Xangô’s POV: Day 10
Current Wealth: 2 silver 11 copper
Current Debt: 6 gold 44 silver 20 copper
In my admittedly limited experience of fighting trolls, I had to say that, so far, I certainly preferred to do it from quite high up in a tree. Unfortunately, I was faced with a pair of issues in my current situation. The first, of course, was that there wasn’t really much time to get into one. And the second was that even if I did…I wasn’t entirely sure that the giant fucking animal staring me down at the moment couldn’t have just jumped up and snatched me off the branch.
My mind raced, and I thought about a million thoughts in a second. They led me to perhaps the only conclusion they could have, and I raised the bow to start firing.
The troll was here, it had seen us, it was going to kill us. With a bit of luck I’d hurt it enough that the stupid fucking animal bled or rotted to death after the fact.
I tightened my eyes even as I tightened the bowstring, staring at the creature, seeing what I could glean about it. The menu came up quickly enough.
[Appraisal]
* Species: Troll
* Level: 15
* Condition, Fine
* Modifiers: None
* Statistics: Strength 20, Speed 7, Dexterity 1), Stamina 5), Toughness 20, Alertness 3, Charisma -, Intelligence 0
That marked the first time I’d managed to bring my Menu up in the heat of battle, shame I was too busy worrying about having my head chewed off to feel any pride about the fact.
Twenty strength, twenty toughness. So we’re fucked then?
I loosed an arrow anyway, almost as much out of curiosity for what it’d do than any actual hope of hurting the thing. True to expectations, the barb- hastily torn from the dead troll’s flesh- simply bounced off the larger one and went spinning out through the air with barely a drop of blood drawn.
And got its attention. Beady eyes turned on me, and the creature hunched low to sprint forwards. I gave myself two, maybe three seconds before impact. Nothing I could do about it, except hope I died quicker instead of slower.
The sound of a heavy, metallic thud caught my ear perhaps a tenth of a second before the grey streak flitted by in my vision. Not troll sized, nor troll speed, this moved more like my arrows. And it hit the creature about as hard as those arrows might have, if they’d been fired downwards by a man falling from an aeroplane.
It stuck in deep, displacing a jet of blood and sending the creature sidelong with a confused, dazed backstep. My eyes were already on the shooter, finding two newcomers on the scene. One was tall, the other short and broad, both wore armour made of full steel plates. Only one had the crossbow, the other was coming in with some big meaty blade made of a metal too light in colouration to be iron or steel. Both had visors down, and their faces were hidden completely, but I recognised them in an instant. I had, after all, worked with the man who’d written them first into the world of Redacle.
Witchfinder Elites, the holy soldiers in our setting’s ongoing war against the forces of evil. They were assholes, all of them, but in this particular situation, against this particular enemy, I couldn’t think of a group I’d rather be seeing make a sudden appearance than them.
The two of them moved without any sort of communication passing between them, or at least any sort that I could see, and yet despite the fact, both of them seemed perfectly in unison. The one with the crossbow reloaded, forcibly turning some huge wheel geared up to the weapon and dragging its string back. His ally was already sprinting ahead to cover him while he did, broadsword held ready and thirsting for blood.
I’d like to proudly say that I charged in right behind him, gripping my bow by one end to heroically bludgeon the troll with it in place of a better weapon. I didn’t, of course, because I actually have a functioning cerebral cortex. Instead I stood and watched the steelshod lunatic rush in himself and start hacking at the creature’s leg.
Almost before I could even react myself, it reached down and swiped for him, body moving far more quickly than anything of half its mass should’ve been able to manage. The Witchfinder rolled out of the way like he was a Dark Souls character, rising faster than thought and slashing again at the still-outstretched fingers. Steel hit flesh, and came out the victor. Two taloned digits dropped into the snow, blood raining down around them.
The troll didn’t like that one bit, and definitely didn’t like the arrow that whistled neatly into its eye an instant after. More blood, this time joined by sticky, syrupy jelly dribbling down one swollen cheek, and now there was a sharp cry running out through the first while the monster flailed and thrashed, stamping around, kicking several times my own bodyweight of snow into the air as it spasmed.
Obviously, the man fighting it was an expert, because he did a perfect job of weaving around its frantic stomps and slashing again and again, opening up long, deep gashes in the creature’s leathery body, any one of which would’ve been a mortal wound if he’d been chopping at something human-sized. They did enough to leak the monster, in any case, causing pain and weakness both as it slowly lost speed, legs becoming shaky under it.
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Perhaps he noticed, too. Perhaps that was why he got cocky and went for a headshot. Maybe he was just stupid, I really couldn’t say. But I do know the effort didn’t work out. One moment his sword was carving some neat calligraphy into the monster’s forehead, the next its giant fist came out of nowhere and caught the side of the Witchfinder’s head.
His feet left the ground, then his back found a tree growing some dozen feet back. He bounced off it, landing in the snow and sinking easily a foot under the weight of his armour. The Witchfinder was quicker in standing than any of us would’ve been, even with all the metal on him, but the troll was quicker still. Another impact smashed his body against the wood, then another, then another. Crossbow bolts thudded into the animal’s giant back, but they barely seemed to annoy it all of a sudden, even as steam and smoke started coiling out from the places they were stuck.
I considered helping, I really did. And that’s not me being a stand-up guy either. I could hear metal plates grinding apart and bones breaking even from where I was standing ten yards back, I don’t think anyone could’ve just ignored the sound.
But I just stayed where I was. We all did, staring and watching until the Witchfinder fell down as a mangled, ruined smear of pulped meat and spilled ichor. Then the troll turned, beady eyes falling on the remaining crossbowman. Sweeping across us.
Beam was insane too. I’d forgotten that little tidbit, until he started moving, and instantly attracted the thing’s attention.
Well, alright, he probably wasn’t just acting on impulse. In all likelihood he’d realised the thing was about to attack the other Witchfinder, and that this time it wouldn’t have to fight a melee specialist. He’d probably gauged how fast it’d catch up to any human, and accounted for the fact when he decided to buy our new ally some more time to stick it with arrows. I imagine his show of quick thinking and tactics would’ve won him an award, in a just world.
Still, fuck him, because he was stood right next to me when he took off, and the troll made a direct beeline for all of us at once. I’d guess that hadn’t been in his little calculations. Fortunately I was already running before his lack of a warning could cause any issues.
Ten yards separated us from the monster, and we’d started running first. With that in mind it was fucking incredible how little time it took to be breathing down our necks. We ran like our lives depended on it, because they did, Solitaire right beside us, death looming somewhere between our lower intestines and assholes. Not one of us even glanced at the pursuer, because not one of us had the speed to spare.
Our aim was instantly chosen and quickly approached, a row of close-growing trees some thirty feet ahead. It was as far from us as the troll was, which, as Solitaire would later tell me, meant that our success came down to one crucial factor.
Was the monster more than twice our speed?
It was, as it happened. Closing, closing, closing. By the time we were five yards from the trees, it was four from us. By the time we were just two strides short of freedom we were within its reach.
And then the crossbow bolt hit it in the face.
We didn’t see the impact, but this close, and with that much sheer power, we actually heard the sound of flesh giving way and teeth getting torn out of gums by the metal point’s path into the monster’s mouth. It bought us a precious second by sending it rearing up and snarling, then we were all in-between the trees, feeling their branches snag our clothes and taking solace in knowing they were close enough together that the monster couldn’t have even fit between them.
Granted, our newfound joy died a bit as we saw it rip one of the fucking things out of the ground.
They weren’t big trees, barely fifteen feet high each. Maybe they were even saplings. Still, however much strength it took to do that, it wasn’t a force we’d be fighting. We couldn’t leave the outcropping, this twenty-foot stretch of huddling wood was our only safety, which meant we’d be stuck waiting for the troll to tear its way in and start killing.
Another crossbow bolt hit it, and it ripped out another tree. One more tree came free just as the third bolt caught an elbow, and the troll seemed to get a bit distracted. Two bolts both managed to hit an ear and a kidney one after the other, finally drawing its attention to the shooter.
That was when Beam stabbed it in the balls.
I for one have never received a spear to the testicles, but going by the reaction it got, the experience probably isn’t great. Granted Beam didn’t manage to get much penetration, and the troll wasn’t exactly losing a lot of blood, but the thirty or so seconds it spent spasming and screaming made all the difference in the world.
Solitaire, being the massive nerd he is, counted the wounds while it died. Later on he told me there’d been twenty nine. Each one lost a litre or more of blood, on average, and that seemed to be the magic amount. Just like the two weaker ones before it, the giga-troll collapsed into the snow. Body twitching one final time, the way dead bodies did, wounds still smouldering where the crossbow bolts jutted out of them. My nostrils burned with the smell of charcoal as I stared at it, and spent a few minutes soaking the sight in.
Then Solitaire snapped me out of it, elbowing me sharply.
“Stats, now,” He breathed. “Before Sir Wanksalot comes over.”
I glanced up, saw the Witchfinder was going to check on what was left of his comrade, and recognised the small window we had to examine ourselves. Hastily, I pulled my menu up.
[Appraisal]
* Class: Emperor
* Level: 6
* Condition: Worn
* Modifiers: +2 Toughness
* Statistics: Strength 5(4), Speed 5(4), Dexterity 6(5), Stamina 5(4), Toughness 6, Alertness 8, Charisma 9, Intelligence 8
* Inventory: Jeans, shirt, jacket, dagger
* Class abilities: Appraisal II
* Current Experience Points: 23/150
* Unspent Skillpoints: 3
It was a Herculean feat of will that I didn’t audibly squee on the spot.