Heavy breath could be heard within the hull of the ship as the warriors prepared for their assault. Men dressed in furs and chains with large swords and axe’s and wooden shields painted with the crest of their families. The Elvish Empire had invaded deep into the western lands of Galajahorn, conquering many of the other kingdoms in their mad kings quest to rule the world. They would find that the Vaurg would not fall so easily. Many gripping their holy symbols and offering silent prayers to their deities however there was one who’s prayers would not be heard by man or god. A large man, standing at 7 feet with shoulder length red hair and a beard that hid the flesh of his chin from the world. He bore no shield, instead choosing to brandish twin ax’s at his hips. His armor, simple, a fur tasset covered his legs with steel armored boots, bracers and a helm adorned with the horns of a bull that curved out just beyond his head.
The warrior stood and looked out towards the coming shore and the massive coastal structure that was their prize. Fort Eammon, once a defensive post of the Kingdom of Mitra, now occupied by the dagger ears and their empire. The elves had been using it to launch naval offensive strikes against the Vaurg. Tonight, is where they sought to strike a critical blow against their enemies and give hope to the weary alliance of those who resisted. Massive walls jutted up towards the heavens and the alarm horns had been sounded. They were ready. A force of elves in golden looking armor amassed themselves on the shore as the warrior with the axes made his way to the front. The ship came to a hault on the shores, under a barrage of arrows and spears as men climbed down. This warrior was looking for something quicker.
the sound of crunching bone and metal radiated through him as his massive form crashed down upon a poor enemy. Axes drawn he charged forward, dodging under spear thrusts and sword strikes, his weapons finding their mark each time. He was the very vessel of war, his massive body moving with the precision and speed of someone who had trained several life times for this very moment. The blood of the elves covered him, its hot and sticky liquids splattering against him with each savage strike. Dodging enemy attacks just to have them find their mark in the bodies of other elves and finishing their striker. The empire was caught just an aware enough that their initial strike force was able to slip too close for their long ranged weapons under the cover of night.
The warrior had a mission though, he was to get over the walls and open the gates from the inside. Reaching the fortress he removed his grappling hook from his belt and gave a mighty toss. Its hooks finding a suitable place to latch onto allowing the rope to become taunt. Several followed, other Vaurg had made it with him and the troop climbed upwards. The elves scrambled, firing arrows down at the men scaling their naval base. Others dumping cauldrons of hot oil and tar down on their enemies. The warrior looked upwards at this, a mass of bubbling black coming for him. He looked to his left and lept, slamming his ax head into stone work and halting his fall. His second blade falling to the ground. He looked upwards, an arrow released towards him. Leaping once more to the nearest rope as its original master fell to his death. The warrior would not be stopped.
Finally reaching over the wall, he brandished his single weapon and buried it in the skull of an elf only to take an arrow strike to the shoulder. The pain coursed through his body, elven arrows were barbed unlike any other, this would not be something that he could just pull out and he knew that. However, his mass of muscle stopped the attack from being too severe and adrenaline pushed him forward. Several more elves charges with swords drawn. Even with a single weapon he was still a force of nature and met each of them. Ducking low to avoid a vertical slash, he struck the first with his ax and then a kick, sending the elf into a score of his enemies. The next was dealt with via parry, disarming his opponent and headbutting him off the wall. Wielding elvish steel with that of the Vaurg he pushed forward, using the armored corps of an enemy as a shield against the onslaught of arrows until he could get close enough to deal with the archers.
Finally at the gate control’s the warrior pulled the lever, allowing for the rest of his brothers in arms to pour into the compound like a flood. The smell of smoke filled the air, the sounds of battle ringing out like music in the night. It wasnt over yet, they still had the siege weapons to deal with. The sound of foot steps returned him to the moment, several elves coming around the corner to meet their adversary. The warrior scowled and dropped the weapons in hand in favor of a claymore that had once been carried by one of the fallen Vaurg that littered the wall’s ramparts along with the elves. Not quite as large in the hands of the giant, he sprinted forward, his blade traveling in an arc, spilling more elven blood. Cursing in his harsh tongue, he realized that he had taken a few more wounds than previously though, nothing that by themselves would cause too much harm, but combined with several of them?
Raziel had to remember that he was not, in fact, a daemon anymore and thus, had to stop fighting like one. He felt his body becoming heavy. His own blood painted his form almost as much as that of the enemy. Shaking his head, he pounded his chest, building the adrenaline again. It was time to get moving. Charging forward with his brothers they went to deal with the siege weapons. They had their orders, each of them knew what to do. The sole warrior however had something different in mind. As his brothers made their way towards their targets Raziel made his way towards his own. Each fort had a commander that watched over it, charged to keep the men in line and see that everything went smoothly. Thats where Raz was heading. He was to bite the head of the snake and end this battle quickly.
The elf commander stood on the balcony, overlooking the carnage that had befallen his once glorious stronghold. He was dressed in golden armor, much like his men. However, his pauldrons were a bit larger, his armor, though strong, was much more flexible as made noticed by the almost splintmail design of his armor. The sound of door being kicked down did nothing to draw his attention, nor the death cry of his personal guards. Standing up straight, he slowly placed is hand on the hilt of his sheathed curved sword. He turned to face the barbarous intruder, his face hidden behind a mask depicting a boar, complete with tusks. He said nothing, there was no need for conversation with human filth such as this. No, their weapons would be the only expression that they would need as they met each other on the field of honor. Drawing his blade, the commander took his stance and began to circle his opponent.
Raziel stared down his opponent that was now circling him like a hungry wolf. His claymore in hand, the Vaurg warrior mirrored the movements of the elf, waiting for the opportune moment to strike. The sound of an explosion acted as the signal bell. Raziel acted swiftly, bringing his weapon up and down on his enemy in a diagonal slash only to be greeted with the sound of metal being met with metal as the commander blocked and deflected his attack. The silver blade then thrusting forward to pierce the warriors heart. In his mortal state, Raziel was just barely to sidestep the tip of the weapon only to strike one of the many broken arrow shafts that protruded from his body. A grunt of pain escaped his lips and his free hand shot forward with a balled fist to strike against the elven commander who, in turn, ducked and curled his body in a circular horizontal strike as he back stepped. Its edge leaving a sharp cut in the horned warriors stomach.
The pain only pushed him forward even more, feeding into his strength and adrenaline, ignoring the pain. Their swords continued to clash with a sound like bells ringing with each contact that was made. The was smaller and faster than Raziel, and thus had a slight edge. However, the Vaurg clearly outmatched his opponent in terms of size, strength, and endurance. His body was a weapon forged in the very fires of hell itself. His determination and will absolute. He was an animal, a brute, a warrior. His attacks coming fast and strong in a furry. Whatever his blade met was sure to be ruined beneath his might. Still no words were spoken, each combatant focused solely on the battle at hand and each one finding pleasure in the challenge that the other presented.
The commanders room was destroyed in their conflict, the elf was using his speed and environment to his advantage. The human was proving to be more of an issue than he thought. His attacks were too strong to block outright, instead they had to be redirected. The elfe moved and dodged with the grace of a dancer, hoping to tire out his opponent before delivering the final blow. Now at the balcony, Raziel lunged forward with his blade, the elf swiftly spinning around him and delivering a strong kick to the warriors spine, sending him over the edge and to the stone court yard below them. Turning to watch the man fall to the earth below them, the commander stepped off the edge and landed on the battlefield with a thud. a coud of dust shooting up into the air as he landed in a stable crouch. The Vaurg was not so lucky. Having landed on his chest, the elf was almost awe struck as the man slowly rose to his feet. The commander followed suit, taking his stance again.
Raziel rose from the dirty stone floor, several of his ribs were cracked, he could feel it. His body was as heavy as it had ever been, his breathing labored. Still, he felt something hot from within him. A rage, a furry, a deep rooted blood lust that drove him nearly drunk. Removing his helm, his right eye stung with the blood that was dripping into it. He gave one last defiant roar and launched his helm at the elf. The elf moved to deflect the object, yet as soon as it had been batted away, he felt the full weight of the red haired warriors fist collide into his face, sending him stumbling back, riding the force to get some distance. Still it wasnt enough, Raziel had become blood drunk, he had no reason anymore. His sentient mind given way to pure instinct. Ignoring the pain, ignoring the need for self preservation, his onslaught came overwhelmingly quick. Powerful strikes showered down on the elf like a rain of steel! It was all he could do to be defensive, but the elf knew that it would only prolong the inevitable unless he could think of something quick.
In the end, it was Raziel that stood victorious. The elf had made a mis-stepped, Raziels blade stiking off his helm and mask, leaving the elf’s head exposed. It happened too fast, as soon as his helm was off, Raziels massive hand shot forward to grip it in hand and slam the form into the stone floor. Everything went fuzzy for the commander, the Vaurg’s hand over his face was suffocating. As the back of his head struck the floor he released his grip on his weapon. Now pinned to the floor in what had become a brutal display of physical prowess he was helpless. His head was slammed again into the stone. Raziel released his head and now gripped the collar of the elves breastplate, lifting him upwards and raising him high into the air his head and gave a roar of victory that seemed to stop the battle for just a moment as elf and Vaurg looked towards the sight. Throwing the beaten elf to the ground, he lifted a heavy metal covered boot up and brought it down on the commanders head, crushing his skull and claiming his life.
With the public and brutal defeat of their commander, the elvish armies swiftly lost moral, what soldiers remained were swallowed by the storm of steel that the Vaurg brought. Fires burned in the court yard, corpses lay everywhere and more were added to the piles. It was a gruesome sight for most, for Raziel and his Vaurg, it was merely the glory of war. The fort was theirs, victory had been sealed and from this position they would make their plans to crush the Elvish Empire. The war had only just begun, but the message was clear. These men were warriors and would not go down easily. Victory or death, there was no middle ground for them and they would paint their bodies and shields with the blood of the elves slain this night.
Raziel awoke from his dream and rose slowly from his bed, pushing off the leg of his bride to that he could make move freely. Standing on the balcony of his palace, he looked over the realm of the divines and smiled to himself a bit. That battle had been the thing that had caught the eye of Zeira, Goddess of War and his wife. It seemed like an eternity ago. A moment in his life that might as well have lasted the span off a blink with his age. He somewhat missed it, the feeling of being mortal. There was no shortage of challenges for them to face, enemies to test their strength against. For that reason, he envied them and almost cherished them. The cold moon shined down on his naked body and he looked to Lakshmana’s realm with a knowing smile before returning to bed.