A story, comments welcome.

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Hello again, I've noticed since the leaving of Shura, there has been no story of mindless bloodshed, so heres my little thing, which I am going to add on to, though its not too violent.

First there was silence. And like thunder, a low rumbling noise, shaking the shrubs on the forest floor. Then they came. Bursting out of the foliage, huge monstrosities, akin of those of legend. Like minotaurs, they carried the visage of a half man half bull beast. Their white fur seemed to glow ethereally in the darkness. The braids wrought upon the sides of what one could call a face.

The men sweated beneath their helms, as they witnessed the terrifying charge of the beasts, with their huge clubs marked with tribal designs. Their bow arms quavered for a second as the beasts swarmed from all sides, encircling the soldiers circling their commander. But immediately their arms steadied, and aimed, and fired at the command.

“Fire!” a gruff voice pierced through the guttural cries. Then hell came. Wave after wave, arrows flooded out of the ranks, and crashing into the beasts, knocking them back like children. The commander smiled as he watched the carnage. Arrows piercing air, fur, muscle and bones. The screams of pain from the enemy. And the living climbing over their dead brethren, only to have their cloven feet slip from the blood. The smell of blood was thick in the air now, but so were the musky smells of damp fur.

The beasts were closing in, but not in a flood as before, but in drops. The commander’s smile widened. With a hiss, his sword slid out of the sheath, he raised it high in the air, admiring the cold sheen of the metal for the moment, and brought it down in a swift movement.

“Attack!” And as one, the bows clattered to the floor, then followed by the hiss of more swords. Then the yell, the glorious war cry that shook the heavens. Then the real battle began. The commander launched into battle, sidestepping the odd corpse and soldier, flicking his arm side to side to catch the unwary beast. He paused occasionally to watch his troops, gathered in small clumps, standing like boulders in a stream. Dodging ad slashing he worked in unison with the duo he attached himself to. Two boys named Alwen and Bran, barely into the twenties. Yet they fought with the skill and ferocity of a veteran.

Bran quickly slashed at two beasts, following through with his swing to allow Alwen and the commander to plunge at the next unfortunate victims. They battled back to back, fending off the heavy clubs, cutting and stabbing through the beasts, and the stench. By now, the drops were gone, and replaced with such small numbers, that they would have been no worry. Except for one.

The commander eyed this one carefully, watched the beast as it moves. It was larger than the rest, it’s braids longer, it’s club more ornate, and its horns carved with swirling patterns. The chief. Detaching himself from the duo, he made his way to the beast, and launched himself to the ground. The beast moved like a blur, pushing the commander back and raising its club to finish him. The club came down, and clipped the commander as he moved away. Moving with the blow, the commander rolled to his feet, using this time to draw the short sword at his belt. Kicking himself to his feet, he attacked again, dodging and block blows. Moving with such intensity and speed, the two battled. Club through air, metal and club, fist and hide, metal slicing through air. And finally. Pushing himself close to the beast, the commander parried the club with his longsword, and stabbed out with his short sword. Through fur, hide, muscle and bone. The beast collapsed to the ground, and grunted as it slowly faded.

The commander tore his eyes away from his former adversary, and surveyed the scene, he had lost a number of men, all of them hard to replace, of course one could never replace family. He plunged his sword back into its sheath, and with several quick swipes, cut of the braid, and horn of the chief. Securing the two items to his leather belt, he went over to each of the fallen soldiers, removed their swords from their deathly grip, and laid them gently on the ground in a straight line. Stopping at each blade, he whispered a prayer of sending, and picked up the sword.

“Men,” he stirred his soldiers from their looting. “We leave, now.” And together they disappeared back into the trees.

[ April 10, 2004, 20:37: Message edited by: Erebus ]

 

what a crock of..
monkeypie.

[If that's your best attempt at constructive criticism, don't post again.] -Tal

[ April 13, 2004, 23:25: Message edited by: Taluntain ]

 

Well i dont agree with Khementi at all.

Your story is good, little short tho, i hope you follow up with more, i would like to know why these armies are fighting etc...

But all together its a good story.

 

monkeypie means great stuff yknow..