Ballad of the Warrior

My fight will be for you
My love will be in you
My fall will be beside you
My death will endure you forever

-'Her voice was wonderful... Like a fine instrument. When asker her name, she just smiled'
Nachisrin City, circa Raoleign year 958

Red Dawn

It was dawn.

The dank morning air hovering over the bay like the fog that had come rolling in with the ships smelled of salt and sorrow.

Business thrived as usual within the Port town of Cutlas; it never ceased nor slept, but today things seemed to be a bit slow. Things were peaceful and yet, no one seemed willing to chat. Hard-faced merchants went about their business opening their wares to the quiet public, sailors and soldiers alike. Many a ship lumbered into the dock yard every few minutes, each carrying a cargo load of broken supplies and broken spirits. Though War was a guise that was subtle enough in the far off lands, Cutlas was feeling the after-effects as armies of soldiers and peons returned from the effort. Having suffered not only defeat in endless battles, rumor had it the nation had lost the war entirely. People begun to fear the usual - what might happen if their kingdom were overthrown, what would happen to the economy and their homes. Numbed minds and bodies exited each ship, wondering what was going to happen to them today and what they would do to get by.

One particular ship had just reared into the naval yard and finally made port on the western dock. Immediately, sailors leapt to and scrambled offboard, unloading the cargo and letting the passengers leave the ship. Several soggy and moldy crates were tossed down to the men on the dock, one splitting open and revealing pounds of half-aged food and bad meat.

Wrinkling his nose at the sudden smell of salt and rotting vestiges of pork, Dagron the Dwarf raised his chin and scanned the town of Cutlas. Shops were overflowing with soldiers, runaways, mercenaries of all caliber. Wagons threatened to trample those still standing in the street as men fought to be on their way. But no one noticed the three standing at the base of a ship, each looking off into the blank green horizon.

Dagron shuffled his belt, his hammer and axe losing girth and threatening to fall onto the creaking boards below their feet. His massive tower shield was slung over his back, per usual, awaiting use but in dire need of repair. His shabby metal armor had been sewn together from several disgarded suits of metal in the war effort amid his duties of tempering and cleaning weapons, suits of armor and other equipment. He sniffed and then grunted out a congested cough, knuckling his bristly beard while doing so.

The cleric at his side glanced his way at the sudden noise, then promptly turned her attention elsewhere. Yalla Apollose ran her eyes over the skyline, letting them fall onto the town. She placed her glove-laden fingers on his waist, absently checking her equipment. Cutlas was a port town that housed figures of shady intent; it would come as no surprise if her cut mace and shield vanished right off her being. The split mail she wore had been given to her during the war effort, much like Dagron's. Yalla had been trusted to tend to the wounded and aid the War-priests in their business of watching the wounded and praying for those that were lost. Yalla and Dagron had become friends at Tirenfar Outpost, when the army had pushed into the valley and had to construct a sudden base of nothing but sparse trees and mud. Yalla wasn't afraid to get her hands dirty as needed, but never strayed from her holy roots.

The third body in the line was that of a short in stature Halfling named Dygg. Well into his 100's, Dygg had aged in mind and wisdom but lacked in physical abilities or even maturity. He was wise for his age, and had taken to apprenticing a Sorcerer in the war named Bannon. After Bael'Gar keep was destroyed and Bannon vanished, Dygg's hopes of becoming a true magic user began to flourish as he sought a new master to learn from. Dygg didn't enjoy physical labor, but helped where he could, his lack of height limiting him to cleaning and cooking. Many a soldier did rant about his rabbit stew; some of the best they had experienced. Dygg enjoyed cooking but felt the urge to be something more, an urge that had drawn him to where he stood today - beside Dagron and Yalla.

The three remained transfixed on the edge of the dock, each watching the town and wondering what it held in store for them. They had agreed on the putrid boat ride home that even though the war was over, the struggle to do good was not. Each had experienced the horrors that war could bring, but did not forget the savors of achieving their goals meant.

The red sun pierced through the fog at that moment, sending a pink ray of light into the distance. The war had changed them, but each had made up their mind.

Dygg shouldered his black cane-sword and sighed, then looked up at his companions with a grin. They all exchanged glances at that moment. None knew what fate might have in store for them, however, one thing they knew for certain.

It was gonna be a hell of a time.

Karma

This is so amusingly ironic, I had to post it. Amongst my tears of pain, I was also laughing pretty hard. In mid-writing, my media player is on in the background. Bout 700 or so songs, on RANDOM. Started out... Like'a this'a:

First song came on: 'God Must Hate Me' by simple plan

then came: 'Rock-bottom' by the Offspring

along played: '(It's Been The) Worst Day Since Yesterday' by Flogging Molly

next: 'Everything Sucks' by Dope

and last: 'Psycho' by Puddle of Mudd

Wait for it... I'm not done yet. After these 5 came on in that order and I'm sitting here thinking about my luck and how terri-bad things have been lately, I started laughing my ass off at everything and wondered if my media player was trying to tell me something. The next song played?

...

I Feel Fantastic by Jonathan Coulton.

Yeah. God exists. And he has a weird freakin' sense of humor.

And now, something for your comedic twitch.

"Oh aye, there's one thing left: Tha' chuck-shot! A secret Dwarven technique passed down from me daddy, from 'is daddy, from me great-great-uncle Triggerfinger Ironstone..."

"So named because of his legendary Marksmanship?"

"No... Because that was the only finger he had left AFTER HE MASTERED THE CHUCK-SHOT."

"What?! You're not really going to do this! You're insane!"

"Listen 'ere, Missy. Lemme tell ya sum'thin about Dwarves - WE GET THA JOB DONE. Now ya pointy-eared granola-munching bunny-kissin' green party pacifist raver elf chicks would never think to launch a live animal outta blunderbuss BUT WE DWARVES IS HAPPY TA DO IT!!!"

----Flintlocke, dwarf warrior, engineer, disaster

Under the Burning Stars

(click to enlarge)

No big epic thing about this guy. Because, one day, hopefully not in the distant future, I intend to pick up my novel A Redemption By Blood and finish it. Since it's still in the editing phase *cough* (Sorry Ki) I can't talk about this guy or his origins.

Sufficed to say, Vasaimune is a bad-ass. When he's around, it's a bad thing. Ya really never want to see or be near this guy should he ever show his face. Worlds have fallen at his feet, lands have been ripped apart and remade in the aftermath of his power.

But he's just so cute, ya' know?

Two Faces of the Coin

"Trying to find a way, Getting better every day

And I got you now I'm not alone

All I need in this life is one,

One thing to believe in

I've seen many a face, From young and too old

I've stolen their faith and I have broken their souls

Was here before Christ had forgave you your sins

And paid your price and sealed your fate within

Days have come to an end..

Today's the day that we meet again

The self inflicted inebriation:

Guilt never lies

I've been waiting for the chance to reunite this sick romance

Poison never hurt so good

So nice of you to speak of me, your closest friend and enemy

An only savior of masochists

Well it's the dead end slave, from the alter to the grave

It's the last days of our life

The faith of men

Time, its been so long, and now there's nothing to say

I'm trying so hard to find the words to say

I'm tired of being, now I'm something I'm not

I can't believe and I never thought

Days would come to an end

Well maybe someday we'll meet again,

If ever that day never comes, it would be too soon

My love

I've been waiting for the chance To nullify this sick romance

Pull the cord to detonate

So sick of you, don't speak of me, a represent of misery

An only savior of masochists

Well it's the dead end slave, from the alter to the grave

It's the last days of our life

Well it's the dead end slave, from the alter to the grave

It's the last days of our life

The faith of men

Now I've found a way, getting better every day

And I got you now I'm not alone,

All I need in this life is one, One thing to believe in"

A song. A pop-rock song by a band I like. A passionate song, sung with emotion in the music, "ooooh"s in the background by the members of the band, even some added instruments like one of those key-board like piano wannabe things and even some deep, church-bells in the background. Most of the people who write about this song, on forums or lyrics pages, tag it as a terrific song, powerful and all that. Like most pop-rock songs, they think it's about relationships, or love and some such stuff. I used to think that too, in fact, I still kinda do. Cept... I had a thought.

Imagine the song is about, or sung by rather, Lucifer. Yeah, I got bug-eyed too. Go back and re-read the lyrics again. I'll wait here.

Back yet? I don't know if the band was intending to have this kind of meaning when they wrote it, but it certainly changes my view on it. I also think it makes a lot of sense. If Satan were to come raging at you with Hardcore death metal in the background, I think we'd all run away screaming. Though a passionate song with emotional music that talks about "love" and "relationship" in it, Satan would have a better argument. Let's face it: everyone sins. In a way, we all have a 'relationship' to Ol' Scratch, though hopefully, it involves lots of ignoring and discernment. Our twisted and sick 'romance' with sin.

After all, isn't sinning just misplaced Love?

Think about it.

Number 10: Burning Blood of the Berserker

Spikes Barricade vs. The Council of Traemir

from: 'When the Hammer Falls'

The thundering came from above again, this time it was even louder than before. Arcanas grit his teeth and prayed to whatever diety that may be listening that it was going to be enough. Flak's explosives had their shortcomings, more than once leaving the group without any options. This time, however, they seemed to do the trick.

Arcanas' lungs were ablaze, his mind reeled from the pain Guarlain had dealt him and the burning endurance in his legs began to waiver. Refocusing his sight upon his brother's back, the ex-Grand Crusader Arcanas Mikk'amn glanced back over his shoulder. Spikes was barreling after him, low orcish grunts interrupted briefly by sharp glances at the horde on their heels.

"The balcony...!"

That came from the roguish Flak, echoed by,

"Shit! Kasseh poir ASCH!"

Sho'Ryu didn't stop running until he skidded to a halt beside Flak, grabbing at the rope around his shoulders. A brief burst of yellow light illuminated the pillars of the corridor, encapsulating the fleeing mercenaries in its radiance. Sho dropped one end of the rope and, without pausing, leapt forty paces across the opening where the remains of the bridge desperately sought to hold firm using his 'Flight of Feather spell.' The bloodkin elf hurriedly jerked a knot around the far statue of an Illythid and shouted back,

"Walk across now, hurry! Put your weight on the rope!"

Arcanas shoved his sister Cryshel forward first, making sure she was well on her way over the remains of the bridge, trying his best to remain ignorant of the perilous drop to the courtyard far, far below. Cryshel waited until Spikes had fastened their end of the rope through the doorway. She then took a deep breath and held tight to the guiding rope, so tightly her knuckles began to ache from the pressure. The light-headedness that associated itself with her inner sickness threatened to claim her sight, but she deftly struck the notion into the pit of her stomach until reaching the opposite side. She fell shaking into Sho's arms, mumbling words under her breath. Sho'Ryu yelled,

"Hurry, they're almost here!"

Spikes and Arcanas both turned to analyze the rampaging hordes hurtling themselves through the unholy Cathedral towards them. The undead beasts, the demonic army of the Traemir... Were they that desperate? Arcanas shoved Ctharsis towards the gap,

"Get a move on, half-breed!"

Ctharsis, for the time being, ignored his half-brothers retort and lowered Shaith to a walking position, a motion she hissed through grit teeth as her broken leg touched the breaking stone. Clinging to the lifeline between the cathedral and the far balcony, Shaith edged over the remains of the bridge, followed closely by Flak. Spikes lashed his battle axe to his back when Arcanas slapped his shoulder with the back of his hand,

"Let's roll, big guy."

The insipid mercenary had a thing against heights, namely, the fears associated with falling from them. They say to keep your eyes up when dealing with high reaches, but Arcanas defied those warnings by staring down into the courtyard below as his feet crept inch by inch towards the far side. That courtyard looked farther away each second he stared at it. His heart took a deathly jump when he felt the weight of the stony bridge give, failing it's ongoing battle to remain in position.

"Cryshel...!"

"Brother!"

Cryshel screamed. Crumbling dust began to rain into the air between the hallways, with Arcanas frozen in the dead center of it. Before anyone could catch her, the Blue mage shot forward onto the lifeline, extending a hand out to her brother. Arcanas peddled himself, quivering with sweat and uncontrollable fear, forward to her hands when he felt a giant hand thud him in the back, spiraling him the last few steps that collapsed under his weight to the corridor to the West Wing. Arcanas cried out when his feet met falling rock until he crashed headlong into Cryshel, throwing them both into a heap on the floor. Nervous laughter ricketed from his lips,

"Apologies, sister. Let's not waste any more time, and get the hell out--"

As he spoke, his head swung around hoping to find the seething Council of Traemir glowering angrily at them from the far ledge. What he instead saw was the stone form of Spikes still standing in the arch of the cathedral, his giant axe in one hand and forty paces of air between them.

"SPIKES!"

Arcanas nearly jumped off the balcony when Flak and Cryshel both locked onto his arms. The red-haired mercenary spun around,

"Sho, cast a flight spell! We've got to get him over here before the Council arrives. Quick standing around, dammit!"

Sho was leaning on his orb, slow, shaky gasps of breath escaping his lips,

"After Guarlain's strikes, I don't have much left in me boss..."

Arcanas stammered garbles of words, glaring at each member of his team as they responded with hopeless, sullen looks. He couldn't form a single phrase as he dropped his sights to the ground. The Priestess Guarlian's attack had caught them all off-guard and without any resources left. But something had to be done...!

"No fear, this is what we're going to do. First, we--"

"Run."

Arcanas spun on his heels and stared at the Orc in the archway. For the first time in their nine year partnership, the Orc wore the look of complete heartfelt resolution. Without moving a muscle, the Orc Spikes said again,

"Run now. You leave to Spikes."

"Spikes, you should know by now, I don't leave anyone behind! Don't you worry, we'll get you out of there!"

Spikes lowered his face slightly, his unbraided black hair shifting over his eyes. He grunted,

"It Spikes' turn now. You leave."

Arcanas stumbled over his tongue when Flak interrupted him, jerking on his left arm,

"Boss, we gotta git now, ay!"

The blow that struck his chest was unseen by his one good eye. Arcanas retaliated,

"Shut your God's damned mouth, Flak, we're not leaving him!"

Ctharsis let Shaith support herself on the tall, ominously silent statue of the Illythid and stomped over to his brother, grappling his brother tightly,

"We stay and we all die, brother. We need to honor his wish!"

"What wish, we haven't even tried yet! Spikes!"

The swordsman fought back with all the tenacity of a child wrestling with his parent, the monk Ctharsis overpowering him easily, dragging him effortlessly away from the balcony into the mountain under the west wing of the Cathedral. Cryshel clung to Sho's arm, staring at her comrade still in the archway opposite them,

"Sho, isn't there anything we can do at all?!"

Sho'Ryu thought a moment, locking his eyes onto Spikes', and he knew what he had to do. Whispering a few words of runic power, he waved his fingers three times in front of his face and began to weave a spell. Cryshel's eyes widened, but, stifling an argument, merely placed her touch on Sho's arm and, using her blue magic, empowered his spell to maximum potency. Spikes watched calmly as the spell's glow reached him and draped his body in a green light, his mind recalling the Fist of Nidhogg's Strength spell, having seen it many times before. Shaith, upon identifying the spell, gave a soft gasp. Sho dropped his arms to his sides, a sudden lack of breath catching him. When he recovered, he said softly,

"Give em hell, big guy..."

Cryshel covered her mouth with her fingers, tears forming in her eyes. She turned quickly and aided Shaith in walking, joined by Flak and the three of them disappeared into the shadows of the mountain. Sho'Ryu turned to follow when he heard a voice,

"You tell Arcanas boss... Thank you for be my friend."

Sho'Ryu flinched ever so slightly. The sight of tears in Spikes' eyes was something only Sho's elven eyes could have seen... And it nearly broke his heart. Without another pause, the bloodkin sorcerer vanished from sight.

With a heavy sigh, Spikes stared into the darkness that his comrades had departed into, Arcanas' defiant cries still echoing through the cathedral. This wasn't how he wanted it to go... But for once, the Orc felt he had truly helped his friends. A sharp whistling touched his ears briefly before a razor sharp quill shot through his right shoulderpad, shooting clean through the bloody meat of his arm. The Orc didn't even flinch, his eyes were still watching the far balcony. Two more quill darts shot down from behind, striking him in the back. Spikes met them with a grunt and a sigh, barely feeling the pain of their poison. His lowered his gaze to his feet, looking at the green aura of Sho's spell. The heated blood of the Berserker began to seep into his veins, slowly edging over his mind. Spikes smiled, one tear falling slowly from his face into the shimmering air around him.

The nearest demonic hound launched another barrage of quills and, speeding down the rows of the Cathedral, pounced through the air like a raging dart of drooling death. One of the quills grazed Spikes' thigh, shooting a slit of vermilion blood into the air. Spikes' last tear splashed gently onto the stone by his feet as the howl of the Berserker claimed his mind. The red eyes of death sunk into Spikes' skull.

"Spikes never die."

Spinning on right heel, the giant battle axe sprung to life in his hands, swiftly cracking through the head of the hell hound and in one more swoop, came down from above and shattered the beasts upper torso into a puddle of brain matter and oozing pink fluid. Spikes crushed the largest bulk of puss-covered mass with his right boot and threw his arms out to both sides, letting out a challenging roar that carried its strength through the hall of the giant cathedral, echoing off the tainted glass windows, through the pillars and upper hallways, around the buttresses and back down into the ears of the charging Traemir council, whom froze in their tracks suddenly.

Spikes was a whirlwind that spun forward twice, clefting the next member in half with one swing. The next met his death after striking quickly twice, both attacks landing onto Spikes' chest but neither slowing him for a second. The axe's blade, soaked now a permanent red, swung behind the Orc's back in a maneuever that brought it around down low, cutting the legs out from under a third Council member. The undead Traemir warriors gathered around from all sides, climbing atop the pews and lunging. Two more members were smashed into one another before being split into bloody halves, raining red stains onto the rampaging orc and nearby attackers. Spikes ducked under the razor claws of a giant Traemir apparition, shoving the butt end of his axe, armed with a spike into it's shin. The roaring cry only intensified as the Orc gave it a violent jerk, which snapped the beasts leg the wrong direction and collapsed it into a heap atop the bodies. Spikes hoisted one of the two axes at his waist, sending into the face of the nearest hell hound. The charging beast, carried from its speed, crashed headlong into the reeling Traemir laying on the ground.

"Spikes... Never... Die!"

The next hellhound rushed forward, gnashing bloody jaws aiming for the barbarians legs. Spikes placed an armored boot on the creatures face and vaulted from the beasts weight, throwing him into a forward flip at the end of which, using the force of the drop, brought Spikes' battle axe down, smashing the tall Traemir's head down into it's own shoulders, causing an explosion of blood and bone into the air. Spikes grabbed the leaking carapace with one hand and using the strength of Sho's spell, hurtled the corpse towards the ranged line of Traemir raining quills down from above. Spikes took two attacks into the same shoulder, the defiant blood of the berserker not allowing him to even feel the pain of it.

"Ickth nein barduum!"

The demonic phrase was shouted from the undead Traemir desperately trying to clamber away from the blood drenched Orc. Spikes cleft the first Traemir's leg off in a brilliant splash of blood as it tried to escape, it's dreadful screams drowning out any more orders it was trying to convey. Lashing out with a fist, Spikes grabbed his last hand axe at his waist and punched it into the next Traemir's gut while the demon attempted to mangle the Orc's face. The stone-faced Spikes ignored the lacerations forming from its claws as he gave the axe a twist that ceased the Traemir's assault, then dropped his two handed battle axe. Grasping the undead by the neck, his metal tipped fingers jabbed into the Traemir's throat until the Orc felt his fingers touch his thumb, then he punched the creature into the stained brick floor. The force of the blow decapitated the demonic humanoid with a gurgling spurt and a fountain of its unholy blood. Spikes retrieved both his hand axe and battle axe, spiraling the smaller of the two into the head of the next giant Traemir. It's horrible death throes knocked out the hellhound that attempted to sprint past, it's poison barbs shooting from its back.

Deftly evading the quills, Spikes danced forward with several spins and jumps into the next group of Traemir. The Orcs mind had long fogged over, his thoughts were of nothing but blood now. But through it all, one word kept echoing through to the barbarians limited civil side. Spikes clung to that word with all his might, the bloody haze of the berserker blocking out all else.

More Traemir were joining the slaughter every moment, each meeting a bloody end at the tip of Spikes's drenched axes. A hell hound appeared from the pack and sunk it's vicious fangs into Spikes' free arm, locking its jaw in refusal to be shaken off. The barbarian didn't even notice it, his other hand swooping the battle axe in wide arcs that claimed heads, limbs and all manner of extremities from the charing Traemir. Their terrifying death howls pierced Spikes' ears, surrounding him in a drunken, deaf fog of blood and death. Spikes whirled his axe around under the hell hounds belly and struck it twice, then dropped the blade to the ground. Wrestling with loud grunts and awkward grasps, the Orc placed his fingertips under the back of the creatures jaw. A terrible shriek deafened the Traemir at that point, as the top half of the hell hounds head was ripped clean off. The blast of pulpy blood hit Spikes in the eyes, temporarily blinding him. A terrible blow came from his side then, severing what remained of his arm clean off. The Barbarian turned and grabbed his belted hand axe, raining down malicious swing. One strike, two strikes, three and four now. The Traemir had long since died, but Spikes railed down gash after gash upon the demon.

The blood drunken stupor drove him backwards into the tall, black-horned altar. Suddenly, Spikes felt a rush of air and he collapsed onto his knees, his one arm fighting with the last refuges of his strength to hold him up. Sho'Ryu's spell had faded at long last, leaving him with but his own fading power to stand. The Orc opened his red eyes and stared at his quivering fist.

"Arcanas... You be proud of me. Spikes make you proud!"

His eyes raised slowly to the hordes of Traemir. Their number had doubled by now, the beasts on the upper hallways now preparing to fire their poisonous barbs. The hellhounds were creeping forward, giant jaws exercising up and down slowly in anticipation. Taller Traemir with the hammer shaped fists behind the hell hounds fashioned their unblinking, unchanging giant orbs of eyes upon the barbarian.

Spikes tightened his grasp around his two handed axe, dented, split and painted blood-red and pushed himself, fighting, aching, bleeding to his feet. A pulse of strength. The fire in Spikes' chest suddenly surged hotter than the flames of Hell itself. His red eyes shot open and he grinned, broken pointy teeth daring all in his sights to attack.

"SPIKES... NEVER... DIE!"

The towered Illythid statue, standing tall on the balcony across from the Grand Cathedral's chapel, gazed ever onward, mouth frozen in it's beaked grin. It's ever vigilant gaze remained for many years, a single reminder of that day etched in history: the last stand of the berserker.