Despite the slow movement the sound that the snap of the whip made against the flesh of the young thief was delightful. It gave the warrior spirit a little spurt, which then translated itself as a smile and a glint behind the silver eyes of the drow. He could see the blood spray and follow the path of the bladed whip. Even as the light dissipated, almost instantly, the sight of the pathetic human bleeding was enough for Ranger to at least feel as if he had accomplished something in the fight.

A split second was all the drow needed to make his creation dissolve and once again wait on the edge of existence. The spell was always at the ready and took little out of the drow, and therefore happened to be one of his favorites. But what caught the eyes of the quick prophet was that the spell’s speed was not slowed as his movements were. Spells for the drow were divine, given and granted by the Thayne alone. Such spells were directly from the mind, to think of them was to create them. As such it was not at a physical alacrity that the spells were created, but at the speed of thought—veritably a speed faster then light itself.

Ranger’s ideas were flowing, his thoughts were moving faster then he could control them. As if to emphasize the fact, a barrier of pure light flashed before the drow. Seth had lost what emaciated grasp he may have had on sanity. His eyes were glowing with a threat from within. No longer did the drow feel like the boy before him had changed in any way for the better. Instead Ranger worried for Seth. The thief had been a nemesis of the past, true. But he had also been a team member of the Black Hand, albeit a perverted and broken off-shoot from the Red Hand.

Seth’s eyes were flashing with demons. He was swaying to a dangerous song, a lull of false promises and broken dreams. It was a razor’s edge that would be beneath his feet, a precarious perch upon reality that held him up. Below him were the demons, to either side where the demons and Ranger could not help but feel that Seth had already given in to them. But what was he to do? What could he do?

Seth Dahlios was not his partner. He was his adversary.

Even as the daggers points struck through the flickering wall of light, piercing it as if the wall was nothing more then a sheet of two inch paper, the drow felt only pitty. He was looking through the wall. It was not the gray eyes that he was forcing himself to look into but the very soul of the young thief. It was something that although frightening was also mesmerizing and gripping. “For honor alone I do this.”

The daggers had already pierced the wall. The force behind them and the rage filled anguish behind Seth combined to break the light. The wall would fail in seconds; it was merely a matter of tier at that point. The strength of the weapons metal was far superior to that of the drows shield. Though sparked. With the serenity of Rangers platinum eyes still focused on the complete odium of his opponents the shield fell. Even as it flickered away the blades finished their course, slamming into either shoulder of the drow.

But it was only a split second before the light that had formed the shield was transformed into a solid cylinder. The end of it, flat and not meant for anything more then bludgeoning, shot forward at Seth’s sternum. Not much momentum was behind it, but the head of the cylinder was fueled and raging. The light that formed it was glowing as bright as any flame and the heat was causing the ends of the drows now frenzied hair to sizzle.

At the same time Ranger fell away. His knees gave way at his command and he fell backwards, pushing himself the slightest bit to give room between himself and Seth. Even if the light did not push his opponent away the drow would need time to recover, time to think of something more. Unfortunately his arms had taken quite a deal of damage, with the daggers having punctured deeply into the spot directly above the underarm. Before that even was the spell from earlier though, it forced him to move slowly, not even be able to catch himself and save himself from gravity.

Disparity seemed to be the prophet’s only friend. At times he would be on top of the world, guided by the hands of the Thayne and striding in the light of their joy. At other times he would find himself no better off then he had been so long ago, only the shadows of the turned Thayne falling over him. The fight had quickly turned towards the latter, and Ranger could feel the warmth of his shoulders bleeding, the claret fluid as thin as the finest red wine.

“Damn you Seth Dahlios,” he mumbled despite his lips not following at the speed he spoke. “Damn you to whatever path you have taken upon yourself to follow. Damn you for giving up on not only yourself but all others too. Damn you for the demons you have allowed within…”


((For the record I had drill since Friday afternoon and was gone all weekend. Sorry for the inconvienence.))