With that Soul lifted a leathery hand. Water flooded into the hut, washing away the spears, bringing the silk down onto Rois, who was in turn extinguished and relieved of pain. Rois blacked out.
Petals from a blossom tree landed gently on Rois’ nose, but they were enough to awaken him. After a period of coughing and spluttering, he found himself on the bank of a lake, its calm emerald waters gently soaked his feet, surrounded on all sides by snow capped mountains and groves of cherry blossom, pink and white, whose colours were exaggerated by the orange glow of the setting sun. Rois stood. He turned and saw a small house, a house he’d seen before in a different setting a long time ago. He’d often attended meetings in the pristine little home, made of neatly piled oak logs. The house belonged to his former general, back when they called him Corporal Rois, long before he joined the Dark Empire. His name was General Croce.
Struck with horror and twisted by guilt, Rois was frozen. He could not move. When he saw the figure of a man in effervescent, golden robes appear in the doorway of the house, Rois still did not move. He couldn’t, guilt and fear immobilised his legs, as if they had become stone. The figure glided over the grass, petals swirling around him as he drew ever closer. His olive skinned face looked darker in the sun’s half-light, his beard had not changed. Only his eyes were different; they no longer possessed their vitality, they did not glow with joy. They were still, unmoving, grey ovals inside a stern looking face.
“General Rois. Conqueror of Varrock, perpetrator of the Lumbridge Massacre, destroyer of Al Kharid, my old bodyguard, how was your journey here?” Croce’s tone was friendly but, at the same time, there was a quiet menace to his intonation.
“Sir, Croce… you’re dead. You must be!” Rois trembled. He was confused for the first time in his life, and he hated the feeling.
11-Apr-2010 15:50:34
