Rise of the Blade - Charles Moffat [31]
Bartholomew snorted and looked down at Pierce with what looked like a scowl. He scratched the floor with a horseshoe.
The Doctor scowled in return and got to his feet slowly. "I see you're just as charming as always," he mocked with a seemingly polite smile. The problem with horses, and all animals it seemed, was that Pierce couldn't delve into their minds. They were blank, hidden from his prying mind. He couldn't fathom what Bartholomew thought of him, for it was both a love and hate relationship. The horse respected him for his skill and control, yet hated him for the same reason.
"Okay Bart," Pierce said with a grunt as he mounted the horse bareback, his preferred riding style, especially when Bartholomew hated the bulky saddle and tended to be even more tempersome than normal. "Lets go see Nicole." He clicked his tongue and tapped the horse's flanks with his boots.
Bartholomew, as well trained as he was huge, started off at a gallop. Today he was happy to be out and about once more and it was undoubtable that the stallion was feeling invigorated despite the chill autumn wind.
A throne of white marble sat admidst the weavings of shadowy webs that glistened in the pale light that permeated from the gloomy surroundings without a source of name. The throne itself changed colour constantly, its white marble changing to black in an ever churning cycle of corruption.
The robust figure of a grey skinned half-elf, or rather a half-drow, sat upon it. He was both tall and broad shouldered, an unusual trait for any half-elf, and he sat in a slumped position that was both lewd yet graceful.
Here sat the god of corruption, known only to his benefactors as Korehren. For one to assume that this avatar was everything that was the god, they were naive indeed. The figure that lay so limply upon the throne and stared into the gloom was but a facet of a greater thing, for one could not call it a creature in any way or form, that spread itself across the universe and planes in a multitude of forms.
He was within the heart of every man, woman and child, tempting the minds of the weak with the desires he forged in order to corrupt their wills until they were solely under his control. The question many theologists asked was, where did Korehren come from? Had he always been there? Or had he been willed into form by another, more powerful being? Ao, the overlord of the gods perhaps?
Of course, another theory was that he was actually the bastard son of Cyric and Lloth and was relatively young in the ways of gods, yet certainly had a knack for it. It didn't really matter what such theologists thought, not to Korehren at least. His faceted attention was more focused on the doings of the kind of warrior the realms had not seen in over a hundred and fifty years.
The image within Korehren's mind was not vague and neither was it a single perspective. He saw everything about Chev, from every possible angle, with detail that was unfathomable. This depth of vision was beyond mortal comprehension and only a god, or at the very least a demi-god, could accomplish it.
It did have its rewards however. Korehren knew everything that Chev could accomplish physically, something the warrior didn't even know, and was very impressed by the mortal's level of physical perfection. The problem however was that Chev now stood in what remained of the Bravepike Manor.
Which was little more than a cinder after Chev had burnt it to the ground. The feat of one man, against a small army of warriors, was incredible, indeed, well nigh impossible. Yet, even the impossible was a goal that could be reached, and Korehren decided that he saw a very simple goal before him.
It was just a question of motivating Chev into action.
The thundering of hooves and the power one felt when a mount made an incredible jump was something all experienced riders knew was something remarkable, yet so very confusing. To Nicole, it was like being given a moment of glory as she soared off the ground,