(no subject)
Telor floated in a world of perfect silence, there was no light, no hope in this place. Unlike most he did not rest there, he screamed. Shouting and clawing at the nothingness. Hours passed, perhaps days passed in the darkness of his mind. He kept clawing, screaming and pulling at the empty space, he refused, he protested. He did not understand where he was, only that his brothers were upwards. His brothers needed him. He could not hear a sound, not feel a thing, but the red rage that burned within him, complelling him, forcing him to climb higher and higher. The darkness offered no end to his climb. And with each push to the surface of his mind the pain grew worse and worse. Just when his body had reached it's limit, just as he felt as if his very skin would tear from his bones and fall into the nothingness, he felt a surge upward, a push and his world filled with the sight of mud.
Telor opened his eyes, his head rang as if a church bell had been rung around it. The battlefield was quiet now. A light chilling rain dripped from the sky. Here he was face down in the mud, as the ringing in his ears subsided he could hear boots walking all around him. He dared not lift his face just yet. He was not a coward, but he was not stupid, if the battle was lost, he must live to warn others of their defeat before the blight reached the nearby towns. He winced as he felt a heavy plated boot step right on the center of his back, pushing him deeper into the mud, feeling the heavy weight of a barbarian or an undead walk over his body. Another boot, then another, He breathed into the mud, grimacing, feeling some of the wet dirt between his teeth. The feet stopped pressing on him and he looked up timidly with one eye. The wheel of one of the covered wagons was rolling right for him. He could see and feel bodies moving around him, he had to wait till just the right moment, or someone would notice him moving out of the path of the wheel. He held his breath, noticing how close it was already. Telor rolled right as the shadow of the wagon passed over him. His eyes went wide as he saw the amount of feet walking behind the wagon. If he let it pass he would be trampled to death by an army. His hands reached up and took hold of the planks of wood, pushing his fingers into the grooves. He strained and lifted himself from the mud, pushing his boots agianst the underside of the wagon. He was now a passenger on the bottom of the wagon, as long as his arms could carry him.
For hours he held on for dear life, his arms tight and unforgiving, the muscles straining and pulling at him, begging to be allowed to rest. His head throbbed from the bashing it had gained during the battle, it was if his body was protesting and giving up on him. Telor could not let go however, he could not give into his concussion nor his sore body, there was work to be done. The wagon eventually stopped. Telor could hear the familar sound of men setting up camp fires. The boots he could see from his hiding spot began to scatter, began to find places to rest or feast. He let go of the wagon, and fell back to the mud, stifiling his groan with clentched teeth. He head the door to the wagon open, and saw a small stair case lower from inside. Robed men made their way down the short steps to the muddy ground. He heard one of them speak to the other. His voice raspy and old.
"Make sure our human...warriors do not eat too many of the dead. Or make too many trophies out of them. We need full corpses to bolster out ranks. Our barbarian friends need not forget they serve the blight. NOT the other way around." The other robbed men grumbled in agreement, before they scattered. Telor was sickened. It was horrible enough to make trinkets of your fallen enemies, but to eat them, it was more then taboo. The beaten warrior rolled onto his belly, and slowly crawled to the back of the wagon, still hidden in it's shadow. A pair of boots blocked his exit. He looked up the boots, to find a skeletal creature wearing light leather armor. He had only heard of tales of necromancers and dark powers. Now he stared right at the work of both of them. He could not hold onto the wagon for hours as he did before, his body would not allow it. He had to escape now. Luckily the skeleton was looking away from the wagon.
He slid from under the wagon, and quietly stood to his feet. The skeleton had not sensed him nor turned to face him. Telor looked left and saw the gruesome sight. Push carts full of corpses. They took the slain with them, to use them in a later battle. He returned his focus to the skeleton in front of him. It had a shield and a sword, but it stood unprepared for a fight. Telor grabbed its shoulder and spun the creature to face him. The skeleton's face held no emotion, even as Telor brought his fist down into it's temple and shattered it's skull to white splinters. He took the undead's short sword and stumbled off into the brush and thorns along the side of the road, he fell loudly into the tangled bushes, and began to crawl. He emerged so far from the battlefield, so far from home. He could still see the camps nearby, they had not yet noticed their broken guard or their passenger's tracks. His breath came in ragged gasps and he pushed his body onward into the woods and wilderness. He walked for sometime before his body gave out again and he sank into slumber.
Telor opened his eyes, his head rang as if a church bell had been rung around it. The battlefield was quiet now. A light chilling rain dripped from the sky. Here he was face down in the mud, as the ringing in his ears subsided he could hear boots walking all around him. He dared not lift his face just yet. He was not a coward, but he was not stupid, if the battle was lost, he must live to warn others of their defeat before the blight reached the nearby towns. He winced as he felt a heavy plated boot step right on the center of his back, pushing him deeper into the mud, feeling the heavy weight of a barbarian or an undead walk over his body. Another boot, then another, He breathed into the mud, grimacing, feeling some of the wet dirt between his teeth. The feet stopped pressing on him and he looked up timidly with one eye. The wheel of one of the covered wagons was rolling right for him. He could see and feel bodies moving around him, he had to wait till just the right moment, or someone would notice him moving out of the path of the wheel. He held his breath, noticing how close it was already. Telor rolled right as the shadow of the wagon passed over him. His eyes went wide as he saw the amount of feet walking behind the wagon. If he let it pass he would be trampled to death by an army. His hands reached up and took hold of the planks of wood, pushing his fingers into the grooves. He strained and lifted himself from the mud, pushing his boots agianst the underside of the wagon. He was now a passenger on the bottom of the wagon, as long as his arms could carry him.
For hours he held on for dear life, his arms tight and unforgiving, the muscles straining and pulling at him, begging to be allowed to rest. His head throbbed from the bashing it had gained during the battle, it was if his body was protesting and giving up on him. Telor could not let go however, he could not give into his concussion nor his sore body, there was work to be done. The wagon eventually stopped. Telor could hear the familar sound of men setting up camp fires. The boots he could see from his hiding spot began to scatter, began to find places to rest or feast. He let go of the wagon, and fell back to the mud, stifiling his groan with clentched teeth. He head the door to the wagon open, and saw a small stair case lower from inside. Robed men made their way down the short steps to the muddy ground. He heard one of them speak to the other. His voice raspy and old.
"Make sure our human...warriors do not eat too many of the dead. Or make too many trophies out of them. We need full corpses to bolster out ranks. Our barbarian friends need not forget they serve the blight. NOT the other way around." The other robbed men grumbled in agreement, before they scattered. Telor was sickened. It was horrible enough to make trinkets of your fallen enemies, but to eat them, it was more then taboo. The beaten warrior rolled onto his belly, and slowly crawled to the back of the wagon, still hidden in it's shadow. A pair of boots blocked his exit. He looked up the boots, to find a skeletal creature wearing light leather armor. He had only heard of tales of necromancers and dark powers. Now he stared right at the work of both of them. He could not hold onto the wagon for hours as he did before, his body would not allow it. He had to escape now. Luckily the skeleton was looking away from the wagon.
He slid from under the wagon, and quietly stood to his feet. The skeleton had not sensed him nor turned to face him. Telor looked left and saw the gruesome sight. Push carts full of corpses. They took the slain with them, to use them in a later battle. He returned his focus to the skeleton in front of him. It had a shield and a sword, but it stood unprepared for a fight. Telor grabbed its shoulder and spun the creature to face him. The skeleton's face held no emotion, even as Telor brought his fist down into it's temple and shattered it's skull to white splinters. He took the undead's short sword and stumbled off into the brush and thorns along the side of the road, he fell loudly into the tangled bushes, and began to crawl. He emerged so far from the battlefield, so far from home. He could still see the camps nearby, they had not yet noticed their broken guard or their passenger's tracks. His breath came in ragged gasps and he pushed his body onward into the woods and wilderness. He walked for sometime before his body gave out again and he sank into slumber.