OK, I promise there won’t be another one until next week. I just got into a rhythm of writing replies to prompts and got carried away. They can be quite fun.
Prompt: The wizard’s terror bolt lances overhead. You shout back to your party that you’re going in. Dagger held high and ice shard at the ready you tear towards the dastardly spell caster. How does your fight play out?
Two steps in, the terror bolt arced, one of the inky tendrils twisting downward and hissing toward me. Other branches flew outward from the main bolt, one for each of my companions. True to its name, terror struck at the black touch.
I screamed. Primal fear tore from my throat and leaked from my eyes, dampening my cheeks. Such fear. Words cannot describe it adequately. It was as if all hope and light was suddenly sucked out of a room, leaving it swallowed in darkness and all the wet, slimy, disgusting things in the world were thrown in there with you. You felt them crawling, pinching, poking, squelching over you and there was nothing you could do about it. It was like staring at the face of death, hovering at the precipice between sanity and mindless gibbering and living in that moment halfway in between. Forever. Never Ending. Suffocating.
And then, like a shift in a raging storm, I could breathe again. I stood up, though I didn’t remember falling. Somehow my left hand still clutched the ice shard, though my dagger glittered a half dozen steps away. The wizard, Allorman, demon-child of hell, cackled just beyond, delighting in our suffering. My legs shook, but I took a step forward. Allorman didn’t see me, his head turned slightly away to watch my wife, Sheilarin, retch from the terror and pain. I took another step.
Fear was an illusion. Death was an illusion.
I took another step forward. Sheilarin cried and clutched at her stomach, dropping her bow.
The shaking stopped. This was the calling to which I had been born. I was the hope of the Yevethi people, the ice shard in my hand a physical reminder of the sacrifice of thousands.
Fear is an illusion, the absence of love and hope.
My back straightened and I broke into a run. The shard glowed blue, steeling my resolve even more than the look in my wife’s eyes. It was attached to my spirit, a part of the soul that linked me to the Others. A bridge between worlds, all of which screamed for retribution. For justice to be done upon this denizen of hell.
The wizard turned, a spell bouncing on his bloodless lips. Red eyes bored into mine.
“Fear me!” I shouted and plunged the ice shard into his chest.
Fear faded with the fires in the wizard’s eyes. The ice shard melted, transporting the tortured soul to hell. I stood erect, turning to face the others in my party as they got to their feet. Sheilarin smiled, and the smile was no less pretty for the fluids that covered her face. They raised their fists in salute.
Fear was dead.