With each step they took, Lars’ voice carried as he uttered a prayer to Graff, the God of war and battle. Each word echoing as the chaos outside the walls dimmed a moment. The soft clank of the chain armor, and the beat of the sword pommel against the shield, enhanced the prayer as they kept time with his cadence.
“You are called Gangleri,
Wandering God,
at home nowhere and everywhere;
You are called Sigtyr,
brilliant in Your battle-glory,
born to conquer, to possess the world;
You are called Grimnir,
and by vitki Yggr,
in honor of Your terrible time upon the Tree.
You are known by these and many other names,
and the paths to You are many.
We praise them all, that You may savor
in each of Your guises,
and by whichever name pleases You the most
the fermentation of our spirits.
May these words please You oh God,
and may You bestow upon us,
whose mouths overflow
with adoration and praise,
the terrible grace of Your blessing.”
As he finished he prayer, Lars was at the coach, on the eastern most side, the shield pressed against the back of the coach. It was clear that the enemy was upon them. The stench of Orc filled the air. It was a rotten, putrid smell oozing from their pores; a stench that once cursed with smelling, never forgotten.
Smashing the coach heartily with the shield, Lars snarled as the brutish creature hopped out, “Well Lady, it appears the Black Talons have graced us with their ugliest warriors.” The coach on his left shoulder, the shield before him as he let the war sword drop into a low guard, the blade jutting up ever so slightly, his booted feet apart. Rising slightly on the balls of his feet, Lars flexed his knees a tad, ready to react forward or back if need be.
The orc, heavily armored and wielding a mace and longsword assumed a posture that the seemed similar to the Ochs, with the sword up and to the outside. The point of the sword aimed somewhat towards Lar’s face.
It was a stance normally requiring both hands on the hilt for stability, yet this Orc seemed supremely assured of his position that he carried it with a single hand. It was clear that the poor bastard had some training, not very good training but some training. At least he would offer some fight. The Ochs stance, although not as stable as others, would protect the Orc well enough, and allow him a counter with a straight thrust. Of course if he was skilled he might turn to cut diagonally down, or pull back to cut from underneath. All this of course was possible from the Ochs; however, this Orc carried a mace as well so those moves must be modified to account for the second weapon.
No matter, Lars already gleaned some insight to his opponent already.
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