Shade Hightower looked out the barred window of his prison cell. He had an excellent view of the Isles of Penitence. Were his death not imminent, he might have enjoyed the view, the waves crashing against the rocky shoals, the sun reflecting off the shallow ocean waters. As it were, he stared blankly at the sky, wondering how he was going to get out of this predicament. "Hightower!" came a warden's voice from behind him, "Get over here. We're shoving off in two minutes." Shade turned his head and stared at the warden. Would he be the one to kill him? Shade hoped so. He looked strong, but Shade saw that he stood heavier on his right side. Exploit the left side, Shade thought. Shade walked slowly towards the warden. His arms were bound behind him with elf clover rope. The rope was a curious thing, the like of which Shade had never seen on the Astoran Continent. Not only did it hold his wrists tight, it prevented him from using his skills, what these lesser races called magic, sorcery, witchcraft, or other such nonsense. It was useless to try to escape now. The opportune time would be on the Island of Execution. The warden pushed Shade down the cold, stone corridors of the prison. He made sure to twist his staff into Shade's back as he prodded him forward. Shade imagined what he would do to this warden, given the chance. Shade was eventually led to a small boat tied to the main docks of the prison. Four wardens stood waiting on the docks. The warden leading Shade must be the fifth. The people of the Western Isles were sticklers for rites and rituals. It was silly, really, Shade thought. Everything here at the prison revolved around the number five, five representing the five forces of nature: earth, air, water, fire, and light. There were five islands that made up the Isles of Penitence. Those who were imprisoned for murder had to wait five days until they were executed. When they were executed, it was by five wardens on the Island of Execution. It was such an archaic way of viewing the world. It was the half-blood's influence on the region. They had such a shrouded past, one might even say mysterious. Yet it was this mystery that brought Shade down to the Western Isles. Most Astorans never strayed from their home, seeing no reason to associate with races that had nothing to offer them, that were inferior. Shade did not see the world in that way. The other races had plenty to offer. This elf clover rope that bound his hands, for example. Shade needed to get himself some of that. It was extremely powerful. Why not just kill your opponent, Shade could here his Astoran peers ask. Ah, but sometimes you do not want your opponent dead, Shade thought. Sometimes it is better to have him alive, at least temporarily. Shade was . . .
Aldora Stories
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