A World where Legends decide the Future.
Posts : 4
Join date : 2011-12-24
Age : 26
Location : At the core of every solution.
|Subject: Grimmal Bloodhorn Sat Feb 25, 2012 6:31 pm|| |
”Get up!”, the harsh roar of command echoing faintly in his ears as he tries to clear his head of the ringing. His father was always better with a shield, and took each opportunity to send his son reeling with a heavy slam from that favored shield. Grimmal pushed himself up with his hand, and eyed his father from his knelt position, picking up his axe as he rose. His awareness focused on the shield, perhaps today was the day he’d learn to fight it, or it would be another day he would be humbled by his father.
While rising and catching his breath slightly, his father, Horwrath offered him a taunting presentation of his chest, snarling out, ”If you think you’re worthy of being a Bull of Sargas, show me. Bring that axe and set me to the dirt”. Grimmal was trained early to not be swayed by taunts or jeers, as his discipline was in combat, not foolish self-exposing pride. Standing to his full height, he let out a heavy sigh, and shook his head, a snort of steam following the gesture, as he responded, “A pity to send one’s own father to the dirt, given the Bull God already knows which of us stands better”. Knowing his father was nay to be enticed by such a comment, Grimmal lowered his posture and began to circle, sniffing gruffly towards his father in a practiced action, intimidation and false ease often can sway a battle (a memorized line from his father’s repertoire of teachings).
Noting a shift in his father’s weight as he favored his battle-worn shield shoulder, Grimmal struck. Carrying a fierce forward swipe to draw the shield towards the axe, Grimmal hitched his second axe around the edge of the shield and with both axes hooked on the shield, gored with all of his weight into the shield. With a roar of anger and irritation, Horwrath landed hard on his back, his shield bearing a heavy dent where Grimmal had struck. Peering down at his father, Grimmal knew it over, the training for the day was completed. Hooking an axe on his belt, Grimmal offered his father a hand, and lifted him up to his feet again, nodding silently to his trainer. ”You are the finest student, Grimmal, your talent with an axe appears to bear no short-comings, save your lack of direction for their purpose”. The words fell without further statement as Grimmal and his father cleared away training materials, swords, shields, and wooden shafts used for combat. As they began their march back towards their small residence, Horwrath spoke again, ”It has been years since we discussed this, and now it is not a discussion more rather a direction from your mentor, Grimmal. Sargas, God of Bulls, has long been without your name and prowess. It is time you took up your axe against your foes, seek the vengeance you deserve upon those who have wronged us, and you personally. Your discipline mars your fervor for combat, which is good, yet also disgraces those who you should be bringing retribution for”. Grimmal took the statements in silence for a long while, through their arrival at home and well into their meal that evening.
After swallowing a thick piece of deer, blood dripping down his mouth, Grimmal spoke. The deliberate tone and carefully pieced words left no room for debate, nor would there have been from his father, ”Three days hence, I leave in search of the Temple”. His father nodded in acceptance, a snort of pride accompanying a thud of a fist upon the table. Through the next few days, there were a myriad of thoughts and things to be planned. Much of the details were solved the following day, a ship to Jennison was arranged. The dwarven smiths in town were asked to sharpen and tend the axes Grimmal was to take with him. The dwarves accepted with no qualms, as they had been long friends of Horwrath, having aided in teaching Grimmal the tongue of the axe-men. On the third day, there was silence in the house as Horwrath and Grimmal prepared the remaining things to be done, a pack was loaded with most conceivable traveling necessities and Grimmal’s axes were slung on his belt with pride.
As they departed their home and headed for the docks, Horwrath spoke, in a tone that left Grimmal tentative to reply, ”Grimmal, on your path, you will face many offers of diverging directions. It is your responsibility to continue into the glorious path of Sargas, for you have yet to truly know the power it can provide you. Your axe will sing of revenge for your losses, and will bury your enemies to fear as you march in the name of the Bull God. Do not let me down, for that would be worth revenge on my part….”. Simply nodding in defiance of such a grievance, Grimmal took the words to heart, knowing his course was not simply a hunting expedition, but rather a march to death or glory. Horwrath thumped Grimmal on the back firmly in farewell, nodding to his son. Grimmal thudded up the wooden ramp onto the ship’s deck, and glanced back towards his father, nodding to him before moving to settle on the ship. As he cleared a place for himself, Grimmal had a sick realization, ”If he ever found Sargas, his most challenging feat will be to seek the desired revenge upon his father. Thus if there was to be an end to his quest, it would end with his father bearing an axe of Sargas through his skull….”
Posts : 4
Join date : 2011-12-24
Age : 26
Location : At the core of every solution.
|Subject: Re: Grimmal Bloodhorn Wed Feb 29, 2012 8:41 pm|| |
The triumph, the pride, the intoxicating blood-lust....
Looking up, the world reappeared to his eyes.
Standing before the High Priest, Grimmal let the axes in his hands hang loose before him, crossed, and with his head slightly lowered in respect for the Priest's position.
The priest looked at him and with a snort of divine flames acknowledged his presence, "Grimmal, you return...and you bear the fire, a sign to the attention you have gained from Sargas. It is with this sign I shall keep to my prior word, you shall hence forth be recognized as a Centurion of the Legion of Kortal Keep. Do not forget your vow to the power you have chosen to uphold and serve. The Keep is currently bearing the burden of less than satisfactory supplies and organization, thus...take your new appointed position as a chance to prove yourself further, do not lull into false contentment, continue your rise, and you may find greater reward for your due diligence."
Grimmal took a moment to allow the words to absorb and to settle before replying, "It is my word I shall not prove a disappointment to the gift granted upon me. My arm is strong, and I shall wield the axe in the ways of the Bull God with relentless observance and dedication. The Empire shall stand again in its full height and extend the power of Sargas to all reaches, known and forgotten. You shall find no more driven servant and Centurion to the ways of the Empire, I shall do you and the might Bull God proud."
Snorts and stands proudly, glancing upwards briefly before again returning his head to a slightly lowered position.
The priest observed him a long moment, again snorting a sharp jet of divine flame, before nodding, in what might have been mild satisfaction with the eager Centurion, before dismissing him. Offering a challenge as he departed, "If you wish to stand the icon of the Legion, carry the power of the Legion and begin talks with the armies nearby...bear in mind we seek at minimum a neutral stance, anything further is your decision, but prove you are not just another blood-thirsty brute, stand a leader and lead by the teachings of Sargas. Now...you are dismissed, Centurion!"
With a sharp nod, Grimmal thumped his chest and resounded the customary departure phrase of the Centurions before departing from the Temple, his mind racing with prospects. The steps have been laid, to stride them shall be his next test...no foe shall stand in his way, in combat or politics. It shall be the Empire that stands victorious. Internalizing his new allegiance and importance, he strode to his next objective.