Dragone's Last Adventure

So I haven't read anything recently.  But, I have written lots of stuff.

This is a short story I wrote awhile ago.  I actually wrote this after helping my best friend on one of our fishing adventures.  The first paragraph was just me day dreaming as we walked through long grass, but hey, it got this started.

Dragone's Last Adventure:

His glaive glanced across the long grass. It just barely beat the blades as he strode across the savannah. The glaive's freshly polished blade gleamed brightly as the sun caressed him. He could feel the pole against the right side of his back ,just resting on his belt, and pressed against his jerkin. The pole then lay across his forearm, perpendicular to his form, blade slightly tilted up. So very little pressure was needed to carry the blade in that position. He would need to conserve his energy.

Today was a day to be cautious. He had thrown the stones this morning; all hexes. Never a good omen. He had rolled worse and survived. The hex that spelled mistake pointed North West, only a minor mistake. Most likely that rock that had fallen into his boot the other night; the same pebble he had forgotten to knock out this morning. The troubling stone though was not the one in his boot but the Death Stone that fell this morning. An ambiguous stone. He never liked taking a life, and the stone generally meant that. He had done it many times before, and most likely would have to do it again. This time though, it probably meant the death of a friend. The one he now searched for. If true, it had even worse consequences. Baricos was a strong fighter, a savage fighter. If he were dead, someone skilled would have been on the other side of the blade. Of course, the Death Stone could mean something else; something it reads only once for any single individual...

His left finger rubbed at his arm guard. It unconsciously brought a small piece of parchment that lay between the leather and the plate. A picture of a man with a blade holding the hand of a boy. A picture drawn by a son left at home for a father that was only a visitor. That boy loved him. That boy would be the reason why the Death Stone did not fall for him that day.

The creatures were following him again. He could not hear them, but his clean blade reflected the world just passed. The creatures themselves remained low, but they still parted the high grass as they traveled. They had been behind him since he came into this savannah three days ago. It was nice to have company again. The days before that were traveling up a river, and his only company had been the constant rolling sound and that stupid pebble that he kept trying to catch with his toes so that it wouldn't roll and be a pain in his arch. He should have remembered to remove that this morning.

He stumbled. The creatures behind made a small cackle. The head of a stone spear just cleared the grass as they stopped. He smiled, knowing now what they were. Cackling and stone spears? Pygmy Gnolls followed behind. There were two on the right, which meant three were to his left side. It meant they were no threat to Baricos, and no threat to him. It meant the fact that he hunted his food since he was in the Savannah would have won their respect. The trip had taken longer than he thought it would have to get this far, and he'd of run out of food on his way back if he hadn't done the hunting. His decision would have impressed these creatures, and his leaving behind small amounts of food left for them to feed upon would befriend them to him. He did not leave a wasteful amount, an obvious bribe; he made it look like he ate his fill, and left just scraps. Scraps were all they needed.

But they would not eat the scrap that now lay just to his right. The grass split open like a diseased wound, and revealed a green arm ending in clawed nails. He gulped. Baricos was dead and dismembered. His arm laid alone, fist clenched tight as if it should be gripped to a hilt. The fingers had been broken to remove the hand's clutch, that held tight even in death.

A step beyond the hand, and the dogs yipped. They would not cross that line. Before him were hills, and not far from that would be his target. He walked further before slamming the glaive into the ground. A simple shrug and his bag fell to the ground. He gave a glare to the pygmy gnolls behind, which now gathered in plain sight to watch him. His hand adjusted the straps that held the plates to his left side. He stood tall, re-adjusting his gorget to cover his lower face. He stretched one last time before grabbing his glaive.

And off. His guard arm in front of his face, keeping the grass and wind out of his eyes. His right arm trailed behind with the glaive. He was low to the ground as he sprinted, and only the grass split before him. The glaive itself whipped about behind him like a bladed tail. A boulder simply meant he jumped on top, before leaping back into the grass, taking the brief moment to survey the land and change direction just slightly.

With a great motion, his right arm flipped forward. The grass, beheaded, flung into the air, picked up by the wind and brought to new homes. His glaive rested across his back again as he surveyed this different ground. The land had been cleared of grass. Nothing but dirt remained, but water from another location had been brought in, and this alien water left patches of ground with hardened mud. It would crunch beneath his feet if he stepped upon it, and he would slide. He grappled the pebble between his toes. The same Sun that had quickly changed what had been puddles into these mud cakes is the same sun that made him now sweat. But it was that sweat that cooled his body as a slight breeze pushed all the grass towards the solo shack that overlooked a pit into an abyss. His presence was made unaware, and there was only but a soul left. Inside the shack, idle motion stirred.

The door creaked open. A tall and lanky man stepped out, his head in a ledger. Long ears and pale skin, mixed with the long green cloak, and two blades tied to the hip of said Elf. One of those hilts had small scratches that would have been made by an orc's uncut claws. His eyes slowly climbed from the book up to the knight before him, then quickly jumped around the open field for others. This man came alone. His eyes then were left to examine the solitude sentry. A badge on the right shoulder caused the elf's eyes to jump again. The book dropped into one of the cracked puddles, his hands diving to his blades as he looked into the sky. Clear, bright, and only a slight breeze.

“You came alone?”

The man did not answer. He only examined the elf. A simple jerkin and leggings, the two blades, and a cloak. All greenish-browns with whisks of gold to blend into the Savannah Grass, and the leggings were caked in mud. The jerkin did not fit right, and the straps were pulled to their limit to keep it as tight as possible. It wasn't made for the elf, but a creature with a much broader chest and shoulders. Most likely the same creature that the hilt in elf's left hand truly belonged to.

“They sure did escalate this quick. But not quick enough. The shipment is already gone. We're done with this place.”

The elf didn't lie, the man was late. Perhaps if he hadn't slowed to hunt to appease pygmies he'd of been here earlier. Early enough to know what the elf was talking about it. But he didn't come here to unveil a plot. He came here to avenge the death of a friend.

The elf drew his blades with a laugh. One was a simple rapier, but the other proved this elf killed Baricos. A scimitar made of obsidian that reflected red. Serrated by shattered obsidian, cruel and deadly. A blade created ages ago by people who could not fashion steel, but could still imagine deaths painful and slow. “You recognize the blade! You know whose hands I took it from, and he was smart enough to bring his mount as well. I killed the both of them without this blade, I surely can kill you.”

Poor elf. Didn't know it was already dead. Yes, Baricos was strong and a friend of this knight. But there was a reason Baricos was a Manticore Rider, and this one served the dragons directly. Baricos was brutal, and straight forward. His mind tracked one way, how to kill his enemy. It won Baricos every battle but apparently one. But this knight did not think in such a fashion. He thought about how the dirt felt under his feet, and how the wind felt in his hair. How that same wind blew the elf's cloak about behind him. The smile on the elf's face reflected over-confidence in his abilities as well as cruelty. He would go for wounding blows so he could boast his kill before the death blow. The man focused how the elf's right arm was strained with the weight of the scimitar he had never used before. The stance, the smile, his recent kill all made this elf lacking fear. And when this elf had terror grip over him, he'd become a different monster altogether. First, the knight wanted to know more.

He charged forward with his glaive. He aimed straight for the Elf's chest. The elf laughed as he had to make a simple side step to avoid the blade. The elf's blades swung in a scissor to cut the knight down in the middle. The swords cleared cleanly through the air. On the roof of the building the knight stood, surveying the area. The glaive had been pressed into the ground, and pole-vaulted him to the roof. His left arm lifted the blade back up to his shoulder as he looked into the pit. The pit had been self dug by the hands of pygmy gnolls. Coerced and enslaved, they had been forced to dig a deep pit into the ground. Water had been used to make digging quicker, and filled the bottom of the pit. Water and blood, and if it was any hotter out that mix would boil. A few days ago, archers had lined the rim of the pit, and shot arrows in. Some arrows still stuck into the walls, and no-one had cared to clean up the corpses of the gnolls. Nor the ogres that floated in the pool at the bottom. Nor the carcass of the orc that had spent his last moments fighting in that pit, their flesh all being cooked in the heat. Baricos attack made them quicken the process, and the elf never had a chance to clean his pants since then. Speaking of murderous elves...

The elf had backed up, and pulled out his composite bow. The elf had used that bow to weaken Baricos while Baricos slaughtered the ogres. But now, the elf was having a hard time aiming. The heat was high, and the knight seemed to shimmer on the roof. Did the knight stand in the middle, or on one of the sides of the building? If the elf couldn't narrow it down, he'd shoot all of them. An arrow was released, and before the first arrow even got to the building a second arrow was being notched back and flying forward. The man launched himself, from any of his multiple positions, glaive raised high above his head. As the three came upon the elf, they focused into one form. One quick shot, and the elf could stick the knight, but he'd also be dead. The elf instead jumped back, dropping the arrow.

The glaive crossed down and around. It missed the elf, but the blow shattered the bow just inches from his stomach. The knight landed, still mid swing, and spun up and around. The earth was scarred by the spin, and then the sky was cut high. The glaive came down again at the scattering elf. The blade glanced across the jerkin, a shimmer as the elf's wards protected against the cut. The glaive would not pierce through the leather this time, but the blunt force was still felt, and the elf was thrown to his ass. The elf rolled back over his head and onto his feet, drawing out the blades, again showing Baricos' Hexblade. The elf still believed he had an advantage. It was time to crush that.

The knight went forward with the glaive, swinging down and right at maximum distance. The elf jumped out of the way, but before he landed the blade came back up towards his stomach. He arched back, the blade just cutting above him. The blade came straight down, forcing the elf to dive to his left. The blade followed low to cut the downed elf. The elf recovered fast enough and jumped over the blade. The elf's cruel smile flashed. The dodging had covered the distance, and now the elf was on the man's left side, and both blade's flashed down. The knight looked up surprised.

Surprised the elf thought that would actually work. The blades' stopped on the man's left arm. A single arm kept back the full strength of the elf. No ward gleamed, no shimmer of magic, this man did it with only the plate mail and the strength of his arm. The glaive dropped to the ground, and a fist rammed itself into the elf's stomach. Once alone was enough to double the elf over. The full force of the knight's shoulder sent the elf down, rolling onto the ground. The elf rolled and stopped himself on his knees, blades straight forward. A charging man would have been impaled by those blades.

But the knight stayed back. He picked up his glaive and slammed the staff into the ground. It stood tall like metal flag that refused to wave to the occasional gusts of wind. He drew his true weapon, a longsword sheathed at his belt. The Honor Blade, it had a blue light glow about it, runes written down its center. Such an underestimated weapon, so few knowing its strength. He admired his sword for a moment.

His eyes turned back to the Elf. The elf now understood what was going, and fear had struck him. The elf's eyes now darted to the door of the building, to the pit, to the rolling hills behind, and to the knight himself. Running made the most sense, but the old man had proved himself to be fast, and running would not get him far. The man looked at the hexblade, and he knew the elf understood the one thing that would spare his life. Baricos' blade must be relinquished, and the elf would be taken as a prisoner to face justice. Unfortunately, the same blade that was required to surrender was the same blade that emboldened the elf to charge forth.

The elf, enraged, attacked with both blades. The elf now moved faster, and the knight spent much of his concentration on backing up during the onslaught. Defensive now, he examined how the elf swung the blades, and the common attacks. The elf was skilled for sure. Ambidextrous, he could swing his blades in opposing directions and still keep himself protected from an easy strike. But the heat pounded down upon the two, and the elf was already sweating. The knight could simply win by exhausting the elf if so desired. The elf had already shown it battled much akin to the hexblade's last master, not thinking of deceit but of how to kill. Every weak spot the man showed, the elf bought into and tried to strike. One particular strike was a slash down with the hexblade, a stab forward with the rapier, and then a stab up with the hexblade. The knight feinted to the left, letting the hexblade stab to always almost hit him in the stomach.

It was time to end it though. The elf slashed down, and the man made his normal dodge left. The elf stabbed forward, but this time the knight slashed his blade down to knock the rapier down, and hold both blades on the ground. He then charged at the elf, rushing his blade across the top of the elves' blades. The Honor blade slashed across the elf as he charged behind. The wards kept the blade from cutting until the blade crossed the elf's shoulder, cutting deep into the upper bicep. The knight slashed back across the same shoulder, cutting in again now but from behind.

The elf's right arm, the arm that held the hexblade was wounded. The elf spun, as expected, to his left. His rapier slashing across, just outside the range of the knight. The wild slash left the elf's chest open. The knight took this chance, charging in and stabbing into the elf's chest, his left hand in position to grab the incoming hex blade. The Honor Blade hit true, slightly on the right side in the middle of the chest, piercing the heart. The longsword cut cleanly through, and emerged on the other side of the elf. Nothing but a gasp exited the elf's lips.

That blasted pebble. The one in the man's right boot had slid out from under his toe, to under his arch. This caused a quick pain to lift his right foot a little too much. That foot slid forward more than expected. His knee bent, and his body lowered slightly. His left hand, the one intended to stop the terrible obsidian scimitar, was supposed to stop the slash at the wrist. With the extra motion forward, and the lowered grab, he instead stopped the attack at the elbow. This gave the elf the leverage needed to complete a swing with the hexblade. The arm was wounded, and the man's jerkin was strong, still the edge cut through leather, and scratched his flesh. Just a small bit of blood trickled out of the knight's side as the elf's blood gushed onto his sword hand.

He pushed the now lifeless elf off his longsword. The man cleaned his blade, and sheathed the sword. He wouldn't have even noticed the cut if it weren't for that little trickle of blood. His eye jumped from the wound to that horrendous blade. Baricos' Hexblade had cut his flesh. The Blood drinker, Jumlin, a blade made ages ago by the Ursians to kill ogres. To give the ogres a slow and debilitating death. A wound made by the blade would not heal, but grow larger and fester over time. The knight's gauntlet dropped to the ground as he felt at his jerkin's cut mark.

Five days. That's how much time the man gave himself before he died from such a small grazing. If he could make it home, his wife had the ability to heal him. But it had taken him eight days to get where he was now. But that had been upriver, and now he would go down river. That would save him perhaps a day, maybe more if lucky. He had spent extra time hunting the last few days. If he hadn't, on his way home he'd have run out of food. He had also come up armored, and looking for Baricos. His hands undid the straps, and let all his plate mail fall to the ground. If he survived, he could return. If he did not survive, his prized glaive and armor would do him no good. Lighter, he could conserve his energy and travel faster. He grabbed the blade that wounded him, the blade that would kill him, and sheathed it.

This walk would be long. Long and arduous. But he had rolled worse on the stones, and had survived harder. This would at least end with his family again. He took off his boot, and dumped out the rock.