RP: Crimson Sword

[Cimmerian]

Aravelenon smiled satisfactorily as the young woman before him quivered in fear. He could sense her fear. Her fear made him strong. He fed on the fear of his adversaries. Fear made him stronger. Especially the fear of beautiful, young witches.
Removing her blindfold with a wave of his bony hand, the elven wizard laughed, a low raspy laugh that gradually shifted its pitch into a high, shrill whistle.

Elanor blinked and tried focusing her eyes, the room she was in was bright, but everything around her appeared veiled and clouded. As her vision slowly cleared, she found herself in a small room. Bright fires illuminated the high ceilinged dome, that glistened with sickly white marble. Brightly lit, oil lamps, hung from the ceiling on lengthy silvered chains as flowing curtains of darkly embroidered silk, unashamedly draped the high walls. The highly polished marble floor reflected every object in the room, giving the already enchanting atmosphere a overly ethereal and evil feel.

Aravelenon reached out to her and touched her. "Yeild to me, witch," he rasped, "And all this will be yours to share."

Elanor swallowed hard. She couldn't sense the others anywhere. Where could they be. What was that sound, was it her frightened heart beating? Her wide eyes fell upon the tall, elegantly attired elven wizard and she could almost sense his evil aura, and she knew that he could feel her weakening.

"Oh Bulvard! Oh Elwyn! Where can you all be?" mocked Aravelenon, almost as if he could read her mind. In his hands he held a beautifully crafted longsword. It appeared to be bathed in a dull, crimson glow. A glow that seemed to get more and more intense.

"Yeild, Witch!"