Chapter 2
Crimson blood dripped from his face onto his bare chest. A stark contrast to the pale white of his albino skin. As he tried to focus his eyes and remember where he was, another shock of pain shot through his head. The steel gauntlet, splattered with blood withdrew from his face, drawing his focus to its owner. The gnarled face before him spat in his face and spoke, the sound echoing through Oshiahs already ringing skull. “Where is the War Priest, Wilgar?”
Oshiahs eyes narrowed as he stared into the face of his tormentor. These were the men impersonating the Orcish clan known as the Crescent Moon Tribe. In this guise, they’ve cut a path of destruction through local villages, leaving the mark of the Crescent Moon, placing an easy blame on the Orcs. The peace between the local Humans and Orcs has been broken by this act of violence.
With a jolt of memories, he remembered how he got here. The fight with these impersonators was quite spectacular. The pale-skinned nomad was in rare form, a true tribute to the temple monks he spent his childhood with. The sheer numbers of warriors he faced was the only strength they had that he failed to overcome. This one, the torturer, was one of the last faces Oshiah saw before he was subdued. A combination of a poisonous dart and a relentless barrage of fists and weapons had taken him down. Ahh, the poison. That would explain the pain within his head, which almost numbed him to the pain in the rest of his body.
Another stream of blood ran down his face from the open wound on his temple. His eyes followed the drop, as it hit his chest and dripped onto his leg. As he focused on his legs, he could see the bandage wrapped around his thigh. The torn cloth was dark with blood. Shifting his weight, he could tell the leg was broken, likley a compound fracture. Disjointed memories of the beating he’d received danced across his vision. Many of the men hitting him with clubs had wounds of their own. He managed a smile as he recognized his work. Precise arrow hits cutting vital tendons and piercing major arteries. If it weren’t for their healer, many of these men would’ve died by now. A vision of a quite pleasing move came to mind. A backflip off of the bar to dodge a sword swing while firing an arrow, killing one of the tribes’ archers.
The vision was disapated by steel against bone as the interrogator backhanded Oshiah’s weary face again. “Tell me, wanderer, or I’ll carve my name in your chest with a rusty dagger.” Oshiah, fighting the pain in his jaw as he managed a few words, finally spoke. “Don’t you worry. Wilgar will soon find you.” Oshiah sneered at the man, wondering which of them looked worse. The flayed skin on his assailant reminding him that it was Oshiahs blade that cut it open. The mans face twisted as the rage burned in his eyes. “Ahhh!!!” The man screamed as he kicked Oshiah in the chest, knocking him backward in his chair. The manacles bit into his wrists as his full weight came down on his hands. He heard something heavy drag across wood. From the corner of his eye, he could see a large flanged mace dangling from the mans hand as he approached. Taking in a calming breath, Oshiah took a quick assessment, calcuating his options as certain death approached. As the man neared, a pounding echoed in the chamber. As the man turned toward the source, Oshiah could hear other footsteps, as someone must’ve gone to answer the door. He closed his eyes as he focused on the sounds. The sliding of the bar from the door, a strangled gasp, and a body flung to the floor. The howls of several men and the unsheathing of swords and he knew he was no longer alone.
Wilgar, having broken the neck of the first man at the door, kicked it wide welcoming the tide of weapons as he faced the attackers. With a clawing gesture, Wilgar felled one assailant, the man doubled over in pain as Titanes might clawed at his very soul. Wilgar twirled his mace above his head and smashed the first attacker within reach. A sideward swing attempting to take Wilgar’s leg from him barely marked the enchanted plate protecting him. With a flury of gauntlet and mace, Wilgar tore through the cluster of assailants, leaving them in a broken heap. He now stood, face to face, with the torturer.
A scarred and malicious man, the torturer held a chain-whip in one hand and his own mace in the other. Blood ran down the shaft of the mace from the stained gauntlet on the mans right hand. Wilgar quickly assessed his foe as he circled to the right; the man twirled the whip around preparing to strike. Wilgar took the first opportunity to enter with the mace, but was deflected by his foes mace. As he withdrew, the whip came about. The chains, in an unnatural movement, entangled his feet and with a yank, he was on his back. The man, confident from his successful takedown, stepped over Wilgar to plant a solid strike on his face. As he raised his mace above his head, Wilgars steel gauntlet shot up into his groin. Not a punch, but a grab. As the steel hand twisted, so did the expression on the mans face. The mace slipped from his hand and dropped toward Wilgar’s face. At the last moment, it glanced aside, Wilgar’s invisible helmet protecting him fully. Kicking his attacker aside, Wilgar returned to his feet. As he strode across the room, he assessed the damage done to the barely recognizable figure before him. Through dirt and blood, he could still see the white skin and hair, but little else identified this mess as his companion Oshiah. Standing over the broken body, he set to a rhythmic chant, summoning forth the will of Titane and placing Oshiah in a painless slumber.
Oshiahs eyes narrowed as he stared into the face of his tormentor. These were the men impersonating the Orcish clan known as the Crescent Moon Tribe. In this guise, they’ve cut a path of destruction through local villages, leaving the mark of the Crescent Moon, placing an easy blame on the Orcs. The peace between the local Humans and Orcs has been broken by this act of violence.
With a jolt of memories, he remembered how he got here. The fight with these impersonators was quite spectacular. The pale-skinned nomad was in rare form, a true tribute to the temple monks he spent his childhood with. The sheer numbers of warriors he faced was the only strength they had that he failed to overcome. This one, the torturer, was one of the last faces Oshiah saw before he was subdued. A combination of a poisonous dart and a relentless barrage of fists and weapons had taken him down. Ahh, the poison. That would explain the pain within his head, which almost numbed him to the pain in the rest of his body.
Another stream of blood ran down his face from the open wound on his temple. His eyes followed the drop, as it hit his chest and dripped onto his leg. As he focused on his legs, he could see the bandage wrapped around his thigh. The torn cloth was dark with blood. Shifting his weight, he could tell the leg was broken, likley a compound fracture. Disjointed memories of the beating he’d received danced across his vision. Many of the men hitting him with clubs had wounds of their own. He managed a smile as he recognized his work. Precise arrow hits cutting vital tendons and piercing major arteries. If it weren’t for their healer, many of these men would’ve died by now. A vision of a quite pleasing move came to mind. A backflip off of the bar to dodge a sword swing while firing an arrow, killing one of the tribes’ archers.
The vision was disapated by steel against bone as the interrogator backhanded Oshiah’s weary face again. “Tell me, wanderer, or I’ll carve my name in your chest with a rusty dagger.” Oshiah, fighting the pain in his jaw as he managed a few words, finally spoke. “Don’t you worry. Wilgar will soon find you.” Oshiah sneered at the man, wondering which of them looked worse. The flayed skin on his assailant reminding him that it was Oshiahs blade that cut it open. The mans face twisted as the rage burned in his eyes. “Ahhh!!!” The man screamed as he kicked Oshiah in the chest, knocking him backward in his chair. The manacles bit into his wrists as his full weight came down on his hands. He heard something heavy drag across wood. From the corner of his eye, he could see a large flanged mace dangling from the mans hand as he approached. Taking in a calming breath, Oshiah took a quick assessment, calcuating his options as certain death approached. As the man neared, a pounding echoed in the chamber. As the man turned toward the source, Oshiah could hear other footsteps, as someone must’ve gone to answer the door. He closed his eyes as he focused on the sounds. The sliding of the bar from the door, a strangled gasp, and a body flung to the floor. The howls of several men and the unsheathing of swords and he knew he was no longer alone.
Wilgar, having broken the neck of the first man at the door, kicked it wide welcoming the tide of weapons as he faced the attackers. With a clawing gesture, Wilgar felled one assailant, the man doubled over in pain as Titanes might clawed at his very soul. Wilgar twirled his mace above his head and smashed the first attacker within reach. A sideward swing attempting to take Wilgar’s leg from him barely marked the enchanted plate protecting him. With a flury of gauntlet and mace, Wilgar tore through the cluster of assailants, leaving them in a broken heap. He now stood, face to face, with the torturer.
A scarred and malicious man, the torturer held a chain-whip in one hand and his own mace in the other. Blood ran down the shaft of the mace from the stained gauntlet on the mans right hand. Wilgar quickly assessed his foe as he circled to the right; the man twirled the whip around preparing to strike. Wilgar took the first opportunity to enter with the mace, but was deflected by his foes mace. As he withdrew, the whip came about. The chains, in an unnatural movement, entangled his feet and with a yank, he was on his back. The man, confident from his successful takedown, stepped over Wilgar to plant a solid strike on his face. As he raised his mace above his head, Wilgars steel gauntlet shot up into his groin. Not a punch, but a grab. As the steel hand twisted, so did the expression on the mans face. The mace slipped from his hand and dropped toward Wilgar’s face. At the last moment, it glanced aside, Wilgar’s invisible helmet protecting him fully. Kicking his attacker aside, Wilgar returned to his feet. As he strode across the room, he assessed the damage done to the barely recognizable figure before him. Through dirt and blood, he could still see the white skin and hair, but little else identified this mess as his companion Oshiah. Standing over the broken body, he set to a rhythmic chant, summoning forth the will of Titane and placing Oshiah in a painless slumber.
posted by GreatMamboChicken at 1:11 PM
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