Midmorning.

[DoS Archive]

From: mannicohai@aol.com (ManniCohai)
Date: 04 Nov 2002 00:45:32 EST

The pebbles crunched underfoot as he moved across the Inn roof once again, the growing radiance of another sunrise ritual warming his back. Events spun through his mind, plans and hopes, all witness to the painful happiness of those stolen moments at the beginning of each day.

His fingers traced the raised symbols on the left bracer as he stepped into the dim corridor leading down and around the corner to his attic quarters, the sudden absolute darkness after staring so long into the sun engulfing him. Somehow, this morning's dawn had struck him particularly deeply, the absence of its warmth and illumination lodged an icy dagger in his chest, making it hard to breathe.

Lips moving in silent chant, he turned the corner into his room, the words falling more from his thoughts than mouth already taking form. In the furthest corner from the door, the air shimmered slightly, the barrier breaking down. By the time he'd moved around the sparse furniture, the case had already faded free of the spell meant to conceal it from prying eyes.

He knelt before the leather case, laying his hands to the latches. He continued chanting, releasing the wards on the locks and lifting the lid.

The breath that had been prisoned within his chest slowly seeped out as he reached within the case, laying hands on the finely wrought leather inside. Balanced on his fingertips, he withdrew the sheathed weapon, rolling back on his haunches to fully stand.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he grasped the silver hilt, which was engraved with the same patterns and symbols that crawled across the bands around his wrists. A slight tug freed the latch on the scabbard, and the blade became visible.

He stripped the blade of the scabbard, holding it reverently before him. Crafted of the same milky stone as the amulet he so commonly used on the Isle, it was barely visible in the dim light. As it was, the edges melted into translucency, only the icy center of the blade greeted his eyes.

He knew that with a single word, he could ignite the blade with blazing life. With but a syllable, he could awaken the powers kindred between the weapon and himself. It would be so easy, so wonderful to let the song of the righteous wrath unite him with the blade in his hand.

Yet he could not. Not yet. There still lurked that danger that he was unprepared for. There were still flaws in his skill and body that he had yet to overcome before those dark, glorious plans could commence. He had not recovered sufficiently.

Sliding the blade back into its home, he once again secured it in both case and magical concealment. His thoughts turned to the course of action he'd chosen, and he pointed himself toward the stairs and beyond. Perhaps Master Aoli would lend him the use of a pen and some parchment for the next stage.