Eleasis 8th, 1378 of the Cauldron
Oh the feeling of victory!
For years he has gone unheard, but not this time. They had to agree with him and follow his lead and at last he would have his way. Wandering meekly through dark streets he replays over and over again his moment of triumph. After a week licking wounds after the Summer Festival fiasco they finally got a chance to strike back and hard… and nothing pleased the hot blooded warrior more.
The militia found yet another body affected by “the plague” dumped on the crop circle and the cabal realized that Nissus was back to Nesmé… and that she hungered. After a heated discussion they decided to rely on no one else and to lay bait to her so to test her strength and resolve. Blurun was the strongest warrior and owner of a bloodlust that often cowered even ork gladiators. His sleek body was not as lithe as his peers and many thought he was the paragon warrior of his generation. After such doomed failure and shame befell the last generation’s promising fighter Blurun felt he owned much to the gods for the chance to redeem his caste.
Thus cuddled in thoughts of glory and gore he wandered the night of Nesmé imagining a hundred ways to break Nissus gentle forms as if she were nothing but the glass of her own ensorcelled mirror-cage. His peasant disguise bellied his well concealed weapons and even his pace didn’t betray the readiness and balance of a veteran warrior, slayer of man and beast, supreme predator of darkness. He was ready to anything… or so he thought.
Was he ready then to a chuckle coming from undead cursed stalkers? Their eyes blazing faintly green over crude weapons; a wicked club here and axe there. The rasping voice ripping at the silence of the night: “Oliver was right! We found the manslayer!”
With the faintest surprise still in his face Blurun entered the state what his people called “Flare Eyed”, riding the wave of dark emotions with finesse and wallowing on the power of murderous urges.
Undead were tough opponents but usually unskilled and slow. The whole world was slow compared to the dagger unsheathed and flashed in the rotting throat, still voicing its last words. Other of the maddened creatures laughed at his own unholy power, sure that no blade could harm them. Waving like a bent staff Blurun opposed his movement dodging claws grasping his face and stabbed the laughing deadman’s heart, even though he knew it didn’t pound for a long time now. But the dead men gasped anyway in surprise and maybe even pain, for the dagger has bitten deeply as only magical blades do. He wasn’t destroyed but surprise held him fast.
Blurun was still surrounded, none of his enemies fell and his back was turned to the axman, who swung at his foe’s neck. Unable to take away the dagger from the deep chest wound the veteran simply ducked, even afraid that his wrist might get chopped by the wild swing. In a blur of movement Blurun arched, lounging his balance backwards, setting the plunged blade free and in the same swing cutting deeply the axman’s ribcage down to his groins. With the left hand that touched the ground preventing his fall Blurun grabbed an ankle, with his feet he grabbed the legs in front of him and with a sideways spin send both undead were sent sprawling unto the ground. The fluid motion ended with him crouching on the laughing man’s back and with a deep stab on its backbone, making the blade grind between the disks of almost dried joints, sinew and bones.
The last standing Curst was still grasping his slashed throat and had lost all impetus. But the one he believed was the shape shifter who had killed and condemned them all with his back turned and crouched was too tempting and the Curst launched what he believed to be a crushing blow. Only the muffled sound of metal against wood greeted his expectations. Grinning, proud of his own skill, Blurun blocked the incoming attack with a discreetly armored forearm, and now looked back with a sadistic glee in his red gleaming eyes.
By this moment every piece of Blurun’s careful disguise had been blown away, and although he up-turned his disadvantage in a few heartbeats he couldn’t risk much more. Before anyone of his foes could move he hissed, vomiting forth an oily darkness, throbbing with “life”. From that point on the furious fighting went on with few telltale signs but the grunts mostly swallowed by the dense pall. Despite the whining of horses and barking of dogs everywhere no one could really see or hear anything coming out of that alley.
Hours latter the cabal gathered on a rooftop for a few moments. There Blurun addresses to them, apparently unharmed and clearly victorious. But they know that the Curst will return as they always do and that Nissus has yet to commit a mistake or show any weakness. The once all powerful cabal desperately clings to their own confidence and plot yet another step, yet another trap.