The Key to Imprisonment Part 4

“The Essence must be Destroyed!!”

Three men in the main hall echoed the assassin’s battle cry. The fourth had been standing near the shadows of the overhanging balcony, and had quickly disappeared from sight. Mouran knew that the temporary Guild Master had not wondered to far when he had left the company of his drawing-now-standing.

Drawing-now-holding-hammer… Had the bard blinked!?

Mouran watched as his quickly-moving-sketch-with-life answered with a rage of its own. One of the assailants was already in a crumpled heap of twisted death. With hammer poised, ready to dismember another adversary, the bard observed his bringer-of-death-drawing work its war implement through the up arch, then back around with the follow through. At some points in the swing, the hand guiding the weapon’s rotation would momentarily release and reverse their grip upon the article of destruction’s hilt. But the movement would never stop. A sort of brutish grace. Efficiency was not required, only the completion of the given task was mandatory. Speed with an overpowering delivery preformed a dance of death all their own.

Now Mouran’s sketch-of-savage-power was standing before him, and for the moment in time, his world seemed to come to a complete standstill. He felt diminished by the sheer size of his armor-incrusted-drawing. Sudden fear gripped him as realization that leather and cloth would prove to be an ineffective shield, evident by the present condition of the three similarly clad mercenaries, against what this hammer might do to him.

But the eyes of his death-in-his-face-sketch never seemed to focus directly upon him, and his drawing-death-come-alive had passed. Moving so quickly that Mouran was left wondering if it had ever stood before him.

At some point during the brief slaughter, the body of the fourth would-be killer had rolled back into the light of the main hall. This, the only one of the four, remained whole.

The events in the main room had so completely absorbed Mouran’s attention that he had momentarily forgotten that the attack had originated over his head. Glancing towards the call, the bard caught sight of his undrawn-creature-of-grace forcefully bring up a dark wooden quarterstaff between the caller’s legs. And then, with quick, simple, practiced movements, draw the staff across the front her body and ram the butt end into the face of another oncoming man.

It was not these movements from his needed-drawing-lady-of-grace that caught Mouran’s eyes. It was the need-to-draw-head that did not move with the grace displayed by the rest of her action that had captured his attention. It seemed to jerk randomly, the skin gave the appearance of being tightly pull around the facial features, and her eyes…

His unsketched-masterpiece was in a blind rage of fear! Striking out at any and everything that might chance to stand in its way!

Quick movements brought his beauty-needed-drawing, where it prepared to attack the only thing that rose from below to meet her.

But the hammer was no longer being held. The bard could clearly see that the weapon of overpowering destruction was once again securely strapped to his sketched-now-hammerless’s side. The attacking quarterstaff came around and then suddenly stopped a mere fist width away from its intended target. The hammer holding, now hammerless, had had a firm grip on the inert weapon.

The rage in the unsketched-daughter melted and she fell limply into the awaiting arms of his lifetime-spent-drawn-father. But now a sharp pain in Mouran’s ribs withdrew the storyteller attention from the drama being played out on the stairs towards the new predicament in which he found himself.

The bard suddenly realized that he had never drawn his hidden blades, and yet one such item was now poking for his undivided attention.

“’on’t ye be movin’ ta fast there, ‘E Master Covriv,” a familiar voice with a low dwarfish drawl greeted him.

“Gilliam!” A touch of fringed shock entered the bard’s voice. “Such formalities…” A reassessment of the pressure of the item place in his lower back intruded upon Mouran’s speech.

“Still ye tongue of yours! ‘Efore e’ split it like ye hide!” The temporary Guild Master was trying to use his advantageous position to drive home his… point. But the last comment, a direct remark about the bard’s elf and human heritage, only proved that the dwarf was not as agitated by the Artist’s present as he had at first sounded.

Mouran’s eyes watched as the two combatants began to make their decent, but it appeared more like father-drawn was carrying his unsketched-daughter.

“’Hat be ye business ‘ere, elfling?” The dwarf continued after their momentary pause.

“Why the ladies!” Mouran began, remembering his rouge with the lass that had stood beside him, “They are such marvels to talk to…” Again the pain in his lower back brought the stage performer’s tongue to a halt.

“Ye knew ta four!!” Some of the master thief’s lost un-trustworthiness now quickly returned. “Ye marked ‘em all for e’ with ye eyes!”

So the temporary Guild Master had not known of the infiltrators. In his panic Mouran had unknowingly done the only thing he could have done to aid the little thief. It would seem that the dwarf now owned him a bit of thanks. A thanks, the storyteller was sure, Gilliam had just forgotten to mention. Maybe a small reminder was now in order.

“Tis’ remarkable the way one displays their appreciation for the risks I had absorbed.”

“Appreciation!!” Now he heard the dwarf spit, but Mouran had gotten his thanks. “If ye had drawn ye silver, e’ own would not be just restin’ on ye stomach!!” And again the Artist realized his luck for not having drawn any of his weapons.

The sketched-his-whole-life-father and his soon-to-be-drawing-daughter had finished their ascent of the stairs. But they did not pause to speak with the dwarf or half-elf, only to proceed directly toward the Guild’s front doors. Here the drawn stored the undrawn’s quarterstaff, he still carried, to his back. While removing the shield that was strapped there and affixing it to his arm. Also a helmet was pulled over the sketch-now-ready-for-battle’s head.

When preparations were complete, the door leading out to the chilled night city air was thrown open and the two quickly departed.

 
“Helm guide me.”

His request for aid was a silent whisper. But he knew that his God was always watching.

He had wanted to give Moira more time. Maybe a day or two. They could have talked a little more. He would have loved to tell her of his visit with her brother Khalid this past year. Or perhaps delivered the greetings and best wishes the Firecams were always pressing him to pass on.

If only to spend on night before he had to set off traveling again, the rest would have done him good. But that type of physical temporary rest would not be coming soon, he feared. They needed to vacate this city as quickly as possible, and traveling during the dark would give them their best cover while the made their escape.

But a foul weather was moving in. A bad one. And the first droplets of blood had already fallen… And Anomen had been through one such storm before.

Three, Anomen had been quite certain. Only three men had pulled their swords and moved towards him. There had been another. A face vaguely familiar. Someone, Anomen had felt, only meant more trouble for his daughter. Someone, he was quite certain, that needed killing.

But this one had never pulled any weapons, and fear at what an enraged Anomen Delryn could do to him had appeared when Anomen had stepped in front of him.

So he had left this one standing there. It was not until he began to ascend the stairs, when he had spotted the fourth body. A man that had neither moved nor drawn steel. Death had come so quick. Even now, lifeless, the man’s hand remained free and unencumbered.

Gilliam Bloodtoes. But why? Was this other in someway connected with the other three that he had killed? There had been some sort of call, but he was sure the dwarf had killed this one even before he would have been able to do even that!

He had only met the dwarf a couple of times prior to their meeting today, and Anomen found that he was starting to like the stout thief. Maybe he was even beginning to trust Gilliam. Imoen sure had. But then Imoen seemed to have a soft spot for the short races. Dwarves in particular.

Especially a certain Korgan Bloodaxe.

Anomen and Korgan joined Lyceyua, and her quest to save Imoen, at the same time. And Mister Bloodaxe had stayed with them right up to the very end. It had not been the unhappiest day of his life that morning when her awoken, and to find that the untrustworthy dwarf had already left their little camp.

But when he had found out how much gold, even considering what Jaheira left behind when she had walked away the night before, the little vermin had taken with him. He had been willing to set out right then and scalp the little Bloodaxe.

Imoen had seemed unconcerned. And Nalia showed little interest in righting the wrong that had been done to them. But it was beautiful Lyceyua, the woman he loved, the woman that was soon to become a mother to their daughter, that convinced him that Korgan could have taken anything that he wanted. And justifiably so.

She had him and their unborn child. What were gold and mere trinkets compared to what she now possessed? Even a chance at Divinity could not compare with the happiness she felt when he held her tightly in his arms.

And now it seems another dwarf had betrayed him.

But now was not the time to worry about this, as Anomen felt the first droplets of water against his face. The start of natures storm… the Gods always began theirs’ with blood.

With a slight tug, father and daughter made their way down the few steps that led away from the Guild house, and began their journey together into the darkened city.
 

“Tis’ silver I am never truly after!” The storyteller had waited until the door was closed before retorting. “But gold alone that Mouran Covriv strives to possess!”

“I be knowin’ how ye make ye gold, Mouran Covriv, elfling artist! And it’d be ye hands e’d first detach…” Suddenly the dwarf’s tone changed. “Don’t ye be movin’ ‘rom ‘ere, half-hide!” And suddenly Mouran found himself once again alone.

Now why had the sneaky little spy left him? And where did he go? Slowly Mouran surveyed the Guild’s main room. It would take a while to clean the mess that his drawn-now-left had left behind, but nothing seemed… out of the ordinary?

The half-elf let his eyes wonder up the steps, where he observed as small crowd standing at the top of the stairs. Slowly he worked his way to the base of the stairway, so that he might be able to get a better look at the commotion in front of an open door. The door that led to the room that Moira had appeared from. To a spot in front of a bed, that stood with that room, where a body should have been visible.

A body that was no longer there…

Mouran watched as his quickly-moving-sketch-with-life answered with a rage of its own. One of the assailants was already in a crumpled heap of twisted death. With hammer poised, ready to dismember another adversary, the bard observed his bringer-of-death-drawing work its war implement through the up arch, then back around with the follow through. At some points in the swing, the hand guiding the weapon’s rotation would momentarily release and reverse their grip upon the article of destruction’s hilt. But the movement would never stop. A sort of brutish grace. Efficiency was not required, only the completion of the given task was mandatory. Speed with an overpowering delivery preformed a dance of death all their own.

Certainly, Anomen and Crom Fayer is a pretty nice combination.

The events in the main room had so completely absorbed Mouran’s attention that he had momentarily forgotten that the attack had originated over his head. Glancing towards the call, the bard caught sight of his undrawn-creature-of-grace forcefully bring up a dark wooden quarterstaff between the caller’s legs. And then, with quick, simple, practiced movements, draw the staff across the front her body and ram the butt end into the face of another oncoming man.

Heh, lil' Moira can dish it out as well

The rage in the unsketched-daughter melted and she fell limply into the awaiting arms of his lifetime-spent-drawn-father. But now a sharp pain in Mouran’s ribs withdrew the storyteller attention from the drama being played out on the stairs towards the new predicament in which he found himself.

Aww at the first part of the paragraph, and whoops at the second part.

“Appreciation!!” Now he heard the dwarf spit, but Mouran had gotten his thanks. “If ye had drawn ye silver, e’ own would not be just restin’ on ye stomach!!” And again the Artist realized his luck for not having drawn any of his weapons.

Hehe... liked the whole interaction between them, interesting characters they are. I wonder about their history, there seems to be a little animosity coming from the dwarf's side...

But a foul weather was moving in. A bad one. And the first droplets of blood had already fallen… And Anomen had been through one such storm before.

Three, Anomen had been quite certain. Only three men had pulled their swords and moved towards him. There had been another. A face vaguely familiar. Someone, Anomen had felt, only meant more trouble for his daughter. Someone, he was quite certain, that needed killing.

Hmm... I'm not sure if I like the sounds of this...

He had only met the dwarf a couple of times prior to their meeting today, and Anomen found that he was starting to like the stout thief. Maybe he was even beginning to trust Gilliam. Imoen sure had. But then Imoen seemed to have a soft spot for the short races. Dwarves in particular.

Especially a certain Korgan Bloodaxe.

No too soft a spot, I hope...

Anomen and Korgan joined Lyceyua, and her quest to save Imoen, at the same time. And Mister Bloodaxe had stayed with them right up to the very end. It had not been the unhappiest day of his life that morning when her awoken, and to find that the untrustworthy dwarf had already left their little camp.

But when he had found out how much gold, even considering what Jaheira left behind when she had walked away the night before, the little vermin had taken with him. He had been willing to set out right then and scalp the little Bloodaxe.

Awww... but you got to admit, Korgan never passes on a chance.

She had him and their unborn child. What were gold and mere trinkets compared to what she now possessed? Even a chance at Divinity could not compare with the happiness she felt when he held her tightly in his arms.

And now it seems another dwarf had betrayed him.

I wonder... it did not seem that way.

The half-elf let his eyes wonder up the steps, where he observed as small crowd standing at the top of the stairs. Slowly he worked his way to the base of the stairway, so that he might be able to get a better look at the commotion in front of an open door. The door that led to the room that Moira had appeared from. To a spot in front of a bed, that stood with that room, where a body should have been visible.

A body that was no longer there…

Uhuh... so that maniacal, obsessed assassin got away? That's not good.

[quote]Certainly, Anomen and Crom Fayer is a pretty nice combination. [/quote]

They tended to get the job done.

[quote]Heh, lil' Moira can dish it out as well [/quote]

Thanks to one Mr. Firecam

[quote]Aww at the first part of the paragraph, and whoops at the second part. [/quote]

Yep... Mouran is now finding himself stuck in the middle.

[quote]Hehe... liked the whole interaction between them, interesting characters they are. I wonder about their history, there seems to be a little animosity coming from the dwarf's side... [/quote]

Thanks...

[quote]Hmm... I'm not sure if I like the sounds of this... [/quote]

Anomen just did not want linger knowing his daughter needed him...

[quote name="Theodur"]No too soft a spot, I hope... [quote]

Aunt Imoen seemed to have a soft spot for anyone...

[quote]Awww... but you got to admit, Korgan never passes on a chance. [/quote]

And was very good at what he did. Grabbing the gold!!

[quote]I wonder... it did not seem that way. [/quote]

It didn't happen that way, but Anomen did not have the advanage of know Mouran...

[quote]Uhuh... so that maniacal, obsessed assassin got away? That's not good.[/quote]

Yea... Sometime the character refuses to die, even when the arthor wants it...

Thanks for commenting...