3. Hjoichi Olsen

Hjoichi Olsen

  • G

    player: Gahlord
    Character: Hjoichi Olsen
    [another re-roll. if it's poor form, by the way, to try and nab a little xp this way, please disregard or just read for your own enjoyment.]

    “Yes another fat-one please” quietly whispered as a thin hand reaches out and deftly catches a thick locust before jamming it into a hungry mouth. Feet moving quickly and silently, automatically avoiding shrubs and underbrush. The hand that caught the locust just moments before already clutching a clumsy dart that formerly belonged to the evil, insidious, wicked and nasty Kobold Overlords.

    That was before, though. Before this hand crushed the neck of one of their distance strikers. Before this foot tread upon its back. Before this voice called the scaley to it’s doom. Long ago. In some other place many years before. There had been others there, in that place, that long ago place of years before.

    There had been Kalis. Yes there had been Kalis, the woodchopping druid. (Here the hand that formerly clutched a worn and flawed dart snatched another bug from the undergrowth, jamming into a gaping maw attached to the face of a head that was rimmed with whispy white hair.) Oh yes Kalis Reign he’d known of the Stag. He’d been told of it but knew not what to make of it.

    The Stag Aflame that haunted dreams and drove ever onward the feet that tread on the skulls of kobolds in dark and lonesome hill far from home. From home? From whichplace? Whatplace?

    Svenka.

    The feet stopped at the edge of a wood. It was a known safe-place this place by the edge of the wood. In the mind that rested within the skull within the skin within the whispy white hair rim lurked a memory of golden red hues of thick and rough hair. A snatch of melody simple and true sung by a fire from faraway. The slow and low-pitched sound of an axe being sharpened.

    Through instinct two hands moved swiftly and found two blades rusty and short held tight at the waist and even more swiftly these two blades were plunged into the neck and gut respectively of an unwitting scale-creature this Kobold Overlord this Kobold Menace this Dragon Lord of Menace Making.

    Dragon?

    There was the dragon. Yes that dragon. Feet moving swiftly again lest they find him or scent him or know him from his pathwaypassage. The dragon bones if they could slay such a beast they must certainly be able to control the giants. Looking back in hesitation but none were seeing, it was still safe for now.

    Yes he’d told them both. Bull Kanor the axe-bearer and Kalis Reign who had defeated the older man. Yes this older man. No other was older. He was the old man defeater in the challenge match between good friends. The Old Man had seen the bones of dragons and Kanor and Kalis also had seen them, before being trapped together in the cave entrance the entrance to the Kobold Fortress from which the Giants and Ogres were commanded to descend on Peltarch. But the trio these wood chopping druids and fat little men and the old men too, before they were trapped they got the One that Bit Bruno. Yes that one, big and scaley they got him before he could bite another. Before the Bruno came to their rescue. The rescue of them, them the three men (bitten and not bitten) not them the evil nasty Kobold Menace.

    The Galpen. Who gave the black armor. The armor was gone now. Lost and broken in the brush. Heavy and useless and of no use also heavy and, moreso: gone now. Only the rags and tatters of the clothing from before. That from before when there were those others mentioned before when the others were there. Now there was just this one. Oh yes and those. The scaled ones they too were here always watching the border-gates and spying and preparing to send their underling giant-spawn slaves. These ones like this one!

    Mimbertag? Falwigcheees. Skirpa Schilken Shlink! Gatchi!

    More of the Kobolds fallen. Some with more darts for returning to them in the eyes. Yes the eyes. Cut out the eyes. It was swift work but without eyes even the dead could not track him. He was safe this way. His shoulder was hurting greatly but there would be herbs. There would be cold water from the Icelace. Cold cold cold water.

    But he had seen their fortress and followed there pathways. With or without the cold water. He knew their ways.

    But the fire. Yes the Fire. That stagnant air in the dreams of him drove him onward. Would there be no return to the place from before? From before long ago with the others, without the Galpen rescue from the Ogre-lure. Without the Kobold Menace. And what of Cupcake Pants? What of the House of Pancakes and the hidden door? Before even that. Before when there were fish in streams and

    Svenka.

    More for running through. More for running down. These hills have changed. The patterns of moving are changing. And there the city lurks in the quiet fog with it’s stone and it’s careless ceasing. And it’s defenders who give papers but no commands no tactics no training no thoughts. Only some small healings but never advancing beyond the ten yard gatekeep to keep from snapping them under foot and treading on their backs like these feet must do now. And crushing their little idiot Overlord skulls and also taking their foul potions and taking their darts to throw back at them. Gut them, yes gut them. And the eyes don’t forget the eyes, remove such so none can see further even in the other place.

    Slink through, only for a short time to get some supplies in the market. Fresh fruit! Faster feet!

    But what is this! Kobolds even within the fencegates too late to seethemtheyfallonthewhiterimmedheadwithaxes(axesatthegateeven!)drawnbyshieldwithinthegateseventhis cityallowseventhisandtheycuthimdownyesthey’vecuthimdownbythekneesandtheiraxesblazeinthelightlikeflame.

    There is this Flame.

    Yes, like flame. Prone. Upon the ground a soft liquid oozing with the white-rimmed head and feet for Kobold treading.

    The rushing sound of a pyre burns around the ears of a man, approximately thirty-six years of age, fallen just 12 yards from the Westgate of Peltarch. The kobolds who rushed him, surprised by him but effective in their ambush anyway, kick at his body some time but eventually lose interest. The scaled lizardkin retreat to the outer fence to await their next victim, chirping and spitting with glee at having dealt with such a feeble victim. They did not know that this very being was the cause of countless patrol disappearances in the past years. They didn’t even know of the patrol disappearances. Kobolds, perhaps, aren’t so organized; contrary to the constant babblings of the cut-down man.

    Lying there, those 12 yards from the gate, is a man who seems aged. His clothing is tattered. His weaponry a disgrace, no better than that of a Kobold. A rim of white hair about his head, now streaked with a thick oozing of blood, saliva leaking from the edge of his mouth, eyes wide and staring at the dirt. But those eyes still flicker. Only slightly. But they flicker still.

    You see, there is this Flame.

    He saw in his mind the Stag Aflame. A great beast with many points on his horns, a fiery inferno envelopes his coal-black muscular frame. The Stag Aflame is staring him down in these (his final?) moments. But the man doesn’t blink. The oozing stops and the blood flows no further.

    A light foot treads nearby and the mind of the man stirs. Is it the one he knows? The one he calls Svenka? The one he misses and seeks always in this strange land? Gentle hands paw open the sack nearby, and items quickly disappear. No, these hands don’t belong to the Svenka the man has known. They belong to no one. The items in his sack, so long as he lies prone and flickering, also belong to no one. Now they belong to those hands.

    The heat is increasing. There is always more heat. For the heat to be increasing the Stag must stand closer. The chatter of the kobolds is receding. Perhaps this old man is now retiring. Perhaps now he can relax and know he’s done so much as he can do. Some seven years in the undergrowth fighting the Kobold Menace and now to die of bleeding but twelve yards from the gate of the city that would have had him in their Defender corps.

    A fire passes through the body of the man and he’s on his feet. His strength is sapped but there is now a jostling in his legs. He quickly crosses another five yards into the safety of the Peltarch guard.

    The night is chill. His skin burns. His mind is burning also. There is the Stag. Always there is the Stag. And then there is the Menace. More darts. More food!


  • Reviewed, XP pending.