The Orb (fantasy)

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Upon the high mountainous peak, the dark prince stood, engrossed in the practising of evil magic’s, he did not seem to respond to the chilling howls of creatures of the night. Instead, he let a harsh cry fly forth from his twisted lips, resounding around the steep walls of the valley below; it resembled a form of laughter. He raised his staff of oak, adorned with blood and various carvings of archaic symbols. A bolt of energy shot forth from his staff, piercing through the very air itself opening a hole into another darker, sinister dimension. Through the widening gap emerged a daemon of monstrous proportions, it stank of decay and rotting flesh, the face was a picture of death, diseased gums were revealed from behind small, cracked lips, forced, almost painfully, into a grin. The eyes were apparently non- existent, instead the sockets glowed in a fire like manner lighting the nearby vicinity and driving the wolves gathered away. Foul horns and claws were made from strong bone; the claws were sharpened and serrated in a cruel fashion, designed to inflict pain upon the victim. Muscles and sinew stood upon the ranks of bone that showed through the thin layer of flesh. It appeared angry at its disturbance though had no control over its body; it was compelled to do whatever the daemon price bade it. An arrow flew true from an elven bow, piercing the daemons heart and sending it back to the grey dimension. The elf retrieved his arrow from the ground where it had fallen and stood quivering.
“You dare to disturb the summoning?” The outrage was clear upon the mages face.
The prince, clad in plate armour took a throbbing red orb from a recess in his robe, he placed it in the space where the daemon had stood, and it disappeared from sight in a burst of arcane energy. He raised his staff in defiance against the world at large and spat some acidic substance from his mouth at the elf.
“The Gods never die, nor do their wills.” The elf summoned a final strength and hacked the head of the mage cleanly from its former body and cast his sword into the darkness. His life was expunged slowly as the acid ate way his features and left him contorted in pain. The wolves advanced hungrily upon the fresh corpses, wrinkling their noses in disgust before venturing towards the sword at the valley bottom. It bore a crest of the rising sun, the crest of Lathander, in vibrant colours.
Amidst the towering shelves, containing thousands of musty, archaic tomes stood Tanivre, young cleric of Lathander. From his mouth burst words in a prosaic tongue, as he spoke, a small orb, rising and glowing like the rising sun, drew level with his eyes. The orb burst into flame and shattered into a million pieces, one particularly large piece landed upon his chest and seared through his pure, white robes. He ripped off his garment and saw it disappear into his chest, miraculously sealing unbroken around the entry point. He looked up into the red eyes of an elf, dressed in the attire of a ranger. He opened his mouth to utter a protection charm on himself though a gleaming sword was thrust at his throat.
“You have heard the call.”
“…”
“Do not speak fool, I will show you your guts before you die.” Anger left the elf’s complexion and peace and tranquillity was returned to his eyes, the legendary calmness of the elven folk returned.
“You have heard the call.” The statement was repeated, though softly yet firm at the same time.
“I am Hennet. We have much to do before we leave.” The elf strode out of the room, leaving a puzzled Tanivre running hurriedly to catch up.

[This message has been edited by Tantalus (edited March 12, 2002).]

[This message has been edited by Tantalus (edited March 12, 2002).]