MS:C Fanfic - The Wall

Drathamus

New Adventurer
Blades of Urdual
Mar 8, 2010
115
0
Edana, Georgia
Hey all, I wrote a short story based on a solo run of the Wall. Took me about 2 days to write it up (only write with free time in school, play MS:C when I get home =P), and took up about 6 pages written. Roughly 3 and a half typed. Anywho, hope you enjoy! Please leave comments and criticism.
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His eyes crept open, attempting to focus on his surroundings. The black and white marble reflected luminously in the night, casting a somber glow on the weary warrior. A priestess knelt above him, her dress form-fitting and tightly knit with the same contrasting colors of the temple in which she resided. Within her hands, she held a pewter jug filled to the brim with crystal-clear, healing spring water. The soldier’s head rolled to his side, noticing his equipment propped up against a wall. A suit of crimson plate mail, with laces of fire dancing between each link, had multiple gashes and gouges, showing the aftermath of a horrific engagement. Atop his pauldrons rested a royal blue helmet with the radiance of a hint of frost. Adjacent to the plate laid an enormous shield, bearing the contrasting colors of the temple. Tossed atop the pile of gear rested a small, light weight bag, and a hefty backpack filled with numerous vials.
The seeker stood stalwart, his staff firmly grasped within his right hand, with sparks of electric, harnessed lightning sporadically leaping up and down the shaft. His visage narrow, intelligence vast, robe royal, and body slim. Arriving in crimson plate, the warrior viewed his surroundings. A broken wall, hallowed out to be a fortress, stretched as far as he could see. The masonry was Elven in nature, the stone work as elegant as the very beings it represented. Around him, the frozen bleak stood ominously, piercing cold devouring all that it touched. Deadly as the fortress and mountains may be, the warrior found it beautiful.

Her face was full of fret, sweat dripping from her brow. A white-haired priest stood on the opposite side of the warrior, he having the same concerned expression as the priestess. Empty jugs scoured the temple; each supply further darkening the saviors’ hopes. His heart raced, sweat secreting from every pore. His eyes shifted in and out of focus, increasing in severity as his blood continued to pool under him. Lungs raced wildly as his body required more oxygen, attempting to supply his blood adequately. His eyes slowly closed once more.

Azura strafed to the left, dodging a swing of an enormous, notched crimson blade. Her dagger sang of piercing ice; every attack that connected to the warrior’s armor slowly froze the very blood in his veins. His sword was brought down upon her. She erred, and the blade struck true, severing her head completely. A silver, gleaming key faltered from around the neck of the elf, producing a reverberating clang through the halls of the fortress. The warrior picked up the key, and the very head of the frost mistress, and continued to besiege the Elven encampment.

Sembelbin knelt at the warrior’s side, hands stretched forth, attempting to control the sporadic heart beat. The warrior’s eyes rolled around aimlessly, noticing his new surroundings. White and black contrasting colors had vanished, and now the ceiling bore a mundane brown. Within the confines of the room, he spotted four panes of glass, each with vivid reds, greens, yellows, blues, and daunting blacks, whites, grays, and browns. Depicted within the panes were the four horsemen of the apocalypse; War, Death, Pestilence, and Famine. No longer was he lying within his own bodily fluids, but within a pool of gleaming, crystal-blue water. Nausea set in, and the room began to spin.

Lightning itself seemed to incinerate from the inside out, as every blow from Ulectrath sent a current of electricity up his spine. The blade dance of axe and sword seemed to last an eternity between the two. The Keeper of the Storm struck the warrior in the chest, piercing the plate with ease, breaking the chain mail underneath, and slicing through his skin. She held the axe close to her breast in defensible position, as she began to mumble under hear breath. Lightning began to shoot forth from the axe head, piercing the very soul of the warrior. Cringing his teeth together, attempting to survive the incineration. He grasped a savage mace, and with all of his might, he swung the head square into the elf’s stomach, blind-siding her, and interrupting her cast of the lightning. She doubled over, and he brought the hammer down upon her back, immediately severing her spine from her head, instantly killing her. The weary warrior pulled out a knife and cut off her head, rested a moment, and slowly continued deeper, and further, into the fortified wall.

Medicinal experts, alchemists, and other Urdulian priests were speaking with Sembelbin. Upon their faces rested a sense of condemnation, none knowing what else to do. Lying within the healing pool, the warrior’s wounds never seemed to coagulate. A lung was near collapsing, blood pouring into it profusely. His breathing was shallow, short, and without rhythm. Blinking was slowed to an immeasurable pace, his heart working overtime to make up for the loss of blood. His skin was beyond a shade of white, and his eyes have lost all color and radiance, and all hope. His eyes rolled into the back of his head.

The massive obsidian bulwark deflected blow after blow, showing no signs of combat on the husk. Ivicta’s hammer was as mighty as her shield, primeval in nature, and extremely savage. A pure essence of fire coursed through her armaments, singing the very air around her. She stepped out with her left foot, swinging the hammer with all her might. The head of the mace contacted with the warrior’s plate, breaking his upper-right two ribs. Breathing became difficult for him as he began back pedaling. Ivicta brought her maul and bulwark together with extreme might, producing sparks of flame. The maw of her shield opened upon, unleashing a constant stream of red and orange fire that nearly engulfed the warrior. His crimson battle plate absorbed the heat, seemingly rejuvenating him. Using his left foot as a pivot, be brought his right foot up through the fire, above Ivicta’s shield, right into her jaw. She recoiled from the strike of the sabaton, right as her assailant knocked an arrow upon his bow. He let loose, and the arrow sung true through the air, accurately piercing her skull right between her eyes. He slung the bow over his shoulder, and pulled out a savage, silver headed double axe. Left hand on the bottom of the hilt, he arced the head down, letting the elf’s head roll.

Blood has left his extremities, body attempting to keep itself alive. Brain half-dead, his eyes rolled around aimlessly, only seeing silhouettes of the people surrounding him. Shadows danced frantically around the warrior, attempting to control blood loss, keep his temperature up, and praying for him to improve. His heart beat continually slowed, and his ears began to be drowned out with the sound of lapsing water. A piercing pain gradually struck into his neck, his pupils dilated, and his mind began to blur.

The sword’s translucent blade gleamed in the murky moonlight, casting an edged shadow upon the fortress’ walls. Multiple empty vials scoured the floor, their contents drained to the very last drop. His legs flinched, lunged forward, and slid down a fallen, stone wall. Ihotohr stood resilient at the opposite end of the room, his staff arcing electricity to his robes. His Elven figure stood tall, but was dwarfed by the massive abominations, composed of skeletal bones of various sizes. Two crimson titans flanked the Elf, each donning an enormous iron shield, and sharpened, blackened claymores. They charged the warrior with surprising speed for their size and composure. Swords swung at the intruder, each blow deftly parried by the well-trained warrior. He retaliated, the golden, etched blade of his shard struck through one titan, effectively shattering its entire composition, turning it into mere dust. The other titan enraged, seeing its twin perishing before it. The skeletal warrior brought its sword upon the human, striking downward on his left leg, crushing through the plate with sheer force, slicing upon his hamstring. He grit his teeth in the pain, and clumsily brought his sword at the legs of the skeleton, destroying its lower torso. Arms clawing at him, the skeleton was desperate for vengeance. The warrior swung downward, slicing the reanimated titan in two, turning it into another pile of dust. Ihotohr lightly chuckled as his minions fell, the entire time he was preparing a spell. Lightning shot from the head of his staff, striking the warrior, wrapping itself around him. The electricity coursing through his body seemed to hold the warrior within his own skin, preventing him from moving. Pointing the staff head toward the warrior, the Elf let out another phrase, and a spear head of lightning shot forth, hitting the human’s center mass, piercing plate, flesh, and bone. Right above his waist, a gaping hole stood, warm blood pouring from his wound. Grinning, the Elf held his staff head close to the downed warrior. Crimson, gold, and blinding white colors danced upon the shaft as Ihotohr prepared the killing blow. The fiery lightning burned the very oxygen around it as the bolt struck forward toward the downed warrior. An electric field surrounded the warrior, easily deflecting the blow of the piercing bolt. His eyes rolled clouded and rolled, and spotted a figure of a slender man up a story above him, standing on a ledge. A faint shaft of light began glowing on the warrior, slowly lifting him up.

His brain was plagued, diseased, and distraught. Heart seemed to almost stop, veins near dry of contents. Sembelbin and the Seeker, Velend Veron, were exhausted. All attempts of revival seemed fruitless, and all hopes were dimmed. A fair skinned woman with royal blue eyes, gleaming black hair, and a vibrant green dress, stood above the warrior. Her cheeks were stained with tears, her own hands red by the very blood of her fiancée. His lungs collapsed within themselves, devoid of any oxygen. His heart halted, unable to supply the body with the blood that it lacked. Sarevok lay lifeless in the castle of Deralia, surrounded by the very people that he fought to protect. A dwarf, an elf, and humans alike all felt the passing of a great being.
 
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