The Adventures of ArmorGames: The Fallen
Chapter 6: Again?
Deloric trudged back to the camp. The snow and winds had faded,and all that was left was a gentle thaw, and a bitter stinging left over from the cold. He'd been given provisions and a backpack to carry his things on the way home, as well as having been allowed to keep the sword and his grisly trophy(the mayor certainly didn't want it). For a few hours now he'd been going back, determined to reach home and be acquitted. He wasn't sure what had happened when he beat up Marle; no, that wasn't true. He'd had full control of himself, but it was as if something else was...him. Something with a dark fury behind it. He heard a faint rustling in the nearby woods, and snow and dew was dislodged from one of the pines. Deloric held his sword high, ready for attack. But something hit him in the back of the head, and he went out cold.
Already coughing up blood, Deloric awoke, breathing heavily. The crisp dawn air he'd remembered last had given way to freezing darkness. He went to unsheathe his sword; having some sort of defense in his hands would calm him down. His hand swiped empty air where his scabbard was. Looking around more, Deloric saw his weapons neatly piled to the side of a roaring campfire. And sitting next to the campfire were several people, strange people, with dark, scarred, tattooed faces and cruel glints in their eyes. Most of all, Deloric saw the frightening weapons they held casually. One of them looked over at him.
"Look, lads! Dinner's awake!" he said, grinning, to show a mouth full of sharp teeth filed to points. Deloric felt a numb shock go through him. Dinner? The other rogues began to approach Deloric, who, with wide eyes, got up and started to run. But he was easily thrown to the ground by the leader.
"Not so fast, friend," he said. Deloric struggled to get up, but he was still slightly weakened from the wyvern battle, the cold, and his injuries. The leader put a knife to his throat, and saw his missing fingers.
"Seen battle?" he said, sneering. Deloric shook his head, wide-eyed.
"Frostbite, then," said one of the other rogues. "Look, Olin, let's just kill him and get it over with."
"I'm getting to that," snapped Olin, waving his knife around. He glanced at Deloric again. "He's not worth it. We've got a better deal over there." he gestured to someone unconscious, on the other side of the fire. Deloric hadn't noticed them because they were wearing all black, which blended with the darkness, and it was difficult to see past the blinding bright fire. The body didn't stir, and Deloric felt a growing dread that it was dead.
"So...we let him go?" said a rogue.
"We don't just let him go," said Olin.
"Well?" said the rogue
"Take his things and knock him out. And since he's already apparently had a taste of ice, give him some fire," said Olin, a wicked, cruel glint enveloping his eyes. The rogues around him nodded, and started to approach Deloric. Next thing Deloric knew, he was out cold.
He had no idea how much later he woke up. His head was down in the soothing snow. He didn't dare move. What if the bandits were still there, ready with their fire? The burns and bruises on his face, arms, and legs were still excruciating, although the snow numbed most of it with its cold. Finally, Deloric sat up. He couldn't see anyone. His leather clothes were still on, thank Moat, for without them he would've frozen to death even in the thaw. The bandits had only taken things of value; his food and water, sword, and what meager coins he had. He held a small clump of snow in his freezing hands; luckily, he hadn't gotten frostbite again. The warmth in his hands quickly melted the snow and turned it into water. Thirsty, he gulped it down, and did this until his thirst was quenched. Then, fearing what he would find, melted the snow with his hands. The puddle reflected his face. It was scarred and disfigured with several fresh, red burns.
