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Vanir -> RE: When Heroes Fail (3/5/2016 23:33:22)
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A few bolts whizzed by, missing Flannagon, but the Quisling was hit. She uttered a quick cry before releasing an impressive, although foolish, magical spear of flame. The power of the attack, and the way it was executed without speaking the ancient language, impressed Flannagon. Her skill in arcane powers were above his own, but at least he had taken consideration for his fellow Blighted even if he could not tolerate them. The Quisling had not been so careful. Flannagon expected the explosion the moment he say the spark in her hand, and firmly planted his staff and braced for the wave. As the spear ripped through the air it ignited the ashes, turning the small alley into an instantaneous inferno.
The blast threw the Quisling off her feet and stunned the others. But the flames did not bother Flannagon. The simultaneous ignition of billions of particles produced a significant pressure that pushed him back and strained his body, but the heat and raw energy of the blast did not hinder him. Rather, it fueled him, catalyzing his own reaction. He grinned with sharp teeth, taking a step forward as the other Blighted fell back to check on the Quisling. If they knew what I do, they would not be so quick to assist that snake. Perhaps the time is now – a bolt flitted by very close to his head. First these devils.
Now that the smoke had been burned away, Flannagon could see his opponents. Four Saints struggled in mud and fire. One was burning from the spear of flame launched by the Quisling, and would soon be dead. Another was trying to reach his companion who was having a very difficult time extinguishing the flames covering his body, slowly cooking like a… child. No. These men are murderers, devils. The fire is where they belong! One was fumbling with his crossbow, trying to reload but heavily restrained by stone hands reaching out of the earth. The elf ran toward them and swiftly dispatched one of the others on his way to the front of the building.
“Not a word from his mouth can be trusted;” Flannagon said.
As fast as he could with his bum leg, Flannagon hobbled to the men with fire in his eyes.
“His heart is filled with destruction.”
The one with the crossbow grappling the earthen arms was the first target. He swung the crook of his staff around the crossbow and, without much difficulty, flung it out of the Saint’s fumbling hands and away from him. He then struck the helpless Saint hard in the skull, concussing him.
“His throat is an open grave;”
Then, reaching back with his left hand he pulled an unsheathed dagger out of his backpack. The blade was of black steel, the cross guard and handle were ornately decorated with shining obsidian stones, and on the blade read the words “Dominus dedit Dominus abstulit.” Now, planting the staff in his right hand, Flannagon swung the dagger from below and upwards so that the point pierced the soft flesh behind the Saint’s chin, and drove it upwards into his skull.
“With his tongue he speaks deceit.”
Flannagon looked to other Saint crawling through the mud. It only took a few steps to close the distance. Flannagon, himself, sank into the unnatural mud, but it was necessary to reach his prey. Holding the staff in his right hand to stabilize himself, he held the dagger high and chanted quietly, “Domine, guttura ferro ad hoc infernus acribus.” The blade in his hand began to glow like hot iron. The Saint on the ground kicked Flannagon’s staff away from him and the blind man staggered but did not fall.
“Declare him guilty, O Baan!”
Now angered by the defiance of his judgement, Flannagon forcefully brought the blade down, and then up, and then down, and then up, and then down, repeatedly stabbing the Saint as he rolled and screeched in agony at both the piercing and searing of his flesh.
“Let his intrigues be his downfall.”
Behind him, the Quisling was saying something, but Flannagon did not hear her words. The cries of the Saint at his feet filled his ears like the cries of his burning brother. This was a young man, who was probably married to a pretty young woman who prayed to Baan every night to send her husband home safely, not for her sake, but for their children’s. But he ignored their cries. And he looked ahead to dark, cold air outside.
“Banish him for his many sins,”
Slamming the dagger down, and raising it up, and slamming it down. Again and again. He did not even control his own arm, but still he let it rise and fall, all the while transfixed on the passage before him.
“For he has rebelled against you.”
I must escape the fire.
Throughout all of this, the linen wraps on the blind man’s left arm had begun to come unraveled. They now hung loose and in the gaps revealed the black flesh. A swath of corruption crawling from the tips of his fingers to the edge of his elbow. Complete consumption.
Now the man at Flannagon’s feet lay still and silent. The last portion of his soul escaped quietly through the holes in his side. The other Saints had also passed away. The burnt one lay on the ground motionless but still flaming. The victim of the elf also lay still, having drowned in a pool of blood. When Flannagon surveyed the wondrous sight he suddenly felt very weak and fell to his knees in the muck. He remained crumpled on the ground for few moments. He would soon be at the Temple again. The wicked will not stand in the judgement.
Then, the blind man rose slowly and picked up his staff. He returned the dagger to his pack, it was once again black and cold.
He turned back to his fellow Blighted, sensing some companionship with these wretched souls. “Lead on, woman. The Temple awaits our judgement. There shall be much blood on the alter tonight. Will Baan find the aroma pleasing, or despicable?”
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