Acumin Under Attack [Private - Throk & Ungar]

[Lichen]

The undead swarmed over the city, attacking anything in their path. Outside of the tavern, Sa'brael was in their path. He was outside of the tavern, shivering slightly in the chilly air, when the sword dancing elf became very aware that he was not alone. Most of the people of Acumin were crowded in the tavern - the fact that someone else was outside with him was odd, very odd indeed. His elven eyes pierced the darkness, and he saw movement in a beam of light cast from the tavern. The torchlight illuminated a skeletal foot, which soon turned into a skeletal leg, then a skeletal body, and then a group of undead consisting of two skeletons and a half-decaying zombie. Others poured out of the shadows as well, heading into the tavern to cause havoc. Those three, however, walked towards him. The skeletons each carried a sword and a shield in their long dead hands, and their bodies were concealed by ragged clothing and studded leather armor that protected their upper bodies. The zombie however, had nothing to protect it other than teeth and it's own stench. All three undead approached him from the front, seeing in him fresh prey.

Meanwhile, Throk and Ungar were sitting in the tavern, drinking and chatting merrily. At least they were, until the window behind them shattered and a zombie orc ran at them, dull iron sword extended. Both the dwarf and the giant were able to turn and react fast enough to see the orc coming, little pieces of its flesh falling off as it raced towards them. Letting out a ferocious roar -which stopped as its tongue fell out and flopped to the floor- it ran towards them, its steps thundering in the suddenly silent tavern. As people began to notice what was going on - and, consequently, began to scream - the orc raised its bastard sword and swung at the giant, its swing aimed for Throks mid-chest.

OOC: Sa'brael, since you haven't posted at the tavern I'm assuming you're outside it. PM me if you wish me to adjust the post.

[Throk Mumson]

ooc: look at my profile for more info about Branch.

Throk was calmly enjoying an intelligent conversation with that funny dwarf he saw in Prime. What was his name again? Oh yes, Ungar. He used a little stick from his weapon Branch to pick some beef from between his teeth, and he calmly sat the night out.

Untill...

The window shattered and with a bestial roar, something very stinky and noisy came running towards him with a very sharp and mean looking sword.
The first thought that came into him was to get Branch and start squasing that wierd thing.
Yes, that would be very clever! As soon as he saw that monster coming from the window, he dove towards Branch, who was still standing against the wall just where he had put his big club.
As soon as he had retrieved Branch, he ran towards the monster-thingy-contraption and started bashing it with his huge club.

[Ungar Stonegrinder]

Talking the a giant as intelligent as Throk was very boring. The giant was just plain stupid ungar figured out a long time ago. But there was something that interested him enough to lissen to the big guy talking about food and his club. In a way a giant wasn't really different from all those old longbeards back in his town. They only talked about food and fighting as well. And Ungar had learned that it was best to just lissen to them and nod.

But there conversation was interrupted by something more ugly then anything Ungar had ever seen before in his life. It was an orc. Or it used to be an orc. Now Ungar didn't know what he was looking at really. Some kind of strange undead thing. But there wasn't enough time. He had to act fast or become the beasts lunch. Seeing that the beast was going for the giant first Ungar quickly picked up his big battle-axe he had bought in Prime and waited for the beast to come in striking range. Only realising a second later that the orc was still heading for the giant and that Throk was running towards his own 'weapon' so waiting there wasn't very useful at all.

So Ungar went on the offensive. Making his legs to run as fast as the could Ungar tried to intercept the orc. He was swinging his axe from left to right using his hole upper body making sure he didn't let the axe's weight trow him off balance. He aiming for the orcs legs or groin. It was about he could reach beeing a dwarf and all.

ooc: The axe Ungar carries isn't in his profile yet because I'm still busy buying it

[Sa'brael Laernhoun]

He'd said his peace to the gatekeeper earlier, steering Yavie through the gate and toward one of the few ramshackle abodes still standing. From his vantage the place was a hive of activity - humming to the off-beat key of survival - but the lights inside the tavern, coupled with the teaming voices reflected a semblance of high hopes. He smiled fondly and threw his gaze out across the expansive field, observing the disaster that had occured, guessing that the Dianite servitors were here to lend aid.

He almost had a look of dismay, but sundered the thought out of sheer nature. He was glad they had aid, and he bore no immanent resentment to the church. He just would have wanted to make an attempt at sharing the elvish edicts with the people, and possibly turning them on to a different way of life. Something more in accord with nature. He wheeled the sable gryphon to a halt just outside the tavern, pleased by the quiet solace that recieved him in the twilight hours. His hand reached down to slip a small pipe from his gilded sleeve. He clamped the mouthpiece betwixt pursed lips and kindled the stem with a flash of ember from his flint and steel. There was a gentle sigh that escaped him, followed by a billowy nimbus of smoke that rolled up into the sky. Cool azure eyes closed for a moment. He tuned the ambient noise of the village out to escape the cacophony.

The journey out of the Dolwood herald failure, yet again. It was his third try at exploring the forest in search of his ancestral estates that his family once called home - but he learned more each time, and grew stronger in the survival needed to withstand the taint of the once eldritch, and glorious forest that the elves created so many eras ago. He knew his greater ambition lie there, but emerging before this hollow, and disturbed village rekindled the sagelike duty he'd been oathed to. He had many of his things to teach with him, essential in any circumstance regardless, and knew flights on gryphon mount from here to Candaceburg would not tax more than a brightening or two. He could genuinely help, given the chance, and perhaps share with these poor souls secrets of the elves that had sustained communities for ages. He couldn't shake the taint of this place though, it reminded him of the Dolwood heart, and he almost thought foul magic had bitterly flavored his palate. He drew on the pipe contently, studying the outlying forest home with a critical, and inspired set of eyes.

It was then that gods willed him to sieze his tempest hands, wherein he saw torchlight kiss the bleach white surface of bone. He traced the eerie image to the source, eyes now ablaze with that initial wave of shock and disbelief. He had little knowledge of this area, and as far as he believed, these skeletal things were the source of this misery. They were the plague bearers of these innocent peoples misfortune.

The pipe fell from his clutches in a slow-motion state of panorama - hands were in a flurry as he griped the reins, then reared back in the gryphon saddle, roaring the liturgy of the Shining Host. "Laeh'syrr olmae gurtha! Anon'gala, lasto bethni...," the final words crept away with a serpents hiss, evaporating on the wings of his sable mount.

The creature shrieked something furious then lunged two steps forward, propelling both rider and mount into the air about seven feet. Sa'bral, deft and agile, rose like midnights winged paragon and lept from the gryphons shoulders, floating up six feet higher, before arcing his shoulder in mid-air - his ringmail cloak snapping open in the gale like a ravens wing - combing back with a preen finish to reveal wicked blades. Longsword and shortsword snapped out as he fell upon them, giving momentum to his spinning descent. In some feat of acrobatic insanity the elf came down at all three of them in a furious whirlwind of dancing blades, his eyes wide with grim judgement. Unflincing, he had no discourse with wading into the field against abominations. He attempted nothing less then rendering heads from bodies, and would press the fight to dire states.

Yavie, a nine foot long machine of warfare - experienced battle mount time and time again - was not far behind her master and companion. She shrieked the gryphons warcry, taking up wherever Sa'brael left off.

[Lichen]

Throk's reach rewarded him well. The giant was able to react quickly enough that his long arm reached out and grabbed the club just before the rotting orc's sword reached him. Wood met blade, and the unsharpened and rather rusty iron blade lost, slipping to the side of the strong and thick branch. The giant, in his momentary advantage, pressed forward, knocking the orc on the side of the head with a sickening thunk. The odor that was emitted from the rotting cavity that was once a head was nearly overpowering. Flies swarmed forth as the club slammed into their home, and maggots fell out as it left, their tiny squirming bodies plummeting towards the floor. The sickening crunch and squish that the club made was quite damaging - where the orc had previously been whole, he now had a large, branch-sized dent in the side of his head. This did not seem to stop the undead creature though... it didn't need intelligence to simply attack. Its sword dashed towards the giant in a simple plunge towards Throks left thigh.

In the meantime, Ungar launched himself towards the legs of the beast, as that was all he could truely reach. His axe was a weapon of quality, far supperior to the pot-tin sword the opponent carried. The dwarf hacked away at the leg, and was rewarded with both a horrid stench, a roar from above, and a sudden disgusting feeling as tiny white things fell from above and crawled into his hair. If he looked up, he would see that his friend had struck at the same time as he had, though his friends strength was far superior. Still - the dwarf had made a thick incision into the leg... another few blows like that and he could cut it right off... which would make the orc have a difficult time attacking back.

Outside of the tavern, two skeletons and a zombie found themselves at a disadvantage. Sa'brael and his mount procceeded to wreck havoc, cutting a swath through the three. Sa'brael's sword hacked through body after body - for beyond those three undead were more, legions upon legions more. But not all were as unsophisticated as the three he had first seen. No, whomever launched this attack had to stay to keep them in control... and it was one of these undead herders that Sa'brael came up against next. His Gryphon mount was off, engaged in a battle of her own against some sort of undead horse that seemed to have sharpened teeth- she would not be able to help him against his new foe.

Seeing him, the crimson eyes of his enemy turned to regard him. The torchlight made the vysstichi wince, but it stepped forward anyhow, just so that the elf could see the smirk upon the dark elf's face. "Surfacer." The vysstichi woman hissed. She was beautiful, if such scum could be called anything other than hideous. Her skin was dark and smooth, and her hair a glowing white that almost outglowed her eyes. Dark black armor of some sort of scaled skin covered her body- it was polished so that as she moved, the scales shimmered in the light. The armor was reinforced with slabs of white that, as she stepped into the light, became apparent for what they truely were.

"Your bones shall bedeck my armor next, surfacer." She said with a malicious smile, looking at the slices of bones that formed plates over her body. "Your friend cannot help you now." She hissed, her eyes glancing quickly at the gryphon. From behind her head she drew a longsword. The metal of it glimmered in the torchlight - this was a fine blade she carried. Small drops of blood fell from it... she had already used it tonight. With one last vicious and superior laugh for effect, the vysstichi woman launched her attack, running at him and slashing down from his right sholder, aimed at his left hip.

[Throk Mumson]

ooc: good to see you're back Lichen.

"Ghihihihi!", Throk chuckled. He was enjoying this bash really well. And the smell that emitted from this malformed orc reminded him of Mum's stew. And when the light shone correctly, even the view inside the orc's head reminded him of her stew!
But that wasn't important right now, he didn't like the rusty blade the thing was holding so he aimed his next blow to the orc's shoulder.

[Ungar Stonegrinder]

Ungar could see that his blows were really injuring the beast. His 'mighty' axe blows combined with Throk Branch the beast stood no chance. Or so Ungar hoped. But not wanting to find out Ungar went on hacking away at the legs of the beast. He figured that if the leg would go the body would follow soon enough. But he was careful. Making sure that the undead orc's rusty sword didn't come to close.

There was also another problem. The huge club Throk was using was maybe even more dangerous to him then to the undead. He just hoped the giant didn't forget they were at the same side.

[Sa'brael Laernhoun]

The hallowed ancestors of the celestial ancients guided his fury, tempering his rage with a resilent focus that poured freely from his whirling blades. In the aftermath, just as the last foe facing him fell, he watched a grim realization unveil itself as the mocking night. Black folds peeled back, and from the darkness a foe long lost, but never so distant as to be forgotten emerged to test the eldaran hand of death. Images of the Shining Host flood his memory; quaked molten fire and blistered resentment beneath his skin. She goaded him, and he burned white hot beneath the infraspectrum. His azure eyes narrowed to fine slits, mirrored pools reflecting back to her a mutual sentiment.

"Mori'gurtha!" He raised his aquilion nose to the sky. The tainted witch came as a thrust to his heart now. He had no idea there were Vysstichi in the region of his ancestral homeland. Had the Dolwood fallen so far into the warped abyss?

Sa'brael became as the ancient oak. Cold, vexed features ceased to emmulate emotion. She charged, and like a falcon his eyes soared to her blade as it crested the silver white crown of her tress. His right leg found center, strength, and readiness while his left leg stole back, twisting his body so that he faced her at a ready slant. His muscles felt a quickening, then her course of attack was unmasked. Only a breath from impact did the elf suddenly explode into motion; honed by movement, by grace, by the liquid rivers that run red on the battle field. Celerity sent his agile leg back and out, sweeping to the left, to her right. The longsword flickered in a splash of moonlight as it slashed down and to his right, hungering for her right arm- her blade arm.

Attempting to compromise her over-extended, and commited right flank, it was no surprise that his shortsword, held fast in his left hand, snaked out with a deathly jab for her kidney. Accustomed to fighting in unbroken movements, his sidestep is the prelude to a predators circling. Taught to anticipate movement, he embraces the dancers revel, preparing himself for a waltz of unceasing strikes that deliver him to her rear guard.

OOC: I have bunnied to extrapolate a combo technique that is plausible. I only write this assuming he successfully manages to sidestep her initial attack and commence. Thanks in advance.

[Lichen]

OOC: *Laughs really hard* Your mum must not make very good stew, Throk.

IC: As the orc's blade sunk deep into the giant's left thigh, Throk scored a hit at the stew-reminiscent orc. His club sank deep into the half-rotting flesh of the shoulder, stopping when it reached some particularly well preserved bone... judging by the depth to which he'd sank, that would be the collar bone. The noise was sickening - while it might look and smell like his mum's stew, there was no way that it sounded like it. There was the soft sinking and squelching as rotting flesh gave way beneath the force of his blow, and then the sound of crepitus and crackling as it plunged through bone fragments, and finally a sickening thunk as it met solid bone. The orc grunted with the impact, too stupid to register pain if it even had nerves left. As Throk removed his club, half of the orcs right shoulder came with the club, the sickening mass looking much like congealed giant stew. Maggots fell from it as well, and swarmed out of the rotting remains of the creatures upper body. Throks attack was effective enough that the orc no longer had enough bone and muscle tissue in that arm to hold things or to actually use the arm.

The sword clattered to the ground, the giants blood staining the first three inches. The thigh wound would have been nearly deadly if this had been a human - afterall, puny human thighs were only so big. For the immense giant, however, it was merely a bad scratch... irritating and painful but in no way deadly unless there was poison or disease on the blade. As the orcs weapon fell to the floor and the chunks of flesh came away on Throk's club, the orc lunged forward, elongated canines extended, half-rotted tongue writhing in the mouth as the maggots within it moved. Apparently, the disease-ridden, rotting orc intended on biting Throk.

It didn't get the chance. Ungar's attacks to the orc's leg finally revealed true results as his final blow cut completely through the zombie's leg. The orc fell face first towards the giant, missing him and falling to the floor with a rather puzzled look. With one arm, half a face, and only one useable leg, the orc was no longer much of a threat... it would be easy to re-kill now if they so decided.

Outside the tavern, Sa'brael was fighting his foe. Apparently he'd been unaware of the existance of Herozzal, the dark city beneath the generally peaceful town of Acumin. The dark elf grinned, her white teeth gleaming in the torchlight, and made her first attack. Sa'brael felt himself become cold and hard, and his eyes followed the blade's descent with an avid stare that revealed to the elf every subtlty of the movement. He watched calmly as the brilliant steel flashed and came down in its descent, and as the blade came near to touching his flesh he stepped to the side with the agility that betrayed him for what he was. No untrained elf could move so quickly, so gracefully, not without training.

The vysstichi's eyes narrowed. So he is not to be that easy of a kill. She noted with something akin to anticipation. All night long she'd been slaughtering villagers and workers... she was tired of easy kills. Someone worth wearing his blades, light elf or not, was actually worth taking her time to kill. As she thought this, she easily countered the slash with his right longsword, knocking it away from her with an easy grace and calm presence of mind that only patterns of training could develop. Her black-armored body jumped back easily away from the short sword. Her own longsword was clasped in both hands, and she used the force of both hands to drive it down to the ground.

As his longsword hit the ground, the vysstichi woman smiled at him and quickly, released her pressure on his sword in order to make her own attack. Her sword came forward in a quick plunge towards his belly. She released her left hand and lunged, sword outstretched, unquiveringly held by only her right hand as she lunged at him as if using a rapier. His foe was strong, elegant, and very well learned. Her form was, as far as he in his limited training could tell, completely perfect. Her left hand remained behind her, as did her left leg, both acting as counterbalances for the lunge.

[Ungar Stonegrinder]

Ungar was shaking. He couldn't help himself. This was the first battle he had ever been in. He always feared he would close up on the first sign of battle, but he didn't, instead he found a way to deal with the fear. He used that fear to give himself the strenght to wield his axe. He knew that if he didn't he would bring himself and his friend in danger.

Seeing the orc go down Ungar knew this battle was done. It was missing more parts of it body then it had left and would be easy enough to finish. Assuming that the giant was more then able to kill it Ungar looked around. He wondered what was going on. Why did this thing attack them? He figured out by now that it was in fact an Undead. He had heard stories about these things. Foul unnatural creatures created by evil men to do there bidding. Things without a mind of there own. Things controlled by others.
With this thought came another. These undead were controlled by something. He should stop it! But then sense came back. Who was he? He was just a dwarf who just fought his first fight. He had no chance against a necromancer. He wouldn't be able to handle another undead.

All these thought crossed Ungars head in a second or so. Then he made up his mind. He was going to try. Making sure there weren't any other Undead inside the tavern Ungar ran outside. Holding his axe is both hand he made ready to greet the first foul thing to come in range. This was one dwarf who they wouldn't be easy prey. Or so he hoped.

[Throk Mumson]

Throk grunted deeply at the re-killed Orc, and he spat at it's head. A thick drop of phlegm dripped in the empty cavaties of the Orc's skull.
He felt something tickle his hands, and only now did he see the maggots that were still on Branch.Nope, Mum's stew never had any maggots in it. Well, no one ever knew what was in Mum's stew, but sure as heck no maggots!

Giggling softly at the wet and squishy feeling that the maggots gave him when he squashed them in his hand, he used Branch to squash the head of the undead Orc as well. He brought his mighty club down on it's head to kill it once and for all.
Mum had told him about these creatures once, and how they tried to kill her. One fell swoop of her frying pan later en the creaturs were scattered around the yard, only to stand up again! So, Throk geniusly calculated, the heads of these foul beings was the key. Nothing could live without a head, not even an undead thing like that.

After that small ordeal, he ripped apart his left trouser(still clothing enough leg to be descent though) to take a good look at his cut. He prodded in it with his finger and decided that it wasn't deep, or not deep enough to worry about. But stil it was stinging, so he decided to search for Mila to put some bandage around it.
"Meela! Can ya 'elp me please?!" , he yelled throught the tavern. He didn't even notice that that funny little dwarf was gone.

ooc: perhaps you can put some of Mum's stew on the wound. You never know what might happen.

[Sa'brael Laernhoun]

Her blow was tremendous. He felt a jarred sensation creep through his right hand, it remedied his memory that the women were larger than the males.

Sa'brael had learned long ago not to show emotions on the field, but deep inside the elf was unsettled, hide it as he may. The vysstichi seemed to move quicker, anticipating his actions with easy assement. One thing was certain, she'd opened him, and his leading blade was driven down to exploit him. Outside the vultures wheeled, the serpents hissed and the wolves bayed. That deathly calm before the final threshold passed over him like a sweet zephyr. His first mentor of warfare had told him of the place to seek; the zone in the heart of the battle. To let go.

Firm in his stance, his upper torso rolled back like a liquid splash, adding distance to her target, contorting into a feral arch as she relieved his blade of the pressure. She thrusted, and in some unorthodox display of limber form his left leg fell back again. His longsword free, it swooped up to parry her jab from the bottom. It would be mere ephemeral flickers in time when his left foot floated back, and his right foot became the center; a pivot that accommodated his counter attack.

Suspended in the same chain of movement, his contorted evasion- followed through with his upward strike- propelled him into another whirling dance where his shortsword snapped around counterclockwise as he leaped in a circluar dodge, unifying the evasive move with a simultaneous attack to her left side. Coming around hard to drop his shortsword on her in a cleaving downward slash. His longsword was making the circuit as well, coming around, and down to add another pummeling assault.

Distance, and time to appraise her would be vital, but he had to adopt the practice that enabled him to score a hit on a master when he was but a novice fourteen eras ago; he needed to avoid patterns, and harness the chaotic powers of unpredictability against a foe such as this.

[Lichen]

Ungar quickly realized that they were not the only ones under attack. The entire inn was swarming with undead of all varieties, so thick that they easily were beginning to outnumber the living beings in the building. He merely had to turn to his right before he found another target - a human-sized skeleton tackling a drunken elven man. The drunk wasn't putting up much of a fight - in fact, he looked perilously close to passing out. In all likelyhood, it was only sheer luck that had kept him alive this long. The skeleton was striking at him with a long, wickedly curved iron blade, but some how the man had managed to evade the sword or block it with his mostly empty mug of ale so far. This wouldn't be the case for much longer... the drunk was tiring, slipping closer and closer to the realm of the unconcious, where as the skeleton was continuing to hack away at him with the perseverence and single-mindedness that only the undead can possess.

The skeletons backbone was presented to Ungar, and as it slashed and bashed without concern, it had yet to notice that there was anything else in the world save for it's target. Ungar could easily sneak up on it... in fact, he didn't much have to move at all. It was simply a question as to how he would attack.

Mila was to the far right of the tavern from Throk's point of view. At some point, she'd grabbed a poker out of the fire, and at the moment she was slashing about with it, a very angry look on her face. It was difficult to distinguish exactly what she was saying over this distance and the noise of clashing and fighting that filled the tavern, but she appeared to be cursing and screaming at the undead. "How... dare... you... come into... my tavern!!" She screamed, beating into a zombie's mushy head with her iron poker, emphasizing each word as she screamed it loudly enough that even Throk could hear her. Unlike many people in the tavern, Mila was doing quite well to fend for herself; it appeared that this was just the sort of thing she needed to take her mind off of the horrors that had happened to her and her family and concentrate on the horrors of the moment. In some wierd psychological way... this was actually helping her. One couldnt' fight against disease or fire... but undead hordes made a very accessible target.

However, she was getting swarmed by the undead for as their targets fell, her screaming and angry yelling was attracting their attention to her. Soon she would be outnumbered, and then she would fall, her body hacked to bits by the once-living automatrons that now plagued her city. She couldn't help Throk and his wound... but he could help her. The wound hurt, but not badly for he had a lot of adrenaline pumping throughout his body. He could kill and kill and kill again, and only once the battle was over have to worry about such a small wound.

The vysstichi smiled with surprise and pleasure as Sa'brael stepped back smoothly and gracefully, and his blade swooped up to parry and slide hers to the side. She allowed the move to succeed, instead of using her strength and training to drive the blade into his lily white hide, or at least that's how she would justify her unsuccessful jab and her forcing backwards. She was not so concerned with the counter slash that she missed his attack to her left, however - the lithe woman easily jumped to the right and his blade slashed through clean air. As he missed with his short sword, his body pulled in closer to hers to make his attack, his longsword concluded a sweeping arch that attempted to slash down her middle. The vysstichi used her longsword to knock it to the side and such was her strength that he became offbalanced, if only for a second. She used that second to quickly stab outward, not with her sword but with her foot, which caught him in the chest and propelled him backwards.

He stayed on his feet, but there was some distance between them now. The vysstichi pulled her sword up, the edge of the blade perfectly vertical, dividing her face in half in the light. As he regained his balance, she stood with a slight smile on her lips, waiting for him to attack her this time as opposed to the other way around. The vysstichi woman was playing with him, but he could use that to his advantage, for she was obviously very very arrogant. And the arrogant were easy to mislead.

[Throk Mumson]

Throk turned his head when he heard Mila scream. He saw her fighting of more of these stew-filled creatures and more were still coming towards her.
He couldn't let her die. She had given him ale and loads of sandwiches, and he hadn't given anything in return! That fact made him feel really bad, they weren't even. And, he figured, he couldn't repay his debt to her if she was dead! Right?

With a mighty roar, he charged towards the frey, swinging wildly with his huge club. With a loud 'woosh' he swung it from his left to his right side, angered by the fact that these undead were threatening Mila.
He charged club first into the largest group of undead, trying to seperate them from the few undead left at Mila. With his ferocious charge, he hoped he could knock them all down, and jump on them, or bring Branch down to make the stew into Mum's Mashed Potatoes.

[Ungar Stonegrinder]

Ungar saw the undead attacking the elf and he knew that if he didn't do anything the elf would surely die. But for some reason Ungar couldn't force himself to move. What was wrong with him? Did he not already face one of the foul thing in battle without feeling any fear? Did he and the giant kill it with ease? So what was going on? He still couldn't move fear had gotten the best of him. When looking around the inn he just knew he was going to die here today. He just knew this would be the end of his life and that his father was right. He would die a coward. Die in shame.

He could see Throk. The giant was looking at his own wound without to much a worry. He wished he was like that, so fearless. As he watched the giant ask for the barmaid ungar saw the lady. She was cornered by undead and would die soon. She would be the first person Ungar knew to die in battle. So it would begin. The giant saw the barmaid as well now. He didn't hesitate for a second. Without thinking of himself he just charged in.

This did something to Ungar. He felt as he watched the giant charge that it might not be over yet. Maybe there was hope, maybe in some way he might survive this. Yes maybe he could. But that wasn't enough. Ungar knew that if he survived and the rest of the people died he couldn't be able to live with it. So he had to do something. He had to save the elf. Although Ungar was a dwarf he didn't feel any hatred towards the elf. He didn't understand why his kind disliked them so much. Were they not is so many ways the same as them? Did they not breath the same air? Oh well there would be enough time to thing about these things. And the time was not now. He had waisted enough seconds as it is.

His arms started to move, lifting his axe above his head, he would most likely have the element of suprise so he had to make it count. Pressing away the idea of death he took a deep breath and charged. This was going to be his moment of glory, or the moment of his death. He knew now he almost crossed the line between a man and a coward, but he didn't. He had kept his wits and now he was ready. Ready to fight. And so without further thinking he did.

He forced his axe down into the back of the undead with all the might and strenght his little body possessed. He aimed for the beasts lower back. He knew that if he aimed any higher it would affect his aim and the strenght of the blow. His axe descended in a downwards arc. He didn't assume it would be enough to 'kill' the beast but it would be enough to cripple it.

If his first attack had any affect he would use his momentum to strike again. This time a quick attack aiming for the undeads left leg. A quick swing would be enough to put the thing off balance.