Thread: Fear Incarnate [Light the Fuse x Risi]

Violent, turbulent winds raked the snow-drenched trees. A blizzard was out tonight, forcing the wildlife to scurry inside, to protect itself from nature's unpredictable fury. The hills would whistle, threatening those who dared stay in it's wake. This calling came to most merchants traveling through, who traveled to check-marked caves to rest and venture when the weather died. Only fools or those seeking death would traverse the pass tonight. Whoever, there was another type of creature in these parts. Humans, to be exact. In the south, where the snow rarely reached in it's full fury, they were smaller, weaker compared to their counter-parts in the north. Men attuned to harsh climates, men who fought for their food instead of harvesting it. Men who's weapons not only brought the trees down, but the heads of their enemies. Many called these men barbarians, ruthless bandits, or highwayman. They were the Volkan. A band of three were of these people, clad in fur of hunted wolves and bears, covering their torsos. Arms left uncovered, sporting tattoos that looked of various twists and intricate formations, which did not exclude the simple symbolism of wolves or bears. Each man carried a weapon of war, ranging from an axe, to a spear, to the mighty claymore the size of their own men. They ventured through these woods, looking for game. Gunnarr, it's freezing out, you can't expect to find anything out here! A bellow of annoyance came from one of the band, the bald haired men spat out against his scarf, looking about the forest in a rather irritated manner. This particular man was named Bjorn. A rather angst, yet powerful warrior. Quiet, you'll scare off the game. Came a more calm, whisper-like voice. This particular warrior was Folkvardr, a seasoned veteran among the three. He who had hair as white as snow, a mane that reached down to his shoulders, and was the only one to lack the protective mouth-covering of the two, seeing as his beard practically reached his chest. Bjorn might be right however, I haven't seen anything. This particular man, was the band leader. He was not a recruit, nor a war hero. His name, was Gunnarr. Short, blond hair adorned his head, blue, brilliant blues occupied his sockets. Gunnarr was a shapely male, one who did not fail in comparison to his comrades. Adorned in the fur of a wolf, a mixture of fur and stuffed leather. He like his comrades had his arms exposed. His were most intricate. Forged in black ink, various signs of honor and victory atoned his chiseled canvas, from what could be seen. He bore the spear, Bjorn the claymore, and Folkvardr the axe. A triple threat, so to say. Gunnarr came to a halt, the snow rising up to the brim of his leather boots as he looked upwards, eyes in squint as he looked to the heavy blizzard. Each man stopped, awaiting Gunnarr's next move. Bjorn however was quite impatient and took a step forward. Do you hear something? Bjorn questioned, his emerald greens looking beyond the warrior. Orcs, Gunnarr spat, lowering his gaze to the blinded view ahead. Bjorn was dumbfounded, looking where Gunnarr's eyes seemed to gaze. Here, now? He questioned, looking to Volkvardr. Volkvardr nodded, coming to the side of the blond. You're getting better lad, now let's see if you can get the first kill! Volkvardr teased, his mustache curling about to represent a smile. Gunnarr smirked from beyond his scarf, and raced towards the source. Bjorn followed with a great roar, holding tight to his claymore as Volkvardr followed in suit, silent in awe of his two aspiring recruits The orcs seemed to crowd about the carriage, barking orders to gather the goods at hand. They were unaware of the princess' presence, and seemed inclined on getting out fast. Why however, was about to be witnessed. Grok, you hear that? One asked, looking up from his scavenging. Grok, the darker green orc seemed confused. But it wasn't until it was too late would he realize his fate. A massive spear would puncture his chest, the blade ripping through his back and spelling fourth most of it's length through the chest. The creature would howl in pain, attracting it's allies. Bjorn came from the west, and immediately would address a rather unlikely orc into surprise hack, dismembering it from the waist. Come and get it! Bjorn would yell out, cackling with joy. The spear in the orc would not reside long, as Gunnarr quickly caught up with his own throw, grabbing it by the shaft and yanking it out of the creature with a foot to it's back. Before the last orc could grab his weapon, Volkvardr was already there, his foot on the tarnished axe. Too late, green-skin. He would say quietly, splitting the creature's head open with the finely polished steel. The creatures were dead, and now their plunder was being inspected by the Volkan. Bjorn scavenged the weapons, Volkvardr examining the dead. Southern soldiers, he commented silently, looking at their insignias. Gunnarr had climbed on top of the carriage, opening the door. One's alive. He said with surprise, his brilliant hues staring to the beautiful woman, who seemed in shock and surprise.