Post by Xander on Jul 8, 2015 17:56:28 GMT -5
Merick assessed the scene before him, forcing himself to think calmly. One fiend was down, felled by Bilkin's eldritch lightning, but the other remained, salivating over the unconscious forms of the warlock and the Dragonborn. The Drow woman still stood - her onyx skin puckered and blistered by hideous burns and her face contorted into a rictus of pain. She was surely superhuman to have withstood the inferno at all. Liquid flame still spilled in sheets from the beast's gaping maw and small conflagrations blazed around the prone forms of his allies. Merick shifted the weight of the young girl on his back. He felt helpless, torn between rushing to slay the foul monster and protecting his young charge from it. Caustic panic had clawed at his insides, twisting his guts as he had watched the hell-fire consume the green robes, silver scales and black skin of his friends, but he could not afford to panic. For all he knew, and despite his desperate urge to believe otherwise, Bilkin and Prixan could already be dead. His pulse quickened at the very thought. No! No! He had to have hope! Had to keep his mind clear of such thoughts, lest he lose control of them again! He felt panic seize his breath... fear clench his heart...
Suddenly, he was snapped from his panic by the sound of the little girl on his back crying. Her dirty, blonde hair tumbled over his shoulder and hot tears slid between the links of his chainmail. He lifted a shaking hand from his sword to stroke her hair.
"Ná caoin. Don't cry, A leanbh." He whispered. Images flashed in his mind. He was home again, in Galiecia. He gazed into the black pelt of the Hell Hound, seeing only the corridors of his old farm house. His two daughters had been awoken in the night by a thunderstorm. They ran to his bed chamber in fits of tears, sobbing ridiculously. He had chuckled groggily, awake now himself, and held and rebuked them gently as they cried.
"Ná caoin ar mo leanbh. Daidí na fuair tú." He spoke the words out loud, as if trying to break free of the reverie, but it wouldn't leave him. He shook his head desperately, knowing the images which always followed thoughts of his family. The house was ablaze, his crops were destroyed, the cattle slaughtered... and his wife and children... Tears of his own began to cloud his eyes. Why? Why could he not look away? Why was this the only way he could see his beautiful daughters again?
The images began to fade. He raised his trembling hand to his eyes and scraped a tear onto his finger tip. He tilted his finger towards the earth and watched as the droplet, crimson in the firelight, crawled sluggishly down it and slipped towards the earth.
Time seemed to slow. Before the droplet had reached the dry forest floor Merick's eyes were dry. The remaining beast's flanks rose and fell with exaggerated slowness. Merick's face set into a sneer as the fear pooled in his stomach fermented. It began to roil and seethe. Anger, thick and volatile, ignited inside of Merick, exploding up into his chest. His lip curled into a feral snarl as he raised his head to glare at the demon. The flames in his eyes were no longer reflected, they flared from deep within. His mind, plunged into chaos by fear, suddenly took on the clarity of pure, unbridled rage. Not the indiscriminate blaze of lividness, but the razor sharp, illuminating fury of a man who can take no more.
He removed his hand, no longer shaking, from the girl's hair, and returned it to his rusty sword. Like the man who wielded it, it had been a long time since it had spilt blood and it had long forgotten its keen edge... but not its purpose. Merick looked around again. The barbarian still stood. The Drow woman straightened with a gasp, her face a mask of the same kind of fury. The Hell Hound turned and snarled back at Merick. Three against one. The beast would die, painfully, for what it had done. Merick's eyes bulged and the veins in his neck snapped taut, standing out against his skin like cords of knotted rope as he gnashed his teeth. Merick felt his connection to the magic around him falter, disturbed by the torment of his wrath. He did not care. The ward he had weaved around himself remained, faithful as ever. Merick looked up at the boiling strands of magic wrapped around the him and the girl on his back. He had once heard that a man's ward reflects the very essence of his soul...
A hulking suit of armour, shield in one hand and longsword in the other, the deep crimson red of blood, had materialised above him, the upper surface churning and bubbling. Fire and death and battle. That was who Merick was. He had been an idiot to ever believe he could live away from that. He shifted his gaze back to the Hell Hound, the huge head of the incorporeal armour above him following his head movement eerily. The world in front of him narrowed. The Hound filled his vision. It was the embodiment of every evil which had befallen him and he would destroy it as completely as it had his old life. Raising his sword above his head he screamed at the top of his voice, until even his own throat gave out to his fury.
"MAY THE DEVIL RIP OUT YOUR SPINE FOR A LADDER WHILE HE PICKS APPLES IN THE GARDENS OF HELL! BACK TO YOUR MASTERS YOU FIENDS! GO NDÉANA AN DIABHAL DRÉIMIRE DE CNÁMH DO DHROMA AG PIOCADH ÚLL I NGAIRDÁIN IFRINN!"
And he charged.
Suddenly, he was snapped from his panic by the sound of the little girl on his back crying. Her dirty, blonde hair tumbled over his shoulder and hot tears slid between the links of his chainmail. He lifted a shaking hand from his sword to stroke her hair.
"Ná caoin. Don't cry, A leanbh." He whispered. Images flashed in his mind. He was home again, in Galiecia. He gazed into the black pelt of the Hell Hound, seeing only the corridors of his old farm house. His two daughters had been awoken in the night by a thunderstorm. They ran to his bed chamber in fits of tears, sobbing ridiculously. He had chuckled groggily, awake now himself, and held and rebuked them gently as they cried.
"Ná caoin ar mo leanbh. Daidí na fuair tú." He spoke the words out loud, as if trying to break free of the reverie, but it wouldn't leave him. He shook his head desperately, knowing the images which always followed thoughts of his family. The house was ablaze, his crops were destroyed, the cattle slaughtered... and his wife and children... Tears of his own began to cloud his eyes. Why? Why could he not look away? Why was this the only way he could see his beautiful daughters again?
The images began to fade. He raised his trembling hand to his eyes and scraped a tear onto his finger tip. He tilted his finger towards the earth and watched as the droplet, crimson in the firelight, crawled sluggishly down it and slipped towards the earth.
Time seemed to slow. Before the droplet had reached the dry forest floor Merick's eyes were dry. The remaining beast's flanks rose and fell with exaggerated slowness. Merick's face set into a sneer as the fear pooled in his stomach fermented. It began to roil and seethe. Anger, thick and volatile, ignited inside of Merick, exploding up into his chest. His lip curled into a feral snarl as he raised his head to glare at the demon. The flames in his eyes were no longer reflected, they flared from deep within. His mind, plunged into chaos by fear, suddenly took on the clarity of pure, unbridled rage. Not the indiscriminate blaze of lividness, but the razor sharp, illuminating fury of a man who can take no more.
He removed his hand, no longer shaking, from the girl's hair, and returned it to his rusty sword. Like the man who wielded it, it had been a long time since it had spilt blood and it had long forgotten its keen edge... but not its purpose. Merick looked around again. The barbarian still stood. The Drow woman straightened with a gasp, her face a mask of the same kind of fury. The Hell Hound turned and snarled back at Merick. Three against one. The beast would die, painfully, for what it had done. Merick's eyes bulged and the veins in his neck snapped taut, standing out against his skin like cords of knotted rope as he gnashed his teeth. Merick felt his connection to the magic around him falter, disturbed by the torment of his wrath. He did not care. The ward he had weaved around himself remained, faithful as ever. Merick looked up at the boiling strands of magic wrapped around the him and the girl on his back. He had once heard that a man's ward reflects the very essence of his soul...
A hulking suit of armour, shield in one hand and longsword in the other, the deep crimson red of blood, had materialised above him, the upper surface churning and bubbling. Fire and death and battle. That was who Merick was. He had been an idiot to ever believe he could live away from that. He shifted his gaze back to the Hell Hound, the huge head of the incorporeal armour above him following his head movement eerily. The world in front of him narrowed. The Hound filled his vision. It was the embodiment of every evil which had befallen him and he would destroy it as completely as it had his old life. Raising his sword above his head he screamed at the top of his voice, until even his own throat gave out to his fury.
"MAY THE DEVIL RIP OUT YOUR SPINE FOR A LADDER WHILE HE PICKS APPLES IN THE GARDENS OF HELL! BACK TO YOUR MASTERS YOU FIENDS! GO NDÉANA AN DIABHAL DRÉIMIRE DE CNÁMH DO DHROMA AG PIOCADH ÚLL I NGAIRDÁIN IFRINN!"
And he charged.