12-30-2006, 02:00 PM
Dalin leaned against the fountain base. There was one bell before morning sermons began, enough time to relish the garden himself, breathing in the unguent. Pertannical perfume fogged their neighboring plants and their neighbors, almost choked the water vapor from the fountain. They had bloomed early in the season. Dalin could tell from how Pertannicals color themselves: white petals in infancy, then red in adulthood. A box of white with red chicken pox.
"Dalin..." A throated voice began. "Dalin snap out of it." It struggled to form moisture in his words, like parched wind carrying sand.
The Prayerer turned to Hermit Arnold. "What Arnold?"
The balding man of eighty-one, with a clean patch of bald skin massed against liver spots, staggered into the room. His spateful eyes studied the flowers. His arms were covered from the grey robes of his stature, and he clutched a short cane in one hand. He struggled and leaned onto the fountain base.
"You weren't in your chambers this morning." Arnold said.
"I woke early with the Aquifer."
The Hermit exercised his mouth as if practicing the movements. "You didn't hear the men enter?"
"Men?"
Hermit Arnold Fishter began to gasp. "The-the gaurds. The man in the suit." His crutch fell away from him and he threatened to fall into the fountain.
Dalin rushed to his miser. "Gaurds? Here--" As the Prayerer slid to hoist the brittle elder up, his hands slicked across the small of the robe. It was wet, sticking. "Arnold?"
The Hermit's face paled far worse than in winters. "Save Lady." He sucked air. "Save Lady Sorentine."
To Dalin's suprise, Arnold went limp and slid out of his hands, dunking under the fountain water. When his eyes followed him, two nickle shaped dents, wet-red, appeared in the old man's spine. The fountain water turned black.
The prayer staggered back. He clasped his hands over his eyes, forgetting they were sticky. Copper flooded his nose, mixed with the Pertannicals, confused to determine the aroma. His hands streaked the stickiness on his face. It felt hot, boiling, tightening the bloodvessles.
It was blood.
Dazed, Dalin fell onto the floor. He whipped his head in different directions, to throw the sticking off, with ill effort. A noise cut through his breathing. He stopped, listened. Another noise, hard and firm, coming deep inside the Diaries.
He stood and untied his War Hammer. Skirting around the floating cadaver Arnold, eyes concious to the flowers, Dalin forced into the hallway leading to the Diaries, where Lady Sorentine slept. When he arrived at her antechamber room, the doorframe was bent, a perfect bullethole in the lock.
He pushed them open.
Sorentine's antechamber remained untouched. Her desk was neat, chair tucked under. The safe beside it reamined closed. The normalcy upset him. He twined the Hammer's shaft in his hand.
"Leave this place at once!" Dalin recognized Lady Sorentine's voice. It muffled through the door into her sleeping quarters. "There's nothing here you want."
A gunshot thundered through the oaken doors.
Daline roared. His feet left the carpet and landed before them, wrapping the only free hand around the knob then twisting it open, and forced himself inside. What greeted him churned his breathing.
Two Guards shouted in suprise and stood at the base of Sorentine's bed. Another man, bathed in colors of the stained glass window, turned to face Dalin. He clutched a small pistol in a gloved hand. Beside him, slightly elevated from her clutch of feather pillows, slacked Lady Sorentine, rose faced with a nickle sized hole in her forehead.
"What in the name of Salomon?!"
The color bathed man was hiding behind black sunglasses, his face aqualine and rigid. "Another one? The orphan?"
Dalin's grip tightened on the Hammer's handle. "Afraid so."
The Guards drew their weapons. "I thought you would've run like those Clergy, but I guess your not afraid of dying."
"Far from it."
Dalin shouted Lord-God Salomon's name and charged.
OOC: Battle Commencement next post.
"Dalin..." A throated voice began. "Dalin snap out of it." It struggled to form moisture in his words, like parched wind carrying sand.
The Prayerer turned to Hermit Arnold. "What Arnold?"
The balding man of eighty-one, with a clean patch of bald skin massed against liver spots, staggered into the room. His spateful eyes studied the flowers. His arms were covered from the grey robes of his stature, and he clutched a short cane in one hand. He struggled and leaned onto the fountain base.
"You weren't in your chambers this morning." Arnold said.
"I woke early with the Aquifer."
The Hermit exercised his mouth as if practicing the movements. "You didn't hear the men enter?"
"Men?"
Hermit Arnold Fishter began to gasp. "The-the gaurds. The man in the suit." His crutch fell away from him and he threatened to fall into the fountain.
Dalin rushed to his miser. "Gaurds? Here--" As the Prayerer slid to hoist the brittle elder up, his hands slicked across the small of the robe. It was wet, sticking. "Arnold?"
The Hermit's face paled far worse than in winters. "Save Lady." He sucked air. "Save Lady Sorentine."
To Dalin's suprise, Arnold went limp and slid out of his hands, dunking under the fountain water. When his eyes followed him, two nickle shaped dents, wet-red, appeared in the old man's spine. The fountain water turned black.
The prayer staggered back. He clasped his hands over his eyes, forgetting they were sticky. Copper flooded his nose, mixed with the Pertannicals, confused to determine the aroma. His hands streaked the stickiness on his face. It felt hot, boiling, tightening the bloodvessles.
It was blood.
Dazed, Dalin fell onto the floor. He whipped his head in different directions, to throw the sticking off, with ill effort. A noise cut through his breathing. He stopped, listened. Another noise, hard and firm, coming deep inside the Diaries.
He stood and untied his War Hammer. Skirting around the floating cadaver Arnold, eyes concious to the flowers, Dalin forced into the hallway leading to the Diaries, where Lady Sorentine slept. When he arrived at her antechamber room, the doorframe was bent, a perfect bullethole in the lock.
He pushed them open.
Sorentine's antechamber remained untouched. Her desk was neat, chair tucked under. The safe beside it reamined closed. The normalcy upset him. He twined the Hammer's shaft in his hand.
"Leave this place at once!" Dalin recognized Lady Sorentine's voice. It muffled through the door into her sleeping quarters. "There's nothing here you want."
A gunshot thundered through the oaken doors.
Daline roared. His feet left the carpet and landed before them, wrapping the only free hand around the knob then twisting it open, and forced himself inside. What greeted him churned his breathing.
Two Guards shouted in suprise and stood at the base of Sorentine's bed. Another man, bathed in colors of the stained glass window, turned to face Dalin. He clutched a small pistol in a gloved hand. Beside him, slightly elevated from her clutch of feather pillows, slacked Lady Sorentine, rose faced with a nickle sized hole in her forehead.
"What in the name of Salomon?!"
The color bathed man was hiding behind black sunglasses, his face aqualine and rigid. "Another one? The orphan?"
Dalin's grip tightened on the Hammer's handle. "Afraid so."
The Guards drew their weapons. "I thought you would've run like those Clergy, but I guess your not afraid of dying."
"Far from it."
Dalin shouted Lord-God Salomon's name and charged.
OOC: Battle Commencement next post.