The day is warm. The crystal is shining, and the elf is leading a child by the hand, walking through fields of green. He helps her through rough patches. He lifts her and swings her over broken tree limbs, smiling as she giggles at the weightlessness. He plays the monster, growling comically and chasing her around as she squeals and laughs and dodges his attempts to grab her. He catches her and tosses her about gently, rocking her left and right within the protective circle of his arms, and then falls down in the grass, breathless with mirth.
He is disgusted, watching the display. He, hidden for now, behind tree bough and mask alike. That beautiful, smooth mask, made to render him in the image of that wonderful deity which he follows. That powerful hand guides him now, ever omniscient, towards this goal. So much proof he'd collected on this legend. A monstrosity, an outrage. His time has come, and it as time to face the music of the fate he'd constructed for himself.
The movement is swift. Out of the bushes his followers trickle, one, three, six in all. A seventh is there, but hidden from view. A necessity. This is a tricky one they must destroy. Already he is turning towards them, has noticed them. His eyes, green, bright, and keen, make a note of their positions, weaponry, bracers. Behind his mask, the priest smiled. Vindication was now close at hand. Justice lingered deliciously within his grasping fingers, and the pleasure of his god would surely be gained by this victory...
The flash of bright light disoriented him. Screams and cries of shock echoed about, and the clash of swords added to the hysteria. Blinded, he sees nothing but shadows as the beast rips through one of his men, their head coming unglued from their shoulders, their body falling to the ground. He is a whirl of steel, this elf. The sword flashes with the expertise of someone accustomed to battle. More than accustomed; one who holds a mastery.
By the time the light fades, three of his red-garbed companions have vanished to the Realm. The child that was with him is gone without a trace, lost in the confusion, fled. A terrible loss. The likelihood of her being an abomination in need of destruction is high, and to put off her annihilation an affront to cherished order.
The fourth falls. He must intervene. Forward he strides, while the man is in mid-swing, his steel singing in the air. A strike is made. With utter contempt, he realizes that with the fingers he severed, a ring has fallen. A band of matrimony. This perverted being had so garbed himself in innocence as to trick an unwitting fool into making love to him. Further, into undeserved devotion.
The loss hardly fazes the beast. Into the other hand he shifts his sword, grip just as sure as the other, demonstrating practiced ambidexterity. Blood gushes from the throat of another of his cloaked fighters, a brother of his fold, the cherished and respected holder of peace against the sway of the wicked. Has the archer he stationed been blinded by the blast? Too much to fire the killing blow? There is little time to think of it. He is the last now, facing this inhuman entity.
Blood drips from the end of his sword. A pale face looks back at him, a pair of infuriated eyes, framed in dark hair loosened from its clasp. Only anger is there, in pools as deep as the night sky. The man's chest heaves, and his lip curls into a feral snarl.
“You will soon realize your mistake,” he speaks. It is not grating. It is not low. It is cold, measured, and easy. The glint in those icy eyes speaks of murder. Forward he moves; the first strike feels like a shattering blow and radiates down his arm into his shoulder. He hammers at him, and he retreats, foot over foot, back and back and back again. The sword is ripped from his fingers, and before him looms the prey-turned-predator, sword drawn back as he falls to the ground, looking up towards the length of impending steel...
Through his brow the arrow comes, the bolt, as though moving through so much clay. Fired from a crossbow unseen, silently, from a vantage not taken to note. There is no time to react. Death is immediate and beautiful, and he watches as those bright eyes glaze with it. The blade falls, as does the man, like a great and terrible monument finally crashing down and brought to its knees. The grasp of Dakkru is nearly tangible; with glee she claims him, greedily, dragging him down into her crushing embrace.
Rising to his feet, the priest watches the vanishing corpse. Only when it is gone does he walk across the blood-strewn ground. Blood spilled in the name of undying Order, the only thing worthy of immortality beyond the gods.
It is a victory for all.
[What I totally listened to while writing it:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SXpnI52cLEc]
