Dark ears snap to attention at the sound of the Shaman's voice. The witch lifts her gaze from the dry grass underfoot to size up her new foe, but he is not the powerful sorcerer she expects to meet. She halts her advance immediately, seemingly to allow more time for the wave of confusion to disturb her sea of thought. This cannot be the one who has caused such an uproar. Grey eyes scour his pale form as she tries to place the mocking voice with his scrawny figure. He is not the proud figure she pictures when she thinks of the hunt for the relic, nor the magnificent being who constructs labyrinths at the bat of an eye. The aged and skinny man with the sharp tongue and biting wit meets her in their stead, and the witch is unimpressed.
Is he an insolent youth bent on playing nasty tricks for his own amusement? Or is he immortal, and he has somehow managed to produce adverse effects? Her teeth start to grind as she squints at the creature. She expects her adversary to be frustrating, but not so confusing. A puff of steam escapes from her nostrils with a snort.
A sudden cold has taken up residence inside the maze: a sort of cold that carries sickness on its harsh biting winds and incites pain in every steaming breath. It is the kind of weather akin to the frosty season that caretakers dread -- and what the hell is it doing here in the midst of spring? The hag's star-dusted flesh flinches at the wind's icy touch, and dark eyes clamp shut as she waits for it to pass. After what seems like a millennia of bracing herself against the maze's cruel winter, the little witch returns her stare to the Shaman with a laboured cough.
Enough of this. The cough rattles inside her throat with a vicious shake of the hag's dark crown, and she spits it out like bitter medicine.
You are an oxymoron, and I am the climax. The stout legs supporting the girl's starry frame no longer stand still; she tears after the Shaman with a screech.I shall bring your story to an end.
Tufts of sun-dried and now frost-chilled grass fly upwards in her wake, leaving a noticeable trail of hoof prints behind. She cares little for caution at the moment, however, for her thoughts are trained solely on the Shaman's dissipating form. His trail is not so easy to follow as hers, and her eyes are constantly darting from one shadow to the next in search of the green hide across his back. He seems to evaporate into thin air at times, but he is never gone for long.
The same cannot be said for the starry girl, though: her form is constant, and her presence has been made known to all the creatures of the maze. One beast in particular has risen to conduct his own pursuit of the midnight mare. His footsteps are not muffled by magic as his master's are and, being rather broad and bulky, he is not the most careful of creatures. His veiny shoulders scrape against the walls of the labyrinth in particularly narrow passages, causing quite the raucous as the brittle bramble cracks and breaks and falls to the ground; only a fool can miss the sound, a warning -- an oddity, given the witch's usual appreciation for caution and surveillance. Perhaps there is something more to the maze than a hidden treasure and sulking beasts: perhaps madness has taken residence within its walls, too.
@Random Events -- My post started to get kinda long and I'm not sure how many rounds we have left, so I'll build up more of the story next post!
Is he an insolent youth bent on playing nasty tricks for his own amusement? Or is he immortal, and he has somehow managed to produce adverse effects? Her teeth start to grind as she squints at the creature. She expects her adversary to be frustrating, but not so confusing. A puff of steam escapes from her nostrils with a snort.
A sudden cold has taken up residence inside the maze: a sort of cold that carries sickness on its harsh biting winds and incites pain in every steaming breath. It is the kind of weather akin to the frosty season that caretakers dread -- and what the hell is it doing here in the midst of spring? The hag's star-dusted flesh flinches at the wind's icy touch, and dark eyes clamp shut as she waits for it to pass. After what seems like a millennia of bracing herself against the maze's cruel winter, the little witch returns her stare to the Shaman with a laboured cough.
Enough of this. The cough rattles inside her throat with a vicious shake of the hag's dark crown, and she spits it out like bitter medicine.
You are an oxymoron, and I am the climax. The stout legs supporting the girl's starry frame no longer stand still; she tears after the Shaman with a screech.I shall bring your story to an end.
Tufts of sun-dried and now frost-chilled grass fly upwards in her wake, leaving a noticeable trail of hoof prints behind. She cares little for caution at the moment, however, for her thoughts are trained solely on the Shaman's dissipating form. His trail is not so easy to follow as hers, and her eyes are constantly darting from one shadow to the next in search of the green hide across his back. He seems to evaporate into thin air at times, but he is never gone for long.
The same cannot be said for the starry girl, though: her form is constant, and her presence has been made known to all the creatures of the maze. One beast in particular has risen to conduct his own pursuit of the midnight mare. His footsteps are not muffled by magic as his master's are and, being rather broad and bulky, he is not the most careful of creatures. His veiny shoulders scrape against the walls of the labyrinth in particularly narrow passages, causing quite the raucous as the brittle bramble cracks and breaks and falls to the ground; only a fool can miss the sound, a warning -- an oddity, given the witch's usual appreciation for caution and surveillance. Perhaps there is something more to the maze than a hidden treasure and sulking beasts: perhaps madness has taken residence within its walls, too.
@Random Events -- My post started to get kinda long and I'm not sure how many rounds we have left, so I'll build up more of the story next post!
