Dilirio's Disciple of Aldmor Story

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The parapet of vines hindered his vision as he traversed each branch, each arm of these mighty, towering darkwood that inhabit this forest. The arboreal tapestry formed by these deciduous giants make every inch of these woods almost similar in every direction.

But his step is sure, his intent leading him to his prey with as much confidence as each tip of his poison-soaked arrows. For Victor is no ordinary tracker. He was born from the Matahyas – selected from birth, bastard child of woodland beings, of demigods and things that remain unnamed.

He is the forest.

He stopped and closed his eyes.

His breathing slowed as he felt his surroundings.

Amidst the sudden silence, the branches beneath him shattered into a multitude of specks and needles, as clawed hands emerged from the foliage below. But before those ravenous talons could reach him, Victor had already leaped ahead.

In a single motion, he turned towards his assailant in midair – his bow coming off from his shoulders, an arrow perched from his fingers, his eyes piercing through the glow of his enemy’s gaze as he aimed and pulled.

One perfect shot was all it took to put the minotaur out of his misery.

Victor observed his kill, surprised. Not at the ebony horns of this beast, or the steel-like veins from its muscled arms. He thought his prey was a lone hunter.

This is new, and he knew he had to send word to the Brotherhood. His wulven quarry is adapting to their strategy and is starting to employ creatures from the shadows.

Victor spun around as he sensed an unnatural aura emanating from within the wall of vines and trees and blackness.

An eerie green light emerged. Victor gripped his bow.

The shadows danced against the luminescent glow, slowly revealing each limb, each strand of hair seemingly “moving” as if surrounded by water.

From the blackness came a woman.

“Aldmor,” whispered Victor, lifting his bow to meet the woman’s slow, measured strides.

In a burst of energy, the veins on Victors arm turned black as he summoned an arrow from his deepest, most cruel nightmares. The arrow took form in a split-second, his mind creating every miniscule detail. As he pulled and released, he let his heart guide the arrow to his target – this somber enchantress.

There were no sparks, no sound, not even a flash as the arrow connected.

Victor breathed, loudly. One could even say it was a gasp, if a Heartstriker was even capable of one.

Before him, stood the woman – unharmed – stoic and treading towards him as gently as a feather riding the cold, harsh autumn wind.

And cold it was for Victor, who never met a man or woman he could not strike down. Dragons, minotaurs, giants, not even these pseudo-magical Aldmor – wretches that they are – could withstand him. At least, until now.

The moon shone on Victor’s face.

The gods have not graced the land with a full moon in a while. It was beautiful, Victor thought to himself.

A long, guttural howl permeated the air – a perfect symphony in these dead woods.

As Victor stared back at the woman, several hulking figures started to emerge from the shadows – bolting like lighting – towards him.

But it wasn’t those monsters that filled his mind at that moment. His eyes remained fixed at the woman, this anomaly among Aldmor, seething with corruption and unholy energy.

What has she sacrificed to attain this power? Victor thought to himself one last time as he turned his eyes back to the lonely, unforgiving moon.