Just inside the cave he stood. Far enough that he wasn't drenched by the down pouring rain, but not so far that when the ever blowing wind gusted his direction he escaped the mist. In complete darkness he waits. Darkness so thick that you can taste it on your tongue, velvety, cold, lonely. hungry. He stands staring to the northeast waiting and watching. The lightning flares, and the thunder rolls, THERE! Exactly what he'd been hoping for. The tell-tale glint of a metal tool reflecting the lightning, just for a fraction of a second, but long enough for his trained eye.
Wet leather and wet horse fill his nostrils as he and his stallion tear down the trails. Wrapped in animal hides, the horse's foot-falls are muffled. Bent over his neck, bracing into the rain his face whipped by the horse's wet mane, he stares ahead. Adjusting his battle axe laying on his shoulder, cold metal flush against his cheek, he hears the wind eviscerating itself against it's finely honed blade.
Lightning flashes again, 500 yards in the distance the pickaxe glints. The miner, oblivious to his approach swings again, never imagining himself in danger on such a night as this. Thunder and rain buffer the sounds of the assassin as he drives on, his lip curling into a sneer, the blood boiling harder and faster in his veins in anticipation. 200 yards, another swing into the rock wall. 100 yards, the assassin can smell his prey now, even through the rain. 50 yards, the axe begins it's downward trajectory, powered by arms muscled by years of use. 25 yards, the horse adjusts her canter slightly to accommodate the moving target, she too a veteran of many fights. 5 yards, and finally the miner notices something is amiss, but it's too late. Much too late.
The axe buries itself in the miner's skull, cleaving him from crown to pelvis where it momentarily gets caught in hip bone before being pulled free as the rider moves past him, never slowing. Blood, brain, bone, and gore fly into the air even as the body falls to the muddy ground.
Slowing to a trot, the rider turns his steed, scanning and hoping for more targets. Finding none, he leads him back to the mine and slides off of his wet and heaving back. He nudges the lifeless body with his boot as he passes, unconcerned with him. His eyes are on what he came here for, the ore..the precious green syriet. The markets isn't what it once was for this rare rock, but still you can't just let it walk away, after all a man has to eat. He gathers the dead man's pick-axe, his ore, even an amber he managed to dig free and a bit of food and stores them in his saddle bag. Stepping back under the overhanging ledge, free from the rain for a moment, he looks to the southeast, towards the famous Obsidian mine, and wonders if it's worth the ride, on such a night as this.
Edited on 07-05-2019 15:55
Wet leather and wet horse fill his nostrils as he and his stallion tear down the trails. Wrapped in animal hides, the horse's foot-falls are muffled. Bent over his neck, bracing into the rain his face whipped by the horse's wet mane, he stares ahead. Adjusting his battle axe laying on his shoulder, cold metal flush against his cheek, he hears the wind eviscerating itself against it's finely honed blade.
Lightning flashes again, 500 yards in the distance the pickaxe glints. The miner, oblivious to his approach swings again, never imagining himself in danger on such a night as this. Thunder and rain buffer the sounds of the assassin as he drives on, his lip curling into a sneer, the blood boiling harder and faster in his veins in anticipation. 200 yards, another swing into the rock wall. 100 yards, the assassin can smell his prey now, even through the rain. 50 yards, the axe begins it's downward trajectory, powered by arms muscled by years of use. 25 yards, the horse adjusts her canter slightly to accommodate the moving target, she too a veteran of many fights. 5 yards, and finally the miner notices something is amiss, but it's too late. Much too late.
The axe buries itself in the miner's skull, cleaving him from crown to pelvis where it momentarily gets caught in hip bone before being pulled free as the rider moves past him, never slowing. Blood, brain, bone, and gore fly into the air even as the body falls to the muddy ground.
Slowing to a trot, the rider turns his steed, scanning and hoping for more targets. Finding none, he leads him back to the mine and slides off of his wet and heaving back. He nudges the lifeless body with his boot as he passes, unconcerned with him. His eyes are on what he came here for, the ore..the precious green syriet. The markets isn't what it once was for this rare rock, but still you can't just let it walk away, after all a man has to eat. He gathers the dead man's pick-axe, his ore, even an amber he managed to dig free and a bit of food and stores them in his saddle bag. Stepping back under the overhanging ledge, free from the rain for a moment, he looks to the southeast, towards the famous Obsidian mine, and wonders if it's worth the ride, on such a night as this.
Edited on 07-05-2019 15:55
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