Umber

The battle between the adventurers and Grandfather is studied by an unknown individual, for unknown purposes. (sab)

He sits in a dark, windowless room and looks upon the world. All around him is a tortured landscape, a broken desert covered in unnatural fog. Impassively, he watches. Only the faint sound of a fingernail tapping a chair betrays his boredom and frustration. 

Fas est ab hoste doceri* , he thinks to himself. “Repetere!” he shouts. The scene before him changes abruptly: A dwarf runs into a conference hall, arms waving wildly, shouting at a group of adventurers. Without warning, his form alters and thin, razor sharp blades spring forth from his arms. With shocking accuracy, he strikes the cleric Kuhlefaran once, and once again before the others in the room can react.

His swords pierce her defenses easily and only the grace of her deity allows her to remain standing, though she sways, barely conscious. The others strike, and miss, while he dodges, too fast for the eye to follow. Spells are cast, and he walks through them, smiling, reckless. His form splits and five assassins move forwards. He is alone, yet by force of will still surrounds the combatants, baffling their attacks, foiling shields, striking out where least expected.

The hulking Magnus strikes a skillful blow and the blade crafted by Tenser and Bane flares brightly. Another strike, seemingly led as much by the weapon as by Magnus, catches the assassin off-guard, and hard. Kuhlefaran recovers, then weaves magical bars around him to force her nemesis to fight to the finish, or flee on his own two feet. Serge and Enai attack furiously, forcing their enemy’s concentration on his alternate selves to waver and collapse.

Still, the rapiers fly, slaying Magnus, driving Psydney to the point of unconscious. The gift of the Soul Gardeners fills Magnus and he stands again, ready to strike, while, out of time, healing magic flows over the group, restoring their strength. The Grandfather of Assassins presses the attack ever harder, unwilling to yield, still confident in his superiority, knowing that he has never lost a battle.

Today is his first. A series of hard strikes force him on the defensive. The mage Bane focuses just so and beats a spell through his resistances. The assassin’s body suddenly shrivels like dried fruit and collapses to the ground. The ring of a rapier striking stone remains, the only sound made by the master assassin throughout the entire battle.

“Vidre!” commands the seated man. Once again, he watches over the landscape. “Well, what thoughts have you, Angren?” he asks.

A deep voice replies. “They are strong, and resilient as none before. You must be wary.”

“Ad nocendum potentes sumus**,” says the first.

“Of course, my lord. But enough? And fast enough? I fear that your greed may be the end of you.”

“We shall see. And I still have a surprise or two in store for them yet. Where are they? They must come cautiously for my forces not to have detected them by now. But then, if they were foolish, they would be dead long ago.”

The faint sound of a fingernail tapping a chair fills the silence.

*   One should also learn from one’s enemy.
** We have the power to harm.