Nov 30, 2013, 01:56 am
(This post was last modified: Nov 30, 2013, 16:45 pm by Headbanger. Edited 2 times in total.)
Trying my hand at writing! Let me know what you think.
Chapter 1
Two figures sit across from each other, candlelight barely illuminating their shrouded faces. The first covered in black robes, sitting forward, resting with his hands on an unimpressive staff, leans in a little further, and in a raspy voice speaks to the other, "Do you really presume to challenge your fate, immortal?"
The other figure, appearing to be more youthful than the other, slams his fist on the table, and shouts, "I have challenged every other fate that has presumed it could take me, old man. My time will come as I rise above every lord and every emperor. And finally, I will come and claim your soul as my trophy, with the blood of your champion still warm upon my hands!"
The elder smirks and chuckles under his breath, and then once more assumes a sober disposition, "You have indeed avoided countless curses sworn unto you by your fallen enemies. Perhaps your luck will continue. Perhaps it will falter and you will know the sweet sting of mortality."
In the dark of the eclipse, a man awakens. He lays confused, soaked in blood, and alone, surrounded only by trees in a darkened forest muted by his arrival. The mighty yet mottled trees block most of the light when the sun finally emerges from behind the moon, as if trying to hide the light from his eyes out of fear of his awakening.
With great effort, he stands up and gazes downward. His hands are drenched in blood, fresh and old. He has been left in the middle of nowhere, naked except for the gore upon him, and no recollection of who he is or where he is from. The feeling that he has no memory is accompanied by the feeling that there is a wall in his head, holding back terrors, screams, and endless darkness.
His attempts to decipher his self are distracted by voices in the distance that break the silence. While faint, there is a distinct guttural quality to the voices, a raspy, low pitched tone. And while it is hard to understand the words from this distance, one thing he is sure of is that they are speaking as predators.
Driven by instinct, he grabs a nearby fallen branch and takes to hiding in the bushes. The voices get closer, until the language can be understood. Without a doubt, they speak in the language of goblins and trolls.
"I smell human over here." says one.
Another cackles in a piercing high-pitch tone, "Oh goody! I do hope its a child. I do so like the taste of children so much better!"
Taking a look, the man sees that there are four goblins in total, wearing the flesh of humans as clothing, and wielding crudely fashioned bone clubs. Their big, wolfish grins were full of sharp teeth, and their skin a sicklier shade of green than the sickest swamp. No doubt, they were not in a negotiating mood. But, no doubt they were completely inept in combat. The man analyzed them, time almost slowing down as he studied their pacing and the way they held their weapons. He felt his heart beating as instinct took over.
He leapt out of the brush, bellowing out a blood curdling battle cry and made a made dash at the most forward goblin. Before the goblin could raise his club to block, it was already too late. Its teeth and chunks of skull and brain fell distantly separated from the rest of the body, its green blood squirting from its body like a waterfall turned upside down and foul.
The other goblins, still in awe and just realizing what had happened, were still unready to meet his onslaught. The man charged at the second, uppercutting the second goblin so hard with his makeshift club that the wood cracked and splintered into the goblin's groin, sending dismembered shards all the way through to its heart.
The other two goblins now charged. The first makes an awkward swing that the man easily ducks. As a quick counter, the man thrusts his elbow into the goblin's chest, winding it. The other goblin tries to take a swing, much better in form, but still too slow to strike the man. With animalistic instinct, the man sinks his teeth deep into the goblins club arm, tearing out a chunk of muscle and meat. The goblin lets out a blood curdling scream briefly before it feints.
Knowing fear, the remaining goblin tries to turn and run, but stumbles and falls. Without hesitation or remorse, the man impales a nearby rock into the goblins skull. Taking a deep breath, he wonders over and does the same to the passed out goblin. These filthy retches were barely capable of life, let alone deserving of it.
Though he had been awake for some time, the sudden rush of the combat made him feel truly aware. He appraised his surroundings once more. Around him lay a wilderness, dense with trees and brush, with an occasional gap filled with a thick bed of ancient fallen leaves. He had no possessions, except for a nagging sense of purpose, as if he was destined for something greater. He had to figure out what it was.
Looting some basic provisions from the goblins – a handful of undetermined rations, a small stone dagger, some tattered cloth that wasn't made from flesh and suitable for covering himself, and a small canteen, the man set out, coming across a fresh water pond. He leaned down to fill his newly acquired canteen, and gazed at the reflection of himself in the water.
His face is covered in tattoos, and resembles a youthful appearance, except his eyes which are greyed as if he as aged prematurely. His hair is long and wrangled, soaked with the same blood that covers his body. As he gazes upon his reflection, he remembers a single word, "Ruen." The recollection comes with a price, as if he had to fight a thousand angry demons in his mind to even get that much. Shaking off the sensation, he cleanses the blood off of him, and sets out in search of civilization.
Chapter 2, Part 1:
Day turned into night, then night into day. Ruen wandered the hilly forest, searching for any sign of civilization, but not even a road or tree marking was found. Guided solely by the heavens, Ruen searched seemingly in vain. The sun began to move down across the horizon, itself growing weary of the day. Fatigue set upon Ruen like a pack of angry wolves, first striking at his legs, then his stomach as the pain of hunger befell him. The brisk air numbed his extremities, and paling his skin. His walking became labored, as if it took every force of effort to move one foot in front of the other.
As he pondered giving up the trek for the night, he caught a glimpse of smoke in the distance, about two hills over. Ruen made a note of which stars to follow. The curse of weariness dispelled, he sprinted full speed. As he darted through the woods, the darkness around him seemed to come alive, as the sleep seeking animals darted off in every direction, fearful that he was a predator.
He approached, the light of flame becoming visible in the distance, and the the silhouettes of two figures, one tall and one short, stood around the flame. The air filled with the sweet scent of freshly cooked wild game. Nearing closer, Ruen could make out more details. It was just a man and a young girl, who couldn't have been older than eleven or twelve years. They stood outside a small tent that looked barely large enough to hold the two of them. The man was powerfully built, and upon hearing the approach of Ruen, positioned himself in front of the girl and wrapped his hand around the hilt of his sword. In a swift motion he unsheathed.
Ruen slowed to a cautious walk, placing his hands in the air so that they could see he was unarmed.
"Stay back! Come any closer and I will cut you down like the barbarian you are!" the subtle hint of fear betrayed the man's intimidating demeanor.
"Whoa friend. I mean you no harm. I assure you, despite my appearance, I am no barbarian." Ruen replied, "I am lost in this wilderness and I am looking for someplace nearby that I can take shelter and enjoy a nice meal and a warm hearth."
The man stared at ruin, taking in Ruen's appearance, "Well, you don't carry yourself as a barbarian, and even they aren't crazy enough to run around in this weather in just a cloth! Come closer, set your dagger on the ground to show you mean no harm."
Ruen slowly drew out his dagger and laid it down on the cold earth below. Even if this was a ruse to disarm him, this man was obviously not a trained warrior. He held his blade with uncertainty, and his face advertised his fear. However, the blade he carried was a fine blade. It appeared to be cast from a red hued metal, its blade sharpened beyond that of steel blades, and the sides of the blade were adorned with blue runes that seemed to faintly glow.
"My name is Ruen. I became lost about a day ago. I awoke in the wilderness without possessions or memories."
The man sheathed his blade, breathing a sigh of relief as he became certain that this barely clothed man before him was no threat.
"I am Shald, the blacksmith of Portershome. This is my daughter, Ifalna. We are on our way to the city of Dunsmouth to the south."
"Tell my why you are risking such a journey with so little? And who are these barbarians you speak of?"
"Two days ago, I was minding my own business, enjoying some beer in the tavern. These barbarians, they call themselves the Wolf Fang, come in. At first we didn't think much of it. Its not the first time they'd come to town, and they didn't cause much trouble before. But then they noticed Ifalna's birthmark, and began screaming bloody murder about witchcraft. Said that I needed to destroy her and then tried to take her away on the spot! Me and my friends at the tavern overcame them and they left. The next day, me and Ifalna go back to the tavern. I wanted to put the previous night as far behind me as possible with the help of the drink. And I'm doing a good job of it too until Rorie runs into the tavern screaming about a fire. Sure enough, those bastard Wolf Fang burned my shop to the ground. My entire livelihood gone. I've decided to go to Dunsmouth to try to take up my trade."
Ruen looked at the little girl, and saw the symbol on her arm – a half circle over an upside down triangle, with a circle on the left and right side. Inside the half circle were crude characters that looked like they belonged to an ancient runic alphabet. Something looked familiar about the characters, but whatever significance they had, Ruen could not recollect. He turned his attention to Shald's blade.
"Tell me, how did you come across that blade?"
"Its an ancient family heirloom. They say that my grandfather used to be the best blacksmith in the land. They said he was tough how to forge by the dwarves of the under cities, and then taught the art by the elves from the shimmering forests, and that he had ore that was sent from the heaven's themselves. Every knight from the old empire would wield a blade that he had forged, his craft sending demons and giants to the grave with impunity. Alas, father did not take up the craft, instead working the land. My grandfather's secrets and skills being lost in time."
Shald sighed, lost in fondness for his ancestor that he had never met, until returning himself back to Ruen, "Well, I may not have my grandfather's skill, but I do share my father's hospitality. Come, I will not let a friendly stranger go with so little."
The warmth of the fire and the taste of wild game were a welcome retreat for Ruen. Though he could only remember for a day, he had this pervading feeling that this was the first time in a long time that he had enjoyed any kind of comfort. Before long, Shald produced a bottle of rum that he had stashed in his tent, and the two enjoyed some well needed mirth and merriment before the night overcame them. He was treated to a new set of clothing, a little loose on him, but far better to the rags that had barely covered him.
Finally at ease, Ruen let the night take him. With no room in the tent, he laid down on the ground out Sleep fell over him, but he was not to know peace that night. Nightmares tore at him. Demonic forms stood over him, singing songs of despair, anguish, and pain with screams of the innocents. His nightmares filled with machines of torture devised from the very pits of Hell, seas of blood filled with dismembered remains and disembodied heads forever looking outward with the expression of supernatural horror painted on their faces by the cruelest of infernal artists. He could hear them chanting his name. Then he dreamt himself in darkness, surrounded by cackling fiends. Dream blurred into reality, as the abyssal darkness faded into the mundane moonlit darkness in the forest. Something was watching the campsite, Ruen was sure of it.
Without moving, Ruen tried to make out the sounds. Something heavy was moving slowly just outside the campsite. Ruen looked around, taking care not to move his head. He spotted his dagger within arms reach. Good, he thought. Then he heard something else at the edge of the camp. Whatever was out there was not alone. The best option know was to to remain alert and try to determine as much about the enemy as he could without alerting them to the fact that he was aware of them.
In the language of the plains, a deep voice whispered, "Do you think this is them?"
A higher voice replied, "Of course its them, our wolves tracked the scent all the way here. Position yourself on the other side of their camp. I want to leave no survivors. That witch has angered the sun god, and she and everyone who stands in our way will pay with blood."
Ruen saw an opportunity to end the battle before the unseen foes could gain a tactical advantage over him. In one swift motion, he reached for his dagger, jumped up to his feet and threw the dagger forward with the entire force of his body behind it. Before the dagger hit its mark, he reached down and grabbed a partially burned piece of wood from the waning fire, its end still a bright ember. In the woods, a loud piercing scream broke the silence of the night, signalling the beginning of a brutal combat.
Loudly, he screamed to alert his friends "Shald! To arms! We are under attack!"
The forests became alive. Ruen realized he had drastically underestimated the number of attackers. Counting the silhouettes dancing in the wilderness proved difficult, but there were at least six attackers mobile. Shald emerged from the tent, sword drawn and ready for battle. The silhouettes froze in place. For an instant, everything stood still. Even the breeze seemed to stop, and the embers slowed. Time stood still. Then, the attackers came.
Three charged out first. They were muscular and covered in furs, wielding large, crude iron swords in both hands. As they charged, they shouted their battle cry, in the language of the plains it simply meant "kill." Intimidating as they were, Ruen knew the first rule in battle is to keep one's wits about him. The three were all charging at him as he was nearer. Ruen stood his ground. The closest barbarian raised his blade high in the air, preparing to cleave down upon him, while the other two maneuvered to flank him on his sides.
As the blade came down, Ruen burst with strength and speed, dodging the blade and throwing the barbarian to his left down on top of the blunt edge of the sword. The weight of a man on top of his blade catches the attacker off balance, barely able to keep his hands on his weapon. Taking advantage of this, Ruen rams the ember end of the stick into the throat of his assailant. Shald rushes at the third attacker, bringing his sword down in a powerful overheard slash. The barbarian raises his blade to parry, but the cold iron cannot mete the heaven's metal. It doesn't even slow the rune enamored sword down. The sword slices through the barbarians head, separating the briefly surprised brute into two roughly equal halves.
Ruen can hear more movement in the woods. They are up to something. And then he hears it. Strange how one can hear himself being injured before he feels it. He looks down to see a crude arrow sticking from his shoulder, the blood slowly oozing from the wound. Caught off guard, the barbarian on the ground grabs his leg and trips him. Drawing a dagger from his waist, the barbarian gets on top of Ruen and makes and attempt at the throat. Ruen throws up his left, struggling to keep the dagger away from ending his life. With his right, he reaches for anything that could be used as a weapon. He feels the heat from the fire pit, and manages to reach in and grab a hand full of burning hot embers. The pain is unimaginable, but the pain stands between his life and death. He brings the embers up and slaps them to the side of the barbarian's face.
The embers sizzle as both of their skin begins to boil. The barbarians face turns red as he lets out screams of the utmost pain, but he still refuses to yield his position and keeps applying pressure to the dagger, trying to end Ruen before he is ended himself. His hair catches on fire, the skin on his face begins to blacken. Then in an instant, his body drops limp and the scream stop, replaced by the sound of the flesh still sizzling.
Quickly returning to his feet, Ruen feels another thud. This time, the arrow has struck his thigh. Pain courses through his body. Ruen lifts up the body of the deceased barbarian to use as cover. Briefly, he glimpses Shald in his peripheral vision engaging with a giant, hammer-wielding ogre of a man. But until the archer can be disposed of, Ruen knows any attempt to assist Shald will end with him laying in the ground like a bloodied porcupine. Using the body as cover, Ruen charges into the wood line blindly, hoping that his other senses will locate the archer before he is killed.
Meanwhile, Shald finds himself unable to do anything but dodge. This brute is relentless in his attack, and with the size of the hammer head, a single blow could translate into a very quick death. For such a large attacker with an unwieldy weapon, the savage wields it with surprising speed and agility, leaving no time for Shald to make any kind of counter attack. With overhead swing after sideways sweep, the attacks came unrelenting and seemed like they would never stop. As the brute raised his hammer up to come down for another power attack, Shald jumped over the fire pit. The heavy stone head crashed into the fiery embers, spewing embers outwards in every direction. The giant of a man let out a scream. The embers had hit his eyes. Shald realized this was his chance, but the brute also realized this would be the ideal chance for Shald to strike. As the hammer swung around, Shald dropped to the ground, narrowly avoiding the hammer. Without further hesitation, he plunged his blade into the barbarians shin. The blade, so sharp and exquisite did not stick there, is slid through the man's shin as effortlessly as a leaf dances in the wind, severing the foot. Losing his balance, the barbarian drops, and Shald hurriedly decapitates him before he has a chance to compose himself for defense.
In the wood line, Ruen charges into the forest, dead body out front. While his eyes have not yet adjusted to the dark, he does hear the sound of someone out front moving to the side, presumably to avoid his charge. Getting closer to the sound, he also hears the sound of a sword unsheathing. Hoping both sounds came from the same source, Ruen throws the body out front and throws himself wildly in the direction of the sound. His body awkwardly connects into the body of another. Almost reflexively his hands find the head and twist, snapping the neck as easily as one would snap a twig. Quickly, Ruen finds the blade, and not a moment too soon as an assailant lets forth his battle cry behind him. Turning around, Ruen's blade strikes its mark, impaling his foe in the chest with such force as to suspend his enemy in the air. The warm blood gushes out, pouring down the blade and down Ruen's arms. As Ruen pulls the sword out of the savage, the body drops limply and lifelessly to the ground.
Chapter 1
Two figures sit across from each other, candlelight barely illuminating their shrouded faces. The first covered in black robes, sitting forward, resting with his hands on an unimpressive staff, leans in a little further, and in a raspy voice speaks to the other, "Do you really presume to challenge your fate, immortal?"
The other figure, appearing to be more youthful than the other, slams his fist on the table, and shouts, "I have challenged every other fate that has presumed it could take me, old man. My time will come as I rise above every lord and every emperor. And finally, I will come and claim your soul as my trophy, with the blood of your champion still warm upon my hands!"
The elder smirks and chuckles under his breath, and then once more assumes a sober disposition, "You have indeed avoided countless curses sworn unto you by your fallen enemies. Perhaps your luck will continue. Perhaps it will falter and you will know the sweet sting of mortality."
In the dark of the eclipse, a man awakens. He lays confused, soaked in blood, and alone, surrounded only by trees in a darkened forest muted by his arrival. The mighty yet mottled trees block most of the light when the sun finally emerges from behind the moon, as if trying to hide the light from his eyes out of fear of his awakening.
With great effort, he stands up and gazes downward. His hands are drenched in blood, fresh and old. He has been left in the middle of nowhere, naked except for the gore upon him, and no recollection of who he is or where he is from. The feeling that he has no memory is accompanied by the feeling that there is a wall in his head, holding back terrors, screams, and endless darkness.
His attempts to decipher his self are distracted by voices in the distance that break the silence. While faint, there is a distinct guttural quality to the voices, a raspy, low pitched tone. And while it is hard to understand the words from this distance, one thing he is sure of is that they are speaking as predators.
Driven by instinct, he grabs a nearby fallen branch and takes to hiding in the bushes. The voices get closer, until the language can be understood. Without a doubt, they speak in the language of goblins and trolls.
"I smell human over here." says one.
Another cackles in a piercing high-pitch tone, "Oh goody! I do hope its a child. I do so like the taste of children so much better!"
Taking a look, the man sees that there are four goblins in total, wearing the flesh of humans as clothing, and wielding crudely fashioned bone clubs. Their big, wolfish grins were full of sharp teeth, and their skin a sicklier shade of green than the sickest swamp. No doubt, they were not in a negotiating mood. But, no doubt they were completely inept in combat. The man analyzed them, time almost slowing down as he studied their pacing and the way they held their weapons. He felt his heart beating as instinct took over.
He leapt out of the brush, bellowing out a blood curdling battle cry and made a made dash at the most forward goblin. Before the goblin could raise his club to block, it was already too late. Its teeth and chunks of skull and brain fell distantly separated from the rest of the body, its green blood squirting from its body like a waterfall turned upside down and foul.
The other goblins, still in awe and just realizing what had happened, were still unready to meet his onslaught. The man charged at the second, uppercutting the second goblin so hard with his makeshift club that the wood cracked and splintered into the goblin's groin, sending dismembered shards all the way through to its heart.
The other two goblins now charged. The first makes an awkward swing that the man easily ducks. As a quick counter, the man thrusts his elbow into the goblin's chest, winding it. The other goblin tries to take a swing, much better in form, but still too slow to strike the man. With animalistic instinct, the man sinks his teeth deep into the goblins club arm, tearing out a chunk of muscle and meat. The goblin lets out a blood curdling scream briefly before it feints.
Knowing fear, the remaining goblin tries to turn and run, but stumbles and falls. Without hesitation or remorse, the man impales a nearby rock into the goblins skull. Taking a deep breath, he wonders over and does the same to the passed out goblin. These filthy retches were barely capable of life, let alone deserving of it.
Though he had been awake for some time, the sudden rush of the combat made him feel truly aware. He appraised his surroundings once more. Around him lay a wilderness, dense with trees and brush, with an occasional gap filled with a thick bed of ancient fallen leaves. He had no possessions, except for a nagging sense of purpose, as if he was destined for something greater. He had to figure out what it was.
Looting some basic provisions from the goblins – a handful of undetermined rations, a small stone dagger, some tattered cloth that wasn't made from flesh and suitable for covering himself, and a small canteen, the man set out, coming across a fresh water pond. He leaned down to fill his newly acquired canteen, and gazed at the reflection of himself in the water.
His face is covered in tattoos, and resembles a youthful appearance, except his eyes which are greyed as if he as aged prematurely. His hair is long and wrangled, soaked with the same blood that covers his body. As he gazes upon his reflection, he remembers a single word, "Ruen." The recollection comes with a price, as if he had to fight a thousand angry demons in his mind to even get that much. Shaking off the sensation, he cleanses the blood off of him, and sets out in search of civilization.
Chapter 2, Part 1:
Day turned into night, then night into day. Ruen wandered the hilly forest, searching for any sign of civilization, but not even a road or tree marking was found. Guided solely by the heavens, Ruen searched seemingly in vain. The sun began to move down across the horizon, itself growing weary of the day. Fatigue set upon Ruen like a pack of angry wolves, first striking at his legs, then his stomach as the pain of hunger befell him. The brisk air numbed his extremities, and paling his skin. His walking became labored, as if it took every force of effort to move one foot in front of the other.
As he pondered giving up the trek for the night, he caught a glimpse of smoke in the distance, about two hills over. Ruen made a note of which stars to follow. The curse of weariness dispelled, he sprinted full speed. As he darted through the woods, the darkness around him seemed to come alive, as the sleep seeking animals darted off in every direction, fearful that he was a predator.
He approached, the light of flame becoming visible in the distance, and the the silhouettes of two figures, one tall and one short, stood around the flame. The air filled with the sweet scent of freshly cooked wild game. Nearing closer, Ruen could make out more details. It was just a man and a young girl, who couldn't have been older than eleven or twelve years. They stood outside a small tent that looked barely large enough to hold the two of them. The man was powerfully built, and upon hearing the approach of Ruen, positioned himself in front of the girl and wrapped his hand around the hilt of his sword. In a swift motion he unsheathed.
Ruen slowed to a cautious walk, placing his hands in the air so that they could see he was unarmed.
"Stay back! Come any closer and I will cut you down like the barbarian you are!" the subtle hint of fear betrayed the man's intimidating demeanor.
"Whoa friend. I mean you no harm. I assure you, despite my appearance, I am no barbarian." Ruen replied, "I am lost in this wilderness and I am looking for someplace nearby that I can take shelter and enjoy a nice meal and a warm hearth."
The man stared at ruin, taking in Ruen's appearance, "Well, you don't carry yourself as a barbarian, and even they aren't crazy enough to run around in this weather in just a cloth! Come closer, set your dagger on the ground to show you mean no harm."
Ruen slowly drew out his dagger and laid it down on the cold earth below. Even if this was a ruse to disarm him, this man was obviously not a trained warrior. He held his blade with uncertainty, and his face advertised his fear. However, the blade he carried was a fine blade. It appeared to be cast from a red hued metal, its blade sharpened beyond that of steel blades, and the sides of the blade were adorned with blue runes that seemed to faintly glow.
"My name is Ruen. I became lost about a day ago. I awoke in the wilderness without possessions or memories."
The man sheathed his blade, breathing a sigh of relief as he became certain that this barely clothed man before him was no threat.
"I am Shald, the blacksmith of Portershome. This is my daughter, Ifalna. We are on our way to the city of Dunsmouth to the south."
"Tell my why you are risking such a journey with so little? And who are these barbarians you speak of?"
"Two days ago, I was minding my own business, enjoying some beer in the tavern. These barbarians, they call themselves the Wolf Fang, come in. At first we didn't think much of it. Its not the first time they'd come to town, and they didn't cause much trouble before. But then they noticed Ifalna's birthmark, and began screaming bloody murder about witchcraft. Said that I needed to destroy her and then tried to take her away on the spot! Me and my friends at the tavern overcame them and they left. The next day, me and Ifalna go back to the tavern. I wanted to put the previous night as far behind me as possible with the help of the drink. And I'm doing a good job of it too until Rorie runs into the tavern screaming about a fire. Sure enough, those bastard Wolf Fang burned my shop to the ground. My entire livelihood gone. I've decided to go to Dunsmouth to try to take up my trade."
Ruen looked at the little girl, and saw the symbol on her arm – a half circle over an upside down triangle, with a circle on the left and right side. Inside the half circle were crude characters that looked like they belonged to an ancient runic alphabet. Something looked familiar about the characters, but whatever significance they had, Ruen could not recollect. He turned his attention to Shald's blade.
"Tell me, how did you come across that blade?"
"Its an ancient family heirloom. They say that my grandfather used to be the best blacksmith in the land. They said he was tough how to forge by the dwarves of the under cities, and then taught the art by the elves from the shimmering forests, and that he had ore that was sent from the heaven's themselves. Every knight from the old empire would wield a blade that he had forged, his craft sending demons and giants to the grave with impunity. Alas, father did not take up the craft, instead working the land. My grandfather's secrets and skills being lost in time."
Shald sighed, lost in fondness for his ancestor that he had never met, until returning himself back to Ruen, "Well, I may not have my grandfather's skill, but I do share my father's hospitality. Come, I will not let a friendly stranger go with so little."
The warmth of the fire and the taste of wild game were a welcome retreat for Ruen. Though he could only remember for a day, he had this pervading feeling that this was the first time in a long time that he had enjoyed any kind of comfort. Before long, Shald produced a bottle of rum that he had stashed in his tent, and the two enjoyed some well needed mirth and merriment before the night overcame them. He was treated to a new set of clothing, a little loose on him, but far better to the rags that had barely covered him.
Finally at ease, Ruen let the night take him. With no room in the tent, he laid down on the ground out Sleep fell over him, but he was not to know peace that night. Nightmares tore at him. Demonic forms stood over him, singing songs of despair, anguish, and pain with screams of the innocents. His nightmares filled with machines of torture devised from the very pits of Hell, seas of blood filled with dismembered remains and disembodied heads forever looking outward with the expression of supernatural horror painted on their faces by the cruelest of infernal artists. He could hear them chanting his name. Then he dreamt himself in darkness, surrounded by cackling fiends. Dream blurred into reality, as the abyssal darkness faded into the mundane moonlit darkness in the forest. Something was watching the campsite, Ruen was sure of it.
Without moving, Ruen tried to make out the sounds. Something heavy was moving slowly just outside the campsite. Ruen looked around, taking care not to move his head. He spotted his dagger within arms reach. Good, he thought. Then he heard something else at the edge of the camp. Whatever was out there was not alone. The best option know was to to remain alert and try to determine as much about the enemy as he could without alerting them to the fact that he was aware of them.
In the language of the plains, a deep voice whispered, "Do you think this is them?"
A higher voice replied, "Of course its them, our wolves tracked the scent all the way here. Position yourself on the other side of their camp. I want to leave no survivors. That witch has angered the sun god, and she and everyone who stands in our way will pay with blood."
Ruen saw an opportunity to end the battle before the unseen foes could gain a tactical advantage over him. In one swift motion, he reached for his dagger, jumped up to his feet and threw the dagger forward with the entire force of his body behind it. Before the dagger hit its mark, he reached down and grabbed a partially burned piece of wood from the waning fire, its end still a bright ember. In the woods, a loud piercing scream broke the silence of the night, signalling the beginning of a brutal combat.
Loudly, he screamed to alert his friends "Shald! To arms! We are under attack!"
The forests became alive. Ruen realized he had drastically underestimated the number of attackers. Counting the silhouettes dancing in the wilderness proved difficult, but there were at least six attackers mobile. Shald emerged from the tent, sword drawn and ready for battle. The silhouettes froze in place. For an instant, everything stood still. Even the breeze seemed to stop, and the embers slowed. Time stood still. Then, the attackers came.
Three charged out first. They were muscular and covered in furs, wielding large, crude iron swords in both hands. As they charged, they shouted their battle cry, in the language of the plains it simply meant "kill." Intimidating as they were, Ruen knew the first rule in battle is to keep one's wits about him. The three were all charging at him as he was nearer. Ruen stood his ground. The closest barbarian raised his blade high in the air, preparing to cleave down upon him, while the other two maneuvered to flank him on his sides.
As the blade came down, Ruen burst with strength and speed, dodging the blade and throwing the barbarian to his left down on top of the blunt edge of the sword. The weight of a man on top of his blade catches the attacker off balance, barely able to keep his hands on his weapon. Taking advantage of this, Ruen rams the ember end of the stick into the throat of his assailant. Shald rushes at the third attacker, bringing his sword down in a powerful overheard slash. The barbarian raises his blade to parry, but the cold iron cannot mete the heaven's metal. It doesn't even slow the rune enamored sword down. The sword slices through the barbarians head, separating the briefly surprised brute into two roughly equal halves.
Ruen can hear more movement in the woods. They are up to something. And then he hears it. Strange how one can hear himself being injured before he feels it. He looks down to see a crude arrow sticking from his shoulder, the blood slowly oozing from the wound. Caught off guard, the barbarian on the ground grabs his leg and trips him. Drawing a dagger from his waist, the barbarian gets on top of Ruen and makes and attempt at the throat. Ruen throws up his left, struggling to keep the dagger away from ending his life. With his right, he reaches for anything that could be used as a weapon. He feels the heat from the fire pit, and manages to reach in and grab a hand full of burning hot embers. The pain is unimaginable, but the pain stands between his life and death. He brings the embers up and slaps them to the side of the barbarian's face.
The embers sizzle as both of their skin begins to boil. The barbarians face turns red as he lets out screams of the utmost pain, but he still refuses to yield his position and keeps applying pressure to the dagger, trying to end Ruen before he is ended himself. His hair catches on fire, the skin on his face begins to blacken. Then in an instant, his body drops limp and the scream stop, replaced by the sound of the flesh still sizzling.
Quickly returning to his feet, Ruen feels another thud. This time, the arrow has struck his thigh. Pain courses through his body. Ruen lifts up the body of the deceased barbarian to use as cover. Briefly, he glimpses Shald in his peripheral vision engaging with a giant, hammer-wielding ogre of a man. But until the archer can be disposed of, Ruen knows any attempt to assist Shald will end with him laying in the ground like a bloodied porcupine. Using the body as cover, Ruen charges into the wood line blindly, hoping that his other senses will locate the archer before he is killed.
Meanwhile, Shald finds himself unable to do anything but dodge. This brute is relentless in his attack, and with the size of the hammer head, a single blow could translate into a very quick death. For such a large attacker with an unwieldy weapon, the savage wields it with surprising speed and agility, leaving no time for Shald to make any kind of counter attack. With overhead swing after sideways sweep, the attacks came unrelenting and seemed like they would never stop. As the brute raised his hammer up to come down for another power attack, Shald jumped over the fire pit. The heavy stone head crashed into the fiery embers, spewing embers outwards in every direction. The giant of a man let out a scream. The embers had hit his eyes. Shald realized this was his chance, but the brute also realized this would be the ideal chance for Shald to strike. As the hammer swung around, Shald dropped to the ground, narrowly avoiding the hammer. Without further hesitation, he plunged his blade into the barbarians shin. The blade, so sharp and exquisite did not stick there, is slid through the man's shin as effortlessly as a leaf dances in the wind, severing the foot. Losing his balance, the barbarian drops, and Shald hurriedly decapitates him before he has a chance to compose himself for defense.
In the wood line, Ruen charges into the forest, dead body out front. While his eyes have not yet adjusted to the dark, he does hear the sound of someone out front moving to the side, presumably to avoid his charge. Getting closer to the sound, he also hears the sound of a sword unsheathing. Hoping both sounds came from the same source, Ruen throws the body out front and throws himself wildly in the direction of the sound. His body awkwardly connects into the body of another. Almost reflexively his hands find the head and twist, snapping the neck as easily as one would snap a twig. Quickly, Ruen finds the blade, and not a moment too soon as an assailant lets forth his battle cry behind him. Turning around, Ruen's blade strikes its mark, impaling his foe in the chest with such force as to suspend his enemy in the air. The warm blood gushes out, pouring down the blade and down Ruen's arms. As Ruen pulls the sword out of the savage, the body drops limply and lifelessly to the ground.
