There comes a time in life when the awakening fraction buried deeply within every soul begins yearning to claw instinctively to the surface of everyday norms applied by restrictive upbringings provided by guardians, teachers, associates and the influential aura of the surrounding world around us.’
‘Be it a Baron’s solar, an assassin's safehouse, a warrior's mainstay, a favored campsite of a Ranger tucked away deep within the comforting vegetative drip-lines of Concordia, or a quaint cabin of a content family simmering in ignorance of particular happenings of those risking life and limb to keep peace within village and Continent. Our vicious instinctive cycles dance dangerously at the ends of frayed strings, and the bound monsters raging deep within our souls have little choice but to erupt in magnificent cadence whether we wish them to, or not, when heightened emotions run rampant...’
‘Albeit, only fools rush in.’
The crushing tide of battle erupted under the screeching wail of iron against dark alien steel and rumbling primal roars extracted from deep within Garron’s chest. Dull iron crescents tore through the air, attempting to hone in on what may as well had been shadows, for connecting the head of his warhammer to inflict bodily harm against these wretched elves was only gaining a few crippling blows against the mass of elven foes washing over him. That was the problem when he lost himself to utter rage; focus and calculation was pretty much lost, and the eager pull of his blood lust blinded Garron more-so as the seconds birthed moments in his vision of red.
Lifting his head from the charge, Garron squared his shoulders and leveled his warhammer to lay in line with his hips, readying himself for the oncoming barrage forming at either side of his flank over water-beaten rocks. Uneven stance over the rigid terrain only provided one direct path. Garron unexpectedly charged to his right, directing his warhammer, the iron head laying low by way of his left hand, and dropped his right shoulder darting for the closest elf slinking towards him. A wide arcing blow from the elf exploded into a shrill scream of iron and dark steel as Garron raised his iron to meet. Sparks raged as the dagger dragged along the haft of the hammer, spraying bright scorching rain into Garron’s eyes before the lively blade sipped its purchase of the warm flesh of his right hand.
Garron stumbled, releasing the tight grip he had held over his weapon and was left no option but to drop it at his feet. His hand burned, and the unfathomable pain he felt rush through his arm was like no other he had ever experienced in his lifetime. The Son of Winter felt the chilling kiss of blades countless times before, but something was entirely sinister with what was gifted by this dark blade. Blood didn’t spill from the wound, but instead bubbled like a boiling cauldron of molten mud. The slice of the cut started smoothly surgical in nature, but every second, the cut grew more ridged as the crippled flesh rotted around the wound. He fell to a knee and waited for the elf to charge in again, catching the assailant by the throat with one hand, and the other snapping behind the small head of the elf.
He twisted his body, holding a tight grip about the neck of the elf, and flipped the creature to land hard on its back before Garron snapped its neck as easily as a twig crunches under his boot. No sooner that his hand released, he felt yet another hot blade bite through hardened leather and flesh, burrowing deeply into his back. Garron winced in a horrible wash of pain and euphoria as his energy levels neared complete depletion and the new blade jerked mercilessly between ribs. With his last spurt of energy, snatched up the dagger that the dead elf dropped at his knee, and whirled around, catching the plunged wrist of the elf that stood behind him, slicing clean through flesh and bone, leaving the buried dagger in his own back, and the hand of the elf to fall beside him.
Garron’s breathing wheezed heavily with each fall and rise of his chest as blood flooded his lung, with gurgling and curses pouring from shivering bluish lips. He caught a flashing glimpse of a maleficent jewel wrapped around the finger of the severed hand, and glanced up helplessly as a black wave of elves splashed over him murmuring a language unknown to his ears. His last thought was of his beloved Medeia before a relieving blackness devoured conciseness and his broken body crashed lifelessly over the rocky terrain to the dismal sound of lapping water drumming a solemn ballad along the shoreline.
