High Plains~Crom the Conqueror vs Burning_Ice vs AlexM vs Tuv

Torin stopped on the dirt road, the chest high grass reaching out with stiff stalks to catch at his clothing. He wiped the sweat from his brow and raised his water bottle to his lips, the sun high above was brutal. He could feel the grass, swaying gently, an almost tickling sensation at the back of his mind.
I must be mad, to come so far out here and for what? Some shamans who worship dirt or some such. This can't possibly give me any leads. Still, it's not like I have any other leads to go on. he thought wryly.
He was vaguely looking forward to meeting these shamans, someone had fearfully told him they were Orcs. He had laughed aloud at the notion, he didn't know what tripe the people of this land would believe but everyone back home knew Orcs were just scary stories mothers told disobedient children.
He shook his head, realizing he had been standing there doing nothing and walked on.
"The sun must be getting to me...next thing I know I'll start seeing Orcs too" he chuckled to himself

Grotaar strode at a brisk pace through the High Plains. The feeling of the soft grass grazing his arms made him grunt in happiness. The burning sun above felt like a cloudy day compared to the lands he hailed from and he knew the Earth Mother must have been smiling upon him. The High Plains however were only the start of his journey for in the brooding mountains in the hazy distance were said to be orc captives whose only hope of freedom likely rested in Grotaar’s hands. It was at that moment as Grotaar enjoyed his good luck and disciplining himself for the coming struggle that he spied a human walking through the tall grass. Thinking to greet the stranger he quickly moved toward him.

Torin suddenly felt something on the fringes of his bubble of movement, after a moment it resolved itself into a shockingly large figure, striding towards him through the grass.
This could be trouble, then again it could also be directions. I've been wandering around out here for hours.
Torin continued to walk on, now putting slightly more weight onto his staff, which he had been using as a hiking stick the past few hours. He felt the figure draw closer and when it was close enough he whirled towards it, his staff held up against his chest, almost defensively, though he knew it would do precious little good, his eyes opened as wide as they would go, to better display his grayed out pupils and irises, making it all the more obvious that he was blind or near-blind.
"Who approaches?" he called warily.

One of the first thing Grotaar notices upon arriving a few yards in front of the man was his gray sightless eyes. He is blind, thought Grotaar to himself. While he couldn't help but feel pity for the man -anyone who was born with such defects in the Wastes would soon find himself a drake's meal- at least this would mean he wouldn't judge him solely on appearance as so many other had done. In fact Grotaar had been forced to kill more then a few men in his travels from the Wastes. He didn't take pride in it but what could he do? He was sure however that the unfortunate events of his previous encounters with humans would not occur here.

"Who approaches," asked the man in a wary voice.

"It is I Grotaar Horncrucher of the Plains Hammer Tribe," he boomed in a great voice before falling silent; waiting for the man to respond.

Plains Hammer Tribe? You mean people actually live in this wasteland? Regardless if he is a plainsman he should almost certainly know where a local shrine is.

Relaxing his grip on the staff and letting it stand erect once more he called "I am known as Torin, oft called Grayeye of no house or hearth I shall ever know. I pray forgiveness, but could you aid a traveling scholar? I seek a shrine kept by the tribes of this plain, but I am afraid I have become lost."

There was something odd about the stranger. Torin had felt it as this Grotar had come to a stop, something odd about his feature's they were bigger, more brutish, and his sheer physical size was very rare back in his homeland. He could not sense the man's features now that he had stopped, only his heart and and the odd twitch or movement. He dismissed it as the man being simply ugly.

The blind man was a wanderer? The man looked in fair condition; perhaps the blindness was only recent? No, thought the orc to himself. The man carried himself too easily for one who's blindnes had only been recently wrought. Grotaars respect for the stranger grew considerably. He tried to remeber any tale of orcs who had managed to survive through blindness in the Wastes and could think of only one. Balgor the Pale. One of the most legendary shamans in orcish lore. His eyes though spoken of only in oral tales carried an uncanning to this mans own. If he were not human Grotaar would have sworn he was Touched.

"I know not of any shrine Gray Eye for I am stranger to this land myself," he replied finally. Then an idea occured to him.

"However I would plea a favor of you. I am looking for members of my cla-family. I have heard rumors that there are folk in the mountians buying slaves. Could you say if you've heard the same?"

Sword was busy thinking over his own existance. He thought about his own power and even about his ability to live for a long time. His thoughts were interrupted by sudden strong wind coming from north. He snapped back and noticed himself being surrounded by a group of orcs.

"Who are you stranger?" asked a tall Orc who seemed to be their leader.

Sword didnt talk. Instead he continued to walk. The tall orc swung his Axe and held it in front of Sword's neck.

"Answer! NOW!"

Sword didnt have time for this...

Few seconds later a cold scream of an orc reached the ears of every person in radius of several kilometers.

"The sword's will is strong" Thought artua, "It tries to corrupt my thoughts, and make me do its will, but I am one who has lived for centuries, it will not control me". Then a sharp pain burst through his body, "Argh!, the work of the sword" exclaimed Artua, who then stumbled out of the woods and onto a road.

Then Artua looked up in dismay, the sun was high in the sky, time for his debt to the Fire-Lord to be payed. And at that instant, the Fire-Lord took his prize, and the sword pulsed with seething darkness again. The pain was unbearable, his right fore-arm glowing bright yellow, and tendrils of darkness sweeping over his body. Artua screamed at the top of his lungs in pain, it seemed to drag on for an eternity, and then he lost track of time, a walking unconsciousness, neither awake nor asleep, he simply continued stumbling down the road.

Torin's head snapped around at the sound of a scream. The hulking fellow beside him was of little concern at the moment.
"I know not of any slave trade but I have never been to the mountains." he called as he started to head towards the scream.
Bandits or sacrifice? Bandits or sacrifice? I never thought to hear myself say this but please let this shrine be one of the ones that sacrifice to their gods
Before he was more than five feet down the road another scream echoed across the plains. This one different, back towards the forest, while the other had come from the High Plains. Torin wavered for a moment then looked at the hulking stranger for a moment before dashing off into the plains.

Grotaar dashed after the man. He too had heard the agonizing scream but he realized something the other traveler had not. That wasn't a human scream. It was an orcs. Grotaar's blood boiled in fury as thoughts of what hprrible scene awaited him thundered through his mind.

The orc fell on his knees, the life was leaving him. Blood filled the earth around him rather fast.

Sword looked around at the shocked orcs. They swiftliy changed to defensive stance holding their Axes ready to cut. Sword was able to feel their fear, through in minimal amount. Those orcs were rather enraged than scared.

With a battle cry one of the orcs rushed at sword only to fall down one second later sliced apart. This time the icy blue blade was drawn.

Grim expressions on the faces of other orcs changed into savage ones and they charged at the Sword - one after another.

Slice after slice - and every orc laid on the ground with empty eyes. Only one of them still did breathe. He laid on the ground too, suffocating in own blood.

Sword pulled him up and looking in his eyes tightened the grip on his neck.

What a confident kind of creatures you are...if you value your life, then run away and tell the rest of your society to not bother me...i don't need more wasting of my time

Pushing the orc away Sword turned back. The running orc didn't concern him, his wounds shouldn't be that serious to make him die before reaching some kind of town leaving a narrow trail of blood behind him, but there was once again something nearing itself...

Artua stumbled down the road, and then he heard the whispers, "Your pain weakens you, weakens us, we will not allow it". And with that the whisper subsided, the pain stopped, and everything around him seemed to stop. He looked at his arm, and saw that the scar he was so familiar with, had become blackened, though somehow not burnt. Looking around the area further, he noticed that all the grass had burnt away from the area, and the shrubs were burnt clean, even the trees themselves seemed to shy away from his presence. Then he realized, he was wreathed in flame, BLACK flame.

"We have fixed you, made you stronger, now head north to the plains, your first meal of life-energy awaits, we will not dissapoint you" With the thought of power, and black flames in his eyes, Artua began running at breakneck-speed towards the plains the voices had mentioned, cutting a swathe of charred ground behind him, a sinister grin on his face, and a new life ahead of him.

As Torin rushed forward he felt the great warrior lumber into motion behind him. His face lit up to Torin's mind, now clearly, the fangs from his jaw, the jutting brow. It was close, but it was definitely not a human face.
He didn't pause for a moment, but ran on, leaving the larger, but slower warrior behind. As he ran he felt a strange tug, since touching the crystal those many years ago he could feel great sources of chaos, order, light or dark, and there was one hell of a source ahead.
Already he could feel it's movements on the far fringes of his consciousness, a swirling vortex about a hollow center.
Grinning fiercely he readied his staff, it's blade already forming. This thing was chaos, and darkness, an unbalance in the world, he felt no need to question it first.
Madness ahead and monsters behind he thought.
He remembered something from his past. A line of soldiers marching, they were fleeing a defeat, but already marching to a new battle, he remembered they were singing even as they marched.
What were the words again? Ah yes...
I'm on the road to sweet Athy, Huroo Huroo
I'm on the road to sweet Athy Huroo Huroo
I'm on the road to sweet Athy
A stick in me hand and a drop in me eye
A doeful damsel I heard cry
Johnny I hardly knew ya
The song surrounded him as he felt a strange sort of battle lust fall upon him. Not ravening madness, but a fey mood, an eagerness to cross steel with what lay before and behind.
He grinned all the more, and ran on.

Grotaar couldn’t help but lag behind the man as he sprinted toward the scream. Suddenly a great chorus of screams could be heard. Orc screams. Then silence. The silence disturbed Grotaar far more then the screams of agony and with a bestial roar he redoubled his pace and charged ahead closing the gap between him in the man by nearly a half. Then it hit him. Like a great invisible wall. The presence of a supreme evil so dark and so terrifying one could only wonder how such a thing could have ever been forged into existence. Then Grotaar felt a strange energy fill him, washing away his fear like a calming breeze. The energy leaked into his flesh and cleansed any exhaustion he may have felt leaving only an exuberant burning in his heart and body. With another roar he stampeded forward falling just a few yards behind the human in only a matter of seconds.

Continuing to walk was the best thing Sword could imagine to do. He sensed something coming his way, from 2 directions. The distance between those powers and Sword shortened itself with every second. It was impossible to evade it now.

Standing over the corpses of the Orcs Sword decided to turn left. Then he saw him. A man was sprinting to this scene probably because of the screams.

Something about the energy of this man made Sword feel uneasy. There is something more behind it.

...

Artua came upon the slaughtered orc patrol, and then he saw the first of his prey, "Hmmmm, fancy seeing THAT creature here" thought Artua, "Time to finish the job" "Yes, vengeance is our first step to ultimate power, and these orcs' village will make a good place to harvest, let none stand in our way to power". Barely noticing the other figures approaching, Artua un-sheathed the sword, and gripped it hard on the cold hilt, and then wreathed it in flame, like the rest of his body.

Then Artua confronted the creature, laughing maniacally the entire way, "AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA YOU HAVE A DEBT TO BE PAYED BEAST! MAKE YOUR MOVE SO I CAN KILL YOU!". The rage inside him reached a crescendo, and the fires flared even higher, he was ready to fight, and ready to kill.

Torin burst through the tall grass, into a somewhat more cleared encampment. Bodies, freshly hewn lay upon the ground, their last life blood still pulsing oh so feebly through their veins.
Ahead lay two...things. One a torrent of chaotic, dark energy, about a still center. The other wreathed in flames, radiating ill intent.
"Where are the eyes that looked so mild? Haru Haru"
A part of his mind began gibbering in confusion and terror, but it mattered not.
The song surrounded him and every particle of his being reverberated to it.
"Where are the eyes that looked so mild? Haru Haru"
The chaotic one was an unbalance in the world, a point strained to breaking. He had to be removed from the world.
Where are the eyes that looked so mild
Almost giddily he felt the fey mood take a stronger hold on him. It was almost like those many years ago at Becquerel, when he had counted himself amongst the forces of Chaos. The same mood had struck him, and when it lifted he was a wanted man.
When my poor heart you first beguiled?
Even as the last tiny shred of caution was gibbering madly he closed the gap between him and his target, the blade on the end of his staff lashing out, aimed for the creature's head.
Why did ya run from me and the child?

Grotaar was right on the heels of the human. As he burst into the clearing of grass his eyes grew wide. A ring of orcish bodies surrounded a dark maleficent being. Grotaar first thought was to rush the creature standing before him. His second was to see if any of the orc were still alive. Controlling his instincts he quickly ran his gaze over the bodies. None drew breath. However as he inspected the bodies he saw many who bore the symbol of the Slaughterer.

“Not my tribe,” he breathed softly to himself relief swelling through his body.

But still orc, he thought as he gripped the pummel of his blade and drew it from the rough straps on his back. Grotaar felt a great burning energy fill him even greater then the force he had felt when he was running. Without a second thought he gave a savage roar and charged the creature.

Not only the man but also another Orc charged at Sword. The human held some sort of a staff which tip seemed to change to some kind of blade. The orc rushed from another side, he must have been enraged by the death of his fellow brethren.

Hesitation would have been deadly to Sword so he used the dark blade to parry the attack of the man. As he could see the face of the man in greater detail, Sword noticed the gray, empty eyes. This man has to be be blind. But still, such a potential made would make him a tremendous enemy for unprepared ones. Blocking with the right hand Sword quickly lurked down, trying to get behind him as a temporary escape from the orc.

There was his prey, the others mattered little, the sword kept whispering, and the whispering scratched at the chalk-board of Artua's mind. Tentacles of Black Flame, flailing madly like a gigantic squid, all Artua wanted was to see that creature of darkness in pain. Artua rose into the air, supported by a fountain of Black Fire.

Artua yelled a guttural and bellowing yell, that ensconsed the countryside, "FEEL THE PAIN OF A THOUSAND SUNS, THE AGONY OF A TORTURED CIVILIZATION, YOU WILL BE MY FIRST VICTIM, AND WITH YOU DESTROYED MY ONLY TRUE THREAT WILL BE GONE!" And with that the tentacles lashed forward in numbers only possible by a division of archers. They would impale, and they would burn, and he would bleed his blood upon the ground, and cry in pain, that was Artua's motive, this was his purpose, not killing, but pain.

Torin's opening slash met only hard steel, and the creature side-stepped around him, placing Torin between himself and the orc.
Where are the legs with which you run? Hurroo Hurroo
A moment later the burning one cried something out, and suddenly seemed to explode into hundreds of tendrils of flame, all rushing towards him. The world wavered as the sudden rush of movement assaulted his mind, but he held together.
Where are the legs with which you run? Hurroo Hurroo
Sensing most keenly the chaotic one's movements Torin stepped around it. Now it was between him and the tendrils.
Where are the legs with which you run, when first you went to bear the sun?
He jumped up and back, bringing one leg up in a kick, but not quite reaching the figure, leaving the sole of his foot only slightly in front of the creature.
"Pyrouelen" he shouted, and the rune etched into his boot heel flared to life.
Indeed your dancing days are done
With a flash of light and a whoomph sound a powerful force accompanied by flame blasted out of the sole of his boot. Blasting him into air, and hopefully the thing into the flames.
Johnny I hardly knew ya

Grotaar gave a feral growl as the shadowy being dodged his attack. Bring his blade up he tried to attack again but was forced to stop as hundreds of burning tendrils shot forward. Grotaar shot to the right in a barrel roll however the human simply stepped around them. He watched as the human brought up his his foot -whispered an unknown word- and a powerful blast of flame burst from the sole of his boot racing toward the creature while propelling him into the air. Grotaar roared in anger cursing the human for stealing the vengeance he craved. For nothing, thought the orc, could possibly survive such a powerful blast of fire.

The human used some strange technique. Bursting flames, burning like magma seared in Swords direction, setting him aflame. Sword tried to think how to escape out of this unpleasant situation when he noticed something even more terrible - burning tentacles sent by the other human were coming closer.

Its all vs. me i guess...

Concentrating his power Sword did a downward slash with the dark sword after the flames from the skies, sending an dark wave to press the fire away with pressure and then turned back gratning more place to swing the icy sword in attempt to cut the tentacles with chilling steel.

The beast sliced at the tendrils of dark flame, destroying most of them, but the trap had been sprung. "You seem to have missed something in the heat of the moment beast!" cried Artua, who then pointed to the ground beneath him with a flaming finger. Artua's Darkness had spread for several feet around him, and the beast was standing atop the tainted sheet.

With a wave of his hand, Artua sprung sprung snakes of fire from the ground to coil around his victim, and more tentacles from his body to constrict the beast, "YOU WILL NOT GET AWAY FROM ME BEAST!" Artua yelled, a fel, and bellowing yell that made the very earth around him tremble in fear, a chill wind blowing from seemingly nowhere.

Torin leaned back and tucked his legs, spinning slightly to land on the ground feet first, his knees bending even more to absorb the shock, one hand coming down to stop him from falling.
You hadn't an arm, you hadn't a leg, Hurroo Hurroo
Torin now let his mind expand once more taking in his surroundings again. The chaotic one had somehow pushed away the tendrils, but the burning one had countered with some form of trap from the ground, and was now moving in for a devastating attack.
You hadn't an arm, you hadn't a leg, Hurroo Hurroo
Torin's eyes grew wider, in the foul presence of the chaotic one Torin had not noticed the nature of the burning one, he was steeped in darkness, not so terrible as the chaotic one, but still something that needed to be removed.
You hadn't an arm, you hadn't a leg,
Torin laughed grimly, they were so confident in their powers, so arrogant, admittedly they were powerful, but he would soon level the playing field.
You're a spineless, boneless, chickenless egg
From his coat he drew knife after knife, until he found the one he sought. He tossed it in the air and caught it again, then threw it fiercely, aiming for the land between both fighters. The knife landed point first, with a sharp shthunk.
You'll have to be put with the bowl to beg
The knife sparked, just barely before a single bolt of lightning ripped out of the clear sky, from sky to knife, a blindingly brilliant line jagging across the sky. Mere moments before the thunder ripped through the land.
Johnny I hardly knew ya
KRACKA-BOOM