As of 12/10/97
[ya-SOLE-ter ILL-make-er]
Neutral Good Bard
Created by
Adam Musson
He shrugged off the burning pain as he laid, watching his prey.
Hatred continued to build. He gave himself an extra jolt of pain as he
gripped the cleaver tighter. Another blister broke, sending a trickle of
blood and pus streaming down his fingers and blade.
He looked at his wounded hands and wreck of a body and thought
about giving up. This is futile, he thought . But one glance back at
the men and all logic was banished from his mind. He walked among his
father's people long enough to know it was not logic that drove a mad man. It was rage, and the cause of his rage was standing within twenty
feet of him.
They were close enough to smell, but they were none-the-lessoblivious to his
presence. The thick underbrush was a suitable hiding place.
He felt like a wild animal hunting two men that way, but all the gods in
the Greater Heavens could not keep him from getting his revenge.
He continued to remember the past. He could not get her face out
of his head. A wonderful image, but a painful memory. How could he exist
without her? Her flowing blonde hair, her beautiful face. How she loved
to hear him play his mandolin, and how he loved to love her. It was more
than he ever dreamed of. He was happy, they were happy, but their bliss
was murdered by those two men.
It was just a case of horrible timing; she was in the wrong
place at the wrong time. She saw enough to send Jarode and his gang to
the guillotine. With her testimony, the Black Circle would be disbanded forever. But they would not except defeat
easily. With the prime witness disposed of, they would live on. Jarodes
arsons did their job, but they fouled up. They were seen, and they were
followed. And they were going to pay.
He was done thinking. It was time to act. He rose up and started
toward the men. Clutching the cleaver, he felt no more pain, only rage.
He advanced slowly. A small twig snapped underneath his feet, spoiling
any chance of surprise. He didnt care. He knew he would probably die at
their hands, but he was going to take at least one of them with him.
They wheeled around and drew long swords. They were momentarily
stunned at his presence and almost frightened of the look in his eye.
"Who the hell are you?" the tall, hooked-nose one asked, raising
his sword.
"And what do you want?" the other, shorter and pot-bellyed,
demanded.
He said nothing as he singled the first one out. He shifted the
cleaver around so that he held it with the blade pointing down. Without
warning, he charged. Hook-nose was taken by surprise by this outburst and
fumbled his weapon. It was a fatal mistake. He drove the large knife
into hook-nose's shoulder, drew it back out, and slashed him across the
throat. Hook-nose made a gargling sound as blood spilled from his lips.
He dropped to his knees, dead.
He turned around to face pot-belly, but he was right on top
of him. Pot-belly swung viscously at his chest, opening a huge gash. He
gave out a scream, not from the pain, but from the rage that had consumed
him. Pot-belly was taken back by his refusal to die, and dropped his
defense. He lunged forward and drove his blade deep into pot-belly's
stomach. Twisting the knife so that he could puncture every organ he
could reach, he collapsed onto pot-belly. Pot-belly cried out as his
blood flowed and his very life escaped his body.
Exhausted, and perhaps mortally wounded, he lay on top of his
victim. His last thought before he rolled over and passed out from the
loss of blood was for his late wife.
"Vengeance is yours, my love!" he shouted to the autumn breeze.
And then the blackness surrounded him as slipped into a dreamless coma.
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