[hider=Kalkoroth] [center][b]Kalkoroth Goredrinker, Lord of Scars, Slave of Chernobog[/b][/center] Type: Rogue Being [hr] A front of dark clouds hung over the not-so-distant landscape. It was a shadow wrought by the enemy’s horrible magic, of that the warrior had no doubt, and it was there as a shield to shelter fell and unspeakable monsters from the cleansing light of the sun. And the darkness was fast approaching. Sethre the Mighty watched, the burden of leadership heavy upon his shoulders. He wore no crown; the word of the Almighty, their Exalted God, was what had given him his station rather than some inherited crown of gold. The many long years of endless war had taken a toll and now he was an old man, nearly forty, with hair almost entirely gone to gray. But duty called, and he would have no respite. Until Larth was old and wise enough to lead this army on his own, Sethre was its general. All around the camp, there was the great thud of trees crashing down and the cracks of branches being broken off. The men (and boys too, for some here were far too young, but necessity had made them soldiers all) scurried about erecting crude fortifications of earth and sharpened stakes to guard the river’s ford. There was no laughter and little enough speech, just tired panting and ripe sweat. The men were clearly exhausted, but deeper down and beneath that they were terrified, Sethre knew, and it didn’t take a veteran like him to realize it: even the young prince saw as much. But the foolishness and reckless bravery of youth and heroes was too much, and so Prince Larth’s courage was unwavering. “There still might be time enough to cross and take up the high ground, there on that hill across the river. If we entrench ourselves too deeply, the undisciplined monsters might not come,” Larth’s sharp voice suddenly mused. Sethre shook himself from his reverie; he’d been watching the distant shadow so intently that he hadn’t even taken heed of the approaching prince, his own nephew. His young commander too; sometimes it was hard to forget that the king had sent him here to advise and protect Larth, not to command in his own right...All the boy-prince’s brothers were far away leading their own armies, or already slain by the enemy, and his lord father was king of men and ever at the side of their God. “No, there is no time and we cannot abandon our advantage here. They will come...they already march upon us,” the champion promised through his venerable beard. “The black horizon is their herald. All these skirmishes up and down the stream were but probing fingers, I fear, and now the enemy brings forth the fist of his army to finally break us. But we must not yield. Larth, you may command these men, but I was chosen to be your guardian and so [i]I[/i] order [i]you[/i] to set aside thoughts of folly. You should go through the ranks, to offer the men your encouragement and your blessing. By noonfall each and every one of them must be prepared to fight and die--” “Victory is assured,” Prince Larth smiled, and his eyes were almost as golden as his hair. For an instant, Sethre almost forgot where he was. “I saw it in a dream, my sword aflame with our god’s glory as it pierced the heart of the monster that leads this horde,” the boy finished. The veteran was given pause by those words -- not by the absolute confidence of his nephew (for he was still only a lad with three or four battles to his name), as a wavering man would have been, but by the content of the dream. “And did you see what this monster looked like?” The orcs’ matron had been cast down and shackled not long ago, sent forth to await judgement at the hands of the Almighty God of men; however, already the shattered remnants of her host had been rallied by [i]some black lord[/i]. This lieutenant of the enemy was a dangerous foe, Sethre sensed, a cautious and clever one. The Great War raged all across the land, and a dozen other vast hordes of monsters and that many of the Black God’s scions still rampaged, and of course the Black God himself still tainted the land with its every breath. They would receive no reinforcements; even their Almighty Lord, exalted be his name and indomitable his body, was fighting elsewhere. They had to make their stand here with this weathered army and hold the river at all costs, and they weren’t gods or sorcerers, just men. Brave men with bronze in hand and hope in their hearts, but just men. “Their leader was a foul demon. That one right there, in fact,” Larth laughed, baring his beautiful blade of gleaming bronze to point it across the river, and lo! There, atop the hill, Sethre beheld the stuff of nightmares: a great monstrosity of ashen darkness and burning blood, terrible and towering in its aberrant stature and twisted, horned face. It dwarfed the countless trolls and ogres and orcs (and other, stranger, worse beings) as the horde crested the hill just behind it. The land was suddenly shaded as the dark clouds above swallowed up the light and blocked the sun, but still, Sethre could see the demon clearly. Even wreathed in shadow and blackened scales, the demon’s eyes were burning coals and its whole form glowered like a furnace. So great was the heat that it radiated, the air itself seemed to shimmer and shudder about it, which made the thing only more fearsome and unnatural to look upon. Into every bit of its flesh were carved dark glyphs and symbols, the open and wounds weeping fiery blood. Sethre had seen demons before -- their ilk numbered among the horrors that the enemy could call upon -- but never had he seen one so massive, so painted in scars, or so horrible to gaze upon. A massive, glowing scar upon its chest was the only one that even the seasoned veteran recognized -- the mark of the dreaded Black God itself. Sethre’s heart sank. “That is a foe [i]far[/i] beyond you!” he shouted, but the prince only laughed and jokingly mocked his father for a craven, then raced off to organize the men into their formations. From atop the hill, the demon did likewise, roaring orders with its diabolical rasp of a voice. The monster arranged its great host in deliberate ranks, pointing out their places here and there with a massive blackened greatsword that it held in one claw like it was no more than a dagger. In another claw the monster gripped a great scourge that confirmed its rank as overlord. But then the demon cracked the whip, and there was a shrill grating sound like the scrape of metal upon stone. [i]’That’s its terrible laughter,’[/i] Sethre realized. A massive ogre strode forth, and the demon tossed it the whip for safekeeping, freeing that claw to snatch up a great sack from the hands of some orc. Then the demon strode down the hill and into the river alone, the rushing waters that rose to a man’s belly hardly touching the demon’s knee even as they steamed at his infernal touch. With a casual flick of its wrist, the demon hurled the sack in a high arc across the river. Halfway through the air it came undone to reveal its contents: a dozen severed heads of brave men who had been scouts. The grisly remnants rained down still dripping blood, and nearly burst from the force of impact as they tumbled onto raised shields and rolled amongst the army of men. In its profane tongue the monster taunted them all, brandishing its greatsword and waving it about in sweeping motions mighty enough to shear a half dozen men in half. [i]’The demon issues a challenge to single combat,’[/i] Sethre realized. [i]’A bold, but calculated move.. it knows that its own horde was broken only days ago, that their morale is a fragile thing, and it thinks that we have none brave or mighty enough to match it. It thinks that this display will dishearten us and embolden its own brutes, but it didn’t account for [b]me.[/b] If I slay it here, they will all scatter to the wind, and this battle will be done before it begins!’[/i] So Sethre the Mighty was suddenly spurring himself into motion, abandoning the commanding place in the rear where he’d stood to survey the ground. He seized up a spear and suddenly was sprinting, hardly even thinking, moving as fast as he could. The demon was already growing tired of this show; it looked as though it was about to turn around and return to its own ranks, but then a challenger appeared upon the riverbank. [i]Larth. The fool![/i] The sound of the prince splashing into the river and wading forward made the gigantic demon spin back about, and when it saw the boy that would fight him, it laughed and snarled and grinned. Its visage seemed almost torn in half by that cruel smile from a mouth that was entirely too large, and filled with rows and rows of teeth like knives. Most of the fell folk were stupid and driven half-mad by their bloodlust, but not this demon. Rather than charging forward to meet the boy-prince, the demon remained where it was in the center of the river, just barely out of range of arrow and javelin. And the ranks of fell folk across the river were suddenly animated, stomping and shouting and braying like dogs in anticipation for the duel. The sound of their thunderous cheers carried over the waters; they were chanting a name: Kalkoroth! [b]Kalkoroth! KALKOROTH![/b] The men of his army let off feebler cries of encouragement, but it was enough to drown out Sethre’s shouts and [i]orders[/i] for the boy to come back. Larth never faltered. His short strides became a sprint as he slogged dauntlessly through the water, shield and sword held high. When he was just ten feet from the demon, the horrible monster offered an almost lazy swing of his sword. The prince, a boy of surprising skill for his age, managed to deftly dive out of the way and come to his feet at once -- the demonic blade only bit the water where the boy had been, and Larth had closed half the gap. Still, before his own much shorter arm and blade were within striking range, the monster’s barbed tail whipped forward. Larth clearly hadn’t been expecting [i]that[/i], for it was all he could do to turn his shield in time. The demon turned his back upon Larth to face back to its own horde, and then it let out another harrowing cackle. This Kalkoroth’s arrogance and hubris were perhaps its only weakness. Larth tried to seize the opportunity and leap up to stab the monster in its back, but the demon of course anticipated as much and it spun around. It made no move to counterattack, nor even to take advantage of its great advantage in reach by creating more space between them -- it just effortlessly twisted and spun away from every blow that Larth tried, absolutely mocking and ridiculing the boy’s prowess with this lack of respect. In truth almost any man would have been hard-pressed to strike the demon though; it moved [i]far[/i] faster than a being of its bulk should have, with its muscles and joints jerking abruptly and extending in unnatural ways. Its alacrity was awesome, yet somehow never graceful; its body looked almost like a giant puppet animated and made to dance by some unseen power. But after a short time of that, the fell folk across the river grew restless and the demon itself seemed tired of the display, so it began to furiously press the attack. Like lightning it kicked and slashed and hacked with such dexterity and force that it was all Larth could do to scramble backwards -- the boy couldn’t dare try to block or parry that massive sword, for the force behind the thing would cleave through his own blade or shatter the bones within arm that held his shield. Almost miraculously, Larth landed one firm strike -- or did the demon [i]allow[/i] it? -- upon the beast’s long arms when its claws had shot forth, but if it felt any pain the demon didn’t show it. It only offered a menacing grin as fiery black blood and ash poured from its wound. It smeared the gushing blood over its own body, and where the foul ichor touched the glyphs carved into his body, the magical symbols came alight and [i]burned[/i] with searing power. And then it ran the length of its blackened greatsword through its own blood, and shouted a terrible word: [b][color=black]Chernobog![/color][/b] And even as the force of the Black God’s terrible name sent icy spears through the hearts of every man on that field, Chernobog’s power was invoked by its champion. The demonic blood running down Kalkoroth’s blade was suddenly transformed into sickly, withering flames, and what was once a greatsword was now an unholy, fiery brand. Ghostly flames and waves of heat followed the greatsword’s path with every swing, and the attacks were coming faster and faster as the mad demon laughed and laughed. Larth’s body drew too near to the otherworldly fires, and suddenly his own shield was alight. He scrambled and shouted in panic as he tried to free his arm before the devouring flames crept past the shield and began to consume him. In his desperation the prince even tried to hack off the shield’s straps with his own sword, but he couldn’t because he suddenly had no sword arm. One stroke of the demon’s greatsword clove through the prince’s bronze armor with so much force that Larth’s sword-arm had been shorn free and sent flying through the air. The fight was finished in an instant, and all that happened next was...butchery. A battering blow to the flaming shield shattered the bones within the remaining arm, and then another quick stroke hacked it off. The demon eviscerated the prince (bronze hauberk torn asunder by the flaming greatsword, as if it were no more than cloth) and finally beheaded him. It seized the lifeless body and held the mangled corpse high so that all the shocked and speechless men could witness as it [i]drank[/i] the blood and entrails that cascaded out. Then this [i]Kalkoroth[/i] turned back to his host and bellowed something in the Black Tongue. A frenzied warcry answered him, and the ogre that had been entrusted with the overlord’s scourge cracked it in the air. At once the tides of orcs and trolls and ogres surged forth to storm the river’s ford. Some of the men broke and ran, but battle gave a presence and clarity of mind that let Sethre pierce through the veil of his grief and terror. “Stand fast! Shields up!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, and somehow the brave, brave men who’d stayed by his side steeled their nerves and obeyed. Some knelt to kiss the ground and put clumps of dirt into their mouths to chew; perhaps the last thing they’d ever taste. But the champion broke free of the line for a few moments, and he strode ten feet forward to where he saw a gleam in the rippling waters. He cast aside his mundane spear and reached down to claim his boy’s unmarred sword, shining in its splendor and with the water that coated it. It was like his nephew’s golden hair -- nothing had ever been so beautiful. Sethre backpedaled to his place in the front and center of the shieldwall, and he gripped the blade tighter as he eyed the monstrous demon leading the charge. [i]’Go for the heart,’[/i] Mighty Sethre murmured half to himself and half to his nephew’s blade. That was the way to kill a demon.[/hider]