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Reemergence of the Secret
Topic Started: Mon Apr 25, 2005 4:59 am (186 Views)
Wynde
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Wynde sat in the common room of the Green Gryphon, hardly noticing the prominent horse designs which usually held his interest so keenly. He needed time to put the day’s events behind him. Wine would help.


It was over almost as soon as it began. There had been no hope for the young warrior, now lying dead in the street. His youthful life had sped away almost as quickly as his malignant attacker.

Wynde had been hard on the road since early the previous morning, but no trace of exertion had yet crept into his consciousness. As he trod along the winding dirt path, Wynde found the woodland had come to an end and he established once more that he was again on the road to Kellen. Almost as soon as he emerged from the sheltering forest, he had become aware of the clamorous sounds of a skirmish. Wynde raced to the top of a nearby hill, just beyond the road, and reached his destination just as the battle was concluding. A young man, barely old enough to leave town alone, and an experienced warrior, scarred and disfigured from past encounters, faced each other. The younger bleeding profusely from wounds in his chest and beshielded arm, hanging limply to his side, while his deep red blood glistened mockingly upon the other’s gleeful blade. With a maniacal gleam in his eye the warrior leaped at the boy, with a howl that would freeze the infernal flames and brought his bloodied scimitar down, breaking the child’s blade and sending the broken hilt crashing to the ground. The boy could do no more than gaze at his shattered sword and as he gazed, such an expression crossed his face. The boy’s face told that he realized that he had met his end. He had not been the invincible force he had thought he was. His sword, his friend, his last and only lifeline had left him and now he was nothing. His young life came crashing down so hard around him; his rock reduced to dust, he raised his eyes in final defiance to his attacker.

He never felt that final blow that would be his demise, for his heart pained in that one moment and he knew he would never rise to greet the sun again.

Wynde’s cry was caught in his throat and bitter tears rolled down his cheeks. His anger caught hold of him again as his irises burned golden as before and his white hair radiated of the sun’s brutal rays. Darkness seemed to gather around him as if to balance his furious countenance. His voice had been found once more and he called upon his wings, flying enraged towards the deformed warrior to make right his injustice. But it was to no avail; the deformed warrior fled to his safety, leaving behind the cooling corpse of the poor boy.


Now, sitting in the Green Gryphon, Wynde felt the need for company. He needed to speak to someone. He needed to speak before his secret reemerged.
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