Note: This will be the last in my character sketch series for Elsabetta. Next up we will peep in at a female half-orc barbarian who dwells in Protector’s Enclave. The image above is a render, something created from the bowels of A.I. I suspect.
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The bog is wide, populated by grassy hillocks, fortified by shambling mobs of undead. Mires here and there stand blind and black, stopping passage from point-to-point travel. Best thing to do is travel silently, avoiding contact with the undead, for they are the sentinels. Once disturbed, all Khyber will break loose, calling in the spell casting wraiths. It’s a doomed situation from the beginning.
My wood elf sensitivities wrestle with my desire to set fire to the thick grass seas that grow along the mires, but after a careful assay, I see it will be essential if I am to survive this raid. My sisters in the mission, three human rogues (Rose, Lira, and Graver) will know it’s me, and change their tactics per situation on their own. They are all human, but their experiences as rogues began in one common zone: Protectors Enclave and the wild zones around Neverwinter. I was not worried about them one bit. In fact, I look forward to working with them again.
Thus far I do not exist to the congregation of undead. Invisibility is my usual goal, but I know its completely unreliable. So, I hunker, and pull out my flint from my belt pocket, and my dagger. Kindling? Well, you guessed it, the grass itself. This was going to be a wild party. Spark, spark, spark, and a flame crackles to life. I bend the dry grass toward the small flame, and viola, you have a healthy beginning of a regular conflagration. I bend down, running back to the main trail, and wait.
In moments, I hear the opening of a portal, see a purple-robed, magic-wielding wraith glide out to eyeball the conflagration. I nock my arrow, stand, and let fly. I quickly send another, and another even as the first strikes the partially physical wraith in the back. The second hits his shoulder, and the third sticks into his left eye. His hands begin to glow–its casting. I roll away out of instinct, and the fireball explodes. The aim was off, but it’s good for the mission. Where the fireball hits, another grass fire ignites.
The smoke rising from the grass billows black over the area as if a red dragon had angrily blessed the area with its flaming breath. I see a confused group of undead shambling my way, so I open fire, luring them to the nearest snickering blaze. I fire three at once, my trick shot. It can kill, but it’s not reliable. Think more of a tap on the shoulder, an invitation to come and get me.
The mob closes in, and a roaring flame towers behind me. I roll to my right as the undead flail at the roaring wall. They are consumed in moments. I hear whoops of victory and know it’s the three sister- rogues. I begin trotting their way, thrumming my bow here and there, persuading the undead to follow me to their doom.
“You bitch,” Rose laughed, “I thought you were Miss Nature and all.” Her sword and dagger drip with black undead blood.
“Nature is a bitch at times,” I say, smiling. “Are your outlaw sisters near?”
“They are. I think we are done here.” She looks toward the roaring wall of flame that crept forward, tossing like a red sea of death.
“Time to leave,” Lira says, running out of the smoke. Graver is behind her.
“Ok, Miss Elven Ranger, which way,” Rose says, all sarcasm
I point north. “If we run now, we can circle around Death before it closes us off from life. There’s a bit of woodland to trek through, but we will hit the road to Protector’s Enclave eventually.”
“Lead on,” Rose says, pulling up a red linen scarf over her nose. And so we run, out pacing certain death for the shadows of the nearby woodland, and then, the road.
–End