Post by Jesse Brake on Sept 25, 2008 9:31:46 GMT -5
Night had fallen hours ago, the full moons choked with the ominous clouds that had threaten rain the entire week. Decidedly, the clouds finally released their collected bounty upon the lone figure stalking between the gnarled trees in the swampland. The bogs made dull thwocks from the impact and sighed out their noxious gases in protest.
TWANG! TWANG! TWANG! EEEPPPPPP!
A human female, a little short of six feet tall and pushing her mid thirty winters, is soaked by the nighttime rains. She advances steadily like the animated earth, a crack of lightning illuminating a weathered smirking face. Drinking greedily from a thin glass vial, her cerulean eyes shine less with sarcastic gleam and more with murderous intent. To behold her was to stare at the face of winter itself: cold, unrelenting, and terrible. Wiping the froth of alchemy from her mouth, she aligns herself with a skeletal tree trunk. Her thin black eyebrows narrow into a predator's gaze, eyes unmoving.
RROOAAARRRRRRRR!!
The sounds of the growing storm, the smell of the bogs...this was not all that accompanied her. With her came the legion of dead that followed her. The drenched woman could feel their gaze, all of her victims. Her hands were not so much covered with blood, but immersed, seemingly stained to the very core of her. That didn't bother her much…killing had always been part of a witch hunter's role. It was only when there was no war, no heretic to be tortured, did they ever gather behind her. The memories…they could only be drowned out it slaughter or laughter. Good, evil, these notions helped others sleep at night. The woman never slept much, not because of guilt or shame. Mostly because she was too busy hunting as she was now, or drinking her allies under the table at Ekrund. Dreams were meant to escape this world, and she had no interest in leaving it anytime soon. There was so much fun to be had...
SHHHRRRLLLURRPPPPP
Wet, meaty tearing now echoed throughout the night as well. The troll had finally caught the goblin pelting him with arrows. It's physically prowess was only matched by a malicious nature that made a headman's axe seen like a blissful maiden. It's anger rivaled it's stupidity. Thankfully, their inability to adapt with the ever evolving world will cause their own downfall.
CRUNCHMUNCHSLRRUP
Downfall…downpour…Reality came crashing back with the association. The potion was making her mind wander; she needed to keep her senses as sharp as her rapier and, for that fact, her tongue. It was how she had came to be known by the moniker "The Razor" among her fellow witch hunters. You're nothing but an abomination, she thought with increasing contempt, getting paid to kill you is practically criminal.
SNIFF*SNIFF*GRRROOWWWLLL
The woman clenched her matchlock and and reached into a pocket sewn into her leather bandoleer, retrieving a dry packing wad. The rain slid of the surface of the magical weapon, leaving only her slender hand wet. Tonight, she would once again add another to her legion. Others would discover her victim and inquire what manner of creature it was, for it shall be unrecognizable to all in its final state. Gender, species…it will all be futile to identify the troll.
The feeling inside her head told her it was killing time soon. The storm faded from her mind, the taste of bitter copper the feast before the war…the beating of her heart the battle cry. Everything seemed more alive when she reached this level of battle transcendence. She could feel the troll's pulse quicken, smell the dead goblin's acrid final filth. From what seemed like across the very planes, came another man's voice…
"SUFFER FOR SLAANESH EMPIRE WHORE!"
She whipped around only to stare at a charging chaos in ornamental plate. The chosen's face was a mask of whatever nefarious demon was inside of him. It was a killing machine, living by only one rule: spill the blood of non believers, much like her. Their battlegrounds weren't bar room brawls or the occasional skirmish with passing bandits. They knew of war but nothing of mortal terror, what it was like to see the incandescence of a man fade as his life was consumed upon ravenous steel.
Suddenly, the witch hunter froze in place. Her ears focused on the sound she heard separate from the increasingly harsh rain, the running charge of the chaos, the troll's confused roar.
That sound…
She concentrated harder, deftly sidestepping as the chosen's axe splintered the tree she used to obfuscate herself. The words were forming in her head.
Isolate it she told herself as she fired a shot into the base of the chaos's neck. The gurgling tried to drown the sounds, muddling the intricate designs, those of some foreign alphabet. The language flowed graceful but tapered into jagged edges. It was familiar…not the voice but the tone, the speed. The way the words seem to be constructing. Her eyes flew open at the realization.
Druchii …it's the arcane tongue…
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the massive troll charging through the relentless rain. Honed instincts threw her into a somersault to avoid the troll's projectile vomit, filed with goblin meat and concentrated acid. The chosen was caught in the foul spewing, his skin beginning to bubble and writhe in torment. The witch hunter swore she heard him moan...
The unknown caster's dark magic caused a concussion that sent the bog and its tiny inhabitants soaring in various directions. The dull roar droned in the witch hunter's ears moments after. The troll took most of the force, but the witch hunter's face still stung where the flames licked and caused her nerves to fray. She slid down the length of an overturn cart into a crouched position. The face of the chaos who had landed awkwardly stared back at her lifeless, his eyes smoking with caustic bile. The spell had cracked his forehead open, the grey matter ingratiating among the ruined bog and rain.
Wait till they close to examine the bodies…then take them down.she told herself.
But the caster never came, or not one that she saw. Long after the rains put out the smoldering remains of the troll she stalked moments ago, she stayed crouched, waiting. Even as she watched insects crawl into the cranium of the chosen, she didn't move an inch. And when the wizards and soldiers of the Order came to investigate the sounds of battle so close to their outpost, she was on edge, anticipating the caster's return.
Because she knew the dark elf was still out there, only because she would be too. Watching. Stalking. Smirking.
We'll see who has the last laugh the witch hunter thought with a smile.
TWANG! TWANG! TWANG! EEEPPPPPP!
A human female, a little short of six feet tall and pushing her mid thirty winters, is soaked by the nighttime rains. She advances steadily like the animated earth, a crack of lightning illuminating a weathered smirking face. Drinking greedily from a thin glass vial, her cerulean eyes shine less with sarcastic gleam and more with murderous intent. To behold her was to stare at the face of winter itself: cold, unrelenting, and terrible. Wiping the froth of alchemy from her mouth, she aligns herself with a skeletal tree trunk. Her thin black eyebrows narrow into a predator's gaze, eyes unmoving.
RROOAAARRRRRRRR!!
The sounds of the growing storm, the smell of the bogs...this was not all that accompanied her. With her came the legion of dead that followed her. The drenched woman could feel their gaze, all of her victims. Her hands were not so much covered with blood, but immersed, seemingly stained to the very core of her. That didn't bother her much…killing had always been part of a witch hunter's role. It was only when there was no war, no heretic to be tortured, did they ever gather behind her. The memories…they could only be drowned out it slaughter or laughter. Good, evil, these notions helped others sleep at night. The woman never slept much, not because of guilt or shame. Mostly because she was too busy hunting as she was now, or drinking her allies under the table at Ekrund. Dreams were meant to escape this world, and she had no interest in leaving it anytime soon. There was so much fun to be had...
SHHHRRRLLLURRPPPPP
Wet, meaty tearing now echoed throughout the night as well. The troll had finally caught the goblin pelting him with arrows. It's physically prowess was only matched by a malicious nature that made a headman's axe seen like a blissful maiden. It's anger rivaled it's stupidity. Thankfully, their inability to adapt with the ever evolving world will cause their own downfall.
CRUNCHMUNCHSLRRUP
Downfall…downpour…Reality came crashing back with the association. The potion was making her mind wander; she needed to keep her senses as sharp as her rapier and, for that fact, her tongue. It was how she had came to be known by the moniker "The Razor" among her fellow witch hunters. You're nothing but an abomination, she thought with increasing contempt, getting paid to kill you is practically criminal.
SNIFF*SNIFF*GRRROOWWWLLL
The woman clenched her matchlock and and reached into a pocket sewn into her leather bandoleer, retrieving a dry packing wad. The rain slid of the surface of the magical weapon, leaving only her slender hand wet. Tonight, she would once again add another to her legion. Others would discover her victim and inquire what manner of creature it was, for it shall be unrecognizable to all in its final state. Gender, species…it will all be futile to identify the troll.
The feeling inside her head told her it was killing time soon. The storm faded from her mind, the taste of bitter copper the feast before the war…the beating of her heart the battle cry. Everything seemed more alive when she reached this level of battle transcendence. She could feel the troll's pulse quicken, smell the dead goblin's acrid final filth. From what seemed like across the very planes, came another man's voice…
"SUFFER FOR SLAANESH EMPIRE WHORE!"
She whipped around only to stare at a charging chaos in ornamental plate. The chosen's face was a mask of whatever nefarious demon was inside of him. It was a killing machine, living by only one rule: spill the blood of non believers, much like her. Their battlegrounds weren't bar room brawls or the occasional skirmish with passing bandits. They knew of war but nothing of mortal terror, what it was like to see the incandescence of a man fade as his life was consumed upon ravenous steel.
Suddenly, the witch hunter froze in place. Her ears focused on the sound she heard separate from the increasingly harsh rain, the running charge of the chaos, the troll's confused roar.
That sound…
She concentrated harder, deftly sidestepping as the chosen's axe splintered the tree she used to obfuscate herself. The words were forming in her head.
Isolate it she told herself as she fired a shot into the base of the chaos's neck. The gurgling tried to drown the sounds, muddling the intricate designs, those of some foreign alphabet. The language flowed graceful but tapered into jagged edges. It was familiar…not the voice but the tone, the speed. The way the words seem to be constructing. Her eyes flew open at the realization.
Druchii …it's the arcane tongue…
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the massive troll charging through the relentless rain. Honed instincts threw her into a somersault to avoid the troll's projectile vomit, filed with goblin meat and concentrated acid. The chosen was caught in the foul spewing, his skin beginning to bubble and writhe in torment. The witch hunter swore she heard him moan...
The unknown caster's dark magic caused a concussion that sent the bog and its tiny inhabitants soaring in various directions. The dull roar droned in the witch hunter's ears moments after. The troll took most of the force, but the witch hunter's face still stung where the flames licked and caused her nerves to fray. She slid down the length of an overturn cart into a crouched position. The face of the chaos who had landed awkwardly stared back at her lifeless, his eyes smoking with caustic bile. The spell had cracked his forehead open, the grey matter ingratiating among the ruined bog and rain.
Wait till they close to examine the bodies…then take them down.she told herself.
But the caster never came, or not one that she saw. Long after the rains put out the smoldering remains of the troll she stalked moments ago, she stayed crouched, waiting. Even as she watched insects crawl into the cranium of the chosen, she didn't move an inch. And when the wizards and soldiers of the Order came to investigate the sounds of battle so close to their outpost, she was on edge, anticipating the caster's return.
Because she knew the dark elf was still out there, only because she would be too. Watching. Stalking. Smirking.
We'll see who has the last laugh the witch hunter thought with a smile.