Pangaea-world.dk

One could say that the well-liked guildmaster of the Wayfarers, Thoran Ravenwing, has to deal with a lot of weird stuff. At the moment mainly Ripkin, the guild alchemist and self-appointed Treasurer, who is proficient at throwing explosives as well as dropping conversational bombs.

Before Ripkin barged into the guild she and Thoran had met in the bar Lovely Serpent. Ripkin had worked there as an entertainer of sorts, long before her other equally questionable careers. In short, some heavy drinking eventually resulted in heavy dating. The relationship between the duty-bound and somewhat conventional old tribesman and the eccentric gypsy rogue blossomed like some weird, rancid flower. Whatever motives Ripkin had for persistently courting the guildmaster, during a certain romantic winter evening she brought up the idea of maybe raising a family together. She did her best to convince Thoran that she would not drop the baby, and no, Thoran was not too old to have children. They should try, at least. It would be lovely, she said.

As soon as the bashful man finally seemed to warm up to the thought, Ripkin was already nine months ahead. And counting.

"I'm so glad you feel this way! I know you were hoping for a son, but I hope you won't be horribly disappointed if the baby is a girl. Because she is, actually. I should travel to Yew immediately and pick her up from where I left her..."

"You WHAT?! W-what baby?"

"The baby I had, oh... A year ago. While I was away. Your daughter! Now we can raise her together! We're going to be so happy!"

The guildmaster's face turned white and he looked like he was about to have another stroke. And Ripkin hesitated. But only for a second. The ball was rolling so fast there was no stopping it. The devastated and confused guildmaster urged Ripkin to find the child immediately. How could she have kept the pregnancy in secret and forsaken her own daughter? To make things worse, she had left the child in the care of a woman who was a member of a clan that was not in good terms with the Ravenwings. Who knows, getting the child back might not turn out to be easy...

Of course, nothing is impossible for Ripkin. The journey into the dense woodlands of Yew didn't take longer than a week. The mysterious charlatan finally returns, brushing pine needles off her shoulders. She looks like she hasn't been sleeping in days and she's carrying a wailing baby girl.

Good ol' Rip has tried everything; being an escort, a magician, a lawyer, a spy, a mining instructor and an alchemist. She has seen the world, helped saving the world and sort of faked her own death more than once. At first she was too busy to even consider parenthood, but now that she thinks of it, how hard can it be to become a mother? Easy as chipping kindling, no doubt, but first she really needs a smoke. And something to plug her ears with because, damn, this toddler screams like a dragon. In any case, she has made up her mind and she's going to see how this "family business" turns out. If word spreads and people find out that the guildmaster has a daughter, that's another feather in her hat... Maybe she might finally get hitched. Ripkin Ravenwing has such a nice ring to it, doesn't it?

A few days later.

Why is the baby crying? Why, why, why is it crying? She's not sick, she's well fed, the nappy's dry, she's tucked in nice and warm. Ripkin even tried telling her a story about three bears and a tax collector. Everything should be fine.



Why is the baby crying? Why is the baby crying? For the love of everything that is holy on this earth, why is the baby crying, no seriously, why is the baby crying, oh gods, how many nights has it been already? The Wayfarer alchemist is trying to fill up an order of potions in the middle of the night, and why not because the baby certainly won't let anyone sleep, but it's impossible to concentrate. Would it be out of the question to simply drug the toddler? Ripkin did consider the option, but in the worst case scenario this would make her the mother of a dim-witted person who breathes through their mouth for the rest of their life.

To be quite honest, Ripkin did leave her newborn baby - only recently named Ciara - into the hands of a complete stranger, and it took her a whole year to rethink her options. So the baby might be holding a grudge. Still, she should be thankful that Ripkin eventually decided to introduce her to her real father, Thoran Ravenwing. Now little Ciara has a bright future ahead of her. Ripkin might even personally teach her to read and write and counterfeit money.

Ripkin stares at the wall, momentarily forgetting whether she was supposed to mix the executor's cap essence with a strenght potion and the batwing essence with an agility potion or the other way around. She's exhausted and she doesn't know how to calm down the child, so for the time being she's not even trying.

How is it possible that humans survived throughout a dark an uncivilized era despite the fact that their offspring made such a terrible racket? The noise might drive away lesser monsters, but certainly lure in the rest that are either hungry or got pissed because they couldn't get any sleep either. And why is it that mothers are naturally so excited and protective over their young? They say there's this thing called "maternal instinct", but as far as Ripkin can tell, it hasn't really kicked in yet. Looks like she's perfectly capable of spawning a small human, but not entirely sure what to do with the results.

Is this really going to work, Ripkin wonders. And how many drops did it take to make a vial of blood essence? Is the baby going to fall asleep, like, ever? Could it be that mongbats are actually just really small gargoyles? Oh, and how long has this jar been open? Has mommy been inhaling noxious fumes all evening?

"A year has passed? It surely does not feel like it. I was gone for just a while, wasn’t I?" Thoran thought to himself.

For a while he had felt that something is amiss. Ever since he recuperated from the stroke it had felt like time would pass quicker. Or could it be that he just can't remember. He had noticed similar traits in his father Alrik and started to worry. Without delay Thoran boils some water and adds ginseng, rosemary and sage; plants that he recollects to affect memory.

"THORRRYYY", a yell thunders from the front door. Thoran startles and almost drops the mug full of his concoction. He manages to keep the mug in his hands and looks up to the door. Ripkin had returned from a short walk with Ciara. The baby coos happily as they step inside the guildhouse.

"Ah, you're back. I can take her off your hands for now. I suppose you still have a busy day making potions."

"You could say so. Just got a new order again!"

"Business is booming then."

Ripkin hands off Ciara and rushes in front of her alchemy set. The sound of reagent grinding and liquid bubbling fills the guildhouse. Thoran bounces Ciara on his lap and pets her hair. Thoran tries his best to keep up his smile, but a dismal thought lingers in his mind. How long he will be able to remember this moment? How much time does he have with his newfound family? His thoughts get interrupted as Ciara pokes him on his nose.

Thoran smiles.

It’s getting late. Ripkin, an alchemist extraordinaire, closes her makeshift potion emporium for the night. She and Thoran have recently bought a little house in southwest Britain. It’s still unfurnished, but in time it would make a nice family home. A double bed and some curtains, maybe a cozy fireplace… Yes, it would be lovely.

Ripkin is just about to get going when her good mood is ruined by an all too familiar, shadowy figure. The necromancer Darrol Argeledougal is loitering on street just outside the Wayfarer guild house. There is no one else there, it’s almost like this tuberculotic urchin was standing there just waiting for Ripkin to finish up grinding her last batch of potions. Their eyes meet, briefly. Ripkin is about to snub the man and simply walk past him, since she knows it’s getting late and Thoran is already waiting for her. But there’s something Darrol wants to say.


“How did you do it?” He asks.

Ripkin halts and holds her breath for a second. A conversation seems unavoidable. “How did I do it? Oh, I stirred the eggs, added half a cup of brown sugar and some chocolate chips into the oat and milk mixture. Stick it in the oven for 25 minutes and, bang, that’s muffins. Got a pen with you? I can write it down for you.“

Darrol frowns. “Don’t pretend you have no idea what I’m talking about. I saw you carrying a baby and I heard that Thoran is the father. How did this happen?”

“Geez, Darrol. I thought that everyone knew about bees and flowers”, Ripkin mumbles sarcastically and pats her pockets for a smoke. She’s going to need one real bad if they’re going to have this conversation. “I can tell you how babies are made, but the graphic details might upset and confuse you.”

"Ugh. Spare me the details”, he grimaces. “I do know there’s more to it than that. And I know I’m being too curious about this, but Ciara looks like a normal child. How could you have a child that looks human? You're just faking to be one yourself." Darrol has a hunch he ought to drop the subject, but he can't help feeling a little fascinated. Some things should not be, and yet it seems like fairytales occasionally come true and all sorts of frogs turns into princesses - or lawyers - by sheer willpower.

Ripkin does look a little miffed, though… She's good at keeping her cool, but not tonight. The tanned woman suddenly grabs Darrol by the collar of his robe and tackles him against the nearest wall. Her grip is as strong as any man’s. “You’re awfully curious for a peasant, Mr. Argeledougal. The last time we had a serious discussion I told you not to get involved with my personal life. How many times do I have to beat you to get that through your thick skull?” The alchemist’s voice is thick and hushed, like syrup laced with poison.

“Ow! I’m not going to get involved! I-I just don’t g-get it”, Darrol stutters. “Why are you suddenly raising a family here in Britain? Aren’t you afraid that... That people will find out? That your master will find out you’re here, pretending to be some everyday merchant - and, a-a mother, of all things!”

Ripkin pushes Darrol’s back roughly against the wall to make him focus. “Oh, no, no, no… No one is going to find out anything. Because the only people here who might spill my secrets, are you and your lady friend Shira… And you’re not going to tell anyone, are you? I thought we were such good friends. Could I have been mistaken?”

Darrol catches a glimpse of something shiny in Ripkin’s hand. Fast as a snake, the blade of a mean little dagger is pressed against his cheekbone. A trickle of blood runs down his jawline. “We’re not e-exactly friends, Ripkin. As a rule I don’t care what you do, b-but… I don’t like the way you’ve tricked Thoran. He has no idea who or what you are.”

The alchemist releases her grip a little. She lets out a high-pitched, almost hysterical laugh. “And since when have you given two shits for that old fool or anyone else who tries to keep this miserable little charity guild together? You used to choose your company much more carefully, Darrol. Always looking down at people. Guess you can’t afford it these days, huh?”

The dark-robed man frowns. "Okay, look. It's obvious that you're not going back to your old life, but why do you have to start stirring shit everywhere you go? Why don't you just come clean and tell Thoran everything? He might accept the way you really are without that human mask", the necromancer replies with a shrug. Then he says the worst possible thing: "Thoran likes animals, doesn't he?"

Ripkin fumes. She might not be entirely what she claims to be, and Darrol has seen through her illusion, but no man (especially one who weighs less than eight stone and has a mismatching pair of eyes) has the right to compare her to an animal! Furious, she punches Darrol in the face. The necromancer staggers from the force of the blow and instinctively touches his bleeding nose to feel if it's still there. Ripkin doesn't give him time to gather his bearings. She grabs him by the head, hits it against the wall and trashes the dazed man into the gutter.



Fortunately for Darrol there has been a guard just nearby, making his night rounds. Suddenly the light of his lantern illuminates the street and he becomes a witness to the assault. Since it's still pretty dark and Darrol's hood is down, he mistakes the necromancer for an ordinary robed peasant. It is obvious that the fight is not an even one. The guardsman reaches for his sword. "Hey! You! What are you doing?!"

The alchemist hisses in frustration. Her eyes gleam with madness and hellfire. She leans closer to Darrol who is struggling to get on his feet. "Listen, if you know what's good for you, you'll recall your bony ass to Three Foot Island or some other miserable faraway spot and you stay there, because where ever you go, I'm going to find you and craft a purse out of your face."
The guard breaks into a run.

"I gotta go now. Lucky you, now you have some time to sort out your runes and kiss Britain goodbye", Ripkin adds. She's not going to explain the situation to the officer, so she darts off. And because running is as good as admitting guilt, the guard figures he is dealing with some lowlife mugger and chases after her. Darrol sits up and looks down the street, bewildered by the beating he just received. This is not the first time Rip has bullied her, but something really seemed to tick her off this time. Oh bother, he really did it this time. Even though he was only trying to help her… Sort of.

Life couldn't be better for the Wayfarer alechemist Ripkin. She's got a loving family, a profitable job and plenty of interesting vengeance fetishes to keep her genious mind buzzing! Starting a business in Britain, the busiest place on earth, was a brash thing to do, but Rip wouldn't have it any other way. Thankfully Thoran, the guildmaster of the Wayfarers and the father of her daughter, still doesn't have a clue about her hairy past. He doesn't know a thing about her schemes, her shady connections or her secret lovers. And he won't find out.

Hopefully. If it weren't for these two meddling necromancers, Ripkin wouldn't have to worry about a thing. Darrol Argeledougal and Shira Silverwind, a disgusting duo of Wayfarer necromancers have managed to see through Ripkin's web of deceit, lies and... yeah, maybe betrayal if you want to be overly dramatic about it. But it's hardly betrayal if everyone's clueless and happy. There has to be a better word for it.

Now, anyway, Darrol was easy enough to deal with. With a little push the tuberculotic guy went down like a deck of cards. Mr. Argeledougal is easily intimidated and he simply wouldn't dare to run to Moonglow and tell a certain old wizard that his runaway demonic assistant is currently living in Britain and pretending to be people. Ripkin once managed to escape the spells that kept her in the stern wizard's leash. And even if she was forced to abandon her investments and slink back to her master's house, one day she might break free again. And if she did, Darrol knows there would be hell to pay.

Shira, on the other hand, is a tougher nut to crack. What a lovely conversation they had at the Wayfarer headquarters after she had found out that Ripkin had manhandled her murbling boyfriend...

"Shira, dear. If you don't want Darrol to hurt himself, you should keep him in a tighter leash. I've warned him before."

"Leashes are for animals."

That's when the conversation started to turn sour.

"Now, let me make this clear, Shira. If you two start interfering with my life and ruin everything I've worked on, it's not going to be pretty. I'm not easily dismayed. If you ruin my sandcastles, I make new ones. I could spend a lifetime making you two miserable. If I'm not allowed to play the way I want, I'm perfectly fine just fucking things up and moving on. "

Even if the two women were afraid of each other, they would not let it show. The necromancer was cool as ice and Ripkin was all smiles and daggers.

"That's the first time you're being truthful about something", Shira said. "That you fuck things up and move on. But if you hurt Darrol, I will get rid of you."

It had started to snow. Being busy with her current batch of alchemical concoctions Ripkin had hardly paid attention to the world outside the guildhouse, but now, glancing at the window she was momentarily distracted by the snow. A night like this should not be spent bickering, but close to the fireplace, preferably with some wine and a good book.

"We're not that much different, you and I", Ripkin said with a mild sigh. "You might not like the way I handle things, but we're both intelligent and ambitious. It has taken us some time to find our place in life. And we would be willing to sacrifice a lot to protect the things we love the most..."

This fight would not be resolved with magic or potions full of hellfire, and it would not be resolved tonight. So, instead, the two decided to have a glass of wine. They would have to come up with a suspension of hostilities for the time being. If only to gather their bearings and figure out a sophisticated way of outsmarting the other party.

The sun has long since settled, but the windows of the Wayfarer headquarters are still lit. One of Ripkin's best customers has returned. The two have occasionally exchanged pleasantries and become regular pals of sort, but now they're discussing intimate topics that require hushed voices and making sure there's no one else around.

It's interesting what you can learn when you gain someone's trust. One would say that Eric Shadowblade is the perfect Wayfarer; a trustworthy man in shining armor with a soft smile and good intentions.

But he has a confession to make. He leans closer to whisper in the alchemist's ear. "I did not always lead a respectable life. I used to make a living taking the lives of others... They didn't call me Shadowblade for nothing. Every now and then I feel like my past is catching up with me."

He looks deep into her eyes, searching for any flicker of emotion. Fear or... distrust? Disgust, perhaps? He finds that Ripkin's smile does not fade. She seems intrigued. She had noticed that the warrior had seemed rather keen on stepping protectively between her and certain bothersome customers. Not that poor old Zano with his hair tonic problem was really that much of a bother... Ah, but nonetheless, it was flattering to have someone to protect her interests, no matter how trivial. And now it turns out that this tanned, handsome man is not only the son of an aristocrat, but a resourceful one at that. One who is not afraid to get his hands dirty. One who might be persuaded into taking care of some business.

"I'm not that surprised, to be honest", Ripkin muses. "And you can trust me, my lips are sealed. I know how it can be. My own past is like a ghost that creeps up on me", she goes on and tells Eric something about herself. Thankfully, despite her faults, she is an honest merchant, a charity worker and a doting mother. Surely no one would say a bad thing about her. She is trying to lead a respectable life. And when it comes to being respected, it helps to have mad stacks of money.

"Tell me, amuse me for a bit, if you had all the resources in the world, what would do?"

It is very much like Ripkin to be so well at ease and, if needed, instantly change the tone of a conversation into something fun and lighthearted. The man chuckles. He plays along, telling Ripkin that he would raise an army, overthrow the king himself and seize power over all known earth. But of course, that is impossible.


"Is it? How come", Ripkin asks casually.

Overthrow the king himself? It's no small feat! But Ripkin isn't dismayed. "You just have to set up some goals for yourself and work your way up", she says. "You could start with a guild of your own. Take this one, for example. No use starting from scratch, if you can seize something that's before your eyes. Guild stones are so expensive these days - and you'd have to go through the trouble of convincing people to join your made up cause. I say, you'd make a great guildmaster for the Wayfarers, any day. You just need a good advisor."

Eric is taken aback. Is this some kind of trick? He is well aware that Ripkin is in a relationship with guildmaster Thoran. They even have a small child. There's a curious flicker in the woman's eyes. She is testing him. Her smile is pleasant and alluring and it's obvious that she has no shame.

The man shakes his head in slight disbelief. "Come now, don't tempt me." But the night grows darker. Ripkin assures him that whatever their ambitions are, they have ways of helping each other. She could certainly use a strong friend. While she has the sharpest mind in all of Sosaria, there are certain individuals who have tried to cause her harm. Quite literally. And she is quite vulnerable to physical harm. The mere thought of someone roughing up the lovely alchemist makes Eric huff in anger.

"I won't let anyone hurt you", he says with a stern voice. "If there are people who cause you trouble, I can make sure they never bother you again. Just let me know who needs to be dealt with."

Oh, that's so sweet of him. Funny thing he should ask, because, you see, Ripkin has this list of names...

„So he had a hawk-like nose, dark hair tied in a big ponytail and wears red armor? Shouldn‘t be too hard to find a big brute like that...“ Eric said, grinning. Eric had heard rumors of this brute, the brigand named Malek Malatesta. A strongly built brute, that could look at you and damn near kill you with that alone. As Eric finally had a pretty good image of Malek in mind Ripkin dropped the explosive potion on him, so to speak, „He is a vampire ye say? Well... that makes things... a bit diffrent“ he said, thinking that getting a new weapon would be the first priority before taking this one on.
As the night went on Eric had a really good image built of Malek, thanks to Ripkin‘s description and characteristics of Malek, and after walking Ripkin home, headed towards the local inn in Britain, where he would spend a night or two before going out manhunting again, for the first time in a long, long while

As he woke up, Eric smiled, thinking of Ripkin‘s smile and that laughter, „She sure is beautiful, too bad that she is with Thoran... who knows what type of future we could of had if i had returned sooner“. He got out of bed and got himself quickly ready for the day, as it would be the last day for a while he could really enjoy the luxury of Britain. „Okey, so i need to see a smith first off to get the new maul made, after that, the stable to get a new horse... this old nag that Darrol got me is damn near useless“ he mumbled to himself as he started putting his armor on. He grabbed a quick breakfast and headed towards the forge.

As he finished putting in the order for the new maul and a few other, speciality items against Malek, he went to the stable and bought himself a proper horse, a brown stallion worth a king‘s ransom, or so it felt for Eric. After getting the new stallion Eric knew just where to go, as much as he hated the place, he had to get some information on Malek, location and number of followers and all the information he could get, and there was only one place that such information was for sale, the dirthole called Cove.

Thoran was in for a restless night.

"You betrayed her!". "You have no honor!". Eric's fierce yells echoed in his head. Earlier events passed through his mind over and over again. A collection of images repeated. A spear on a door, frightened Charha gripping tightly to a curtain, a blade pressing against Morgain's neck and Eric with a vicious grin.



Thoran rolled in bed and breathed heavily. The voices and images repeated in a pattern until new words broke it. "If it wasn't for Ciara..." Thoran gasped for air and woke up. Ripkin was still asleep calmly beside him and he could hear Ciara in her crib.

The room had only one lightsource, a flickering candle on the table.

Thoran sat, silently staring out of the window. Occasionally the light would flicker so that he could see his own reflection on the glass. Even awake he was still restless. The voices had stopped but he could not put them out of his mind.

For years Thoran had tried to see the best in others, something he had learned from Charha and Morgain. But was he too gullible? Was there something he could not see in men like Arthur and Eric. Arthur didn't believe in the whole charity business at all and only wanted to see if there is some personal gain to be had. Situation with Eric was far more personal. Thoran could not understand Eric's attachment to Ripkin and the sudden outburst of hostility. At times if Eric would have stated his opinions more calmly, it would have seemed like he was in love with her. But could a man go so insane? Whatever the reason was, Thoran felt that Eric was coming for him. For his family. For his friends.

The light flickered and Thoran snapped out of his thoughts. He saw his tired reflection again. As he stared at the window he saw a shape behind him. He stood up and and looked, but there was no one there, only the two most dear to him. Then he heard Eric's voice. "You won't see them again." Thoran collapsed on his knees with a grave expression. It took a while before he could stand up. His heart was racing.

Thoran shook his head, as to get the thoughts off his mind. Then his eyes fixed on the flickering flame. He walked towards the table and doused the flame with his fingers. "I'll unleash the elements on you.", he whispered.

The house was left silent and lightless. Only few embers shined on the fireplace. Ciara breathed calmly and Ripkin had seized the moment to use all the available space on the bed. A note was laying on the table. "Dear Rip, I needed to leave early and I didn't want to wake you up. There is something I need to take care of in Yew. Won't stay long."

That morning was foggy.

As the sun rose Thoran had already arrived to Yew. He was now standing in the forest, surrounded by a pack of wolves. Thoran kneeled and one of the wolves approached him. Thoran ruffled the fur on the wolves head and took a golden bracelet from his pocket. The bracelet was simple but it had "TWF" engraved to it. The wolf sniffed the bracelet and stared at Thoran eagerly. "Find him.". The wolves disappeared quickly to the fog.

At the break of dawn Ripkin finds that Thoran is nowhere to be seen. The other side of the bed is empty. The sheets aren't warm. Baby Ciara is sleeping peacefully in her crib. Ripkin notices the burned out candle and a note Thoran had left for her. She reads the first lines.



"Well, shit." A trip to Yew? That can't be anything good.

Sometimes, no matter how hard one tries, it's impossible to keep everything in control. Last evening, after the incident at the Wayfarer headquarters, Ripkin caught Eric as he was about to leave the city. Apparently the warrior had lost his cool and went on a rampage when Charha, the previous guildmaster's wife and a bit of a busybee, had accidentally said something stupid about Ripkin. How was Rip supposed to know that Eric had such a raging temper? She only asked him to take care of one bothersome lover and somehow things escalated into a great burst of drama... But one has to admit, in a way it was actually rather impressive! People can be truly fascinating. Once again Ripkin's life resembles an alchemy workhouse. You think you're doing your usual stuff and suddenly the thing you hold in your hand explodes; farewell to eyebrows!

No matter. Ripkin will turn everything back in her favor.

„Where is he?!“ Eric screamed at the man he held in his hands, watching as the sweat streamed down the poor bugger‘s forhead. It was not the man‘s fault that his life was allmost at an end, all he really did was to bring message to Eric about the wereabouts of his boss and that little gang of his. Too bad Eric allready knew that this man was one of them, and as such, did not need him for much longer...
While Eric walked away from the cliffs where the tallest tree he could find was, with the goon having recived his „due pay“ as he so put it, he grinned a bit. „That man gave me so much more than i needed... it allmost makes me miss the time i used to do this for a living“. As he saddled up on his steed, he thought of Ripkin and sighed, „for you my dear, for you“ he mumbled, then raised his head high and started riding towards Vesper, to the den of thiefs that Malek had taken for himself and his gang. As the sun started rising in the east, Eric smiled, seeing Vesper again after oh so long of a time and even started wistling a little tune...

The following day Eric had found them, the small band of brigands were just where the first poor bastard told him, the caves west of Vesper, near the old guard post. Eric counted five of them outside, with who-knows-how-many more inside, but that would not be a problem for him, as a old feeling was washing over him, a feeling he had not had since that day, that fatefull day his father died. He shook off the shock, gave lip service to it, and smiled as he felt it wash over him again, that feeling of untapped rage, that ocean of anger towards everything and everyone that he saw and smelled, oh that smell, that delicious smell that came with fear, yes... yes... human fear...
That‘s when the first brigand noticed Eric.

A few hours later, Eric was rushing through the papers inside the cave, looking for clues, information, anything that could lead him to... ahh... there! Deep inside the cave was a small little box, a well locked box, but a wooden one. Eric chuckled, raised his maul high and came down on the corner of the box hard, smashing open the side and seeing the notes inside, and a map... wait, a map?! Eric threw the other things aside and looked at the map. It was a detailed map of Britain with a marker next to the guildhouse of the Wayfarers, and another marker at the few little cottages south west of the bank. „Hmm, he -did- keep a eye out for Rip... that bastard... he better not do anything stupid, like try to see her or anythi...“ Eric stopped thinking, talking and breathing. For a moment or two, he just -knew- someone or something was watching him, but where? From where? There was nobody inside the cave here except him and the bodies of the brigands...

Thats when he noticed the hidden door, opening, and Malek walked out, clad in his red armor, wielding his large bastart sword and chuckling. „So you have found my hideout have you, little man?“ Malek snorted out, taking the first swing towards Eric, who managed to push his maul just far enough into the hit to make it glance off. „Is that all you got, Vampire Lord aspirant“ Eric yelled at him as he swung the heavy maul towards the center of mass known as Malek. The strike hit true and Malek groaned as the weight of the hit came through his armor, though, were he a mere mortal man, he would of died from that impact, so a simple groan of anger, not even pain, scared Eric a bit.

A few minutes later, and a million swings later, both Eric and Malek stood, drenched in sweat, fighting for their lifes in the middle of the cave, Eric bleeding visibly from many cuts and Malek visibly broken in many places. Enough is enough Eric yelled as he threw the last swing, as he found his strength dwindling, he was, to say the least, exhausted. The combat potion Ripkin had brewed him had given him immense power and agility, but only for a while, and the after effects were hitting him hard, his eyesight failing him, his feet failing to keep up his weight... „oh well, i knew it was a hopeless thing anyhow, killing a beast of such strength... and a vampire to boot!“ Eric thought to himself as Malek grinned and stood up, sword in hand, and prepared to swing the last swing, to end this battle...