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Old 08-28-2006, 06:44 PM   #1
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Join Date: Jan 2005
Location: Surrey, BC, Canada
Posts: 268
Default Secrets of Satamarin, Part III

Tilian Scead beamed , which in the flickering torch light gave him the appearance of a grinning skull. He held before him a rusty branding iron, with dried burned flesh still sticking to the mark of the Undead of the Well.

Lord McDewd, who enjoyed wearing the brightest colors that could clash the most, followed him up the stairs from the depths of the old dungeon.

"A lot of work for just an old branding iron. An utter waste of time unless your a horse rancher. I lost many a good man down there. And not a lick of loot to be found!" The lords voice was growing in agitation as he went on.

Tilian stopped on the stair case and turned his gaze to the lord, stopping him silent. He bit his lip and his eyes looked to the ceiling giving McDewd the impression he was considering his words.

"So, my friend," began the necromancer kindly, "you are saying that even though I pointed out the location of these lost halls beneath your own castle, halls... that I aided you in clearing of the undead, which had they escaped unnoticed you would of lost far more then three shieldbearers, halls... that if throughly searched I am sure you could find a secret vault with some trinkets you would desire." Tilian put a hand upon the lord's shoulder and leaned toward him, his own voice growing with agitation. "Halls... with pillars so rotten, they threaten to cause you own castle to collapse into the ground had they gone unnotice?" The dark mage's fingers starting to press into the other's flesh. "How ungrateful of you, milord. In Sar," he finished saying the final words in a whisper.

The lord gasped in pain and fell against the stone wall, his torch tumbling into the darkness below.

"And then there was all my aid with the Ophidian army. Just so you could have a clear path to Minoc to collect your gold nuggets," he exasperated as he unclipped the wicked looking club from his belt. "Ungrateful! Pas Tym An Sanct!"

Though the spell hitting the pained man filled him with a sense of unspeakable dread, the sight of the club coming to connect with his skull was unspeakably scary.

Tilian wiped the blood, brainmatter and bone from his face with disgust. He heard the shouts from the lord's men below and reacted quickly. After rummaging through a pouch, he pulled out a small flask closed with a cork and a wick. A word of "Flam", a simple spell all apprentices use to light their reading lamps, and the wick was lit. Continuing his ascend of the stairs he casually throw the flask over his shoulder and down it bounced.

Tink... clink... clink... tink...

"Ho, what is that?," came a curious voice from below.


He has just past the entrance to the once hidden staircase, when the floor shook and he had to steady himself against the wall. A roar and a rush of searing heat ripped at his cloak, as if a dragon had sneezed right behind his back. And then the plume of dust assailed him, causing him to cough and sputter.

"Dust... why always... dust!," he gagged.

The familar rumbling chuckle came to his head. Once again his partner and most hated enemy had a reason to laugh.
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