02-18-2014, 09:02 AM
First and foremost: Tell us about yourself, as a player:
As a player, there's not a whole lot to say. I play when I feel like it and don't when I don't. I find that I roleplay a whole lot better when I want to, while it all goes into the gutter when I don't really want to, but feel that I have to.
I like to think I'm a nice guy though, even if I'm a horrible human being.
What country do you come from? What is your primary language?:
I'm from Denmark, but I speak English fluently (even if it's a strange bastard mix between UK and US English sometimes). I understand most German and I know how to say "I love potatoes" in Russian.
How did you get into Warcraft?:
I've been an avid fan of the lore (up until late-Cataclysm) ever since playing Warcraft 3 for the first time. It's years ago now, more than I recall, but I stopped caring about any further lore developments after I stopped playing.
How did you find us? Did anything in particular draw you to the server?:
It's been a long time since I roleplayed in WoW. It's been years now, and I'm slowly getting bored with GW2, even if my charr has had a good, long run (and lost a couple limbs). Nostalgia prompted a google search, because I remember looking over a list of WoW RP servers a few times before, and CoTH popped up more than once.
What kinds of roleplay do you enjoy?:
I like my roleplay to be realistic. Within reason, of course, it's still a fantasy setting, and this is Warcraft; we have magic and dragons and dwarves whose beards should by all rights have achieved sapience by now. I'm not devoid of imagination, but I like to stay within some boundaries of realism, even if it's the fantastical Warcraft realism.
What is your favorite race/class? Why?:
Worgen/Death Knights.
Not a worgen death knight, but worgen and death knights respectively.
Worgen because I've always liked Gilneas. It's a kingdom that was run into the ground by its own hubris and was forced to commit atrocities to survive.
It's for the same reason I like the death knights, specifically Arthas' transformation from a paladin into a death knight. The abandon of humanity in favour of becoming a tool of one's own vengeance is interesting to me. The Gilneans were forced into this, but many death knights chose to become what they did, often with revenge in mind.
For the record though, death knights are not my favourite class to play, but from a lore and character background/development perspective, I absolutely adore them.
What are your expectations of this server?:
Roleplaying.
I'm not sure what else I can say here, really. I expect quality roleplay from everyone who got through your introduction process, that's about it.
On that note, it's nice to see some quality control. Good job.
Out of all of our rules and regulations listed on our server, which appeals to you the most?:
On the wiki, there's a quote from Grakor. I'm not sure if it counts as a rule, but if it does, that quote is my favourite.
If it doesn't, I'll have to pick the "Knowing when to quit" rule, because I've had some... Less than favourable reactions to my characters in the past. I'm glad you clarify the difference between IC and OOC for all new members.
Did you know that we have a Mentor Program? It's entirely voluntary and you as a new player can sign up for it right now in your introduction! Are you interested in signing up to be assigned a Mentor? If so, say so here (Please enter at least "Yes" or "No"):
I did not know that! And while I know now and think it sounds like a good idea, I feel like I have enough experience as a roleplayer and enough confidence in browsing your forums/wiki to find the information I need.
So I'll go with "No".
Lastly, tell us a story! It can be short, it can be long; but most importantly, we want to see your work in action. Go!:
I'm not sure whether or not this will be frowned upon, but I did write up a forum post in which my charr wakes up from a PTSD-induced nightmare.
BE WARNED! THERE ARE TYPOS AND THE POST IS A LITTLE CLAUSTROPHOBIC. IT WAS WRITTEN PAST MIDNIGHT. I COULDN'T SLEEP.
It was night in Lion's Arch. The Vigil Centerhouse, as often, was lit by moonlight, the main chamber flooded by the green light as it passed through the glass above the gate.
Vethrir abruptly sat up in his bed, nearly smashing his head against the bunk above him. Frantic, he looked around, part of his mind still stuck in the dream that had haunted him moments prior. Raising his left hand, his claws struck the familiar feeling of the steel lens covering much of his face. Clutching his face, he closed his eye and took a deep breath.
"Just a dream..." he muttered, frowning at the prospect. Haunted by dreams. If the others knew...
He shook his head and moved the thin linen sheet aside, turned and put his feet to the floor. It wasn't steel, but the cool stone was soothing, providing a comfortable contrast to the searing rock from his dream.
He put on his coat, feeling its familiar weight on his shoulders, stood up and wandered into the main chamber. As he pulled a chair from one of the tables over to the grated fireplace, images from nearly a year ago flashed before his eyes. He stood immobile, chair in hand, as he recalled it. It was not unlike the Centerhouse: rock and stone, but not cool like the nights of Lion's Arch, no salty breeze from the harbour, but a choking heat in the air and either ashes, rock or searing soil underfoot. No clear skies either, only ever the thick carpet of fumes spewed from the castrums dotting Fireheart Rise. And the blaze of the fireplace in the Centerhouse suddenly became all too reminiscent of the firepit he and his Warband had gathered around before...
"They all died," he said, his voice for once brimming with impatience, but regret.
He clutched the handle of the dagger sheathed by his hip with one hand and positioned the chair in front of the fire with the other, sitting down with a short grunt.
It started as something simple: there's the enemy, you know what to do - the exact words from the Blood Legionnaire leading the skirmish. It had been nothing else, just a small skirmish, two Blood Warbands and one Iron, the Black Warband, against no more Flame Warbands. But as soon as Black was ordered to outflank the enemy, everything went wrong.
"Typical with our luck..." The moment Black broke away from the main body of the assault, two more Flame Warbands came from the rear, accompanied by an effigy. "Cut us right in half." The trap had worked. It was impossible for Black to fight through five Warbands and an effigy, even with two Blood Warbands for support; they were being overwhelmed as it was. They wouldn't last long, and neither would Black if they didn't move to safer ground.
Vethrir reached into one of the satchels attached to his coat and pulled out an iron flask with the blue Iron Legion cog painted on the side. He deftly unscrewed the lid, raised the flask to his lips and tilted his head back as he drank.
It was a flash decision. Blood was all about life and death on the front lines, but Iron had better things to do. By that logic, Vethrir ordered a charge. Not into the Flame ranks, but deeper into Fireheart. The only immediate way back to friendly lines was cut off by the attacking Flame soldiers, and so the Black Warband charged ahead, leaving the two Blood Warbands to die. But there was no difference between what was right and what was necessary in that situation.
"They died fighting. Not everyone is that lucky." His voice remained low, drowsy, still marked by the sleep he was robbed. The lid was screwed back on the flask, and the flask was returned back to its satchel.
The "charge" lasted for no more than half an hour. No more could be afforded before they ducked into a ravine, a hole in the cliff wall marking a clear border between Flame and Iron territory. It was either take the first, best retreat available or risk being found by patrolling Flame soldiers. It didn't take long to set up camp - they hadn't carried much with them beyond their armour, weapons and ammunition anyway, barely enough supplies to last two days away from camp. What few twigs and saplings had managed to grow in the ravine, away from the mainstay of the ash-choked soil of Fireheart Rise, were quickly gathered and stacked to make a small firepit. Wounds were cauterized and sewn shut, rations heated, weapons checked and sentries posted. Standard procedure for the Warband: dig in and prepare.
"Couldn't have done more if we had the time..." The truth was rarely so vexing. Scowling, he reached inside his coat for a cigar and his lighter. He deftly snipped off the tip of the cigar with the claw of his thumb, fit it neatly between two fangs and flicked the lighter open. He looked at it briefly, watching its flame dance in the draft coming through the Centerhouse's gate, coming in from the docks before lighting the cigar.
Seven of them were seated around the firepit. It was meagre, reflecting their situation: barely alive, clinging to what fuel remains. Khana had relieved Marh of sentry duty - she was about as bright as a skritt in a dark cave, but she could follow orders as well as anyone, and if Flame approached, it would be nearly impossible not to notice her warning. What she lacked in brains she made up for with brawn and determination. Once given an order, she would see it done no matter what. A narrow mind, but effective. Vethrir trusted her like any other of his Warband.
He flicked the lighter shut again, pocketing it and taking a drag from his cigar. He crossed his arms over his bare chest. Streaks of his fur were thin and short, marking the scars from his last visit to Fireheart. Seated in the chair, he gnawed idly at his cigar, glaring at the fireplace with a furrowed brow.
It wasn't until Eurye relieved Khana things became hectic. Seven and a half hours had passed by then, seven shifts - things had been tense since before the battle, before the forward retreat... But it was not until rifle shots echoed through the narrow walls of the ravine the situation turned from bad to worse. Ashes were kicked onto the firepit, weapons were gathered, bandages tightened and ranks formed. It was a narrow passage, a natural bottleneck, and there was more room for the Warband to line up shots and form a wall than there was for Flame to pass through the entrance. Mere seconds passed between Eurye rolling behind the wall of blades and shields formed by Marius, Rhoer and Khana, with Vethrir, Rissa, Tidus, Marh and Eurye firing from the rear. Soldiers in the orange colours of Flame Legion poured into the ravine. A veritable hailstorm of bullets and arrows rained down on them as they tried to close the distance, but such as it were, charging in was suicide.
"Fanatics..." The word was spat out by Vethrir through clenched fangs, bared in frustration, almost cutting the cigar in his maw in half.
The zealous Flame soldiers fell quickly. Rifles boomed and strings sang as more and more piled up by the entrance. The pressure, however, was so great that there was nearly no time to take aim; bodies lay where they had fallen, pierced in several places by arrows and bullets, some barely alive but rendered immobile by pain and severed muscles.
The disregard for life in the enemy assault and the scarce supplies in the ravine quickly took their toll. Quivers ran dry, bullets ran out. No battlecry or commander's speech could have inspired the Flame Legion more than the sound of a clicking rifle and claws scraping the sides of an empty quiver. The pile of fallen soldiers did little to deter or slow down the fanatical charr. Blades rang and shields shook as the two lines met. In spite of the losses inflicted by the initial barrage, there was no decrease in numbers or eagerness in the enemy. Another flash decision had to be made: staying in the ravine was certain suicide; going outside would likely result in most of them dying. The prospect of saving at least some of his Warband inspired Vethrir's choice. His voice somehow managed to cut through the clash of steel and the soldiers' roars: "PUSH FORWARD!"
It was slow at first, the advance moving at snail's pace, but with an entrance so narrow that barely two charr could fit through simultaneously, in the end, it was simply not possible for the Flame soldiers to move faster than they were slain.
Marius was the first to break through. Then Khana, then Rhoer, and the rest slowly followed. As they moved out of the ravine, the Warband formed a semicircle around the entrance. The melee was brutal, but the wider front allowed the Black Warband to dispose of their foes all the more quickly, even if it meant exhausting themselves at the same pace.
It didn't take long for the battle to claim its first Black bandmate: Tidus, having fought with a shield in one hand and a wrench in the other, let out a painful roar; a greatsword had downright severed his right hand and rendered him unarmed at the same time. The pain in his bleeding wrist-stump distracted him enough that only moments passed between the loss of his hand and the loss of his life. His leather coat did little to block out the myriad of cuts from axes and swords. His chest was torn open, ribs cracked, blood misting the air as the most faithful of the Warband fell first, joining the Primus who had been his namesake in death.
Rissa was killed next. Her twin daggers, imposing as they were with skull motifs adorning their pommels, simply broke on the middle as she attempted to block an overhead attack from both blades of an axe fiend. The other charr was enormous. He could well have been a champion in the Bane if not for his colours. As her blades broke, so did Rissa's skull, one axe embedding itself firmly there, so much that the axe fiend was unable to pull it out. This momentary opening was all it took: the Flame soldier's throat was cut with a single strike from Vethrir's bayonet, the blade halfway severing the axe fiend's head.
The semicircle quickly grew smaller, the bandmates moving backwards, tightening their formation to compensate for their losses. More and more Flame soldiers fell as what remained of the Black Warband fought all the harder, but never fast enough.
"Never enough..." Vethrir's tone was bitter and hateful, his eye distant. The cigar in his mouth had been downright cut in half by his clenched fangs now, half of it laying on the stone floor beside him, still smoking.
Marh fell third. Having fought the entire battle in silence next to his devourer, he suddenly burst into a loud, angry roar - a Flame soldier had killed the devourer, causing Marh, in a fit of unbridled rage, to leap at the soldier who had slain his pet. In his final moments, Marh tore open his enemy's throat with his bare claws, ripping through fur and flesh. Before the blood could even soak into his hide, two more soldiers surged forward and slashed at Marh with their blades. It was not until his skull was fractured by a hammer, having blinded both the soldiers who attacked him with his bare claws, that Marh fell silent.
The gap he created left Khana's right flank open. The large female soon found that she had sprouted a new pair of narrow metal limbs on her right shoulder (in reality, a sword and a dagger). As she spun around, she used the momentum to smash the face of the soldier who had stabbed her with her shield, bludgeoning another two foes, cracking their jaws as she found that her right arm was rendered numb and limp. Three more came upon her, and three more were given fractures and broken bones and faces with deft strikes from her shields. It took half a dozen soldiers to attack her at once before she was subdued, tackled to the ground and her throat cut, her oblivious laughter at the massacre (having thought they were winning) finally drowned by the blood flooding her throat.
Only Vethrir, Marius, Eurye and Rhoer remained, and the latter died next. For all his speed and agility, Rhoer had always been used to open spaces and either equal ground or to his advantage. At a disadvantage, in enclosed space with no room to move and exhaustion setting in (while his opponents just kept coming, while he had fought hard for too long), he eventually had to make a mistake. A faulty dodge was the first, cutting open his side. Weakened by the blood loss, a botched parry saw to it that a sword pierced the right side of his chest. The blade was stuck in his ribcage and his foe killed quickly, but the damage was done: with a punctured lung, blood pouring from his wounds and a sharp pain every time he moved, the fighting eventually became too much, and with an axe in his throat, Rhoer went down as well.
Eurye was the sixth to fall. Despite her skill with using her rifle as a blunt weapon, using its steel frame to block attacks and the barrel to crack skulls, she too was overwhelmed. A stray dagger found its way through the gap between her helmet and breastplate, embedding itself in her throat. In her final moments, Eurye grabbed the head of her killer, digging her claws firmly into his flesh as she reared her head backwards, vacating the dagger from her throat, and then lurched forward again, smashing her helmet into the forehead of the other charr, blood flowing from the wound in her throat. With her death...
"There was nothing left to do..."
Vethrir and Marius, brothers, bandmates and soldiers of the Iron Legion for more than three decades, withdrew back into the ravine. The space was so narrow that only the two of them fit there, the perfect place for their final stand. As the Flame Legion soldiers came at them, Vethrir speared them with his bayonet and Marius threw them aside with crippling blows from his maces.
Hope dawned on them as the enemy numbers finally began thinning. Less than half a dozen of them left now, there was an end in sight at last. But the impossible had to happen.
"Typical with our luck..."
It started with a lucky miss: an axe slashed past Marius' head. If not for his one missing horn, the axe may well have hit its mark, but instead it swooped by harmlessly. What was intended to be a triumphant laugh became a surprised grunt. As Marius lifted his right arm, a sword was driven into the opening under his arm. The wound would be fatal. Not immediately, but it was too deep to patch up in the middle of Fireheart Rise, behind enemy lines and with no supplies or proper med kits at hand. Even so, marius might never fight again if they fixed the wound.
The last few Flame Legion soldiers fell quickly, but it seemed like it no longer mattered. They had destroyed everything.
As an empty silence settled on the area, Marius toppled over. The sound of his impact with the ground was loud, even deafening to Vethrir. He dropped his rifle, his blade gleaming with the crimson blood of his enemies, and knelt beside Marius as he rolled onto his back. His eyes were distant, and Vethrir knew there was little time left.
Marius' claws fumbled blindly at his lower body. One hand grabbed Vethrir by the collar of his armour, the other grasped the hilt of the dagger he had borne since the death of their Primus. The dagger was unsheathed and raised for Vethrir to take.
No words were exchanged between the brothers. A meaningful look was all it required; Marius' eyes told Vethrir everything he needed to know.
"Carry our honour with you."
Vethrir stood from his chair, grabbed it and lifted it above his head. The quiet of the Centerhouse was broken abruptly as he smashed the chair against the stone floor with a furious roar. He stared briefly at the broken chair on the ground. Then, without answering the questions from the crusaders and lionguard he woke up, not even looking at them over his shoulder, he turned and left the Centerhouse.
He needed some fresh air.
And a drink.
Is there anything else you would like to add, ask, or otherwise clarify?:
Ya lyublyu kartoshka.
As a player, there's not a whole lot to say. I play when I feel like it and don't when I don't. I find that I roleplay a whole lot better when I want to, while it all goes into the gutter when I don't really want to, but feel that I have to.
I like to think I'm a nice guy though, even if I'm a horrible human being.
What country do you come from? What is your primary language?:
I'm from Denmark, but I speak English fluently (even if it's a strange bastard mix between UK and US English sometimes). I understand most German and I know how to say "I love potatoes" in Russian.
How did you get into Warcraft?:
I've been an avid fan of the lore (up until late-Cataclysm) ever since playing Warcraft 3 for the first time. It's years ago now, more than I recall, but I stopped caring about any further lore developments after I stopped playing.
How did you find us? Did anything in particular draw you to the server?:
It's been a long time since I roleplayed in WoW. It's been years now, and I'm slowly getting bored with GW2, even if my charr has had a good, long run (and lost a couple limbs). Nostalgia prompted a google search, because I remember looking over a list of WoW RP servers a few times before, and CoTH popped up more than once.
What kinds of roleplay do you enjoy?:
I like my roleplay to be realistic. Within reason, of course, it's still a fantasy setting, and this is Warcraft; we have magic and dragons and dwarves whose beards should by all rights have achieved sapience by now. I'm not devoid of imagination, but I like to stay within some boundaries of realism, even if it's the fantastical Warcraft realism.
What is your favorite race/class? Why?:
Worgen/Death Knights.
Not a worgen death knight, but worgen and death knights respectively.
Worgen because I've always liked Gilneas. It's a kingdom that was run into the ground by its own hubris and was forced to commit atrocities to survive.
It's for the same reason I like the death knights, specifically Arthas' transformation from a paladin into a death knight. The abandon of humanity in favour of becoming a tool of one's own vengeance is interesting to me. The Gilneans were forced into this, but many death knights chose to become what they did, often with revenge in mind.
For the record though, death knights are not my favourite class to play, but from a lore and character background/development perspective, I absolutely adore them.
What are your expectations of this server?:
Roleplaying.
I'm not sure what else I can say here, really. I expect quality roleplay from everyone who got through your introduction process, that's about it.
On that note, it's nice to see some quality control. Good job.
Out of all of our rules and regulations listed on our server, which appeals to you the most?:
On the wiki, there's a quote from Grakor. I'm not sure if it counts as a rule, but if it does, that quote is my favourite.
If it doesn't, I'll have to pick the "Knowing when to quit" rule, because I've had some... Less than favourable reactions to my characters in the past. I'm glad you clarify the difference between IC and OOC for all new members.
Did you know that we have a Mentor Program? It's entirely voluntary and you as a new player can sign up for it right now in your introduction! Are you interested in signing up to be assigned a Mentor? If so, say so here (Please enter at least "Yes" or "No"):
I did not know that! And while I know now and think it sounds like a good idea, I feel like I have enough experience as a roleplayer and enough confidence in browsing your forums/wiki to find the information I need.
So I'll go with "No".
Lastly, tell us a story! It can be short, it can be long; but most importantly, we want to see your work in action. Go!:
I'm not sure whether or not this will be frowned upon, but I did write up a forum post in which my charr wakes up from a PTSD-induced nightmare.
BE WARNED! THERE ARE TYPOS AND THE POST IS A LITTLE CLAUSTROPHOBIC. IT WAS WRITTEN PAST MIDNIGHT. I COULDN'T SLEEP.
It was night in Lion's Arch. The Vigil Centerhouse, as often, was lit by moonlight, the main chamber flooded by the green light as it passed through the glass above the gate.
Vethrir abruptly sat up in his bed, nearly smashing his head against the bunk above him. Frantic, he looked around, part of his mind still stuck in the dream that had haunted him moments prior. Raising his left hand, his claws struck the familiar feeling of the steel lens covering much of his face. Clutching his face, he closed his eye and took a deep breath.
"Just a dream..." he muttered, frowning at the prospect. Haunted by dreams. If the others knew...
He shook his head and moved the thin linen sheet aside, turned and put his feet to the floor. It wasn't steel, but the cool stone was soothing, providing a comfortable contrast to the searing rock from his dream.
He put on his coat, feeling its familiar weight on his shoulders, stood up and wandered into the main chamber. As he pulled a chair from one of the tables over to the grated fireplace, images from nearly a year ago flashed before his eyes. He stood immobile, chair in hand, as he recalled it. It was not unlike the Centerhouse: rock and stone, but not cool like the nights of Lion's Arch, no salty breeze from the harbour, but a choking heat in the air and either ashes, rock or searing soil underfoot. No clear skies either, only ever the thick carpet of fumes spewed from the castrums dotting Fireheart Rise. And the blaze of the fireplace in the Centerhouse suddenly became all too reminiscent of the firepit he and his Warband had gathered around before...
"They all died," he said, his voice for once brimming with impatience, but regret.
He clutched the handle of the dagger sheathed by his hip with one hand and positioned the chair in front of the fire with the other, sitting down with a short grunt.
It started as something simple: there's the enemy, you know what to do - the exact words from the Blood Legionnaire leading the skirmish. It had been nothing else, just a small skirmish, two Blood Warbands and one Iron, the Black Warband, against no more Flame Warbands. But as soon as Black was ordered to outflank the enemy, everything went wrong.
"Typical with our luck..." The moment Black broke away from the main body of the assault, two more Flame Warbands came from the rear, accompanied by an effigy. "Cut us right in half." The trap had worked. It was impossible for Black to fight through five Warbands and an effigy, even with two Blood Warbands for support; they were being overwhelmed as it was. They wouldn't last long, and neither would Black if they didn't move to safer ground.
Vethrir reached into one of the satchels attached to his coat and pulled out an iron flask with the blue Iron Legion cog painted on the side. He deftly unscrewed the lid, raised the flask to his lips and tilted his head back as he drank.
It was a flash decision. Blood was all about life and death on the front lines, but Iron had better things to do. By that logic, Vethrir ordered a charge. Not into the Flame ranks, but deeper into Fireheart. The only immediate way back to friendly lines was cut off by the attacking Flame soldiers, and so the Black Warband charged ahead, leaving the two Blood Warbands to die. But there was no difference between what was right and what was necessary in that situation.
"They died fighting. Not everyone is that lucky." His voice remained low, drowsy, still marked by the sleep he was robbed. The lid was screwed back on the flask, and the flask was returned back to its satchel.
The "charge" lasted for no more than half an hour. No more could be afforded before they ducked into a ravine, a hole in the cliff wall marking a clear border between Flame and Iron territory. It was either take the first, best retreat available or risk being found by patrolling Flame soldiers. It didn't take long to set up camp - they hadn't carried much with them beyond their armour, weapons and ammunition anyway, barely enough supplies to last two days away from camp. What few twigs and saplings had managed to grow in the ravine, away from the mainstay of the ash-choked soil of Fireheart Rise, were quickly gathered and stacked to make a small firepit. Wounds were cauterized and sewn shut, rations heated, weapons checked and sentries posted. Standard procedure for the Warband: dig in and prepare.
"Couldn't have done more if we had the time..." The truth was rarely so vexing. Scowling, he reached inside his coat for a cigar and his lighter. He deftly snipped off the tip of the cigar with the claw of his thumb, fit it neatly between two fangs and flicked the lighter open. He looked at it briefly, watching its flame dance in the draft coming through the Centerhouse's gate, coming in from the docks before lighting the cigar.
Seven of them were seated around the firepit. It was meagre, reflecting their situation: barely alive, clinging to what fuel remains. Khana had relieved Marh of sentry duty - she was about as bright as a skritt in a dark cave, but she could follow orders as well as anyone, and if Flame approached, it would be nearly impossible not to notice her warning. What she lacked in brains she made up for with brawn and determination. Once given an order, she would see it done no matter what. A narrow mind, but effective. Vethrir trusted her like any other of his Warband.
He flicked the lighter shut again, pocketing it and taking a drag from his cigar. He crossed his arms over his bare chest. Streaks of his fur were thin and short, marking the scars from his last visit to Fireheart. Seated in the chair, he gnawed idly at his cigar, glaring at the fireplace with a furrowed brow.
It wasn't until Eurye relieved Khana things became hectic. Seven and a half hours had passed by then, seven shifts - things had been tense since before the battle, before the forward retreat... But it was not until rifle shots echoed through the narrow walls of the ravine the situation turned from bad to worse. Ashes were kicked onto the firepit, weapons were gathered, bandages tightened and ranks formed. It was a narrow passage, a natural bottleneck, and there was more room for the Warband to line up shots and form a wall than there was for Flame to pass through the entrance. Mere seconds passed between Eurye rolling behind the wall of blades and shields formed by Marius, Rhoer and Khana, with Vethrir, Rissa, Tidus, Marh and Eurye firing from the rear. Soldiers in the orange colours of Flame Legion poured into the ravine. A veritable hailstorm of bullets and arrows rained down on them as they tried to close the distance, but such as it were, charging in was suicide.
"Fanatics..." The word was spat out by Vethrir through clenched fangs, bared in frustration, almost cutting the cigar in his maw in half.
The zealous Flame soldiers fell quickly. Rifles boomed and strings sang as more and more piled up by the entrance. The pressure, however, was so great that there was nearly no time to take aim; bodies lay where they had fallen, pierced in several places by arrows and bullets, some barely alive but rendered immobile by pain and severed muscles.
The disregard for life in the enemy assault and the scarce supplies in the ravine quickly took their toll. Quivers ran dry, bullets ran out. No battlecry or commander's speech could have inspired the Flame Legion more than the sound of a clicking rifle and claws scraping the sides of an empty quiver. The pile of fallen soldiers did little to deter or slow down the fanatical charr. Blades rang and shields shook as the two lines met. In spite of the losses inflicted by the initial barrage, there was no decrease in numbers or eagerness in the enemy. Another flash decision had to be made: staying in the ravine was certain suicide; going outside would likely result in most of them dying. The prospect of saving at least some of his Warband inspired Vethrir's choice. His voice somehow managed to cut through the clash of steel and the soldiers' roars: "PUSH FORWARD!"
It was slow at first, the advance moving at snail's pace, but with an entrance so narrow that barely two charr could fit through simultaneously, in the end, it was simply not possible for the Flame soldiers to move faster than they were slain.
Marius was the first to break through. Then Khana, then Rhoer, and the rest slowly followed. As they moved out of the ravine, the Warband formed a semicircle around the entrance. The melee was brutal, but the wider front allowed the Black Warband to dispose of their foes all the more quickly, even if it meant exhausting themselves at the same pace.
It didn't take long for the battle to claim its first Black bandmate: Tidus, having fought with a shield in one hand and a wrench in the other, let out a painful roar; a greatsword had downright severed his right hand and rendered him unarmed at the same time. The pain in his bleeding wrist-stump distracted him enough that only moments passed between the loss of his hand and the loss of his life. His leather coat did little to block out the myriad of cuts from axes and swords. His chest was torn open, ribs cracked, blood misting the air as the most faithful of the Warband fell first, joining the Primus who had been his namesake in death.
Rissa was killed next. Her twin daggers, imposing as they were with skull motifs adorning their pommels, simply broke on the middle as she attempted to block an overhead attack from both blades of an axe fiend. The other charr was enormous. He could well have been a champion in the Bane if not for his colours. As her blades broke, so did Rissa's skull, one axe embedding itself firmly there, so much that the axe fiend was unable to pull it out. This momentary opening was all it took: the Flame soldier's throat was cut with a single strike from Vethrir's bayonet, the blade halfway severing the axe fiend's head.
The semicircle quickly grew smaller, the bandmates moving backwards, tightening their formation to compensate for their losses. More and more Flame soldiers fell as what remained of the Black Warband fought all the harder, but never fast enough.
"Never enough..." Vethrir's tone was bitter and hateful, his eye distant. The cigar in his mouth had been downright cut in half by his clenched fangs now, half of it laying on the stone floor beside him, still smoking.
Marh fell third. Having fought the entire battle in silence next to his devourer, he suddenly burst into a loud, angry roar - a Flame soldier had killed the devourer, causing Marh, in a fit of unbridled rage, to leap at the soldier who had slain his pet. In his final moments, Marh tore open his enemy's throat with his bare claws, ripping through fur and flesh. Before the blood could even soak into his hide, two more soldiers surged forward and slashed at Marh with their blades. It was not until his skull was fractured by a hammer, having blinded both the soldiers who attacked him with his bare claws, that Marh fell silent.
The gap he created left Khana's right flank open. The large female soon found that she had sprouted a new pair of narrow metal limbs on her right shoulder (in reality, a sword and a dagger). As she spun around, she used the momentum to smash the face of the soldier who had stabbed her with her shield, bludgeoning another two foes, cracking their jaws as she found that her right arm was rendered numb and limp. Three more came upon her, and three more were given fractures and broken bones and faces with deft strikes from her shields. It took half a dozen soldiers to attack her at once before she was subdued, tackled to the ground and her throat cut, her oblivious laughter at the massacre (having thought they were winning) finally drowned by the blood flooding her throat.
Only Vethrir, Marius, Eurye and Rhoer remained, and the latter died next. For all his speed and agility, Rhoer had always been used to open spaces and either equal ground or to his advantage. At a disadvantage, in enclosed space with no room to move and exhaustion setting in (while his opponents just kept coming, while he had fought hard for too long), he eventually had to make a mistake. A faulty dodge was the first, cutting open his side. Weakened by the blood loss, a botched parry saw to it that a sword pierced the right side of his chest. The blade was stuck in his ribcage and his foe killed quickly, but the damage was done: with a punctured lung, blood pouring from his wounds and a sharp pain every time he moved, the fighting eventually became too much, and with an axe in his throat, Rhoer went down as well.
Eurye was the sixth to fall. Despite her skill with using her rifle as a blunt weapon, using its steel frame to block attacks and the barrel to crack skulls, she too was overwhelmed. A stray dagger found its way through the gap between her helmet and breastplate, embedding itself in her throat. In her final moments, Eurye grabbed the head of her killer, digging her claws firmly into his flesh as she reared her head backwards, vacating the dagger from her throat, and then lurched forward again, smashing her helmet into the forehead of the other charr, blood flowing from the wound in her throat. With her death...
"There was nothing left to do..."
Vethrir and Marius, brothers, bandmates and soldiers of the Iron Legion for more than three decades, withdrew back into the ravine. The space was so narrow that only the two of them fit there, the perfect place for their final stand. As the Flame Legion soldiers came at them, Vethrir speared them with his bayonet and Marius threw them aside with crippling blows from his maces.
Hope dawned on them as the enemy numbers finally began thinning. Less than half a dozen of them left now, there was an end in sight at last. But the impossible had to happen.
"Typical with our luck..."
It started with a lucky miss: an axe slashed past Marius' head. If not for his one missing horn, the axe may well have hit its mark, but instead it swooped by harmlessly. What was intended to be a triumphant laugh became a surprised grunt. As Marius lifted his right arm, a sword was driven into the opening under his arm. The wound would be fatal. Not immediately, but it was too deep to patch up in the middle of Fireheart Rise, behind enemy lines and with no supplies or proper med kits at hand. Even so, marius might never fight again if they fixed the wound.
The last few Flame Legion soldiers fell quickly, but it seemed like it no longer mattered. They had destroyed everything.
As an empty silence settled on the area, Marius toppled over. The sound of his impact with the ground was loud, even deafening to Vethrir. He dropped his rifle, his blade gleaming with the crimson blood of his enemies, and knelt beside Marius as he rolled onto his back. His eyes were distant, and Vethrir knew there was little time left.
Marius' claws fumbled blindly at his lower body. One hand grabbed Vethrir by the collar of his armour, the other grasped the hilt of the dagger he had borne since the death of their Primus. The dagger was unsheathed and raised for Vethrir to take.
No words were exchanged between the brothers. A meaningful look was all it required; Marius' eyes told Vethrir everything he needed to know.
"Carry our honour with you."
Vethrir stood from his chair, grabbed it and lifted it above his head. The quiet of the Centerhouse was broken abruptly as he smashed the chair against the stone floor with a furious roar. He stared briefly at the broken chair on the ground. Then, without answering the questions from the crusaders and lionguard he woke up, not even looking at them over his shoulder, he turned and left the Centerhouse.
He needed some fresh air.
And a drink.
Is there anything else you would like to add, ask, or otherwise clarify?:
Ya lyublyu kartoshka.
