Into the Lion's Den
Wed Apr 23, 2003 7:15 pm
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(Zengh): The sun has slipped from its crest and now rides lower and lower in the sky, shafts of light streaming like golden tears of the stars, blinding arrows, from betwixt the crags of the shadowy ridge. Silhouetted there, the mountains provide ample shade for the monster-men whose camps are nestled in between stone formations. Smoke rises in gray, bleak columns toward the heavens, each barely stirred by the feeble wind that smellsof rotting flesh, refuse, burning skin and smoldering hair. The din of flies humming is a high-pitched, droning overtone to the metronome of drums beating and the bass and tenor undercurrent of vocalisations, a song barbaric, beautiful and terrible.
A sacrifice has just been made. From a crude scaffolding dangles the remains of a nude young woman strung up by her ankles, her midsection split open, her entrails stuffed into her mouth and wrapped around her arms. On either side of her, twisted and contorted into a travesty of the human form, hang the bodies of children, their bare muscle shimmering with gelatinous, slowly melting fat and subcutaneous tissue. The foul religious ceremony continues on uninterrupted, for who would dare to crawl into the lion's den?
({TheMarchofGoldenIron}): Sweat beads upon the tanned brow of Khund Thenssen, the swarthy scout commander; fingers clench upon the rock that blocks the sight of him from the foe. He is sprawled like a dying lizard, arms splayed out and back lowered; his belly to the ground; but he can see them over the stone, where they have been strung up and left for the crows. The song confirms what the men of Temuria had long suspected; that these madmen were driven by zealotry, not mindless savagery. With the horrific image still burning into the back of his eyes the scout commander turns his face away, back down to the eyes of his men, who cannot see from where they are crouched. He does not speak, but stretches his hand behind him, and folds two fingers down about the central pair.
The men acknowledge silently, and begin to withdraw further down the slope. They must circle around, now - they must find a clear view of the enemy so they may estimate their number.
(Zengh): Horrifyingly enough, the madmen have not strung these poor, unfortunate souls up to be left for the crows. Oh, no, they are not that merciful. Indeed, a murder of the black carrion birds has begun to settle on the trees, cawing and crowing, but they are as powerless as the corpses themselves are, hanging limply over beds of coals and tinder. Flames lick at what has been left behind, charring muscle and searing skin that has not been removed.
One of those who appears to be a priest, a man draped in robes of blood-stained rawhide and fur, his head covered in the skull of a deer, antlers rising high, painted a glaring orange-yellow in the firelight, steps forward. With a curved instrument, what looks to be a sharpened rib bone taken from some unknown creature, in his hand, he approaches the tragic scene. Then, he does what would have, at one time and in some other place, been unthinkable. With a sickening, wet sound of slowly severed connective tissue, he jaggedly carves a chunk of flesh from the woman's breast, then bears the quivering meat aloft in the palm of his hand. The men surrounding continue to pound upon their drums and sing their prayer song, even as the master of ceremonies takes a bite from from the grisly feast.
({TheMarchofGoldenIron}): As the men creep away, one of them passes a gap in which he can see what is happening; his eyes widen in horror, his brows trembling; at the sight of the brutalised woman's corpse being further defiled, at the cannibal feast in the name of some terrible god, the Temurian slowly begins to break. Would that his companions had kept their eyes on him! Would that they had taken note of the clench of his fingers, at the tightening of his jaw and the bearing of his teeth. But the thickset soldier's horror has become fury. And he creeps away from his commander, hiding closer to the conflict...
While Khund himself leads the rest of the men - there are twenty in all, though five watch the place where the horses are hidden - in a wide, careful circle, higher onto the ridge; that they might gaze down and observe the main encampment of their terrible foe.
(Zengh): The drums have become an echoing, reverberating mockery of a pulse, a heartbeat which pumps no blood save for the illusionary gouts of which they are bathed in. Several of the barbarians have taken to dancing wildly, bone beans chinking and rattling as they, painted in powdery white and ebon-black to resemble living skeletons, step in synchronicity and lift their hands to the sky before the makeshift altar with a collective cry in some garbled, tribal tongue. As this happens, those who are not manning instruments or continuing with the droning chant strafe forward, forming an inner circle surrounding the horrid festivity. The priest has, by now, removed some of the internal organs of the larger body hanging from the scaffold. The half-cooked, still bleeding heart and liver now rest draped in his long fingered, long nailed hands.
Even as bile and other fluids stain his robe further, he strides about the inner circle, bidding each member to take a mouthful - others are consumed so that they may live to serve their god for another day.
({TheMarchofGoldenIron}): Fate has a cruel way of leading men astray. This soldier, Ajans, cannot tear his eyes from the sight, and the smell, of what takes place before him; his feet are drawn onward, and his hand to his short, Temurian composite bow. While his fellows circle higher, unaware he has left them, his trembling fingers nock an arrow to the string without looking; for he cannot look anywhere but at the spectacle of violence and desecration. While Khund Thenssen himself leads the scouting party to the ridge and stares down, over the encampment, judging its size and imagining that those other fires, those many fires, hold camps roughly the same in size...
Ajans, driven by a madness of just vengeance, draws the string and lifts the bow before his face. Now, he has forgotten his companions, forgotten the safety of his own life; forgotten their mission. He does not think of what will happen next; of what his action will spawn.
Every war begins with a single shot.
This one is loosed with a hiss toward the eye of the damned priest.
(Zengh): The barbarian warriors, one by one, receive their hunk of meat in an eerie but sickening, literal parallel to the Christian paradigm of the sacraments. One by one, as if wilting, those who do not sing or beat on percussion intstruments bow, ducking their heads down and settling their hands upon the ground as though beasts of the forest or something very, very much worse. The dancers, like starving, rabid dogs,
have begun to tear into the two smaller, twisted bundles of children on either side of the defiled woman's corpse. Ajans's bowstring is pulled taut. The earth itself seems to tremble, although that could simply be the song's accelerating, deepening rhythm vibrating the air and the ground like an earthquake. The Temurian looses his arrow, swift and just. The crows that had settled in the trees surrounding the camp explode forth in a flutter of feathery wings that darken the sky, eclipsing the remaining rays of the sun. A wet crack and a sudden halt to the tremoring drums signal the beginning of the end.
The priest stands stock-still for a moment, the wooden shaft fired upon him now jutting from betwixt his brows. It pierced through even his deerskull helm, and now the wound begins to weep. Of a sudden, he crumples into a boneless heap. The alarum has been sounded. The savages, outraged at the death of their holy man, quickly disperse for their weapons -- spears and stolen swords, caked with the grime of misuse, flash dully into the oncoming night.
({TheMarchofGoldenIron}): Up on the ridge, Khund's sharp ears catch something terribly amiss. His eyes narrow and his breath stills; his mind searches for what seems to be suddenly absent from the scene - he turns slowly, eyes widening. The drums have stopped. And one of his men is missing. "Sabi....ensid..." He turns to the other men with him and gives a sharp whisper, as they creep down to see what has caused it - and sight Ajans just before they hear him give a wild cry and draw his sword, readying to die honourably for his country. Khund gives a sharp intake of breath; his order is given and the men draw their bows - knowing now that the game is up.
The cry from Ajans' lips becomes a call to arms, and he braces himself for the onrushing enemy; though his companions curse his name beneath their breath, knowing nothing of the madness that had driven him to reveal them, if only to -end- that travesty and punish its instigators.
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(Zengh): The sun has slipped from its crest and now rides lower and lower in the sky, shafts of light streaming like golden tears of the stars, blinding arrows, from betwixt the crags of the shadowy ridge. Silhouetted there, the mountains provide ample shade for the monster-men whose camps are nestled in between stone formations. Smoke rises in gray, bleak columns toward the heavens, each barely stirred by the feeble wind that smellsof rotting flesh, refuse, burning skin and smoldering hair. The din of flies humming is a high-pitched, droning overtone to the metronome of drums beating and the bass and tenor undercurrent of vocalisations, a song barbaric, beautiful and terrible.
A sacrifice has just been made. From a crude scaffolding dangles the remains of a nude young woman strung up by her ankles, her midsection split open, her entrails stuffed into her mouth and wrapped around her arms. On either side of her, twisted and contorted into a travesty of the human form, hang the bodies of children, their bare muscle shimmering with gelatinous, slowly melting fat and subcutaneous tissue. The foul religious ceremony continues on uninterrupted, for who would dare to crawl into the lion's den?
({TheMarchofGoldenIron}): Sweat beads upon the tanned brow of Khund Thenssen, the swarthy scout commander; fingers clench upon the rock that blocks the sight of him from the foe. He is sprawled like a dying lizard, arms splayed out and back lowered; his belly to the ground; but he can see them over the stone, where they have been strung up and left for the crows. The song confirms what the men of Temuria had long suspected; that these madmen were driven by zealotry, not mindless savagery. With the horrific image still burning into the back of his eyes the scout commander turns his face away, back down to the eyes of his men, who cannot see from where they are crouched. He does not speak, but stretches his hand behind him, and folds two fingers down about the central pair.
The men acknowledge silently, and begin to withdraw further down the slope. They must circle around, now - they must find a clear view of the enemy so they may estimate their number.
(Zengh): Horrifyingly enough, the madmen have not strung these poor, unfortunate souls up to be left for the crows. Oh, no, they are not that merciful. Indeed, a murder of the black carrion birds has begun to settle on the trees, cawing and crowing, but they are as powerless as the corpses themselves are, hanging limply over beds of coals and tinder. Flames lick at what has been left behind, charring muscle and searing skin that has not been removed.
One of those who appears to be a priest, a man draped in robes of blood-stained rawhide and fur, his head covered in the skull of a deer, antlers rising high, painted a glaring orange-yellow in the firelight, steps forward. With a curved instrument, what looks to be a sharpened rib bone taken from some unknown creature, in his hand, he approaches the tragic scene. Then, he does what would have, at one time and in some other place, been unthinkable. With a sickening, wet sound of slowly severed connective tissue, he jaggedly carves a chunk of flesh from the woman's breast, then bears the quivering meat aloft in the palm of his hand. The men surrounding continue to pound upon their drums and sing their prayer song, even as the master of ceremonies takes a bite from from the grisly feast.
({TheMarchofGoldenIron}): As the men creep away, one of them passes a gap in which he can see what is happening; his eyes widen in horror, his brows trembling; at the sight of the brutalised woman's corpse being further defiled, at the cannibal feast in the name of some terrible god, the Temurian slowly begins to break. Would that his companions had kept their eyes on him! Would that they had taken note of the clench of his fingers, at the tightening of his jaw and the bearing of his teeth. But the thickset soldier's horror has become fury. And he creeps away from his commander, hiding closer to the conflict...
While Khund himself leads the rest of the men - there are twenty in all, though five watch the place where the horses are hidden - in a wide, careful circle, higher onto the ridge; that they might gaze down and observe the main encampment of their terrible foe.
(Zengh): The drums have become an echoing, reverberating mockery of a pulse, a heartbeat which pumps no blood save for the illusionary gouts of which they are bathed in. Several of the barbarians have taken to dancing wildly, bone beans chinking and rattling as they, painted in powdery white and ebon-black to resemble living skeletons, step in synchronicity and lift their hands to the sky before the makeshift altar with a collective cry in some garbled, tribal tongue. As this happens, those who are not manning instruments or continuing with the droning chant strafe forward, forming an inner circle surrounding the horrid festivity. The priest has, by now, removed some of the internal organs of the larger body hanging from the scaffold. The half-cooked, still bleeding heart and liver now rest draped in his long fingered, long nailed hands.
Even as bile and other fluids stain his robe further, he strides about the inner circle, bidding each member to take a mouthful - others are consumed so that they may live to serve their god for another day.
({TheMarchofGoldenIron}): Fate has a cruel way of leading men astray. This soldier, Ajans, cannot tear his eyes from the sight, and the smell, of what takes place before him; his feet are drawn onward, and his hand to his short, Temurian composite bow. While his fellows circle higher, unaware he has left them, his trembling fingers nock an arrow to the string without looking; for he cannot look anywhere but at the spectacle of violence and desecration. While Khund Thenssen himself leads the scouting party to the ridge and stares down, over the encampment, judging its size and imagining that those other fires, those many fires, hold camps roughly the same in size...
Ajans, driven by a madness of just vengeance, draws the string and lifts the bow before his face. Now, he has forgotten his companions, forgotten the safety of his own life; forgotten their mission. He does not think of what will happen next; of what his action will spawn.
Every war begins with a single shot.
This one is loosed with a hiss toward the eye of the damned priest.
(Zengh): The barbarian warriors, one by one, receive their hunk of meat in an eerie but sickening, literal parallel to the Christian paradigm of the sacraments. One by one, as if wilting, those who do not sing or beat on percussion intstruments bow, ducking their heads down and settling their hands upon the ground as though beasts of the forest or something very, very much worse. The dancers, like starving, rabid dogs,
have begun to tear into the two smaller, twisted bundles of children on either side of the defiled woman's corpse. Ajans's bowstring is pulled taut. The earth itself seems to tremble, although that could simply be the song's accelerating, deepening rhythm vibrating the air and the ground like an earthquake. The Temurian looses his arrow, swift and just. The crows that had settled in the trees surrounding the camp explode forth in a flutter of feathery wings that darken the sky, eclipsing the remaining rays of the sun. A wet crack and a sudden halt to the tremoring drums signal the beginning of the end.
The priest stands stock-still for a moment, the wooden shaft fired upon him now jutting from betwixt his brows. It pierced through even his deerskull helm, and now the wound begins to weep. Of a sudden, he crumples into a boneless heap. The alarum has been sounded. The savages, outraged at the death of their holy man, quickly disperse for their weapons -- spears and stolen swords, caked with the grime of misuse, flash dully into the oncoming night.
({TheMarchofGoldenIron}): Up on the ridge, Khund's sharp ears catch something terribly amiss. His eyes narrow and his breath stills; his mind searches for what seems to be suddenly absent from the scene - he turns slowly, eyes widening. The drums have stopped. And one of his men is missing. "Sabi....ensid..." He turns to the other men with him and gives a sharp whisper, as they creep down to see what has caused it - and sight Ajans just before they hear him give a wild cry and draw his sword, readying to die honourably for his country. Khund gives a sharp intake of breath; his order is given and the men draw their bows - knowing now that the game is up.
The cry from Ajans' lips becomes a call to arms, and he braces himself for the onrushing enemy; though his companions curse his name beneath their breath, knowing nothing of the madness that had driven him to reveal them, if only to -end- that travesty and punish its instigators.
Wed Apr 23, 2003 7:20 pm
(Zengh): The drone of voices acting of a singular process of thought is shattered into a cacophony of broken, animalistic cries -- snarls and roars, hoots, howls, and even the occasional madman's or hyena's high-pitched giggle -- harkening back to call upon instincts ancient and eldritch. In the forest all is movement and flitting of silhouetted figures like shadow torn in irregular globules from its invisible moorings.
The nightmares of children and grown men alike are often filled with visions like this, where the woods themselves seem to be coming alive, where the limbs of the trees may as well be the slashing blades of a monster of darkness come to devour flesh and blood and soul alike. A flood of bodies, clad and unclad, armoured and not, some heavily armed and some able to employ only their misshapen, oft-clawlike hands and rotting teeth, pour from the forest and the surrounding area. Some one hundred of them all, a seething swarm of human beings, descend without mercy upon the site of their priest's assassination, and upon the killer.
({TheMarchofGoldenIron}): In the tongue of Temuria the call is made - "Help him!" By one of the men; but it is Khund Thenssen who barks the reply - "No! Get to the horses!" Knowing only that their man has doomed himself, and that their mission must not fail. The Prince and his allies -must- be told of the enemy's position and numbers; else many more good men will die, taken from the back by a foe more cunning than they had anticipated. A hundred against fifteen; and the fifteen do the intelligent thing, and flee for their lives. Back to where the last five of them wait with their horses - desperation - while Khund makes a decision, and holds his ground, drawing his bow - as Ajans screams and enters battle, slashing at the first man-monster within range, Khund begins to fire into the crowd approaching his fellow soldier - attempting to shoot down those who get close.
(Zengh): Ajans slashes at the first man-monster within range -- blood flies as flesh is torn unevenly, and the beast making its leaping attack loses an arm for his troubles. It twitches uselessly upon the ground and he, with a scream, soon follows it, grabbing hold of the severed hand instead of the bleeding stump on his shoulder. Before the barbarian can make an attempt to beat the assassin upside the head with this ruined piece of flesh, he is fired upon from above. While he falls, more begin to make their attack upon Ajans, hurling dirty spears and stabbing with short gladii.
The Temurians' foes are not stupid, as mindless as their attack seems to be. While some remain down below, their goal to slaughter Ajans, some begin to climb up the narrow passes, toward where Khund holds his ground. Another splintered group quickly begins to follow the men running for the horses in an effort to surround them and block off any chance of escape.
({TheMarchofGoldenIron}): Ajans fights like a devil, but the fury is beginning to fade and be replaced by fear, and the knowledge that he is going to die, and not only that, but that his death will be a horrible one. They will not simply end him, but tear him limb from limb. He begins a retreat, striking to block a broken club, and his eyes meet to those of his commander; guilt, knowing that he has placed Khund in terrible danger as well. The archer takes another shot, finishing a foe behind Ajans, and reaches for an arrow - only to find there are none remaining. He barks to Ajans to run - but it is too late; an axe cleaves Ajans' shoulder open, and he stumbles on a loose stone, heading to his knees.
While the remainder of the scouting party run on long-legged strides; it is fortunate that their armouring is light almost to the point of nonexistence, for they must be swift, and were never meant to be a solid fighting force - their only hope is to outrun the swarming foe and reach the horses. Once mounted they will surely stand a chance of escape.
(Zengh): Rocks, branches, broken javelins, skulls and bones, bits and pieces of armour, they rain down upon the fleeing horsemen in a heavy hail. Many of these objects that have been thrown ahead of the advancing Horde of barbarians will surely miss, but there is such a large number of them sailing through the air that, if statistics will have it, some might strike true. One of the man-monsters' axes cleaves Ajans' shoulder open, and as he stumbles, a dozen more of the beasts leap for his stumbling frame, seeking to tackle him down to the ground and begin the gruesome process of ripping him apart - but whatever happens, they do not show the mercy of killing him outright before their ghastly game begins. Khund is indeed in terrible danger, for there looming around his position are a score of these predators of the night, these murderers of innocents, blindly indiscriminate killers of men and women and children -- and all of them wear either the smile of the cannibal who now spies his next meal, or the snarling, gnashing, wolven visage of an abomination flown from the abyss. They offer no respite, no quarter, no moment's rest to themselves or to others, and without hesitation charge forth with blades swinging and bloodstained hands snatching.
({TheMarchofGoldenIron}): The commander's face twists in anguished rage, but his mind is a calm and tactical one, and he knows he has no chance here; falling back, he bolts for a narrow pass between the rocks, hoping to hold the enemy off there for a time - if only to stop them from joining the pursuit of the other men; but it is too late for that perhaps, for a spear pierces the chest of one of the men holding the horses back, and the steeds break loose and begin to run for the hills; prompting a cry of despair from the scouts. Almost there, and now they scatter, each pursuing one of the fleeing horses. Another man goes down, his skull cracked open from behind by a heavy stone.
Khund has his sword drawn, now, and moves to open the throat of the foe lunging for him, and then to heave the body back to block the path of others for a time, if he is successful in the kill. Screaming profanities at them in his native tongue, epic furor hides his terror. Ajans is worse than dead, and it is a chilling preview of what lies in store for the commander.
The nightmares of children and grown men alike are often filled with visions like this, where the woods themselves seem to be coming alive, where the limbs of the trees may as well be the slashing blades of a monster of darkness come to devour flesh and blood and soul alike. A flood of bodies, clad and unclad, armoured and not, some heavily armed and some able to employ only their misshapen, oft-clawlike hands and rotting teeth, pour from the forest and the surrounding area. Some one hundred of them all, a seething swarm of human beings, descend without mercy upon the site of their priest's assassination, and upon the killer.
({TheMarchofGoldenIron}): In the tongue of Temuria the call is made - "Help him!" By one of the men; but it is Khund Thenssen who barks the reply - "No! Get to the horses!" Knowing only that their man has doomed himself, and that their mission must not fail. The Prince and his allies -must- be told of the enemy's position and numbers; else many more good men will die, taken from the back by a foe more cunning than they had anticipated. A hundred against fifteen; and the fifteen do the intelligent thing, and flee for their lives. Back to where the last five of them wait with their horses - desperation - while Khund makes a decision, and holds his ground, drawing his bow - as Ajans screams and enters battle, slashing at the first man-monster within range, Khund begins to fire into the crowd approaching his fellow soldier - attempting to shoot down those who get close.
(Zengh): Ajans slashes at the first man-monster within range -- blood flies as flesh is torn unevenly, and the beast making its leaping attack loses an arm for his troubles. It twitches uselessly upon the ground and he, with a scream, soon follows it, grabbing hold of the severed hand instead of the bleeding stump on his shoulder. Before the barbarian can make an attempt to beat the assassin upside the head with this ruined piece of flesh, he is fired upon from above. While he falls, more begin to make their attack upon Ajans, hurling dirty spears and stabbing with short gladii.
The Temurians' foes are not stupid, as mindless as their attack seems to be. While some remain down below, their goal to slaughter Ajans, some begin to climb up the narrow passes, toward where Khund holds his ground. Another splintered group quickly begins to follow the men running for the horses in an effort to surround them and block off any chance of escape.
({TheMarchofGoldenIron}): Ajans fights like a devil, but the fury is beginning to fade and be replaced by fear, and the knowledge that he is going to die, and not only that, but that his death will be a horrible one. They will not simply end him, but tear him limb from limb. He begins a retreat, striking to block a broken club, and his eyes meet to those of his commander; guilt, knowing that he has placed Khund in terrible danger as well. The archer takes another shot, finishing a foe behind Ajans, and reaches for an arrow - only to find there are none remaining. He barks to Ajans to run - but it is too late; an axe cleaves Ajans' shoulder open, and he stumbles on a loose stone, heading to his knees.
While the remainder of the scouting party run on long-legged strides; it is fortunate that their armouring is light almost to the point of nonexistence, for they must be swift, and were never meant to be a solid fighting force - their only hope is to outrun the swarming foe and reach the horses. Once mounted they will surely stand a chance of escape.
(Zengh): Rocks, branches, broken javelins, skulls and bones, bits and pieces of armour, they rain down upon the fleeing horsemen in a heavy hail. Many of these objects that have been thrown ahead of the advancing Horde of barbarians will surely miss, but there is such a large number of them sailing through the air that, if statistics will have it, some might strike true. One of the man-monsters' axes cleaves Ajans' shoulder open, and as he stumbles, a dozen more of the beasts leap for his stumbling frame, seeking to tackle him down to the ground and begin the gruesome process of ripping him apart - but whatever happens, they do not show the mercy of killing him outright before their ghastly game begins. Khund is indeed in terrible danger, for there looming around his position are a score of these predators of the night, these murderers of innocents, blindly indiscriminate killers of men and women and children -- and all of them wear either the smile of the cannibal who now spies his next meal, or the snarling, gnashing, wolven visage of an abomination flown from the abyss. They offer no respite, no quarter, no moment's rest to themselves or to others, and without hesitation charge forth with blades swinging and bloodstained hands snatching.
({TheMarchofGoldenIron}): The commander's face twists in anguished rage, but his mind is a calm and tactical one, and he knows he has no chance here; falling back, he bolts for a narrow pass between the rocks, hoping to hold the enemy off there for a time - if only to stop them from joining the pursuit of the other men; but it is too late for that perhaps, for a spear pierces the chest of one of the men holding the horses back, and the steeds break loose and begin to run for the hills; prompting a cry of despair from the scouts. Almost there, and now they scatter, each pursuing one of the fleeing horses. Another man goes down, his skull cracked open from behind by a heavy stone.
Khund has his sword drawn, now, and moves to open the throat of the foe lunging for him, and then to heave the body back to block the path of others for a time, if he is successful in the kill. Screaming profanities at them in his native tongue, epic furor hides his terror. Ajans is worse than dead, and it is a chilling preview of what lies in store for the commander.
Wed Apr 23, 2003 7:21 pm
(Zengh): In a viscous torrent, blood washes over Khund's slashing blade. Delicate tissues are sliced, vital fluid spurts with abandon, as the barbarian's heart pumps futilely against the forces drawing his life from his body. Heaved back and wedged in between a pair of stones, he can do nothing but twitch and writhe and clasp at his neck until darkness overtakes his wretched sight. The others' path is blocked, indeed, although not for long, for they crawl over one another like so many insects to crest the crag and continue their rush en masse, viciously reaching for and stabbing at the air before them, if only they could somehow pierce flesh and gain some ground in defeating and devouring the intruder upon their holiest of holy ceremonies. The steeds, fleet of foot, flee from the scene and gallop free, with some of the barbarians in hot pursuit. The Temurian horses will either make fitting tribute for their masters, or become a fitting item on the menu for when this skirmish ends. Howling in rage and madness, the Hordesmen continue forth, following the scouts who seek so desperately for the horses that will carry them to safety. They continue to throw heavy objects until none remain, and they must, on all fours, leap across the rocky earth and attack with tooth and nail.
({TheMarchofGoldenIron}): Screaming in his fury, Khund parries a heavy axe-strike that leaves his arm nearly dead from the force; but not dead enough to prevent him slamming his shoulder into the foe coming at him, then following up with a diagonal, upward strike of the keen curved blade, aimed to slit through thick furs and brawny flesh and spill the man-monster's innards to the ground; but it will not be long, now, before even this valiant fighter is overwhelmed.
At least three of the men reach their horses before they are cut down; one, Hjorn, turns in the saddle, bow brought up, and draws a bead upon one of his companions as the man is dragged down by the Horde. The arrow is one of mercy; sent to pierce the heart of his kinsman and spare him the end of torture that the Horde have devised. To foil the foe at least in that one way.
(Zengh): Even the Horde has its limitations. The members of this camp are beginning to see the futility in attempting to keep up with the horsemen, for their legs can only carry them so far so quickly. The warning calls have spread to the neighboring encampments, however, and it is only a matter of time before a great number of others will be descending upon this place. If the Temurians linger too long, then this peril will surely swallow them up and block any routes of escape they might have enjoyed. Khund's upward diagonal strike sends his foe's innards to spill onto the ground and onto him as well, visceral tissues flopping forth like so much ejecta, their foul, steaming stench rising up unto the air to assail the senses. The monsters keep coming, keep piling over one another to leap and to strike with axes and other weapons - perhaps even the severed arm or leg of one of the noble warrior's felled allies.
Above it all, upon one of the higher, more distant pinnacles, stands a lone figure of ominous shape. In the setting sun, his spiked, full plate armour gleams a resplendant crimson, even as a flickering cape lashes and licks at the air as a banner of contempt, flailing at the dying illumination of the day. A mane of rust-coloured hair surrounds his narrow, unscarred, haughty features -- and his eyes, so black as to seem pits of oblivion cast upon the earth, narrow at the sight of the chaos down below. A cruel smile curls up a thin, nigh colourless lips, the pale points of predatory but hardly vampiric teeth shining as ivory on a facade of marble.
({TheMarchofGoldenIron}): Khund battles onward, not even noticing the flash of heat across his midsection until his entrails slip down his thighs and tangle in the hilt of his sword; another heavy hit takes him in the shoulder, and he stumbles back from the madmen coming at him; but his face hardens. They won't take him while he breathes; turning his sword upon himself, he shouts one final insult upon their dog-spawned deity before he digs the point under his ribcage and falls forward; the curve of the sword follows, piercing his heart and ending the commander.
Horses shriek as they are taken; men howl as they fall and are torn asunder. But Hjorn the horse-archer rides hard, his steed outpacing the others; though he is wounded, bleeding from a gash upon his thigh and a cruel bruise upon his brow, still he clings to the saddle; even as his steed's haste leaves his fellows behind. The commander's words ring in his ears - get to the Prince.
(Zengh): Having successfully driven out their foe, the barbarians move to collect their prizes, dragging off the bodies of horses and Temurians alike without discrimination. They even gather their own dead, piling corpses together to serve as a feast for those who were fortunate enough to survive. No special burial proceedings are arranged for the fallen priest, for there is no better place for him, no more fitting end for his fleshly remains, than to be taken into the stomachs of those whom he guided in worship. They do not grieve for him.
To the Horde, there is no greater honour that can be afforded to one of their kind.
The figure who stands so far away from it all remains silent, for statuesque and still is he, surveying the territory like a lord in his own right. His pointed chin is tipped upward, his eyes focusing down, narrowed, upon the ravening animals in the foothills. Something beneath the cape lifts and shakes. A few feathers dance upon the air, a gift to the fouled wind. His cruel smile soon fades into a sneer. With a crunch of gravel beneath his boots and a swift turn on his heel, he departs, swallowed up into the shadow of night.
There is a victory to be planned.
({TheMarchofGoldenIron}): Screaming in his fury, Khund parries a heavy axe-strike that leaves his arm nearly dead from the force; but not dead enough to prevent him slamming his shoulder into the foe coming at him, then following up with a diagonal, upward strike of the keen curved blade, aimed to slit through thick furs and brawny flesh and spill the man-monster's innards to the ground; but it will not be long, now, before even this valiant fighter is overwhelmed.
At least three of the men reach their horses before they are cut down; one, Hjorn, turns in the saddle, bow brought up, and draws a bead upon one of his companions as the man is dragged down by the Horde. The arrow is one of mercy; sent to pierce the heart of his kinsman and spare him the end of torture that the Horde have devised. To foil the foe at least in that one way.
(Zengh): Even the Horde has its limitations. The members of this camp are beginning to see the futility in attempting to keep up with the horsemen, for their legs can only carry them so far so quickly. The warning calls have spread to the neighboring encampments, however, and it is only a matter of time before a great number of others will be descending upon this place. If the Temurians linger too long, then this peril will surely swallow them up and block any routes of escape they might have enjoyed. Khund's upward diagonal strike sends his foe's innards to spill onto the ground and onto him as well, visceral tissues flopping forth like so much ejecta, their foul, steaming stench rising up unto the air to assail the senses. The monsters keep coming, keep piling over one another to leap and to strike with axes and other weapons - perhaps even the severed arm or leg of one of the noble warrior's felled allies.
Above it all, upon one of the higher, more distant pinnacles, stands a lone figure of ominous shape. In the setting sun, his spiked, full plate armour gleams a resplendant crimson, even as a flickering cape lashes and licks at the air as a banner of contempt, flailing at the dying illumination of the day. A mane of rust-coloured hair surrounds his narrow, unscarred, haughty features -- and his eyes, so black as to seem pits of oblivion cast upon the earth, narrow at the sight of the chaos down below. A cruel smile curls up a thin, nigh colourless lips, the pale points of predatory but hardly vampiric teeth shining as ivory on a facade of marble.
({TheMarchofGoldenIron}): Khund battles onward, not even noticing the flash of heat across his midsection until his entrails slip down his thighs and tangle in the hilt of his sword; another heavy hit takes him in the shoulder, and he stumbles back from the madmen coming at him; but his face hardens. They won't take him while he breathes; turning his sword upon himself, he shouts one final insult upon their dog-spawned deity before he digs the point under his ribcage and falls forward; the curve of the sword follows, piercing his heart and ending the commander.
Horses shriek as they are taken; men howl as they fall and are torn asunder. But Hjorn the horse-archer rides hard, his steed outpacing the others; though he is wounded, bleeding from a gash upon his thigh and a cruel bruise upon his brow, still he clings to the saddle; even as his steed's haste leaves his fellows behind. The commander's words ring in his ears - get to the Prince.
(Zengh): Having successfully driven out their foe, the barbarians move to collect their prizes, dragging off the bodies of horses and Temurians alike without discrimination. They even gather their own dead, piling corpses together to serve as a feast for those who were fortunate enough to survive. No special burial proceedings are arranged for the fallen priest, for there is no better place for him, no more fitting end for his fleshly remains, than to be taken into the stomachs of those whom he guided in worship. They do not grieve for him.
To the Horde, there is no greater honour that can be afforded to one of their kind.
The figure who stands so far away from it all remains silent, for statuesque and still is he, surveying the territory like a lord in his own right. His pointed chin is tipped upward, his eyes focusing down, narrowed, upon the ravening animals in the foothills. Something beneath the cape lifts and shakes. A few feathers dance upon the air, a gift to the fouled wind. His cruel smile soon fades into a sneer. With a crunch of gravel beneath his boots and a swift turn on his heel, he departs, swallowed up into the shadow of night.
There is a victory to be planned.
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