- Full Name: Larisan Tenari
- In-Game: Larisan
- Alignment: Chaotic Good
- Guild: House of Stormrage
- Title: Master Hunter
- Race: Night Elf
- Class: Hunter
- Professions: Dragonscale Leather Armor
The blade squealed as it was pried back upon itself. The pale scout quickly released his suffering longknife, moving his fingers away from the pommel as it sprang back with an audible twang. He kneeled quickly; darting under the guardian's grasp as it dully regarded the weapon it had fisted away from him.
The hulking golem paused a moment, then no longer seemed to notice the steel weapon clutched in its barrel-sized fist now that the intruder was no longer in contact with it. It promptly released the small sword as it swiveled its massive head in search of the trespasser.
His longknives were crafted of fine elven steel and they had served Larisan long. But against this enspelled iron mockery of a man, he might as well have been armed with stalks of celery. He moved quickly, his dark wing-like cloak flowing behind him as the ivory skinned Night Elf retrieved his weapon before clambering up the backside of the golem. Slender fingertips found purchase among the deep sorcerous engravings that lined the guardian's back as it stamped about in search of him. Breathing very shallowly, the scout held tightly to the golem, gambling that its magecraft-induced senses were limited to sight and sound alone.
Forearms trembling slightly, the scout hung pressed against the iron guardian as it settled before the doorway once more. For nearly two candlemarks the golem had treaded up and down the hallway in search of him. Dropping lightly to the stone floor, his fingertips aching to the very bone, Larisan padded down the hallway behind the settled guardian. He was quite certain that his arms were now slightly longer than when he entered this manor. At least my reach will have improved, he thought wryly.
His silvery eyes shone with a slight luminescence of their own as the scout made his way down the stone stairwell. The very air seemed to grow thicker as Larisan drew deeper into the lair. It had been nearly a decade since the Night Elf had even been absent from the High Woodland much less confined within a dungeon’s halls, and he struggled sturdily against the tinge of claustrophobia that pressed down upon him. When this business was ended he fully intended to doff his wear and lie stark in the largest meadow he could find.
The immense ornate doorway stood before him across the third landing. Larisan frowned slightly, drawing back the hood of the supple, shadowy cloak and freeing his tousled mane of silvery-white. The scout inhaled deeply, the slight frown becoming a deepening scowl; the scent was unmistakable. The foul tinge of violated flesh became more evident as he drew nearer the door; it was the stench of rot beyond anything nature tolerated. It was true, the Ravenhill Oracle had fallen into necromancy.
Larisan turned back toward the stairwell. The scout had no illusions concerning his skills or his chances of bringing down a Dark Mage on his own. But regardless of his chances, his duty was clear; the folk of the outlying townships and those still clinging to nearby Darkshire had to be warned.
He had only passed the third step when the sudden chill struck him, a wave of cold that spread upward through the soles of his doeskin boots. Larisan paused, crouched on the narrow stairwell, his black drake-skin cloak fluttering over his slender form as the bronzed door behind him flew open with a resounding crash.
The choice of fight or flight was instantly stripped away from him as several gibbering monstrosities poured out from the opening. Larisan spared a fraction of a second to consider hiding, but most of the creatures appeared to be blind anyhow. They somehow knew or could divine his location through some other means, while his legs felt weak and nearly useless from the unnatural cold that had seized them. The scout forced himself to rise and face the oncoming, shrieking, once dead, things.
One of his longknives sprang to his fingers almost of its own accord. He immediately launched the weapon underhand where it struck the lead ghoul near the bridge of its nose, sinking all the way to the pearled finger-guard. The undead convulsed violently as it pitched forward against the base of the stairwell, the last three inches of silvered blade-tip protruding from the back of its mottled scalp. Its arms and legs flailed wildly, causing the two ghouls immediately following to stumble as they tried to get past.
Larisan knew he would not be able to wrench his weapon free of its repulsive sheaf before the others had overwhelmed him. Fierce anger welled up within the scout as he lashed out violently with the heel of his boot at the first ghoul that managed to scramble over the fallen one. It was like kicking an overly-ripe sunmelon, and Larisan winced inwardly at the sickening sound of his foot pulling free of the ruined face. Clenching his teeth against the bile rising in his throat, the scout suddenly realized that his legs no longer seemed petrified.
The screams of the anguished dead followed him as Larisan yarded his way up the stairwell and to the heavy door that stood ward at the topmost landing. It slammed closed before him with a resounding BANG. Silvery eyes wide with fury and growing panic, the scout threw himself against the thick bronze studded wood. He might as well have hurled a dandelion at it.
The gibbering mob was too numerous for him to recon the number. They clawed over one another in order to reach him first. Their pale sightless eyes were mindless with dread hunger as they drew near; rushing from the darkness of the deep stairwell. Larisan pressed his back against the unyielding door, his teeth were bared and his silvery eyes shone brightly in the gloom. His fingers curled about the hilt of his remaining longknife; By the gods they were going to know they had been in a battle.
Continue reading here-- "The Crimson Quiver" By Larisan