3. Thunderbolt
Posted: Wed Apr 15, 2020 4:47 pm
![Image](https://i.imgur.com/mQwIkRb.png)
27th trial, Cylus, 720
Continued from here
The leader roared its rage and hatred out into the wall of men, but not its fear. It simply wasn't capable of it; the rudimentary understanding of such things as self-preservation, mortality, and finite existence was not built into it. Its masters had created it to be fearless, not just without fear, but incapable. Even pain was just a simple if visceral neurological warning system, telling it damage had been sustained and it stood a better chance of fleeing to survive and attack again, rather than stay and die fruitlessly.
That had been the way during the siege. When it had not yet been a leader, and hurled itself along with its kin against the walls. But it had been wounded, grievously, and forced to retreat. When next the masters had called... it had a new task. One of sneaking and ambushing and harrying, rather than brute force assault. Thus it had become a leader of scattered Heathounds; thus it had begun its campaign, though such concepts would elude it utterly.
The leader roared, but this time, it did not flee. All around it were foes. Enemies. Targets. Meat. Meat meat meat blood blood bone flesh and squishy soft and tasty things to be charred and that part of it that had been shoved in amidst the prefabricated and the manufactured cried out for satisfaction and no, no it would not run.
It did not know it would die. The thought did not cross its mind. It simply fought until the blackness took it.
"Hell's Shit," Sir Fredrik snarled, in a very un-Knightly manner. Not that he cared much in that instant. The largest of the Heathounds - the leader, he was sure of it - practically demolished Sir Quinn with that leap. Hundreds of pounds of armored body behind a gaping more tore the Knight clear off the back of his horse and was chewing into his armor before they'd even hit the ground. "Help him! Take it down, damnit! Take it-"
The words were buried a moment later, as Sir Quinn started screaming.
Kasoria heard, but did not see. He had his own enemy to fight. The moment he landed, the thing was on him. Eyeless face roaring around that maw, lunging at the one that had impaled it with that fucking human spear. Kasoria's ax pulled back and he held out his hand, as if he would catch the lunging creature by the throat-
CRACK
The Heathound seemed jump straight into a wall that was not there. One moment it was leaping for him, feet off the ground, unstoppable and inevitable compared to the skinny old man with the ax and cloak. Then it smashed into something that not only broke every tooth in its skull, but sent it flying back as if struck by a god's hammer. By the crazed light of a dozen flashing, fleeing, running torches, anyone watching might see the feral smile sliding across the old man's face. He shook his hand, and the glow in the center of it faded.
Barrier and Backlash. Fast becoming my favorite.
He didn't give the stunned creature a chance to right itself. As it writhed on its side, spitting teeth and boiling blood, he dashed over, ax raised-
SHUNK
-bringing it straight down like an executioner, bearded head ripping through armored scaled and into the flesh-that-was-not-quite-flesh underneath it. Facsimile muscles and tendons parted as the human braced one foot on the ax and instead of ripping the ax up and out-
There was a terrible, daemonic scream as Kasoria forced all his strength into ripping the ax back towards himself. Parallel to the ground. Ripping the ragged hole wider through the monster as he pulled it free. Ripping and tearing like a rotten sail being pared by daggers mingled with the shrieking. Guts and effluence poured from the wound made into a geyser instead. The Etzori wasn't content with a quick, narrow wound. He wanted this thing mangled and insensate with agony to the point it couldn't even think of attacking. That it would bleed out in trills, not bits.
He'd seen what they could do, even when hewn with mortal wounds. He wasn't taking chances. He ripped clear the ax and when the shattered head swung towards him again-
THUNK
-the ax struck out again, from the side, into where he assumed the creature's brain would be. Even one-handed, he could put a truly brutal amount of force into the blow. The ax head vanished into dark, reptilian scales... and when he pulled it clear, the blue glow in its mouth sputtered and began to fade. Right before it slumped down to the ground with a gurgled sigh.
One down...
He looked around and saw a familiar scene of nauseating, desperate chaos playing out around him. A caravan waylaid and assaulted on the road. Travelers and their guards, engaged in wild melee with ambushers. Only this time, it wasn't bandits and fat merchants with their hired muscle, but travelers and Knights and Fire-born monstrosities. Kasoria shoved a slew of old memories from his head and found his footing. The guards were forming a rough line between the carts and wagons and the Fire-born. The Knights had slammed into the back of the pack... and the monsters were in the middle of that sandwich. Trapped and surprised, nowhere to go but back into the dirt.
And by the looks of it, that's where a few of them had already gone. But not all. And not the big one.
That had been the way during the siege. When it had not yet been a leader, and hurled itself along with its kin against the walls. But it had been wounded, grievously, and forced to retreat. When next the masters had called... it had a new task. One of sneaking and ambushing and harrying, rather than brute force assault. Thus it had become a leader of scattered Heathounds; thus it had begun its campaign, though such concepts would elude it utterly.
The leader roared, but this time, it did not flee. All around it were foes. Enemies. Targets. Meat. Meat meat meat blood blood bone flesh and squishy soft and tasty things to be charred and that part of it that had been shoved in amidst the prefabricated and the manufactured cried out for satisfaction and no, no it would not run.
It did not know it would die. The thought did not cross its mind. It simply fought until the blackness took it.
"Hell's Shit," Sir Fredrik snarled, in a very un-Knightly manner. Not that he cared much in that instant. The largest of the Heathounds - the leader, he was sure of it - practically demolished Sir Quinn with that leap. Hundreds of pounds of armored body behind a gaping more tore the Knight clear off the back of his horse and was chewing into his armor before they'd even hit the ground. "Help him! Take it down, damnit! Take it-"
The words were buried a moment later, as Sir Quinn started screaming.
Kasoria heard, but did not see. He had his own enemy to fight. The moment he landed, the thing was on him. Eyeless face roaring around that maw, lunging at the one that had impaled it with that fucking human spear. Kasoria's ax pulled back and he held out his hand, as if he would catch the lunging creature by the throat-
CRACK
The Heathound seemed jump straight into a wall that was not there. One moment it was leaping for him, feet off the ground, unstoppable and inevitable compared to the skinny old man with the ax and cloak. Then it smashed into something that not only broke every tooth in its skull, but sent it flying back as if struck by a god's hammer. By the crazed light of a dozen flashing, fleeing, running torches, anyone watching might see the feral smile sliding across the old man's face. He shook his hand, and the glow in the center of it faded.
Barrier and Backlash. Fast becoming my favorite.
He didn't give the stunned creature a chance to right itself. As it writhed on its side, spitting teeth and boiling blood, he dashed over, ax raised-
SHUNK
-bringing it straight down like an executioner, bearded head ripping through armored scaled and into the flesh-that-was-not-quite-flesh underneath it. Facsimile muscles and tendons parted as the human braced one foot on the ax and instead of ripping the ax up and out-
There was a terrible, daemonic scream as Kasoria forced all his strength into ripping the ax back towards himself. Parallel to the ground. Ripping the ragged hole wider through the monster as he pulled it free. Ripping and tearing like a rotten sail being pared by daggers mingled with the shrieking. Guts and effluence poured from the wound made into a geyser instead. The Etzori wasn't content with a quick, narrow wound. He wanted this thing mangled and insensate with agony to the point it couldn't even think of attacking. That it would bleed out in trills, not bits.
He'd seen what they could do, even when hewn with mortal wounds. He wasn't taking chances. He ripped clear the ax and when the shattered head swung towards him again-
THUNK
-the ax struck out again, from the side, into where he assumed the creature's brain would be. Even one-handed, he could put a truly brutal amount of force into the blow. The ax head vanished into dark, reptilian scales... and when he pulled it clear, the blue glow in its mouth sputtered and began to fade. Right before it slumped down to the ground with a gurgled sigh.
One down...
He looked around and saw a familiar scene of nauseating, desperate chaos playing out around him. A caravan waylaid and assaulted on the road. Travelers and their guards, engaged in wild melee with ambushers. Only this time, it wasn't bandits and fat merchants with their hired muscle, but travelers and Knights and Fire-born monstrosities. Kasoria shoved a slew of old memories from his head and found his footing. The guards were forming a rough line between the carts and wagons and the Fire-born. The Knights had slammed into the back of the pack... and the monsters were in the middle of that sandwich. Trapped and surprised, nowhere to go but back into the dirt.
And by the looks of it, that's where a few of them had already gone. But not all. And not the big one.