Severance: Sword and Fang

Sword and Fang {P.IV}

By the time the mercenary finally caught up to his adrenaline fueled companion she had already delved inside the walls of the necropolis.

Trudging his way through the ravine proved to be an unexpectedly rigorous task- the landscape had deformed and softened into several layers of stinking mud. Twice Saaryn was sucked into the muck and had to wrench both his boots and his horse's hooves free from the ground, which seemed to pull them further underneath with every step.

Leading his horse by the reigns turned out to be just as strenuous. The closer they approached the necropolis the more anxious and apprehensive his horse became, wrestling against Saaryn more vigorously with every inch. However, just before they stepped through the bounds of the fog blanketed graveyard the horse experienced another panic attack, as it had when Cerysipha came too close.

"What the hell is wrong with you?"
Saaryn grunted through clenched teeth as the horse suddenly reared and jerked him backwards, violently wrenching his arm and nearly yanking the limb from it's socket. The horse neighed pugnaciously in protest, unafraid of demonstrating another belligerent quarrel against it's owner. Clearly something about the cemetery deeply bothered the steed, the mercenary concluded, massaging his aching shoulder. But whether it was the explicable stench of death or the daunting ambiance the tombs exuded, he couldn't infer.

In the end he settled on leashing the horse to a tree at what seemed like a comfortable distance from the graveyard.
His boots stuck into the mud only once during the second the trek across.

Light did not seep inside the necropolis. Saaryn's eyes took a moment to adjust to the gloomy intensity of the room he stepped into, and even then he could not decipher anything amidst the inky blackness. Holding out his palm ahead of him, he took a long swallow of air before he turned his conscious inward, reaching for the arcane substance that lay dormant, focusing the energy into his palm and shaping the power until it burst into existence as an exuberant, artificial flame. The darkness timidly retracted from the light's beneficent reach, allowing Saaryn to attain his bearings. Which, the mercenary noted with pleasure, he retained.

The last time he played with sorcery he'd fallen unconscious for the better half of an hour.

 There was little to identify within the condensed rectangular room he occupied. The floor was fashioned from worn granite, the ceiling and walls constructed from stone equally aged. The only furnishings inside were two human shaped statues on either side of a doorway at the opposite end of the room.

Next to them Saaryn spotted an unlit torch mounted onto the wall. Holding the fire in his palm to it, a flame ignited immediately. The mercenary extinguished his spell and with the more vivid and animated glow of the torch examined the statues. They were identically sculpted into the figures of Ha'shil'ir warriors, each brandishing a spear. It was obvious they were positioned as if to be guarding what lay deeper within.

"Elvhen warriors during the Great Migration." Saaryn recognized the details in the craftsmanship: pointed ears, sharp eyes, and lithe dimensions- typical elf physiology.
"Strange, though. Ha'shil'ir don't build architecture like this. Not even for their dead."

Taking the torch from the wall, Saaryn stepped through the doorway into an empty hall.

A shudder crawled across his bones, it was freezing within these walls despite the heat from the lively flame. The corridor was desolate just as the room before had been, save for the occasional spider web and pile of rocks fallen from the eroded wall. The narrow hallway seemed to span the length of the Peildrich Sea with no end in sight.

"How did that woman manage to run through here without being able to see?"
The mercenary asked the looming shadows as they slithered away from the torch's light.