Oh, what faceless demon
Breaking bread
With emerald gleaming
Eyes destruction
Woe is meaning
Blind dejection
Anger seething
You are with me
Lies lay beaming
Like reflections
From my blade
As shining rays
Of several suns
The Prospector awoke to a pool of ice-cold sweat, hunger pangs and dread. He lurched his body sideways. Instinctively grasping for the dagger on his nightstand. And yet, he missed his mark. Sliding past the small table, rolling from his bed and crashing hard, headfirst into the floor. He jumped to his feet and clutched his face, feeling around for several teeth that were now missing. A moment later two more fell skipping across the floor. He cried out but only silence answered back. Echoing into an empty void...
The Prospector awoke once more. This time to quiet-calm and a cool autumn air rolling over the window sill. The moonlight from outside dispelled any mystery. Duramarth’s eyes panned around the room, searching for the spirits that beguiled him.
He stopped instinctively. His gaze now fixated on the black blade resting comfortably in its sheath up against the wall in the far corner of his chamber. The emerald set in the end of its pommel flickered in the moonlight.
Later that evening, Duramarth hammered the final nail into a long narrow box and loaded it onto a horse-drawn wagon.
“Thank you for taking care of this for me on such short notice. You’re a true friend Cynraede.”
The hooded driver looked back and nodded, then headed out to the road.
