3. Cike Millant

Cike Millant


  • The wood hissed and crackled, its soft flesh burned away, the charred bark remained. The boy plowed through this, tumbling, falling, falling, until he came to rest at the bottom of a ravine. His right arm felt numb, he dared not look for fear of what he might see. His shoulder stung with pain as he felt a cold sticky substance wrap around his torso and flow to the ground. The warmth of his oozing blood could not avail him, and he looked up in horror. A dark shadow stood up atop the ravine, glaring down darkly at the boy. It shook as if it was suddenly possessed, and a cruel smile formed. The boy’s eyes widened and he struggled against the darkness that held him. He tore free with unknown strength and ran again. His pell-mell dash through his burning forest destroyed and racked his legs. But he did not feel it; all that resided in his heart and mind was fear. His body taxed, he finally felt the weight of the world wash on him. He leaned then against a tree, one of the few that were still safe from the tongues of fire. Tears welled and then flowed. From the trees and all around, “coward” came. It hissed and roared with the fire, it whined and sung in the wind. The boy looked around for the source and found it. The lips of his mother, his father, all he had known, all he had loved. They approached, shambling, limping, and broken. Warm liquid trickled down his leg as the dead drew closer. Thump, thump, thump, his ears filled with the sound of his own heart, yet they still called to him, “coward” they accused and they were right. The boy sniffed wiping the tears from his green eyes, pushing back his hair. That’s what he would have done but his right arm refused to respond.
    “Ah no, no! I am scared … I … I didn’t ru-ru-run. I … Momma … no I’m.”
    The zombies stopped forming a circle around the boy, the fire burning ever brighter behind, casting their dark soulless shadows on him. Something was coming, he knew who it was, he wanted to run but he was paralyzed. As it approached the zombies made way, a stream of firelight blinding the boy. The gap was filled by another; rotting and moving in an unnatural way, dark magic coursing through its veins as its empty eyes peered down upon the boy. Flesh hung loosely in clumps from its skull its white teeth flashed free without cover of lips, its smile cruel and tormenting. It opened its mouth and issued a shrill high pitched laugh that deafened and shook the boy to his soul. He closed his eyes and tried to block the sound from his ears but it resonated to his very heart. Something pinched and then began to sting. The sting then turned to a writing darkness within, assaulting his mind. All over again he could see the Undead attacking his family, tearing into his loved ones and the animals in their care. He watched in horror as they copped down trees, burning with every step, his beloved forest. And worst of all he watched helplessly as a broken little boy wounded by a great and powerful Leach ran. Ran as his family fell, ran as his forest burned, ran … as the coward he was. An unearthly scream, his mind searched out, tried to locate it by sound. Was it the Leach? He opened his eyes the Leach’s face grinning broadly, feeding on his pain, his fear, and HIS scream. Through the pain a cold stone filled his left hand, and with some place inside he struck down on the dead hand that gripped him. Bone shattered and flesh flew. His mind spun with his body and made trough the zombies. More pinches racked at his back tearing what little cloth still hung round his neck. The laughing again filled his head and nagged at him, along with the whispers and curses of “coward”. He felt drained, and missing a part of himself. His run turned into a blur and then to darkness. Collapsing into the soft grass he felt rather then saw the dead wolves approach. Two from where he came, their lifeless panting ceased as they drew near. He turned over on his back and looked down at the once majestic wolves. Jondor and Elora, a couple he had named himself, they came to end him. The boy closed his eyes and awaited the coming darkness. As he felt the rotting corpses pass his legs and approach his head he heard a whistling from the trees. Something heavy came crashing down on his chest as another heavy weight came down on the ground next to him. A deep howl went up from where he left the Leach and he opened his eyes. The undead Jondor’s head lay on his chest split open, an arrow protruding from its fly ridden maw. To his left the Elora laid; a crumpled mess of arrows and torn bones. Suddenly a gentle but firm hand grabbed the cloth that still hung on his weakened frame. He felt himself pulled and carried; the smell of wild leaves and roses emanating from whatever carried him. As he drifted off into unconsciousness, he was calmed by the reassuring words of his rescuer.
    <e>“Worry not little one you are safe now.”
    But he or she was wrong, so very wrong. As he wandered the broken remains of his shattered mind, he was assaulted by memories and images of that very night. Then the worst came. The Leach, from the shadows leapt, clawing at his chest laughing. It stopped, calling for two of its minions to him. From the shadows the distorted faces of his mother and father came. Shambling and stumbling towards him, they bemoaned his cowardice. The boy tried to scream, to kick, to fight, but nothing would be done. It spoke in the raspy voice of the undead its cold empty eyes boring into the boy’s soul.
    “You are the last one … the LAST ONE … COWARD!”
    Again the unearthly scream, yet muffled. As his eyes shot open, he began to regain his senses first feeling the cool light hand covering his mouth, then another resting on his chest. His eyes flew wildly about falling on a dozen unfamiliar faces. They were ethereal, more beautiful then any he had ever seen. Recognition came finally, and he saw the Elves which shared his forest home, those that taught him the ways of the forest, the druid circle of wild elves. He calmed down and the scream subsided. A female Elf, Lanadren, wiped his brow with a cold towel and calmed him in her native tongue.
    <e>“Easy little one, you are alive and well in the company of friends. Shhh. You are fine rest.”
    Something pushed at his mind, and his eyes began to draw heavy. From the corner of his eye he watched as an Elf mage chanted and waved his hands. His mind clouded and he was thrust into the waiting arms of his tormentor, the Leach. He lost track of how long it tore into him and how many times he was forced to relive that night, but he woke with the same unearthly scream, the same cool hand resting on his mouth and chest, the same faces surrounding him in concern. He shook now in convulsions, racked with pain from head to toe. Whispers and murmurs filled his ears his mind catching snippets of the Elves concern.
    <e>“The leach still assaults this one!”
    <e>“But how he is in the safety-“
    <e>“Our spells and prayers do nothing-“
    <e>“Oh Lanadren his hair!”
    <e>“His arm it hangs by threads can it be re-“
    <e>“Quickly put him to sleep again!”
    <e>“No, I tell you that does not-“
    <e>“Oh the poor boy was there no other-”
    <e>“Eh? What of the animals in their care what of them?”
    <e>“He must be assaulting him from his dreams.”
    <e>“The whole forest in flame?”
    <e>“Quickly he opens his wounds!”
    Something grips at his body this time, and he feels nothing. He is awake but he has neither the strength to move or speak. Lanadren sighs, and releases the hold on his mouth and chest, rising slowly, and then glowering at her companions.
    <e>“Quiet! Can you not see the recognition in his eyes, he knows of what you speak!”
    They all fall silent and begin to file out of the room. A fire burns but he cannot turn to see its source. His eyes rest on the ceiling of the wooden cottage but his mind shows him the lingering images of his family and the Leach. A tear forms and falls from his eye tracing a warm path down the side of his face and resting in his ear. The cool hand wipes at it and a cooing emanates from Lanadren.
    <e>“Oh little one, shhh, everything will be fine. Calm your broken heart. You are alive, that is all that should concern you now.”
    She leans down and kisses his forehead. It is warm, he knows it should be warm, like that of his mothers, but he does not feel it. The hand caresses his head and moves through his hair, there is a little bit of sadness in Lanadren’s eyes. She hides it from her face and lies; telling him everything will be ok.

    The man ran haphazardly, and then tripped falling onto the hard ground. Turning over he faced Henry Ogden a farmer who died last year, and until that night laid buried in the town grave yard. By him stood Jordan, the high hope of the town sent forth to learn more of the magical ways and bring prosperity to the town. What he brought was the dark arts.
    “Jordan! Why? Please don’t do this!”
    The man screamed pleading with the boy, but he just smiled hauntingly. The boy pointed and the zombie stumbled forward until three arrows filled its skull, knocking it clean off. The boy glared up at the hooded figure bathed in moonlight, releasing a Magic Missile. The figure took the hit strait in the chest magical energies smoking from the wound. Wordlessly and effortlessly he raised his bow and let loose an arrow. Reflexively the boy raised a hand, the shaft whistling through it and then lodging in his head. He crumpled to the floor at the Man’s feet who still shook with fear.
    The hooded stranger returned his bow to his back and sits on the floor. Ignoring the shower of thanks from the Man, he pulls out a knife and proceeds to make two small cuts into his right arm. He winces in pain and the Man is quickly silenced in curiosity. The incisions made, he wipes the blade and puts it away. The stranger then picks up some dirt and rubs it into his self inflicted wound, biting down upon his lip. Taking a cloth to his wound he stands and starts off to the North the Man still following.
    “Ah sir your name, whom is my savior?”

    “Ahh sade; whats yer name?”
    The stranger looks up from the four scars on his right arm shaking some distant memories from his thoughts. He tucks his shock white hair behind his ear and pulls his hood down some more, then proceeds to drop a bag of gold coins down on the counter and replies to the innkeeper.
    “Eh? Ah my name … you “civilized” people and your titles. Ah let me think. Ah yes that was my name, I am Cike … Millant.”
    The innkeeper looks him over questioningly then nods.
    “Pah! ‘Nother blasted venturer eh? Well whatever, as ye ‘ave coin ye ‘ave a room ‘ere. Welcome to Norwick.”

    Character Name: Cike Millant
    Login Name: Kell Durand

    ((NOTE: I am at level 3 currently so I’m not allowed to get any EXP for this. I just wanted to post this guys past in the hopes that more people prod him about his White hair and Scars, and perhaps get to know him more IC. If anyone wants to “bump” into my char just send a tell or PM me with what times you're likely to be on, I’m on EST afternoons and nights (GMT -5). Oh and if you don't mind I need an Ego boost so if anyone would like to reply about this post please drop any helpful comments. ^_^))</e></e></e></e></e></e></e></e></e></e></e></e></e></e></e></e>


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