Thread: ☢A World on the Brink☢ ::[Haru|Dreaming]::

Like so many other worlds, the world of Harrow is home to great heroes and the most vile of villains. People who wish to preserve the world and treat it with care, and those who want to twist it into a vision of their own making and subjugate all others to their will. Harrow was once a world that was full of pristine forests and the races there lived in harmony with one another. However, nearly five thousand years ago, Demons invaded the world, seeking to put the races of Harrow under their heels and enslave them. Of course, they found opposition from the natives, and eventually they were driven back, and sealed away. However, as time progresses, the races of Harrow find themselves at odds. Magic and technology now coexist side by side, though some view this as harmful to the world since technology can only exist by mining the planet for crystals known as materia, or orbments. The races known as the Old Races, dwarves and elves, find their numbers dwindling, and humans continue to thrive, their population growing. The pneumafera, disparagingly known as 'animal people' are also becoming more abundant, though they tend to shy from the more densely populated areas. These frictions between the races keep Harrow on the brink of large conflicts, and smaller skirmishes are quite common in areas where humans seek to expand their territories. Hellyot Ancellar stalked through the great Sylvanyr Forest. Though well known all along the Coast of Straits as a swordsman without peer, the man known as Hell was also a decent archer, and it was also a well known fact that one did not hunt for their dinner with a blade. Not this prey anyway. He'd tracked the stag for the last several hours, the soft loamy earth making the trail easy to follow. It had only been about thirty minutes following the trail when Hell had realized he was not the only thing tracking the stag. He could not be sure, but he'd heard of more than one tale proclaiming this area of the forest held an ogre or two. Of the sylvan variety of course, but no less dangerous than their more ill-tempered cousins. Hell had cursed his luck, but a man had to eat and the stag was already wounded. The former soldier was a long way from home, but then he no longer controlled exactly where he was traveling. His purse needed to be fed as much as he did, and so he found himself drawn wherever he could get paid. As such, the last few weeks had been interesting. He'd been hired by a man in Reyksalar and had headed West, along the Salvation River, heading toward the Salvation Sea. The river was much too dangerous and so they'd decided that traveling by airship was the best and most expedient course of action. The airship that Hell and his small band of men had been put on was rather old, a steam powered airship . It was large and well armed, and certainly better than horseback or river barge. Of course, spotters had been put along the rails, but they'd only seen the incoming attacks when it was too late. Funny how the elves lamented the mining of the earth for the ingredients for blasting powder and yet had little qualms about using the same to fight their enemies. The bombs had breached the hul easy enough, and things had been alright until one penetrated into the engine room, igniting their own store of coal. The explosion had been fierce, literally ripping the ship in two as it plummeted into the forest. Hell was the only survivor as far as he knew, as he'd run across plenty of bodies, most mangled by the crash or horribly burned by the fires. Whether his survival was a blessing or a curse, it seemed his reputation as being the 'unkillable man' was being put to the test. Gathering what supplies he could, Hell had left the wreckage behind. By his estimation he was roughly one hundred miles or so from Ariannu. Which put him well into the territories of the elves. Who he was rather sure had been the ones to shoot down the airship. A sound off to his right brought Hell's movements to an abrupt stop, and the man hunkered down, dark eyes peering through the brush. As he watched, one of what could only be the sylvan-touched ogres came into view. The humanoid was large, standing some ten feet in height, and half again as wide. Moss colored fur covered much of its body, and the great brute lifted its face upward, nostrils flaring as it sniffed the air. Hell cursed silently to himself. The black fur mantle he wore smelled of smoke from the wreckage but he was loathe to be rid of it. Deftly he reached into one of the pouches at his belt, his index finger rubbing along the figure there. His steed, Silvermane, waited to be called, and Hell knew he could make good his escape, but then what? He still needed to eat. With a sigh he withdrew his hand from the pouch, and keeping his eyes on the brute that small distance away, he nocked an arrow and began to draw back the bow. If he could get one good shot he could put the shaft through the ogre's eye and end it swiftly. He didn't fancy getting into a physical altercation with the beast. He had little doubt that he would come out on the better end of the exchange but he was trying to draw as little attention to himself as possible. Who knew where the elves were that he was sure had brought down the ship? Maybe they were satisfied seeing the ship full of interlopers ripped asunder and crash to the earth, or maybe they had sent scouting parties to make sure that all aboard were dead. Hell had no idea, and he was determined not to stay in one place for too long and find out. That was when he saw it, perhaps ten yards behind the ogre, the stag. His arrow stuck out of the hindquarters, blood dripping down its leg. It had been a bad shot, obviously, and the stag would take days to die from such a wound - if ever. Now was his chance though, if he could get a clear shot he could get a kill and have food for several days. But that damned ogre... Hell needed to kill it or drive it off somehow. An arrow to any part of its body that didn't kill it outright would just piss it right off. Just then the ogre lowered its' head and those green eyes settled in Hell's direction. The man froze, arrow nocked, but bow undrawn, as he waited to see what the brute might do.