Argeus the Paladin
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Chapter 1
Prince in Distress
The trail of Elven refugees painted a blurry, long, twisted line across the thick forest, in the final attempt to preserve their heritage from a fate worse than defeat. The sound of footsteps worn out from prolonged trailing, amidst the crackling of flame from a distance and groaning of pain, sorrow, humility, or simply fatigue, an obvious sight of a contingent of defeated and routed people fleeing from death closing in on, was something the elven population of Mediava never expected to encounter. Not with all the military prowess of their kind to back them up. And now, to the Foremost Paladin’s compatriots, that unforeseen exodus had become reality all of a sudden, a harsh reality of war that drew wails and cries and moans of suffering every so often, along the narrow path through the wood.
Taking the lead, the Elven Foremost Paladin, Harthrane Nightowl, his sword and shield still in hand, cutting his way through the more unfriendly vegetation of the forest to clear a path for his wearied fellows, was not quite defeated yet. Even though the glint of fatigue and the occasional pain from the gash on his shoulder were taking their toll, decades of training and vigilance finally proved to be useful to keep him together even in the face of this challenge. Or more likely, he couldn’t allow himself to falter, for both the fate of his kind, and the tarnished honor of a Paladin defeated, forced him to work double to repay the humiliation.
The fall of Silverlush the previous day was, after all, partly his fault. Certainly, it was the King who authorized the surrender of the city, himself and the Orb of the Forest, in a final hope to preserve the Elven race from utter annihilation. But it was the Paladin’s fault, more than anyone else, for failing to realize that the Dark Lord was not to be trusted. The King’s surrender brought nothing to him and his people, apart for a summary execution and a sudden charge at the already weakened and demoralized Silverlush, resulting in the annihilation of the city, over half of its population, as well as practically everything the elves could probably lay their hands on to even hope to rebuild their city in one feel swoop. It was only owing to the Paladin Order’s bravery, as well as the death of more than five-sixth of his brothers that Harthrane was able to lead the rest of his people out of the carnage into the wood beyond.
And the Prince’s fate was another, not much less tragic story. Presumably Faegard Elfblade was unable to escape the city, judging from how his escorts were attacked and overwhelmed by a full contingent of fully-grown, adult Mountain Giants. The bestial humanoids of the Northern Range, well known for their weapon of choice, twenty-feet-tall trees uprooted on the spot and swung around as war clubs, as well as their appetite for elf meat, more certain than not, would have more than enjoyed the Prince as a midnight supper. Even then, when the refugees where a good distance from the city, Harthrane Nightowl was still laying the blame solely on himself for the Prince’s loss, even more when he reminisced what kind of rigorous anti-Giant trainings he had taken, only to fail to bring it to use when his liege lord most needed it.
But it was no time to be lamenting on the past, however terrifying the experience was. Danger was still behind them, for the Dark Lord would most certainly not leave the preys alive to recover after such a defeat. The late King had entrusted him with the fate of his people, and as a proud Elf, and Paladin to boost, he would honor that trust, even if it cost him his life. A glint of hope, further embellished by the courage of a born fighter and that oath of honor, flared up in his eyes, shining through the dark, moonless path they were about to walk.
And yet even that much wasn’t enough to clear up the doubt, the morbid fear, or win back the trust of the crowd so speechlessly taken over by the shattering defeat and the utter destruction of the land they once called home. It wasn’t long before the Paladin felt the weight of the responsibility swiveling out of the control of what little leadership skill he had.
“I am tired, Mom,” the wearied, beset voice somewhere behind the single-file line of refugees, sounded, in a tone best translated as a desperate, morale-sagging complaint.
The speaker seemed to have been an otherwise very loud-mouthed kid ordinarily – his tone was unreasonably loud, drawing the attention not just his mother, but also of much the entire file of adults around him, and unfortunately, reminded them of how sore and numbed their legs had been. The effect spread along the line rapidly, halting the exodus wherever it went, and before the Paladin even had enough time to realize what was going on, the whole line of refugees had come to a temporary standstill, as each and every elf sat down on the spot, as if refusing to carry on. What was worse, that complaint and its effects were reasonable. The refugees had been marching for long enough that day, more than enough for the average adventurer to travel for three days, at a feverish pace, for fear of enemy pursuit or other deadly complications.
“What is going on here?” Harthrane rushed to the spot, urgency overriding his entire expression as he stared at his demoralized people. “Why is everyone stopping?”
“Lord Nightowl, we can’t walk any more,” one of the downtrodden elves replied weakly, leaning against a nearby tree stump, clutching his legs.
“And we have the wounded, the old, and children with us as well,” another continued. “If this goes on, we wouldn’t last.”
“The Dark Lord has dragons in his army, friends,” the Paladin replied, somewhat annoyed. “If they catches us, the millennia of history of our kind will be put an end to, once and for all! I shall not allow that to happen! We must press on!”
“To where?” defied another of the refugees, with sparked resentment. “Where would you want us to go now? Without the Orb, the forest and its every denizen have turned their backs to us! We have nowhere to go now!”
“I will not tolerate such talks,” the Paladin gritted his teeth. “I don’t believe there is not a place by the name of the Spirit of the Wood that we can settle down!”
“Oh yeah, sir? What can we do when our king himself perished before the battle even began, and Prince Faegard is lost!”
That statement was like a sledgehammer blow squarely on the face for the Paladin for sound reason. It took him a good couple of seconds to stern himself up once more to respond.
“Regardless,” determinedly spoke Harthrane, as he suppressed his own doubt. “We ARE going to find a place to live, and we shall rebuild our civilization from scraps, if need be!”
“Your words, excuse me, sir, do not bear much strength now, Lord Nightowl,” yet another refugee talked back. “We are stuck here in the true wilderness, the wood forsaking us, our enemy ready to devour us any time now, and most importantly, we can’t go any more.”
The paladin was going to speak, but what he got next from the crowd was nothing too encouraging. Being mutinously glared at by every person still conscious around him, a glare in unison bearing a degree of resentment he had never experienced throughout his career, was thoroughly unexpected and more or less prompted Harthrane to find a better solution.
“Alright then,” Harthrane sighed, as if giving up. “Everyone, looks like we’ll call it a day and have a rest for now.”
The Paladin glanced at the darkness behind them, sighing once more, before concluding.
“I’ll keep watch, and should the Dark Lord’s pursuers reach us, run as far as you can, and don’t look back. I’ll buy you time to get away and survive.”
The crowd’s relief was profound, as every single member of the exodus took a seat, leaning against the nearby trees, heads buried in their laps. Before the paladin knew it, the sound of snores and contented breathing had filled the quietness of the forest with a soothing blanket of quasi-peace. Harthrane was left alone, standing on self-appointed guard duty, watching over the rest of the refugees as his eyes wandered across the dark night, strained out from both the stress and distraught of the day, as well as the attempt to detect any malignant movement from the shadow. For the night in its own rights contained many astonishments, and especially in this situation.
In case the worst happened, Harthrane would not hesitate to give his life up… all for the survival of his kind.
But sometimes, not all the astonishments were nasty ones as the situation would have him think…
******
Never before in history had a city of Mediava been so terribly and utterly destroyed like what had befallen Silverlush. Apparently the Dark Lord himself had made it a point to make sure that the symbol of the Elven bastion in the Great Forest would be eradicated from the face of the earth for good, and had largely succeeded in doing so. The sight of the burning ruins of Silverlush, with the streets filled with rubbles, flames, as well as the carcasses of the slain and the infernal beast from the Dark Lord’s army taking their time to feast upon them quite guaranteed that there was nothing left worth noting amidst the death and flame.
That speculation, however, was not quite right in this case. On the southern front of the ruined city, hours after the fall of the city, a chase was still taking place, albeit a rather hopeless one on behalf of the hunted. A young elf, still a long way from the age of maturity, was trying his best to shake off a persistent pursuer. His size, features, and voice, apart from the signature long ear, extremely fair skin and long platinum hair flowing down his shoulder – although all of which had been quite badly soiled by both ash and dust from the debris of the sacked city - were comparable to a teenage human, showing that he could not be older than a hundred years old and far from physical and magical maturity.
Compared to his pursuer, a brutish Mountain Giant the size of a five-storey building, with a large uprooted oak tree which he twirled in his hand like an average, everyday mace, he was anything but a threat, and the fact that this particular Giant had a thing for the tender meat of young Elves didn’t help at all. It didn’t matter to the stupid creature even if his prey was supposed to be a very valuable political figure if wisely used by his master – the only child of the dead King of Greenglaze, Prince Faegard Elfblade.
And now the battered prince was doing his best to cling to dear life by whatever means necessary. Throughout his life, the Prince of Greenglaze had never had to face such absurd amounts of imminent danger, until around a week ago, when the invasion came to be. From then on, everything seemed to have gone the wrong way, climaxing with his father’s death, the people around him being killed in cold blood, and the last platoon assigned with protecting him sacrificing to the last to try to see him to safety, which unfortunately didn’t happen.
So far, and more owing to luck than talent he had eluded his foe’s grasp, but judging from the situation, he would not be able to hold out there for much longer. In the past few hours, he had been surviving by haphazardly swinging a couple of unadjusted fireballs of miniature size at his oversize foe, causing him more irritation than harm to buy himself more time. And now, the state of what limited magical prowess he could muster at that time was no better than the general condition of his tattered clothing – a royal garment torn, deformed, and almost unredeemable from all the forceful contact throughout the escape, with both sleeves torn off, a battered backside, a burnt shoulder, and a multitude of scratches totally ruining the chest. As he realized after he pulled himself out from his latest hiding place, a rundown bakery, he noticed that his fancy collar had succumbed to the blackening soot as well – not a pretty sight.
Not that he had nothing else to worry about at that point – his pursuer was just in range, and had him locked on in short notice. The earthshaking footsteps of the gargantuan creature prompted the escapee to attempt to swing another fireball back at him on reflex. This time, though, it didn’t work, and all what the elf got for all his effort was a nasty stroke of headache – a signature warning sign of amateur spellcasters having depleted their magical reserve. Whether or not the dim-witted giant noticed the complicated mechanism upon which arcane spells worked, he did somehow realized that his prey’s attack rate had drastically dropped. Maybe it was just the young elf’s terror making up an illusion, but he could swear he did hear the beast give out a loud slurp as he charged towards him, club in hand for the kill.
Survival instinct didn’t allow him to give up – just yet. With all his agility, the young elf burst forth, making a final break as he ran off, in a futile attempt to outrun his predator. Needless to say, it didn’t work. The fact that the mountain giant’s legs were far longer than his own meant that there was no way he could make it. In the end, the elf could but helplessly look back as the mountain giant closed on him with impunity, reaching its calloused, dirty, grimy hand out for him. The last thing he realized was himself involuntarily shutting his eyes, covering his ears, and letting out a sharp shriek of terror as the disgusting palm and the similarly disgusting grunt of the creature made their mark in his senses…
And then there was a blinding flash, piercing through his tightly shut eyes with impunity. Before the light had even died down, the young elf felt his body losing weight at such a rapid pace, as if each and every single bit on his material body were being ripped from where it was, before being thrown into a massive melting pot for rearrangement and placement. Not being a physically constituent figure himself, he felt violently sick as a result of the process, before being wrapped up with a dreadful shock that pierced his every sense, rendering him comatose. Whatever happened to him after that point, no one in Mediava would know, for simply, the Prince of Greenwood, as well as his pursuer, had been simply erased from existence in his native world.
And so Prince Faegard Elfblade was written off as dead by friends and foes alike, although he most certainly wasn’t.
It might have felt like an eternity in a prison of darkness for the prince in question, but eventually he did regain his consciousness, realizing himself comfortably hidden within a green bush, covered and concealed well by the leaves above and kept warm by the grass below. As his sense came back to him, the Prince nervously reached for different parts of his body, finally breathing of relief when he realized that none of his limbs were missing. In fact, whatever happened had left him more or less without a scratch, a good sign for a survivor-to-be.
The next thing that came to him was to find out where he was for the moment being. Apparently he was nowhere near the ruins of his hometown at the moment – the soot-filled atmosphere, the air thick with ash, smoke, and nauseating with the smell of burnt bodies and blood was nonexistent in this place, but instead there was the soothing scent of green grass and vegetation. The light breeze and the mild sunlight penetrating the wall of leaves revealed that he was now in a rather open place, like a prairie or a forest opening. Either way, the fresh scent of nature of a much-needed change – if he was to breathe the death-polluted air of his ruined home town any more, he would probably perish before someone could take his life.
For now he was safe within the embrace of nature, and the most prudent explanation as to why, was that bolt of blinding lightning or magical beam, or whatever might fit the bill, that hit him that moment. Where it came from or how, he would not know for sure, but from his meager knowledge of common magick, such kind of space-altering effect could only be brought about by a teleporting spell, and not just any of them. It was common knowledge that even a powerful wizard would consider successfully teleporting anyone other than himself to a different place a boastable achievement. And even so, most wizards can only teleport those within their line of sight, and as far as Faegard knew, he didn’t see anyone, let alone a powerful spellcaster, around him at the time of distress.
”Maybe it’s a miracle,” the prince thought. ”Or was it divine intervention?”
An all too familiar roar in the background instantly stopped his train of speculations and theories. A chill ran up his spines as soon as he realized the source of the noise, a dreadful fact he confirmed just a second later by peeking through the leaves. It seemed that whoever saved him from that moment’s imminent death hadn’t taken into consideration all the consequences of his actions – a careless teleportation had brought not only himself to this place, but also the very creature that was threatening his life. The dirty, brutish Mountain Giant he had been throwing fireballs at and running away from for the last half a day had also been teleported there with him, and had finally woken up from the teleportation spell’s impact. His dirty tatters, his huge tree club, and his nasty roar meant that the cat-and-mouse game was prone to continue as soon as possible.
“Oh no!” thought the prince as he gasped. “Wait, did I just say that out loud?”
He most certainly did. That helped his foe to realize its foe’s availability sooner than he thought. And the last thing Faegard would want in the new situation was exactly what he heard immediately following that – a delighted roar from the hunter in question, as he lunged towards the bush at full speed. Barely had Faegard run out from his once-comfortable position when the monstrous flesh eater crashed into to bush, completely wiping out said vegetation from existence. It was a bad move, as the dangling branches and roots that the creature pulled off the ground effectively tied him in place, entangled by the vegetation. On reflex, Faegard tossed another follow-up fireball at the beast. This time it worked – his rest must have subsequently recovered his magical reserve enough to allow him to throw back counterattacks at the offender. The flame, though still weak compared to what a real fireball should be like, still managed to incinerate the entangling roots, and singing the creature’s left foot with it, causing him to tumble over in an awkward pain.
Taking that chance, Faegard sprang to his feet, and dashed away in a random direction. It took his foe a good couple of minute to actually recover from the pain and stage a pursuit, its face tensed by apparent rage, as it was probably the twentieth time in just that day it had been denied of its food when the walking food tossed another of his funny toy at it. This time, the Mountain Giant decided not to let it happen again, as it gave out another massive roar, dashing towards the silhouette of its prey at top speed. Its intelligence, however, was only so much, and once again Faegard forced him face-down on the ground with another fireball that scorched his knee. The next fifteen minute was more or less a particular number of rinse-and-repeats of that sequence, with the giant growing madder and madder as he tumbled time after time again.
However, this time Faegard wasn’t as lucky as when he was back in Silverlush. There weren’t quite enough place to hide in the open, and at the rate at which he was casting his spells, sooner or later he would once again run out of reserve, and there would only be one ending for him at that point. And unfortunately, that point came far earlier than he could devise a possible plan to escape, the signature headache coming at the most awkward of time and place, when he was finally cornered, with a cliff in front and the pursuer behind in a classic face-off situation.
Faegard nervously glanced down the only escape path, feeling slightly nauseous as he did – the deep, almost bottomless pit, the howling wind as a result thereof and his innate, magic overuse-induced headache mixed far too well for his own good. Assuming that he could actually summon enough courage to jump down that cliff, chances are he would suffer from a death even worse off than on the giant’s plate, with a smashed head and equally crushed flesh. And lest he think about tricking the beast into charging him and falling into the pit, the fact that the ground below him wasn’t exactly stable enough for the rampaging footsteps of the giant turned it into a textbook loss-loss scenario for the unfortunate prince.
The beast, on the double, seemed, at least at this particular moment, to be remarkably smart enough to avoid a suicidal run towards its prey and the pit, as it had apparently slowed down, looked around, and then proceeded with a noticeable degree of cautiousness towards the prey, as he reached his hand out for a quick grab. Faegard took advantage of the movement well enough to dive-roll out of his reach, and away from the pit as a result.
But now it was back to square one for the lost prince – without his back facing the pit to daunt the monster, and without even the amount of magic needed to cast a simple spell, Faegard was now completely defenseless before the creature’s whatever action. Not to mention the loss of balance from the dive made it impossible for him to avoid the next grab from the monster, which it did throw out towards him. Once again, involuntarily, the downtrodden prince shut his eyes, as if to avoid having to set his eyes on his own demise.
While Faegard did expect something along the lines of his own bones break under the squeezing grip of the creature, that instance didn’t happen at all. Instead, the next thing he knew came in the form of a roaring explosion from a distance, followed by the sound of solid metal smashing into flesh with a bruising slam, and the thunderclap of the massive creature being forced to the ground. The effect was tantamount to an earthquake, and when Faegard opened his eyes he realized how lucky he was that he had rolled away from the edge of the cliff – the impact of the fall had caused the entire cape to collapse, leaving a bottomless expansion of the pit just where his feet were half a minute ago. And the offending beast was well lying on the ground writhing in pain, clutching its gigantic chin, as whatever had hit it must have probably broken the beast’s jaw for good. But there was more to meet his eyes now than just that, in the form of the person, or thing, that had just saved him.
A steel golem, or, rather, what could be classified as one, was Faegard’s first expression of his savior. As much as he remembered his magic lesson of “humanoids built of steel are known as golems, a popular tool of powerful wizards, so built of plain steel or granite or other inanimate material and infused with magic to animate it, to the level so desired by its owner, used preemptively to do its master’s bidding”, it seemed that this humanoid was far too elaborate, too luxurious, too beautiful to be of such simple use. No wizard, however skilful or extravagant, would go as far as to paint his golem, let alone attach such myriads of decorations and unknown features as metal lion heads, manes and stained plates to such an expendable tool as a golem. Not to mention the attachment on its back, a wing-like structure fixed with some other unknown parts, a complicated device in its own right, somewhere along the lines of the clever gnomish machines, but far more complicated and advanced.
At first glance, it appeared that the golem had got a missing hand, a notion corrected at Faegard’s second glance, when what appeared to be its missing appendage flew back to it from a good distance away and magically connected back to its wrist as if nothing had happened. The dark bloodstain on its knuckle suggested that it was that detachable arm that was responsible for severely mauling the Mountain Giant just now. The magnificence of the machine was such that no amount of near-death experience could take Faegard’s eyes out of it. While a normal golem would be no larger than an ogre for ease of use and control, this golem was more or less as large as, if not larger than, the Mountain Giant, in its own rights. Leaving out the difficulty to control, as Faegard speculated, just animating this humanoid alone would cost an ungodly amount of magic power. Whoever owned this monstrosity of a golem, Faegard thought, would easily outpower the dreaded Mortigius in every field of magic.
And then the huge steel golem bent down, as if to look at Faegard, at which point the awed prince nervously backed away on instinct, as he had always learnt from his classes that constructs were highly unpredictable, and it would better be safe than sorry around their kind. As he backed up, eyes still glued to the creature’s shape, the golem’s next action, as Faegard saw it, was downright out of this world. The creature’s hands clasped at its chest, at which point the entire lion head-decorated chest of the golem sprang open, revealing an opened hatch – a feature Faegard could swear was nonexistent in any design of golem throughout the history of Greenglaze.
But the surprise was not yet to end. Before Faegard could properly put his feeling about that bizarreness to words, the prince once again felt light on his feet. The explanation came a second later when the tip of his feet left the ground – he was being sucked into the bowels of the machine! That movement came with such suddenness that Faegard could only respond by a loud scream, trailing behind him as he was finally sucked into the golem’s opened chest, and brought to an abrupt end when the chest hatch of the creature finally closed.
His unnecessary twitching and struggling within the body of the golem resulted in something of a mild concussion, and coupled with the moment’s suddenness, resulted in his temporarily phasing out for a moment or so. When Faegard finally managed to get a hold of himself, he could but open his mouth in an awe much, much greater than before.
There was an entire cabin built within the chest of the golem, with a screen before Faegard, showing him nothing other than the scenario outside, as lively and realistic as he would look at it from outside. And that was just the least of the astonishment. At least three panels were lined up before him, filled with buttons of all sorts, shapes and sizes, and as he had realized earlier, most probably of the same category as buttons and levers on various gnomish contraptions, but much, much more advanced, beyond the level that the tiny inventors could ever dream about creating. According to what he knew about such gnomish constructs, each button was supposed to do something, but what it should do is solely the private knowledge of the inventor, and sometimes even the inventors failed to take note of what which button was supposed to do, making the entire process of using a gnomish machine a purely trial-and-error process, and that was for things that actually worked. For this instance, Faegard felt especially tempted to temper with some of the buttons and levers, just to find out what would happen.
However, in that situation, tempering with unknown machine could mean death. For one reason, far too often gnomish machines would blow up if the wrong button was pressed at the wrong time. And for another, his primary source of danger, the Mountain Giant, was far from out.
Still clutching its jaw as it stood up, its eyes filled with rage, the jaw-broken Mountain Giant was being the textbook epitome of a wounded animal – reckless and dangerously savage. It didn’t even try to defend itself this time, as it used to shield part of its body from Faegard’s spells throughout the last day. Rather, it charged straight at the machine, ramming it at maximum speed. Without anything to control it, the golem was more or less defenseless, as it was thrown sideway forcefully, landing face-up about sixty feet away. The impact was such that Faegard could have been crushed by the very after-effect of the ram, had he not grabbed the nearest lever for balancing purpose.
The monster did not cease it attack yet, but it was certain it was on the winning side. A quick punch it threw as a follow-up after the ram aimed directly at the golem’s head, and with such a force, it still risked being crushed, regardless of what material it was made of, and its rider would risk a concussion even worse than before. Frantically, Faegard tugged at the said lifesaving lever hard, as if clinging on to dear life. This time, he was lucky, once again. The lever turned out to be the control for the golem’s legs or so it seemed, as the moment Faegard tugged it, the golem’s legs and hip turned at an angle enough to push itself aside with a roll, avoiding the Mountain Giant’s punch by a hair.
The Mountain Giant was, needless to say, driven madder. It proceeded to throw another punch at the offending golem, with even more force than before, aimed straight at its forehead, once again. Having learnt the lesson from before, Faegard pulled the lever once again, triggering another evasive action. This time, however, the shock from the giant’s punch almost threw Faegard off his seat, making the prince involuntarily reach his other hand for another lever on the left side for balance. As he tugged at it, however, the effect was not too pleasant. A loud blast could be heard right behind him, followed by a massive push upward from the same direction, nearly driving his head straight onto the screen once again, followed by another string of head-twisting turbulence that didn’t work with his present headache at all. Before he knew it, the next thing he saw from the screen confirmed that the golem was standing upright again. The prince had just discovered the hard way how to activate the funny-looking attachment behind its back.
“So that lever activates that machine to bring this thing back on its feet?” Faegard mused. “Slow down there, man!”
However, Faegard didn’t have that much time to speculate. A flaring red light on the top of his head began to bleep loudly, spreading an incandescent reddish beam all over the chamber’s background. It didn’t take Faegard much time to realize that such a reaction from a machine would mean nothing good, as a rigid, mechanical voice spoke at a monotonously annoying, yet extremely urgent tone.
“Warning. Frame damage at 75%. Right arm and Lion Blaster offline. Left arm Boost Knuckle at 13% efficiency. Left thruster at 23% efficiency.”
Faegard couldn’t understand half of what the voice was suggesting, but from the looks of things alone, it didn’t seem to be any good, namely, if he was to take another direct blow from the Mountain Giant, he and that machine would likely not make it.
“Damn! Is there anything on this blasted machine I can use to fight back?” Faegard looked around frantically, searching for a button that would say something even barely resembling a physical attack, a magical spell, or both. There was none. And all the while, the monster was making its advance, its fist raised high above its head, ready for a coup de grace.
All of a sudden, a fragment of the screen before Faegard suddenly flared up, displaying the words “F-MISSILE READY FOR LAUNCH” in bright, red block letter. And in conjunction with that, the button panel on Faegard’s left suddenly split open, revealing a bright, red button. Such buttons would, according to Gnomish inventors, symbolize an extremely dangerous complication if pressed. However, Faegard didn’t look like he had much choice for the time being – everyone knew that a Mountain Giant’s berserk fist was the only known force in Mediava that can one-hit-kill an adult dragon, by crushing its skull and deforming it beyong recognizability. The prince jammed his eyes shut, and the landed a random slam on the said red button.
The next thing Faegard knew was a huge explosion right next to him, followed by a cataract of blood painting the entire area of the screen red. The concussion that followed, however, knocked him out rather hard before he could hear the proof of his triumph – the final roar of pain from the dying giant…
******
< Message edited by Argeus the Paladin -- 5/8/2009 3:47:51 >
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