The Search

How ironic. Of all creatures, the elves could have found no better sentinel against him than vampires.

It took precious little time for him to decide that leaving the area was best. The elves of the glade would have to wait. His time would come. There was, of course, one fortune. His guide had been taken from the glade. That beacon had moved quite far — but not far enough to alleviate the draining. Even now, the dark man made his way through the woods, his green-flamed skull candle still divining his direction.

In the distance, he heard the familiar clash of steel. He moved steadily closer, careful not to give himself away — the circle of imperceptibility, powered by the stolen life of a wandering healer, had long since expired. He peered into the clearing. If he had not been taken aback by the image, he might have been struck by the beauty in which the scene was framed. Trammel and Felucca were shining bright in this midnight hour. In their soft light, he could see a lone warrior capably fighting off a Reaper. For a moment, his hand made it's way to the bone-hilt of his sword. As if on cue, the Reaper ceased it's attack on the warrior, and began sensing outward. The dark practitioner tensed immediately. Yes. The old hatred still lives. He began to step backwards, moving further into the woods.

When the thing was fully out of range, he allowed his muscles to relax. His blood coursed with anger. How he wanted the essence of that warrior! But he would not risk a confrontation with his ancient adversary. And where Reapers stood, that abomination often followed. No. There is far too much hanging in the balance.

He refocused his attention on the matter at hand — sustenance. He made his way south and east, toward the crossroads near Britain. Somewhere out there was a soul that had fallen to him once. Now it was time to complete the ritual. The dark man grinned.

Soon. Very soon. His green-flame led the way.