Saamir Syed,

On the Cowfallow Bridge

Saamir threw himself aside of a panic-stricken mother and her child, who rushed past him with little regard to the world around her. Her face seemed familiar, but no name came. A shoulder struck him hard, stumbling him - a man in his middle years brushing by in a fit of terror - Saamir knew him as Torick the fletcher.

This was crazy! What was he doing here? On the bridge? If everyone was fleeing the Orcs, then that was a sure sign that he wasn't going to stand more than a second. He was just one man, with a rusted sickle. His mind screamed at him to run, but his feet wouldn't budge. He had to find his father, no matter what. If he ran now, he'd never forgive himself.

"Besides," he mumbled with half a smile. "All men must die, and all men will be born anew."

His little monologue stirred him into bravery. He moved aside a couple of running youngsters, their faces wet with tears, their voices hoarse from screaming.

"Father!" Saamir called, moving forwards across the bridge, doing his best not to get run down by the fleeing villagers. "Father! It's Saamir!"

An elderly man passed by, slower than the rest, and Saamir grabbed him. "Oron," Saamir yelled above the screams and the crackle of flaming thatch. "Have you seen my father?"

Oron's creased features were blank, but eventually he shook his head.

"Very well," Saamir said. "Go, me and the others shall hold them off."

And just like that, an Orc's cleaver sung across the air, and Oron's aged face flew from his neck. Dark blood spurted like a fountain, drenching Saamir and blinding him. He stumbled backwards, his heart frozen, his mouth stammering panicked mutters - his beliefs in Kalem temporarily forgotten.

"Human!" the Orc roared, pounding its chest. "Show me you are made of something. Your kin have failed my expectations spectacularly!"

Saamir ran his sleeve across his eyes, clearing the sticky-red life force of Oron from his vision. He caught the glimpse of a menacing figure; all black leather and scaly green skin. Saamir had never seen an Orc before, and looking up at his adversary's menacing and toothy grin, he wished he hadn't.

"Why are you killing us?" Saamir sneered, spitting Oron's blood from his mouth. "Why!?"

The Orc, at least a foot taller than Saamir, released an earthly laugh that shook its armour with the force. It stopped briefly, to shove a woman from the bridge who had the misfortune of running past it, and then it calmed. "For sport, why else?"

"I just want my father, have the damned village," Saamir said, the sickle suddenly feeling heavy in his hand. "You must understand mercy?"

The Orc regarded Saamir for a few moments, and then smiled broadly. "I understand death, human, and I am it: I am death, come for thee. Fight and die, or flee and die, it's your choice!"

Saamir made to speak again, but the hulking creature was on him. The cleaver swung through the air from an overhead strike, and Saamir darted aside it; wooden planks splintered and cracked half a second later. In return, Saamir struck with his sickle, but the Orc spun quicker than any creature that size had the right of doing. A knotted green fist clenched his wrist, stopping the sickle in its tracks, and then Saamir felt an explosion in his stomach. His vision faded for a few seconds.

And then he was staring up at the blue sky; the din of battle alive around him. He coughed hard as he tried to raise himself, expecting that the Orc would at any moment finish him off.

"What was he doing here? He was no fighter after all... He was nothing but a failure. What was he thinking? Taking arms up against Orcs. Orcs of all things! Murder machines from the east. Was it the peer pressure perhaps? Or maybe the opportunity to show his worth?"

Gnorlin was ripped out of his thoughts by a fleeing peasant who almost falls over him. He shakes his head and tries to focus on what's happening. Yelling... No... screams for help. They almost sound beastly. The bridge was not far away, but it was nearly impossible to cross with all the fleeing peasants on it and... oh no! The Orcs had already reached the bridge and... Wow, those were some big brutes. Gnorlin probably only reached their knees or something. Maybe it was best if he just jumped into the nearest shed and acted like he was sleeping or something. Yes... Yes, that was the best thing to do. Gnorlin looks around, in search of some form of cover, but to no avail. Many bushes have already been burned down by the fire arrows of the orcs, and the only structure at this side of the bridge was the tool closet of Old Man Willakers, which the old man himself only had access too.

What in Troy's name was he supposed to do against this massacre...?

Horace was in shock. The blood. The screaming. The death. But he had a plan. Horace took out one of his gas tubes, In latched it, and threw it. It spun around gas unleashing on the bridge, making a cloud for Horace. Horace had his eye on two green-skins before the smoke was completely shrouding them.

His hatchet was out, ready to strike them. The cloud of smoke, was slowly clearing up, and he needed to act fast. He kept walking, with his hands out, until his hand felt steel. He raised his axe, and slammed down. A roar of pain, rumbled in Horace's ears, as he felt the hatchet sink into the Orcs skull. He dropped another smoke canister, once again giving him cover. He put his foot on the lifeless Orc, and used all his strength to remove his hatchet from the Orc's mutilated face.

He looked over at the second Orc, only seeing him since the smoke cleared. He was over one of his fellow farmhands, ready to strike. He couldn't let this happen. He ran to the Orc silently. He raised his hatchet and struck down on the Orc, hearing the snap of its neck vertebrae, and feeling it revibrate through his hatchet. The Orc fell were he stood. Horace moved over to the farmhand and helped him get up.

"That was a close one. Here take this." He handed the farmhand the cleaver, and turned around, screaming, as a gash was made in the middle of his chest. It wasn't to deep, but it was enough to hurt like hell. He put his hand over his chest, feeling the blood trickle on it. He regained his stance, ready in front of two Orcs. He shook off most of the pain, ready to fight.

"Ready?" He asked the other farmhand.
@3905C RG

Mill Grayer, Cowfallow Bridge

Mill wasn’t sure why he had followed some of the other farmhands back to the village. If there was something wrong, could they really do anything? If Fala and The Rat were to be believed, and he did believe in them, then no matter what he did it wouldn’t really change anything. Still, seeing the fleeing villagers and the panic caused by the orcs made Mill feel oddly content with his decision to join the others. He would most likely die, but maybe he’d die thinking he did something somewhat worthwhile, even if no such thing existed.

Mill watched one farmhand, Saamir perhaps, being knocked down by an orc. Before he could move to help him, another orc intercepted him, swinging a vicious looking ax at his head. Mill stumbled back, and fell to the ground. Before the orc could make a second swing, Mill lashed out with his scythe cutting into the orc’s leg just above the ankle. The green skinned brute also fell onto the bridge and Mill scrambled to his feet quickly. He swung the scythe once more plunging the blade into the orc’s chest and finishing it off.

He had barely pulled the blade out of his fallen foe when another orc attacked him. This one swung a large sword that Mill was barely able to block with the long shaft of his scythe. However the orc was much stronger and forced him to his knees, struggling to keep the orc’s sword away from him.

Jack had finished harvesting wheat for the day,he was about to go back inside when he heard multiple screams from cowfallow followed by smoke arising,he had come to the conclusion that the orcs had finally came back,he was sick of the green brutes ripping everything to the ground

"It's time those leaf skinned freaks got what's comin to em!"

Jack pulled his sickle out from the tree stump and with it in hand,marched to cowfallow with one thing on his mind:retribution

Once jack got there he was instantly greeted by two of the orcs,he couldn't see through the smoke clear enough and had no clue how to use a sword but he was skilled in the "art" of "sickleship",he ran behind the orcs and sliced their necks,causing them to bleed out,he than ran through cowfallow hoping to find survivors

double post

Hogun Shantrix

"What, are you -" Were the only words a normally verbose, and long-winded tongue of Hogun Shantrix could make coherent. Truxis, his elephatian son, the young mountain of Cowfallow, puffed his chest and let out a thunderous roar that blared out of his dual-trunked nose. It was a call-to-arms meant to rally the farmhands, but all it did was make Hogun's stomach churn.

"Come on, father!" Truxis pleaded. His prepubescent voice was no different than a human boy's. He cast aside the giant mound of crops slung from his back, making a loud thud next to Hogun. "They need our help!"

"No, Truxis! Don't!" Outstretched hands did little to restrain his child's determination. Like a lone ant trying to hold back a dung beetle, Truxis ended up dragging his father along with him to the bridge. When Hogun felt the heat from the burning village, he released his futile grip and desperately stepped in front of the young elephatian with his hands raised.

"Stay here, Truxis!" But his son didn't listen. Against the hued flames of their burning village, the elephatian stood at the foot of the bridge like a glowing statue, parting the rushing river of Cowfallowers into two streams. Truxis radiated the bravery of a god warrior. It was clear that the spirit of his mother, Letra, commanded him. Nothing was going to stop Truxis now. Hogun sighed.

He turned and took in the magnificent display of Kalem's balance before him. The panicking souls desperately running away towards death, and those, like him and Truxis, willing to meet it. But why is he so reluctant? Now, When finality of this lifetime has been a longing of his since past failures as a would-be mage. He looked back at the young elephatian and nodded.

By grace of Kalem, Letra, do not force our son's next life upon him so soon... not before his father's, you beautiful tyrant!

Hogun puffed his chest like his son did back in the fields. Already, other farmhands were crossing the bridge and navigating through the wave of people, farm tools raised. Despite the crisis at hand, the most basic of emotions still took over. Jealously. Embarrassment. Shame. Hogun wasn't going to let his son outdo him. He sensed an ill-advised opportunity to instill courage and clumsily ran with it.

"Let us go, seed of Letra! Son of the will-be great arch mage of time and space! And... anyone else!" He randomly unsheathed two knives from his utility belt, one of which stumbled around in his hands and fell to the floor. Truxis bent just low enough to scoop the blade with his trunk and transferred it to his hand. Hogun pulled out the next tool, two small blades welded together to make a shear. "Let's go see what the color of orc's blood looks like! I was always curious as to whe-"

Truxis' trunk roar blared out Hogun's unhelpful rally, nudging him forward to finally take action. Father and son both clambered forward and tag-teamed on the first green-skinned intruder they found. A dense blanket of smoke made it tough to see, and tougher to navigate through, but a silhoutte could be made out raising what looked to be a sword. "There!" Hogun blindly leaped forward, shear and skinning knife raised.

"NO FATHER!" Truxis' large palm reached for his father. Unlike Hogun's earlier attempts at keeping his son back, it required little-to-no effort from the strong elephatian boy. Hogun felt the sharp tug of his tunic yank him back. Before Hogun could ask what he was doing, Truxis' large finger pointed at the silohoutte, who turned out to be Took Buckridge, one of the farmhands. He was clearly disoriented from the smoke clouds. "Took! You're swinging the wrong way! Behind you!" Truxis screamed.

As if on cue, an orc appeared from the mist. Before Took could process the situation, a rusty cleaver burst out from his chest, mangling his innards in a violent crimson. Truxis flinched for the first time since the chaos started. Hogun simply stared at the fantastical spray of blood that painted the bridge. The orc raised his human kebab and booted it clear of his blade.

"Come, little lambs! Come, feed me!" The orc's putrid tongue slithered out to lick the fresh blood on his blade. Of all the words that could move a man, the utterance of the word lamb stirred something fierce in Hogun.

"NO! NO LAMBS!" Hogun's eyes widened until his eyelids draped back into his skull, revealing two maniacal orbs. "There will be no slaughtering of sacred lambs!" He let out a guttural scream as he darted toward the now confused Orc. Charging toward a beast who was much stronger, armed with a much more efficient weapon, was suicide. Luckily, it served as a distraction for ambushing farmhands. From all directions, they stabbed the orc relentlessly with pitchforks, rakes and knives. By the time Hogun was within striking range, his bare feet tripped over Took Buckridge's decapitated body. He stumbled onto the ground, diving face first into chunks of sloshing innards. Truxis charged onward, assisting the farmhands by wrestling the blade from the Orc. He stabbed the green-skin with the knife he grabbed from Hogun. It was done in a panicked frenzy, with no precision or technique, guided only by the need to stop this monster from killing more people. The orc's struggle finally weakened, and after the elephatian youth wrenched the cleaver free, he picked the dying orc over his head and flung it over the bridge.

"Father! Are you okay?" The elephatian pounced over to his father lying prone in someone's loose guts. "Father!?"

Hogun's bloody face emerged from the repulsive clump of wet organ and smiled affectionately. "Did, did I get him?"

lol wtf sorry

Saamir Syed,

Cowfallow Bridge

Saamir's stomach heaved with nausea, courtesy of the Orc's gut punch that he'd recieved just moments before. The large cleaver that Horace had handed him felt heavier than anything he'd ever had to swing, but it was a down sight better option than the rusty sickle.

Two Orc warriors, their teeth gnashing white spittle everywhere, advanced on Saamir and Horace - suddenly cautious now that Cowfallow's inhabitants had felled a few of their kind.

"Ready," Saamir wheezed over the pain in his stomach. "May Kalem hold the gateway open for us just a little longer."

With that, Saamir threw himself at the foremost Orc in the way that only a bar brawler could. There was no method to his attack, no practicsed finesse, just sheer bloody-minded offense. He brought the cleaver against the Orc's wooden buckler, and found himself rebounding with twice the force; his adversary struck forwards with a sabre, but Saamir managed to step aside the fatal strike.

"Not bad," the Orc grunted, jugling its sabre in one hand. "For filth."

"I could say the same," Saamir said, his eyes narrowing.

The Orc took offense, and roared. It came at him, striking again and again, and Saamir was hard pressed to parry the attacks. The cleaver in his hands rattled with each impact of steel-on-steel, and his fingers quickly grew numb. For a moment, he feared he'd simply drop the weapon, but he managed to maintain his grip.

"Die, die, die!" The Orc bellowed, backing away momentarily. It brought up its buckler, and stood sideways on with Saamir. "You look thirsty," it said, sneering.

Before Saamir could retort, the hulking beast-man charged him with the flat face of its buckler aimed for his chest. Saamir stepped aside, leaving his left foot extended, and the Orc tripped. There was a huge crash as the sturdy wooden railing gave way to the creature's weight, and moments later, there was a splash far below.

Saamir turned rapidly, and saw the second Orc advancing on Horace. He also saw, through the clearing smoke and the rushing forms, that his comrades were fairing better than he thought possible. Half a dozen Orc dead littered the bridge -- though more than a dozen farmhands joined them.

"Push them back," Saamir called above the racket of battle. "Fear is our greatest enemy, these beasts cannot prevail against bravery!"

He felt stupid for saying it, but a rush of adrenaline made him not care too much.

As the second Orc rounded on Horace, Saamir appeared on its left, and swung. The Orc parried the cleaver, and punched Saamir across the face; he stumbled away clutching a broken nose.

Thekk

The Cowfallow Bridge

Dark shadows whirled within the smoke across the bridge, coaxing out the screams of the lost. Soon the shades tangible forms could be seen emerging, sickly green, from the ashes of Cowfallow. His head pounding, his heart in his throat, Thekk stumbled backwards falling among a group of ale barrels. As he fell his eyes met those of one of the brutes, whose lips lit up in a sinister smile. The orc barreled towards him, axe raised, poised to end the struggle that was life.

Some raw instinctual force awoke within Thekk, driving him into action. With the monster within meters of him, Thekk forced a barrel towards the orc with a resounding kick. Though sturdy, the orc lacked in agility and fell face first with a resounding thud. Without thought, Thekk rose to his feet and ran towards his incapacitated foe. Grabbing his hammer from his toolbelt he raised it high above the orc’s massive head and sent it crashing down. He could feel the brute’s head cave with a loud crack but the orc still squirmed. Rhythmically Thekk bashed in the creature’s skull conducting an orchestra of cracks, squirts, and finally nothingness.

The hot gore of the orc spotted Thekk’s face and hands. Soon the blood mixed with tears as Thekk fell back among the barrels. Vomit rose in his throat and gushed out, rolling down his shirt and pants. Dazed and confused, Thekk resigned himself to fate and sat and watched his village burn.

The ogre looked upon the burning town. He told himself he cared little of it, that he needed it not; that was not true. He felt a connection to the town, even more so now that it was stained with blood and fire. It beckoned him, like a siren.

Korde followed the call.

As he picked up his hoe, he went towards the bridge. He didn't see why he should go there, but everyone else was going there so why shouldn't he.

The amount of fighting and movement disoriented Kordo momentarily, but his conviction did not falter. He charged into battle, his allies eager to move out of his way.

Within seconds, Kordo found himself face-to-face with an orc.

"Come at, you thick-skulled beast," the orc taunted. It took Kordo a second to realize that this taunt was directed at him rather than any of his colleagues.

"What Is Skull?" Kordo asked politely. The orc got angrier. Here were two bodies about to fight to the death, and this impudent ogre wanted to distract him by asking for an anatomy lesson.

"It is what my blade shall soon truncate!" the orc replied, winding his arm back to slash at the ogre. Kordo now understood that knowledge meant very little in such a situation as he stabbed the orc in the foot with the blade of his hoe.

The orc yelped in pain and drew back. Kordo took his weapon with both hands and lifted it above his left shoulder, preparing to slam it into his opponent.

He swung.

And he missed.

The hoe let out a loud swish as Kordo brought it down upon where he though would be his foe. His work was not for naught, as he managed to still hit another orc.

The orc he hit was one two other men were preoccupied by. The assailant never saw it coming. The blood splattered everywhere as the back of the orc's head split in half. He looked at the corpse and then at the two men, who he recognized as Horace and Saamir.

"Sorr-ee," Kordo uttered meekly at his two brothers-in-arms.

Mill Grayer, Cowfallow Bridge

Mill was still struggling when he heard a voice calling out. He couldn’t hear exactly what the person was saying, but he got the feeling it was supposed to be inspirational. Too bad it was very difficult to inspire a follower of Fala, especially one who was about to be killed by an orc.

Fortunately for Mill, another farmhand seemed inspired by the words and struck at the orc with a hoe. Unfortunately for Mill’s would-be savior, the orc seemed more annoyed by the hit and grabbed the man before tossing him into the river. It’s probably safer down there than it is up here, Mill thought as he swung his scythe at the orc. He lodged the blade into the orc’s arm and yanked it to the side, throwing the orc off balance and letting another farmhand finish it off with a pitchfork to the chest.

Mill paused for a second, trying to catch his breath as he looked around the bridge. Several orcs were dead, however there were still more and several of the other farmhands had already been killed or wounded. His rest was cut short however, when several more orcs began to come across the bridge towards him. He swung his scythe in a wide arc, trying to stall them. The orcs faltered, but only for a second before they continued their assault. Mill rushed one of them and shoved him back with the handle of his tool, while a few of the others tried to push back the remaining orcs to prevent them from advancing.

Mill glanced around looking for someone who could assist them. He saw two men and troll not far away. “Saamir, Horace, Kordo give us a hand!” he called out. However, his momentary distraction was enough for the orc he was fighting to get the upper hand. The large beast head-butted him in face and Mill stumbled backwards clutching his head.

Saamir Syed,

Cowfallow Bridge

Saamir flailed the cleaver awkwardly in one hand; blinded as he was by the immense pain coming from his nose, and the minor concussion the Orc had gifted him. And then there was a sickening crunch, and Saamir managed to regain his vision. The Orc fell forwads with its head gruesomely cloven in two. Kordo the Ogre stood above him, flashing his stupid smile like a three year old taking to the chamber pot.

"Kordo, you big lovely thing," Saamir said, trying to smile despite the pain in his nose. "Such timing!"

"Saamir, Horace, Kordo give us a hand!” called a familiar voice from elsewhere in the melee.

Saamir peered around, blood seeping through the fingers of the hand that covered his nose. His eyes fell on Mill Grayer; a fellow farmhand a few years Saamir's junior.

Mill was in trouble, waving his scythe in an arc of not-death at an advancing band of Orcs. Other farmhands were at his side, trying to keep the greenskins from breaking through - but they were failing. Saamir knew that he'd have to take action now, or the battle would be lost in the blink of an eye.

And at that moment, Mill recoiled from a bone-shaking head butt from a greenskin that had managed to creep inside his scythe's range. Saamir cast aside the need for thought, and sprinted forwards, shoving a farmhand to the ground, and miraculously dodging the spear thrust from an Orc.

He came upon Mill, just as the boy's adversary was about to deliver a mortal blow to his skull.

"Turn Hell Hound, turn!" Saamir spat, holding his cleaver in both hands despite the burning pain in his face.

The Orc spun, flashed its large yellow incisors, and then came at Saamir in a flurry of axe blows. Saamir hopped backwards as if dancing, moving his hips left and right in an attempt to avoid the massive swings from his opponent's axe. The Orcs had so far proven themselves fierce monsters, but they had little restraint in their attacks. This was something Saamir was quickly grasping.

He moved aside an overhead swing that fractured the wooden planks beneath his feet - and it was time. With a quick but furious action, he pulled the cleaver across in a horizontal line, catching the Orc in the right shoulder. It bellowed some unintelligible curse, and pulled its axe free. Saamir felt he should move backwards again, but something else, some savage animal instinct abandoned long ago by his ancestors, whispered ever so slightly to him.

"Kill"

Saamir stuck again, slicing apart the Orc's face. It screamed - maybe cried? - and staggered backwards, a flap of flesh hanging from its left cheek. Saamir did not let up, and hacked repeatedly until the beast finally went down in a pool of darkening blood.

By now, the Orc line was faltering, and they were withdrawing from the bridge. The compact fighting environment was hindering their berserker-tastes, and they goaded the farmhands to follow them. The streets of Cowfallow were but mud and thatch, and gave wide birth for wagons and market stalls. They'd make excellent killing grounds for warriors who were used to slicing their way through a formation of men on the battlefield.

"Careful brothers," Saamir said breathlessly, leaning against Mill for support. "They'll have the upper hand on open ground. Tread lightly."

And then he remembered his father was still in Cowfallow - if he yet lived.

"On second thoughts," he wheezed. "Chase them down. If they see us halt our attack, it'll steel them. We don't want them to be steeled."

Gnorlin watches the massacre unfold around him. He wishes he was as brave as the other farmhands. "Oi! Gnome-filth! Ready to be skinned alive, sweetie!?" The gnome looks up to where the voice came from. An orc holding a barbed spear had sneaked up on him and was grinning at him with delight. Gnorlin looks around for a quick way out, but the orc would surely outrun him. Although the orcs did seem to be retreating, there were still some stragglers, and no one was paying attention to them. It seemed he had no choice but to attempt to put up a fight. He unsheathes his small dagger and holds it out in front of him. "S-stay b-b-b-back foul beast!" And with a uncertain roar he leaped forward... just to be knocked out cold by the blunt side of the spear in one hit.

Fire... Blood... Screaming... There was no escape from it. Death followed the villagers everywhere. And there he was! The brave gnome, killing orcs left right and center. But no... He was mortally wounded. He would surely not survive this onslaught. But haha! The gnome had fooled the orcs in getting closer and... "WAKE UP YOU PIECE OF SHIT!"

Gnorlin wakes up from the loud voice. He looks around to find he is in a cage. A grumpy looking orc had woke up him. "We don't want our food to be sleeping. We want our food to be scared shitless. Makes the meat tender. Ghehehe." Well, that at least answered the question what he was doing here. Wait, did that orc just say he was food? He looks at the cauldron above the fire, slowly heating up. He could also see some tents, other orcs and the village in the distance. This was probably a forward camp or something. The orc must have knocked him out and dragged him back to the camp. There weren't many orcs in the camp. Most of them were probably still fighting.

So, next question. How was he going to get out of here? He didn't want to end up in the stomach of some orcs, that was for certain. He just had to come up with some cunning plan.

Horace walked lightly through the streets of Cowfallow. The mud under his makeshift boots, made a soft squishing sound, it was loud, but not loud enough to alert the Orcs of his presence. He was growing tired, as he already had a day of work in the hot sun. He soon started to walked sloppily, and he could barely hold himself up.

His boots flopped in the mud, as he walked through the door of his burned down home. He looked around, finding no traces of blood in his house, but, who knows, it could have gotten burnt up.

He went down to the cellar where there were some remnants of his Alchemy Sets. Tear gas, coughing gas, flame powder. All of this would come in handy. All of this, he put in phials, and attached then to his arrows. The vials were glass, and would break on impact when shot next to the Orcs, or, on their armor. He put his arrows in his quiver, and bow on his back, as he put together a small backpack of items. Alchemy Books, phials in a case, Alchemy materials, and the remainder of food. He could stay here, so he might as well be ready for a trek.

As jack ran through the chaos he saw an Orc trying to hurt a boy"no you don't you bloke!" Jack gripped his sickle tightly and threw it straight at the orcs head, making him fall backwards as blood painted a river on his forehead,jack than ran to the impailed Orc and ripped his sickle out of the orcs head,making the stab wound wider

"Come on ya green visaged dimwits,FIGHT ME!!!!!!"jack yelled out in anger as he was prepared to rip them open.

Cowfallow Bridge

Herja had been stuck working on her master's fields for the last few hours. When the orcs came and attacked the village he was still stuck in there. His daughter had ordered Herja to save him. All in all she didn't really care for her master. He wasnt the worst one she ever had but that's not saying much. No, the actual reason why she came here is because her Norisi blood demanded her to. This was her first chance in over nine years to finally serve her god again. Kharneth would not be satisfied if she left here without shedding blood.

It seemed many farmhands had already taken up arms against the greenskin invaders. A decent number of orcs laid dead on the bridge but the farmhand bodies were far more numerous. Herja aproached the defensive "line" from behind, her bare feet already completely covered in blood and filth.

The orcs appeared to be regrouping at the other side of the bridge. They probably never expected to have issues dealing with the peasant rabble. A confined space does wonders to someone's combat abilities.

This advantage was quickly lost however, as some of the farmhands charged off of the bridge straight into the orc line. As they were hacked to pieces some of the people seemed to lose hope. Precisely at this time someone uttered a rallying cry.

"Chase them down. If they see us halt our attack, it'll steel them. We don't want them to be steeled."

It seemed to work. Several more joined the fray and it seemed like the orcs had enough of acting organised. "Come on boys! We can't let those puny hummies beat us!" a big orc uttered before he charged out of his line and mowed down two unfortunate individuals with his sword in one swing.

Herja grinned at the sight of the ugly greenskin. This was going to be her target. A worthy sacrifice to Kharneth. The bridge was slowly starting to be less clustered as more men joined the fighting in the streets. Herja pushed a young boy out of her way in her hurry to get to the large orc. No one was gonna steal this one from her.

The orc hadnt been sitting idly while she made her way to him. His blade had gotten stuck as he had swung it at a smaller man. The orc kicked the man in his face and by the time he got back up the orc had released his sword and cleaved the man in two. In the corner of his eyes he saw someone aproaching him. A grin started to form on its piglike face at the sight of Herja.

He raised his blade close to his face and yelled, "Ooh, a female human is coming at me now?" It chuckled in a dark manner before continuing. "Well, I guess I'll go gentle and skin you slowly." It chuckled again. "Or maybe I'll just finish you quickly and be done with it!"

Human... Human?! Did that greenskin just call her a human?! Well, if it was expecting to fight a human then it would be sorely disappointed.

The orc charged at her with the savagery fitting of a beast and a roar which could have deafened people standing around him. It tried to finish the fight quickly by attempting to cleave Herja in two just like what he did to that other man. However, that was not how it would be. As the beast raised it's intimidating weapon above its head and was ready to bring it down on Herja he was suddenly stopped. Confused the greenskin looked at his target, trying to understand what was happening.

Herja had actually grabbed his wrists and was now stopping the orc from lowering his weapon on her. The orc bellowed in anger at her as it was pushing and pulling to find a way to get out. Herja grinned at the orc as it was trying to free itself from her grip. She slowly started to tighten the grip and as she did she could feel the orc's bones slowly giving way to then finally snap. The orc yelled in pain but Herja was not done yet, there was still that big sword hanging above her.

She now applied more presure and forced the orc on it's knees. The sword now fell behind the orc and Herja no longer had any risk from this one orc. It looked up at her with its piglike eyes. She could see the realization. What it had concieved as an easy kill appeared to be its undoing. It amused her.

However, it was time to finish this little thing they had going on. So as the orc was knelt before her she lifted its arms up to the point where they were stretched to their extreme. She then gave a strong kick against the orc's nose. When she retracted her leg the orc's head was bend backwards in an unnatural angle. Eh, I had expected more from him. she thought to herself.

She had no time to admire her fresh kill however as more fighting was going on and that meant more orcs to kill!

Herja saw the orc's weapon laying on the ground. It wasn't fancy looking or anything. It was a broad single edged sword with some sort of hook at the opposite side. It seemed like a weapon ideal for cleaving into meaty opponents who werent very well armoured. Ideal for the orcs who were rampaging across town. Herja picked up the blade and was suprised at the weight of it, not that she had any problem with lifting it up though.

She looked at the orc again one last time, then back at her blade. Well, Kharneth demands blood... she thought as she raised the blade over her head and brought it down with an incredible amount of force, splitting the orc in two. I guess this will do for now. she thought with a smirk.

Two orcs popped up in the corner of her eye. They had broken through and were about to charge in on some of the unlucky farmhands. Herja had no time to warn them so she did the only thing she could do in this situation: She charged at the two beasts herself, bellowing out a fierce battlecry which rivaled that of the fierce greenskins.

Now, if only those blasted farmhands dont get in my way...

Mill’s head was throbbing, but he could still see the orc coming towards him, ready to end the young farmer. As Mill prepared himself for the emptiness of the void that was death a voice called out. "Turn Hell Hound Turn!" Saamir, bloodied and battered, charged towards Mill and engaged the orc. The fight was short, but brutal, Saamir cleaved into his foe’s arm before destroying the beast’s head. Mill was quite surprised that Saamir was able to kill the orc so quickly, especially since he was injured worse than Mill.

Saamir’s injuries and exhaustion seemed to catch up to him however, and he leaned against Mill for support. “Careful brothers, they’ll have the upper hand on open ground. Tread lightly.” Mill nodded it was sensible for them to take things cautiously, after all none of them were real fighters. However, Saamir seemed to reconsider his advice and spoke again. “On second thought, chase them down. If they see us halt our attack, it’ll steel them. We don’t want them to be steeled.” There was a certain merit to what he said this time as well, however, Mill didn’t understand why he changed his mind so quickly.

“I’m not sure that’s the wisest idea,” Mill said as he helped Saamir stand on his own. “But, I suppose if we’re going to die, it might as well be fighting. Catch your breath Saamir, I’ll try to clear the way.” Mill rushed forward, along with the other farmhands, his scythe at the ready. If we could limit the orcs movement, we could regain the advantage, he thought. Glancing around, however, showed that there was little they could do at the moment besides rushing to meet the orcs.

Mill lashed out with his scythe, no longer aiming for the body or head of the orcs. Instead he aimed for legs and arms, hoping to cripple the enemy and leave them to one of the others to finish off. While attempting to hold off the orcs, Mill saw Horace slip into his home, or what remained of it, he barely noticed at first however he did notice the two orcs enter after him. He knew Horace was a fighter, and being in an enclosed space might even help even the odds, but he doubted it would matter if the orcs caught him off guard. Mill broke off from his opponent and rushed towards Horace’s house, unfortunately the orc got one last blow in, if the burning sensation down his back was any evidence to go by. Ignoring the wound for his moment he saw the two orcs walking down the steps leading to the cellar, doubling his pace Mill tackled the one in the back sending all three tumbling down the steps.

Horace heard a clash of steel armor, and roars, as two Orcs... And Mill, came tumbling down the stairs. The biggest of the two got up, while the other was on the ground possibly in a concussion. The Orc sent a bone rattling roar, revibrating through the small cellar. Horace readied his discarded sword, and got into a secure stance, rivaling that of the Orc's sloppy lump.

This Orc was tough one, with full Damascus armor, and a mace to go with it. While it was tough, it was slow, and heavy, but it would be hard to get a hit in. The Orc tried to get a hit, by slamming down on Horace with his mace, but Horace was quick, and was able to get his main body free from the blow, but the mace slammed down on his exposed foot, causing a searing sensation to shoot up his leg.

The Orc was about to finish him off, but Horace has a plan. Horace, carefully took a flame powder arrow and flung it at the Orc. When the phial broke, and the powder came into contact with oxygen, it exploded with life, and incinerated the Orc's throat, charring it, until it became crisp, and dead skin fell off in flakes.

"Thank you, Mill. That could have ended rather badly for me, if not for you. Now we must find the others." @Decker126