“Are you ready, young one?”
The mage lay supine, an unmarked tombstone pressing into the small of his back though he could not feel it. Ambrose opened his mouth to speak, yet neither word nor breath passed his lips. Old habits died hard, even after you were dead. So how was the spirit healer talking to him? Can spirit healers talk?
“Of course we can,” the hollow voice responded in Colquitt's head. “Few ever stay long enough to hear our words. Now is not the time, young one. One day we will tell you all, but now it is time for you to return. Are you ready?”
The human looked up at the ethereal being and nodded.
“We will always catch your soul as it drops into the abyss. We will always be here.”
Ambrose felt his body drift, ever so gently, like an autumn leaf tumbling to the ground, the gentle rocking a loving and soothing motion. The mage was practically lulled to sleep, and he'd just begun to close his eyes when he felt the pressure of the ground. Gradually he opened an eye and was met with a dazzling and painful display of blue and green - colors so bright he at first thought they must be Lunar Festival fireworks. Rather than the sound of explosions, however, Colquitt recognized the chirping of shirefinches and the rustling of trees in the wind.
Opening his eyes once again the blurry vista sharpened, and Ambrose realized where it was he lay, a place he'd visited an embarrasing number of times: the Elwynn cemetery. He sighed and every part of his body ached with stiffness. Groaning, the mage tested his muscles and with effort pulled himself into a sitting position. He saw the unfamiliar blue and purple robes he wore and noticed the elementary wooden staff that lay at his side. “What the…,” he began to say, but cut himself short when he heard the hoarse rasp of his own voice. Clearing his throat and coughing Ambrose began to get to his feet, only to pitch forward and catch himself awkwardly on his forearms and elbows. Had he been drugged? Poisoned, perhaps? What was the last thing he-
Shadowmore. The smirking face of Lenox Shadowmore, grinning like a hyena. So this was how he planned to deal with the threat to his precious Shield Books, eh? Well, Colquitt would be happy to show him just how he'd crossed the wrong mage.
If only he could get to his feet. Fel, what had that old weasel done to him?
writing/the shield book ch 5.txt · Last modified: September 8, 2011 by Dave Leach