The Haunted Traveler Vol. 1 Issue 1

64
safe; now I have to make sure he is safe as well.”
“My Lord, you can’t be serious?” Tiri places her hands desperately
on his shoulders, to which Pofiri growls and shrugs
her off before standing finally and stretching his powerful
body in every direction he can muster to work the sores out
of his muscles, which have been threaded and made powerful
over years of war and work shepherding and slaughtering
the herds of Balti, giving him an appearance much like a
swimmer though no water exists deep enough to provide an
ample pool.
“I am serious, Tiri. I leave as swift as the rookmack runs.
Now go fetch my shirya and cloth me. I must pray for my
success.”
“Pofiri…” Her well-founded anxiety, emerging as a result of
her domination by Grokti and his cronies, shows in her voice
before she is sent scampering out of the room into the city
proper by the warrior’s roar that shows he has had enough of
her lack of faith.
Now alone, Pofiri allows himself the luxury of a snarl before
he takes roomookt to hand, dragging the hilt up to open
hand along the long chain that is fused to the pommel. The
chain’s strange metallic sheen shimmers even in the dim of
Drak’Toor. At the opposite end of the chain is an open collar
device, the action of its constricting motion operated by a
button set in the hilt, which has been wrapped in farkmack
hide as a grip. Pofiri’s father told him that this weapon was
designed by the great scientists who roamed these very halls
so long ago in a time that was remembered only by ancient
historians and the decaying texts they try frantically to save.
The warrior could only take his departed kin’s word for it,
though he had never seen a chain so magnificent as his own
on any other roomookt. Pofiri admires the glass blade, curved
so subtly to further add to its lethality, giving it the appearance
of a crystallized tooth ready to partake of the flesh at
any moment.
The warrior then, reverently, puts the blade between