Herald — Roleplayer Guild

Khaylan struggled back onto his feet, shouting in defiance of his pain. The crossbow bolt was firmly wedged in his shoulder, making his left arm all but useless. Fortunately, he knew enough about combat to know not to pull the bolt out, lest he lose even more blood from such a large wound. He knew he needed to end this fight now, before he lost consciousness and perhaps, his very life. As though from a great distance, he heard a woman screaming.

His fellow knights had already turned the what was a largely one sided battle into a full rout, falling amongst the brigands and almost casually slaughtering them where they stood. Already the men with crossbows lie dead, and each crossbow was shattered on the ground so they could not continue being used. What few outlaws remained were already making a run for it, no longer a match for steel swords and plate armor.

Khaylan gasped loudly in pain, stumbling over to the horses and calling out. "Brothers... I need a healer..."

He looked over to his two fellow knights, who appeared to be finishing off the wounded and cleaning their weapons on the fallen. The grisly task finished, they made their way towards Khaylan, each of them staring at the bolt embedded in his shoulder.

Vaerun had been beaten before, but few such incidents compared to the vicious thrashing the guardsmen were seeing fit to inflict on him as he knelt, chained to a heavy table that had been bolted to the floor. They had told him that it was a long standing tradition here in the dungeons that the guards would beat him until the iron that would mark his flesh glowed red hot and was ready. They had told him this as they had laughed, and placed the iron amongst some of the darkest, and therefore coolest coals in the small furnace. And so he knelt in a small pool of coagulated blood, most of it not his own as the iron finally began to glow a dull orange. The guardsmen backed off, one of the two men charged with his branding heading to the furnace and moving the brand over to the hotter coals to ensure it stayed hot enough to leave a mark.

"Well, its been fun so far scum, but I'm afraid its time for the main event," the man said, grinning as he picked up the brand once more, the symbol now cherry red with heat.

"Already?," Vaerun said, turning a look of rage on his captors, "I guess its true what they say, no guardsman ever lasts as long as a real man."

Now it was the other mans turn to look enraged. The guard nodded to his companion, who grabbed Vaerun, jabbing a fist into his shoulder and holding him with and iron grip. The guard with the brand approached, raising the instrument dramatically as he lined up exactly where he wanted of to go. The brand descended slowly, as though mocking Vaerun's weak struggles to escape.

A sound like an explosion echoed throughout the dungeon, causing both guards to look upwards with stunned expressions on their faces. Vaerun seized his advantage, his muscles surging with renewed strength as he sensed a real chance to escape. He reached up and grabbed the middle of the brand with his hands, the flesh protesting at the burning temperature but maintaining the grip for all he was worth. He hauled on the brand, driving it into the face of the guard restraining him.

The smell of burning flesh filled the air of the room as the guard screamed in pain, falling back on the floor and thrashing around on the ground. Vaerun lashed out with a foot, slamming his heel into the other guardsmans solar plexus. While the mans armor protected him from the damaging force of the blow, he could not maintain his grip on the brand, caught off guard by burning his friend and Vaerun's attack. The guard recovered quickly however, and surged back in, fists rising to beat Vaerun into submission or death. Neither of them ever found out which as Vaerun nimbly flipped the brand over in his hands and stabbed him in the throat, pressing the brand deeper as the man's scream became a choked gurgle.

Vaerun dragged the body closer, keeping an eye on the other guard who seemed to have passed out from the pain. As he rifled through the man's pockets he came up with the keys he was looking for, swiftly shifting over and unclasping the chains that bound him to the table. He stood slowly, rolling his joints in an effort to ease the pain before searching the rest of the room for any suitable weapon. He finally settled on a pair of nasty looking daggers caked with the blood of others. He considered taking their armor as well but decided it would inhibit him more than it would protect him. He did, however, steal the rings and coins from both men, reasoning that he should get some form of payment in exchange for their abuse.

Now, to go see what all the ruckus upstairs is about.

~~~~~~~

It was like walking through a butcher's shop, only all the meat was from humans. As Vaerun stepped through the shattered remains of the doorway, he let his cold gaze drift over the myriad pieces of what had once been men. It was as though a tornado of sharpened teeth and raging animal fury had burst through them, spreading blood, bone, and flesh everywhere. He might have felt pity for the men, had he not been more concerned with avoiding the same fate himself.

He staled carefully through the remains, scanning for the source of all the death with his eyes. Surely simple prisoners could not have done this... but if not them, then who?

That was when he looked up and saw it. The rent in the sky, perhaps ten or fifteen feet across, like a gaping wound in reality that oozed blood out into the city below. As Vaerun looked closer he realized that what he thought was blood was in fact hundreds of individual forms, most falling towards the city as the rest peeled off, seeming to take flight of their own accord.

What in all the hells was happening?

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