3. Of the Warrior-Poet.

Of the Warrior-Poet.


  • With shield raised, and sword at his side.
    Ready for the next charge. They always charge, and batter away with their clubs.
    But he stood firm. They snarled and roared vile curses.
    Five of them, muscled and tall. Savage blows landing on his shield, and yet he stood firm.
    A moment. One of the greenskins made a critical mistake. It was out of balance.
    A quick jab, the tip of the blade entering below the chin and striking trough the soft brain.
    One less.

    The dance continued.

    And yet he stood firm. He would not yield.
    Battering away at the shield. He yet blocked their every blow.
    A sidestep, the orc missing his target, and paid for it with a blade cutting him near in half.

    But a mistake on his part. He felt the blunt of the club hitting him, hard, in his back.
    He could feel the wood connecting, as it and his body began a struggle of who would bend and who would break. His bones would bend. He felt the fire of his mistake burning him, the pain quickly teaching him what he had done wrong. It would not happen again.

    One by one, the greenskins fell. And he stood, yet again, victorious.
    But the next group was already approaching.
    A quick breath
    and a smile.

    Life was good.


  • Pain.

    The blade entering the chest, and almost coming out the backside.
    Trough the plate of the armor, trough his ribcage and into his inside.

    Pain was what he felt. The pain of defeat. It had been a good battle.
    A simple scouting of the southern rawlinswood, until he came face to face with a bugbear.

    Thomas had his training. He had his armor. His shield. But the bugbear had brute strength. It was a match.
    The battle went on for what seemed like hours, both sides wounded, bleeding and exhausted. The fatigue slowed him. And that's when things went wrong.
    He could no longer keep up to the beast's savage slashes.

    And so he fell. And he died.
    A good death to die.

    The crystals could restore him. But the words of Keira and Sy'wyn were in his mind in those final moments. His death had no meaning, as he would always be returned. And so he left. Disconnected his soul from the Collective, to float into the afterlife. To await his love.

    The End of Thomas Haley


  • Why we fight

    Demons.
    Creatures of evil
    destruction
    chaos
    suffering.

    It is them we fight. The Collective rallies what allies it has.
    Lock shields. Stand as one against the storm that comes.
    Never yield.
    Never surrender.

    Many fall, so many may live.
    Few fight for the many that cannot.

    But we are not trusted. We are evil. We are usurping. We are corrupting. We are tyrants. All will come under our sway.

    Or so the zealots will have us believe.
    Demons walk the land, and still they hate.
    Demons enter their city, and still they hate.
    Demons rend their flesh, and still they hate.

    Those that walk as brothers, and walk the path of certain, and violent death. Those that fight with honour. Those that stand against their foes, not seperated by magic or arrow.

    They are blessed. Warriors.
    And their death is pure.