Nyxella — Roleplayer Guild

Knife-like legs tore through a curtain of white smoke, joints groaning as they curved inwards and heaved a massive shadow to the fore. Gasps arose when it entered the light, clanking, clattering and whirring like most things forged in fire, yet displaying very animalistic traits. Small tremors rocked the earth as it advanced, in a way it gave substance to the shock and fear spreading through the crowd like poison. If they weren't gasping, they were gaping, especially all along the front line, where faces paled before their golden reflections. Thyra stood among them, wide-eyed and utterly awestruck by what they now faced, and what it meant for the greater task at hand. The first challenger, a brave but foolish man, had his innards squeezed out and onto the pavement. While his pain ended in death, the imprint it left on his countrymen would last a lifetime. After that, the front line resisted all encouragements from the rear, until that, too, disappeared entirely. As chaos unfolded, she felt weightless and battered, and then, she felt nothing.

Conscious thoughts were greeted by a painful, rhythmless ping, that battered the drums behind her eyes. They opened up to a shade of blue, too beautiful and pure for the violence wrought beneath it, and only when she turned, did the pain in her side make itself known. Ruby floors yielded when she rolled onto her front, exposing depressions in the surface and and to the woman’s everlasting shock, charred pieces of debris. It seemed the blood that felt cool when hit by air, didn't all come from the grazes along her cheek and chin. Arms, legs and other stubs were tossed about and coated in gore, smeared across the landscape like demonic paint-strokes. Beneath her nearest hand, a head in a scarf rested on its new mantle of meaty pulp. Thyra recognised the Alik’r man straight away and a wave of repulsion caused her steel nerves to shudder. She pushed upwards and away from the gore, almost frantically, only to be slammed hard against her ally’s cheek by an unseen force.

The Guard’s surprise was audible, a feeble patch of rags denied his spear the taste of spine, and a second, less tentative jab was repelled just the same. Thyra flipped over against his weight when he tried a third attempt, and grabbed the spear shaft as he stumbled. Its head landed next to hers, forcing the wielder within range of a few sharp kicks. She made wine with the children he'd never have, and accepted without shame the happiness it gave her. He sank to his knees as she rose, squeaking high notes to accentuate the pain etched in his golden face. In one fluid movement, Thyra took spear and thrust it cleanly through his neck. Arrows thwipped through the air, and in the direction they came from, she saw the two bowmen aiming for her. Yanking the spear free was like uncorking an upturned wine skin, his entire front was painted red, and the second time metal entered him, it was through slick leather with enough force to bust his heart’s cage. An idea formed as her eyes travelled the distance between the two assailants.

It astounded them, the way she dragged their comrade’s carcass on the end of a spear, turning him into a utility befitting his former job role. His feet skimmed the ground, yet all 6-feet of him still required her to bend low for protection. They looked on in disgust, judging her the same way they did all barbaric northerners, who ate and wore whatever they killed. And probably slept with them, too. They stepped towards her pensively, communicating a plan through head tilts and hand movements. One ditched his bow for a dagger and strafed right, while the other moved to await the opening his attack would create. Neither of them suspected an ulterior motive, thinking the Nord was simply desperate and incapable of perceiving strategy. When the dagger came at three o'clock, she swung her spear shaft and thrust it into the wielder's neck. As he fell, she knelt and hoisted it up high, absorbing the incoming fire from her nine. Suddenly, the corpse fell away, and the Archer was set upon by a hardwood shield charging at full speed. From his new position on the floor, he could see Thyra struggling against his dagger-wielding comrade and likened it to a wasp trying to overcome a bear. His strikes bounced off her shield, and his arm was fended away, leaving him prone to the skull-splintering uppercut she delivered.

The Archer fired an arrow into her thigh and earned a satisfying growl, but it, too, was futile. He watched in horror as the Nord wrenched it free and used it to gouge his comrade's eye. Her hand spread wide behind his head and, with a firm grip, she pushed the arrow deeper into his skull until his screams thinned out. She kicked away the Archer’s bow, stomped the dagger out of his hand and felt a split second grin clear her gloom as he crawled away on all fours. There was another weapon not far off, and he squirmed two feet over human muck to reach it, but no further. A heavy boot forced him down and pinned him there, as Thyra bent forward to retrieve her axe. He struggled to right himself the way he'd seen her do it before, but she moved with his bucks and sways and came down harder every time, forcing the wind from his lungs. He lay there dazed, and could only watch as a mighty swing brought the blade between his eyes.

The next three kills were gathered with haste as she tried to position herself near the dwemer crab. Adrenalin swirled within, she relished the thrill but it was easy to sully its edge with drops of bloodlust. In this battle, there were many situations that overwhelmed her love of it, and it wasn’t uncommon for her to lapse into a frenzy that eclipsed all logic. Her grunts acted as a counterweight, escaping in short bursts to shear chunks of flesh from unarmoured bone. They were like a dirge at each beheading. As the crush thickened and wrapped around her, the butt of her heft became a weapon, and shield-bashes formed combinations with the Gods-given two-hander that solved many disagreements in taverns and tight places. The throes of battle turned strangers into shield-siblings, and pitted the loyalties of blood against love of coin. At the center of a huddle lay the prone body of the second Alik'r warrior, which she and the now lone survivor fought their way to. Any other would see it for the waste of time it was, but for that moment she fought by his side, Thyra adopted his wants and pains as her own. She kept assailants at bay as the man knelt over his brother, gripping his blood-stained clothes, weeping openly and unashamedly. It would be the first time she'd hear the sound of his voice.

That eerie sound, of realities being torn asunder, of vorpal energies unleashed onto a virgin landscape, of forbidden forces ravaging the land, echoed and pinged with increasing frequency. She was close enough to smell foul magic on the breeze and see, through the corner of her eye, in which direction the Dwemer warmachine had aimed its functioning cannon. When it charged, she avoided the area in its crosshairs, and by Mara's grace, it avoided - for the time being - the site of her Alik'r ally, still trapped inside himself with grief. An enormous bolt of what looked like destruction magic wrapped around a dagger succeeded in peeling the cannon from one of its shoulders. She cheered as it swung loose and fell to a side, but the sight of guards tightening their defences around it turned her grin into a frown filled with curse words. It would take more than guts and a dash of stupidity to approach it now. She shifted two steps backwards after severing an opponents arm, and drove a heel into the desert-dweller's side.

"Move!" she yelled, looking over at him for a second, and not liking the image of ignorance he gave back. Thyra kicked him again, and harder, trying to jumpstart his motivation with anger but he refused to be moved.

A splash of orange appeared in a gap between the crowds, frequent enough to answer the questions that formed, and revealing such dire constraints she was left wondering if he'd gotten into the skooma. Yes, it was the sunset-coloured Khajiit. No, he wasn't with his sister, the plump Argonian or the bookish Breton, meaning something bad had happened. Possibly an eye injury. Yes, he was aiming his palm at the metallic reaper of genocide. No, it was not a good idea. Thyra hesitated before starting towards him, she looked back at the Redguard man, still wallowing in the dirt with his brother, looking much like a corpse himself. The gentle shakes of his sobbing gave assuring evidence that he wasn't... and disappointed the fuck out of her. The death of a shield-brother kept her rage alight for a fortnight at the least, this one was the complete opposite. She grit her teeth, eyes narrowed, and stormed up to him.

"Pick yourself up," she spat, crouching low when she was near enough to nudge his shoulder, "Your brothers' deaths are not worthy of vengeance." He looked to her with red eyes full of anger. "Look at the life they traded theirs to keep," she shook her head, "A waste." Thyra shoved him and pulled away. Their eyes never met a second time, and she disappeared beneath sprays of blood arcing over every hack and slash that cleared a path towards Qara'Sion.

Nyxella Member

Delphic Dame

Status

Recent Statuses

Bio

Most Recent Posts