Epic Fantasy World.
Brutal Zombie Apocalypse.
--Shestin paced through the rows of books impatiently. A thin orange light fell upon the tomes, but seemed to disappear before reaching the floor, so that he waded in shadow. The black pressed upon him with the intensity of flame, which brought comfort to the cursed human. He neared Verri, and called to her while she was yet out of the magelight.
“I must go, but I will return shortly.”
Verri stifled a cry. There was a slight rustle in the darkness, then a small candle appeared from behind a pile of ancient books, bound in leather.
Shestin smiled sardonically. A drop of blood dripped from his hair and fell to the stone—muted by the dust. “Are you afraid of the darkness? Do you think it will tear at you?”
“Please. There is so much to read. Every word on these pages is worth my life.”
Shestin flinched. The magelight accentuated every line of pain in his face.
Verri laughed, mocking bravery. “The gods sting you.”
“Gather what you need, and we return to Comor.”
“How? Comor is hundreds of miles away, and yet, coming here was only a step.”
“I have power.” The stiff words echoed through the chamber. “More than the great mage, Izra el’ta. Perhaps more than Theren, though he has some power over me.”
“And does this power bring you happiness? Can you even find contentment for your actions?”
Shestin remained calm. “I do not seek happiness—your ideals are meaningless and unattainable to me. I do not act to an end. I act because I am compelled.” He took a step forward and Verri faltered. “My power brings me pain.”
“That is fair.”
His calm flickered. “You know me so well.” The tone was caustic—so powerful she trembled from trying to remain still and her neck twitched. “Is it fair that I should be compelled to do evil? Is it fair that I should suffer in conscience as though I had willed every wrong I am forced to commit?” He now screamed, but the words did not echo, they died as they touched the shadows. “Is it fair, Child of the Elves, that I wake each morning lying for hours in a pool of my own brown blood and vomit, too weak to move from the blackness that racks me—that poisons me! In such pain that I cannot scream and try to will myself to die, but cannot, because I am compelled to rise and kill and torment unwillingly until my vision is clouded by my own deeds, and blood from my own hands?”
He spat on her, and she tried to crawl away but froze. Shestin grabbed her, pulling her cheek before his mouth. He breathed against her, heavily, shaking from his anger then screamed and pulled her so close that his bare teeth touched her skin.
He raised a trembling hand to touch her face, but she managed to let out a cry, and he threw her down. She still held onto the candle with white hands.
Shestin stared on her with such hatred that the magelight waned and the shadows swooped closer like vultures.
Again he commanded, “Gather the books you need and we return to Comor. I will head into the mountains, and you do not want to be alone here.”--
Brutal Zombie Apocalypse.
--Shestin paced through the rows of books impatiently. A thin orange light fell upon the tomes, but seemed to disappear before reaching the floor, so that he waded in shadow. The black pressed upon him with the intensity of flame, which brought comfort to the cursed human. He neared Verri, and called to her while she was yet out of the magelight.
“I must go, but I will return shortly.”
Verri stifled a cry. There was a slight rustle in the darkness, then a small candle appeared from behind a pile of ancient books, bound in leather.
Shestin smiled sardonically. A drop of blood dripped from his hair and fell to the stone—muted by the dust. “Are you afraid of the darkness? Do you think it will tear at you?”
“Please. There is so much to read. Every word on these pages is worth my life.”
Shestin flinched. The magelight accentuated every line of pain in his face.
Verri laughed, mocking bravery. “The gods sting you.”
“Gather what you need, and we return to Comor.”
“How? Comor is hundreds of miles away, and yet, coming here was only a step.”
“I have power.” The stiff words echoed through the chamber. “More than the great mage, Izra el’ta. Perhaps more than Theren, though he has some power over me.”
“And does this power bring you happiness? Can you even find contentment for your actions?”
Shestin remained calm. “I do not seek happiness—your ideals are meaningless and unattainable to me. I do not act to an end. I act because I am compelled.” He took a step forward and Verri faltered. “My power brings me pain.”
“That is fair.”
His calm flickered. “You know me so well.” The tone was caustic—so powerful she trembled from trying to remain still and her neck twitched. “Is it fair that I should be compelled to do evil? Is it fair that I should suffer in conscience as though I had willed every wrong I am forced to commit?” He now screamed, but the words did not echo, they died as they touched the shadows. “Is it fair, Child of the Elves, that I wake each morning lying for hours in a pool of my own brown blood and vomit, too weak to move from the blackness that racks me—that poisons me! In such pain that I cannot scream and try to will myself to die, but cannot, because I am compelled to rise and kill and torment unwillingly until my vision is clouded by my own deeds, and blood from my own hands?”
He spat on her, and she tried to crawl away but froze. Shestin grabbed her, pulling her cheek before his mouth. He breathed against her, heavily, shaking from his anger then screamed and pulled her so close that his bare teeth touched her skin.
He raised a trembling hand to touch her face, but she managed to let out a cry, and he threw her down. She still held onto the candle with white hands.
Shestin stared on her with such hatred that the magelight waned and the shadows swooped closer like vultures.
Again he commanded, “Gather the books you need and we return to Comor. I will head into the mountains, and you do not want to be alone here.”--
