imported_Song
27-07-2007, 01:27 AM
how long had it been, how many suns had set, how many nights had passed, Flintrock's fever had sent him into a state of delirium, he could barely count the seconds, let alone the weeks.
poison. fed to his system through an arrow, where was his shield then, why did he not raise it to cover himself, fear? a lack of will, he had failed, and he had run.
a minstrel relies on his courage when others lose theres, he is supposed to inspire, to be a shining beacon of hope when all seems lost, to push on in spite of everything, to show even those who cannot fight along side the champions or take a blow like the guardians can still press on regardless. however, he was a poor excuse for a minstrel right now. lying in an odour ridden cave. his rations mere crumbs and the poisonous shaft lying but a metre from him. was this it? a mere lengh of wood and a spider's breath, was that all it took?
Faith, Willpower, Determination. call it what you want, but its the source of a minstrel's power, where those in higher armour would fall, a minstrel would stand, where those who could weild fearsome weapons would cower, a minstrel would sing, and oh would they sing. they would share their will, and give it to others, and force them to press onward. so, where is Flintrock's will? why does he not rise above this mere wound and fight? he has failed this day. he has failed his Kin, his allies and friends. he has failed his fellow bards, and he has failed his namesake. his father and brothers. failed to bring honour to his name.
no....NO, he would see Orodruin freeze over before he let himself dishonour his father. his feet met rock. he was nothing without his family honour. his axe met rock. no Aardstone was going to die alone in a forsaken land such as angmar, and if they ever did it was going to be fighting. he forced himself to stand. he would make it back to Gabilshatur, or die fighting on the way.
the mountain was not an easy one to descend in such a state, but he forced himself down the blasted thing, a campfire in the distance urged him on. where there was camp there was supplies. he dragged himself through the wasteland of angmar, he was an easy target for another arrow, but time was not best spent worrying. if he hurried, there was less chance of being seen by another bloody arrow hurler.
He reached the camp, it was deserted. Flintrock dropped himself to his knees, grasping at the meat that was cooking above the still lit fire. whilst eating he noted this looked like an orc camp, and they were probably going to be back very so-an arrow struck the campfire.
Flintrock drove himself to his feet. grasped his axe and shield and tried not to fall as he turned his body, still chewing on the meat from the spit. two orcs, he sighed with relief, he was unsure if he could handle an uruk right now, still wasn't going to go smoothly, thats for sure. as the archer lined another shot, Flintrock's sheer will moved his legs for him, straight forward. past the larger orc's cleaver and straight for the archer, the arrow struck his shield around the same time his axe struck the orcs chest. they both fell, the axe escaped Flintrock's grasp and he rolled to a halt, pushing himself up to see the cleaver coming down, his determination threw him out the way. Flintrocks eyes scanned for his axe, the archer was still alive, and his axe was still in its chest. curse skorgrim's beard! the archer was aiming his next arrow. and Flintrock wanted that axe back, managing to run as the arrow was let fly, it missed him by inches, and Flintrock shouted, his mighty voice throwing the archer off balence, he retrieved his axe, and delivered a hefty blow with his shield to the archers head. it fell.
Will can only get you so far.
Flintrock dropped to his knees, exhausted.
the Orc took his two handed cleaver and moved to the fallen dwarf.
Flintrock's lute beckoned for his touch.
Flintrock took his lute to hand, and began to strum a melody, the only one his father ever taught him, it was supposed to have been written by a great warrior, which is why the tune wasn't that good. but it had real feeling behind it. the Orc was unphased, a piece of meat playing a tune is still a piece of meat. it lifted the axe high, too high, Flintrock forced himself up from his knees, and headbutted the orc in the stomach, his weapons back where he was knelt, Flintrock resorted to old dwarven ways, as he drove his hands through the orcs skull, his arms moved by the song, the great warrior was his father, and his strengh was granted by the lay.
Flintrock wandered through the wastes once more, covered in blood, some his own, most of it orcish, his wound was reopened, but his will was back, he staggered into Gabilshatur, and collapsed on a guard.
"Brother Dwarf, send word to my kin that I live"
he recovered at gabilshatur and is ready and willing to fight once more.
and call song a pointy eared fancy pantsy flimsy little elf.
poison. fed to his system through an arrow, where was his shield then, why did he not raise it to cover himself, fear? a lack of will, he had failed, and he had run.
a minstrel relies on his courage when others lose theres, he is supposed to inspire, to be a shining beacon of hope when all seems lost, to push on in spite of everything, to show even those who cannot fight along side the champions or take a blow like the guardians can still press on regardless. however, he was a poor excuse for a minstrel right now. lying in an odour ridden cave. his rations mere crumbs and the poisonous shaft lying but a metre from him. was this it? a mere lengh of wood and a spider's breath, was that all it took?
Faith, Willpower, Determination. call it what you want, but its the source of a minstrel's power, where those in higher armour would fall, a minstrel would stand, where those who could weild fearsome weapons would cower, a minstrel would sing, and oh would they sing. they would share their will, and give it to others, and force them to press onward. so, where is Flintrock's will? why does he not rise above this mere wound and fight? he has failed this day. he has failed his Kin, his allies and friends. he has failed his fellow bards, and he has failed his namesake. his father and brothers. failed to bring honour to his name.
no....NO, he would see Orodruin freeze over before he let himself dishonour his father. his feet met rock. he was nothing without his family honour. his axe met rock. no Aardstone was going to die alone in a forsaken land such as angmar, and if they ever did it was going to be fighting. he forced himself to stand. he would make it back to Gabilshatur, or die fighting on the way.
the mountain was not an easy one to descend in such a state, but he forced himself down the blasted thing, a campfire in the distance urged him on. where there was camp there was supplies. he dragged himself through the wasteland of angmar, he was an easy target for another arrow, but time was not best spent worrying. if he hurried, there was less chance of being seen by another bloody arrow hurler.
He reached the camp, it was deserted. Flintrock dropped himself to his knees, grasping at the meat that was cooking above the still lit fire. whilst eating he noted this looked like an orc camp, and they were probably going to be back very so-an arrow struck the campfire.
Flintrock drove himself to his feet. grasped his axe and shield and tried not to fall as he turned his body, still chewing on the meat from the spit. two orcs, he sighed with relief, he was unsure if he could handle an uruk right now, still wasn't going to go smoothly, thats for sure. as the archer lined another shot, Flintrock's sheer will moved his legs for him, straight forward. past the larger orc's cleaver and straight for the archer, the arrow struck his shield around the same time his axe struck the orcs chest. they both fell, the axe escaped Flintrock's grasp and he rolled to a halt, pushing himself up to see the cleaver coming down, his determination threw him out the way. Flintrocks eyes scanned for his axe, the archer was still alive, and his axe was still in its chest. curse skorgrim's beard! the archer was aiming his next arrow. and Flintrock wanted that axe back, managing to run as the arrow was let fly, it missed him by inches, and Flintrock shouted, his mighty voice throwing the archer off balence, he retrieved his axe, and delivered a hefty blow with his shield to the archers head. it fell.
Will can only get you so far.
Flintrock dropped to his knees, exhausted.
the Orc took his two handed cleaver and moved to the fallen dwarf.
Flintrock's lute beckoned for his touch.
Flintrock took his lute to hand, and began to strum a melody, the only one his father ever taught him, it was supposed to have been written by a great warrior, which is why the tune wasn't that good. but it had real feeling behind it. the Orc was unphased, a piece of meat playing a tune is still a piece of meat. it lifted the axe high, too high, Flintrock forced himself up from his knees, and headbutted the orc in the stomach, his weapons back where he was knelt, Flintrock resorted to old dwarven ways, as he drove his hands through the orcs skull, his arms moved by the song, the great warrior was his father, and his strengh was granted by the lay.
Flintrock wandered through the wastes once more, covered in blood, some his own, most of it orcish, his wound was reopened, but his will was back, he staggered into Gabilshatur, and collapsed on a guard.
"Brother Dwarf, send word to my kin that I live"
he recovered at gabilshatur and is ready and willing to fight once more.
and call song a pointy eared fancy pantsy flimsy little elf.