Twilight shadows filtered across the landscape, dark figures once unnoticed in the daylight within secret dells and hidden coves, stirred with restless primal urges. Even as the lone silhouette of the woman left the raucous, stinking camp, other light-threaded shadows drew near; the scents, the sounds, these things brought them, but it was the camp's state of ease, it's aroma of feeble sickness like that of an ailing deer, a deer stalked by voracious predators that brought about the attack.
"Hey Brythe, whazzat sound? It sounds familiar..."
"Shut it...Can't talk and vomit...*Bluuureh*...At the same time!"
"Do you hear laughing, Brythe?"
"Quiet you two! There's something in the...Andraste!!! Dar-aaaaAAAAAHH
The men were set upon like they were fresh meat, and just like dimwitted sheep they were slaughtered, Darkspawn pouring out of the camp outskirts like ravenous beasts, though they weren't a hoard, nor a very large group, the men were doomed from the beginning, their guards, senses, and even their pants had been down, and none but a few had enough of their senses about them to retaliate. Too late, before one could recite a short proverb the few fighters who were ready were outnumbered, their comrades dead and bleeding on the ground where they had just been drinking, sleeping, vomiting, or even defecating....They too died, short, horrible deaths.
The sounds of the screaming men as they died carried far, attracting the attention of yet more swift death, death for them that is. Seeing one like them kill their Alpha broke the group, the single ogre of the Darkspawn band finding it difficult to turn away from it's leader's killer, only it's slowly accumulating wounds forcing it after it's retreating brethren.
"The Frail" stood over the Alpha Hurlock's corpse, another Hurlock body nearby, some dead Genlocks littered the camp in sparse areas, some killed by the few ready men, the rest by "The Frail".
He stood there, his dull corpse-like eyes peering from beneath the strange rags about his head, his gaze resting on the carnage about him; in his right hand he gripped a mighty faceted mace
that had the name 'Fuil-Iarann'
, something the wielder didn't understand, nor did he give it, but he kept it as he knew it. In the left hand he held a Darkspawn forged blade
that had no name, he simply called it the Alpha blade, as it was his first. Strapped to his left upper arm was a small flayed shield
, something he rarely used, but kept mounted on his arm like a trophy, a very protective one.
Through the blood and mist of death, he smelled, no, felt someone, still alive, away from the camp. He remained, they would return. No one could ignore the screams that had rended the air that night, he didn't, he couldn't
((I took the liberty of killing the camp off as a nice way of introducing "The Frail" to Perdante - Should create an interesting situation. If you didn't want them dead Tysy, then tell me, and I'll edit.))