The heavy hand of fate

[DoS Archive]

From: redzealot@aol.com (Red zealot)
Date: 29 May 1999 15:52:33 EDT

High upon a mountain of stone, inside the depths of a cave of ice, sat a figure heavily bundled in a polar bear pelt. The figures head was lowered in meditation and covered with the hollowed out head of the bear. All that escaped from the swath of furs was a thick braid of hair, as white as the great beasts pelt. Lying in front of the unrecognizable one was a thin bladed sword, sheathed in leather and again, wrapped in the pristine white
fur laying on top of its twin wrapped bundle of armor. A low hum came from within the mass and the figured contently rocked back and forth, oblivious to the world.

Without warning the person arched in sudden pain, a pale white, yet delicately muscled hand, shot from within the furs. A decidedly female hiss resounded off the icy walls as another slim hand shot forth to grab the other and bring it back for inspection.

A red rimmed indent had appeared on the left hands ring finger. After one last spasm of pain, the persons arms slumped weakly to her sides and she wept.

"Fates be DAMNED!," She cursed after regaining her composure, "Will I never be free from your cold grasp?!" Refering to the cold hand of fate itself.

Slowly, as if with great pain, the figure stood to it's full hieght. The white firs slips ever so slowly from well defined shoulders as the bear head was tossed back. An icy puff of steam trailed through her full red lips as the woman stood naked to the world within the grasp of the icy cavern.

She stood near the hieght of a fully grown man yet somehow managed to retain the lithe, sensuous curves of the woman she obviously was. Her skin was akin to the finest of alabaster, pure and unblemished, her hair, hair the color of snow, braided roughly with a cord of leather, fell absently over her left shoulder. It was her eyes though, that would have riveted ones attention, eyes clear and devoid of any color to the pupils, as deadly white as that
of the great hunter she had killed for food and shelter. Those eyes betrayed no emotion, no feminine wiles. There was no deciet in her manner and no remorse in her stance, as she bent for her armor. Justicant, her thin bladed sword rested at her feet, the only one of the group which seemed eager for the return.

After donning her suit of red dyed half leather and slipping the sheathed Justicant onto her belt, did she consider the distance of her travels. Almost a years worth of wandering, a years worth of thought and soul searching. She was still unconvinced that this was the correct thing to do, but the fates, as always, controlled her ultimate destiny.

Adeena Maeax, the Red Zealot, looked out across the frozen wastes from her high perch.

It was time to return to the lands of men and the dances of swords.