Green is the new black.
05-17-07, 10:32 PM
This is a solo quest. However, if you read it and decide that it's so interesting (ha) that you would really like to join, PM me and we can work something out.
A foul wind whistled its ominious harmony through the tops of distant trees, swooping across green field littered with the dead. Orun climbed atop a jagged rock and surveyed the panorama of carnage; he was surprised at the strange calm that occupied what had so recently been the scene of a particularly violent and bloody conflict. He smelled the stingingly frigid air, bringing another kind of vision to his mind through his snout-like nose. It told him of more of the same. Death. He breathed the aroma deeply and smiled as he exhaled.
Orun hopped down from his perch. He was a sight both revolting and intimidating. His tangled mess of white hair was matted to his face with sweat and blood and small yellowing tusks poked through his lips from his lower jaw. Varied patches of brown leather and cloth covered his lower body and about half of his chest and torso so that he almost looked as though covered in an earthy quilt of green and brown. His body was heavy and his shoulders broad, though his frame on the whole was more compact and lean than bulky. A pair of misty blue-grey eyes gleamed with cold intelligence against the setting sun like a pair of distant starts obscured by clouds.
At that moment, it was difficult to determine which faction had won the battle. In fact, it was even hard to tell which side many of the fallen warriors had been on. The majority of them had no distinguishing markings or uniforms. Here or there, he could spot small groups of bodies belonging his green-skinned kin, most of them surrounded by significantly larger numbers of dead human warriors. He nodded with satisfaction at the sight. While he’d never doubted the battle prowess of the Salvic Orc clans, it wasn’t until traveling with a band of them for two weeks that he fully realized the extent their legendary might.
Finally, he stepped clear of the accumulation of boulders, which stuck out of the ground like rows of blunted teeth, and into the open field. There was a considerable quantity of arrows jutting from the disturbed earth or sticking out of even more corpses. There were none of the green-skinned warriors among those slain by arrows, however. Orun snorted a crude laugh. For being a 'stupid race,' they at least knew enough to stay out of an arrow's flight path.
The opposing side, an army from one of the local fiefdoms, had archers, he recalled. Orun’s employer, the house of…something or another, did not. This obviously meant that it had been the enemy’s arrows left behind. This presented two possibilities to the half-Orc: the enemy’s force had been defeated and left their arrows behind in the subsequent retreat or that they had actually won but simply lacked the time to collect ammunition before running down their foes. His gut told him that it was likely the former. Perhaps it was his pride saying that as well, though.
The arrow pattern displayed the typical inaccuracy of massed archery, where regiments of bowmen rained arrows down into target rich environments. It wasn't anything unusual; Orun had witnessed such tactics before. The arrows had short, light shafts: probably fired from shorter bows designed to be economical and easy for any mediocre soldier to use. The downside was that they were only effective against lightly armored infantry. Not that there wasn't plenty of it in most engagements, of course.
It was then that he spotted something a little more worrying. It was a single arrow embedded into a lone, heavily armored infantryman lying face down in the dirt. Orun recognized the soldier by its type. It was a professional man-at-arms, clad in a combination of chain mail armor and a few solid plates covering his knees, shoulders, and most of his chest. A kite-shaped shield was still in his left hand, a long-handled axe in his right, and a thick steel helmet sat on his head. They were relatively common among the Salvic armies, at least in the one that he’d fought with and the few others that he’d seen.
These details alone weren’t of any significant concern. Perhaps a group of them had been marching through and a number of archers decided to target them; this poor soul may just happened to have been the only one unlucky enough to get hit at a vulnerable spot. Further observation dismissed that possibility. Judging by the surrounding footprints, the man had been the only armored soldier within twenty paces. Perhaps it had been an officer. Orun decided to investigate his suspicion. He turned the body over and, sure enough, there was a badge of rank on his chest. It seemed to be solid silver with a symbol of some kind engraved into it. He pocketed the trinket without a thought.
Shifting his investigation to the arrow itself, he noticed that it had a longer, heavier shaft and better fletching than the others; it was of a notably higher quality of craftsmanship. In addition, it was sticking into the side of the fallen soldier’s neck, and judging by the angle, its flight path was almost parallel to the ground. This wasn't a standard "shoot an arrow into the air and hope that it lands on a living target" shot. It was aimed. Orun also recalled the way in which his fall had left him before the half-Orc flipped the body; the man must have been running when hit. Whoever it was obviously knew what they were doing: a professional mercenary of some sort, he guessed. Orun shrugged and continued on.
As the half-Orc walked onward, he noticed several more soldiers killed in a similar manner: Same difficult shots, similarly armored troops, identical arrow design; many looked as though they had not been dead long. Orun suddenly began feeling a very uneasy, perhaps even to an irrational degree, about being in the open and darted dexterously back to the rocks. Once he felt comfortably concealed, Orun scolded himself for his hasty fear. It was no way for an Orc to behave!
Still, perhaps it was time to leave the dormant battleground and rejoin the army from whatever the noble house was called... if he could figure out which way it went. No, to hell with that, Orun thought with a sudden rebellious tone. He had no allegiance to those humans. He didn't even know if there was even an army left, let alone which way it went. Besides, what was the point? He was only fighting with them for food. He had picked up a few coins on the battle field, and would hopefully get a few more by selling the stolen badge in the next town, assuming it hadn't been burned down yet; he would be able to eat for a while.
Making up his mind to depart the field of death, he checked the location of the setting sun and headed in the opposite direction. He knew that he wouldn't arrive at the next town before dark, but, unlike most people, he had little solicitude toward traveling at night. He was about to clear the rocks, on the side opposite the battlefield, when he detected movement and heard the sound of heavy, metallic footsteps. Orun stopped and pivoted on his left foot, instinctively grasping the hilt of his short-handled ax and the grip on his round wooden shield, pulling both of them from his belt.
The ax wasn’t exactly an imposing weapon. The head was made of dented iron. On the bright side, the blade was reasonably sharp and the hooked spike on the opposite side of the blade had always proven itself useful. The shield was even less impressive than the ax. It was little more than a thick piece of wood with an arm strap that Orun had stolen from a drunken militiaman the previous month. They weren’t spectacular tools of death, but one couldn’t argue with success.
A silver-clad figure emerged from the rocks, approaching Orun ponderously. The armored warrior stood with a straight posture and a nearly tangible air of superiority. He held a heavy long sword in his right hand, but no shield. The warrior's armor was a combination of heavy chain mail and thick metal plates. A thick breastplate and bulky armor on the shoulders stood out. It looked barely lighter than full cavalry armor. A large helmet with a slotted visor covered his head with a blue plume sticking out of the top.
Orun spotted the insignia of the opposing fiefdom, along with some lesser markings. The various armies of the Salvic states were known for using heavy infantry and cavalry when the situation called for it or if they simply wanted to boast of their wealth. Despite this statistic, however, Orun decided that he must have been a noble of some sort. Regular soldiers, even knights, didn’t often linger on battlefields alone. This was probably a lesser noble out for glory in battle. Judging by the look of him, it was unlikely that he had gotten any. His armor and sword were clean and undamaged and Orun noted that his potential foe carried himself with no sign of battle fatigue.
If there was one thing that Orun knew about Salvic nobles, particularly from the northern regions, was that they held a firm distaste for Orcs that even surpassed that of the human tribes that dotted the land. It was practically bred into many of them due to generations of conflicts in these disputed, lawless lands. The fact that Orun was only a half-blooded Orc would be of little consequence; it would surely be half an Orc too much for the warrior coming toward him. Realizing that a fight between the two would not be debatable without some form of dishonorable retreat, Orun began sizing up the situation. The noble was still fresh; somehow having avoided any combats, but would grow tired quickly from fighting in such heavy armor. The problem was, Orun was already exhausted from the long, bloody battle.
The two stood in silence for a long moment, facing each other: each sizing the other up. The half-Orc was well aware that many Salvic nobles were more than fancy armor and titles. Some were trained to fight from birth. On the other hand, that meant little if one lacked real combat experience. The noble's armor would make it difficult for Orun's axe to make a killing blow, but it would also slow the human down. Orun’s lack of armor, though giving him and speed and maneuverability, made him vulnerable. His shield was strong, but only made of wood. He would need to be careful when blocking blows from such a heavy sword – hopefully it wasn’t as sharp as it looked. With the situation sufficiently analyzed the armored warrior getting closer, Orun decided to execute an attempt at seizing the advantage by making the first move.
The half-Orc darted forward without warning. Using his shield to protect himself from his opponent's sword, he proceeded to ram fiercely into the human’s chest. The armored figure stumbled backward, but his footing held. The armored warrior gripped his sword in both hands and retaliated with a charge of his own. He uttered some curse that Orun didn't bother listening to. The noble stopped a little too slowly and swung his sword downward. Orun parried the blow with his round shield, knocking it away to the left. Some shavings of wood fluttered onto his face. It seemed that the sword was as sharp as it looked. The half-orc struck back with the pointed side of his axe, aiming for the neck, one of his armored opponent’s few vulnerable points. The noble brought his sword back in time to block, but just barely. Their weapons impacted with a metallic clang and locked together for a moment, but Orun thrust forcefully forward, once again ramming his foe. The noble was ready this time and resisted, only being forced two steps back before the two broke away from each other.
The human immediately counter-attacked again, swinging aggressively from the left and right. The half-blood avoided the blade's deadly tip by taking a series of steps backward. It was merely a tactical withdrawal, naturally; he was luring the inexperienced combatant towards him, waiting for the noble to make a mistake and overextend himself. It didn't take long, either. Believing he possessed the advantage, the human continued attacking, almost recklessly. By the fifth swing, he allowed himself to get off balance with his desperate attempt to land a hit on his foe. He came close to succeeding, but his attempt was not good enough; the half-orc was untouched. Orun brought his shield downward, forcing the human's blade to the ground. Nearly simultaneously, he swung his axe in a brutal forehand motion, smashing the noble's helmet with the broad side of his weapon.
The armored warrior spun almost half-way around and staggered back from the force of a blow that had left a large dent in his visor. He only managed to stay on his feet by planting the tip of his sword into the ground. Unfortunately for the human, this state did not last long. Orun was quickly upon him again, delivering a powerful kick to the noble's metal chest which sent him tumbling down. Unfortunately, the kick was either too forceful or too weak; the human warrior lurched backward several feet before falling to his knees.
This unexpected distance inadvertently gave him time to bring his sword up again before Orun could charge in safely and finish the job. Perhaps he would have been able to pull it off, but it presented a risk that he did not want to take. He would make another opportunity. Orun backed up as the noble struggled to his feet. The human’s breath was ragged; the green skinned warrior’s theory was actualizing itself; the noble’s stamina was wavering. The half-orc let out a low, bellowing roar, causing the human to flinch slightly. This reaction actually brought Orun a hint of joy. He might have enjoyed playing with him for a while, but he was never so foolish.
The noble raised his blade and charged again, heavy metal boots pounding into the earth like war drums beat to an irregular rhythm. Orun charged as well, controlling his speed and preparing for the right moment to attack. Suddenly, the noble stumbled without warning, letting out a cry of either pain or surprise; Orun was not sure which at the time. Perhaps both. Had he tripped somehow? There was no time to wonder about that, only to take advantage. The half-orc delivered a swift backhanded strike with the pointed side of his axe directly into his foe's neck. It penetrated the vulnerable point and dug into the soft flesh underneath, summoning a splatter of blood. The duel was over… It was only when the human fell to the ground that Orun noticed the arrow.
He recognized it instantly: long, heavy shaft, high quality fletching: same difficult shot, piercing the chain mail protecting his inner thigh. So he hadn't simply tripped. Alarmed, Orun looked in the direction of the arrow's source and saw a slender, black-haired figure standing at the base of a stout oak a mere 25 feet away. How had he not noticed? Orun drew a dagger from an ankle sheath and threw it at his new visitor. The slender figure ducked gracefully, letting the weapon fly over his head and into the trunk of the tree. Instead of returning fire with his bow as the half-Orc had expected, the man held his hand up, signaling that he didn't want to fight. Well, what the hell did he want, then?
A foul wind whistled its ominious harmony through the tops of distant trees, swooping across green field littered with the dead. Orun climbed atop a jagged rock and surveyed the panorama of carnage; he was surprised at the strange calm that occupied what had so recently been the scene of a particularly violent and bloody conflict. He smelled the stingingly frigid air, bringing another kind of vision to his mind through his snout-like nose. It told him of more of the same. Death. He breathed the aroma deeply and smiled as he exhaled.
Orun hopped down from his perch. He was a sight both revolting and intimidating. His tangled mess of white hair was matted to his face with sweat and blood and small yellowing tusks poked through his lips from his lower jaw. Varied patches of brown leather and cloth covered his lower body and about half of his chest and torso so that he almost looked as though covered in an earthy quilt of green and brown. His body was heavy and his shoulders broad, though his frame on the whole was more compact and lean than bulky. A pair of misty blue-grey eyes gleamed with cold intelligence against the setting sun like a pair of distant starts obscured by clouds.
At that moment, it was difficult to determine which faction had won the battle. In fact, it was even hard to tell which side many of the fallen warriors had been on. The majority of them had no distinguishing markings or uniforms. Here or there, he could spot small groups of bodies belonging his green-skinned kin, most of them surrounded by significantly larger numbers of dead human warriors. He nodded with satisfaction at the sight. While he’d never doubted the battle prowess of the Salvic Orc clans, it wasn’t until traveling with a band of them for two weeks that he fully realized the extent their legendary might.
Finally, he stepped clear of the accumulation of boulders, which stuck out of the ground like rows of blunted teeth, and into the open field. There was a considerable quantity of arrows jutting from the disturbed earth or sticking out of even more corpses. There were none of the green-skinned warriors among those slain by arrows, however. Orun snorted a crude laugh. For being a 'stupid race,' they at least knew enough to stay out of an arrow's flight path.
The opposing side, an army from one of the local fiefdoms, had archers, he recalled. Orun’s employer, the house of…something or another, did not. This obviously meant that it had been the enemy’s arrows left behind. This presented two possibilities to the half-Orc: the enemy’s force had been defeated and left their arrows behind in the subsequent retreat or that they had actually won but simply lacked the time to collect ammunition before running down their foes. His gut told him that it was likely the former. Perhaps it was his pride saying that as well, though.
The arrow pattern displayed the typical inaccuracy of massed archery, where regiments of bowmen rained arrows down into target rich environments. It wasn't anything unusual; Orun had witnessed such tactics before. The arrows had short, light shafts: probably fired from shorter bows designed to be economical and easy for any mediocre soldier to use. The downside was that they were only effective against lightly armored infantry. Not that there wasn't plenty of it in most engagements, of course.
It was then that he spotted something a little more worrying. It was a single arrow embedded into a lone, heavily armored infantryman lying face down in the dirt. Orun recognized the soldier by its type. It was a professional man-at-arms, clad in a combination of chain mail armor and a few solid plates covering his knees, shoulders, and most of his chest. A kite-shaped shield was still in his left hand, a long-handled axe in his right, and a thick steel helmet sat on his head. They were relatively common among the Salvic armies, at least in the one that he’d fought with and the few others that he’d seen.
These details alone weren’t of any significant concern. Perhaps a group of them had been marching through and a number of archers decided to target them; this poor soul may just happened to have been the only one unlucky enough to get hit at a vulnerable spot. Further observation dismissed that possibility. Judging by the surrounding footprints, the man had been the only armored soldier within twenty paces. Perhaps it had been an officer. Orun decided to investigate his suspicion. He turned the body over and, sure enough, there was a badge of rank on his chest. It seemed to be solid silver with a symbol of some kind engraved into it. He pocketed the trinket without a thought.
Shifting his investigation to the arrow itself, he noticed that it had a longer, heavier shaft and better fletching than the others; it was of a notably higher quality of craftsmanship. In addition, it was sticking into the side of the fallen soldier’s neck, and judging by the angle, its flight path was almost parallel to the ground. This wasn't a standard "shoot an arrow into the air and hope that it lands on a living target" shot. It was aimed. Orun also recalled the way in which his fall had left him before the half-Orc flipped the body; the man must have been running when hit. Whoever it was obviously knew what they were doing: a professional mercenary of some sort, he guessed. Orun shrugged and continued on.
As the half-Orc walked onward, he noticed several more soldiers killed in a similar manner: Same difficult shots, similarly armored troops, identical arrow design; many looked as though they had not been dead long. Orun suddenly began feeling a very uneasy, perhaps even to an irrational degree, about being in the open and darted dexterously back to the rocks. Once he felt comfortably concealed, Orun scolded himself for his hasty fear. It was no way for an Orc to behave!
Still, perhaps it was time to leave the dormant battleground and rejoin the army from whatever the noble house was called... if he could figure out which way it went. No, to hell with that, Orun thought with a sudden rebellious tone. He had no allegiance to those humans. He didn't even know if there was even an army left, let alone which way it went. Besides, what was the point? He was only fighting with them for food. He had picked up a few coins on the battle field, and would hopefully get a few more by selling the stolen badge in the next town, assuming it hadn't been burned down yet; he would be able to eat for a while.
Making up his mind to depart the field of death, he checked the location of the setting sun and headed in the opposite direction. He knew that he wouldn't arrive at the next town before dark, but, unlike most people, he had little solicitude toward traveling at night. He was about to clear the rocks, on the side opposite the battlefield, when he detected movement and heard the sound of heavy, metallic footsteps. Orun stopped and pivoted on his left foot, instinctively grasping the hilt of his short-handled ax and the grip on his round wooden shield, pulling both of them from his belt.
The ax wasn’t exactly an imposing weapon. The head was made of dented iron. On the bright side, the blade was reasonably sharp and the hooked spike on the opposite side of the blade had always proven itself useful. The shield was even less impressive than the ax. It was little more than a thick piece of wood with an arm strap that Orun had stolen from a drunken militiaman the previous month. They weren’t spectacular tools of death, but one couldn’t argue with success.
A silver-clad figure emerged from the rocks, approaching Orun ponderously. The armored warrior stood with a straight posture and a nearly tangible air of superiority. He held a heavy long sword in his right hand, but no shield. The warrior's armor was a combination of heavy chain mail and thick metal plates. A thick breastplate and bulky armor on the shoulders stood out. It looked barely lighter than full cavalry armor. A large helmet with a slotted visor covered his head with a blue plume sticking out of the top.
Orun spotted the insignia of the opposing fiefdom, along with some lesser markings. The various armies of the Salvic states were known for using heavy infantry and cavalry when the situation called for it or if they simply wanted to boast of their wealth. Despite this statistic, however, Orun decided that he must have been a noble of some sort. Regular soldiers, even knights, didn’t often linger on battlefields alone. This was probably a lesser noble out for glory in battle. Judging by the look of him, it was unlikely that he had gotten any. His armor and sword were clean and undamaged and Orun noted that his potential foe carried himself with no sign of battle fatigue.
If there was one thing that Orun knew about Salvic nobles, particularly from the northern regions, was that they held a firm distaste for Orcs that even surpassed that of the human tribes that dotted the land. It was practically bred into many of them due to generations of conflicts in these disputed, lawless lands. The fact that Orun was only a half-blooded Orc would be of little consequence; it would surely be half an Orc too much for the warrior coming toward him. Realizing that a fight between the two would not be debatable without some form of dishonorable retreat, Orun began sizing up the situation. The noble was still fresh; somehow having avoided any combats, but would grow tired quickly from fighting in such heavy armor. The problem was, Orun was already exhausted from the long, bloody battle.
The two stood in silence for a long moment, facing each other: each sizing the other up. The half-Orc was well aware that many Salvic nobles were more than fancy armor and titles. Some were trained to fight from birth. On the other hand, that meant little if one lacked real combat experience. The noble's armor would make it difficult for Orun's axe to make a killing blow, but it would also slow the human down. Orun’s lack of armor, though giving him and speed and maneuverability, made him vulnerable. His shield was strong, but only made of wood. He would need to be careful when blocking blows from such a heavy sword – hopefully it wasn’t as sharp as it looked. With the situation sufficiently analyzed the armored warrior getting closer, Orun decided to execute an attempt at seizing the advantage by making the first move.
The half-Orc darted forward without warning. Using his shield to protect himself from his opponent's sword, he proceeded to ram fiercely into the human’s chest. The armored figure stumbled backward, but his footing held. The armored warrior gripped his sword in both hands and retaliated with a charge of his own. He uttered some curse that Orun didn't bother listening to. The noble stopped a little too slowly and swung his sword downward. Orun parried the blow with his round shield, knocking it away to the left. Some shavings of wood fluttered onto his face. It seemed that the sword was as sharp as it looked. The half-orc struck back with the pointed side of his axe, aiming for the neck, one of his armored opponent’s few vulnerable points. The noble brought his sword back in time to block, but just barely. Their weapons impacted with a metallic clang and locked together for a moment, but Orun thrust forcefully forward, once again ramming his foe. The noble was ready this time and resisted, only being forced two steps back before the two broke away from each other.
The human immediately counter-attacked again, swinging aggressively from the left and right. The half-blood avoided the blade's deadly tip by taking a series of steps backward. It was merely a tactical withdrawal, naturally; he was luring the inexperienced combatant towards him, waiting for the noble to make a mistake and overextend himself. It didn't take long, either. Believing he possessed the advantage, the human continued attacking, almost recklessly. By the fifth swing, he allowed himself to get off balance with his desperate attempt to land a hit on his foe. He came close to succeeding, but his attempt was not good enough; the half-orc was untouched. Orun brought his shield downward, forcing the human's blade to the ground. Nearly simultaneously, he swung his axe in a brutal forehand motion, smashing the noble's helmet with the broad side of his weapon.
The armored warrior spun almost half-way around and staggered back from the force of a blow that had left a large dent in his visor. He only managed to stay on his feet by planting the tip of his sword into the ground. Unfortunately for the human, this state did not last long. Orun was quickly upon him again, delivering a powerful kick to the noble's metal chest which sent him tumbling down. Unfortunately, the kick was either too forceful or too weak; the human warrior lurched backward several feet before falling to his knees.
This unexpected distance inadvertently gave him time to bring his sword up again before Orun could charge in safely and finish the job. Perhaps he would have been able to pull it off, but it presented a risk that he did not want to take. He would make another opportunity. Orun backed up as the noble struggled to his feet. The human’s breath was ragged; the green skinned warrior’s theory was actualizing itself; the noble’s stamina was wavering. The half-orc let out a low, bellowing roar, causing the human to flinch slightly. This reaction actually brought Orun a hint of joy. He might have enjoyed playing with him for a while, but he was never so foolish.
The noble raised his blade and charged again, heavy metal boots pounding into the earth like war drums beat to an irregular rhythm. Orun charged as well, controlling his speed and preparing for the right moment to attack. Suddenly, the noble stumbled without warning, letting out a cry of either pain or surprise; Orun was not sure which at the time. Perhaps both. Had he tripped somehow? There was no time to wonder about that, only to take advantage. The half-orc delivered a swift backhanded strike with the pointed side of his axe directly into his foe's neck. It penetrated the vulnerable point and dug into the soft flesh underneath, summoning a splatter of blood. The duel was over… It was only when the human fell to the ground that Orun noticed the arrow.
He recognized it instantly: long, heavy shaft, high quality fletching: same difficult shot, piercing the chain mail protecting his inner thigh. So he hadn't simply tripped. Alarmed, Orun looked in the direction of the arrow's source and saw a slender, black-haired figure standing at the base of a stout oak a mere 25 feet away. How had he not noticed? Orun drew a dagger from an ankle sheath and threw it at his new visitor. The slender figure ducked gracefully, letting the weapon fly over his head and into the trunk of the tree. Instead of returning fire with his bow as the half-Orc had expected, the man held his hand up, signaling that he didn't want to fight. Well, what the hell did he want, then?