Koglan relaxed finally, looking around and he turns to make sure nothing else is trying to sneak up on them. He's turning back to the group when the Owlbear in a last attempt to kill someone lunges, again at Gurs. Koglan sadly is not nearly as fast as Griz. The cantakerous Gurs saved in the closing moments.
Koglan nods, "A good plan." He then turns to Gurs, and strides up to him. The smith hums, grabbing the front of his chest plate, looking it over then grabbing Gurs by the forearm lifting it so the Smith can look at his weapon, "When we return to the village. Come by the smithy. These will need repairs." He turns to the rest, "That goes for you all. Bring your gear to me so I can look at it properly. I have spoken on this." He says as he raises a powerful arm, motioning with his fingers, "And as payment I wish only one of the paws. Claws, and bones and fur. Nothing more. The rest can be divided up between you and the village."
The Old Smith nods, "Such a small price don't you think?" He casts a smile to the younger goblins, "Come! This is a large load and it will be quite a trip back with it." He bent and lifted an arm of the great Owlbear.
Sparrow Hawk surged to his feet, and lashed with his knife. Driving Mistikoman back from his axe. The outlaw native man grappled for his pistol. At the same time that Big Knife grabbed up his gunstock club. The pistol fired, but not before the big heavy wooden weapon Big Knife held connected with it, sending the bullet into the wall. And the pistol shattering into a few pieces.
And then they stood.
The pair of First Nations Warriors. Mistihkoman, Big Knife, club in hand again, held low and with ease. Sparrow Hawk, flexing his gun hand shaking feeling back into it. They traded looks. Before Sparrow nodded. It'd be down to fist and blade and club then.
No room to circle. Little room to dodge. But when they both charged there is little sound. The knife of Sparrow Hawk missed by a hairsbreadth. Cutting through Mistihkoman's vest instead. Big Knife turned at the last moment to slam his shoulde rinto Sparrow's chest knocking him back. A hissing slash nearly caught Mistihkoman across the neck, but he dodged back and the tip glanced his cheek.
It's so close. There's an economy of movement that has to be used. Mistihkoman's club comes whistling up, catching Sparrow between the legs. The Navajo man gasping in pain. But before he can capitolize, Sparrow headbutts Mistihkoman on the bridge of his nose. The first true blood isn't from knife or club but Mistihkoman's nose bursting as it bleeds. The butt of the gunclub comes up and catches Sparrow in the chin, a cry of pain. And a tooth, trailing blood sails off to clatter among the boxes. Both men bleeding.
They stand apart now. Mistihkoman snorting blood clear, and wiping his upper lip. Sparrow spitting a gobbet of blood-saliva to the side. The pair look at each other. Then charge, but Mistihkoman isn't going to let this go much longer. As that knife Sparrow holds hisses through the air. Mistihkoman ducks, rolls and...
No one outside the car would hear it. But Sparrow shows it. He gasps and staggers. The strike that Mistihkoman placed on his lower back...it'd broken something. Sparrow can feel his legs beginning to go numb. Ht turns and tries to stab again. Mistihkoman catches the swinging arm on the inner edge of his club, there's another snap. And Sparrow looks at his broken elbow.
Sparrow gulps and looks at his cousin Mistihkoman, born in differing tribes, to different creeds, but cousins none the less. The Navajo man nods, and lets the knife slip from numb fingers. He spits blood tinged saliva to the side the falls to his knees. He grunts, "It was a good dance cousin. Don't make it long. The Great Plains above...they are waiting." Mistihkoman nods, "You fought bravely cousin. Under other circumstances I'd be proud to call you my Raid Brother." He wipes his lip again, "They'll be waiting. On the other side." Mistihkoman takes a have step back, turns a full 360 degrees, then...
This time the crunch can be heard from outside. The spike on the outer angled edge of the gunstock club having punched right through Sparrows throat and out the back. As Mistihkoman pulls his weapon free the body of Sparrow drops to the floor. And then and only then does he react to the fact his shoulder is still bleeding from the bullet to it. He coughs, "Hah...okay..." He can collect his scalp later. He heads back to the passenger carraige, "Need to find my bow." He growls, throwing open the door to see how things are going outside.
The Great Plains Above/Endless Hunting Grounds - The First Nations peoples afterlife. A place where they can rest, and wait for the end of time. Hunting is abundant, animals can be cooperative. It's a Paradise.
Those Waiting - Ancestors, family members who have gone before them, all will be waiting for a First Nations person upon their death and entry to the Great Plains Above.
Koglan looked at the Owlbear and was just running forward, or as well as the old Goblin can run. He gripped the hafts of his hammers. He ducked low and made his way around behind the powerful beast. As Brendan laid into the beast and Rom swept his club up and into the beasts beak. Koglan unleashed his first attacks. His forge strengthened arms bulge and with two even sweeps his warhammers slam into the Owlbears flank. A synced pair of whumps as the heads of the hammer sink through feather and fur. And into muscle. He jumped back as the beast kicked back with it's pained leg.
He turned only slight to see Gurs and Griz rejoin the fray. Seeing the beast rise he thundered his hammers into it's leg again, "Bring it down! Bring it down! Fell it, then lay into it. Weak belly! Chest and neck!" He laid into the beasts flank and leg again, working to wear away it's balance, "For the Clan! For the Ancestors! Strength in your arms! Trust in your iron!" He swung both hammers again and felt something give this time under this third swing. Something snap as the beast howled above him.
Koglan smiles looking at Gurs, "Ah, I see. Gurs, I remember you. I remember the iron I forged for you too." He pulls up the short sleeve of his robe, and points to a scar on his arm, "I recieved this one, etching the runes into your breastplate." He lifts his hand and shows a healed shattered index finger, "And I hit this while making your weapon." He smiles, "I remember much of the iron and steel I forge for this village Gurs. It'd be a pity if it went untended if it were to break. And who will repair your iron if it bends or breaks?" He smiles and leans into Gur's face, "I will." He turns then and assumes a place in the back of the group, "I shall be here. But I will stand at your shoulders none the less."
And so it was that the old goblin paced along at the back of the pack. Listening to the chatting going on. Repeatedly he would turn to look back over the path they walked, just to make sure they were not being followed. Old habits from his time as a Warrior long ago, rusty but still able.
After sometime he spoke up, "There are stories of a time when all these tribes, were one great tribe. Ask the Great Elders and the old Shaman about it some time. We were feared once. The high Goblin Clan. What it would have been like to have been a Goblin then."
He turns in time to see Gurs as he day dreams almost walk into a tree. The old Goblin says nothing. Not needing too a good warrior would fix his own folly.
He is just turning around again when he feels it in the earth at his feet. He looks up his eyes going round as the owlbear thunders out of forest, "Great Ancestors, Mentors of the Forge, Elders of the Past...watch over us." He sets his hands to the pair of warhammers at his hip, "Run or stand." He growls. He looks around at the younger goblins, "Run or stand!" He hisses a little more urgently. Owlbears can be dangerous after all. And only in the stories has a goblin, human, orc or elf ever really talked an Owlbear down.
The days had gone by, and Koglan had worked. And helped Siwa during her pregnancy as best he could.
But it's the news of another Goblin tribe, another clan, some chief getting ideas. Koglan didn't like to admit it, but in his years, he'd seen the tribe come into more then one single raid.
So upon hearing the news of a potential raid he put the word out, his stock pile of weapons, armor and other items would be open to those who had a need of them. His smithy went from mostly empty to having several shelves and armor stands. Coats of goblin mail, several heart plates, helmets fitted to a standard size, armored greaves for those who might want it.
Koglan had worked on, much to his own detriment perhaps, making extra weapons. A few swords already in the making, axes, maces. He would make sure their hunters and warriors are well cared for.
So it is on the day of the assembly to head out into the forest, another goblin arrives. Koglan striding up to the meeting place, wearing his smiths robes. He sighs, "I may hold you up...but I want to help." He reaches under his robe and draws a pair of hammers, "I will help." He nods, "I have spoken on this."
Lex growled trying to keep pace with the bikes. The next turn ahead coming fast. He's getting ready to turn the next corner when the first of the rounds pings off the armored chassis of the jeep. He should know it wouldn't have broke through but he swerves anyway. More rounds ping and crack off armoring and leave small spiderweb impacts on the armored plastic windshield. With one hand on the wheel and the other reloading his shotgun Lex lets out an annoyed growl, "Damned Terrorists. You have to make it hard. Always making it harder then it needs to be!" He lays his weapon across his lap and begins the turn when he sees that small packet in the one woman's hand, "Oh you have got to be..."
Everything seems to slow down and he knows he hasn't cast Slow on himself. He can see the bomb, and through the sparks of the rounds still pinging off the jeep the two sweepers sitting in the middle of the tunnel.
This isn't going to turn out good.
Then boom! And everything went red, grey and white as that explosion flared inside the confines of the tunnel.
So much so that Lex can't swerve and ends up smashing into one of the legs of the sweepers. He's not sure which one, or it's designation. He doesn't care. The jeep coming to a stop. Lex blacks out a little. The crash setting his ears to ringing, the explosion rattling his head.
As he comes around he can see through the dust that target he had seen tearing through some slugrays.
Shaking himself out of his daze he looks up at the sweeper, "Gotta get moving...What the hell is the deal with these things anyway?" He tries to get the Jeep started again, "Gotta get moving. We gotta go." Wasteland lets out a low growl, as if in agreement.
Mistihkoman dodged back, but not fast enough, the knife slicing across his hip. He grunted then let out a sound that sounded more animal then human, that shot, a big thick .40 round from a revolver hit him high on the shoulder, oh the pain. But somehow the squat powerfully muscled native man only staggered back. His eyes closed in pain. But when he opened them, they almost glowed. His mouth cracked open, his teeth grit in a rictus of pain...and feral rage, "This Steel Horse mocks us? These white men mock us more then this Train does cousin!"
The squat native man slung the gunstock club from his shoulder, and despite the pain draws his own knife, long, heavy like a short sword almost, and the deadly looking tomahawk, "You and me nistes. We dance the Koman dance." He charged, any man cut, and shot should have run, but no. Mistihkoman charges, catches Sparrow up under his ribs and drives him back. The door into the next car thumps, cracks then shatters as Mistihkoman and Sparrow fly through it. The tackle lays the Navajo man on his back, as the Cree man sails past him rolling then back to his feet.
Mistihkoman grins, "I'm going to cut you, and you're going to cut me. And when the dust settles someone will lay here in a pool of blood. Maybe me, maybe you. Maybe both of us even. But when this is over, one of us will have gained a new scalp. And I like your hair nistes. It'll look good hanging from my belt!" With a war whoop Mistihkoman launches himself at Sparrow, tomahawk already whistling down through the air at the grounded Navajo man's head.
nistes = Cousin, my cousin, my first cousin, also a term of gentle respect between native peoples meeting for the first time
koman = knife, quite literally a "sharp edged tool" could be given to an adze or a edged file or rasp as well. But more often used to refer to knifes.