GREGOR
-50 Mana. If no mana is available use HP. Each Health Point is worth 5 Mana.
Heartbeat so loud in his ears he thought someone was beating a gong right next to him, Gregor lay down in the grass, his back aching from the rough soil, and blood seeping out from a wound he had taken in his side, while all around him were dead goblins rotting away in the afternoon suns. The stiff breeze that came from the east, blowing hair into his eyes as a part of him knew that he should get up, and leave this place far behind, but he was just so damn tired, tired of thinking, tired of fighting, tired of the world really. He was a mercenary, and yet he had nothing to show for it, it was never supposed to be this way.
Hands clenched tight around clumps of dirt, he stared up into the deep blue sky, and could see the suns brilliant orange glow on the western horizon. The grassy knoll he lay on, unfamiliar to him as was the dirt road that ran through the nearby meadows and farms behind him. The last of his strength, gone a long time ago, until he could feel his own life force receding away like a tidal wave on some distant shoreline. The need to move and keep fighting, the only reason he hadn't simply closed his eyes, but he doubted very much that it would last for much longer. His last battle had pushed him to the point where he was struggling to breathe. Each hacking gasp for air, filling him with the ripened stench of corpses that made him want to vomit and scream. The woman’s voice for now, faded into the background.
Bone weary beyond anything he had ever felt in years, he waited for it to be over, his head turning to stare into the glazed yellow eyes of a demon, its large protruding forehead and thick bushy eyebrows, shadowing a hard face with dark blood red skin, and razor-sharp fangs, as well as long black horns. An imp, they were the lesser demons that often served as the foot soldiers of the underworld. And even in the tales he had heard about them, they were spoken of with fear, and for good reason given their nature for violence. If not for his strange new magical abilities, he would have been dead a long time ago, and now it seems that his luck had run out.
+5 HP.
Mouth twitched into a dry smile, he could feel his eyelids begin to sag close, and after a brief moment of hesitation, he let them. The welcoming darkness, familiar and warm like a roaring tavern with beautiful barmaids, food that filled his belly, and laughter that rejuvenated the soul. And wondered why he was even fighting this?
"Because I still need you, fool!"
Head heavy with sleep, he replied, "go away," and felt something tug at his feet, and kicked it away.
Her voice gnawing at the back of his mind, snapping, "wake up Gregor, wake!" until he growled, "I said leave me alone."
The rotten stench of death almost tickling the back of his nostrils as he felt something tug at his feet again, this time more incessant, and sharp.
Anger boiling up inside, he blinked his eyes open to give her a piece of his mind, when he saw a fat bloated bellow-heart hovering over him. It's beady black eyes perched atop a long hooked beak, and feathers as dark as midnight. The flutter of more wings around him, showing him a dozen or more of the filthy grim reapers digging into goblin flesh, and hopping about him.
(Drive them away.)
Too weak to stand, he feebly waved his arms up in the air, and growled, "I'm still alive, blast you," but they didn't seem to take no mind of him. Their beady little eyes catching the last rays of sunlight as they tore scraps of skin from his unprotected thighs. The effort to move making him want to scream as every part of him burned.
-1 HP.
(Go back to sleep.)
Tired beyond anything he had ever felt, he closed his eyes again, and felt their beaks stab into him. Memories of Kira floating through the back of his mind, while he dreamed of the home he had built for her in the mountains. A dilapidated thing that looked just about ready to break apart from a gentle breeze, and could remember Caroline's mocking laughter, and Kira's wide grin of delight as he showed her to her room. He thought he had been happy then.
-2 HP.
+5 HP.
(Continue sleep.)
Exhaustion crashing through him in swells, he could feel himself slipping away, heard the woman's voice calling for him to come back, but all he could see now was a brilliant light, and in it was Kira and Caroline waiting for him on the mountain...and he went to sleep…perhaps this time would be different...
Death.
(Wake up.)
Eyes snapping open again, he knew he couldn't let it end like this, and fought to move as every part of him burned.
-1 HP.
Until finally, he let out a deep shuddering breath, and lay still again, his mouth twisted in another wry smile at the thought of being pecked to death by birds.
Her words. "Not if you fight," sending a shiver down his spine.
Laughing, or at least trying to, he saw more buzzards hop towards him, and wondered what she meant by that? What exactly did she think he was trying to do? But he couldn't move, he couldn't even feel his legs.
Angry and a touch annoyed, he wanted to curse her name, but for the life of him he couldn't remember if she had ever told him. And thought he heard her laugh back, "my name is Sarsonel, you fool, now fight!"
And without thinking, he bent forward to snatch the leg of one of the carrion birds, his clumsy grasp so weak that it almost got away from him as it squawked and bit at his hand.
Well, what now?
(Bite its neck?)
Blood coursing through him in a rush of adrenaline, he moved on pure instinct, drew it closer to him as it struggled, its black wings buffeting against him, before he sank his teeth into its neck, and wondered how it liked being chewed on for a change. Its warm blood spilling into his mouth, along with a bitter metallic taste as he drank deep, feeling like a newborn babe suckling at a breast, when at last the bird stopped struggling in his arms.
-1 HP.
+5 HP.
(Break its leg?)
Blood coursing through him in a rush of adrenaline, he moved on pure instinct, drew it closer to him as it struggled, before he snapped its leg. The sound it made like dry twigs breaking as the bellow-heart screeched and pecked at its eyes.
-1 HP.
+3 HP.
Grinning savagely, he glowered at the rest of them as a warning, and felt a surge of delight as they drew back from him in a flurry of black wings that took off into the sky.
Laying there for what seemed like an eternity, he thought he should have been dead by now, the sinking suns the last thing he would ever see in this world, when he sensed something working within him.
Teeth gritted together to let out a soft hiss of pain, he half turned his head at the rustle of footsteps coming from behind, when he realized he could move again, and quickly sat up. The blood that had congealed over the wounds on his arms, chest, and legs, fully healed as he wiped away the dried blood to reveal newly healed flesh. His mind trying to grasp how this was even possible?
The lessons Khorasan had taught him, what seemed like an age ago ringing at the back of his mind. "...there is energy and life in all things," or something like that.
Body still a little weak, he gazed over at the demon that lay beside him, and with a heavy sigh he drew his sword to help him up. A part of him praying that he was right, and slit the creature's throat open, releasing a fountain of dark ooze that Gregor collected in his palms, and drank deep. Its foul taste, like unwashed boots drowned in the sewers, and felt himself becoming stronger.
-5 Morale.
+5 HP.
(Hunt for more blood.)
However it seemed this one did not have enough blood for him, and moved onto the next. The battlefield he strode across a massacre of dead goblins, orcs, demons, and even a few ogres. Each time he knelt down to catch what little blood he could, and drinking deep. The familiar burning sensation, backed by a foul aftertaste, and a queasiness in the belly. But slowly he began to feel like himself again.
-5 Morale.
+5 HP.
(Continue.)
Gaze now focused on the glorious golden horizon, he turned his back upon the road, and began heading east, a part of him half wondering if he was a cannibal now? Or worse, a bloody vampire.
THORADAR
Thoradar had known many battles in his lifetime, had even gloried in them once upon a time, but that had been long, long, long time ago, when he was a young beardless child, new to the ways of the axe and stone. In many ways he had been like this, Gregor, cocky, sure of himself, and arrogant beyond reason. However, twenty years of fighting in his homeland Borathas then Caldashar had shown him a different side to the monsters of the world. Goblin nests burned to ash with babes still in the womb, villages razed to the ground, and whole tribes culled till the last pointy-eared greenskin had taken its toll on him. And after all that death and bloodshed, the old kings of Orkeylium had called it justice, justice for all the evil these creatures had brought into this world.
Touching the wooden shaft of his battleaxe, he counted all marks scored into the smooth brown wood, and wondered if that was true? Before he shook his head hard. Enough of that, stone blind you, soon you'll be moaning over getting too old and slow when you have beasties that need killing.
Gaze snapped back up with a loud harrumph of annoyance, it took him a moment to realize Lowyan, one of his veteran commanders was standing right beside him on the cliff face that overlooked the Forest of Tyrelesia, a dark place full of dark deeds. The wiry minotaur's usually stiff composure, tight with tension as his light green eyes studied the tree line below, and muttered, "there is something not right here."
A strange feeling that was not all too unfamiliar to Thoradar as he pictured the kinds of armies that lurked within. And all he had to face them with was a few companies, most of them human or elf. He would have liked to have seen more of his dwarven kin, but so few had made it back up here.
Silent, and formed up in orderly ranks along the wide flat ridgetop, they waited beneath the glimmer of stars that sparkled in the night sky, their overlapping steel dented in many places, faces somber, and winged helms still shining with a life of their own as though they all knew what awaited them in the end. They knew their duty, and they would hold here for as long as possible.
Mouth formed into a grim determined smile, he only prayed that they would hold out long enough for their people to escape.
Lowyan who must have been thinking the same thing, almost giving a sad shake of his head as he gazed out over the treetops, his jaw trembling a little as he spoke, “to think that it has all come to this?”
And Thoradar smiled, for this he knew was the way of the world. He had seen the darkness that sheltered behind dwarven eyes, had known the kindness of goblins that had nothing to give him, and had seen all kinds of sacrifices made to stop the spread of evil, but in the end they were all gone. Even the heroes of old.
More philosophical wisdom in his dotage, not that it would do him much good, when the madness came for him.
Rubbing red-rimmed eyes aching with exhaustion, he turned his head for a moment to examine the new camp they had built, and let out chuckle as he saw Serela, an interesting gnomish woman, bark out commands at what was left of his mages. The few surviving blue robes, working under her direction to uproot trees from the forest on invisible strings that looked oddly peculiar floating in the air to build fortifications, towers, and something she called a ballista. Her grey drab grey shawl wrapped around her tiny frail shoulders as she moved about the ramparts wrapping more than a few knuckles with a thick wooden branch she had found. The tiny little gnomish woman, a near force of nature to be reckoned with as he watched her bully a minotaur into fetching her rope and tea. The camp that lay hidden behind the thick line of wooden logs, a well-organized hum of activity as elven archers checked arrow fletchings, sharpened swords, and pounded armor back into shape.
Meanwhile Thoradar, who stared down at the rocky slope, could see the first glimmers of light begin to dot the hills and forests below, and wondered whether it would be enough? Then he supposed that no longer mattered anymore, so long as he could give his people time. Though in the depths of his heart as he stared out over the edge into the endless sea of lights, he feared they would not be enough. Then immediately felt a chill, when he saw something stride out of the darkness, its huge form outlined against the stars as the mercenary climbed up the rocky ledge. The warrior covered head to toe in blood, and grinning broadly as he looked around at the faces of the men. "trouble?"
And for the first time Thoradar smiled back at him, "oh aye, a bit of trouble."
GREGOR
Hand held out to help him up the last few steps, Gregor looked up at the ancient dwarf in surprise, his craggy face and wrinkled skin, revealing hard blue eyes that glinted in the darkness, before Gregor clasped callous fingers that dragged him upward. His footing on the rocky slope almost slipping out beneath him as he made it over the ledge onto a strangely surreal scene with bright bulbs of light fluttering on colorful wings in the midnight breeze. The sharp-faced minotaur that stood at Thoradar’s side, giving Gregor a look up and down, before rolling his eyes, and muttering something about the recklessness of humans. A jibe that at any time would have had Gregor at his throat, but he was beyond caring now. Hell, he thought he could feel his bones shifting every time he moved.
Cursing softly underneath his breath about the old way of fighting being good enough for him, he stood there for a moment taking in the starry sky, blissfully ignoring the minotaur’s gruff sour expression, when the stone-faced dwarf, handed him a bottle that glowed blue in the dimness. The familiar tingle as he ran his fingers along the glass vial, sending a shiver up his spine as he took in the bottle of Heart-Knocker, a specialty of dwarves, and one that he had sorely missed.
Taking a swig from the sweet blue liquid, he reveled in the burn, feeling his heartbeat move faster and faster, and grunted, "gods, but I've missed you." His gaze briefly lifted up to see a log wall that stretched up high over their heads, surrounded by a ditch that cut through the land, and ramparts full of legionaries. The banners of the King's Legion flying in the midnight breeze.
Being a warrior foremost, he assessed the fortifications with a critical eye, before he turned back to Thoradar who must have read his thoughts. "It will hold long enough." His voice like the distant rumble of a mountain and steel blue eyes glinting in the darkness like two metal discs. The minotaur that was with Thoradar however let out a disgruntled snort of disagreement, and stalked away, his back rigid as a post, when Gregor asked, "something wrong with him?"
To which the old dwarf simply chuckled again and shook his head, his gaze drifting back over Gregor's shoulders to the hundreds of campfires that seemed to fill up the skyline. Thoradar's voice, oddly hollow as he spoke, "most here expected you to be long gone. I expected you to be long gone, and yet here you are."
(Tell him you missed his ugly mug.)
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
Face plastered with a fake smile, Gregor replied, "what can I say, I missed the company."
And got a cold hard stare in return, the dwarf's chiseled features somehow becoming much sterner with the planes of his face stiffening.
(Tell him that you never run from a fight.)
Mouth quirked into a bloody thirsty smile, Gregor replied back with a touch of his old cockiness, "I don't run."
And saw the dwarf look away, his expression distant as he replied, "you might not get a choice."
+1 Morale.
(Speak the truth.)
Shrugging his shoulders although it didn't really matter anymore, Gregor replied, "I don't know."
And saw the dwarf's blue eyes flicker with amusement. "Well, ain't that the way of things."
+1 Morale.
Silent as they both contemplated the task ahead of them, Gregor’s mind shifted to thoughts of Lytan and Sara, and wondered if they were even still alive? He would have asked Thoradar, but feared the answer. As to Myrissa and Serela, knowing the pair of women, they'd probably have a dragon crawling on its belly, and doing their damnedest to bully those around them. He could still recall the cookpot that had been thrown at his head once Myrissa had learned he was teaching the children to hunt monsters in the wild. Lessons on how to walk into a monster’s lair, how to properly raid a dungeon or castle without attracting attention, and how making a move without a proper plan was a good way to get yourself killed. Better to think ahead, which of course didn't explain what he was still doing here.
Eyes following the tiny form of a yellow pixie that darted through the air before him, Gregor finally asked, "Khorasan?"
"He's still alive," Thoradar's reply a soft grunt as Gregor watched the pixie trail white light behind her, before she zipped right by his face, and he wondered whether he should go and find him? Perhaps Khorason would at least have some answers for him, but it had been a long bloody day.
Sighing heavily as he sat down on the rocky ledge, he watched the stars, and for what seemed like an eternity, he felt at peace. But of course that didn't last long,
Stalking down towards him with bushy white eyebrows furrowed inward, it was Khorasan that found him first, his face a thundercloud of anger, ears twitching irritably, and at his side, an equally furious Serela who immediately stabbed a finger into Gregor's chest. "Boy! If I had known you had wanted to get yourself killed, I could have helped you! Running off like that? Scaring those poor little children? You have some nerve, you great big stone headed oaf, you could have gotten yourself killed!"
Mouth gaping open as he tried to find the right words to say, Gregor was half tempted to leap off the cliff, if only to be away from her shrill voice. Thoradar, his blue eyes twinkling with mischief, choosing that moment to take his bottle back, and wander off to check on his warriors. Most of whom were watching Gregor as he sat there dumbfounded, while Khorasan hid a smile behind his white beard. The wizened old elven mage, almost gleefully chuckling with vengeful delight as Serela cracked him on the side of the head with a stick.
(Snap her neck.)
Blood pumping furiously, he could feel the rage surge inside of him, and without thinking he grabbed her neck and snapped it. Her astonished green eyes staring up at him in shock, while Khorasan gaped at him in horror as the cane fell lifelessly out of her fingers, and tumbled down the cliff face, before she followed too.
Hearing the voice again, "run." He got up and stumbled away, his mind trying to grasp what he had done, before he turned and ran away. The distant screams and shouts that followed him, blocked out by his own beating heart as he rushed headlong somewhere, anywhere but here.
An End.
(Argue.)
Lips tightened into a snarl, he felt the cane slap across the back of his shoulders, and all but yelped out, "they're not my problem."
Face stiff and cold as she folded her arms across her small bosom, she replied, "No? Then whose problem are they?!"
-1 HP.
(Grab the stick from her.)
Lips tightened into a snarl, he reacted before he even knew what he was doing, snatched the cane out of her hands, and he threw it over the clifftop, then snapped, "they're not my problem."
Face stiff and cold as she folded her arms across her small bosom, she replied, "No? Then whose problem are they?!"
But for once in Gregor's life he had no words to say. He had risked his life to save them, brought them all this way, and yet he could not be responsible for them. That was not his path, not his way. He couldn’t care for them like he had Kira.
(Say nothing.)
With nothing left to say, he looked away from her, feeling her eyes boring holes into him, before he heard her sniff of disapproval as she walked away.
(Shrug shoulders.)
Shoulders shrugged uncomfortably under the weight of her stare, he muttered, "if you care so much about them? Why don't you or that greenskin take care of them?"
Which of course only made her glare at him all the harder, before she stormed off cursing his name. The tiny gnomish woman barking a path clear through the waiting legionaries that stood watch by a campfire, and disappearing into the palisade.
(Repeat yourself.)
Eyes searching the darkness for some way out, Gregor replied again much more softly, "they're not my problem."
A reply that caused Serela to sniff her nose at him, "that's where you're wrong, boy" before she stormed off in a huff. The tiny gnomish woman barking a path clear through the waiting legionaries that stood watch by a campfire, and disappearing into the palisade.
Left alone with Khorasan, who looked lost in his own thoughts, the wrinkled old mage scrubbed fingers through his white beard, and smiled. "She is right you know." His wistful expression, almost pondering as his long ears twitched.
But Gregor had just had about enough of people telling him what to do, stood up, and glared at him. "I'm still here aren't I?! Gods blast me to the death, you'd think I had run off to save my own hide. But here I am... light alone knows why...but I'm still here..."
Shadows lengthening all around him, Gregor could see the White Star, its brilliant glow flooding the world with light as he tried to curb his anger. Everything he had done, and they still wanted more from him. Wanted him to become someone he was not, but he was the fool that had brought them along.
Brown eyes softened as the elf turned away from him, Khorasan folded one arm behind his back, and held out the other, his arm collecting fireflies and pixies that danced around him. "You are still here, but for how long. I see the longing in your eyes, Gregor. I see the hunger to leave this place, and perhaps you should. But there is Honor in being needed."
Half laughing ruefully to himself, Gregor couldn't help wondering if he had ever been that naive? You'd think with the elf being at least a thousand years old, he would have grown out of such useless nonsense, but from the look in his clear brown eyes, Gregor could tell the elf was being serious. Honor in being needed? What a load of Bellow-hearts puke! There was also death and misery.
Head still shaking, Gregor turned his back on the mage, and replied, "I cannot be him."
GREGOR
+5 HP.
...When Gregor finally went to sleep, the dreams that came beneath the stars, felt like distant memories, but not of him. But of someone else in darkly molded plate armor unlike anything he had ever seen before, kneeling down before a huge monster with thick black scales, wings wide enough to span the entire chamber, and a forked tail that whipped furiously from side to side. The chamber he was inside dark with roiling flames, and a river of lava that bubbled, and popped. The elongated head that swung round to face him on a sinuous neck, bright with burning red eyes that stared into his soul.
Only Gregor was not alone, he was surrounded by three others in armor far better than his, each kneeling down on either side of him, when one by one they rose up. Their faces covered by black masks as one by one they each passed him by, the second a female with slender hips and violet-colored eyes. While the first to stand was a tall man covered in white steel, that kicked Gregor out of his path. The pain and shame he had felt in that moment, reminding him of an unwanted dog, as burning eyes watched him...
...Body coated in a thick layer of sweat as he woke up to find hands shaking him, he looked up into Serela’s big round green eyes, dark as a winter storm as she leaned back on her heels, and muttered, "You smell sick."
Gregor, who had chosen this spot far away from the rest of camp on purpose in a small copse of trees, shaking his head with irritation as he muttered, "huh?" When she clouted him behind the ears.
The pain making him growl deep within his throat as he realized it was still night with barely any stars in the sky. The torches that lit up the darkness, coming from the wooden palisades as he grunted, "What is it?" Only her gaze was no longer on him.
Lips trembling as she looked past him to the forest that sat below, Gregor could see torchlights shifting and moving, when she whispered, "something is coming."
Heartbeat immediately quickening at the thought of another impending attack, he sat up ready run if need be, when squadrons of legionaries passed him by. Kite shields slung on their backs and winged helms polished to a fine gleam as they moved towards the trees, when drums began to boom like distant worldshakers.
Head spinning as he searched the darkness for movement, he could make out more legionaries in the dark carrying torches, a part of him wondering if the fools planned a night assault, when he heard the distinct creak of winches and looked up to see lightly armored elven archers in chainmail lining the walls of the wooden fort, their faces highlighted by the balls of fire that floated in the air. The centaurs in their heavy bronze breastplates nowhere to be seen as dwarves, humans, minotaurs, and fae stood shoulder to shoulder together on the ramparts, while the drums beat boomed from within the forest.
Her face wan and sickly as she stared off into the distance, the gnome turned suddenly, and thrust a grey bundle of cloth into his arms, "consider my debt to you repaid."
Brows furrowed as he tried to understand what she could possibly mean, he took the grey cloth in his arms, and unwrapped it slowly, before he let out a sharp whistle of appreciation as he revealed a long thin black blade the size of a greatsword with engravings etched into the center grain along with writhing flames. Serela's voice a soft whisper, "her name is Kalzaraksharad, the Stolen Flame of the Dragon Laoeldren. Forged in the Dungeons of Calbreath, she was given life by the gods."
Heart hammering as he touched the golden hilt guard formed into a sinuous dragon, he could feel its heat like a warm bonfire. Her voice, a sweet melody of death that played in his mind.
Coughing as he realized his throat was dry, he asked, "Why? Why are you giving this to me?"
Cheeks reddening with embarrassment as she adjusted her shawl, she replied, "You saved my life, Gregor, and although you may be the biggest most reckless buffoon I have ever met. I never thanked you. Besides," touching his chin with two fingers, she looked deep into his eyes. "You will need her." Her face almost glowing unnaturally in the darkness, before she turned away from him, leaving him staring after her yet again. Her diminutive form almost swallowed up by night as the horns called the warriors to arms.
Lips parted slightly as he drank in the sight of the wondrous black blade with tinges of ornamental gold, he couldn't help but wonder what price in blood she had paid for it? Or if he was being used again? When violet-coloured eyes flashed into the back of his mind like a gentle caress. "My dear, sweet Gregor, that's what weapons are for." Her throaty laugh almost enough for him to think he was insane. After all, it seemed that no matter what he did, his life was not his own.
Head slumped down as he used his belt to strap the greatsword over his left shoulder, he gazed up into the cloudless skies, feeling the cold chill air, and swore he would find a way to be rid of her. A pointless quest given he didn't know where she was?
Grumbling about women being the death of him, he stomped back up the rocky slope, and found Thoradar as he had half expected, surrounded by close to a thousand legionaries. The battle-hardened dwarf in full armor, surveying his men that had formed up along ridgetop with heavy dwarven infantry out front, followed by minotaurs and humans. A simple tactic that would allow the much shorter dwarves to disembowel their enemies, while their allies kept them distracted. But more importantly inside the new fortifications, stood ballistas, huge crossbows that could fire immense bolts, battlemages in blue robes, and of course elven archers in the wooden towers and ramparts. They alone would be their only hope of salvation against the numbers they would face this day, yet he doubted any one of them would be alive by sundown.
(Check in with Thoradar.)
Annoyed and a little angry with himself for getting caught in yet another battle without getting paid, he started back up the slope. The whispers as he walked amongst the men mostly of home, families left behind, and the odd joke that did nothing to bolster the mood. It was as though the entire camp had become infected with fear as warriors eyed each other, ate their final meals in the darkness, and relieved themselves in the ditches dug in around the palisades. Thoradar his back turned towards him, encircled by a ring of hard-eyed commanders that looked like ferocious mastiffs that stiffened at Gregor's approach.
Pauldrons shaped into golden phoenixs, they had the look of men that had seen too much, but were equally determined to carry on, even though the two that he could see had missing limbs that looked half-healed.
Steel blue eyes cold as a mid-winter night, Thoradar gazed at each one of them, before he continued on in that same gruff tone "...You all know what is out there, and what is expected from each one of you, but know this, it is not only our lives at stake today, but Orkeylium. The only kingdom to take us in when we had nowhere else to go, offered us shelter, food, and a new home. It is time we repaid that debt, and showed the Magelords that we will not be defeated. Go now, and remember you are no longer mercenaries, but brothers and sisters bound by honor and glory."
Heads lifted up as fists smacked against chests, Gregor watched them leave, and couldn't help but smirk. "I didn't think you would be one to give a speech like that."
To which Thoradar replied with a sad smile, his blue eyes moist with unshed tears, and expression softened. "No, lad, but it's the least I can do for them."
Head shaking at the unexpected answer, he wondered if it was too late to run for the hills, when Khorasan appeared like a bad premonition, his expression as per usual serious as the old elf said, "Gregor, you are needed."
+1 Morale.
(See about finding some food.)
Annoyed and a little angry with himself for getting caught in yet another battle without being paid, he started back up the slope. The whispers as he walked amongst the men mostly of home, families left behind, and the odd joke that did nothing to bolster the mood. It was as though the entire camp had become infected with fear as warriors eyed each other, ate their final meals in the darkness, and relieved themselves in the ditches dug in around the palisades.
Stopping by one of the cooking pots tended to by a huge round-bellied minotaur, Gregor grabbed himself a bowl of what looked to be meat stew. Chewy, and tasting a little like dirt, he forced himself to swallow it down, when Khorasan appeared like a bad premonition. "Gregor, you are needed."
+3 HP.
(Take a look at the ballista.)
Teeth gritted together at the bloodbath that awaited him, he thought it would be nearing daybreak soon, and started back up the slope. The whispers as he walked amongst the soldiers mostly of home, families left behind, and the odd joke that did nothing to bolster the mood. It was as though the entire camp had become infected with fear as men eyed each other, ate their final meals, and relieved themselves in the ditches dug in around the palisades. The commanders who strode through them, eyeing warriors, before shoving men closer together or dressing them down for a spot of rust. They at least knew the importance of routine.
Having seen his fair share of battles in the Red Waste, Gregor moved on to inspect the crew of one of the ballista, all of whom were dwarves and used to such inventions. The pride he saw in their hard bearded faces as he looked up at them on the ramparts, filled with broad grins as they sweated half-naked in the dust, oiling the machinery. The man in charge, a lanky human officer in a fine red coat with long lanky black hair, and a crooked nose that sniffed his nose down at Gregor as though he were nothing.
(Pull him down into the ditch.)
And although he knew he shouldn't care about something so trivial in the midst of all this, rage flooded through him, and in a flash, he was leaping up the wall, grabbing hold of the man, and pulling him down. His screams of fear as he plummeted several feet, turning into a squeal as he landed in the ditch full of excrement, slipping and falling each time he tried to climb out, until at last he wiggled his way free, covered in all manner of brown sludge.
Gasping for breath as the man stared at Gregor with pure hatred, he could feel the man's anger like a hot wax, and smiled at him, a part of Gregor wanting the man to lash out, so he could kill him, when Khorasan appeared like a bad premonition.
Face lined with exhaustion, the old elven sage looked ancient as he said, "Gregor, you are needed."
Which of course removed any kind of satisfaction that Gregor had gained as warriors stared down at him with hard disapproving eyes.
+1 Morale.
(Glare at him.)
With eyes that promised murder, Gregor directed all of his pent-up rage, frustration over the past few days up at the man, and watched with delight as he backed away with fear. The smile that cracked Gregor’s lips, causing the man to trip over and fall as he imagined carving open his insides, when the dwarves cackled with laughter, before the officer managed to shake himself out of his stupor and shout, "Get back to work."
The momentary sense of satisfaction he had gained, gone in an instant as Khorasan appeared, his aged face lined with exhaustion as he said, "Gregor, you are needed."
+2 Morale.
~*~
Standing there atop the precipice of the cliff again, Gregor tried to remember a time when his life had been simple, when all he had to do was kill for his next meal, but it seemed fate liked to toy with him. That or violet-eyed witch had invaded his mind, dreams, and thoughts, had changed him. Her and her bloody damn quest to turn him into something he was not.
Teeth gritted in a snarl at the thought of being used in some damn fool game of hers, he knew he shouldn't be distracting himself from the question that sat ahead of him, but it was all too much. First gaining magic, then finding out he couldn’t be killed easily. That he was something else.
Expression almost gazing at him with an understanding smile, Khorason patted him on the arm, and let out a heavy sigh, “Sometimes life is not always what it wants us to be.”
Headshaking a little as Gregor stared up at the White Star, he found himself unable to help but agree with him, but thus far it seemed like the Winds of Destiny were against him. The knowledge the elven mage had brought him, ringing round and round his mind. “I wish I could lighten your heart for once, Gregor, but I have sensed dark forces gathering to the west of us, ready to intercept our friends on the road. Thorader is sending a force to stop them, but I believe it can only succeed if you were in charge, my friend. My powers are limited, but I can send you, along with fifty of our best fighters there, but you will need to decide now. Time grows short for them, and us.”
Eyes on the distant grey horizon as he tried to think on Khorsan’s words, Gregor had a sudden desire to hurt something, anything to quell the burning rage inside of his heart, but that too was lost to him. His hunger to face the dark mage in charge of this host and rip out his lungs, torn between those fool children who it seems had been sent back west to the Capital with other refugees. It should have been an obvious choice, go after them like some heroic mudsap in the stories, only he was fed up with saving. Why could life no longer be simple?
What will you do?
Choice 1. Lead a force to protect the refugees?
Choice 2. Stay and fight the hosts of darkness?