Campaign of the Month: June 2011
From Beyond the Shattered Gateway (On Hiatus)
Escaped Hohstian Slave
“You are soft Shoga, …never show it.” A rising sun breaks over the horizon shedding light on the land and baking away the mist that weaves amongst the thick forest. Bird song heralds the new day before gradually giving way to the heart beat of the woodland. A concussive ensemble of curved steel wedging home, scattering bark to iced earth. “Kein liche schmall!” Harder, faster.. Sweat leaps from verdant skin, freezing in the unforgiving air and collecting in crystal piles about barren feet. Hot breath escapes between clenched fang and tusk in wispy grey tendrils. Strike after strike, the sharpened blade buries deeper to the apex. Years and years of service, the savage birthing of a daily routine. Perfected stances and masterful coordination preserve endurance for each following swing, until finally… Success! “Grudiev!!” The voice of youth, tainted with the growl of a beast cries out. Others pause, alerted to the call of a falling tree. Its massive weight buckles beneath its wounds and the anchor of gravity draws it to the cold forest floor, stirring the mist in its descent and casting flocks of birds into a sudden panic. “First of the day?!” calls out a member of the Blackfist Tribe, who had abandoned task to lean upon his axe observantly.. “Who was it?!” another guttural voice rings out. “The Kahnzo boy!!” chimes in the answer. Silence falls to nature once more, several hulking green-skinned visages gather around the kneeling child, who caters both hands upon his lap. “Got too excited didn’t you runt?” The first visage begins.. “Hahaha! Finally he is first and look what he’s done.. Even your victories are riddled with defeat!” Another continues… Tears well in yellow eyes drawing darkened paths the length of emerald cheeks, raining down into the ruined palms he gazes upon… Crafted from a solid piece of steel, the woodsmen axes are built to bond to the skin of its user, grafted through accumulated sweat with the frigid air as a medium. The falling tree had pinned his axe, ripping it free of the flesh of his palms.