[Mkguild] Winter Assault - Murikeer's portion

[Ryx]

Well, friends and fellow writers, I've finally done it.

After telling Charles Matthias in 1999 that 'I had an idea' (words that have since become prophetic) that would result in the monstrous body of shared work now called "The Winter Assault" I have, at long last, completed my own portions of the story.  Yes, I have written Murikeer's parts!

Here follows are those portions, which have already be inexpertly edited into the main story so that Virmir can update it on the archive.

I just hope I don't exceed the text limitations of the mailing list with them.  :/  Bear with me if I screw it up.

Enjoy!
       Ryx.
<<---------->>


December 24,706 CR, 7:45pm.
The halls of Metamor Keep were cold.  They were beyond cold; they were downright
frigid.  They were merely hallways, after
all, not living areas, and keeping them comfortably warm was difficult even in
a balmy winter.  In the face of a
blinding winter storm raging from the frozen north even heroic efforts would
have been insufficient to keep the drafty corridors warm.  Murikeer considered this as he reached the
bottom of the spiral stair descending from his tower chamber.  He wore his white and brown silken finery and
nothing more yet, other than noting the white mist that curled from his muzzle
with each breath, did not seem to be affected by the cold.  Even his paws were bare beneath the tied
cuffs of his leggings.  He paused at the
base of the stairs and looked around to get his bearings, nodding to a heavily
bundled pair of humans who shuffled by trailing white contrails of breath.  They looked at him quizzically as they did
and one of them actually managed to mumble a holiday greeting through the thick
woolen scarf wound about his neck and lower face.
Murikeer smiled and bobbed his head in reply, once
again more than happy that he had been graced by whatever Creator oversaw his
fate with considerable talent in magecraft.  A simple spell quickened to the scent-damping amulet about his neck
provided him all the warmth he would need regardless of the weather.  In a leather coinpurse dangling from his belt
was another such amulet with the same spells carefully crafted for
another.  Carefully affixing Llyn’s chambers
in his mind he turned and paced leisurely down the hallway.  Hough’s service would be well under way by
now but Llyn had told him the hour he should come to escort her to attend;
eight-o-clock sharp by the Chapel clock.  His own memory provided him a highly accurate sense of time and, before
he left the library after presenting the chess set to Kayla, he had checked the
library’s water clock to gauge his time.
With a good quarter hour to spare he was confident
he could reach Llyn’s chambers, and escort her to the service, with minutes to
spare.
As he approached a well lit junction of several
corridors he spied a pair of forms garbed in rich velvets approaching and
smiled.  One he recognized easily by the
walk and the other, considerably shorter and broad of hip, he knew on sight as
well.  The pair stopped to warm their
hands at the brazier burning in the center of the intersecting hallways and
continued their conversation and Murikeer slowed to admire the taller of the
pair.  She was radiant in a heavy velvet
dress of deep green trimmed with dark russet fur that graced her lithe form
spectacularly, open at the shoulders and cut along either leg to mid thigh.  Her mahogany hued fur shone with a healthy
shimmer in the firelight of the brazier.  Her back was to him and he let his gaze wander downward from her
shoulders to her slender waist, shapely hips, and the ungarbed tail that swayed
amiably in the air behind her.  Her feet
were shod in a pair of suede boots the same hue as her dress.  The thought of what she looked like, a
familiar vision to him, without the expensive velvet dress, danced through his
head making him smile all the more brightly.  It was a sight he looked forward to making himself all the more familiar
with before the dawn.
As he approached the two exchanged farewells.  The shorter, the weapons instructor Kwanzaa,
laughed at some jest made by the taller, the Long Scout Llyn and Murikeer’s
lover, and walked away down another corridor.  Llyn remained at the brazier a moment still warming her hands and
Murikeer stepped into the intersection, “You do strike a beautiful image, my
love.” Murikeer churred warmly causing her to turn smoothly.  She wore a bright smile on her muzzle,
whiskers angled up and back and dark eyes glimmering in the shadows cast by the
firelight.  She looked Murikeer up and
down slowly and gave her lips a brief stroke with her tongue.
“You strike the image of a rogue.” She commented as
he neared eliciting a good natured chuckle from the skunk.  He gave his tail a flick and smoothed down
his shirt self consciously and struck a pose.  “Show off.”  Llyn shook her head
and proffered her arm. With a courtly bow Murikeer slid his arm into hers and
fell into step beside her.  “And to think
you come off as so shy.” She clucked her tongue, tail touching his as it swayed
behind her.  “Playing about with magic
again, have you been?”
“Oh?” Murikeer inquired with a chutt of voice,
casting a sidelong glance at his taller companion.
“No cloak or even a coat, in this blighted cold.”
The mink observed as they moved from the brightly lit intersection into a
corridor only fitfully lit by widely spaced torches.  The brands guttered fitfully in their vain
attempt to push back the cold hardening the pitch about their shafts, plunging
the corridor into long stretches of shadow between dim pools of wan
torchlight.  Murikeer gave a small motion
with his free hand and light bloomed brightly above them.  Llyn merely sighed at his unconscious
reliance on the weakness of his magecraft.
“I added a warming charm to my amulet.” Murikeer
explained, delving that free hand into the leather pouch hanging from his
belt.  Fishing about for a moment,
avoiding the small wooden box at the bottom of the pouch, he drew out the long silver
chain of the matching pendant he had fashioned.  “I made one for you, as well.”  He
paused and turned to her, holding the silver length of chain to let her gaze
upon the glistening orange citrine in its cage of intricately woven silver
threads.  “Merry Yule.”  He had shaped the raw stone into a polished
lozenge that glimmered with inner fire under the steady glow of the
witchlight.  Llyn raised a hand to cup
the pendant and gaze admiringly at it, the fire thrown off by the stone
gleaming in her dark eyes.
“It’s beautiful, Murikeer, but you know what I think
about magic.”  She crooned admonishingly.
Murikeer nodded slowly, “I understand, love, the
spells upon it are very minor.  Heat, and
scent dampening, as my own.”  He smiled
and stepped closer as he raised it to clasp it about her neck.  The polished citrine rested perfectly in the
hollow of her throat and set a warm golden glow upon her deep mahogany fur.
Llyn’s muzzle quirked slightly, whiskers twitching
as she smiled down at him.  One of her
brows arched slightly as she patiently let him adorn her with the gem, “What,
are you saying I stink?”
The skunk chuffed a laugh and shook his head, “Oh,
no, my dear.”  He smiled and swept his
arm toward the corridor again as they resumed their walk, “I love the way you
smell.  I most certainly do not want
anyone else enjoying my pleasures.”
Llyn laughed at his deft dodge and leaned down to
give his cheek a stroke with her nose, then let out a chuff of breath.  “Augh, Muri, your amulet must not be
working.”
They entered a broad hall not in use for the many
gatherings taking place, its vaulted ceiling lost in shadows despite the
witchlight dancing merrily along over them.  “Oh?” he asked.  Statues of
ancient kings and knights lined the hall.  Their shadows stalked silently along the walls to pace the magically
illuminated pair walking along their silent ranks.
Llyn shot him a sharp sidelong glance, “You smell of
skunk.”
Murikeer tilted his head and looked to her with a
quirk of his brows, ears forward.  “I am
a skunk.” He pointed out cautiously, sensing the rise of her ire.
“Not you, her.” Llyn churred flatly, “You’ve been
with her.”
“Her?”  Murikeer blinked and sighed inwardly in the face of the mink’s ready
jealousy, “I’ve been to the Long House and dined with them, there were many
ladies there.  I’ve been to the library
as well and it was far from empty.”
“Her, the skunk.”
“Kayla?” Murikeer groaned softly and sighed with a
shake of his head, “Yes, she was there, with her mate and my mentor,
Rickkter.  We exchanged gifts.”
Llyn stopped and glared down at him, “You exchanged
gifts with her?” she growled archly.
“Of course, is that not the tradition?”
“And where did you go about this exchange?”
Murikeer took a long breath and steeled himself; of
all the days she would have a flare of her ever-present quickness to take
umbridge at Kayla this was far from the most opportune.  “In the library.  She gave me a hug, Llyn, nothing more.”
“A hug, mmh?”
“Yes, Llyn.  We will be late for Hough’s service, love, please.”  Murikeer turned and, with his hand on her
elbow, eased her into motion as well.  “She is my mentor’s affianced.  You have met him, you have dueled with him.  Would I court his ire any more than I would
court yours, Llyn?”
Llyn stopped again and rounded on him, “Ah, so  you’re saying that if she was not betrothed
to him…”
“Llyn, no, stop, for Eli’s sake.” He said with a
shake of his head, “I’ve no designs upon her and never have.  You’re far more what I’m seeking; stronger,
more capable, better looking.” He desperately tried to dampen the edge of her
irritation.
Suddenly a loud clangor rent the air causing both of
them to start, ears flattening, and cast their gazes upward toward the belfry
at the apex of the hall.  The witchlight
darted upward into the shadows to illuminate the session bell that swung in
great arcs in its housing.  The pull rope
jerked, untended, at the pin upon which it had been looped.  “The alarm bells are ringing?  Now?” Llyn gasped in surprise, “That’s Kyia’s
doing, no one is here to ring it.”
“Alarm bell?” Murikeer chuffed in aghast
surprise.  He had been only a child the
last time the bells of Metamor had rung of their own accord; at the last siege
each time Nasoj’s forces made a bid for the embattled gates.  “We are under attack?”
Llyn cast about looking for the nearest exit from
the hall, “If Kyia is ringing the alarm bells then it must be!  We must get to the Chapel!”
“Artela’s Arrows, in this gale?  Who would make such an insane gambit?”  Murikeer recalled the witchlight and wished
he had thought to bring at least a dagger to supplement his magic.  “We must make for the Long House, that is
where the defenders will be marshalling.”
“Long House?  The Chapel would be nearer, we must go to its defense!”
“With what, Llyn, we are not armed or armored!  Your gear is at the Long House, as is your
commander!”  Murikeer urged hastily,
fixing that thought in his head.  “Kyia
will secure the Chapel and Temple, but she cannot fight off attackers.  That is our duty.”
“SHE is there!” Llyn barked sharply, “That’s why you
want to go there, to be with her!”
Murikeer came up short and turned to face Llyn with
an aghast hang of his jaw, “Llyn?  Kayla
has Rickkter!  My concern is you, and our
home, this Keep and its people, not some skunk claimed by a better fighter that
I could ever hope to be!  Rickkter can
defend her, by Artela’s Bow!  Let’s get
moving!”  Above them the bell continued
its clangor unabated, echoed by the distant sound of other bells echoing down
the corridors.
“No, you will not be going to her, Mur.” Llyn
snarled fiercely, nose to nose with Murikeer.
Stunned, Murikeer could only gape up at her in
stupefied confusion for several seconds before a slow sigh hissed from his
lungs.  “Llyn, you know, sometimes you
make it so very, very difficult to love you.” He said softly, whiskers adroop
and ears backed.  In that moment, even as
he uttered those words, he knew that they were the most wrong words he could
have uttered at any time in his life.  At
the same moment he saw a shift in Llyn’s eyes, her focus lifting from his face
and over his shoulder into the distance.  He started to turn his head, instinctively reaching to sieze the ready
flow of magic that infused the entire fabric of the Keep, and the world was
split by a blinding fissure of white so bright it seemed blue.  It sprang from Murikeer’s breast and leaped
to Llyn, tendrils of blinding blue-white crawling up and down her body and
causing the expensive green velvet to blacken and char.  Her dark eyes widened in shocked surprise and
then glowed with that same white radiance as a sound unlike any Murikeer had
ever heard before and, in the length of his lifetime, would never hear again; the
tortured, seprulchral sound of superheated air being wrenched from the depths
of the dying mink’s lungs.  She lurched a
pace backwards as Murikeer continued to spin, letting the magic of Metamor
flood into him unbanked.  The crackling
roar of the lightening bolt deafened his hearing and scintillating blue
streamers arced to the nearest statues, sundering cold stone like glass.  Murikeer spied the source of the devastating
attack.
The man stood in the arch of a doorway not far away,
the light of his spell etching him in stark relief and the cluster of other
forms behind him.  His hand was extended
toward Murikeer and from his spread fingers sprang the electrical attack that
passed harmlessly through Murikeer’s body to strike his love.  Over that bridge of energies Murikeer met his
cold, hard, arrogant eyes.
~
“Murikeer, lad, I would like you to meet Korten
Aufredes, one of Earl Aufrede’s many sons.” Heiorn said amiably as Murikeer
stood across the pool table from the tall, muscular newcomer to the old mage’s
small school.  The cold gray eyes that
looked down upon him were full of self-superior arrogance as the older boy
crossed his arms over his chest and regarded him.  “He calls himself Thorne, and his sire
suspects that he has the Talent.”  Heiorn
was leaning against the far end of the table with one hip, his own arms loosely
crossed over his own chest.  “I would
like you to take him into your tutelage for his initial introduction, until we
can test his potential.”
Murikeer looked aside at his mentor questioningly;
the newcomer, Thorne, was five years his senior and an aristocrat upon
that.  Murikeer was merely a
commoner.  He had three years of
schooling already and was the most appropriate to bring a new acolyte into the
school, but his age and social position did not make for the best match.  He said nothing, however, merely inclining
his head in acknowledgement, “I shall do as you wish, Master Heiorn.”
Heiorn unfolded his arms and waved them closer,
revealing in his other hand a tiny pewter cup hardly larger than the first
knuckle of his thumb, “This you are familiar with, Murikeer.” He explained as
he held it up for Thorne to examine, “A pupil’s phial.” He said to Thorne as
Murikeer merely nodded, Heiorn already had created one for him.  “Give me your hand, Korten.”  Thorne looked dubiously from the tiny cup to
Heiorn, then over at Murikeer before returning his attention to the phial and
reluctantly raising his hand.  Heiorn
deftly poked his thumb with a needle evincing a small wince.  “So long as this phial exists your magic will
not harm the instructor tuned to it.”  He
explained, as he had to Murikeer, while he squeezed a drop of blood from
Thorne’s thumb into the phial’s center.  He pressed an equally tiny pewter cap upon it and asked for Murikeer’s
hand, pricking his thumb as well, but pressed his blood onto the minute sigils
engraved upon the phial’s outside and then performed the same with
himself.  “This I do for the safety of
the school, young lad.”
~
Murikeer sat cross legged upon a stool, months
later, and watched with his mage’s vision as a spell was woven by his
pupil.  He watched as the threads were
drawn together and woven into the basic elemental construct of electrical force
and began to take up the magic that would empower the spell.  With a frown extended a tendril of his
concentration and, with a deft flick of a single finger and mental tug, unbound
the root construct of the spell.  “Damnit,
Thorne, you’re trying to pull too much into the spell.” He admonished with a
hiss as the magic siphoned into the spell surged back into the flow around them
with a discontented ripple.  “Or do you want to flatten the entire building?”
Thorn’s lips quirked in an angry moue, “I can conrol
it!” he snapped angrily, flinging his hands out flat to shed the tingling
remnants of his construct.  Murikeer
merely shook his head slowly, long hair brushing the back of his neck.  He was almost fourteen years old and
Metamor’s touch had not claimed him yet, though it would in only a matter of
months.
“It is not a matter of control, Thorne, it is a
matter of discretion and appraisal.” He said gently, “It’s a matter of knowing
how much you need in the spell to accomplish the task; there is no need to use
a maul when a pinprick will suffice.”  Thorne merely cast him a withering glance and steeled himself to re-cast
the spell while Murikeer watched.
~
“Master Heiorn, I fear that Thorne is hiding
something from us.” He tried to warn in the weeks before he was forced to flee
the school as Metamor’s curse began to change him.  “He is learning far too swiftly, with too few
uneducated errors.”
“He is too skilled for the level of teaching you can
provide?” Heiorn had asked as they worked through a challenging game of pool.  As ever Murikeer was loosing handily, but he
was better than most others at the school.
Murikeer’s attention had not been on the game and he
lost rapidly, “Far too much, Master.  It’s as if he knows all of this early learning material already.”
He only got a nod in the face of his cautions,
“Well, we will have to advance him to another instructor and see where it
goes.”  He said blandly as he re-racked
the billiards and prepared to break.  “I
will watch him more closely, as you caution.”
Less than a month later Murikeer fell under the
touch of Nasoj’s curse, laid upon him when he was a child at Metamor during the
Battle of the Gates.  A band of dark
mages had come to the limits of Heiorn’s school, unable to enter because of his
powerful wards, and demanded that the ‘demon’ be surrendered to them.  Murikeer sensed that Thorne had somehow sent
word of his change to them, but had been forced to flee rather than call him
out.
The last time Murikeer had seen those arrogant, hard
eyes had been over the sights of a crossbow.  Horsemen were converging, but it was Thorne who had managed to track him
down in the forests at the border of Sathmore and the Southern Midlands as
Murikeer fled.  He had succumbed fully to
the curse by that point and become the skunk he would henceforth be.  Only a quick jerk at the string of the
crossbow with magic had kept Thorne’s shot from skewering his chest.
~
“THORNE!”
Murikeer roared, a sound that echoed with magically augmented loudness that
caused the clanging bell to hum in protest.  He flung his hands out, wrapping magical webs around a pair of statues,
and brought both hands inward and forward.  The statues hurtled from their pedestals and a shadowy form yanked
Thorne back from the threshold of the doorway only a heartbeat before the two
statues came crashing together in the place he had been standing.  Shattered stone blasted across the floor and
sundered the wooden frame of the doorway.  The entire portal collapsed with a crash of splintered wood and broken
stone.  Murikeer charged across the Hall,
drawing in a fresh flood of raw magic, and seized the stonework of the
shattered portal.
“Thorne!” he shrieked, yanking
outward at the stone.  Blocks and wood
flew away at the pull of his unrestrained magical pull, shattering statues and
denting walls.  But there was nothing in
the corridor beyond but darkness and a choking pall of stone dust.  “Thooorrrrnne!” his angry roar echoed
down the dark corridor followed by a fusillade of magelights and barely
contained missiles of raw magic but they illuminated no invaders; the mage and
his allies had escaped.  Murikeer charged
down the hallway heedless of his burnt and tattered silk finery or the
destruction wrought in his wake.
-----
December 24- 8:15pm
The torches lining the corridor rippled madly and
died as a door at the far end was wrenched from its moorings allowing the
winter gale to howl into the castle’s interior.  Murikeer felt the cold blast if air flatten his fur and continued to
stride forward.  The distant doorway
became a dim gray silhouette of light occluded by a rush of shadows spilling in
from the winter cold.  Murikeer sent
witchlights speeding down the hallway causing a stir of consternation among the
clustered Lutins surging into the Keep.  The ones in front, startled by the small sparks of blinding brightness,
staggered to a halt and covered their eyes against the glare only to be shoved
forward by those crowding in behind.  Murikeer did not pause, scanning the mob for any humans who might be the
object of his vengeance.  He saw only a
score of tightly clustered Lutins, a huge ape-like troll shuffling into the
confined space behind them, and behind the Troll the head and shoulders of a
Giant looking in to see what had stopped the crowd.
“Thorne?!” Murikeer bellowed as he approached,
finally stopping a few dozen paces away.  The Lutins gaped at him and conversed between themselves in their simple,
guttural language.  A few of them raised
bows and loosed a desultory volley of arrows at the lone Keeper barring their
progress.  None of the arrows found a
mark, swaying in their flight to either side to clatter off of the stone walls or
thunk meatily into wooden timbers.  Murikeer did not move, his head tilted slightly to one side and a
quizzical look on his face with one brow slightly lifted.
Spying prey the troll began to snort and bellow,
pushing angrily at the mob of Lutins between it and its prey.  Murikeer shifted his attention to it, and the
giant beyond, blocking his search.  Raising
one hand he extended his thumb and fingers upright, bracketing the thrashing
troll between them.  He sent the vast
pool of magic rushing through him into the stones of the Keep and then,
abruptly, brought his fingers together.  The walls groaned and lurched sending a cascade of dust down upon the
heads of the attackers.  They looked up
in surprise and some began to run toward Murikeer, unable to flee because of
the troll and giant blocking that escape. With a final shriek of tortured stone
the walls crashed together violently.  The deafening clap of stone against stone and thundering snap of sundered
beams drowned out the screams of the doomed.  A font of gore sprayed down the corridor, coating a single Lutin to
stagger out of the deadly press before it closed, and spilled in a messy flood
across Murikeer’s naked paws.  A thick
pall of stone dust hung in the air and, save for the ragged breathing of the
lone survivor and pattering of falling stone fragments, all became silent.
The lone lutin fell upon its face and slid a few
feet in the morass and Murikeer reached out with a single hand, clutching his
fingers and yanking the lutin into the air at a distance of thirty feet.  It smacked the wall and ceiling with a pained
cry before floating toward the enraged skunk.  “Anum eral!” Murikeer growled in their native tongue, learned from one
of their own kind in his recent past.  He
spared not a thought for Keletikt in his rage; if the young shaman was among
the attackers he would die as swiftly as any other should he cross the skunk’s
path.  “Anum humans!?  Nad, nad!” he slapped the stunned Lutin against
the wall to rattle its brains into functioning.  Gore spattered off of the moaning Lutin and it dropped is sword when Murikeer’s
magical grip drove it against the wall one last time.
“Ghela num!   Humans des grull!”  It was not
traveling with humans, it claimed piteously.  “Humans sho erum Lutinatum ta!”  They were with other Lutins, but not these Lutins.
“Magi, ah?  Nad?” He shook the Lutin in the air, violently, causing its limbs to
flail.  “THORNE, ahai?”
“Anag Moran, anag thorne!” it cried, not knowing
them.
Murikeer’s eyes narrowed and he tilted his head
slightly to one side, “Moran?  Asare
gaeh, Moran?”
“Moran, shaman, martuuth!” At that the skunk’s tail
bushed and his brows shot up.  Dark mages
of spirit, like the Shamen of the Lutin tribes.  That could be many things, but understanding that Nasoj was behind this
entire assault Murikeer knew it could be but a single sort of dark mage;
Moranasi, servant priests of Ba’al.
“Ahai Moran!?” he snarled angrily, “Martuuth shaman,
ahai!?”
“Anag, anag!” squeeled the terrified Lutin,
clutching at itself trying to escape the invisible bands of Murikeer’s magical
grasp.
With a snarl at the Lutin’s complete ignorance he
closed his hand firmly into a fist.  The
lutin let out a startled shriek that was silenced as the magic binds holding it
aloft clenched at the mage’s whim, crushing it as easily as a berry.  Murikeer ignored he fresh spray of gore and
let the corpse fall with a wet splash and, with an impatient shove of magic,
yanked the walls apart.  Unidentifiable
gibbots of flesh fell or slid down the cracked stones as Murikeer strode down
the newly opened corridor.  The corpse of
the giant, sans head and shoulders, lay before the door and he climbed over it
to continue his search.
-----
December 24 - 10pm
The Lutins were in full rout, half of their number left in a tangle of
shattered limbs after they made a foolhardy attempt to run him down en
mass.  After realizing that the tattered,
ragged looking keeper was more than they bargained for the remainder turned and
fled with Murikeer running swiftly in their wake, picking them off one at a
time with shrill, sizzling bolts of arcane force.  There were still almost a full two score of
them, reduced singly as he tried to catch up to capture one of them for further
interrogation.  Those few he had caught
unawares alone or in small gropes had proven as uninformed as any other, save
that their chieftains had brought them at the great overchief Nasoj’s
command.  The opportunity to destroy the
nest of their most staunch foes they had formed a fragile peace between the
tribes and heeded his call.
They were always the same empty words, the lack of worthwhile information about
Thorne, his circle, or the Moranasi spoken of by the first hapless victim of
the enraged skunk’s interrogation.
Charging around a corner in pursuit of the mob he slowed quickly when he
realized that they had been halted in the middle of a long corridor.  At the far end, blocking the single massive
arch that lead to yet another crossing corridor, stood a man and a great black
horse.  Murikeer noted that the distant
human wore the colors of a Papal Knight, strangely out of place in the chaos
following the Patriarch’s murder, but he was not Lutin nor a northerner.  “Akek laron!” he bellowed causing several
heads to turn in his direction.  Bows
were raised and arrows hastily lofted toward both ends of the corridors as the
Lutins tried to break the immobile barriers of Mage and Knight.  Those loosed toward Murikeer slid sideways
smoothly and missed him entirely while the Knight merely raised his shield and
moved to stand before his steed to intercept the futile attack against his
heavy mail.  “Akek!   Ahai
magi?” Murikeer challenged as he stalked down the corridor, both hands held out
from his side and glowing with blinding orbs of sizzling energy.  He reached out and grasped at the potency of
Metamor’s magical flowes, pulling them into himself with some strain.  There was something wrong there, but he
discounted it in the face of foes near at hand.  “Ahai Thorne?  Martuuth shaman?”
With a blood chilling cry the Knight lurched into motion, charging toward
the milling mob of Lutins with the thundering horse close behind him.  The Lutins let out a gibbering cry of panic
and tried to scatter but, other than toward the charging Knight or the proven
deadliness of the mage at their back, they had nowhere to go.  Murikeer burned down two of them with arcane
lances of searing energy and the Knight swept those who ran toward him down
with a mighty swing of the gleaming sword in his hand.  Lutin bodies bounded in all directions before
the Knight and the flailing hooves or biting maw of the horse.  Others were lifted by Murikeer’s magical
grasp and dashed violently against the unyielding stone of the walls.
In moments the slaughter was over leaving mage and knight alone amidst the
last dying twitches of the vanquished regarding each other.  The Knight continued to stride through the
wreckage without pause, the eyes Murikeer could see through the viewslot of his
heavy steel helmet wild with battle lust.  “Sir Knight, have you s –“ Murikeer began and then let out a startled
chirrup of surprise, dancing back out of range as the Knight’s sword thrust at
him with blinding speed.  “Hai!” he
leaped back and stumbled over a corpse as the sword was swept at him.  He threw both hands forward and hammered the
Knight with a pulse of kinetic force, pushing him back against the breast of
his black mount.  The beast wore nothing
more than a simple golden halter and its eyes were white rimmed and filled with
the same ecstatic bloodlust as the Knight.  Raising his sword hand to right his helmet the Knight stepped back
alongside his steed and with smooth efficiency swung up onto the black beast’s
broad back.
“CHARGE!” the Knight bellowed, leveling his sword toward the startled
skunk.  The horse snorted a plume of
thick mist and surged forward with a clatter of hooves.  The occasional crunch of the charger’s weight
on a fallen Lutin muted the thunder of those hooves intermittently and Murikeer
yielded the corridor to the unstoppable momentum of steed and Knight.  He dodged to the rider’s shield side and, as
they charged past, was thanked for his aid with a punishing smash from the
green liveried shield that sent him crashing back against a wall.  His last sight of the pair was the horse’s
black tail streaming behind it as the two careered down the corridor and into
the darkness.  Stunned by the blow Murikeer
slumped and an altogether different darkness swam up to pull him into its
embrace.


      

!DSPAM:4c15d2a380551804284693!