Sinister Eyes

     
 

The Refugees

Surprisingly few villagers had decided to travel to the cities or villages of Nurm. Most believed all this strange magic and the flight from it was just a strange nightmare that would pass. Roland sighed. They had food, drink and tents to live in, which was enough for the time being. He suspected they would need healing magic soon. No-one ever became sick in the village, but he suspected that to be a side effect of the holy ward, which had failed two days ago. There was little he could do now. Roland hated sitting around and waiting for things to happen.

Fights and battles were won by action, not by reaction. All now hinged on four not exactly trustworthy adventurers somewhere in the mountains. Dak'Yzal joined the man. She seemed to be no older than thirty now. "I am older than I look, but my body does not age any more," she said. Roland looked at her. He was fifty years old and felt a bit strange in the woman's company. "Lonewolf will kill the malign entity beneath the village, even without the others, if she has to," Dak'Yzal said. "I do not trust any of them," Roland said.

"A thief the size of a berserk warrior, a psychopath with a big sword and an idiot with some fighting ability?" he asked. "Your judgement is faulty," Dak'Yzal said. "Braktus is a legend, if you know were to listen, Ishra is a gentle woman cursed with the rage of the spirits and Nirahr is the Butcher of Rorkan. He is the only one, I do not trust. Why would Lonewolf chose him as a partner?" she said. "Perhaps she does not know," Roland said.

"Lonewolf?" Dak'Yzal asked. "She does know and believes she can redeem him." She turned to the man. "Why do you blush?" she asked. "I was just thinking of... something else," he said. "I know," Dak'Yzal said with a smile. She kissed Roland long and hard. Then she seduced him, gently and with great patience.

     

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