Elknih and Fenris
Axe in hand, Elknih faced the two fel orcs. His only emotion was anger-a fiery, raging fury that burned up fear. He was within sight of his goal. The exit was visible on the other side of the bridge. He should have known. They would never let him escape. They would hurl every weapon they had in possession at him. The legion was smart. Their malevolent intelligence had fought against the light for millennia. Eknih had lived and fought, only to be defeated in the end. For there was no way he could win. The legion had allowed him to get well onto the bridge, where he would have no cover, no escape. They had hidden themselves among the dead corpses of others, waiting for him to return. Their guttural grunts and laughs served only to further enrage him as they stood at either end of the bridge, sandwiching him between.
He had entered this fortress with a group of warriors such as he. Each with different skills and abilities meant to compliment the others. They had been dispatched from Honor Hold, an alliance stronghold deep in the harsh and barren Outlands. But things had gone horribly wrong. They were ambushed deep within the Legion Fortress known as Hellfire Citadel. Their devout priest had been the first to fall beneath the horrible onslaught, and soon after their mage had been overwhelmed and cut down. Surrounded on all sides, their brave leader, a holy paladin, sacrificed himself to save the two remaining members. Elknih and a rogue. As they retreated, the rogue saw fit to steal a valuable treasure from a nearby store room, and Elknih could do nothing but run, listening to the tortured screams of the late assassin. His bow was broken in the fight and he only had his massive magical axe, Legacy remaining.
The two orcs were moving, one to his right and one to his left, pressing in on him. Elknih knew that when he attacked one, the other would strike him from behind. The hunters only chance would be to throw his axe and kill the first one outright, then turn to fight the other. This strategy in mind, Elknih backed up, feinting first towards one, then the other, forcing them to keep their distance. They did so, toying with him, knowing that they had him, for fel orcs enjoy playing with their victims and will rarely kill outright if there is a chance they can have some sport.
Angered beyond rational thought, no longer caring whether he lived or died, wanting only to strike out at these creatures and, through them, at the Legion itself, Elknih called upon a lifetime of fear and despair and used the strength of his rage and frustration to power his throw. The axe flew from his hand; he shouted after it the arcane calls that would send it flying swift and straight to his enemy. His aim was good, the axe tore through the orc's black armor, and it fell backward, dead before it hit the ground.
A flash of pain shot through Elknih. Gasping in agony, he wrenched his body aside and whirled to face his other foe. He could feel his blood, warm against his chill skin, flow from the wound. The orc could have severed his head, but instead he had struck him in the back, obviously not wanting to kill him yet. Elknih's axe was gone. His hunting knife was all that was left. His knife-used for skinning, honing, cutting-did not have the magic of flight on it so were he to throw and miss, it would be fists against broad sword. He could risk running in under the orc's guard and striking directly at the heart, or throw it and risk missing. But he had to end the battle soon. He was losing blood and he lacked a shield with which to parry the orc's axe blows.
The orc, realizing Elknih's dilemma, swung its huge axe. Aiming for the left arm, the orc tried to cut it off-disabling its enemy but not yet killing. Elk saw the blow coming and dodged it as best he could, turning to meet it with his shoulder. The blade sank deep, bone crunched. The pain nearly made Elknih black out. He could no longer feel his left hand, let alone use it.
The orc fell back, recovering, getting itself into position for the next strike. Elknih gripped his dagger and fought to see through a red haze that was fast dimming his vision. He didn't care about his life anymore. His hatred had gained control. The last sensation he wanted to feel before his death was satisfaction in knowing he had taken his enemy with him.
The orc lifted the axe again, preparing to launch another torturing blow at its helpless victim. Calm with despair, lost in a stupor that was not entirely feigned, Elknih waited. He had a new strategy. It meant he would die, but so would his foe. The orc arm swung back, and at the same moment, a black form leapt out from somewhere behind Elknih, and launched itself straight at the orc.
Confused by this sudden and unexpected attack, the orc glanced away from Elknih to see what was coming at it, and, in so doing, shifted the angle of its axe swing to meet this new foe. Elknih heard a pain-filled yelp, a whimper, and had the vague impression of a furry body falling to the ground. He did not pay any attention to what it may have been. The orc, lowering its arms to strike the new threat, had left its chest exposed. Elknih aimed his dagger straight for its heart.
The orc saw its danger and tried to recover, but Elknih had come in too close. The orc's axe sliced into the night elf's side, glancing off the ribs. Elknih never felt it. He drove his dagger into the orc's chest with such force that they both toppled over backward and crashed to the ground.
Rolling off the body of his enemy, Elknih did not attempt to stand. The orc was dead. Now, he too, could die and find peace, like so many others before him. The Legion had won. He had fought it though, even to the end.
Elknih lay on the ground and let his life seep out of his body. He could have tried to bandage himself, but that would have required effort, movement, more pain. He didn't want to move. He didn't want to hurt anymore. He yawned, feeling sleepy. It was pleasant to lie here and know that soon he wouldn't have to fight ever again.
A low whining sound caused him to open his eyes, not so much in fear as in irritation that he wasn't going to get to die in peace. Turning his head slightly, he saw a wolf. So that was the black furry thing that had attacked the orc. Where had it come from? Presumably it had been a slave of the orc's, perhaps it had escaped and come to his aid.
The wolf crouched on its belly, head between its paws. Seeing Elknih look at it, the wolf whined again and, dragging itself forward, made an attempt to lick the man's hand. It was then that Elknih saw the wolf was hurt.
Blood flowed from a deep gash in the animal's body. Elknih recalled vaguely hearing its cry and whimper when it fell. The wolf was staring at him hopefully, expecting (as dogs do)that this night elf would care for it and make the terrible pain it was suffering go away.
"I'm sorry, " Elknih mumbled drowsily. "I can't help you. I can't even help myself."
The wolf, at the sound of Elknih's voice, feebly wagged its bushy tail and continued to regard him with complete, trusting faith.
"Go off and die somewhere else!" Elknih made an abrupt, angry gesture. Pain tore through his body, and he cried out in agony. The wolf gave a small bark, and Elknih felt a soft muzzle nudge his hand. Hurt as it was, the animal was offering him sympathy.
And then Elknih, glancing over half comforted, half irratibly, saw that the wolf was struggling to rise to its feet. Standing unsteadily, the dog fixed its gaze on the large arched doorway, the exit. It licked Elkinh's hand once more, then set off, limping feebly, for the exit.
It had misunderstood Elknih's gesture. It was going to try and go for help-help for him.
The wolf didn't get very far. Whimpering, it managed to take two or three steps before it collapsed. Pausing a moment to rest, the animal tried again.
"Stop it!" Elkinh whispered. "Stop it! It's not worth it!"
The animal, not understanding, turned its head and looked at him as if to say, "Be patient. I can't go very fast but I won't let you down."
Selflessness, compassion, pity-these were considered virtues by his people.
"Your a coward, " he said to himself. "This animal has the courage to fight to live, and you give up."
No tender feeling caused Elknih to reach across with his right hand and grasp his useless left. It was shame and pride that drove him.
"Come here!" He commanded the wolf.
The wolf, too weak to stand, dragged its belly, leaving a trail of blood on the stone.
Gritting his teeth, gasping, crying out in pain, Elknih pressed his hand against the animal's torn flank. Letting it rest there, he placed his right hand on the wolf's head. The healing circle was formed; Elknih saw, with his fading vision, the wolf's wounds close. He felt the warmth rise through him, into his hands and through the wolf as the powers of nature answered his call. With his fading strength, he poured his own life force into the animal. As he lost consciousness, Elknih vaguely felt jaws bite down on his leather tunic, and drag him towards the exit.
He had entered this fortress with a group of warriors such as he. Each with different skills and abilities meant to compliment the others. They had been dispatched from Honor Hold, an alliance stronghold deep in the harsh and barren Outlands. But things had gone horribly wrong. They were ambushed deep within the Legion Fortress known as Hellfire Citadel. Their devout priest had been the first to fall beneath the horrible onslaught, and soon after their mage had been overwhelmed and cut down. Surrounded on all sides, their brave leader, a holy paladin, sacrificed himself to save the two remaining members. Elknih and a rogue. As they retreated, the rogue saw fit to steal a valuable treasure from a nearby store room, and Elknih could do nothing but run, listening to the tortured screams of the late assassin. His bow was broken in the fight and he only had his massive magical axe, Legacy remaining.
The two orcs were moving, one to his right and one to his left, pressing in on him. Elknih knew that when he attacked one, the other would strike him from behind. The hunters only chance would be to throw his axe and kill the first one outright, then turn to fight the other. This strategy in mind, Elknih backed up, feinting first towards one, then the other, forcing them to keep their distance. They did so, toying with him, knowing that they had him, for fel orcs enjoy playing with their victims and will rarely kill outright if there is a chance they can have some sport.
Angered beyond rational thought, no longer caring whether he lived or died, wanting only to strike out at these creatures and, through them, at the Legion itself, Elknih called upon a lifetime of fear and despair and used the strength of his rage and frustration to power his throw. The axe flew from his hand; he shouted after it the arcane calls that would send it flying swift and straight to his enemy. His aim was good, the axe tore through the orc's black armor, and it fell backward, dead before it hit the ground.
A flash of pain shot through Elknih. Gasping in agony, he wrenched his body aside and whirled to face his other foe. He could feel his blood, warm against his chill skin, flow from the wound. The orc could have severed his head, but instead he had struck him in the back, obviously not wanting to kill him yet. Elknih's axe was gone. His hunting knife was all that was left. His knife-used for skinning, honing, cutting-did not have the magic of flight on it so were he to throw and miss, it would be fists against broad sword. He could risk running in under the orc's guard and striking directly at the heart, or throw it and risk missing. But he had to end the battle soon. He was losing blood and he lacked a shield with which to parry the orc's axe blows.
The orc, realizing Elknih's dilemma, swung its huge axe. Aiming for the left arm, the orc tried to cut it off-disabling its enemy but not yet killing. Elk saw the blow coming and dodged it as best he could, turning to meet it with his shoulder. The blade sank deep, bone crunched. The pain nearly made Elknih black out. He could no longer feel his left hand, let alone use it.
The orc fell back, recovering, getting itself into position for the next strike. Elknih gripped his dagger and fought to see through a red haze that was fast dimming his vision. He didn't care about his life anymore. His hatred had gained control. The last sensation he wanted to feel before his death was satisfaction in knowing he had taken his enemy with him.
The orc lifted the axe again, preparing to launch another torturing blow at its helpless victim. Calm with despair, lost in a stupor that was not entirely feigned, Elknih waited. He had a new strategy. It meant he would die, but so would his foe. The orc arm swung back, and at the same moment, a black form leapt out from somewhere behind Elknih, and launched itself straight at the orc.
Confused by this sudden and unexpected attack, the orc glanced away from Elknih to see what was coming at it, and, in so doing, shifted the angle of its axe swing to meet this new foe. Elknih heard a pain-filled yelp, a whimper, and had the vague impression of a furry body falling to the ground. He did not pay any attention to what it may have been. The orc, lowering its arms to strike the new threat, had left its chest exposed. Elknih aimed his dagger straight for its heart.
The orc saw its danger and tried to recover, but Elknih had come in too close. The orc's axe sliced into the night elf's side, glancing off the ribs. Elknih never felt it. He drove his dagger into the orc's chest with such force that they both toppled over backward and crashed to the ground.
Rolling off the body of his enemy, Elknih did not attempt to stand. The orc was dead. Now, he too, could die and find peace, like so many others before him. The Legion had won. He had fought it though, even to the end.
Elknih lay on the ground and let his life seep out of his body. He could have tried to bandage himself, but that would have required effort, movement, more pain. He didn't want to move. He didn't want to hurt anymore. He yawned, feeling sleepy. It was pleasant to lie here and know that soon he wouldn't have to fight ever again.
A low whining sound caused him to open his eyes, not so much in fear as in irritation that he wasn't going to get to die in peace. Turning his head slightly, he saw a wolf. So that was the black furry thing that had attacked the orc. Where had it come from? Presumably it had been a slave of the orc's, perhaps it had escaped and come to his aid.
The wolf crouched on its belly, head between its paws. Seeing Elknih look at it, the wolf whined again and, dragging itself forward, made an attempt to lick the man's hand. It was then that Elknih saw the wolf was hurt.
Blood flowed from a deep gash in the animal's body. Elknih recalled vaguely hearing its cry and whimper when it fell. The wolf was staring at him hopefully, expecting (as dogs do)that this night elf would care for it and make the terrible pain it was suffering go away.
"I'm sorry, " Elknih mumbled drowsily. "I can't help you. I can't even help myself."
The wolf, at the sound of Elknih's voice, feebly wagged its bushy tail and continued to regard him with complete, trusting faith.
"Go off and die somewhere else!" Elknih made an abrupt, angry gesture. Pain tore through his body, and he cried out in agony. The wolf gave a small bark, and Elknih felt a soft muzzle nudge his hand. Hurt as it was, the animal was offering him sympathy.
And then Elknih, glancing over half comforted, half irratibly, saw that the wolf was struggling to rise to its feet. Standing unsteadily, the dog fixed its gaze on the large arched doorway, the exit. It licked Elkinh's hand once more, then set off, limping feebly, for the exit.
It had misunderstood Elknih's gesture. It was going to try and go for help-help for him.
The wolf didn't get very far. Whimpering, it managed to take two or three steps before it collapsed. Pausing a moment to rest, the animal tried again.
"Stop it!" Elkinh whispered. "Stop it! It's not worth it!"
The animal, not understanding, turned its head and looked at him as if to say, "Be patient. I can't go very fast but I won't let you down."
Selflessness, compassion, pity-these were considered virtues by his people.
"Your a coward, " he said to himself. "This animal has the courage to fight to live, and you give up."
No tender feeling caused Elknih to reach across with his right hand and grasp his useless left. It was shame and pride that drove him.
"Come here!" He commanded the wolf.
The wolf, too weak to stand, dragged its belly, leaving a trail of blood on the stone.
Gritting his teeth, gasping, crying out in pain, Elknih pressed his hand against the animal's torn flank. Letting it rest there, he placed his right hand on the wolf's head. The healing circle was formed; Elknih saw, with his fading vision, the wolf's wounds close. He felt the warmth rise through him, into his hands and through the wolf as the powers of nature answered his call. With his fading strength, he poured his own life force into the animal. As he lost consciousness, Elknih vaguely felt jaws bite down on his leather tunic, and drag him towards the exit.