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Entries below are all beginnings to rpgs (already existent or not) without setting/plot outline or character bios. Please vote based on the how well each was written and how much you'd want to join if it was a real rpg.
1. (3 points)
2. (2 points)
3. (1 point)
Turwaithiel Shadeslayer
The night's cold chill swept through the land of Kanum. The forests where silenced as the first spring's rain came falling down from the skies. A cold chill of evil swept through the small town of Highle, a town where 7 Ringbearer's lived. As the evil chill came through their town, one Ringbearer awoke with a start from her slumber. She gasped for breath and looked up at the skies; the seven stars where alined perfectly. She gasped again, but this time not for breath, but from fear.
She jumped out of bed and dressed quickly. She wore a pair of black breeches and a black undershirt. Then, over them, she wore a red warriors shirt with a red tunic that had Elvish designs on the front and down the sides of it. She laced up her black boots as she her dark black braided hair got into her dark blue eyes. She swiftly armed herself with the weapons that she was trained to use well; She, personally, carried a bow and arrows, two daggers (one wrist dagger and one ankle dagger), an throwing axe, and two curved long swords.
Finally, she looked at herself in the mirror and whispered, "The day has come." She bent down and took a key out of her pocket and unlocked a small, wooden box. Inside the box was her life's most prized possesion. Her Ring of Element. She was the Bearer of Flame for the Light side, an Elven Warrior sworn to protects the rights of men and Elves until death took her. She picked up the ring, which hung on a necklace and slipped it under her shirt. Glancing at the stars one more time, she left her home.
Turwaithiel, as the Elf was known, ran to the stables and mounted her white mare, Tathar. She knew that the banishment of the Demom's was no more. They where coming again. She had to meet up with all the other Ringbearers at the Round Table in the middle of the Forest. She had not spoken with any of them for many years. Now, they would have to unite as one to face the evil that had come again, stronger this time, and face it. As the rain soaked her clothes and mud splashed into her face, Turwaithiel rode hard into the forest until she came to the small cabin with unlit lights hanging all around it. It was the Light Ringbearer's meeting ground. She unmounted Tathar and put him in the stables, then she ran inside.
Since she was the Bearer of Flame, she was heat to dry herself and light all the lights that where surrounding the cabin. She smiled at the sight of the Round Table. There where 8 chairs. 7 for the newest Ringbearer's, including herself, and one for the only Old Ringbearer to still be living. He would tell that what was to be done tonight. She found the horn hanging on the side of the wall and she took off and blowed. It was silence to all mortal ears; the sound could only be heard the the Bearers of the Rings of Element. After she blew on the horn for a moment, she stopped and awaited her compainions arrival. It was to be a long night.
Meldawen
Dragons!
Sparkles of rainbow colors against the night sky, bursts of brilliant flame illuminating the darkness. Talons grasping and clawing, tearing enemy flesh from bone – screeches of pain and rage.
All this melded into one dizzying blur for those astride the warring reptilian beasts – the dragonriders. Each dragonrider pair was either Renegade or Meiltha, sworn since the beginning of their knighthood to oppose their enemies to the death. And it looked as if death was an imminent possibility for many of the airborne warriors.
One event was the cause of this clash, this meeting of those who worshiped the gods with those who vehemently opposed them. Secure in the grasp of one Meiltha dragonrider was a precious Renegade possession – Secrets of the Star Crystal. The fragile roll of vellum was the key to their survival, the key to the mysteries of the artifact they strove to acquire. It had been stolen, stolen by this rider astride his ebony dragon, and the fury of the Renegades had pursued him.
But the rider and his black dragon were not the only Meiltha to oppose the gods-worshiping Renegades. Fangs gaping, reinforcements had flown to meet his pursuers, and the ensuing battle looked to cost the Renegades dear if they did not retreat with speed.
This order was echoing throughout the consciousness of all the Renegade dragonriders, linked mentally to their commander as they were. The words pounded into they and their dragons' beleaguered minds with something approaching desperation, and many obeyed – but some, and eventually only one, did not.
Left to face alone the wrath of the Meiltha, one dragon and his rider still fought desperately to regain what had been stolen from them. The dragon was silver, bright against the night sky, and his rider was almost hidden by the frantic beating of his wings where she pressed close against the curve of his sinuous neck. Neither remained uninjured. The dragon bore the mark of talons on his scaled flank, four deep parallel gashes that even now made his wingbeats falter, and the rider had bright blood staining her sleeve.
"Wyvern, no! Go back! Go – " the rider - who upon closer inspection was a slight female dressed in silver-grey, younger than most - was pleading frantically with the infuriated beast beneath her. Her entreaties were cut off when a bolt of magically summoned sizzling darkness lanced past them and the dragon performed a dizzying series of aerobatic maneuvers to avoid decapitation.
Several pairs of eyes, rider and dragon, watched anxiously from where they had taken shelter – and the Renegade commander, eyes fixed on the lone dragonrider pair who had failed to follow his order to withdraw, knew he could do nothing.
He had no choice but to retreat. The lone rider was left to defend herself – left to face an army of murderous Meiltha with none but her and her dragon as defense.
She was left to face death.
Aerandir
The road wound its way through the forest, going through dips and over hillocks, bridging streams, rivers, and gorges. It was paved with stone, worn by long years of travelers and rain gouging away at it, but still a long way from being useless. In winter, in the freezing snow, it would still be passable, and in the worst rainstorm, it would still never get muddy, both of which were common of most roads. Most roads would become covered with snow or slogged with mud in winter or in a rainstorm any time, but not this road. To either side of it, where the surroundings permitted it, ran borders of tall green grass, lush and vibrant, and dotted with flowers and fruit bushes. Occasionally a patch of a different colour marked where something else waited--a stalking predator, a scurrying rabbit, a grazing deer; all were common along this road.
By one stretch of the road, a buck raised its head, swiveling it down the road where rising dust was visible against the dawn, penetrated and distorted by amber sunbeams, which cast the forest into odd patterns of contrasting light and dark spots. Where the sun hit, the green grass seemed tinged with gold, and to grow, as though it sought to reach the source of the warmth and light in which it was bathed.
The score of riders on the road, though, took no joy in the sun's radiant beams. Instead, they wore impassive or scowling faces under the rims of their helmets, crested with tall white plums which would never have blended into any forest. Their white armour and white cloaks with a flame emblazoned on the breast merely added to the conspicuousness. Any woodsman would have scoffed at them, if not for the air they bore. Each man had a sword at his belt, and bore either a shield or a bow, but each and every one had an air of deadliness around them. Anyone who looked at them could see as plain as they could see a noontime sun that those men were as familiar with their weapons as they were with their own hands. Their weapons were part of them, it seemed. Few would dare to challenge them, and most of those few would not survive such a challenge. Those few who did, well—they were exceptional, without any doubt.
At their head rode someone different. Where their armour was white, his was black, and crested with only two white plumes and two black, instead of all white. His longsword still rode on his hip with that same deadly grace, but it was not as evident. His face betrayed more emotion, and the sheen of sweat on his face at this hour declared for all the world to see that he was unnerved. Talthor was far from comfortable, shifting in his saddle occasionally, or wincing at unwelcome thoughts. Such things were not common on the face of any man of Dhalfier’s army, but he was becoming used to it now. Most people would have been uncomfortable in his situation.
It wasn't that he was leading the Royal Guard of Dhalfier that bothered him, though by all rights he still had a good few years to go before his rank earned him that honor. Most soldiers of his age were still at the level of Armsman, instead of his rank of Adjutant-Captain. The commander of the Royal Guard held the rank of Grand Captain, a rank that was the same as those who commanded Dhalfier’s armies. Perhaps one day he would reach that position.
Commanding the Royal guard still wasn’t what made Talthor nervous, though. What unsettled him was why he was leading them. This entire assignment had been arranged in secret, messages sent along safe routes where no spies waited, soldiers moved in the night so that no scouts would see and ride to their masters. Knowledge of their goal must not be spread, or the High Kingdom would almost certainly face disaster. With its Dragonlords scattered across it, though, perhaps it would not happen that way. Perhaps it would be saved, instead. Perhaps.
The sweat continued to gather on Talthor’s face.
Ahead of them, the road ran on until it came to an expanse of clear ground, without any trees or anything larger than short blades of grass. No one knew why the grass never grew taller, but it never did. In that meadow, they were to be met by others, those who would join them in their mission, and would be waiting for them. They had been gathered there by the efforts and manipulation of a person of great renown, even in the Illuminated Court of the High King. A person perhaps ten or fifteen years older than Talthor himself, Darhael was a Dragonlord.
As a boy, Talthor, like most youngsters his age, had harbored fond thoughts and wild dreams of having a dragon of his own to fly about on, but now he knew that no man could ride on a dragon--there just wasn't any room for one. And of course, more often than not the dragon would simply burn them to a crisp before allowing them to get close. Not the Dragonlords, though. As they respected and avoided the dragons, the dragons respected and avoided them. It seemed that no Dragonlord would ever have a chance to kill more than his first dragon.
Darhael was high ranked among them, though. It was said that the Dragonlords were the best warriors in all the land, and of them all, only a very few could beat him in swordsmanship, and of them all, none was a better archer. It was said that Darhael, born in Salmath, had shot the dragon out of the sky as it breathed fire at him. Only small gaps existed between the scales of a dragon’s underside, but somehow the Dragonlord had hit his directly in the heart. According to rumour, he had barely survived the encounter and spent days recovering afterwards, but there was no doubt about it. There was no other with Darhael’s archery skill in the land.
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Darhael laid his head back against his saddle, watching the stone-paved road in front of him as he crossed his arms over his chest. At present, he was alone, but there were people who should be gathering here soon, every single one a person with a purpose on this quest. From all nations of the High Kingdom would they come, and each of them would have their own reasons for coming. Most would come because they had to, but perhaps some would come because of the intrigue and adventure involved.
If the Creator was with them, and willed it, they would have the adventure they desired, but if they ended up with it, Darhael would accept it willingly. That was what part of being a Dragonlord was. He never felt any anger at what he did, whether it was done by his will or that of the Creator. Undoubtedly, High King Ardamien saw it that way too. In the history of the land, no Dragonlords had ever been in discord with each other–to do so was to be presenting their own wills over that of the Creator, and they were incapable of doing such.
However, those who were coming this day would almost certainly desire more than a peaceful journey with no cause for alarm. Attitudes like that certainly increased the chances of danger–a person who looked for a fight normally found it. The presence of the Royal Guard should keep other people from starting fights, though. Few people would chance getting involved in a fight on the other side from the Royal Guard. Those who did normally ended up being corrected, and quickly, too.
Glancing to his side, Darhael rolled to his feet as he noticed his bow lying on the ground next to his horse, Crimson. If the stallion stepped back on it and broke it, Darhael’s primary weapon would be gone. He was more than skilled with the swan-hilted scimitar at his waist, but with a bow, he was unequalled, so far as he knew. Of all the Dragonlords, he was the only one who had shot a dragon out of the air. The Creator had surely been with him that day, since he had never equalled that feat in all the years since then, but it was still a mighty shot, he knew. The bow had been the same one he had used for the last ten years, too. Made of yew and dyed red, it was shaped so that only the strongest would be able to bend it, and it would fire an arrow far. It was perfect for Darhael’s large frame.
Picking it up out of the grass, Darhael placed it in its case on his back, behind his quiver of red-feathered arrows. Other Dragonlords mocked him for his colour coordination frequently, as friends do, but he found that the arrows of a Red Eagle were the closest in colour to his red dragonhide armour. And his sword, which had a ruby capping its pommel. His hair was a drab brown, though, so he had to have something else matching it besides his boots. As a result, his cloak was of a dark brown colour. It was a perfect outfit, even when he had blood staining it, since blood was also red.
Jhondal scoffed at him more than others, but Darhael would only laugh in reply, since Jhondal’s hair was black, his dragonhide armour was black, his cloak was black, his spear was black, and his boots and gloves were black. Everything he wore was black, and he accused Darhael of being odd with his liking for matching colours. Some people just never got it. Those who wore matching colours looked much more awe inspiring, unless they were like Jhondal. The air of death that hung about him, the second of the Dragonlords, was enough on its own to silence folk with sheer awe. Perhaps, someday, Darhael would achieve that same level of respect. He got his own fair share, of course, which was what any Dragonlord received, but Jhondal could be dressed in a farmer’s woolens and still be awe inspiring with his mere presence. Save for the High King Ardamien, Jhondal was unequaled in prowess.
A beam of sunlight glanced off of something in the forest, and Darhael smiled in satisfaction. Whatever the sunlight reflected off of had to be metal, which meant that those he had arranged for were beginning to arrive. Perhaps it was Adjutant-Captain Talthor’s Guardsmen, though there did not seem to be enough hoofbeats, or perhaps it was merely two or three of the travellers arriving at once. Regardless, he was done waiting alone.
Elenya
Narrim shifted his muscles, trying to find a comfortable position against the rough tree bark. He leaned his head back against the trunk, staring up through the bare branches. <i>So many stars.</i> It seemed strange how many more stars the young man noticed when he was in the wild, away from the lights of towns. He brought his gaze from the sky and started scanning the horizon again. Narrim was taking the second watch of the night, giving the rest of the group a chance to rest.
Up until a few hours ago, he and the group he was traveling with had never met each other. He shook his head slightly, remembering.
<i>Narrim Windwalker. He was a wanderer, just like his name implied. He had reached a small village a few hours before nightfall and decided to stop there. At a small inn, he reserved a room. Before he could get anything to eat, though, a woman had come into the inn's main room. Her eyes moved over the crowds. Narrim watched her. He could tell she was looking for someone in particular. Their eyes met, and she immediately walked towards him, moving confidently through the crowds.
"Come with me." she said, looking intently into his eyes.
"What?" Narrim said.
"Come with me. You are needed." The woman turned and walked out of the inn. Against his will, Narrim followed. The woman led him to a small house on the outskirts of the town. There were several people already in the house, sitting around a wooden table. The woman invited Narrim to sit down, then left the house. Narrim sat down silently, wondering all the while just why he was listening to the stranger. He had the others in the room didn't speak, but stared at each other in the uncomfortable silence. Presently the woman had returned with two other strangers. She left again, returned with another, then locked the door behind her and sat down.
"There is a great danger that threatens all of us." she began without preamble. "For years the Stones of Shimahn have been hidden, kept safe from the evil that seeks them. That time has come to an end. The Shadow-walkers have found where the Stones were hidden. They went to the place to take them, but fortunately, the Stones had been removed. I'm sure you all know the significance of the Stones."
Narrim didn't know their significance and was having a bit of trouble following the woman's speech. He was grateful when she continued, "In case some of you do not know, the Stones were made by a company of great magicians when the land was still young. The magicians knew that a great evil was hidden in the land, and they created the Stones to destroy that evil. Twelve Stones were made. These Stones looked like gems, but they contained incredible power, power the magicians poured into them. When separated, these Stones have little strength, but when combined in a certain pattern, they have almost unimaginable force.
"The magicians took the Stones to the Shaeb Forests, where evil lurked. Unfortunately, the magician's plan backfired on them. The Stones were so powerful that they could not be controlled. They destroyed all the evil within their reach, as they had been created to do, but they did not stop there. They started destroying the land about them. The magicians were killed as they tried in vain to separate the pattern. Finally, the Stones consumed all within their reach. They used up all their power, and had nowhere to draw more energy from. They went into dormancy. They remained in Shaeb, then a newly formed desert, until the sands buried them. Only rumors of them remained.
"Years later, a small group of daring, foolish adventurers went to the Shaeb desert. They found and retrieved the Stones, then separated them and kept them hidden for years.
"That time has ended, however. As I said, the Shadow-walkers have found where the Stones were kept. They are seeking them, and they will stop at nothing to find them. If they were to put the Stones together and find a way to control their power, they would have a weapon which nobody could fight against. Our only hope is to seek out the land of Simainus where the last of the magical creatures live, and take the Stones to them. With their magic, those that live there could perhaps control the Stones or in the least, destroy them."
She fell silent. Narrim realized he was breathing shallowly, as to not miss any of her words. They fascinated him in a way he could not explain. The woman looked around the table slowly, holding each person's eyes for a moment. "Each of you have been chosen and brought here for this task."
Narrim's eyes widened in surprise, and he jerked to his feet, knocking his chair backwards. Commotion broke out across the room as the spell of silence was broken. The woman rolled her eyes upwards, sighed, and climbed onto her chair. She held up a cloth bag. "I have the Stones." she said, speaking over the noise. "Each of you will be given one." Silence fell again, and the woman sat down again. "Gather what you will need for the journey and meet back here."
Narrim left the woman's house and walked silently towards the inn. He went to his room and picked up his pack. He had been traveling light, as he always did. He looked around the room to make sure he hadn't left anything behind (a habit he had developed after several years of wandering). Shouldering his pack, Narrim quickly left the inn and walked back to the house.
The group gathered. When the last person had arrived, the woman nodded in satisfaction. She walked around the room, handing each person a stone. Narrim took his in both hands. It was dark blue, with darker flecks scattered throughout it. About the size of his palm, it was surprisingly heavy. "We will leave now." the woman said, and proceeded to walk out the door. Narrim looked around at the group rather helplessly, then followed the woman. He was committed to this task.
The woman walked confidently, leading the group out of the town and into the woods. She didn't glance back to check who was following. She simply led the way. Narrim caught up with her, questions racing through his mind. "What are Shadow-walkers?" he asked her.
She still didn't look at him. "They are creatures of evil. They are one with darkness." she answered shortly.</i>
Narrim stood, stretching his stiff muscles. He walked around the small clearing, scanning the ground, trees, and horizon. He glanced inward, seeing the sleeping forms of his companions, light from the fire flickering over them.
<i>"When the Shadow-walkers are in shadow form, the only weapon against them is light." The group sat around the fire, eating a small dinner and listening as the woman told them more. "They cannot approach light. If you shine light onto them, that part will vanish. They can change themselves to any solid from at will. When they are in a solid form, they can be harmed with normal weapons. I have weapons for those of you who are not sufficiently armed." She pulled a bundle from her pack and opened it, revealing a variety of swords and daggers. As the group looked them over, she fed more wood into the fire, then stood. "I will take the first watch." About two hours later, she had woken Narrim, told him to take the next watch, and fallen asleep beside the fire.</i>
Narrim continued to pace the clearing, his cloak wrapped tightly about him. He yawned. Reason seemed to be finally catching up to him. Why had he gone with this group of strangers, accepting the wild story the woman had told? He hadn't questioned it until now. Perhaps the woman could control minds? He had heard of people with small magical powers, although he had considered them rumors.
His eye caught a flicker of motion on the edge of the clearing. Narrim stopped, staring at the dark tree bases. There it was again- a moving shadow. It seemed to be flowing from tree to tree, but moving steadily towards the campsite. Narrim glanced up at the tree branches, trying to figure out what was making such an unusual shadow. He saw nothing, and looked back down. The shadow was larger now, a river a darkness flowing towards him. <i>They are one with the darkness.</i>
"Eshtok! Malai, Sa'rinath! He ran towards the sleeping group, shouting their names. The shadow flowed around the clearing, staying just outside the ring of firelight. The woman sprang up, drawing her sword. "Shadow-walkers!" she cried in warning. "Light torches!" The group, now fully awake, followed her orders. "I had hoped they would not track us so quickly." she said to herself. Narrim grasped a flaming stick in one hand, his sword in the other. He realized his hands were shaking. The group formed a circle around the fire, facing the slowly rippling shadows. For a long moment nothing happened. Narrim could hear his heart beating in the silence.
Suddenly, huge forms rose up from the ground, flowing from the shadow. They were dark, without features, but had hulking, human-like bodies. The forms, five of them, rushed forward. The woman sprang to attack, and Narrim followed. The clearing filled with shouts and cries as the battle began.
The Shadow-walkers carried no swords or spears- their huge hands and teeth were weapons enough. As Narrim slashed desperately at the beast he and the woman fought, it reached down, trying to grab them. The woman was quick with her sword. She jabbed and slashed at the creature's arms, legs, and stomach, darting out of it's reach. Narrim copied her motions, although he was less practiced with his weapon. Where their swords cut the beast, a dark substance, half smoke, half liquid flowed from it's wounds.
The monster swung it's hand wide. As the woman sprang back, her foot caught on a tree root. She fell over backwards. The Shadow-walker grabbed her leg even as Narrim rushed to help her, dropping his sword. She grabbed onto the root with one hand, holding Narrim's hand with the other. For a moment, the woman looked into Narrim's eyes, a burning intensity in her own gaze. The next moment, their hands were torn apart. Narrim heard her scream, a sound that ended sharply. The creature tossed her broken body aside, then renewed his attack on the young man.
Anger flooded through Narrim. He took a firm hold on the torch. With a fierce cry, he thrust it into the beast's face. The flames flared up as they caught hold of the creature's flesh. It retreated, and Narrim followed, thrusting at it with the flame. When it reached the circle of shadow, the beast turned and ran off into the darkness, it's form shrinking and changing even as it did so.
Narrim turned back to the fire. The rest of the group was there, some wounded, but the Shadow-walkers had gone. The forest was as it had been. The Stones. Narrim thought. He found his own pack and rummaged through it, quickly finding the blue gem. "Does everyone have their Stones?" he asked outloud. He wasn't sure why he was making such a fuss about the rocks, but he felt a faint sense of foreboding.
As the others reported back that they had their Stones, Narrim found the woman's pack and started searching through it. He didn't feel her Stone. In growing desperation, he upended the bag, dumping it's contents on the ground. He shuffled through them frantically, but still didn't find it. Suddenly he remembered- as the Shadow-walker had tossed the woman's body aside, Narrim had seen it envelop something in it's dark hand.
Hope sinking within him, Narrim hurried over to the woman's body. It was crumpled on the forest floor, her neck twisted to one side. <i>I didn't even know her name.</i> he thought suddenly. Narrim tried not to look at her face as he searched the pockets of her clothes. As he feared, he didn't find the Stone. He turned back to face the group. "A Shadow-walker has one of the Stones." he said, then walked to the fire and sat down, his face in his hands. Without all twelve Stones, the pattern could not be completed, and the magic would not work. He knew the Shadow-walkers would keep attacking the companions until they were able to get all the Stones, and then...
"We must follow them." Narrim lifted his head from his hands, looking at the companions. Fear stared out of his eyes. He did not know how they would follow the Shadow-walkers, or what they would do if they found the Stone. He only knew there was no other choice.
Nauriel Rochnur
Threng sprinted through the forest with all the grace of a three legged turtle. After what must have been his twentieth trip over a fallen log, he stopped to catch his breath. Things were getting so much worse. The fact that ‘things’ had not even been good to start with did nothing to ease Threng’s worries. He could hear the tracking dogs that pursued him. Yep, they were getting louder, and that meant closer. What the people who wanted him intended to do with him he did not know, but he had an idea that he would not enjoy it in the least. And on top of all that he had a gapping arrow wound in his leg, that while it drained him of life, left a path clear as day for those oh-so-happy dogs to follow him. That and he had no memory of who he was.
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Amaran threw the scrying glass to the floor in frustration “Why can I not scry you?” he questioned the air. The mage ran his hand through rumpled black hair. He had a lot to thing about. He was in trouble.
“..But the possibilities are practically infinite!” Amaran argued, trying desperately to keep the whine out of his voice.
“And to it seems is your capacity of cruelty.” The Arch-mage replied tartly, an angry gleam in his eye. “I suggest you return to your quarters and rethink your mission in life.”
That was a dismissal. There was nothing Amaran could do but bow and walk away, though all the while he wished fervently he could pull out the Arch-mage’s beard strand by white, pearly strand. The arch-mage thought he was all high and mighty. Ha! He had the magical power, yes, but not the will to use it. Amaran, on the other hand, knew he had the potential for greatness. He was just kept from it by the Ach-mage. “There are ways to get around you” Amaran muttered to himself. He had many devoted friends who would de his bidding. These “atrocious experiments” as the Arch-mage had called them would be Amaran’s pedestal to fame.
Three months ago Amaran had that discussion. He had the perfect plan. By “tapping” (a crude, but fairly accurate description for a very complicated procedure) into a human’s mind and body, Amaran speculated that wonderful things could be given: super human strength, mental abilities, even the adding of the magical gift. But Amaran was not concerned about what could be that. What was most important was what could be taken away: the human will. Amaran had a plan to create the perfect human slaves. And, Amaran figured, how cruel could slavery be if the did not object?
And so Amaran gathered his friends and in the dead of night captured 6 villagers. For three months all had gone according to plan, until a mage’s power suddenly surged while he was working. Then the experiments awoke. In the confusion that followed, all managed to escape. Amaran had to capture them before the Arch-mage discovered his treason. Fortunately, the experiments seemed to have lost all their previous memory. What bothered him was their inability to be scryed. How had that come about? Amaran made some calculations and came up with a shocking answer. The power surge most likely changer their internal workings. Instead of their wills being taken away, powers may have been added.
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Threng muttered every curse he knew, and then repeated the cycle again for good measures. The dogs were definitely closer. He struggled to run faster and was rewarded by tripping over yet another log (he was beginning to wonder if there were more logs than trees), landing on his wounded leg. And, as if in spite, it began to rain. Hard. Thunder rumbled overhead and lightning flashed. The storm might dampen his scent a little, but it would not be enough. Not only would he be captured, but he would be sopping wet too. But I’m not in chains yet, he thought to himself Might as well go down fighting. He managed to pick himself up and run an honorable fifteen feet before his wounded leg gave out. At almost the same time the dogs and their masters came into view.
The one nearest to Threng shouted “Stop where you are!”
Threng raced for a witty reply, but only came up with a feeble “No!” The trackers were advancing, and seemed to take no notice of his protest. “Get away!” He snarled suddenly. Those trackers were going to have fun trying to take him. “Back off or die!” He threatened again. The trackers snickered. Five against one gimp. The odds were in their favor. They kept advancing. “Leave me!” Threng yelled.
One tracker pulled out his bow. “We do not need you alive” He said with a big sneer across his face. Threng was suddenly filled with rage. Who were they to take his life? The hair on the back of his neck suddenly stood on end. He wanted nothing more than to kill them right-
FLASH
Lightning blazed mere feet in front of Threng, branching into five bolts to strike the trackers. When the spots cleared from his eyes he could see the five men on the ground and smell their cooked flesh. They were dead. And though Threng had no idea how, he knew he had done it.
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Never heard that rendition of OMG before....
*smacks self*
