www.oliplace.da.ru
Tomas Al'Caar, Warrior-King of the Jenn, the Lost People, pivoted smoothly. His blade slid into the chest of the wolf-snouted beast that dashed into the small pool of light cast by the solitary lantern upon the corridor wall. In the same motion, the warrior pulled his sword free and side-stepped, letting the huge shape fall past him. However, the first of the Necromancer's creations was followed by others, malformed monstrosities all. Creatures with a menagerie of goat's heads, boar's tusks, insectoid mandibles and all manner of other repellent features filled the corridor; freaks of unnatural birth, the Necromancers foul creations. There were worse, but these had numbers enough to cause no small amount of worry.
Adjusting his grip on his sword-hilt slightly, Tomas readied himself for battle as more of the creatures came, each thirsting for his blood. His sword seemed to capture the light from the lantern, holding it, until the blade could be seen to glow from within. This was no ordinary sword, but the hereditary blade of House Al'Caar, Royal Family of the Jenn for centuries, and created using the One Power. It would never break, nor need sharpening, and could cleave steel like a stick into water.
He twisted to avoid a thrust from a black-bladed sword, and slid his own blade, gleaming in the lantern-light, and illuminated by its own inner flame, into the creature's eye, and through into its brain. A beast with an eagle's head and bat-like wings swung a viciously clawed hand at Tomas' face whilst he was disengaging his sword from the head of the creature he had just slain. Only Tomas' finely honed warrior's instincts saved him, causing him to drop to one knee, his blade already coming around in a sweeping arc. Its bright edge bit into the back of the beast's leg, severing the tendons. As its beak opened wide in a screech of agony, Tomas came smoothly to his feet, and slid three feet of cold steel under the monster's ribs, and up into its black heart.
This almost cost him his head; only the fact that his sword got hung-up in the ribs of the beast he had just slain, and jerked him off balance as it fell saved him. As he fell with the creature, his sword still embedded in its heart, an axe, whistling with murderous intent and accompanied by a grunt of effort, sped through the space previously occupied by Tomas' head.
Tomas whipped his sword free of the corpse, reversed his hold on it and thrust backwards all in one fluid motion, relying on his instincts and training to find his opponent's vitals. The slight resistance as his blade struck through chainmail and the flesh beneath with equal facility told Tomas that his aim had been true, as he spun to face the beast, pulling his sword from its body with a twisting wrench.
And pain blossomed down the left-hand side of his chest. The monster he had just mortally wounded had staggered towards him as it died, and clawed Tomas down his ribs as he recovered his balance, lashing out wildly in its blind panic. Its final blow was a relatively minor one, but it may have been enough, as the fiery pain spreading through his chest told Tomas that the beast's claws had been poisoned. Whether this was a natural characteristic, or the poison had been applied to increase the creature's deadliness, Tomas didn't know, but he didn't really care; the poison's origins were in no way affecting its potency. Tomas broke into a cold sweat, yet his brows burned, and the world seemed to spin ever-so-slightly every few seconds, as if Tomas were staying still whilst the rest of the world moved a few millimetres to one side.
Due to harsh training, and the aid of magic cast upon him at the time of his birth, Tomas' body was naturally resistant to many types of toxins and venoms, given rest and time to concentrate the body's natural healing powers. But he had little opportunity for either of these in the midst of combat. There were also a number of items that would aid his recovery in the pouch he carried at his belt, but in the heat of battle it was impossible to use any of them.
He dispatched another beast easily, ducking its clumsy swinging of an axe - its apish arms weren't jointed correctly for skilful wielding of weapons - and disembowelling it neatly. He parried the sword-stroke of another, a snake-skinned monstrosity of a diseased imagination, feinted to the left, and snapped his sword around mid-swing, the point taking the creature in the throat. As it collapsed gurgling at his feet, Tomas stepped over the still-twitching body to face his next adversary. This one advanced slightly more warily, having observed Tomas just dispose of two of it fellows with little difficulty. Another beast stepped up beside the first, their large bulks filling the small space between the two walls.
Fortunately for Tomas, the creatures had no idea of the co-ordination required when fighting in a group, and their first blows actually collided in mid-air as they both swung in different directions. Before the sparks from the collision had faded, Tomas' sword had removed the head of the first monstrosity from its shoulders. The second beast snarled in fury, and slashed downwards at Tomas' head. The snarl turned to a whimper of pain and terror, however, as Tomas side-stepped the blow and with a flash of Power-wrought steel, took the beast's arm off at the elbow. The whimper was abruptly cut off as Tomas' second blow connected with the creature's upper-torso just below the armpit. The force of the blow almost completely cut the beast in two, slamming it into the body of the pig-faced creature that had come up behind it, seeking to catch Tomas by surprise.
As the pair fell, Tomas faced the next monster, cutting it down with a swift blow to the chest, and continued the stroke to take the pig-faced beast, still struggling to rise, in the throat. Tomas knew that he had to finish the fight soon. Where before there had been a burning pain, his left arm and leg were starting to go numb, tingling like cold limbs being warmed in front of a fire, but seemed to be growing colder, making it hard for Tomas to keep his balance. He also noticed a slight, sharp pain in his left lung when he breathed in, a pain that was steadily growing more pronounced. He needed to give his body time to evacuate the venom from its system, with the help of the items carried at his waist, but he was unable to tell how many creatures still waited in the shadows at the limit of the lantern's illumination. The poison was blurring his senses, and exertion was speeding the effects of the toxin. Tomas knew that he would die spitted on a black blade or with his throat torn out by a wickedly clawed hand if the battle continued much longer. The poison would soon incapacitate him, and he doubted he would survive to fall into the coma that he suspected would usually follow.
He braced himself against the wall, to balance his rapidly deteriorating ability to stand. This would affect his ability to fight, limiting his manoeuvrability, but not as much as falling on his face would. He killed three more creatures in rapid succession. The first found himself skewered upon the point Tomas' sword as its own blade was knocked aside. The next to face him clumsily tried a move that Tomas had used to good effect earlier in the fight; as Tomas swung at the beast's head it fell to one knee, attempting to slash at Tomas' legs. What the beast hadn't taken into account was Tomas' mastery of the blade. He adjusted his blow in mid-swing, and the slightly curved cutting edge of his sword caught the creature at the point between shoulder and neck, cleaving deep into its body. The third creature tried to batter Tomas down with its shield, but for its troubles lost the top of its head as Tomas' blade bit into its brain just above its disturbingly human ears.
Another beast came at him, its face distorted by a muzzle full of razor sharp teeth seeking his throat. Tomas staggered back as his legs momentarily trembled, and the creature leapt at him, teeth bared in a hungry-looking grin of triumph. Instantly recovering his balance, Tomas' sword whipped up, steady as a rock, and the beast's momentum impaled it upon the blade, carrying it almost to the hilt. Its eyes widened in shock, but the snarl of rage and hate never left its face as its heart quivered, and then stopped. It died with its bestial face only inches from Tomas', its all-too-human eyes glazing over with the film of death. It seemed almost peaceful in death, despite its features being locked in a rictus of hate. It seemed to Tomas that he could see traces of the human that he suspected the beast had been, before being subjected to the Necromancer's sickening ministrations.
Tomas started to raise his leg, intending to kick the monstrosity off his sword, and foggily realised that that was the last of the creatures, but collapsed under the weight. His sword slid from his fingers, the sword that he had vowed to surrender only to death; yet it seemed so heavy, and it was so easy to just let it go, to let it lie amongst the mutilated corpses that littered the gore-slicked corridor. He knew that his natural abilities alone would no longer be sufficient to save him; the poison was too close to its final stages for that. He fumbled at his waist, searching with venom-numbed fingers for the vials containing the antidotes, almost crying with frustration when he couldn't grip the small bottles. He finally closed his fingers about the neck of one of the vials, and bringing it up to peer at it, realised that by sheer luck he had picked out the most powerful purge-all he owned, bought at great price from a wandering mage. Barely retaining consciousness, he scraped open the wax-sealed lid and downed the contents, too far gone to the poison to even notice the bitter taste, and the way it left him gasping for breath.
He pulled himself about two paces down the corridor, but giving up, managed to pull himself up into a sitting position against the wall. He knew that there were creatures that were attracted to death, and would be able to sense the energy that slaughter such as this created. He needed to be away from this place when they came, as they inevitably would, and so thinking, attempted to raise himself to his feet. However, the exertion was too much on top of the recent battle and the effects of the poison, and he passed out, falling heavily to the floor.
As the single light flickered out, leaving Tomas crumpled upon the cold flagstones in the pitch-black, clinging tenuously to life, only time and the Gods would decide whether Tomas Al'Caar, Warrior-King of a lost people, would live or die.