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Dante's sword stuck into the door that the man was leaning against seconds earlier. "You cannot plan on bringing pain to me like that" the man said, now standing behind him. Dante spun, ripping the rapier out of the doorway and swinging at him with equal fury as the last. When the man blacked his sword with his finger alone, he was awestruck. "Wha...." He stepped back, hitting the doorway, and looked into his father's bottomless blue eyes. "My blood flows through your veins. You will be able to do that, and much more, after my training is complete. "Training?" Dante furled his brow once again. "I will not let you train me, father" He lept forward, stabbing with his sword. The man flicked his wrist, knocking the sword away, and swiftly kicked Dante's hand. the sword fell to the ground, leaving Dante cradling his broked fingers in pain. "I will train you, son, wether you choose to or not. To get to your room, go through the door behind you. You will know which is yours. For now, I will let you rest--and I will heal your hand tomorrow. There are bandages on your desk." He turned, not letting Dante respond, and black smoke that started at his feet engulfed him, and he was gone. Dante sighed, looking from the spot his father was to his hand, that was shooting pain up his arm. At least two of his fingers were shattered--that meant no swordplay until they, if they could, healed... and no swordplay, he realized, would dampen his skills. He pushed through the door instructed, and took the nearest hallway, finding himself at a large doorway with a large runic flame on the wood. He tried to open it, but when he touched the knob an electric shock zapped through him. He left the door in curiosity, and took the room next to it. When he came to what will be soon his bedroom, he examined his surroundings before retiring for the night--there had been too many strange suprises for him not to wonder. His room was wide and tall, arched to a point at the ceiling. A single peice of art that rested over the bed caught Dante's attention especially. It was a single frame from a battlefield--and every expression, every finger was perfect and lifelike. Who could have painted such a masterpiece? He could only wonder that as his horrifying dreams ripped reality from him viciously.
Jareth Black · Thu Dec 30, 2004 @ 02:47am · 1 Comments |
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