He was going to die on a pointless farm in the Orleisan backcountry, for no reason other than this: he’d done something unselfish for once in his life. Tiberius would have laughed if he’d had the time. The ogre lurched forward, half run and half fall, crossing the yard far too quickly. The well water passed through Despair’s long loose-skinned hands and became ice, sharp and piercing. The main stem of it impaled the ogre’s shoulder and snapped off in the wound.
It wasn't enough to stop it. Of course it wasn’t. A hand bigger than his head came swiping down at Tiberius, blotting out the sun, a soap bubble radiance playing tricks on his eyes. The ogre failed to find purchase, dropping to one knee and tearing at the ice.
Barrier spell. Lyric had done that. It wouldn’t last forever, though.
Oh, look. She does care if you live or die. Somehow, it was more surprising than her running off into the woods to look for a hurt dog.
He wished there was something he could do to kill it quickly – without splashing all that tainted blood around. There was no time. Squeezing his eyes and mouth shut, Tiberius reached for the slanting light of sunset and shaped it into a cleaver. He brought it down to hack at the monster’s neck. Reformed the blade, repeated it all until the barrier-thumping and screaming stopped. The ogre’s blood was everywhere, even squelching in his socks. He staggered away, slipped and fell in the gravel drive. He lost all sense of everything for a moment, wiped clean by the pain.
The farmer’s sons heaved him up between them, half carrying him into the farmhouse. Tiberius complained feebly, of the danger and of the mess, shaking slightly after they let him alone. He was in a dim bedroom now, rag and straw ticking beneath him. He bent to remove his shoes, gave up, fished a sharp little knife out of his jacket. In a few quick motions he cut away his left pant leg and folded the bloody scraps neatly between his hands.
The ugly crossbow wound looked back at him, hardened scales of his own blood keeping the wound protected for now. There was pressure gathering beneath, damage to muscle and fascia that were beyond his magic. One of the farmers returned, bearing Tiberius’s staff and what water and rags they could spare.
“Could you ask my– my wife to come up? I need her.” He wasn’t sure why he lied, other than to maintain some slight idea of propriety. They wouldn’t be traveling any further tonight.
”Ser.” The young man turned to go.
It wasn't enough to stop it. Of course it wasn’t. A hand bigger than his head came swiping down at Tiberius, blotting out the sun, a soap bubble radiance playing tricks on his eyes. The ogre failed to find purchase, dropping to one knee and tearing at the ice.
Barrier spell. Lyric had done that. It wouldn’t last forever, though.
Oh, look. She does care if you live or die. Somehow, it was more surprising than her running off into the woods to look for a hurt dog.
He wished there was something he could do to kill it quickly – without splashing all that tainted blood around. There was no time. Squeezing his eyes and mouth shut, Tiberius reached for the slanting light of sunset and shaped it into a cleaver. He brought it down to hack at the monster’s neck. Reformed the blade, repeated it all until the barrier-thumping and screaming stopped. The ogre’s blood was everywhere, even squelching in his socks. He staggered away, slipped and fell in the gravel drive. He lost all sense of everything for a moment, wiped clean by the pain.
The farmer’s sons heaved him up between them, half carrying him into the farmhouse. Tiberius complained feebly, of the danger and of the mess, shaking slightly after they let him alone. He was in a dim bedroom now, rag and straw ticking beneath him. He bent to remove his shoes, gave up, fished a sharp little knife out of his jacket. In a few quick motions he cut away his left pant leg and folded the bloody scraps neatly between his hands.
The ugly crossbow wound looked back at him, hardened scales of his own blood keeping the wound protected for now. There was pressure gathering beneath, damage to muscle and fascia that were beyond his magic. One of the farmers returned, bearing Tiberius’s staff and what water and rags they could spare.
“Could you ask my– my wife to come up? I need her.” He wasn’t sure why he lied, other than to maintain some slight idea of propriety. They wouldn’t be traveling any further tonight.
”Ser.” The young man turned to go.
05-13-2024, 04:57 PM
