A figure trudged quietly along through the knee deep snow, the ice-cold melt of it seeping through his boots' lace-holes. In the thick forest, the only light came from the gibbous moon as he walked without lamp or torch. Over his shoulders was draped a great fur pelt, clasped at the collar with ebony claws that could cleave a man's bones. Pulled up in a hood from the fur cloak was the beast's head, carefully skinned from it's skull and mounted to the man's helmet. The bear hide marked the man as a Berserker, a peerless warrior whose name was sung in mead-hall tales. At the moment he didn't feel very much like a hero; he felt cold, and irritable, and very much in need of a stiff drink and a fair-skinned whore.
Cresting the ridge that he was climbing up, the hillside below him opened up. A ways down the scree slope space had been cleared, and tracks for a cart had been laid. The metal rails disappeared into a depression in the hillside, a tiny little mine that seemed as though it had been abandoned when it didn't pan out. At the mouth of the craggy hole in the earth crackled a fire, and the silhouette of a huge man squatted in front of it with its back towards the hill. The berserker knew that it was no man, though. The scrap of parchment in his cloak pocket had lead him here, on orders from his Jarl. The thing warming itself by the fire was the reason he was out in the cold at this gods forsaken hour, chill moist clinging to his toes. That bastard's fault...
Feeling his pulse pound in his throat and his breathing become ragged, the berserker hurled himself down the rocky hillside towards his quarry. About half way down the slope a blood-curdling yell bellowed from his lips, which made the creature whip it's head about to see what was making the racket. Just as it did, a thunderous 'crack' ripped through the night's air, a lead slug burrowing itself in the thing's face. It staggered back, catching it's balance just as another slug caught it's jaw. By now the berserker had closed the gap, and was right on it's toes. His shotgun was empty now, but not useless yet. He held it by the barrel, the wooden stock pointed out like an oblong mace. Turning and heaving the butt of the gun into the side of his adversary's head, the tarnished metal braces that surrounded the man's shoulders and arms wailed with a high pitched keening, driving the make-shift club with an unnatural force into the thing's temple.
A wet crunching noise followed the contact, and the beast fell to the ground on its back, twitching. Plain as day, it seemed dead. He knew better though: nothing he'd done so far was enough to kill a Troll. Dropping his now-bent gun in the snow, he crouched by the Troll and lifted one of its massive arms over his shoulder. With an effort that made even his 'gauntlets of strength' struggle, he hoisted the beast up on his back. Dragging it the few feet it had stepped from the firepit, he tossed it onto the licking tongues of flame. The twitching became more violent, and a weak moan of pain creeped from it's lips, but it soon fell still as the campfire whisked away the last of its life. Breathing heavily, sweat covering his brow, the berserker sat himself in the little depression where the Troll had been warming itself until a moment ago. He could at least afford the time to warm himself before making the long trek back home.
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Originally Posted by boredbrain
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