A dark figure ran through the woods, panting and cursing. His right hand clutched the handle of a bastards sword, it's dark blade wet with wolf's blood. His left hand held a bow, though his quiver had long been emptied of arrows. Ransom Deviolana cursed again, feeling a stab of pain in his left leg. Some accursed wargs had attacked him while he slept. My, how this world has gone down the drain. He had figured that a vacation to the land of his old employer, one King Rafflensher XXIII. So much for a nice, quite hike....
[ August 27, 2002: Message edited by: Ransom ]
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"The blood of the dead mixes with the the flowing sand and grants more power to the killer."--Gaara of the Desert
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