The cold bites at his body, making the pain from his wounds significantly worse. Â They had him bound and gagged in the back of a cart, on his way to Dragonhead.
His anger was the only thing that kept him awake instead of succumbing to the cold and sleep artes they used on him. Â His good eye could not see much outside the grey sky and occasional guard that came into view.
They had been moving for hours, not wanting to use the aetheryte crystals for some reason. Â It was not like he could run off. Â Even though that man gave him something for his torn up leg, it wore off, nearly useless.
Gaardal bit down on the cloth in his mouth. Â He wished his teeth were like blades so he could tear through it and the ropes that held him so he could be done with this torture.
A shout was heard nearby and the cart came to a sudden halt. Â He slid slightly on the wood, his injured leg slamming into the wooden side. Â He let out a muffled scream, nostrils flaring from the pain. Â One shout turned to two ... then four .. then a cascade of voices that melded with the sounds of metal against metal and the smell of fire in the air.
He strained to see what was going on, but his vantage point was poor. Â An arrow thunked into the side of the cart, the point breaking through by his head. Â He spit out a muffled curse, moving as far from that side as he could.
Screams of the dying filled his ears, the vision of one of the guards being pushed up against the cart, a blade slipping through his chest stained with red soon after. Â Gaardal did not know what was going on but he hoped the attackers were friendly.
The battle was short, and he strained to hear anything. Â The sounds of footsteps approached from the side, and Gaardal's heart raced. Â A lone, armored figure leaned over the side of the cart, the helm hovering over his face. Â A puff of white escaped from the slits in the front.
"Mister Wyght. Â I think it is time we left such a horrid place and bring you to Gridania. Â Master Rillemont shall take care of you." Â The figure waved to his left. Â "Those cretins shall not put you in irons, nor take that information you have for their own."
Gaardal nodded, feeling hands over his body, dragging him from the cart, helping him to his feet. Â He cringed from the pain, and moments later waves of warmth came over him as he was healed.
"We do not have time to waste. Â Summon your strength, Mister Wyght. Â The day is not over yet."
His anger was the only thing that kept him awake instead of succumbing to the cold and sleep artes they used on him. Â His good eye could not see much outside the grey sky and occasional guard that came into view.
They had been moving for hours, not wanting to use the aetheryte crystals for some reason. Â It was not like he could run off. Â Even though that man gave him something for his torn up leg, it wore off, nearly useless.
Gaardal bit down on the cloth in his mouth. Â He wished his teeth were like blades so he could tear through it and the ropes that held him so he could be done with this torture.
A shout was heard nearby and the cart came to a sudden halt. Â He slid slightly on the wood, his injured leg slamming into the wooden side. Â He let out a muffled scream, nostrils flaring from the pain. Â One shout turned to two ... then four .. then a cascade of voices that melded with the sounds of metal against metal and the smell of fire in the air.
He strained to see what was going on, but his vantage point was poor. Â An arrow thunked into the side of the cart, the point breaking through by his head. Â He spit out a muffled curse, moving as far from that side as he could.
Screams of the dying filled his ears, the vision of one of the guards being pushed up against the cart, a blade slipping through his chest stained with red soon after. Â Gaardal did not know what was going on but he hoped the attackers were friendly.
The battle was short, and he strained to hear anything. Â The sounds of footsteps approached from the side, and Gaardal's heart raced. Â A lone, armored figure leaned over the side of the cart, the helm hovering over his face. Â A puff of white escaped from the slits in the front.
"Mister Wyght. Â I think it is time we left such a horrid place and bring you to Gridania. Â Master Rillemont shall take care of you." Â The figure waved to his left. Â "Those cretins shall not put you in irons, nor take that information you have for their own."
Gaardal nodded, feeling hands over his body, dragging him from the cart, helping him to his feet. Â He cringed from the pain, and moments later waves of warmth came over him as he was healed.
"We do not have time to waste. Â Summon your strength, Mister Wyght. Â The day is not over yet."
