Askeladden had been curled in a tight ball after dozing off on their jounrey, his knees tucked tightly against his chest. He dreamed and in his dreams rolled memories of a life that he hoped he would never return to. Snippets of memories strung together in a disjointed story unfolded in his minds eye as he tossed and turned, mumbling to himself in his sleep. He had a tendency to talk in his sleep. Sometimes he yelled or screamed, though those were reserved for the nights he relived the gouging of his eye or the fights with captured creatures brought in by hunters. He had the mental scars to match the ones covering his body. He was better at covering those up.
Askeladden shot up from his bed, his skin sticky with sweat, his breath ragged, his senses on fire. Something hadn't felt right and for a moment he couldn't quite place it. Is something happening? he shuffled around and peered out of the wagon, unable to see whatever was directly in front of them, but able to see what was around them. We aren't moving. We're in a rush. We left people. Bad. Bad. Bad bad bad. This is bad. We wouldn't just stop Askeladden lurched for his sack of supplies and tore it open, grabbing his knife roll. He fumbled through the selection, withdrawing the cleaver and chef's knife, sliding the chef's into a pocket on his leather vest and clutched the handle of the cleaver tightly as he jumped out of the back of the wagon, landing on grass barefooted. The hot pain in his feet made him wince, but he was already out of the wagon. He would've had to climb back in and search for his boots, then wrap his feet in bandages. The cry of a voice meant he no longer had the time to. It was a sound he dreaded.
"Orcs!"
Askeladden gasped sharply, understanding the severity of that single, incredibly simple word. A word so simply even he could write it. A word so simple, it did not properly reflect the wretchedness of what it represented. Askeladden peeked around the wagon and saw them. A handful of orcs, followed by a slightly larger group of goblins. A band of warped looking humans with skin colours that represented bile and grubs. A disgusting race of monsters. Askeladden had only seen a single orc in his life. It was dead and he had chopped it up and made stew out of it for a band of hunters that dropped the ugly beast. The things were a sin against men, a punishment by the gods. They were men if men were born to only know cruelty and hatred. The goblins that followed were no better. Askeladden had even fought a one that a hunter brought in for the pub's entertainment at Thor's command. They cretins were fasty, had a nasty claws and a nastier bite. But he was faster. And less fragile.
Askeladden grabbed at his cloak, ripping it off as he ran and began to wrap it around his left arm. He had no plan other than to run wide and try to meet the goblins in the back. Goblins being weaker than orcs meant he had a chance to take at least one or two with him. If he could, he'd do his best to help the caravan. They'd have no place to deny his company if he showed his value. If he failed, then he'd be dead. Possibly dead alongside the others. It was a risk he was willing to take. There wasn't a choice in the matter.
Askeladden's feet screamed in pain as he now ran, every step shooting a hot spike of pain through his head as a dull pain began to form through the entirety of his head. The orcs were already either upon or nearly upon the caravan guard and the goblins were moving in behind, though they were slower and more cautious than the orcs. They knew they were weaker and they shook with what was either excitement or terror. Perhaps a mixture of the two. Askeladden only made noise when he was nearly upon them, roaring with ferocity as he made his final steps toward a goblin who was drawing back an arrow aimed at the caravan. "Here!" he screamed, leaping the last couple of meters toward the beast. The goblin turned and let out a cry of what seemed like shock when Askeladden's shoulder collided with the side of its head.
It squirmed and writhed, flailing its clawed hands at Askeladden, digging into his shirt, tearing the sleeves, cutting his skin. Askeladden no longer screamed, the beast making enough noise to compensate for him. He rose his cleaver into the air and brought it down like a hammer against the goblin's head. It screamed more with the first blow. Less with the second. The third strike sent a spurt of blood across Askeladd's face, a bit of blood getting onto his lips. It tasted of iron and fetid water. The goblin went limp with the fourth and in that moment the cry of another stole his attention. Askeladden lurched to the side, narrowly missing the swing of a short sword that sunk into the body of the first goblin. The second pulled at his sword, unable to get it out of the body of its comrade and Askeladden jumped at it. The goblin released the sword and grabbed at Askeladden, its fingers wrapping tightly around his left arm, its claws digging in through his shirt and piercing the skin of his hand, both arms warm with his own blood. It sank its jagged yellow and black teeth into his arm, meeting the resistance of the cloak. It continued to grind teeth and reached with one hand toward Askeladden's face, clawing at the air just before it. He dropped his cleaver and snatched his chef's knife, going to draw back his arm and plunged it forward. The knife met the goblin's oil black eye and sank in with a sickening squelch. The creature went limp once the handle of the knife was nearly at its eye. Askeladden gave it a hard jerk and fell backwards onto his ass, letting out a gasp of breath. He hadn't realised he had been holding his breath the entire time and now his lungs burned.
A warm sensation began to build at his lips and he could taste the distinct iron taste of his own blood. The touch of his hand confirmed that he was bleeding and the feeling was a split lip and a cut that ran from his bottom lip to the base of his chin. He sighed a heavy sigh and grabbed at the ground in search of his cleaver. If anything else got turned onto his wanna-be warrior approach and came for him, he'd probably die now. His arms barely wanted to move as the adrenaline began to fade and the pain of the gashes from the goblin's claws began to reach through. "Good gods," he muttered shakily, "I'm an idiot."
Askeladden shot up from his bed, his skin sticky with sweat, his breath ragged, his senses on fire. Something hadn't felt right and for a moment he couldn't quite place it. Is something happening? he shuffled around and peered out of the wagon, unable to see whatever was directly in front of them, but able to see what was around them. We aren't moving. We're in a rush. We left people. Bad. Bad. Bad bad bad. This is bad. We wouldn't just stop Askeladden lurched for his sack of supplies and tore it open, grabbing his knife roll. He fumbled through the selection, withdrawing the cleaver and chef's knife, sliding the chef's into a pocket on his leather vest and clutched the handle of the cleaver tightly as he jumped out of the back of the wagon, landing on grass barefooted. The hot pain in his feet made him wince, but he was already out of the wagon. He would've had to climb back in and search for his boots, then wrap his feet in bandages. The cry of a voice meant he no longer had the time to. It was a sound he dreaded.
"Orcs!"
Askeladden gasped sharply, understanding the severity of that single, incredibly simple word. A word so simply even he could write it. A word so simple, it did not properly reflect the wretchedness of what it represented. Askeladden peeked around the wagon and saw them. A handful of orcs, followed by a slightly larger group of goblins. A band of warped looking humans with skin colours that represented bile and grubs. A disgusting race of monsters. Askeladden had only seen a single orc in his life. It was dead and he had chopped it up and made stew out of it for a band of hunters that dropped the ugly beast. The things were a sin against men, a punishment by the gods. They were men if men were born to only know cruelty and hatred. The goblins that followed were no better. Askeladden had even fought a one that a hunter brought in for the pub's entertainment at Thor's command. They cretins were fasty, had a nasty claws and a nastier bite. But he was faster. And less fragile.
Askeladden grabbed at his cloak, ripping it off as he ran and began to wrap it around his left arm. He had no plan other than to run wide and try to meet the goblins in the back. Goblins being weaker than orcs meant he had a chance to take at least one or two with him. If he could, he'd do his best to help the caravan. They'd have no place to deny his company if he showed his value. If he failed, then he'd be dead. Possibly dead alongside the others. It was a risk he was willing to take. There wasn't a choice in the matter.
Askeladden's feet screamed in pain as he now ran, every step shooting a hot spike of pain through his head as a dull pain began to form through the entirety of his head. The orcs were already either upon or nearly upon the caravan guard and the goblins were moving in behind, though they were slower and more cautious than the orcs. They knew they were weaker and they shook with what was either excitement or terror. Perhaps a mixture of the two. Askeladden only made noise when he was nearly upon them, roaring with ferocity as he made his final steps toward a goblin who was drawing back an arrow aimed at the caravan. "Here!" he screamed, leaping the last couple of meters toward the beast. The goblin turned and let out a cry of what seemed like shock when Askeladden's shoulder collided with the side of its head.
It squirmed and writhed, flailing its clawed hands at Askeladden, digging into his shirt, tearing the sleeves, cutting his skin. Askeladden no longer screamed, the beast making enough noise to compensate for him. He rose his cleaver into the air and brought it down like a hammer against the goblin's head. It screamed more with the first blow. Less with the second. The third strike sent a spurt of blood across Askeladd's face, a bit of blood getting onto his lips. It tasted of iron and fetid water. The goblin went limp with the fourth and in that moment the cry of another stole his attention. Askeladden lurched to the side, narrowly missing the swing of a short sword that sunk into the body of the first goblin. The second pulled at his sword, unable to get it out of the body of its comrade and Askeladden jumped at it. The goblin released the sword and grabbed at Askeladden, its fingers wrapping tightly around his left arm, its claws digging in through his shirt and piercing the skin of his hand, both arms warm with his own blood. It sank its jagged yellow and black teeth into his arm, meeting the resistance of the cloak. It continued to grind teeth and reached with one hand toward Askeladden's face, clawing at the air just before it. He dropped his cleaver and snatched his chef's knife, going to draw back his arm and plunged it forward. The knife met the goblin's oil black eye and sank in with a sickening squelch. The creature went limp once the handle of the knife was nearly at its eye. Askeladden gave it a hard jerk and fell backwards onto his ass, letting out a gasp of breath. He hadn't realised he had been holding his breath the entire time and now his lungs burned.
A warm sensation began to build at his lips and he could taste the distinct iron taste of his own blood. The touch of his hand confirmed that he was bleeding and the feeling was a split lip and a cut that ran from his bottom lip to the base of his chin. He sighed a heavy sigh and grabbed at the ground in search of his cleaver. If anything else got turned onto his wanna-be warrior approach and came for him, he'd probably die now. His arms barely wanted to move as the adrenaline began to fade and the pain of the gashes from the goblin's claws began to reach through. "Good gods," he muttered shakily, "I'm an idiot."