01-26-2014, 03:08 AM
"Liridon."
What was that sound? Faint. Distant. Strained.
"Liridon!"
The foreign noise again wiggled into the ranger's ear. It almost seemed to echo as he mulled it over, Lee-ree-dawn, syllable by syllable, vowel by vowel, he deconstructed the word. What was it? What did it mean? Why did it seem so unshakably familiar? No, not a sound. A word.
"Liridon!"
This time the word, his name, he had determined by now, was shrill. It shook the ranger to his core. 'Liridon', he repeated internally. His eyes slowly peeled open, a harsh shiver rattling through his body as sharp daggers of light poured into his pupils, overwhelming his senses into a stark whiteness. Briefly a hand was upon his shoulder, shaking him roughly, urging him to stir from his slumber.
"We have to go, dammit! We're bugging out!"
The ranger, evidently Liridon, went to shield his eyes from the harsh light with his right hand, but found it weighted down. His fingers splayed out and again balled into a fist. What was that resistance? His head angled forward. Of course, a longbow. But why was that an of course? He leaned up, his head immediately spinning as his vision filled will neigh imperceivable colored dots. His mind was murky, his body slow. It felt as though he was moving, now, but he didn't understand how or why. Something was tight around his neck now, he could feel it grinding uncomfortably against his throat. His breath quickly grew ragged and the fingers of his apparently free left hand wormed their way between the object and his skin. His coat of mail, he determined. His eyes slowly opened once again, now more acclimated to the light. He was being dragged.
"Dammit, Liridon! Shake out of it!"
The voice suddenly seemed familiar, feminine. He looked over to see a person dressed much like him, a long red ponytail spilling over their narrow shoulders. The person, an elf, judging by their ears, did have a decidedly delicate frame. Unlikely to be a man, Liridon decided. He looked forward, first at his feet. His lips quirked at the trail he was leaving. It was obvious, almost funny, the way his rear displaced the leaves of the forest floor. He lazily looked up, surveying the forest beyond his feet.
Chaos. The most sobering of sights lay before his eyes. A horde of orcs rampaging through the forest, chasing after the two. He looked to the sides and saw other rangers besides. Farstriders, as they were known. Fire and maneuver teams, two Farstriders each, working their way between the trees. One would crouch and snap a few arrows down range as the next advanced, or in this case retreated, to cover suitable for their own momentary stand. He was not doing his part.
"I'm good, I'm good!" he yelled, the woman who had previously been dragging him dropped him abruptly. Perhaps good was an overstatement. The short drop hurt, bad, but Liridon rolled forward and forced himself up, his partner by now dropped to her knee and providing cover as he turned away and sprinted forward. He vaulted a low log and planted his legs out before him, sliding straight onto his back. As he rolled over, pushing himself up to a knee once again, he took another worried glance forward to observe his partner placing a quite literal dead-eye shot, the arrow claiming an orc's eye expertly.
"Cover!" he called, drawing an arrow and readying his bow.
"Bounding!" was her reply. Liridon dared not take a glance at her features, lest he be momentarily distracted in another foggy daydream. Farstriders, and he had ventured a guess he was one, were expert shots. Drilled continuously to fire consistently accurate shots. But Liridon's hands shook, he was unsteady. Still, the wave of orcs was closing in on his partner. The need was there, and he released with his left hand, the bowstring snapping forward, coming to an extremely abrupt stop and flinging the arrow down range. It flew true, relatively so, given his state, directly over the shoulder of his bounding partner and found a raging orc's heart. Almost on instinct he snapped another arrow, a bit further right, claiming another orc's throat as his territory. As his partner passed him, Liridon ventured a quick glance at her face. Narrow features, a sharp nose, surprisingly well-groomed eyebrows. Hawking blueberry eyes under a bright cobalt glow. Unusual, long auburn hair. Her lips, a bit plumper than is usual for their kind, slightly agape as she pants in her sprinting. There is little strain on her face as she vaults the same log Liridon is currently behind, though instead of a slide she keeps moving. Liridon returns to his defense, covering her retreat with a steady stream of expertly placed arrows.
"Cover!"
"Bounding!" he called. Before he turns he makes a mark of the orc's, having already about figured the speed of their advance. He unceremoniously abandons his current position and hauls himself to a sprint. Fallina. He looks towards the woman covering his retreat. Fallina. That was her name. Fallina. He shook is head, trying desperately to drop the thought. Fallina. He sprinted harder, burying his head against the wind and leaped over another log that she had positioned herself behind. The orcs seemed to leave a trail of destruction, but for once it was regarded as a boon by the Farstriders, providing ample cover in this most makeshift of retreats.
"Fallina," he panted, looking the other ranger in the eyes. "They're getting too close. We have to fight."
"I know," she said grimly. She scanned the Farstrider line with intelligent azure eyes, and it seemed other teams had come to the same conclusion. They were a bit staggered, given the nature of their retreat, but they had thinned the orc numbers considerably. Liridon busied himself unslinging his quiver, leaning it against the log for easier access to his arrows. He drew his sword and buried a third of the blade, perhaps nine inches, into the soft soil. He unhooked his axe from his belt and brought it down against the log, lodging it there. Along with Fallina, he resumed his bow, and began firing steady shots. Where others may have gone for quantity in the face of a screaming, frothing orcish tide, the Farstriders still took their time, placing quality of shot over quantity, even now. Both rangers concerned themselves only with their shots, sniping the larger orcs now, rather than face them in the brutal combat sure to come.
"Liridon," she started, pausing her thought to release another accurate shot, "I love you."
"Not now," he muttered.
Yes. Fallina. His lover, for some time. She had been in the squad to welcome him when he graduated training. They had bonded quite well from the start. Opposites attract, they say, and where she had experience he had talent. Where she was sharp and professional, he was prone to cutting up. Her sincerity was his sarcasm. But, indeed, now was not the time. Liridon had time for another arrow, perhaps two, but he decided to make this one count. It snapped, flying true to its mark and downing another orc. Under other circumstances, Liridon would have been keeping track of his kills, but for now his survival was paramount, he needed to ensure another day of life so he could brag in earnest. He dropped his bow and stood, defiant against the impending verdant horde. He dislodged his axe from the log and idly shook it in his left hand, securing his grip. His right pulled his sword from the soft soil, giving it a good shake to conform his grip.
Liridon was at home.
As the first orc met with him, the ranger simply turned to the side, dodging a chopping axe and plunging his sword forward, spilling the hot blood fueling the green juggarnaut. Liridon gave a glance towards Fallina, ensuring her safety, but in the moment he gained little information from the effort. Concern, he knew, would do little to protect her, but fighting with a clear head would.
His left hand flung out to the side and he chopped inward with the axe it gripped, adding another orc to the irrelevant count. Defeated, the orc slumped backwards and Liridon stepped over his protective log and onto the field. He made it only a few steps before the next orc was upon him. Nameless, featureless, Liridon felt little as he felled this meager challenger. A simple parry, an axe to the knee and a thrust of his short sword as the green mass slumped. The orcs were betrayed by their brute force. Surely, a single blow would be enough to eliminate the ranger, but the brutes telegraphed every swing. That's not to say Liridon was untouchable, but in his element, few could challenge the Farstrider. Another would-be assassin added to the pile as Liridon dropped to a knee and thrust his sword upward against an orc swinging a club overhead. A clean wound, straight to heart. Penetrating layers of muscle and bone was no easy feat, but given their combined momentum it was like a hot knife through butter. Dislodging the blade would prove to be the trick of it all, and Liridon waited until the fallen orc titter to the side, using the momentum of the orc's fall to free his weapon.
((Will work on this again soon! Just needed to post to ensure motivation.))
What was that sound? Faint. Distant. Strained.
"Liridon!"
The foreign noise again wiggled into the ranger's ear. It almost seemed to echo as he mulled it over, Lee-ree-dawn, syllable by syllable, vowel by vowel, he deconstructed the word. What was it? What did it mean? Why did it seem so unshakably familiar? No, not a sound. A word.
"Liridon!"
This time the word, his name, he had determined by now, was shrill. It shook the ranger to his core. 'Liridon', he repeated internally. His eyes slowly peeled open, a harsh shiver rattling through his body as sharp daggers of light poured into his pupils, overwhelming his senses into a stark whiteness. Briefly a hand was upon his shoulder, shaking him roughly, urging him to stir from his slumber.
"We have to go, dammit! We're bugging out!"
The ranger, evidently Liridon, went to shield his eyes from the harsh light with his right hand, but found it weighted down. His fingers splayed out and again balled into a fist. What was that resistance? His head angled forward. Of course, a longbow. But why was that an of course? He leaned up, his head immediately spinning as his vision filled will neigh imperceivable colored dots. His mind was murky, his body slow. It felt as though he was moving, now, but he didn't understand how or why. Something was tight around his neck now, he could feel it grinding uncomfortably against his throat. His breath quickly grew ragged and the fingers of his apparently free left hand wormed their way between the object and his skin. His coat of mail, he determined. His eyes slowly opened once again, now more acclimated to the light. He was being dragged.
"Dammit, Liridon! Shake out of it!"
The voice suddenly seemed familiar, feminine. He looked over to see a person dressed much like him, a long red ponytail spilling over their narrow shoulders. The person, an elf, judging by their ears, did have a decidedly delicate frame. Unlikely to be a man, Liridon decided. He looked forward, first at his feet. His lips quirked at the trail he was leaving. It was obvious, almost funny, the way his rear displaced the leaves of the forest floor. He lazily looked up, surveying the forest beyond his feet.
Chaos. The most sobering of sights lay before his eyes. A horde of orcs rampaging through the forest, chasing after the two. He looked to the sides and saw other rangers besides. Farstriders, as they were known. Fire and maneuver teams, two Farstriders each, working their way between the trees. One would crouch and snap a few arrows down range as the next advanced, or in this case retreated, to cover suitable for their own momentary stand. He was not doing his part.
"I'm good, I'm good!" he yelled, the woman who had previously been dragging him dropped him abruptly. Perhaps good was an overstatement. The short drop hurt, bad, but Liridon rolled forward and forced himself up, his partner by now dropped to her knee and providing cover as he turned away and sprinted forward. He vaulted a low log and planted his legs out before him, sliding straight onto his back. As he rolled over, pushing himself up to a knee once again, he took another worried glance forward to observe his partner placing a quite literal dead-eye shot, the arrow claiming an orc's eye expertly.
"Cover!" he called, drawing an arrow and readying his bow.
"Bounding!" was her reply. Liridon dared not take a glance at her features, lest he be momentarily distracted in another foggy daydream. Farstriders, and he had ventured a guess he was one, were expert shots. Drilled continuously to fire consistently accurate shots. But Liridon's hands shook, he was unsteady. Still, the wave of orcs was closing in on his partner. The need was there, and he released with his left hand, the bowstring snapping forward, coming to an extremely abrupt stop and flinging the arrow down range. It flew true, relatively so, given his state, directly over the shoulder of his bounding partner and found a raging orc's heart. Almost on instinct he snapped another arrow, a bit further right, claiming another orc's throat as his territory. As his partner passed him, Liridon ventured a quick glance at her face. Narrow features, a sharp nose, surprisingly well-groomed eyebrows. Hawking blueberry eyes under a bright cobalt glow. Unusual, long auburn hair. Her lips, a bit plumper than is usual for their kind, slightly agape as she pants in her sprinting. There is little strain on her face as she vaults the same log Liridon is currently behind, though instead of a slide she keeps moving. Liridon returns to his defense, covering her retreat with a steady stream of expertly placed arrows.
"Cover!"
"Bounding!" he called. Before he turns he makes a mark of the orc's, having already about figured the speed of their advance. He unceremoniously abandons his current position and hauls himself to a sprint. Fallina. He looks towards the woman covering his retreat. Fallina. That was her name. Fallina. He shook is head, trying desperately to drop the thought. Fallina. He sprinted harder, burying his head against the wind and leaped over another log that she had positioned herself behind. The orcs seemed to leave a trail of destruction, but for once it was regarded as a boon by the Farstriders, providing ample cover in this most makeshift of retreats.
"Fallina," he panted, looking the other ranger in the eyes. "They're getting too close. We have to fight."
"I know," she said grimly. She scanned the Farstrider line with intelligent azure eyes, and it seemed other teams had come to the same conclusion. They were a bit staggered, given the nature of their retreat, but they had thinned the orc numbers considerably. Liridon busied himself unslinging his quiver, leaning it against the log for easier access to his arrows. He drew his sword and buried a third of the blade, perhaps nine inches, into the soft soil. He unhooked his axe from his belt and brought it down against the log, lodging it there. Along with Fallina, he resumed his bow, and began firing steady shots. Where others may have gone for quantity in the face of a screaming, frothing orcish tide, the Farstriders still took their time, placing quality of shot over quantity, even now. Both rangers concerned themselves only with their shots, sniping the larger orcs now, rather than face them in the brutal combat sure to come.
"Liridon," she started, pausing her thought to release another accurate shot, "I love you."
"Not now," he muttered.
Yes. Fallina. His lover, for some time. She had been in the squad to welcome him when he graduated training. They had bonded quite well from the start. Opposites attract, they say, and where she had experience he had talent. Where she was sharp and professional, he was prone to cutting up. Her sincerity was his sarcasm. But, indeed, now was not the time. Liridon had time for another arrow, perhaps two, but he decided to make this one count. It snapped, flying true to its mark and downing another orc. Under other circumstances, Liridon would have been keeping track of his kills, but for now his survival was paramount, he needed to ensure another day of life so he could brag in earnest. He dropped his bow and stood, defiant against the impending verdant horde. He dislodged his axe from the log and idly shook it in his left hand, securing his grip. His right pulled his sword from the soft soil, giving it a good shake to conform his grip.
Liridon was at home.
As the first orc met with him, the ranger simply turned to the side, dodging a chopping axe and plunging his sword forward, spilling the hot blood fueling the green juggarnaut. Liridon gave a glance towards Fallina, ensuring her safety, but in the moment he gained little information from the effort. Concern, he knew, would do little to protect her, but fighting with a clear head would.
His left hand flung out to the side and he chopped inward with the axe it gripped, adding another orc to the irrelevant count. Defeated, the orc slumped backwards and Liridon stepped over his protective log and onto the field. He made it only a few steps before the next orc was upon him. Nameless, featureless, Liridon felt little as he felled this meager challenger. A simple parry, an axe to the knee and a thrust of his short sword as the green mass slumped. The orcs were betrayed by their brute force. Surely, a single blow would be enough to eliminate the ranger, but the brutes telegraphed every swing. That's not to say Liridon was untouchable, but in his element, few could challenge the Farstrider. Another would-be assassin added to the pile as Liridon dropped to a knee and thrust his sword upward against an orc swinging a club overhead. A clean wound, straight to heart. Penetrating layers of muscle and bone was no easy feat, but given their combined momentum it was like a hot knife through butter. Dislodging the blade would prove to be the trick of it all, and Liridon waited until the fallen orc titter to the side, using the momentum of the orc's fall to free his weapon.
((Will work on this again soon! Just needed to post to ensure motivation.))