Post by Brandon (Tech) on Jan 23, 2007 12:25:44 GMT -5
A little thing by yours truly ^_^:
The unholy daemon blade sang as it cut through the throat of the rookie squire, its teeth set in bone sliding through flesh, armour and empty air with equal ease. Blood sprayed from the throat of the young conscript like water from a fountain, and the blade Cruentusa shrieked with joy as it greedily drank the sacred liquid of life from the unlucky boy, who was unlikely to have seen more than fifteen summers. At the hilt of the unholy blade was a man who was no longer a man. He was notorious for his bestial cunning, infamous for his malicious strength and renowned for his wicked intelligence. He was ill-famed for his prodigious swordsmanship, and had entered legend, because of his enormous skills of magic. And although his days of evil were behind him, his days of brutal slaughter were not. For he was Agrippa the pale, and no one would stand in his way as long as he mastered the force from were he drew his power, the tome of corruption, the volume of blight but lately it had become known as the book of pale darkness.
A knight in heavy armour swung his two-handed sword at Agrippa. Agrippa nimbly dodged the deadly blow, the shining, razor-sharp edge of the knight’s sword sliding away mere inches from Agrippa’s pale cheek. Agrippa had roamed these realms as a mercenary along with the “Dark Scar” mercenary band for centuries, and these blue-blooded fools thought they could put an end to that! Perhaps they were superior in numbers, but that was about the only advantage they had. And perhaps the Dark Scars consisted of only fifty men or so, but each of the warriors could easily best at least two men, not to mention the hulking ogres that had joined them, or Edge, the warrior prince. Agrippa struck the knight from above, driving his blade through the armoured shoulder of the mortal fool. The blade cut straight through the shoulder plate, effortlessly sliding through the flesh and bone, draining the torrents of blood that resided in the soft flesh. The knight fell to his knees, and as he did, Agrippa spun around, his sword cleaving through the air and decapitating the knight in a single blow, his armour having proved worthless against the unquenchable thirst of Cruentusa.
Agrippa gave himself a moment. A moment, to look around and see just how the battle was going for them. The sight that met him, made him smile. Everywhere he looked on the battlefield, he could see proof of his previous thoughts. One of the towering ogres swung around its massive club, and sent at least half a dozen men flying, there ribs probably already having punctured there lungs beyond saviour. But then his smile faded. He saw a woman, an elven one, riding on a brown steed, heading towards the shattered men. The fact that she wasn’t carrying any armour, and that the only weapon she seemed to carry was a strange looking wooden staff, not to mention the aura of magic that surrounded her spoke for itself.
Agrippa started to run, his startled expression replaced by a snarling smile as he felt the thrill of the hunt grip him. But the part of his mind that was still thinking logically, told him that he had to stop that mage. Female or not, the ogres couldn’t do anything against her magic. When he had almost reached her, she had already started speaking words of power, her eyes glowing with bluish-white light, the arcane staff crackling with power as she pointed it towards one of the ogres. Agrippa leapt from the muddy ground, a sadistic smile twisting his features. He leapt past the sorceress, his agile body passing right in front of her chin. As he passed, he cut her staff in half and kicked her, landing the edge of his foot on her nose. Her sweet little nose, he allowed himself to think as he felt the bone snap. He landed about ten feet away, turning a somersault as he hit the ground and standing upright again in one, liquid motion, his blade at the ready. The mage had fallen of her horse as it reeled from the unsuspected attack. She got to her feet, clutching her nose, blood spilling out over her pretty face, her red hair covered in brown mud.
“A pity” Agrippa thought, eyeing her up in the few moments in which she posed no threat. “A pity she has to die, her beauty is a rare thing to behold indeed.” She staggered unto her feet, her greenish-white dress fluttering in the wind, but she was regaining her composure, Agrippa sensed. He stopped relaxing, and prepared himself to leap out of the way of whatever she was going to throw at him. Magic was a dangerous thing, and even a single mage could be a deadly threat, even to Agrippa.
The mage pointed one of her delicate hands towards Agrippa, and started her ritualistic humming as the power gathered in her long, thin fingers. An instant later, a bolt of arcane lightning shot from her pointing finger, heading straight for Agrippa. Agrippa leapt out of the way, turning a windmill as more of the deadly, lightning strikes left the elven mages hands. The mud showered up as the bolts of light struck it, and Agrippa knew that he had underestimated his adversary. While those bolts probably wouldn’t kill him, they’d certainly cause a lot of damage, and that would be too great a risk to take. He decided that instead of continuously dodging the bolts, and inevitably be struck, to face his enemy and show her the true power of the pale. He stopped suddenly, the last bolt less than ten feet away from his from his frail looking form. He stretched out his pale palm, his black wizard robes fluttering in unearthly winds as the corrupting power of darkness trailed through his body and into his hand. He then unleashed a blast of pure malevolence, a dark purplish ray that crackled with the suffering of millennia. It collided with the ray of light, and with the crushing power of the eternal torment that Agrippa represented, continued, flinging both of the powerful spells back at the unfortunate elf.
She barely managed to scream before the now united force of light and darkness hit her with a soundless explosion, sending her flying across the earth. She drifted several feet through the air before she collided with the earth. She was dead, and even if she wasn’t she posed no threat any longer, her magic powers drained away by the exposure to her own magic. Agrippa quickly saw a heavily armoured man riding a steed, a golden crown adorning his helmet. He could also see a little thin figure, clad in black and purple and mouth covered by a dark-purple piece of cloth, his eyes glowing with hatred as he battled the royal figure. Agrippa smiled again, assured that the shining knight would meet his doom. The figure on the steed was the local king, the fool that had raised arms against Agrippa and his new brethren for no reason that Agrippa could conceive, except for foolish greed.
The dark figure meanwhile, was a warrior named Edgar Kilarion, but he called himself Edge. Edge was the last member of the royal Kilarion bloodline, and he was therefore the only rightful heir to the throne of the elvish kingdom Mortain. He was only half-elf however, his mother having been seduced by a Demon. Edge had inherited his father’s strength, skills and the ability to appear human rather than demon. And now he was using all these powers to hunt down and kill his wretched father. The king struck out at Edge, his polished blade gleaming in the sun. Edge parried the attack with the royal skill of a prince, and then kicked with the malicious strength of an assassin, aimed at the king’s chin, firmly hidden behind his visor. The kick struck its intended target and as the king struggled to remain in his saddle, Edge jumped up to kick a second time turning his body around in the air. This time the kick was aimed at the chest of the human king, and it hit with such precision that the king toppled out of the saddle, falling into the wet mud, his heavy armour turned from a benefit into a drawback. As the king staggered back unto his feet, Edge calmly drew his sword out of the scabbard on his back. This blade was a mix between a royalist duelling sword, and the blade of murder used by an assassin, much like Edge himself, Agrippa thought, snapping out of his dreams as he was assailed by another figure in shining armour.
Agrippa parried the first blow without to much difficulty and the second one too. The third blow was dealt by the shield though, and Agrippa was struck in the face, the steely edge of the shield drawing a thin line of blood on his forehead. Agrippa stood stunned for a split moment, caught by surprise, but managed to pull himself enough together to move his throat out of the way, before the shining silver blade cut him a head shorter. The blade slit the upper layer of the flesh on Agrippa’s throat, his dark red blood soaking into his black, gold adorned wizard robes. Agrippa’s counterblow was stopped by the shield of his adversary, and Agrippa just managed to twist his sword to catch his opponent’s before he lost his arm. Agrippa pulled away from his opponent, pulling his waist backwards keeping it out of range from his competitor’s deadly forward thrust. His opponent then converted his forward thrust into an upward blow, taking another step forward, his brilliant armour reflecting the sun. Agrippa let his waist slip into place and bent his torso backwards as the flashing blade cut through the air that had contained Agrippa the pale’s head less than a second ago. Agrippa then swung himself below the blade, striking at his enemy’s torso from below. His competitor retracted his waist however, and the blow that would have cut his belly open was instead reduced to a lesser flesh wound. Some of the other warriors had stopped fighting and had instead gathered around the two fiercely battling opponents. The two turbulent combatants hardly noticed, all of their concentration locked on their adversary, their rage to great, and their hatred to powerful to sense anything else.
Agrippa parried a vertical blow, and replied with a horizontal strike that was promptly stopped by his opponent’s shield. His opponent’s next attack came from below his waist, cutting upwards towards Agrippa’s throat. Agrippa parried the blow, holding the sword away by having both of his hands clutching the hilt of his own blade, desperately pushing against the forceful edge of his opponent’s deadly silver sword. Agrippa gritted his teeth, trying to force himself not to give in to the force of his opponent, but he knew he couldn’t hold it for long. Suddenly he saw his chance. Agrippa dropped his parry, rolled under his opponent’s guard, and struck out. His adversary was caught completely off guard; he only just managed to move his guts out of the way before Cruentusa penetrated his armour, cutting a deep wound into his side. Agrippa then hammered his fist into the armour cowering his competitor’s stomach, striking with unholy precision, his fist grinding the solid steel into the guts of his challenger. Then without warning he stood up, driving his blade upwards, into the ribcage of his rival, cutting right through his fragile flesh. Then Agrippa spun around, swinging his sword around in a wide arc, decapitating his enemy even as he fell.
There was silence on the battlefield. In seconds that felt like years, no one said a word, the only sound Agrippa’s chest heaving, as he tried to catch his breath. Then he lifted his sword until it was level with the eyes of the remaining adversaries. “Next” he murmured. No one moved a muscle, and Agrippa could see why. They’d lost their king, sorceress and champion. At least Agrippa hoped he was the champion, because if they had more like him, Agrippa’s fate was sealed. As no one moved, Agrippa concluded that he had been right. There were no more people that could really challenge the Dark Scar war band, their strongest and most devoted warriors slain, and their only sorcerer dead. “I said next, by the blood of darkness! Is there no one else willing to defend their life or honour?!” One of the mustered soldiers, an elderly one, swallowed hard. “Are you going to kill us, sire?” Agrippa looked briefly at the tall, cloaked figure, standing a few yards away from him. Briefly, their eyes met and the figure shook his head. Agrippa looked back at the gathered militia. “No, those of you who want to go can go. But we expect a payment of no less than….” He held a brief moment’s break, thinking through the expenses, adding and withdrawing, dividing and multiplying. “Fifty thousand gold pieces, delivered out here by next dawn. Then you will be able to collect the bodies of the fallen, except…” Agrippa gestured towards the corpse of the slain king with his sword “that of your king and this one.“ He pointed the sword downwards at the slain champion at his feet. “The rest you can have.”
The people agreed. They didn’t really have a choice. Agrippa felt a little sad by the rough conditioning he had placed on them. After all, it couldn’t have been their decision to raise arms against the Dark Scars. On the other hand, it seemed that the king hadn’t been very well liked, maybe even hated. And the champion could very well have been an instrument of fear the king had used to subdue the people. Agrippa had returned to his wagon, a tent placed on a wooden floor, mounted on wheels. He was writing in his journal, and working out the expenses for the battle. After a while he closed the book, put it away, and sealed his ink house. Time to read. He pulled out the big book with caution, as if scared that it would suddenly bite him. It dropped unto his desk with a deep thud. The cover of the book was richly decorated, well fashioned pieces of gold plating covering the front of the book, with runes of power that glowed with a myriad of different colours. That, however, was nothing next the large, glasslike orb, shaped like a demon eye.
Agrippa swallowed hard. As he grabbed the book’s cower, the eyelike orb rolled to face him. Agrippa looked down into the wooden floor, refusing to face the beholding sphere. “No”. He muttered, more to the orb than to himself. “Not tonight.” The book started to tremble, the vibrations making the desk shake, the orb persistently staring at Agrippa. “I said no”. Agrippa said, his voice now becoming more defiant, as he lifted his head slightly towards the book, but still looking down into the floor. The vibrations increased, the entire wagon shaking, as the unholy rage of the book tried to defy the will of its former champion. “I said no!” Agrippa’s voice was filled with anger, his back almost straight as he fought to shrug of the insidious influence of the vile book. The vibrations increased, the whole wagon now shaking so violently that books, parchments, statuettes and other small items fell over and dropped down from their places. Agrippa had lifted is gaze, and was now staring into the greedy globe, the eye now glowing with an unnatural red light. Agrippa gritted his teeth with rage and as he spoke, his voice crackled with hatred, pausing between every word, hurling all of his force of will into the mental combat. “I…. said…… NO!!!!” The last word was shouted with such defiance, such willpower that the book immediately went cold. The vibrations stopped and the unholy glow in the eye faded.
Agrippa stood still, exhausted, trying to catch his breath, staring at the otherworldly book. Dealing with the book was dangerous, even in the best of circumstances, and it was a task that Agrippa never took lightly. The book was far too powerful to throw away. Anyone who found it would become the vessel of its enormous power and corrupted thoughts. Agrippa, still shaking from the enormous loss of energy, seized a glass vial filled with a thick purple liquid from one of his shelves, and drank it. A surge of power went through his body as the arcane fluid started to circulate his internal organs. The rush of energy was so powerful that Agrippa nearly lost his balance. He leaned himself against his chair, gasping for air. As he regained control over his body, he stood upright, flung back his head, and laughed a loud, manic and maddening laughter. Who cared that one of the side effects of corrupted angel blood was temporary madness, compared to the boost of intelligence, rush of knowledge and the unholy energy it brought the one who drank it? Agrippa then sat down and focused all of his maddened understanding into the book.
The unholy daemon blade sang as it cut through the throat of the rookie squire, its teeth set in bone sliding through flesh, armour and empty air with equal ease. Blood sprayed from the throat of the young conscript like water from a fountain, and the blade Cruentusa shrieked with joy as it greedily drank the sacred liquid of life from the unlucky boy, who was unlikely to have seen more than fifteen summers. At the hilt of the unholy blade was a man who was no longer a man. He was notorious for his bestial cunning, infamous for his malicious strength and renowned for his wicked intelligence. He was ill-famed for his prodigious swordsmanship, and had entered legend, because of his enormous skills of magic. And although his days of evil were behind him, his days of brutal slaughter were not. For he was Agrippa the pale, and no one would stand in his way as long as he mastered the force from were he drew his power, the tome of corruption, the volume of blight but lately it had become known as the book of pale darkness.
A knight in heavy armour swung his two-handed sword at Agrippa. Agrippa nimbly dodged the deadly blow, the shining, razor-sharp edge of the knight’s sword sliding away mere inches from Agrippa’s pale cheek. Agrippa had roamed these realms as a mercenary along with the “Dark Scar” mercenary band for centuries, and these blue-blooded fools thought they could put an end to that! Perhaps they were superior in numbers, but that was about the only advantage they had. And perhaps the Dark Scars consisted of only fifty men or so, but each of the warriors could easily best at least two men, not to mention the hulking ogres that had joined them, or Edge, the warrior prince. Agrippa struck the knight from above, driving his blade through the armoured shoulder of the mortal fool. The blade cut straight through the shoulder plate, effortlessly sliding through the flesh and bone, draining the torrents of blood that resided in the soft flesh. The knight fell to his knees, and as he did, Agrippa spun around, his sword cleaving through the air and decapitating the knight in a single blow, his armour having proved worthless against the unquenchable thirst of Cruentusa.
Agrippa gave himself a moment. A moment, to look around and see just how the battle was going for them. The sight that met him, made him smile. Everywhere he looked on the battlefield, he could see proof of his previous thoughts. One of the towering ogres swung around its massive club, and sent at least half a dozen men flying, there ribs probably already having punctured there lungs beyond saviour. But then his smile faded. He saw a woman, an elven one, riding on a brown steed, heading towards the shattered men. The fact that she wasn’t carrying any armour, and that the only weapon she seemed to carry was a strange looking wooden staff, not to mention the aura of magic that surrounded her spoke for itself.
Agrippa started to run, his startled expression replaced by a snarling smile as he felt the thrill of the hunt grip him. But the part of his mind that was still thinking logically, told him that he had to stop that mage. Female or not, the ogres couldn’t do anything against her magic. When he had almost reached her, she had already started speaking words of power, her eyes glowing with bluish-white light, the arcane staff crackling with power as she pointed it towards one of the ogres. Agrippa leapt from the muddy ground, a sadistic smile twisting his features. He leapt past the sorceress, his agile body passing right in front of her chin. As he passed, he cut her staff in half and kicked her, landing the edge of his foot on her nose. Her sweet little nose, he allowed himself to think as he felt the bone snap. He landed about ten feet away, turning a somersault as he hit the ground and standing upright again in one, liquid motion, his blade at the ready. The mage had fallen of her horse as it reeled from the unsuspected attack. She got to her feet, clutching her nose, blood spilling out over her pretty face, her red hair covered in brown mud.
“A pity” Agrippa thought, eyeing her up in the few moments in which she posed no threat. “A pity she has to die, her beauty is a rare thing to behold indeed.” She staggered unto her feet, her greenish-white dress fluttering in the wind, but she was regaining her composure, Agrippa sensed. He stopped relaxing, and prepared himself to leap out of the way of whatever she was going to throw at him. Magic was a dangerous thing, and even a single mage could be a deadly threat, even to Agrippa.
The mage pointed one of her delicate hands towards Agrippa, and started her ritualistic humming as the power gathered in her long, thin fingers. An instant later, a bolt of arcane lightning shot from her pointing finger, heading straight for Agrippa. Agrippa leapt out of the way, turning a windmill as more of the deadly, lightning strikes left the elven mages hands. The mud showered up as the bolts of light struck it, and Agrippa knew that he had underestimated his adversary. While those bolts probably wouldn’t kill him, they’d certainly cause a lot of damage, and that would be too great a risk to take. He decided that instead of continuously dodging the bolts, and inevitably be struck, to face his enemy and show her the true power of the pale. He stopped suddenly, the last bolt less than ten feet away from his from his frail looking form. He stretched out his pale palm, his black wizard robes fluttering in unearthly winds as the corrupting power of darkness trailed through his body and into his hand. He then unleashed a blast of pure malevolence, a dark purplish ray that crackled with the suffering of millennia. It collided with the ray of light, and with the crushing power of the eternal torment that Agrippa represented, continued, flinging both of the powerful spells back at the unfortunate elf.
She barely managed to scream before the now united force of light and darkness hit her with a soundless explosion, sending her flying across the earth. She drifted several feet through the air before she collided with the earth. She was dead, and even if she wasn’t she posed no threat any longer, her magic powers drained away by the exposure to her own magic. Agrippa quickly saw a heavily armoured man riding a steed, a golden crown adorning his helmet. He could also see a little thin figure, clad in black and purple and mouth covered by a dark-purple piece of cloth, his eyes glowing with hatred as he battled the royal figure. Agrippa smiled again, assured that the shining knight would meet his doom. The figure on the steed was the local king, the fool that had raised arms against Agrippa and his new brethren for no reason that Agrippa could conceive, except for foolish greed.
The dark figure meanwhile, was a warrior named Edgar Kilarion, but he called himself Edge. Edge was the last member of the royal Kilarion bloodline, and he was therefore the only rightful heir to the throne of the elvish kingdom Mortain. He was only half-elf however, his mother having been seduced by a Demon. Edge had inherited his father’s strength, skills and the ability to appear human rather than demon. And now he was using all these powers to hunt down and kill his wretched father. The king struck out at Edge, his polished blade gleaming in the sun. Edge parried the attack with the royal skill of a prince, and then kicked with the malicious strength of an assassin, aimed at the king’s chin, firmly hidden behind his visor. The kick struck its intended target and as the king struggled to remain in his saddle, Edge jumped up to kick a second time turning his body around in the air. This time the kick was aimed at the chest of the human king, and it hit with such precision that the king toppled out of the saddle, falling into the wet mud, his heavy armour turned from a benefit into a drawback. As the king staggered back unto his feet, Edge calmly drew his sword out of the scabbard on his back. This blade was a mix between a royalist duelling sword, and the blade of murder used by an assassin, much like Edge himself, Agrippa thought, snapping out of his dreams as he was assailed by another figure in shining armour.
Agrippa parried the first blow without to much difficulty and the second one too. The third blow was dealt by the shield though, and Agrippa was struck in the face, the steely edge of the shield drawing a thin line of blood on his forehead. Agrippa stood stunned for a split moment, caught by surprise, but managed to pull himself enough together to move his throat out of the way, before the shining silver blade cut him a head shorter. The blade slit the upper layer of the flesh on Agrippa’s throat, his dark red blood soaking into his black, gold adorned wizard robes. Agrippa’s counterblow was stopped by the shield of his adversary, and Agrippa just managed to twist his sword to catch his opponent’s before he lost his arm. Agrippa pulled away from his opponent, pulling his waist backwards keeping it out of range from his competitor’s deadly forward thrust. His opponent then converted his forward thrust into an upward blow, taking another step forward, his brilliant armour reflecting the sun. Agrippa let his waist slip into place and bent his torso backwards as the flashing blade cut through the air that had contained Agrippa the pale’s head less than a second ago. Agrippa then swung himself below the blade, striking at his enemy’s torso from below. His competitor retracted his waist however, and the blow that would have cut his belly open was instead reduced to a lesser flesh wound. Some of the other warriors had stopped fighting and had instead gathered around the two fiercely battling opponents. The two turbulent combatants hardly noticed, all of their concentration locked on their adversary, their rage to great, and their hatred to powerful to sense anything else.
Agrippa parried a vertical blow, and replied with a horizontal strike that was promptly stopped by his opponent’s shield. His opponent’s next attack came from below his waist, cutting upwards towards Agrippa’s throat. Agrippa parried the blow, holding the sword away by having both of his hands clutching the hilt of his own blade, desperately pushing against the forceful edge of his opponent’s deadly silver sword. Agrippa gritted his teeth, trying to force himself not to give in to the force of his opponent, but he knew he couldn’t hold it for long. Suddenly he saw his chance. Agrippa dropped his parry, rolled under his opponent’s guard, and struck out. His adversary was caught completely off guard; he only just managed to move his guts out of the way before Cruentusa penetrated his armour, cutting a deep wound into his side. Agrippa then hammered his fist into the armour cowering his competitor’s stomach, striking with unholy precision, his fist grinding the solid steel into the guts of his challenger. Then without warning he stood up, driving his blade upwards, into the ribcage of his rival, cutting right through his fragile flesh. Then Agrippa spun around, swinging his sword around in a wide arc, decapitating his enemy even as he fell.
There was silence on the battlefield. In seconds that felt like years, no one said a word, the only sound Agrippa’s chest heaving, as he tried to catch his breath. Then he lifted his sword until it was level with the eyes of the remaining adversaries. “Next” he murmured. No one moved a muscle, and Agrippa could see why. They’d lost their king, sorceress and champion. At least Agrippa hoped he was the champion, because if they had more like him, Agrippa’s fate was sealed. As no one moved, Agrippa concluded that he had been right. There were no more people that could really challenge the Dark Scar war band, their strongest and most devoted warriors slain, and their only sorcerer dead. “I said next, by the blood of darkness! Is there no one else willing to defend their life or honour?!” One of the mustered soldiers, an elderly one, swallowed hard. “Are you going to kill us, sire?” Agrippa looked briefly at the tall, cloaked figure, standing a few yards away from him. Briefly, their eyes met and the figure shook his head. Agrippa looked back at the gathered militia. “No, those of you who want to go can go. But we expect a payment of no less than….” He held a brief moment’s break, thinking through the expenses, adding and withdrawing, dividing and multiplying. “Fifty thousand gold pieces, delivered out here by next dawn. Then you will be able to collect the bodies of the fallen, except…” Agrippa gestured towards the corpse of the slain king with his sword “that of your king and this one.“ He pointed the sword downwards at the slain champion at his feet. “The rest you can have.”
The people agreed. They didn’t really have a choice. Agrippa felt a little sad by the rough conditioning he had placed on them. After all, it couldn’t have been their decision to raise arms against the Dark Scars. On the other hand, it seemed that the king hadn’t been very well liked, maybe even hated. And the champion could very well have been an instrument of fear the king had used to subdue the people. Agrippa had returned to his wagon, a tent placed on a wooden floor, mounted on wheels. He was writing in his journal, and working out the expenses for the battle. After a while he closed the book, put it away, and sealed his ink house. Time to read. He pulled out the big book with caution, as if scared that it would suddenly bite him. It dropped unto his desk with a deep thud. The cover of the book was richly decorated, well fashioned pieces of gold plating covering the front of the book, with runes of power that glowed with a myriad of different colours. That, however, was nothing next the large, glasslike orb, shaped like a demon eye.
Agrippa swallowed hard. As he grabbed the book’s cower, the eyelike orb rolled to face him. Agrippa looked down into the wooden floor, refusing to face the beholding sphere. “No”. He muttered, more to the orb than to himself. “Not tonight.” The book started to tremble, the vibrations making the desk shake, the orb persistently staring at Agrippa. “I said no”. Agrippa said, his voice now becoming more defiant, as he lifted his head slightly towards the book, but still looking down into the floor. The vibrations increased, the entire wagon shaking, as the unholy rage of the book tried to defy the will of its former champion. “I said no!” Agrippa’s voice was filled with anger, his back almost straight as he fought to shrug of the insidious influence of the vile book. The vibrations increased, the whole wagon now shaking so violently that books, parchments, statuettes and other small items fell over and dropped down from their places. Agrippa had lifted is gaze, and was now staring into the greedy globe, the eye now glowing with an unnatural red light. Agrippa gritted his teeth with rage and as he spoke, his voice crackled with hatred, pausing between every word, hurling all of his force of will into the mental combat. “I…. said…… NO!!!!” The last word was shouted with such defiance, such willpower that the book immediately went cold. The vibrations stopped and the unholy glow in the eye faded.
Agrippa stood still, exhausted, trying to catch his breath, staring at the otherworldly book. Dealing with the book was dangerous, even in the best of circumstances, and it was a task that Agrippa never took lightly. The book was far too powerful to throw away. Anyone who found it would become the vessel of its enormous power and corrupted thoughts. Agrippa, still shaking from the enormous loss of energy, seized a glass vial filled with a thick purple liquid from one of his shelves, and drank it. A surge of power went through his body as the arcane fluid started to circulate his internal organs. The rush of energy was so powerful that Agrippa nearly lost his balance. He leaned himself against his chair, gasping for air. As he regained control over his body, he stood upright, flung back his head, and laughed a loud, manic and maddening laughter. Who cared that one of the side effects of corrupted angel blood was temporary madness, compared to the boost of intelligence, rush of knowledge and the unholy energy it brought the one who drank it? Agrippa then sat down and focused all of his maddened understanding into the book.
