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The clamor and sounds of clashing steel was easily heard even inside the Exarch's keep atop the cliff in Sestra. Death throes and terrified screams climbed over the racket of buildings crumbling, foot falls of armored soldiers, the roar of orcs and cruel voices shouting orders. It was far too late for the poor souls still in the town proper as some soldiers kneeled to pray, others steadied their resolve blade in hand, others began to - Thud!
The door to the keep suddenly reeled back, groaning from the beam that struck dead center.
"This is it!" A captain shouted as the soldiers in front rushed to hold the doors shut.
"We fight to the death, there is no escape! Helm will recognize his own..."
Again the door bucked, sending some of the soldiers flying back to only step forward again in an attempt to hold the maw of hell shut. The sound of steel sliding out of scabbards rang through the hall as splinters fell from the door. This was it.
Light spilled into the hall but was soon spoiled by red skinned orcs with black hands smeared over their faces, bodies, arms, legs... The tidal wave of red was speckled with black as mailed humans wielding cruel swords and cruel expressions, their shields and tabards adorned with the black claw of tyranny.
Among the black and red there was a single white that the former poured around like a rock jutting out of a stream. He moved slowly, with much leisure as he plucked a white cloth from a cuff in his armor and began to wipe the crimson stains from his blade, ignoring the streaks of blood across his face and armor. He smiled wide, his eyes locked on one thing: a throne behind the line of legionnaires.
The tall, white figure stepped through the chaotic battle as if strolling through the Viridale on a misty, cool day. He did not waver from his goal, his legs unconsciously stepping over a dead legionnaire just before side-stepping a squealing orc crumpling to the ground.
The Dreadmaster as his men called him stood in front of the throne, staring at it with much consideration even as blood pooled at his feet and wails of pain and death flooded his ears. Interrupted by a figure stepping too close, the man in white lifted himself with practiced speed to intercept a legionnaire's sword with his black gauntlet, wrenching it down with the aid of his divine blessings of strength. His other hand ripped a dagger from its sheath, looking into the seasoned soldiers eyes - his look of desperate valor quickly turned to fear as that wicked blade came down. The legionnaire dropped his shield to catch the Dreadmaster's wrist, holding him at bay.
"Just let it end", the white man whispered. "Your sins will be absolved. Soon." His strength slowly overpowered the crimson-armored man. "Let it end, heretic." His body bent and contorted, trying to escape, shifting. He grunted in exertion as his arm began to quiver and the blade touched his neck. A scream of desperation was followed by a gurgle as the dagger slowly, painfully sunk into his neck, blood flowing over the stark white and black gauntlets.
His eyes rolled back, a wheeze of his last breath and the white-clad priest carefully lowered his body to the ground, laying him flat as his eyes remained locked until there was nothing but white. He let go, leaving the dagger lodged inside his neck. With a sigh of satisfaction the Dreadmaster turned back to the throne - no, his throne - and lowered himself onto it to watch the rest of the slaughter.
((Just to clarify, this post is based on events that occurred almost a year ago. I'm a little late but I've only just recently been inspired to write it. :P))
The door to the keep suddenly reeled back, groaning from the beam that struck dead center.
"This is it!" A captain shouted as the soldiers in front rushed to hold the doors shut.
"We fight to the death, there is no escape! Helm will recognize his own..."
Again the door bucked, sending some of the soldiers flying back to only step forward again in an attempt to hold the maw of hell shut. The sound of steel sliding out of scabbards rang through the hall as splinters fell from the door. This was it.
Light spilled into the hall but was soon spoiled by red skinned orcs with black hands smeared over their faces, bodies, arms, legs... The tidal wave of red was speckled with black as mailed humans wielding cruel swords and cruel expressions, their shields and tabards adorned with the black claw of tyranny.
Among the black and red there was a single white that the former poured around like a rock jutting out of a stream. He moved slowly, with much leisure as he plucked a white cloth from a cuff in his armor and began to wipe the crimson stains from his blade, ignoring the streaks of blood across his face and armor. He smiled wide, his eyes locked on one thing: a throne behind the line of legionnaires.
The tall, white figure stepped through the chaotic battle as if strolling through the Viridale on a misty, cool day. He did not waver from his goal, his legs unconsciously stepping over a dead legionnaire just before side-stepping a squealing orc crumpling to the ground.
The Dreadmaster as his men called him stood in front of the throne, staring at it with much consideration even as blood pooled at his feet and wails of pain and death flooded his ears. Interrupted by a figure stepping too close, the man in white lifted himself with practiced speed to intercept a legionnaire's sword with his black gauntlet, wrenching it down with the aid of his divine blessings of strength. His other hand ripped a dagger from its sheath, looking into the seasoned soldiers eyes - his look of desperate valor quickly turned to fear as that wicked blade came down. The legionnaire dropped his shield to catch the Dreadmaster's wrist, holding him at bay.
"Just let it end", the white man whispered. "Your sins will be absolved. Soon." His strength slowly overpowered the crimson-armored man. "Let it end, heretic." His body bent and contorted, trying to escape, shifting. He grunted in exertion as his arm began to quiver and the blade touched his neck. A scream of desperation was followed by a gurgle as the dagger slowly, painfully sunk into his neck, blood flowing over the stark white and black gauntlets.
His eyes rolled back, a wheeze of his last breath and the white-clad priest carefully lowered his body to the ground, laying him flat as his eyes remained locked until there was nothing but white. He let go, leaving the dagger lodged inside his neck. With a sigh of satisfaction the Dreadmaster turned back to the throne - no, his throne - and lowered himself onto it to watch the rest of the slaughter.
((Just to clarify, this post is based on events that occurred almost a year ago. I'm a little late but I've only just recently been inspired to write it. :P))