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[indent][indent]Novella strode beside Marianne, sliding the black and silver rings into place on his left-hand. One on his index finger and the other his middle. From the black band he felt the power that Marianne told him of, a soothing rejuvenation that touched him with all the force of a feather. Here and there his small bruises would quit their aching before altogether numbing to obscurity. Nove smiled, thankful for the respite and chance to indulge in more pleasant discoveries.  

Discoveries such as the gilded-covered halls of the Dwarves. Statues that inspired images of brave, stout warriors that overcame horrifying odds. In that pertinent moment, Novella imagined his own figure molded in gold, seventeen-feet tall, and posed with his blade held high in victory. In midst of his friends, he covertly tightened his fist with excitement and grinned furiously to himself.  

Then he felt something deep in the nook of his skull.  So much so that he had begun to push pass Grendrick and Sir Siph but as he took the lead he thought better of it. Pausing then slowing to a gait that had allowed the others to quickly overtake him.  

[i]Why did I stop?[/i] he muttered, feeling a realm of misgiving.  

It wasn’t until a growing babel of noise had Nove pushed it all aside and ran ahead with the others.  A booming voice, foreign and strong, was quick to order them around. Novella drew his longsword from his back and without hesitance rushed to join the fray. A part of him couldn’t stop himself, another piece of him just wanted to test out his new treasures.  

So he dove in,  a sly twist to his entrance as he struck gold and felt his blade slice through a Skaven’s neck. A gurgle slithered away with its dying breath, announcing his presence. Nove raised his buckler to guard his face and neck,  and brought his sword close to himself to create a radius of reaction while pushing forward step by step. Impulsive to a fault, he for some reason felt comforted in the fact tha his friends would be close behind.[/indent][/indent]