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Written by MutantMaggot
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Sunday, 22 June 2008 |
Page 9 of 9
Jean approached the lone figure, who was standing, with an empty in his hand, watching the retreating Dagger. The wight king frowned. This was a Dark Elf ... why hadn't he fled like the others when they holed the ships and fled? The elf appeared to be drunk - or at least, his words seemed to show some kind of drunkenness. His voice seemed fairly normal - as normal as an elf's voice ever gets.
The wight's voice was hollow. "Who are you, elf?"
The elf seemed to think this was unreasonable, or that something was wrong. "No rum. I always suspected the buggers, but they left me no rum, the bloody pirates. Nothing to drink. Unless you can drink a pistol, me summoned carbuncle. Which I doubt even you can do, yer high wight." Jean frowned, and repeated his words, but the pirate wasn't listening.
"No rum ... why is the rum always gone? Bloody pirates." Jean's voice displayed his distaste. "Take him to the brink."
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Arkhor watched the storm. It was getting closer to Mousillon. It always was. And he needed to reach there before that storm: when its first prongs touched the city, all hell would break loose.
Behind him, his own army marched steadily, the footsteps of countless zombies filling the air with a rhythmic beat, the steady marching of skeletons providing a snare drum of rustling footsteps while the ghouls scattered around, adding the shrieks of electric guitars. It was a small force, but Arhor hoped it would be enough. He dreaded to think what would happen if it wasn't enough.
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Adrek watched his knights form up, observing the way they formed formations with ease. It gave him a sense of pride to watch them adopt such formations, and to know he had the finest warriors in the world at his command: not many, but enough.
But even now, he knew a storm was coming that would dwarf all others, and he would have to ride in the eye of the storm. Hissing faintly, he felt a wind brush against his back. Good. They had a favourable breeze: they would need it, if they were to reach the cursed city in time to save it. His voice pierced the air, as he turned to the knights that had assembled. "Blood Knights, we ride! To Mousillon, and Victory!"
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"The board is set, and the pieces are moving. But the enemy has the move, and against such power, what can a mere pawn do to stop the onslaught. No ... only by working together can the pawns hope to defeat the queen that is the foe, to be in the right place at the right time, and to become the dragon.
"This World is changing, and as the pieces move, the board itself twists in strange ways, shaped by the actions of the pieces themselves. And as reality itself twists beyond all possible imagination, will the storm be weathered by those who ride further into the maelstrom?"
Mallobaude, Lord of Mousillon.
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Last Updated ( Wednesday, 25 June 2008 )
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