Post by Sabre on Nov 23, 2005 20:48:32 GMT
The lands curled past his steed, the endless hills falling prey to a glance before they were utterly forgotten. Methrilus’s eyes were blind to the immediate world, only stretching far into the distance, and through the folds of time itself. His eyes ascended to the sky, the grace of Pelor would guide his way, shining a ray of glory over the storm strewn path ahead.
The hooves of his powder white horse Serisus pounded into the moist winter dew, spraying dirt onto its soon flecked underbelly. It weaved through sorrowful land like a needle sewing a graceful pattern through silk. No care was taken to route, only to inevitable destination. “Ride my friend, haste is the essence,” Methrilus muttered down to his soon accelerating companion.
They were one and he same, horse and rider. The old wizards body sat perfectly streamlined against his horses back, the air itself dared not to obstruct their path. Shimmers of unearthly light began to illuminate their shapes, soon only the moonlight glow was visible in the fog, and darkness. They were treading upon dangerous lands, forgotten lands. A land of shadow and ash, where the route you tread is all but safe and peaceful, it is the utter meaning of fear, the very reflection of it.
Uneasiness washed over Methrilus like waves cascading up a beach. It was as if he had been assailing a flight of stairs in the dark, and not seeing the top his foot took a sudden drop, his heart skipping a beat.
Serisus began to falter, his speed falling as he thrashed dangerously about. The darkness was pitch black now, yet all Methrilus’s senses were alive. The faint splash of swamp water, the metal clad footsteps, even the drawing of a crude bow echoed through his mind like reminiscing a distant memory, or reliving a macabre nightmare.
All of a sudden light flooded the air; a blood red glow caught the hems and folds of his hued grey robe. The arrow punched into the rock, creating a crack like a whip on flesh. The fame tipped blade atop its shaft sunk into the top of a tunnel entrance, an entrance soon passed by the thundering hooves of Methrilus’s flee from the dozens of arrows that followed their leader.
He was here, the Caves of Corolia, dark and silent, silent save his escape canter. Ancient evil dwelled here, forgotten by men, but not by him. The beat of a thousand drums rang through his frost bitten ears… they were coming.
The hooves of his powder white horse Serisus pounded into the moist winter dew, spraying dirt onto its soon flecked underbelly. It weaved through sorrowful land like a needle sewing a graceful pattern through silk. No care was taken to route, only to inevitable destination. “Ride my friend, haste is the essence,” Methrilus muttered down to his soon accelerating companion.
They were one and he same, horse and rider. The old wizards body sat perfectly streamlined against his horses back, the air itself dared not to obstruct their path. Shimmers of unearthly light began to illuminate their shapes, soon only the moonlight glow was visible in the fog, and darkness. They were treading upon dangerous lands, forgotten lands. A land of shadow and ash, where the route you tread is all but safe and peaceful, it is the utter meaning of fear, the very reflection of it.
Uneasiness washed over Methrilus like waves cascading up a beach. It was as if he had been assailing a flight of stairs in the dark, and not seeing the top his foot took a sudden drop, his heart skipping a beat.
Serisus began to falter, his speed falling as he thrashed dangerously about. The darkness was pitch black now, yet all Methrilus’s senses were alive. The faint splash of swamp water, the metal clad footsteps, even the drawing of a crude bow echoed through his mind like reminiscing a distant memory, or reliving a macabre nightmare.
All of a sudden light flooded the air; a blood red glow caught the hems and folds of his hued grey robe. The arrow punched into the rock, creating a crack like a whip on flesh. The fame tipped blade atop its shaft sunk into the top of a tunnel entrance, an entrance soon passed by the thundering hooves of Methrilus’s flee from the dozens of arrows that followed their leader.
He was here, the Caves of Corolia, dark and silent, silent save his escape canter. Ancient evil dwelled here, forgotten by men, but not by him. The beat of a thousand drums rang through his frost bitten ears… they were coming.
