The Dirge - Stand up and Fight

[Wildcard]

Midday. The Carrion Fields. The Forty Ninth of Cryxatum in the Season of Spring, Era XV Post Fractum

Korgar Kinslammer stood toe deep in mud. It was a fair battle .. Two starved orcs against one tiny dwarf. What could go wrong? The pit was lined with ruddy spectators and smiling well wishers, many of whom carried rusted spears that pierced the naked flesh of the their captives. The bearded foe would have none of it; clad in only breeches the odds were against him .. from a human standpoint. To a Dwarf they would need a rabid worg rider with it's tail tied to a pound of dynamite and about two hundred more hungry prisoners to get his beer foam touching the tankard lid. This was a start.
Barely..

See the funny thing in all this .. there were two greenskins, and Korgar was short Two Axes. His favorite weapons were in the hands of these fiends, now the only way to get them back would be by force. Well, either that or a handshake and a hug but he was all out of charity, and goodwill was next door baking chocolate chip cookies.

The first mongrel curled it's spine screaming.. muscles lean from starvation, making it's willpower that much stronger. As such a hoarse howl riddled it's frame in blood lust, the second orc leaped forward. This brute was shorter with faded hair pulled back in a ponytail and naked as the day it was born aside the child safe loin cloth. Coming in hard from the left it rushed the Dwarven Kinsman with a jaw full of open fangs pressed lower then it's knees; a familiar axe looming overhead readied in vicious preparation. Laughter and wheezing cheer erupted as coins wet the mouths of ruddy soldiers and countrymen lining the fringes to this battle. Korgar could feel a gold crown slap his face from the jubilee, but squinted against the sensation trying to stay focused. He'd need time to gauge such a gruesome advance before it was all too late.
The tall maurader suddenly shifted claws and bull rushed him from the opposite flank, making it a heavy fisted iron strike of axeheads to cross into his "defenseless" frame. Another spear smacked the stout champion in the back, forcing Korgar to contend with multiple directions of attack. There would be no easy way out, but in .. further inside through the maw of Cetheron's proving ground..



Midday. The Shivering Glade. The Second of Aperitus in the Season of Spring, Era XV Post Fractum

Approaching a small hamlet in the north quarter of Lauryl, Jacques de Lamont noticed the faint outline of an oak tree scaring the horizon line. He felt curiosity pull his body forward as a mobile of objects hung from the gnarled branches like a child's toy. The dracon climbed to the peak of this hill finding heads. Human, elven.. races familiar with the region unrotten and barely dried swayed back and forth in the hustle of breeze. Eyes closed and mouths open they stayed preserved under these gails of mist and wind. Frost clung to sockets and cavities while the lithe living warrior trailed along the edges of such uncommon catastrophe. What manner of beast or creature had arranged this .. why? A grisly warning... The surrounding snow turned to rain with a temperature bordering on heat, still bearing a cold westerly front.

Below the eery vista, he glimpsed a snug and damp village bordered by evergreens.. There was inky black soot still pumping from one chimney.. if not two maybe three more. The buildings were distant and heavy laden with age, rot and weather.

Looking back up the draconian would focus on a strikingly singular face; a strange and weathered set of features boasting considerable hair and obsidian growth. A Dwarf, now strung by his laurels and as dead as the infested bark it hung from.. Bodiless and void of passion, it's methods locked in a mask of pain as if the last moments of it's life had been gruesomely foul. Driven into the trunk a pair of battle axes hung, their gore dried leaving a faint echo to events past. Every corpse has a story to tell, but the message now was unclear.. leaving more questions then answers.

[Jacques de Lamont]

Jacques stood silent in the warm rain on the top of the hill, his claws lightly brushing the skin on the forehead of the dwarf's pained face. Grime slid off, smearing the talons in dried blood and dirt. He rubbed his fingers together, feeling the moisture bring liquidity back into the blood as it coated the gray scales in their dirty brown hues, with flecks of black dirt mixed in in swirls that mimicked galaxies. Eyes looked down at him in pleading expressions, mouths cried to him in pain and misery, and he looked upon their faces with mild disdain. Softskins... they all probably deserved it for being pompous, overbearing and self-righteous pillocks. But... he couldn't be sure, not completely. Never completely...

Red eyes set under the tiny horns of draconian eye-ridges slid over to the town in the distance where from plumes of black smoke belched forth from chimneys. Gray the dracon could understand, but black... Nothing burning black could be good. There could be some fun to be had down there the voice spoke softly. Blood? Brain fluids? You know you want to feel it... Lamont conceded the point... he wanted to feel the warmth, the heat of an other person's pain and life running along his arms, between his fingers and splashing on his face... He could almost taste the hot spray as the metallic taste sang across his tongue... It beckoned, and Lamont accepted.

One last job remained for the dracon, though. With a semblance of reverence, he reached up to the faces of those who he could and closed eyes and mouths to give the dead some modicum of dignity in their eternal slumber. Many were nearly frozen in place, and those he skipped... Until finally he came upon the dwarf. The single dwarf. This one he would give a better sendoff. Grabbing the handles, Lamont grunted as he pulled the battle axes from the tree, his weapons of choice for this excursion. Likely one he did not understand, but one he was fully prepared to go tooth and nail in for. And for no particular reason... but that need for more life.

[Korgar Kinslammer]

A single of bead of sweat dripped down the dwarf’s grimy forehead, clearing the dirt from his skin and leaving a discolored trail in its wake. The stubborn Zerdargian grunted. His burly hands, powerful enough to rip a bull’s horns from its head, were empty. His two battleaxes, his most trusted companions, were in the grasps of the two emaciated orcs in front of him. Their slimy fingers and sweaty hands were blasphemous upon the weapons’ handles. Unfortunately for the dwarf, though, it was not going to be easy to retrieve his belongings.

“Ye durned bastards. Gimme me axes back er I’m gonna rip off yer nuts n’ stuff ‘em down yer eye sockets!” the dwarf roared. Squaring his stance, he brought his fists up in front of him. The prospect of fighting against weapons with fists was a foreboding one, but the dwarf recognized that there was no other way. He was at a clear disadvantage, but whoever said that a disadvantage was a bad thing? At the very least it would give him a good challenge, and there was nothing more that a dwarf could ask for.

The smaller cretin charged, barreling in at the Zerdargian with unimpressive stature. The creature’s tactic was not unfamiliar, and thus the dwarf readied to spring to the side and assail him from an angle seconds before the orc attacked. Before he could move, however, he felt a sharp pain erupting through his backside. “Ye durned coward! I’mma gonna break yer knees n’ eat ‘em!” Korgar screamed, wincing painfully as he stumbled forward. With one enemy behind him and the other in front, the dwarf did not have much time.

He needed to reposition himself –and fast.

Launching to the side in a desperate roll, the dwarf tucked his head low to execute a crude-looking somersault. At the very least it would relocate him in a neutral position, one that he might use as a base of operations to deploy an appropriate counterattack. Upon rising, the dwarf kept low, kicking out a powerful, tree-trunk sized leg at the nearest dwarf’s kneecap. Nothing, not bone or animal hide, was strong enough to withstand a dwarf’s kick at point-blank range. Regardless of contact and assuming that he was approaching from the orc’s side, Korgar led with a flurry of punches at the orc’s sides and head.

Having learned from Lucian that it was always advantageous to move after every strike to keep one’s enemy turning, the dwarf would heed his mentor’s instructions and try circling around towards the orc’s backside. Hopefully that would keep the other orc from getting behind him like the last time and also prevent the first green-skin from catching Korgar with any wild swings.

[Wildcard]

Aperitus

The thin even scales of a Dracon strode down hilltops wet with the first spring rain. Over each shoulder lay a massive axe whose blades were drenched and glistening from the cleanse. This figure looked battle weary yet taunt and prepared, wearing a long cloak of shifting gray that touched the flat grasses of the slope behind. Reaching a knee deep snow drift Lamont's reptilian eyes darted from side to side, as if talking to himself or perhaps listening to someone else..
He eventually found his way to a crushed path laid fresh with the dropping of horses. Following a bend in the trail he parted the forest firs into the outskirts of a weathered and sunken township. The place was deserted yet as the traveler stepped closer he could make out soaked swamp moss clinging to rotten wood and shingles. The cabins were ancient and long since put to disrepair but Jacques got the feeling he was not alone. A subtle creaking of wood in the wind, the clacker of hollow chimes dancing in return, an uneasy blur of motion at the edges of every turn .. It all raised his predatory suspicion that something was not quite right.

Pursuing the hoof prints he turned another dirty bend to find a low roofed shack that doubled as a tavern. A score of brown mares leaned against the pine, digging into the snow for the promise of food while mean blackened soot poured out it's slanted chimney. Through the broken windows the Dracon could hear laughter, that of men and the squeal of a zealous woman. It sounded like they were having a good time..
As his shorn boots navigated the depth of another puddle Lamont blinked. There were hewn statues of stone seemingly dropped from the heavens to either side. They were shattered slabs that if squinted at might reveal a face, foot or eery bone ridden torso. Looked at again the rock was simply that, blank chunks of granite set into the remains of a chilling county village. Laurels of oak and olive hung as frostbitten gestures from the blank pillars in ritual fashion, yet it was not Carmelya that they called for but something local and highly honored. Again severed heads lined these columns like prizes, as if respecting the work of some god far beyond their understanding or stature.

Through the open riddled pits filled with mud and water sat a neglected golem. At first Jacques dismissed it for another stone but this one was made of tarnished metal and slumped to one side. It's headless frame revealed an open seat with gears and handles set into the hole between a massive pair of mechanical arms. The creature had a heavy dent along it's chest plate which leaked dried oil and seemed to be the cause of it's final slumber. The golem was rusted, heavy set and appeared to be the final remnants of a brutal struggle.. Set into the weight of it's massive steel shoulders were fashioned symbols of the Archonic Phalanx while a variety of torn parts laid scattered to each and every side. Whatever had proceeded or was happening now inside the tavern involved a great deal more then your common country folk blistering a fiddle, that was for certain. The ghost town was riddled with mystery and begging for an answer. If Jacques de Lamont wanted any at all, the noises inside the cabin would be the best source as both rock and relic spoke only to the sky. Forgotten glass chimes contined to rattle softly from a porch to the south.

--


Cryxatum

Korgar Kinslammer hit hard and hit fast. Rolling beneath the lunging spray of limbs he struck the smaller creature's belly with an audible crack. Such a stalwart kick redirected the orc's body momentum like a medicine ball. The Dwarf ducked again under the swing of his own axe as the second beast came in even faster. The bearded champion then slid beneath one of the spectator's spears while taking hold of it's crooked shaft, carrying the sharp momentum through the torso of a screaming greenskin. Undeterred, both the smaller thrall and it's heavy set wounded cousin turned their gaze towards Korgar then charged simultaneously to force him against a wall of bodies. Covered in mud the Dwarf was hard to get a hold of but easily severed should one of his own instruments get lucky. Pfff. Not Likely with this Lot..

The mighty Kinslammer could see the younger goblinoid spit blood and was physically weakened by his bludgeoning kick. It wheezed while nearly tumbling to both knees when raising the double crescent of a hearty axe above it's maw. Taller, meaner and undominable the closest flesh eater wouldn't be slowed. It splintered the spear shaft in two, leaving the head of the instrument still gorged into it's muscular abdomen.
Spectating soldiers behind the black beard screamed into both his ruddy ears, filling them with insults and encouragement. "Bollocks, I should put two cycles pay on stumpy. That bloody dwarf's TENACIOUS.. Unlock the big game and see how tough E really is." Another voice rang. "Tough? Ya right. 'His skin al' be soft enough after a few bites.. GET IM ya cannibals!!"

Pushed back into the center by arms as callous as their conscious, Korgar was not done yet, he was just getting started. Kinslammer stood firm in a makeshift arena lined with the broken color of shields and sharp timber staves. Scouring to the distant east the smoke of chimneys and civilization peaked over a stone breach of walls and gates. It was the city.. . The nearest one he knew of in many a mile but he was here, trapped outside it's boundaries in a cesspool of treachery after a darkening of hard drinking. He'd injured someone's pride or perhaps these freaks just liked seeing a Dwarf get good and mad.

Regardless, now it was time to stop playing around. Now it was time to kick some Serious Green Ass.

[Korgar Kinslammer]

The hodgepodge of arms and legs was not impossible to sort through; the dwarf merely kept away from everything that was green. His combative prowess, although limited in scope, was tempered by many situations in which Korgar had found himself outnumbered. Subsequently, he was no foreigner to his current predicament, and thus he reacted with the expected wisdom of a seasoned fighter; he reacted with the instinct that was demanded of all Zerdargian dwarves. He reacted like a Kinslammer.

Fastening his powerful hands onto the spear shaft after his initial punch, the dwarf utilized its inertia to redirect it into the orc’s oncoming companion. The sound of a blade piercing through thick orc hide was pleasing to the ears, but it was vitiated by the orc’s ear-splitting snarl. “Ye damned mutt. Shut yer yap!” he protested. He retreated after his kick, employing a basic pattern of footwork that he had learned from Lucian earlier in Primus Gaudeo. Positioning was everything, and luckily for the dwarf, he had good balance to bolster his stance.

He wasn’t going to go down by the likes these scum.

The shouts of the jeering ground only angered him, and he turned a festering glare upon those who pushed him back into the makeshift arena of enclosing spectators. “Watch yer fethin’ hands ye dolts!” Shaking a fist in the air, the dwarf gritted his teeth. He normally adored the crowds, but these people were pissing him off. However he had gotten into this mess was beyond his short-term memory. Nevertheless, considering that his breath reeked of booze and the taste of a woman (maybe multiple women), the dwarf was not hard-pressed to fathom what had happened earlier.

“Dammit. Guess der ain’t no goin’ back now,” Sighing and shaking his head, the dwarf’s stare snapped back upon the two green-skins approaching him. He was still at a disadvantage. Whereas his opponents carried two weapons, respectively, he had nothing more than his fists. Granted these were weapons in themselves, they could not withstand a solid hit against an axe –especially not from an axe that he had personally wielded.

Oh well, he thought. Whoever said that he had to fight fairly?

Scooping up a handful of snow, the dwarf hurled it into the smaller orc’s face. He rushed at an angle, hoping to clear any of the potentially distracted orc’s wild swings if they came. Timing his movements precisely, he shot out a powerful hand towards the weapon’s shaft, intending to wrestle it away while his other hand curled into a fist and launched into the orc’s temple. Regardless if he succeeded, he readied to grapple the orc with his mighty hands and swing it in line with the other orc, aiming to use him as a human, or rather, orc shield.

[Wildcard]

Cryxatum

Korgar leaped as only a furious, ill-mannered and cornered Dwarf could.

Hard as Feth.

His fist crumpled the beast before him like a fattened drunk, shooting a streak of purple blood out the goblinoid's mouth into a mess of hair and curses. His left hand grabbed the weapon handle with little effort while the macabre corpse drained between his legs, both eyes crossing. The crowd jumped to their feet howling with rage and laughter, throwing hats into the air and spilling coppers like they were confetti. It would be hilarious were not a second scourge headed full tilt towards his persona for a gods thrice damned autographed. The quill? A new Axehead hellbent on cleaving Korgar "The Favored" into pieces..

This time the snarling Orcblood leaped low.. sliding foot first at the Kinslammer through the muck and mire of the fight pit. It rolled to it's knees, springing up with an overhanded chop straight down from the crown that would leave this bitter clansman with a new hair part to match his oh so soon to be departed face.

The unshaven and contorting features of the audience became deafening in zeal.
Korgar now had an Axe, but was he bold bearded enough to Use IT.


Aperitus

Time seemed to hang at a standstill for our young Dracon friend. Would he return to right old wrongs or give way to the endless sands of Orod's Hourglass? .... We Shall See.