From the Journals of Maros Ares Sanacharibos, V1.5

Regensburg, The First of May:

The beast clamored in my belly trying to crawl up my throat and tear its way free.  I clamped down on it hard.  Erlinder's purple and black robe was wadded up in my hand as I surveyed the writhing mass of bodies on the plain below me.  The drumming and singing ( Read more... )

Regensburg, night two.

I was becoming reconciled to the fact that I may never speak normally again. After all I am Spartan, and Driva's wounds were much more grievious than mine. She lost the use of her hand in battle with the Poor Knights of Christ, and the scars across her chest, got in combat with the werewolves, look like marks from a lash. ( Read more... )