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Friday, 8 June 2012

Fantasy Story - Kysharok - Part 2

   "Varai," a sweet but concerned voice came, along with approaching shuffling, and scraping of chairs along the wooden floor. He felt her aura as she knelt beside him, while he knelt hunched over, panting, one hand on the floor, the other still clutching his side. He felt a strong push against his shoulder suddenly, and allowed himself to be hauled upright, too weak to object.
   "Karn, be gentle!" The same voice came again, but with a much sterner tone, and despite the gruff apology, Varai felt himself lifted up unceremoniously over a larger man's shoulder and carried off deeper into the house.
   He was vaguely aware that she was following them, and was equally aware that they had entered a new room, but as he was dropped down onto what he guessed from the spring to be a mattress, he curled up and groaned in pain, sweat now beading on his forehead.
   "Move!" She shouted, pushing the giant man, Karn, to one side and standing over the injured figure. She grabbed a bundle of cloth from a shelf nearby, thrust a bowl into Karn's large hands and began to cut open his black, blood-stained Vankar. He flinched at her touch, but didn't attempt to stop her as she gently inspected the deep gash in his flesh. He heard her mumble things beneath her breath, but didn't try to decipher them, but when a stinging hot sensation sank into his wound, he hissed in pain.
   A cool, wet cloth was pressed against his forehead, and he felt someone stroke his hand - though, in the confused and stressful state he was quickly sinking into, he tried grasping desperately at whatever it was touching him so familiarly, but found nothing there.
   "Calm down, Varai, you're going to be fine, but you need to relax, you must."
   He managed to open his green eyes for a moment and caught a flash of her golden hair, but the stinging returned and he hissed in shock again. He felt desperation rising within him, and gradually became less aware of what was happening around him.

   Meditative silence, broken by screaming; a once beautifully crystal-clear stream, forever spoiled by blood; the concrete slab ground, smashed and crunched up beneath an individual's feet.
   Silver hair, blue eyes, a sharp grin, scarred left jaw, a grey Vankar, an icy-flamed sword. That doubtlessly familiar face filled with evil pleasure.

   He cried out in fury and began slashing his arms this way and that, reliving what he had witnessed and failed to entirely prevent. He hit something heavy, and as five pairs of hands grabbed at him - one of which felt clawed - and he hit something else, a great pain shot through his head, and within seconds, he saw only blackness, though he could still feel their touch for a moment longer.
   Sound began to fade away from him, and he was plunged back into the terrible event with no hope of leaving it. He was forced to stand there and watch from a distance across the concrete courtyard, unable to move and unable to look away, unable even to blink, and all he could do was cry out in agony when his side felt again like it was being burned with a thousand flames.





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