Raging Barbarian of the Eastern Nomads
Sorry, guys, I’m still looking for my character sheet. Once i get it I’ll post all relavent stats
The moon shines benevolently over the darkened canopy of the woods on Argents’ eastern border. Just enough light to see the lines of quivering guards standing standing atop the timber bastion on the threshold of the city. Each militiaman wrings the wooden handles of their city issued pole arms. Flimsy, pig iron spears and pikes; all too easy to snap in half. Commissar Riker stalks the ranks and files of farmers turned soldiers, straightening lines, helmets, weapons and backs into strict coherence. The saber he carried, an intricate trophy to the potential craftsmanship of man, sent more paralyzing fear through the hearts and minds of the militia than my own bristling gaze. That magnificent blade has slain more men then my own hands these past days; it is time to rectify that mistake. Javelins flew through the air, and each man cowered under arm or wooden shield, if they were fortunate enough to possess one. Each one of our small lances fell short of the throng of would be warriors, but not of our mark. The javelins struck and held fast to the walls of timber. The ploy had worked, the militiamen were already mocking our “failed” attempt at a ranged assault. Blood freshly chilled by terror is always so much sweeter.
I roared mightily, inspiring the guttural screams of my battle brothers. Their bestial screams dwarf my own powerful roar, as they out number my voice by the dozens, but my cry will be remembered forever as the herald of a falling city. With teeth and claws and weapons bared, we charge the structure of wood and iron, ready to bring the city it protected to its knees. My family of the battle field fought with bravery and force enough to awe me, yet I could far out run them, and begin the fight that much sooner. I leap from the base of the wall, snatching at each javelin ladder rung as I deftly make my way skyward. By now, even the blindsided Commissar saw the rushing horde of my orc tribe, yet only a few keen soldiers saw my approach right up to their front lines.
Fear caught each syllable of panicked warning in the throats of my first victims. I sunk my claws into their faces as I pulled myself to their level. I felt my teeth get hot, and the acidic smell of smoke entered my nostrils, as the fire inside me burned with magical heat. Sparks jumped from my teeth as I roared, sheathing my enemies in fire. I recover my breath and watch the charred masses crumble to ash, as burning soldiers flung themselves off the battlements, wishing for a quicker death. The crushed skulls of my first two kills fell from my grasp, hands coated in their ichor. The stunned, horrified masses stood before me, some trying desperately to hold a flimsy weapon against me. My eyes defy any fear they hoped to instill in me, as I slowly lap at the blood on my hands. They must be clean if I am to hold my weapon. Commissar Riker wades through the piles of ash that were once his soldiers, his arm waving his magnificent steel blade high above his head; blood dripped from the blade and glinted in the moonlight like oil on the surface of a pure lake. Those who ran from me doomed themselves to his mercy. I really cannot let him have all the fun. With the deftness of muscles trained by countless battles, I draw my own blade from my back across the throats of the hapless townsmen.The wicked folds of steel, iron, wood and rock twisted in a mockery of precision crafting, yet still remained hard and strong against the battery its age and use has put it through. With aid of my arm, it cut effortlessly through the flesh, leather and steel of the hapless conscripts and seasoned warriors alike. As the blood pooled and soaked the hard wood planks I walked on, each advancing step making a soft splashing sound; still sure of foot in the rising tide of pooling blood, sweat and tears.
It wasn’t long before