|
Inquisitor Marcos of Snowdale - 17/98
He took a moment to catch his breath, his lungs protesting in another fit of agony as the air grated down inside.
This would be it then. His final folly, for it was clear to him that he would not survive to reach the surface now. His sacred task, the trial of Silverfall, would remain unfulfilled, but he was secure in the knowledge that this had but been a path set out to lead him here, in the remains of a sunken castle, fighting a curse which had affected his bloodline for centuries outside his awareness. He might fail his order, but it was how he had been destined to execute the will of the gods. After many years of training and trials beyond counting, he had reached that ultimate moment.
The burns on his face were raw pain, and still her evil presence sent his head near to bursting. One good blow, and it would all be over one way or the other.
The inquisitor planted his feet firmly on the ground, and attempted to swing the hammer at the shrunken foe.
And tried again.
To his dismay, the hammer did not move. Had his strength deserted him at this of all times?
He relaxed his stance, waiting for fate inexorable to make herself heard.
|