Adrenaline coursed through Oyargs black veins. The smell of fire and the sweat of his mount, a hairy bristle-back boar from the Tartarus Mountains filled his nostrils. Down the steep embankment of the marshy fen, tumbled rider and mount. Oyarg screamed with fanatical triumph as he plunged his heavy spear into a man and the beast trampled the body underfoot. Already the fires were spreading through the camp. His master, Malakaus, although not pure of blood, was a clever one. But Malakaus liked to [i]fight.[/i] He did not cower in caves, hoping to raid some meager caravan or farm. Malakaus led his men to battles wherever they were to be found. And Oyarg loved, no, [i]lived[/i] to fight. Some thought his master foolish to split his forces when opposing a larger army, but the fire arrows had distracted the Karsusians; a mistake that would cost them their lives. Oyarg did not care for tactics or politics. He was a grunt. A true soldier of the orc kind. He lived to follow orders, and to kill and to die. And Malakaus demanded blood this night. The orc charged through the Karsusians line, screaming and thrusting his spear. Men half-dressed, drunk and barely armed fell before his blade and beneath the tusks of his boar. Oyarg laughed as he killed and wrecked havoc on the scattering mercenary army. His companions had fallen behind. He was leading the charge. He looked behind him to see a dozen men swarming the vanguard of the charge. Oyarg was alone. [i]Pathetic. [/i]Thought Oyarg as he thrust his spear into the face of a fleeing man-kind. The spear stuck, and Oyarg cursed as his gnarled fingers lost their grip. The heavy spear was left behind as Oyarg careened into a heavy black tent. Canvas tangled his mounts hooves and tusks and the boar faltered. Oyarg saw only darkness, the tent entangling him. He could feel his mount thrashing wildly as he reached for the machete on his hip. The sounds of battle were drowned out for a moment, and then : A sharp pain in his side forced a gasp from his frothing lips. Another. The pain only enraged him as he flailed wildly, machete in hand cutting canvas and flesh. Light from the fire-fens fell through a tear and Oyarg fought his way out. Spears and swords in the hands of men fell, cutting and slashing Oyargs flesh to ribbons. Blood mixed with dirt and Oyarg fell, dead, smiling.