( It's a multi-parter :) There'll be some blood. I sorry. Oh, and....its kinda long. DISCLAMER: My grammar sucks. I've been drinking. )
And it had all been going so well.
Joseph StVrain found himself in the wheat fields of Karthe, which was a few miles north of the Kalean City of Balaan. It was October (in his mind, the local months were named differently) in the 2nd Era, 498. Currently, the war between the Kingdoms of Kale, Brog'dosh, and Sombrean was in its fourth year, with the Kalean Army finally able to push back the Orcish and Sombrean invaders to nearly the original, prewar borders. Joe was dressed in his Rougish armor: the design was similiar for all of his Squad of Rogues. It was dark brown leather, which hugged and surrounded mail on either side. While it might of been a pain in the butt to repair, the leather softened some blows and silenced the sound of rustling mail; which was invaluable to the Rogue's preferred line of work, which was guerilla warfare.
Just slightly after dawn, a low mist hung over the fields, artifically created by the moist breath exhaled from thousands of humans, orcs, and various other races enlisted for the battle. The sun had refused to rise, and instead hid behind a dark gray cloud cover, which provided a light drizzle; the pitter-patter of water droplets upon plate and chainmail nearly a low drumming.
Deep in the back of Joe's mind, as he crouched low to the ground, he thought about the trampled wheat under his feet, which was ready to be reaped. But that wasn't what caught his real attention. It was the over-extension of the Orc bearing down on him, whose two-handed, double sided axe cut the air just above him, which made the application of his broadsword to the thing's exposed neck all the easier. As he pulled his thrusted weapon back out of the twitching beast, he took a quick glance of the battle around him, which was well into progress already. The true battle had started well before dawn, lit by torchlight and fire-arrows. But now was different. His division of mercanaries had taken the center, and were doing well. The biggest problem his men had was the giant who wielded a warhammer the size of a man. But he would be dealt with, as the ranks of men between the giant and Joe were thinning. His flanks were holding up, and the archers on both sides hesitated firing into the groups of men in the center, waiting for a victor before loosing.
Instinct gnawed on the back of his mind....something wasn't right. But he pushed on anyway. In front of him, an orc raised his blade to strike down at one of his men, who'd been winded by the orc's elbow strike a moment before. He had no problem striking an opponent with his back turned, and thats exactly what he did, driving his own blade up and inside the ribcage before the creatures own blow could land. And now instinct, which had been nagging him quietly before, grabbed his ear and screamed into it. With a grunt of effort, he attempted to unfree his blade from the orc's shoulder....which held fast, caught on sinew and blood, so he pushed the creature away and turned....but he already knew what he was up against. His hands raised as a blur of a steel warhammer swung horizontally at him, held one-handed by the giant, who apparently didn't like him anymore. Both hands caught just under the warhammer faster than the eye could track....and even with him being as strong as he was, he would lose this game of leverage.
Slowed down just slightly by his arms, the warhammer struck him just left of his breastbone, the impact's force transferring through the mithril-reinforced dark brown leather cuirass he wore. He felt that whole side of his chest shatter instantly, but the mere force of the blow sent him flying....the pain would arrive when he hit the ground a few seconds later. Stars swirled in his vision. Winded, he writhed on the ground as he thought his chest would explode. The world slowed down. The sounds of steel clashing, and the cries of men and orc as they lay blooded subsided. There was only his ragged breathing. And the pitter of drizzle. And the ground shaking thrum-thrum as the giant advanced on him. That mother f*cker...
He needed something. A plan. A weapon. His head bobbled to either side, searching for something....there were his fallen brothers around him, but no weapons immediately available. Those gray orbs looked up at the palish, dirty skin of the giant as leered down at him, who wore a rag-tag collection of mail and leather armor. It glanced at its warhammer....which had obviously snapped from the impact on him, which now remained a sharped metal handle, about 6 feet long. Joe grinned, blood on his teeth, up at the thing....at least my ribs broke your f*cking weapon The thought was obvious on his face, which made the giant mad.
As it turns out, one of the first rules with dealing with giants is "Don't make it mad." And this giant was no exception, who placed most of its 600 pound weight on Joe's abdomen with a big, muddy, hairy foot, and raised the handle to drive it into Joe's already wounded chest. With no plan, no weapon, and no escape....Joe had nothing. His hands beat in futility on the only thing he could reach, the foot, as it began crushing his internal organs.
The handle came down, sharp, snapped end first. There was a crunching sound, followed by a wet one as the metal slipped and tore through his lung, and out the other side. His neck arched back, letting out a cry of pain....his breath out casting a reddish haze. There was blood haze on his face now....and those gray orbs turned to look up at the giant over top of him. He had no way out. Nothing. Or so he thought.
Deep inside his mind, something whispered to him. He knew what it was....it always gnawed at his consciousness....but now, inches to death, he listened. It promised power and immediate solutions to problems at hand. And Joe listened. It pointed out his failure as a leader....how his men, his brothers, died for his errors....and offered a solution, as all good manipulators seduce. Rage at his own inability festered. Rage at the loss of good men, his brothers, to these animals infurated him. And Joe gave in to the rage.
Those steely gray orbs narrowed as the looked up at the giant, whose yellow eyes and yellow broken teeth mocked him. That stupid looking face. His logical thought process broke down, and he didn't care. It wasn't important. He hated giants now....their whole f*cking species, and their smaller green-skinned sh*t-stains, the orcs. They were killing HIS men....and Joe lost it.
He let the other Side of his powers take hold....powers he'd tried so hard to avoid.
It seemed to take forever, to him, to be convinced to do such a thing. But to the world, it was a blink of an eye.
Those gray eyes gained a color....yellow, which formed immediately around the pupils. His lips curled in a hateful snarl as both leather clad hands took the pole which impaled him to the ground. His mouth opened, and the roar that came from him shook the ground nearby, echoing across the battlefield as the the sound waves bounced off steel, flesh, and the scenery. He pulled the broken warhammer handle out of him, even against the arms of the giant above him. Blue-white lightning sparkled from his fingertips, surging up the metal handle and causing the giant to release the broken warhammer handle as dark electrical energy arced across its flesh, searing. He sat up, oblivious to pain and reached under the leather cuirass of the giant....taking firm hold of the large, sweaty genitals of the thing above him, in a grip that was like a vice; completely fueled by rage and a power beyond then all. With a grab, twist, and a pull, the giant doubled over....and was promptly met in the eye with the bloodied, sharpened end of the warhammer handle; he buried the weapon all the way to where his first was holding it. And just as abruptly, he remembered himself....and pushed away his anger and rage. Which just as abruptly lost him his powers. The giant twitched a few times, exhaled, and collapsed back on Joe with a cry of agony from the one on the bottom. Both his blood, and the giant's soaked him...as he lay.
The voice, deep inside him, cackled at him, having scored a victory....then retreated, whispering at how he'd merely gotten a taste of the power that could be his.....and then shock set in. He was barely there now....physically unable to remove the crushing weight of the giant corpse above him, and mortally wounded, he waited to die....and prayed it would finally come to him....he'd lived way too long.
The yellow in his eyes retreated with the voice, and the pure gray orbs unfocused. He coughed, foaming blood on his lips. A picture from the past filled his mind....deep space surrounding a ship of metal, and he smiled. He saw a human face peer down at him, Martin he recognized, who looked up and screamed for a healer....but he could barely make out the voice. Joe's hand reached up and smacked Martin's lead to get his attention, and got it immediately, one of Martin's mail-covered hands gripping his.
"Rally....get all to top....watch....archers...cav...get....cavalry to....to.." His voice dropped to just a whisper as he ordered. Martin was one of his older men, thirty or so, with a wife and two kids. Responsible kind of guy. He'd make a good division commander. He'd done a good job at the Battle of....I'm unfocused....wow, shock must really be taking hold... But Martin wasn't satisfied. "Hold on, sir!" Martin screamed back at him above the clash of steel still ringing. "Calvary around to take the archers, sir?" Joe bobbled his head in affirmation. His vision began to tunnel....blackness covering up his peripherial vision. His breathing came in rasps. Jerky. Irregular. Finally I get to die.... His last true sight was several of his men attempting to lift the giant's corpse from off his body. Stupid f*ckers, go fight the battle... he tried waving them away. And then the neurons inside his brain fired as the chemical pathways broke down...and his sight became the last show of the culimation of his life; the last breath he expected to exhale was released in a sigh.
(continued at a time that is both later and not now) (But hey, seriously, let me know if you like it. I'm a little rusty.)
And it had all been going so well.
Joseph StVrain found himself in the wheat fields of Karthe, which was a few miles north of the Kalean City of Balaan. It was October (in his mind, the local months were named differently) in the 2nd Era, 498. Currently, the war between the Kingdoms of Kale, Brog'dosh, and Sombrean was in its fourth year, with the Kalean Army finally able to push back the Orcish and Sombrean invaders to nearly the original, prewar borders. Joe was dressed in his Rougish armor: the design was similiar for all of his Squad of Rogues. It was dark brown leather, which hugged and surrounded mail on either side. While it might of been a pain in the butt to repair, the leather softened some blows and silenced the sound of rustling mail; which was invaluable to the Rogue's preferred line of work, which was guerilla warfare.
Just slightly after dawn, a low mist hung over the fields, artifically created by the moist breath exhaled from thousands of humans, orcs, and various other races enlisted for the battle. The sun had refused to rise, and instead hid behind a dark gray cloud cover, which provided a light drizzle; the pitter-patter of water droplets upon plate and chainmail nearly a low drumming.
Deep in the back of Joe's mind, as he crouched low to the ground, he thought about the trampled wheat under his feet, which was ready to be reaped. But that wasn't what caught his real attention. It was the over-extension of the Orc bearing down on him, whose two-handed, double sided axe cut the air just above him, which made the application of his broadsword to the thing's exposed neck all the easier. As he pulled his thrusted weapon back out of the twitching beast, he took a quick glance of the battle around him, which was well into progress already. The true battle had started well before dawn, lit by torchlight and fire-arrows. But now was different. His division of mercanaries had taken the center, and were doing well. The biggest problem his men had was the giant who wielded a warhammer the size of a man. But he would be dealt with, as the ranks of men between the giant and Joe were thinning. His flanks were holding up, and the archers on both sides hesitated firing into the groups of men in the center, waiting for a victor before loosing.
Instinct gnawed on the back of his mind....something wasn't right. But he pushed on anyway. In front of him, an orc raised his blade to strike down at one of his men, who'd been winded by the orc's elbow strike a moment before. He had no problem striking an opponent with his back turned, and thats exactly what he did, driving his own blade up and inside the ribcage before the creatures own blow could land. And now instinct, which had been nagging him quietly before, grabbed his ear and screamed into it. With a grunt of effort, he attempted to unfree his blade from the orc's shoulder....which held fast, caught on sinew and blood, so he pushed the creature away and turned....but he already knew what he was up against. His hands raised as a blur of a steel warhammer swung horizontally at him, held one-handed by the giant, who apparently didn't like him anymore. Both hands caught just under the warhammer faster than the eye could track....and even with him being as strong as he was, he would lose this game of leverage.
Slowed down just slightly by his arms, the warhammer struck him just left of his breastbone, the impact's force transferring through the mithril-reinforced dark brown leather cuirass he wore. He felt that whole side of his chest shatter instantly, but the mere force of the blow sent him flying....the pain would arrive when he hit the ground a few seconds later. Stars swirled in his vision. Winded, he writhed on the ground as he thought his chest would explode. The world slowed down. The sounds of steel clashing, and the cries of men and orc as they lay blooded subsided. There was only his ragged breathing. And the pitter of drizzle. And the ground shaking thrum-thrum as the giant advanced on him. That mother f*cker...
He needed something. A plan. A weapon. His head bobbled to either side, searching for something....there were his fallen brothers around him, but no weapons immediately available. Those gray orbs looked up at the palish, dirty skin of the giant as leered down at him, who wore a rag-tag collection of mail and leather armor. It glanced at its warhammer....which had obviously snapped from the impact on him, which now remained a sharped metal handle, about 6 feet long. Joe grinned, blood on his teeth, up at the thing....at least my ribs broke your f*cking weapon The thought was obvious on his face, which made the giant mad.
As it turns out, one of the first rules with dealing with giants is "Don't make it mad." And this giant was no exception, who placed most of its 600 pound weight on Joe's abdomen with a big, muddy, hairy foot, and raised the handle to drive it into Joe's already wounded chest. With no plan, no weapon, and no escape....Joe had nothing. His hands beat in futility on the only thing he could reach, the foot, as it began crushing his internal organs.
The handle came down, sharp, snapped end first. There was a crunching sound, followed by a wet one as the metal slipped and tore through his lung, and out the other side. His neck arched back, letting out a cry of pain....his breath out casting a reddish haze. There was blood haze on his face now....and those gray orbs turned to look up at the giant over top of him. He had no way out. Nothing. Or so he thought.
Deep inside his mind, something whispered to him. He knew what it was....it always gnawed at his consciousness....but now, inches to death, he listened. It promised power and immediate solutions to problems at hand. And Joe listened. It pointed out his failure as a leader....how his men, his brothers, died for his errors....and offered a solution, as all good manipulators seduce. Rage at his own inability festered. Rage at the loss of good men, his brothers, to these animals infurated him. And Joe gave in to the rage.
Those steely gray orbs narrowed as the looked up at the giant, whose yellow eyes and yellow broken teeth mocked him. That stupid looking face. His logical thought process broke down, and he didn't care. It wasn't important. He hated giants now....their whole f*cking species, and their smaller green-skinned sh*t-stains, the orcs. They were killing HIS men....and Joe lost it.
He let the other Side of his powers take hold....powers he'd tried so hard to avoid.
It seemed to take forever, to him, to be convinced to do such a thing. But to the world, it was a blink of an eye.
Those gray eyes gained a color....yellow, which formed immediately around the pupils. His lips curled in a hateful snarl as both leather clad hands took the pole which impaled him to the ground. His mouth opened, and the roar that came from him shook the ground nearby, echoing across the battlefield as the the sound waves bounced off steel, flesh, and the scenery. He pulled the broken warhammer handle out of him, even against the arms of the giant above him. Blue-white lightning sparkled from his fingertips, surging up the metal handle and causing the giant to release the broken warhammer handle as dark electrical energy arced across its flesh, searing. He sat up, oblivious to pain and reached under the leather cuirass of the giant....taking firm hold of the large, sweaty genitals of the thing above him, in a grip that was like a vice; completely fueled by rage and a power beyond then all. With a grab, twist, and a pull, the giant doubled over....and was promptly met in the eye with the bloodied, sharpened end of the warhammer handle; he buried the weapon all the way to where his first was holding it. And just as abruptly, he remembered himself....and pushed away his anger and rage. Which just as abruptly lost him his powers. The giant twitched a few times, exhaled, and collapsed back on Joe with a cry of agony from the one on the bottom. Both his blood, and the giant's soaked him...as he lay.
The voice, deep inside him, cackled at him, having scored a victory....then retreated, whispering at how he'd merely gotten a taste of the power that could be his.....and then shock set in. He was barely there now....physically unable to remove the crushing weight of the giant corpse above him, and mortally wounded, he waited to die....and prayed it would finally come to him....he'd lived way too long.
The yellow in his eyes retreated with the voice, and the pure gray orbs unfocused. He coughed, foaming blood on his lips. A picture from the past filled his mind....deep space surrounding a ship of metal, and he smiled. He saw a human face peer down at him, Martin he recognized, who looked up and screamed for a healer....but he could barely make out the voice. Joe's hand reached up and smacked Martin's lead to get his attention, and got it immediately, one of Martin's mail-covered hands gripping his.
"Rally....get all to top....watch....archers...cav...get....cavalry to....to.." His voice dropped to just a whisper as he ordered. Martin was one of his older men, thirty or so, with a wife and two kids. Responsible kind of guy. He'd make a good division commander. He'd done a good job at the Battle of....I'm unfocused....wow, shock must really be taking hold... But Martin wasn't satisfied. "Hold on, sir!" Martin screamed back at him above the clash of steel still ringing. "Calvary around to take the archers, sir?" Joe bobbled his head in affirmation. His vision began to tunnel....blackness covering up his peripherial vision. His breathing came in rasps. Jerky. Irregular. Finally I get to die.... His last true sight was several of his men attempting to lift the giant's corpse from off his body. Stupid f*ckers, go fight the battle... he tried waving them away. And then the neurons inside his brain fired as the chemical pathways broke down...and his sight became the last show of the culimation of his life; the last breath he expected to exhale was released in a sigh.
(continued at a time that is both later and not now) (But hey, seriously, let me know if you like it. I'm a little rusty.)