Tsaimath
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Interlude: Highlight Reel 3
🕑 Added 2019-05-17 04:00:01 +0000 UTC
Under a relentlessly burning sun, a woman stands alone. Her only companion is her shadow, her only solace is the fact that she found her prey. And what a magnificent prey it is, beyond the next dune, it is sunning itself, absorbing the burning rays that any reasonable being would avoid at all cost. But not that particular prey. Some might call it a dragon. They would be wrong.
But it is a reasonable name for the prey. It is, after all, a huge lizard, almost four meters in length from head to tail and with a known penchant for expelling the sunrays it had soaked up beforehand in a concentrated burst of molten sand, scorching anything it touches. Its short legs are topped by razor sharp claws and the scaly ridges on its back glint with a metallic, golden glow in the burning sunlight. So, calling it a dragon is reasonable, as long as you are not in the vicinity of a real dragon. They might take offense. And a dragon, taking offense, goes on the offensive against those that offended it.
Not for the first time, the huntress wonders if it had been the smart thing to do, mouthing off to her teacher, telling him she was ready to take on any trial to gain his teachings. But the method to reach the first divide had been a too juicy target. So, the huntress was sent out into the desert to kill this particular nuisance to the village and bring back its claws.
A look into the sky tells the huntress that it is time, that the lizard should be entering its afternoon-lethargy before hunting once again and burrowing into the sand for the night. The time to strike has come.
Silent as a ghost, the huntress moves upwards, almost to the crest of the dune but not over it. If she goes over, the lizard will see her and the fight will start. As her teacher taught her, the huntress pulls an arrow from her quiver, tipped with a sharp shard of black rock and starts the process of buffing. Her lips move in an almost silent chant, beseeching the ancestors and the gods to allow her arrow to strike true, to increase its damage and all the other effects that she can layer onto the arrow. It is not a true prayer to the divine, just the method she had been taught to channel her magic.
One glow after the other appears, some settling into the arrow, others settling into the bow, the bow-string and the huntress herself. All for a single moment. Finally, the huntress’ Astral Power is almost depleted but her first attack is guaranteed to inflict massive damage. Maybe even enough to slay the beast, despite its defenses and strength.
With one last, deep breath, the huntress stepped up, onto the crest of the dune, looking down, instantly raising her bow and drawing the string back. The lizard looks up, irritated that his afternoon-nap has been disturbed and for a moment, a split-second, the world stands still.
That moment of silence ends with the twang of the bow-string and an arrow, clad in various lights lances through the air, leaving behind a mirage of colours. The arrow strikes the lizard, penetrating deeply into its chest and the arrow dissolves into a blaze of light, evaporating the flesh around it. Blood spurts out, propelled by the spells that had been layered onto the arrow, increasing the damage, the pain stunning the lizard for a moment.
But it had not been enough, the lizard inhales deeply, despite the huge wound that causes it to bleed out. It is driven by a single thought, revenge. To take the huntress with it, on its journey to the afterlife.
The light around it seems to dim for a second and the lizard breathes out, a spray of white-hot, glowing sand is propelled through the air, towards the lone huntress. Instantly, she jumps back, rolling down the sand-dune. Above her, the intense heat causes the air to distort and shimmer, until a few seconds later, the spray peters out. Climbing back up, the lizard is currently in the process of running towards the dune, but with every step it takes, the next step is less secure until it stumbles across something and falls. The huge wound had taken its toll and the blood loss was quickly proving fatal.
The huntress starts walking down the dune, when a cracking sound below her grabs her attention, causing her to look down. Surprise colours her features, when she realises that the breath-attack has been powerful enough to melt the sand below her, turning it into a rudimentary form of glass.
But, with a smile on her lips, she walks towards the fallen lizard.
The scene changes…
From the mist, a shape, a ship is taking form and the silence of the seas is about to drift into a storm. The shape is the pride of the elven Kingdom Sabatorum, the newest symbol of their power, an attempt to show all of Mundus that the Naga are not the undisputed rulers of the Ocean.
On the ship, numerous elves are moving around, tacking the sails, preparing the mighty spell-cannons, making sure that everything is working just fine. It is their maiden-voyage and the sailors of the Tirpitz are proud to have been chosen.
But below the waves, a shadow is moving, unseen, unknown, awoken from its slumber by the passage of the gigantic ship above. Only, to the shadow, the ship is not gigantic, just a large target. After a moment of deliberation, the shadow dives deeper into the dark ocean, before turning and speeding up, towards the intruder into its territory.
Now, the shape of the shadow takes form, first, a huge, blade-like spear leads the way before being replaced by a sleek and deadly form, a form ready to hunt and kill.
One of the sailors above notices the shadow, yelling out a warning but it takes a moment for the warning to be heard. A moment the ship might not have.
The yelled warning is quickly replaced by the alarm-bell, calling all sailors to their stations and the magicians start to deploy the mighty magical shields but just as the shields start forming, they are broken through, the sword spearing into the lightly armoured belly of the ship, ripping apart wood and armour alike, causing a deep wound in the proud ship. A few unlucky, or maybe lucky, souls are instantly killed by the brutal attack.
The swordfish is carried upwards by the remaining momentum and for a moment, the magicians that man the cannons see a chance to fight back against the true kings of the ocean, the mighty beasts that lurk beneath the waves. Simple arcane-magic is activated by sailors pouring their powers into the cannons, sending glowing spears of pure magic towards the creature that ripped into their ship, causing large chunks of flesh to be blasted away, leaving gaping wounds behind.
One of the spears, whether by luck or by providence, hits a weak spot close to the head, causing a lethal wound. The swordfish sinks back beneath the waves, hiding in its natural habitat while the water around it turn red with blood. Above the waves, the sailors cheer, damage-control crews start to get the damage back under control.
What they don’t know, is that when there is blood in the water, the sharks start circling…
Soon, the beasts will come and drag the proud ship into the depths, showing the world once again, that they are the true kings of the ocean.
The scene changes…
A frozen mountainside, wolves howl in the distance.
One of the small gorges in the mountainside is covered in a smooth and slick ice-surface and the wolves in the area converge at the entrance into that gorge.
Higher up in the gorge, four people stand ready to defend, two perched on fortifications out of silvery-white ice, the other two standing in the gap between the fortifications. Their situation looks grim, easily thirty wolves are snarling at the entrance of the gorge, ready to charge in and rip the four defenders to shreds for daring to stand against them.
Almost as one, the wolves start running up the gorge, a snarling furball promising death to anyone foolish enough to stand in their way, that is, until the horrific picture they present changes into an image more suited to slapstick-comedy. The moment they try to keep their balance on the slick surface that coats the gorge, their previously purposeful charge turns into a yelping ball of sliding paws and falling wolves, taking away all their intimidation-factor. Some wolves start bleeding from punctures and cuts, caused by small but sharp icicles that are spread around in the gorge, forcing them to abandon the idea to crawl up.
At the entrance, a huge, black wolf howls and it seems like the world is vibrating with its power. The ice protecting the gorge shatters, turning a useful barrier against the charge into an easily passed area that no longer protects anyone.
On the walls, above their heads, a raven watches the wolves charge again and for a second, the left eye of the raven glows with dark light and the remaining six wolves start moving. The five smaller black wolves start running after their grey brethren while the huge wolf starts moving in a sedate pace, as if it is beneath it to run. Why should it, the prey is cornered and cannot escape.
In the gorge, at the fortification, a small figure, clad in a black cloak smiles as she sees the wolves charging up. Raising one hand, she draws a magic circle, quickly but with a steady hand, the five symbols glow in three different colours, three silver, one pulsating red and the last one seems to draw all the light around it in, making it hard to look at. With the other hand, the smiling one draws a small flask filled with a deep crimson coloured liquid, a colour that seems incredibly similar to the pulsating red symbol.
For a moment, the flask glows before its contents turn black and a strange, silvery mist floods out from the magic-circle, drifting towards the snarling wolves. The wolves get closer and, while the one who had just used a spell raises her arms above her head, the one in the middle braces for impact.
A few wolves slam into the braced one, pushing her back while more wolves are stopped by the frozen fortifications, when the small one’s eyes glow with silvery light and she starts moving her arms, almost like a conductor. And, like a conductor, her gestures seem to cause a noise to fill the area. A rumbling echo.
For a second, nothing changes.
And then the world turns white, as tons of snow crash down from above, burying most of the grey wolves before rumbling down the mountain, annihilating everything in its path.
While the small being smiles down at the destruction she wrought, the black raven flies and lands on her shoulder before the images fade to black.
