Post by Renegade on Dec 3, 2011 1:57:04 GMT 8
20th March, 4A203
Forik
Bank of the Congelo River
Ulric wiped the blood from his sword on his fur padded pouldron, then sheathed it satisfied that the thing was dead. He looked down has the suffering animal took it's last breath. "Dig in, you maggots!" He shouted to five equally muscular men standing around him. "How is that fire going?"
He did not really give a damn anyway, he was not hungry, and especially not for deer - He was sick of deer.
He walked down to the river while the others had their meal, staring across the river he could see the start of the Krumar Highlands, the land that descended all the way down till Kroya. To the west the sun hung lazily, tired from it's journey across the sky, though it still had plenty of light left.
They had been camped here for a few days now, and had hardly any travelers come this way. People were too scared to travel these days, and from his point of view he could see why, but he didn't blame himself, or even people like himself or his marauders. He blamed, what people where called the Baschotia, or the Dealers of Death. Mages specializing in the forbidden art of Death Magic.
It was actually only recently that the Baschotia were known for what they are, for decades they had been obscured by their own recursiveness, striking from shadows, much as they do still now. No one knows what they do to their victims, but whatever it was that they got off on, was not good for travelers.
Ulric was out on the road because he and his troop were arrogant - Some would say foolish.
Those people though were the same content old men that still think themselves war-chiefs in the north and south poles, far away from any sort of 'war' at all.
Ulric did not want to be stuck up there fighting for the same old food scraps with the same old enemy clans, which to be fair, were probably blood relatives, which made Ulric sick to his stomach. There was interesting stuff happening on the mainlands that he wanted to be a part of, plenty of fresh bloodshed to go around for him and his band of not-so-merry men.
But things had been getting stale, the same meat, the same idiots, and the same snow beneath his feet - even in the middle of summer, up this far it was still patched with snow.
They needed something dramatic to happen. Ulric' sword had not tasted human blood for too long, and thrusting it into his own bored self was seeming more and more like a good idea as time went by.
Forik
Bank of the Congelo River
Ulric wiped the blood from his sword on his fur padded pouldron, then sheathed it satisfied that the thing was dead. He looked down has the suffering animal took it's last breath. "Dig in, you maggots!" He shouted to five equally muscular men standing around him. "How is that fire going?"
He did not really give a damn anyway, he was not hungry, and especially not for deer - He was sick of deer.
He walked down to the river while the others had their meal, staring across the river he could see the start of the Krumar Highlands, the land that descended all the way down till Kroya. To the west the sun hung lazily, tired from it's journey across the sky, though it still had plenty of light left.
They had been camped here for a few days now, and had hardly any travelers come this way. People were too scared to travel these days, and from his point of view he could see why, but he didn't blame himself, or even people like himself or his marauders. He blamed, what people where called the Baschotia, or the Dealers of Death. Mages specializing in the forbidden art of Death Magic.
It was actually only recently that the Baschotia were known for what they are, for decades they had been obscured by their own recursiveness, striking from shadows, much as they do still now. No one knows what they do to their victims, but whatever it was that they got off on, was not good for travelers.
Ulric was out on the road because he and his troop were arrogant - Some would say foolish.
Those people though were the same content old men that still think themselves war-chiefs in the north and south poles, far away from any sort of 'war' at all.
Ulric did not want to be stuck up there fighting for the same old food scraps with the same old enemy clans, which to be fair, were probably blood relatives, which made Ulric sick to his stomach. There was interesting stuff happening on the mainlands that he wanted to be a part of, plenty of fresh bloodshed to go around for him and his band of not-so-merry men.
But things had been getting stale, the same meat, the same idiots, and the same snow beneath his feet - even in the middle of summer, up this far it was still patched with snow.
They needed something dramatic to happen. Ulric' sword had not tasted human blood for too long, and thrusting it into his own bored self was seeming more and more like a good idea as time went by.
