The Storm - Grotaar, Crom the Conqueror

Grotaar sprinted through the flapping grass. A great storm growled in fury overhead and rain poured down with a vengeance. The water with nowhere to go on the flat planes rose high and it was already crawling up his calf. He knew that if he didn’t get to higher ground soon he could be in serious trouble. Grotaar roared in defiance of the storm and almost as if storm had heard him, streaks of lightning burst from the clouds lighting up the sky and the ground beneath it. Hail began falling from the sky.
Grotaar reply was only a bellow of mocking laughter. For when the lightning had thundered what had once been hidden in shadow had been revealed and Grotaar had seen the outline of a series of tall hills in the distance.

Grotaar resumed his heavy sprint. As he ran the water slowly began rising up his calf and to his knees. He ran. The water passed his knees. He ran. The water reached up to his waist. He marched. The water rose up his past his stomach. He sloshed through the water. He was almost to the hills when a bolt of lightning shot from the sky and struck into the water. There was a great ripple as it hit the water and spiked toward Grotaar slicing through him like a knife. The great orhal gave only a grunt and roared a challenge at the sky.

The hills were only a few dozen yards ahead, standing tall and defiant above the streaming water. More lightning streamed down from the sky striking the nearby water and in effect Grotaar. The orhal couldn’t help but groan in pain as the lightning rattled his body. The hill was so close yet Grotaars body continued to slow as he approached them. The storm cackled above.

He was at the hills. He realized now that they weren’t actually hills but the stony ruins of some long lost building. So old in fact that the plains had grown nearly completely over it. This mattered little to Grotaar but the stone buildings walls were brutally steep. With a derisive grunt Grotaar lifted his hands and found a grip on what was once a stony wall and began to climb.

Foot by foot he climbed, lifting his body from the water. The storm above raged as it watched its prey escape. A last spiteful blast of lightning erupted from the thundering clouds above and smashed directly into Grotaar. With howl of agony the orhal lost his grip and began to fall before stopping short.

A great muscled hand gripped him.

“Grab holding. I pull you up!” grunted Grotaar’s savior.

Grotaar didn’t reply but weakly felt for a holding. Having found one he let go of the man’s hand. The shock of the pain gone he moved slowly and steadily up to the roof of the ruins.

Lurching unto the top of the ruins and to safety at last he drew forth great gulps of air. His unknown savior huddled under what little remained of the roof –which was mostly crust like dirt and grass-covered in rags.

The man croaked suddenly, “ Grotaar…Grotaar is that you!?”
Grotaar lurched up.

“How do you know my name?” demanded Grotaar.

The man drew back his hood and Grotaar’s mouth opened in shock. The “man” was an orhal! There was no mistaking it, but his body…

Most of his flesh looked as if it had been torn away. What remained was covered in harsh burns. One of his eyes had been torn out and his throat had been shredded harshly, but still Grotaar recognized him.

“Gagorit?” he asked in shock. “You live?”

“Yes it is me,” replied the orhal.

“I thought you were dead! I thought Azhag had slaughtered all the scouting parties?”

“He did, cept for me. Caught me alive and well you can see..."

Grotaar growled and nodded.

“They let me go after awhile. Said they could do no more to me.”

Grotaar couldn’t disagree. They were silent for a small moment before Gagorit spoke his voice filled with pain and anger but also sorrow.

“I failed my tribe. I failed you. The Chieftain.”

“You fail no one. Azhag to blame.”

“No, I could have been stronger. I could have died fighting. Stead I let them take me alive. Torture me.”

Grotaar listened with dread in his heart. The coldness had begun to set into his bones. His food was all washed away and his stomach rumbled for sustenance.

“I should have died long ago. But I walked on, continueing on the lonely road north not knowing why but doing so despite myself. Now, I know why. It was so that I could save you,” his voice was harsh and low as he spoke, “But, now it is time for me to rest I think. At least now you won’t starve.”

With that said he drew forth a wicked hatchet from his raggedy clothes and slit his throat. His body fell to the ground without a sound, the storm blotting out all else. Grotaar sat there for a moment in silence before crawling over to the orhals corpse and uttering a short string of words. He then hefted the body out of the way and stripped it of the rags before covering himself in them. He then sat beneath the scant cover of the roof. With the hatchet he cut clean the orchal’s hand and began to feast upon it.

At least he wouldn't starve.

The noble savage... well crom remember this isn't random internet chat, so remember to keep an eye on what your typing (some typos and bad grammer, not much).

Otherwise I enjoyed the story. Chaos and Midget may have other ideas on whether or not this is appropriate for a 'probation passer', since the aim of the testing fight is to see how your character works, fights and fits in with those of other people. The Rp section gives us more knowledge about the character, but we still haven't seen how you intend to use him in a fight.

Well there's for sure no doubt you can handle this kind of thing, and it was quite an excellent short story, Crom. I enjoyed it very much, had it simply been a work of literature with no other purpose. However, Bronx is right in that we see little in how your character works.

However, from such effort here, it may be enough to pass you. If Bronkor is ever on at the same time as everyone else, I'll pass along a poll in a Council Meeting. The worst that could happen is you need to give an example of Grotaar in battle. The best... acceptance.