Darion Ragnar
08-18-09, 10:58 PM
This battle is closed to Alister and the character that is under aforementioned account.
Drums -- dozens upon dozens of drums. Every one of the beats pounded out another step, every step causing the earth to tremble. One thousand and one: that was their number. Two thousand and two feet pummeled away at the dirt below, crunching dead grass beneath their heels and carrying the mass of blood-encrusted arms and rusted armor into position. Blackish green to darkest blue, thick as leather and coarse as the same, the flesh of the vile mass ranged the entire spectrum of their brood. They sneered and snarled, screamed and bellowed, shouted curses to the sky and oaths to the hells. They were angry. They were orcs. And they were moving to their opposition.
Fifty-score and one, each and every one of the cruel breed marched their way into the middle of the valley. It was there that the drums stopped, there that they halted; silence washed over the troops, not so much as the jingling of chainmail moving to catch the breeze. It was an apex, a climax, a wave that crested and lingered. The orcish leader inhaled, the stale air of the arid plain sucked back past cracked tusks and over putrid teeth – and, with the ferocity that could only be mustered by such a monstrous breed of warriors, he let loose a spittle-spraying roar. The entirety of his army split, cleft down the valley’s middle as they turned to their right and left. Not more than one hundred yards from either vanguard was a wide plateau, broad and flat, which sloped easily down to meet them.
The blackbirds began to circle overhead.
Darion allowed his peridot eyes to wash over the scene below, his brow knit and his visage grim. Either gauntlet rested atop the smooth ball pommel of his sword, the blade buried to near half its length in the earthen floor. His breastplate rose and fell with each slow, measured, and deliberate breath. The sun, oppressive in its midday position, bore down on him without a drop in the way of mercy – no clouds to break its hateful gaze, no wind to cool his sweat-beaded brow. Beneath the armor his shirt was drenched, the tunic’s unassuming tan sullied with the soot and grime of his labor. Still, the warrior stood, no hint of anguish or subtle complaint crossing his somber features. He simply waited.
Across the valley, atop the opposing plateau, his opponent would stand. The twin vantage points were, in a way, the two corners of the proverbial ring – or such was what Darion concluded. The symmetry had to serve some purpose or other, as this place was no location on all of Althanas; no, it was something imagined in the minds of the monks who operated The Citadel. Setting after setting, scenario by scenario, the Ai’Brone never seemed to run out of ideas to test the mettle of the combatants that used their arena. And this? This was one of their more challenging works.
The warrior drew back his hands, taking time to ready himself. Either gauntlet was tugged, ensuring the fingers were fit securely; every strap of his chestplate was pulled tight and buckled in place. Finally the blacksmith reached down and took the zweihänder into his right hand, his digits wrapping tight about the hilt, leather moaning.
“Father,” he uttered, a breath that barely fled past his lips, “Give me your heart, that I may be fearless in the face of death.”
Darion heaved, steel singing as he freed the blade from nature’s sheath, colorless dust thrown high and swirling all around him. In one hand he hefted it above his head, the massive weapon held aloft for all to see, its length awash in the sun’s offensive glare. The orcs would know their opponent now – one of them, at least – and they would be ready for him, waiting for him with blood-soaked pikes and rusted knives. Knowing that strengthened the Redblade’s resolve, causing something akin to a smile to briefly cross his lips. He had come to the Citadel to be tested, and the trial ahead looked promising.
There’s work to be done.
Darion stepped forward, striding down and into the valley below.
Drums -- dozens upon dozens of drums. Every one of the beats pounded out another step, every step causing the earth to tremble. One thousand and one: that was their number. Two thousand and two feet pummeled away at the dirt below, crunching dead grass beneath their heels and carrying the mass of blood-encrusted arms and rusted armor into position. Blackish green to darkest blue, thick as leather and coarse as the same, the flesh of the vile mass ranged the entire spectrum of their brood. They sneered and snarled, screamed and bellowed, shouted curses to the sky and oaths to the hells. They were angry. They were orcs. And they were moving to their opposition.
Fifty-score and one, each and every one of the cruel breed marched their way into the middle of the valley. It was there that the drums stopped, there that they halted; silence washed over the troops, not so much as the jingling of chainmail moving to catch the breeze. It was an apex, a climax, a wave that crested and lingered. The orcish leader inhaled, the stale air of the arid plain sucked back past cracked tusks and over putrid teeth – and, with the ferocity that could only be mustered by such a monstrous breed of warriors, he let loose a spittle-spraying roar. The entirety of his army split, cleft down the valley’s middle as they turned to their right and left. Not more than one hundred yards from either vanguard was a wide plateau, broad and flat, which sloped easily down to meet them.
The blackbirds began to circle overhead.
Darion allowed his peridot eyes to wash over the scene below, his brow knit and his visage grim. Either gauntlet rested atop the smooth ball pommel of his sword, the blade buried to near half its length in the earthen floor. His breastplate rose and fell with each slow, measured, and deliberate breath. The sun, oppressive in its midday position, bore down on him without a drop in the way of mercy – no clouds to break its hateful gaze, no wind to cool his sweat-beaded brow. Beneath the armor his shirt was drenched, the tunic’s unassuming tan sullied with the soot and grime of his labor. Still, the warrior stood, no hint of anguish or subtle complaint crossing his somber features. He simply waited.
Across the valley, atop the opposing plateau, his opponent would stand. The twin vantage points were, in a way, the two corners of the proverbial ring – or such was what Darion concluded. The symmetry had to serve some purpose or other, as this place was no location on all of Althanas; no, it was something imagined in the minds of the monks who operated The Citadel. Setting after setting, scenario by scenario, the Ai’Brone never seemed to run out of ideas to test the mettle of the combatants that used their arena. And this? This was one of their more challenging works.
The warrior drew back his hands, taking time to ready himself. Either gauntlet was tugged, ensuring the fingers were fit securely; every strap of his chestplate was pulled tight and buckled in place. Finally the blacksmith reached down and took the zweihänder into his right hand, his digits wrapping tight about the hilt, leather moaning.
“Father,” he uttered, a breath that barely fled past his lips, “Give me your heart, that I may be fearless in the face of death.”
Darion heaved, steel singing as he freed the blade from nature’s sheath, colorless dust thrown high and swirling all around him. In one hand he hefted it above his head, the massive weapon held aloft for all to see, its length awash in the sun’s offensive glare. The orcs would know their opponent now – one of them, at least – and they would be ready for him, waiting for him with blood-soaked pikes and rusted knives. Knowing that strengthened the Redblade’s resolve, causing something akin to a smile to briefly cross his lips. He had come to the Citadel to be tested, and the trial ahead looked promising.
There’s work to be done.
Darion stepped forward, striding down and into the valley below.