The Fate of Malice

Chapter Two: No Rest for the Wicked

AS THE SUN STARTED ITS DECENT ONTO THE HORIZON, the festivities dwindled and party-goers began to leave the celebration in the great hall, to return to their homes. Izor sat in an oversized wooden chair, with a leg draped over one of the arms, drunkenly humming a tune he thought he may have heard somewhere in his past. His vision was a little blurry from the abundance of ale consumption, but he could still see the form of an unconscious Lady Catherine sprawled out on top of the dinner table, her skirts were covering her face, and her bare legs, all the way up to her hips, were exposed.

Izor slowly stood up and stretched. He leaned over, pulled the lady's skirts back down to her ankles, and gave her a gentle pat on the top of her head. He grabbed the attention of the nearest servant and asked them to help Lady Catherine to one of the castle's vacant guestrooms, only for tonight. He urged them to check in on her occasionally and to fetch an herbalist for the headache that the following morning would undoubtedly bring, once she did awaken. The servants were then to escort her back to her manor, and to let him know when their task had been completed. Izor sighed, rubbing his fingers against his temples, and turned to begin his journey to his private bedchamber.

On his way down the hallway that led to his room, though, the hairs on the back of his neck suddenly prickled. He stopped walking, quickly closed his eyes, and focused on his surroundings. Which so happened to be annoyingly difficult, in his current drunken state.

"Godsdammit," he cursed under his breath, finally picking up what had caught his acute senses, and quickly threw his body down onto the rug below him. Izor had barely escaped a wide-sweeping cut by a large two-handed sword.

"Nice try, Davruli Warhelm!" Izor exclaimed while he was still lying prone on the ground. The dwarven assailant, standing a couple feet behind Izor, was in black metal armor from shoulders to feet, wielding a large two-handed sword made of similar dark steel to match his armor.

 Davruli wasn't wearing the helmet to his armor set, though, so his flowing beard full of braids and tiny beads, each one having dwarven runes engraved into them, made for quite the glorious spectacle across his chest. Izor noticed that Davruli was twisting back around, using the momentum from his initial attack, to strike again.

"I 'ave ye now, ya filthy lit'l mage!" Davruli shouted, and made to slam his impressive sword down onto the mage, who had managed to get to his knees.

Izor whipped his hands quickly in front of him, and casted a magical ward which deflected the powerful incoming blow. The dwarf recoiled as his heavy blade bounced off the invisible barrier.

"That'd be cheatin', ye filthy vermin!" Davruli shouted, but a playful smile tugged at his lips.

"No, it's MAGIC," Izor retorted with stern playfulness. "I am a mage, after all, my friend," he let out a little drunken giggle and stood up; while noticing that the walls were starting to spin and wobble a little. For a brief moment, he closed his eyes, feeling his stomach lurch, but he refused to vomit in front of the proudly playful dwarf. The two had made a bet years ago, that the first one to truly surprise the other, would have to buy the other one ale for the rest of their lives.

"What's t' matter, Izor? Did ye a wee bit too much drinkin' ag'n? Feeling yerself going a wee mad?" the dwarf teased, while he rested the large heavy blade onto his left shoulder. Reaching out with his other hand to help steady Izor, and a small look of concern began to show on his face.