Everbloom Forest, Near T.Mines
Darkness clouded Eric's vision. What had started off as a simple look at a strange group had turned into the worst for the merchant. The small girl with fire in her eyes had formed some kind of energy so destructive even her allies were afraid. But if they were so afraid, why didn't they stop her? Why didn't they condense the magic into a more efficient form for their purposes? What were they doing, anyway? Sending a message? Eric figured it didn't matter to him at the moment. What did, however, was staying alive.
After the blast which scorched the area and left a crater behind, Eric was thrown back with the shockwave and hit his back on the sharp bark of a tree. His pack had absorbed most of the damage, but the shockwave and the searing heat from the inferno explosion in front of him was not hampered by his clothing. The merchant stirred from his mangled position, too hurt and bloodied to do much else. Blood from a shrapnel wound above his brow blinded him. He wanted to wipe the red life away and see, but two problems arose. He could not feel his hands at his sides, and he didn't want to see his condition.
Perhaps it was for the best. His legs were in no shape for him to walk away from the site. His denim hosen smoldered at the knees, revealing the burned flesh beneath it. Wounds coated his arms, leaving blood and shrapnel as calling cards. A long gash ran across his face from his nose to his left ear. Suffice to say, the merchant was crippled, wounded, and near death. He sputtered to life only to cough up a bit of blood. The will to live burned brightly within him, but if his body could not fan its flame, his will would die out with him.
After his fit of coughing and sputtering, he began to groan. Loudly. If a tree fell in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? Possibly. If a merchant is near death and cries for help, will someone come? Unlikely... Yet Eric wished this was the case. Hissing through the pain, he lifted his head and tried to purse his lips to whistle for his mule. No luck; his lips hurt to high hell. All he could do was groan.
Perhaps Bob had been cut down in the blast...
Darkness clouded Eric's vision. What had started off as a simple look at a strange group had turned into the worst for the merchant. The small girl with fire in her eyes had formed some kind of energy so destructive even her allies were afraid. But if they were so afraid, why didn't they stop her? Why didn't they condense the magic into a more efficient form for their purposes? What were they doing, anyway? Sending a message? Eric figured it didn't matter to him at the moment. What did, however, was staying alive.
After the blast which scorched the area and left a crater behind, Eric was thrown back with the shockwave and hit his back on the sharp bark of a tree. His pack had absorbed most of the damage, but the shockwave and the searing heat from the inferno explosion in front of him was not hampered by his clothing. The merchant stirred from his mangled position, too hurt and bloodied to do much else. Blood from a shrapnel wound above his brow blinded him. He wanted to wipe the red life away and see, but two problems arose. He could not feel his hands at his sides, and he didn't want to see his condition.
Perhaps it was for the best. His legs were in no shape for him to walk away from the site. His denim hosen smoldered at the knees, revealing the burned flesh beneath it. Wounds coated his arms, leaving blood and shrapnel as calling cards. A long gash ran across his face from his nose to his left ear. Suffice to say, the merchant was crippled, wounded, and near death. He sputtered to life only to cough up a bit of blood. The will to live burned brightly within him, but if his body could not fan its flame, his will would die out with him.
After his fit of coughing and sputtering, he began to groan. Loudly. If a tree fell in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? Possibly. If a merchant is near death and cries for help, will someone come? Unlikely... Yet Eric wished this was the case. Hissing through the pain, he lifted his head and tried to purse his lips to whistle for his mule. No luck; his lips hurt to high hell. All he could do was groan.
Perhaps Bob had been cut down in the blast...
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