34th of Fall, 512AV
Afterwards, he would count himself lucky that the mace was wooden. Had it been metal, it would probably have fractured his skull.
At the time, he was not so reflective.
Razkar felt the side of his head explode into black and blue stars, his balance dying quick and his legs becoming distant, uncontrollable appendages. The bloody, chaotic ambush swung out of focus and he felt himself fall to the muddy earth. It's sticky. Slick. Red... he saw red when he blinked again. The color of war, of battle... of his goddess.
Get up.
With a grunt he hauled himself to one knee, seeing the horseman who brained him wheeling around, lips pulled back in a hateful grimace. The wooden mace had been tossed aside, bastard sword favored instead, and with an animal bark, he spurred his horse at Razkar.
The Myrian rolled out of the way and cries out as the sword slashes down at him, slicing at his back. But the horse was not an easy thing to stop, and in the time it took the horseman to stop and turn, Razkar had finally dragged himself to his feet.
Head throbbing. Vision blurred. Blood oozing down the side of his head...
"H... Help..."
A figure grabbed at him from the side. One of Provedan's mercenaries, face bloody, hands and tunic red, bleeding, eyes glazed, desperate and clawing at him. Razkar snarled and grabbed hold of him, ready to throw him to one side-
-then the horseman charged at him again, bastard sword raised, and he decided to make final use of the dying man-
-by throwing him under the horse's hooves.
The rider's face switched from savage joy to stunned horror in a moment, screaming sellsword into a grinder of pistoning hooves. Crunching and snapping of bones, eight limbs (four equine, four human) became a frenzied, unstable mass within a second, and the horse lost its footing. It crashed down on top of the sellsword, crushing whatever life was left out of him, the rider crying out as his leg was broken.
The horse screamed, head tossing back and forth, mane flashing in the sun, eyes so huge and terrified only the whites were-
-Razkar ended its suffering with a stab through its head. The rider's sword fell from his hand in the fall, and now he could only stare, panting, hands up as this nightmare figure of dark flesh and darker ink towered over him. Bones struck through his face. Blood splattered over his body. The Myrian felt behind him and winced, white teeth glimmering as he felt the cut there.
Then Razkar looked down at the panting, helpless man. Without a word he walked over to the horseman he killed at the very beginning, wrenching his hand ax free, and walked back. Calm. Focused. In no hurry.
The battle, or skirmish, or ambush, whatever you will, was over. The frenzy of movement and mortal combat had given way to languid coup de graces down the length of the caravan. Men screamed and pleaded and begged. They were ignored. Slaves cowered and prayed, and were mostly ignored, too.
For now.
Razkar looked down the line of dead, dying and bound bodies, squinting, and saw one sellsword had been spared. He's dragged by a jeering Burned Man up to his feet, left arm a bloody mess. He saw Manfred approach him... but he had other business, and turned to-
-the man with a kukri in his hand-
Out of instinct he swung the ax backhanded and low. Crimson sprayed his stomach, arcing up from the ground. There's another scream from ground level, and a hand gripping a kukri thuds onto the ground.
The downed horseman shrieks at a clear, uncaring sky, and receives no answer to his wordless plea. Razkar bent down and picked up the hand, loosening the fresh, warm fingers and examining the blade. A good blade. Well-balanced, curved blade a foot long... a good weapon.
He smiled, slowly and pleasurably, and cast his eyes upwards, too. Much blood spilled. Victory won. She would be watching...
Razkar knelt down by the begging, rasping man. He held up his (former) blade so he could see it clearly. Held it so the man could see his own terrified eyes in the keen, bright blade. Razkar knew that would be important for what had to follow.
Then he reversed it with a flick of his wrist, and raised it high.
"This not be quick."
Then the fun began.
Afterwards, he would count himself lucky that the mace was wooden. Had it been metal, it would probably have fractured his skull.
At the time, he was not so reflective.
Razkar felt the side of his head explode into black and blue stars, his balance dying quick and his legs becoming distant, uncontrollable appendages. The bloody, chaotic ambush swung out of focus and he felt himself fall to the muddy earth. It's sticky. Slick. Red... he saw red when he blinked again. The color of war, of battle... of his goddess.
Get up.
With a grunt he hauled himself to one knee, seeing the horseman who brained him wheeling around, lips pulled back in a hateful grimace. The wooden mace had been tossed aside, bastard sword favored instead, and with an animal bark, he spurred his horse at Razkar.
The Myrian rolled out of the way and cries out as the sword slashes down at him, slicing at his back. But the horse was not an easy thing to stop, and in the time it took the horseman to stop and turn, Razkar had finally dragged himself to his feet.
Head throbbing. Vision blurred. Blood oozing down the side of his head...
"H... Help..."
A figure grabbed at him from the side. One of Provedan's mercenaries, face bloody, hands and tunic red, bleeding, eyes glazed, desperate and clawing at him. Razkar snarled and grabbed hold of him, ready to throw him to one side-
-then the horseman charged at him again, bastard sword raised, and he decided to make final use of the dying man-
-by throwing him under the horse's hooves.
The rider's face switched from savage joy to stunned horror in a moment, screaming sellsword into a grinder of pistoning hooves. Crunching and snapping of bones, eight limbs (four equine, four human) became a frenzied, unstable mass within a second, and the horse lost its footing. It crashed down on top of the sellsword, crushing whatever life was left out of him, the rider crying out as his leg was broken.
The horse screamed, head tossing back and forth, mane flashing in the sun, eyes so huge and terrified only the whites were-
-Razkar ended its suffering with a stab through its head. The rider's sword fell from his hand in the fall, and now he could only stare, panting, hands up as this nightmare figure of dark flesh and darker ink towered over him. Bones struck through his face. Blood splattered over his body. The Myrian felt behind him and winced, white teeth glimmering as he felt the cut there.
Then Razkar looked down at the panting, helpless man. Without a word he walked over to the horseman he killed at the very beginning, wrenching his hand ax free, and walked back. Calm. Focused. In no hurry.
The battle, or skirmish, or ambush, whatever you will, was over. The frenzy of movement and mortal combat had given way to languid coup de graces down the length of the caravan. Men screamed and pleaded and begged. They were ignored. Slaves cowered and prayed, and were mostly ignored, too.
For now.
Razkar looked down the line of dead, dying and bound bodies, squinting, and saw one sellsword had been spared. He's dragged by a jeering Burned Man up to his feet, left arm a bloody mess. He saw Manfred approach him... but he had other business, and turned to-
-the man with a kukri in his hand-
Out of instinct he swung the ax backhanded and low. Crimson sprayed his stomach, arcing up from the ground. There's another scream from ground level, and a hand gripping a kukri thuds onto the ground.
The downed horseman shrieks at a clear, uncaring sky, and receives no answer to his wordless plea. Razkar bent down and picked up the hand, loosening the fresh, warm fingers and examining the blade. A good blade. Well-balanced, curved blade a foot long... a good weapon.
He smiled, slowly and pleasurably, and cast his eyes upwards, too. Much blood spilled. Victory won. She would be watching...
Razkar knelt down by the begging, rasping man. He held up his (former) blade so he could see it clearly. Held it so the man could see his own terrified eyes in the keen, bright blade. Razkar knew that would be important for what had to follow.
Then he reversed it with a flick of his wrist, and raised it high.
"This not be quick."
Then the fun began.
