Story
Torin, Born of the Mountains.
His people, his culture, they believe in her. The Stone mother who gave to them, who provided shelter from the wild beasts of the jungles below. Who provided outlook over the lush, green terraces. Torin ensured the mountains were kept safe for him and the other children of Earth. The Stonemen like himself, the bearded sages who understand the runes.
But the Jungles have been screaming with the war drums of the savages. "Elven" is what they call themselves. They have been ambushing the hunting parties of Torin and his people, killing their prey and even setting fires to the land that surrounds their hearth.
Torin called out to the others of his village, and chose the 3 proudest youths of their hunting bands to escort him. He was setting out to return the fire to the savages.
As they traveled into the depths of the Jungle, they were unaware of the savages that waited in the trees and watched. They patiently stood by, until the moment was right to ambush Torin and his crew.
The arrows flew out. One lad was taken down immediately, another one critically injured as the missiles pierced into him. The third child, horrified by what had become of his friends, turned and fled into the brush.
Torin tried to immediately rush to the aid of the youths; he tried to call out a warning to the third. But in a moment's notice he was surrounded by his attackers. Arrows knocked, blades drawn, Torin screamed out in anguish and drew his Hammer crafted by the beardmen, and raised his shield.
The arrows flew. His Goliath skin stung as the points pierced in, but few actually penetrated his rock-speckled hide. He engaged on the nearest foe, swinging wildly his hammer to the back of the Elf's legs....and as he fell he curved back around to drive the hammer into his face.
Two more engaged, blades drawn. He met one blade with his shield, but was taken in the sides by the other. He raised out his hammer and screamed out the name of his Goddess, pleading for her aid as he smashed his weapon into the Elf who caught him off guard. The Earth shook around his foes, grasping at him as he tried to struggle back to his feet. The claws of Earth, however, tore him asunder.
The elves were taken back by the brutality of their target, and a few archers turned to flee much like the third youth. Torin's eyes connected with the other bladesman, and he snarled as he swiped repeated blows his Warhammer, catching him off his guard. The second youth, still alive, took advantage of this moment to lash up behind the Bladesman and drive his own daggers into his sides.
As he dropped the bladesman to the ground, the Youth gazed up to behold a fierce some scene....as the Elf leading the ambush emerged from the treetops. He was leaner, stronger than the rest, and brandishing some frightful blades. A few of the Archers also re-appeared, once again knocked and standing guard.
Torin had nothing of it. Though hurt, it appeared that not only did the damage hardly phase him, but he seemed to regain his strength with every crushing blow.
But what the Elves weren't ready for was when Torin, raising his hammer for one last cry, began kicking out the ground, snorting, as two stones lodged in his forehead began to grow out like Ram's Horns. The archers began to shake in Fear, and were shocked as thunder cracked in the skies above as Torin charged towards their leader.
The Youth had not witnessed the events afterward; blinded by the crashes of lightening and deafened by the sounds of thunder. All he knew was that when he came to, the Elves -- including their leader -- laid bloodied and defeated on the ground.
It's unknown what has happened to Torin, but the Elven war drums haven't beaten since. The fires no longer burn at the edge of the Mountains. And according to some, the Storms that blow through the Jungles below are Torin, maintaining vigil for Mother Mountain.
No comments:
Post a Comment