowned. The others emerged with startled looks, having no idea what it was like to face a mage, their ears having been filled with stories of the evils of magic throughout their upbringing. Such was the way of the people of Northland: fear and hatred of all things magic.

Now it was Taecemorys' moment. He yelled a battle cry and jumped out of the boat into the icy mountain waters, the depth of it coming just below his thighs. His armor was lighter, and he happened to be taller than most humans -- another Dragonkin trait, especially for the males. So while the heavily armored and shorter knights floundered around in the water, the black knight stood above them just enough to give him a better range of movement.

The black dragonglass sword danced in a fury, arcs of blood streaming in the air as it sliced through skin and bone. Screams of pain and rage erupted forth, resounding with intensified volume throughout the canyon. Limbs were severed, swords splintered as they connected with the enchanted obsidian blade, armor was sliced through like butter. It was an absolute massacre, and the black knight wielded a vicious grin on his face as he tore through his enemies one by one, painting the river red. His malevolent aura, coupled with the fact that he wielded his sword in his dominant left hand rather than the right lent him an indescribably powerful favor. Most traditional knights were not accustomed to defending their other side and suffered a severe disadvantage against him in single combat. His trained skill coupled with this innate hereditary fact had helped him win every single duel he had faced against the knights of Northland. Today was no different, yet he enjoyed it all the same.

As the echoes of battle reverberated off the canyon walls and faded into the air, an eerie silence began to settle on the scene. The bodies of the knights sank into the depths or floated their way down the river now, back towards Northland. Anyone on or near the waters this day would witness the carnage, and a clear message had been sent.

Sir Abram was now the only knight left standing near the shore, having moved to shallower water, knowing that was the only place he could stand even a small chance of winning against the bloodthirsty killer standing in the river.

Taecemorys raised his sword, pointing it toward the knight as his fierce blue eyes narrowed their focus on the lone warrior. "Will you fight me now, knight? Or will you go back to King Sigurd with your tail between your legs like the dog that you are? You could never defeat me, and you never will!"

"I will kill you," the knight replied, his voice wavering as he scrambled on top of his horse, now pacing the shore. "I knew you were a traitorous wretch from the moment you came to Ironvale, and I will bring the wrath of Northland's armies to take you down if I must."

Taecemorys laughed, his sharp and clear voice reverberating loudly in the air. "Then go, and tell the King who I really am! His grandfather made the mistake of forgetting to kill me a hundred years ago, and I will deliver righteous punishment on his kin and raze his city to ashes!"

Sir Abram, knowing his death would be assured if he fought now against an enraged Dragonkin and a powerful Tekuri mage, turned and spurred his steed, galloping away back towards Northland.

The Dragonkin stood within the water silently for a few moments after watching the knight speed away, sweat beading on his brow as the heat of the battle and adrenaline began to subside. His sword made its way back into its scabbard and he reached down for a moment, cupping his hands in the river to splash the cold water on his face, cleaning himself of the blood and sweat. He turned back to Sanraya, breathing heavily from the fatigue of the battle, especially one that had the muscles in his legs burning from fighting the resistance of the water.

"Let's get the hell out of here," he said between heaved breaths. "The boat is too slow."