A Cold September

The Chase

This foolhardy Obadiah had been tracking Onus and his fellows, the sheer audacity! And though the trio had taken almost every precaution to remain incognito, it was clear by the second day in Lexington that they had somehow gained an unwelcome follower. Perhaps it was the fact that Onus and his band refused to hide or even curb their thick and aristocratically proper English accents while in the small town that made them easily tracked.  The ambush they had set had been nearly perfect, but there was more to this commoner than they first suspected and he had outright killed one of Onus' acolytes, leaving the other wounded to the point they could not take chase with their leader.

And now he ran like the cowardly dog that he was, his trail of blood, a ruined mount (which Onus finished off with sneer), and broken brush clearly marking his way. Onus mused on this man's stamina, that he hadn't dropped of blood loss or exhaustion was surprising. A muddy and discarded tricorne hat brought Onus out of his thoughts and to the task at hand. He looked it over in his hands, recognized it as belonging to the very man he chased now, and cast it aside, continuing his pursuit with renewed vigor.

Summer harvest was barely over a month behind but the air was decidedly cold and wet. Obadiah, "Obie" to his friends and family, was on the move. He thought he had been sneaky, tracking his quarry for days on end and finally coming to a close in the town of Lexington, Massachusetts. However, that morning he had been spotted in the market. Outnumbered he fought nonetheless, with abandon, more to facilitate his escape than stay engaged. There were three warlocks originally in that alley, now only one remained, and he was hellbent on Obie's trail.

Obie bled from half a dozen wounds and his left shoulder a tingling, numb mass of what felt more like wood than part of his body. Still he took flight. His horse had become entangled and broke two of its legs in the thick overgrowth outside of town, it's pitiful cries too distant to be heard now. Splashing through a sizable creek, Obie's wool great coat was waterlogged and heavy halfway up his back with cold water. His shoulder made it more to difficult to shrug it off, but that's when it came to him, he got to work, knowing there was a warlock in pursuit, and probably already within the forest.

Deeper into the woods Onus slowed his heartbeat and forced himself to collect his breath, mentally silencing the forest sounds all around him. "Révéler visio multis", Onus spoke the words so clearly and so precisely it was hard to believe they came from a human at all, yet the volume of the words was that of a soft breath. The trees and the wet earth, the birds, the stream in the distance all became mute, as if the color was being drained from them and they took on hues of grey. Save for one area that blazed a bright blue behind a pair of ancient, fallen trees. The commoner's greatcoat, almost hidden but not well enough for Onus' spell of vision revealed it all too well. Another whisper of a spell came to the lips of the warlock, this time silencing his footsteps as he made his way to within twenty yards of the almost cleverly concealed hiding spot.

Upon uttering his third spell since entering the woods however, Onus' voice was a roar, confident and concise as a lifetime of practicing the magics had taught him, raising his wand, an ebon carved rod of what appeared to be shiny black bone, he dramatically spoke the words "Détruite magna célér!" A beam of muted shadow close to a full foot in diameter shot out from his wand impacting the cowardly human, his greatcoat, the fallen trees, and the arrogance that one without magic could ever hope to stand against the crown. The impact shook the ground as the trees exploded outward in wet chunks and sections of mud rained down with just tatters of the dark blue greatcloak. Onus, smiling smugly to himself, turned to head back towards the town.

As the warlock turned however, he was immediately aware of a man, no, the man standing a dozen or so paces away. Wet and bloodied, most noticeably absent of a recently obliterated dark blue greatcoat was this surprisingly resourceful peasant. Holding his flintlock outstretched in his right hand, squarely aimed at the warlock, while his left arm was cradled, injured to his side he spoke, "That was my good coat, I'll add it to your list of grievances..." with that he squeezed the trigger.