[hr][hr][h2]Auguz the Manslayer[/h2][hr][hr]
[i]In his dream, he was no longer a child. On an arched, wooden bridge he stood over a pond fully of brightly colored, gawp-mouthed fish. He still remembered this night, and would always remember it, with the clarity of pure, transparent ice. The moon was bright and white overhead. The night breeze rustled the great curtains of wisteria, above a mossy slope like an island in the white sands. To either side of the bridge, the finely raked sands rippled around great rocks just as cold and hard as the rest of the fortress; barren islands upon a dead, empty sea, an all too fitting image for the stagnant clan. The peace of their enlightenment had become complacency. And like a fish leaping from that sea, he had broken their placid laws. 

The old orc, who had dared call himself a master at only that level of skill, seemed small now. The leathery skin and slender body still belied strength and sinew, and the thick white brows hid a deep intellect beneath their shadows. But now, as he was no longer a child, he could tell that the elder was exactly that---old. Withered. How had he ever believed this sack of bones, chained down by tradition and weighted by ignorance, to be the pinnacle of swordsmanship? The answer was simple. Like the fish that surged underneath them, eager for tossed crumbs whenever they saw a shadow pass over the bridge, as a child he had never known better. This fortress, carved into its unmoving mountain, looking only as high as its towers could stretch, had been his entire world. The elder had simply been a large, fat, and lazy frog at the bottom of a shallow well. As a child, he had been only a minnow. But he had feasted upon that frog's flesh and blood, and grown strong off its fattened carcass. He had climbed out of the well, he had descended the mountain, and he had seen far beyond the towers.

The so-called master drew his blade, and so did he. In the past, his weapon had been mere wood. Now, his steel gleamed so much brighter than the elder's, it was as if he held a sliver of the white moon above them in his hands. In his dream, the battle played out, as it always did, in the same way. The old orc came at him with the same tired, basal techniques. Yet, as a child, he had nearly died because of his weakness and stupidity against those same movements. But he had won, because what he lacked in body and intelligence had been compensated with familiarity, talent, and bloodlust. He had watched the false teacher from afar, and fought with the pitiful wretches the old orc called students. He had already picked up on their tendencies, their bad habits, their stylistic preferences that served no purpose but to differentiate them among the families of the same Clan who had used the same arts for centuries. His talent, some quality and quirk of his muscles and his nerves, some combination of his eyes and his reflexes, had already enabled him to grow rapidly---perhaps, in the end, it was only because his want to learn had been greater. Because he hungered for something beyond this diluted, impure bladework; for more of the glimmer, the spark, he had seen in one swing.

But his bloodlust, that was the deciding factor. Malice, overflowing, filled his muscles and burned his throat with the fire spitting from his lungs. His kills were fresher; how long had it been since the old orc had gone out to the field? In a matter of days, a child had whittled down a family's bloodline by an entire generation. His hateful onslaught had surprised his enemy. At that time, he had not yet learned to break down his opponents piece by piece, to cut them apart in mind and soul as well as body. He had only cared about doing as much harm, and more, to those that had harmed him first. When his wooden sword met the master's blade, he had not cared about preserving his weapon, and had pressed forward when the elder thought he would draw back. At the moment he was cut---a scar that had now nearly faded away, just below his eye---he had not flinched back or gained distance to assess the damage. He had let it bleed and had struck back with twice the ferocity.

Yet, as a child, he had still been an idiot. If that withered excuse of a swordsman had not let his emotions overwhelm him, if mere sentimentality had not overcome his training, then the child would have died that night. Instead, despite being the first to draw, he had pleaded to end their duel. The elder had finally seen the error of his ways. But because his young opponent was no longer young in this dream, he could look back on this moment with greater clarity. With hindsight, with wisdom and experience gained over long years of travel and many battles, he could look back at the old, pathetic fool who knelt before the whelp who had bested him. 

He did not regret killing the other orc. If he had accepted the offer, if he had gone to train under such a pitiful master and atoned for his sins, he would not have come as far as he had. It was pointless to consider how much better such a life could have been, a life with his father and his mother still alive, a life where he had been permitted to practice the sword within the peaceful walls among his own kind...

And so, the dream continued to play out as it had for a length of time he could not recall. The battle played out as it always did. The old orc came at him with the same techniques. But this time, he questioned himself. To step to the left, and strike the foe's sword-arm off at his elbow? Or to plunge towards the right, and sweep off the exposed leg? The last time he had this dream he had done one, and the time before that he had done the other. This time he merely turned his body, letting the strike slide down the flat of his blade, and the elder ran into his elbow chest-first. As the old orc's image stumbled back, he looked at his opponent dumbly, without realizing he was a ghost. But, just as one who knew the false teacher's personality imagined he might, the fool became irritated, and attacked again.

This phantom duel continued, looping over and over again. Each time, he tried something new. Each time, he taunted his foe. Maimed him. Crippled him. And finally, with some maneuver he knew the orcs of his Clan had probably never encountered, he killed the withered memory. Over, and over, and over again. He had already proved that, as he was now, he was far beyond that fat, ugly frog at the bottom of the well. Yet still he tortured and killed the elder, again and again. Because it would never be enough.

And so the dream would have gone on, if not for...[/i]
[hr]
[color=6ecff6]You have woken.[/color] 

"Nnnrgh..." How long had he been asleep? How long had he been within the Maw? His survival instincts fought with the glowing embers deep in his bowels that had never accepted this fate. Another memory replayed itself, this one far more recent. Knights died beneath his blades, though they were each of them quite skilled and well armored. He had worked for his victory, though victory it was...until [i]she[/i] had arrived. He had been defiant to the last, yet he had been...crushed. The heat of shame filled his face, turning the green skin purple as scars stood out white. Shame fed the embers and threatened to flame up as rage. Yet that icy presence prickling his mind triggered all the dark thoughts his dream self had surpassed. Outside the dream, he felt as if he were a child again before this...this...

"[sub]...Witch...[/sub]" His parched throat croaked. How dare she stand before him! Why could he not move---this blasted, abominable magic, how could it hold someone down such that they could not even struggle? Ropes and chains, at the least, could be pushed against until one felt the bite and grind against flesh! No matter his efforts, he could not even feel the resistance against the binding force that held him in sway! It wasn't...it wasn't...

[color=6ecff6]Patience.[/color] [color=6ecff6]All in due time. They are waking.[/color]

[i]It's not fair![/i] screamed the childish voice deep within him. What right had the gods to bestow such sorcery to mortals?! To lose as one against an army, to have his throat slit in the dark or his drink poisoned---these things all [i]existed[/i], they were real! If he, as the strongest of all swordsmen, died to such a fate then he was, in his own way, still the strongest! But with mere words, with thoughts and intent, magicians altered what was real and what was illusion. They were liars, and cheats, and cowards! But he was too restrained, it seemed, even to rant and rave. He settled for glaring at her, even though his eyes kept drifting to the others in the room...