Borkka
"How can you tell me to be calm when my entire village is bent on destroying one another in an enchanted state of sleep?!" You say taking a step forward. Godar steps before the mage, standing between you and he.
"Calm, brave warrior," Godar says, attempting to appeal to your pride.
I doesn't work. "Fool wizard, you have made a grave mistake in targeting Madonn. You will not live to make another foolish move."
You surge forward, swinging your club in at the powerful man who stands before the mage. One of his hands shoots up and takes the brunt of your attack on the forearm. You see a momentary grimace of pain on his face before he sends a ham fist into your own face. He cracks open your nose and blood pours out like a river of crimson. You find yourself involuntarily taking a step back to regain balance, and Godar is already on you, slamming a heavy fist into your stomach.
This civilized man of Tor-Matu has no idea how to fight an ancestor of the Madonn Nomads, you think as you wrap your arms around him and bite into his cheek, ripping the skin and muscle from his face. It is he who stumbles back this time, both from pain and terror. His eyes are wide with fear as he looks back at you.
You quickly scan the room to find Yornalla battling the man with the hammer while the one who wields the staff takes some slow and tentative steps in your direction. He doesn't go very far though. You watch with grim satisfaction as Yornalla kicks her opponent to the ground, notches an arrow and releases it in one movement. The shaft buries itself in the neck of the man wielding the hammer, the tip protruding from his throat. His eyes roll up into his head and he falls to the ground, emitting a strange combination of gurgling and choking.
The rest of the people in the house have either fled or hidden. Everyone save for Malkarus, that is.
"I have done nothing to you or your people," the wizard says. "I swear to you."
"Lies!" You scream, spittle and blood flying freely from your mouth. "Release my people!"
"I cannot release them," Malkarus said; "It is not I who-" the rest of his sentence is never said, your club slamming hard into the side of his head and knocking him to the ground.
"Perhaps you will release them when your body releases your soul," you say with a grim calm. Yornalla's eyes meet your own briefly, she is clearly supportive of killing the magic wielder.
You bring the club down with enough force to crack his head open and spill his brain matter across the floor. But it doesn't seem like enough to you and you offer repeated blows to his head and body until Yornalla stills your arms with a hand.
"Let us return to our people," she says.
You nod in agreement and the two of you exit the wizard's dwelling, walking out of the city and onto the road.
When night falls the two of you decide to rest, you allow Yornalla to rest while you keep watch for wild animals. You sit at the fire, stirring the embers around and sending sparks floating up into the night sky.
Soon Yornalla stirs. She sits up stiffly and soon rises to her feet. The normal gracefulness and fluidity of her movements is gone, but one cannot be expected to be graceful in the midst of a deep sleep.
You watch her as she walks over to you, her eyes sleepy and vacant, a cold reminder of the fate of so many of your people. A chill goes up your spine.
"Are you alright?" You ask her. She does not reply.
"Yornalla," you say. "What is wrong?"
Again, no reply. She reaches into the fire and picks up a thick burning length of wood, the sound of her skin sizzling reaches your ears.
"Yornalla?" You ask. No response.
It is then that you realise that you had things wrong back in Tor-Matu. Malkarus was not responsible for this evil at all. Your people are still afflicted with this trance. Yornalla is afflicted with this trance.
She swings the burning log in at you, connecting with your shoulder. The blow knocks you off of the rock you had been sitting upon, knocks you onto your side. You attempt to rise to your feet, but find that you must instead roll out of the way as the burning log lands on the ground inches from you.
After quickly scrambling to your feet, you grab your club and prepare yourself for what you must do. As she draws near you remember older times, better times. You held her in your arms once, kissed upon her lips, made love to her. And now you must kill her.
The tears that stream down your face blur your vision as you swing in with the heavy end of the club, your arms jarring a bit as the weapon connects with her side; the sound of cracking bones indicating a few broken ribs.
With an arm you wipe the tears away.
She moves in at you as though you had never hit her, and you find yourself swinging again, this time connecting with her skull. Her beautiful face goes sideways, her head resting limply on her shoulder; and still she presses on.
A maddening rage fills you in that moment and you rush in with a flurry of blows, the attacks pummeling mercilessly upon her head, her body, her every bone being crushed. By the time you are finished she is a vision of gore.
You fall to your knees and weap.
Later that night you decide that the battle isn't worth it anymore and you allow yourself to succumb to the night.
As you drift off to sleep you begin to feel the tugs of the puppet strings pulling at your soul.
"Calm, brave warrior," Godar says, attempting to appeal to your pride.
I doesn't work. "Fool wizard, you have made a grave mistake in targeting Madonn. You will not live to make another foolish move."
You surge forward, swinging your club in at the powerful man who stands before the mage. One of his hands shoots up and takes the brunt of your attack on the forearm. You see a momentary grimace of pain on his face before he sends a ham fist into your own face. He cracks open your nose and blood pours out like a river of crimson. You find yourself involuntarily taking a step back to regain balance, and Godar is already on you, slamming a heavy fist into your stomach.
This civilized man of Tor-Matu has no idea how to fight an ancestor of the Madonn Nomads, you think as you wrap your arms around him and bite into his cheek, ripping the skin and muscle from his face. It is he who stumbles back this time, both from pain and terror. His eyes are wide with fear as he looks back at you.
You quickly scan the room to find Yornalla battling the man with the hammer while the one who wields the staff takes some slow and tentative steps in your direction. He doesn't go very far though. You watch with grim satisfaction as Yornalla kicks her opponent to the ground, notches an arrow and releases it in one movement. The shaft buries itself in the neck of the man wielding the hammer, the tip protruding from his throat. His eyes roll up into his head and he falls to the ground, emitting a strange combination of gurgling and choking.
The rest of the people in the house have either fled or hidden. Everyone save for Malkarus, that is.
"I have done nothing to you or your people," the wizard says. "I swear to you."
"Lies!" You scream, spittle and blood flying freely from your mouth. "Release my people!"
"I cannot release them," Malkarus said; "It is not I who-" the rest of his sentence is never said, your club slamming hard into the side of his head and knocking him to the ground.
"Perhaps you will release them when your body releases your soul," you say with a grim calm. Yornalla's eyes meet your own briefly, she is clearly supportive of killing the magic wielder.
You bring the club down with enough force to crack his head open and spill his brain matter across the floor. But it doesn't seem like enough to you and you offer repeated blows to his head and body until Yornalla stills your arms with a hand.
"Let us return to our people," she says.
You nod in agreement and the two of you exit the wizard's dwelling, walking out of the city and onto the road.
When night falls the two of you decide to rest, you allow Yornalla to rest while you keep watch for wild animals. You sit at the fire, stirring the embers around and sending sparks floating up into the night sky.
Soon Yornalla stirs. She sits up stiffly and soon rises to her feet. The normal gracefulness and fluidity of her movements is gone, but one cannot be expected to be graceful in the midst of a deep sleep.
You watch her as she walks over to you, her eyes sleepy and vacant, a cold reminder of the fate of so many of your people. A chill goes up your spine.
"Are you alright?" You ask her. She does not reply.
"Yornalla," you say. "What is wrong?"
Again, no reply. She reaches into the fire and picks up a thick burning length of wood, the sound of her skin sizzling reaches your ears.
"Yornalla?" You ask. No response.
It is then that you realise that you had things wrong back in Tor-Matu. Malkarus was not responsible for this evil at all. Your people are still afflicted with this trance. Yornalla is afflicted with this trance.
She swings the burning log in at you, connecting with your shoulder. The blow knocks you off of the rock you had been sitting upon, knocks you onto your side. You attempt to rise to your feet, but find that you must instead roll out of the way as the burning log lands on the ground inches from you.
After quickly scrambling to your feet, you grab your club and prepare yourself for what you must do. As she draws near you remember older times, better times. You held her in your arms once, kissed upon her lips, made love to her. And now you must kill her.
The tears that stream down your face blur your vision as you swing in with the heavy end of the club, your arms jarring a bit as the weapon connects with her side; the sound of cracking bones indicating a few broken ribs.
With an arm you wipe the tears away.
She moves in at you as though you had never hit her, and you find yourself swinging again, this time connecting with her skull. Her beautiful face goes sideways, her head resting limply on her shoulder; and still she presses on.
A maddening rage fills you in that moment and you rush in with a flurry of blows, the attacks pummeling mercilessly upon her head, her body, her every bone being crushed. By the time you are finished she is a vision of gore.
You fall to your knees and weap.
Later that night you decide that the battle isn't worth it anymore and you allow yourself to succumb to the night.
As you drift off to sleep you begin to feel the tugs of the puppet strings pulling at your soul.
