The Warrior
Posted: Tue Nov 01, 2005 7:17 pm
The warrior surveyed the battlefield, taking in both the fallen and those who would not see the light of dawn again in one swift gaze. The setting sun cast an eerie red glow upon the field, fitting illumination for such a grisly scene.
Grass, once green and verdant, lay now matted with the blood of those souls fighting for their religion, their homes, their very right to exist. What beasts homin are made by their masters. Can any fealty truly be worth such a cost? The warrior must believe so, otherwise all has been for naught.
A shout from the east pulls the warrior from his musings with a renewed urgency. Adrenaline pumps fast back into his weary limbs, muscles are awakened as his body prepares to rejoin the battle. With a resounding, animal cry, he set off at a sprint, sword raised high above his head. Glancing first to his left, then to his right, he noticed, as if for the first time, the men and women by his side. These folk, his allies of the hour, thrust by circumstance into this battle, just as he was.
His gaze lifted to the oncoming force: his enemies. Just like the men and the women at his side, the only differences in their appearance. He knew that these people were opposed to his side, but when he looked at their exhausted faces and tired determination, he felt a brief moment of kinship to his sworn enemies.
Shaking such distracting thoughts from his head, he closed the last few feet to his opponent and re-joined the battle with grim determination. Ducking a vicious cut aimed at his throat, he quickly realised his opponent was no novice to battle. They traded blows, each taking wounds, some superficial, some not. So weary was the warrior, and drawn so deeply into the battle, that he could not tell one from the other.
He could feel himself begin to tire, and the realisation dawned on him that he would not win this fight. At that moment he slipped, and knew then that his moment of doom was upon him. In his last moment, he hoped that it had all been worth it.
Then, to his surprise and relief, a fireball hurtled past his prostrate form and struck his opponent clean in the chest, felling him instantly where he stood. He turned to see his saviour, a white-clad elementalist, running towards the fallen. He realised the man was still alive, and sought some words for his worthy opponent. As he opened his mouth to speak them, he was cut off by the elementalist, who, while running over the fallen man, simply said:
r0Fl pwnt!!!!111OneOneTwo@ 1 r t3h pwnz0r 13333337!!!!!OneOneTwo
Grass, once green and verdant, lay now matted with the blood of those souls fighting for their religion, their homes, their very right to exist. What beasts homin are made by their masters. Can any fealty truly be worth such a cost? The warrior must believe so, otherwise all has been for naught.
A shout from the east pulls the warrior from his musings with a renewed urgency. Adrenaline pumps fast back into his weary limbs, muscles are awakened as his body prepares to rejoin the battle. With a resounding, animal cry, he set off at a sprint, sword raised high above his head. Glancing first to his left, then to his right, he noticed, as if for the first time, the men and women by his side. These folk, his allies of the hour, thrust by circumstance into this battle, just as he was.
His gaze lifted to the oncoming force: his enemies. Just like the men and the women at his side, the only differences in their appearance. He knew that these people were opposed to his side, but when he looked at their exhausted faces and tired determination, he felt a brief moment of kinship to his sworn enemies.
Shaking such distracting thoughts from his head, he closed the last few feet to his opponent and re-joined the battle with grim determination. Ducking a vicious cut aimed at his throat, he quickly realised his opponent was no novice to battle. They traded blows, each taking wounds, some superficial, some not. So weary was the warrior, and drawn so deeply into the battle, that he could not tell one from the other.
He could feel himself begin to tire, and the realisation dawned on him that he would not win this fight. At that moment he slipped, and knew then that his moment of doom was upon him. In his last moment, he hoped that it had all been worth it.
Then, to his surprise and relief, a fireball hurtled past his prostrate form and struck his opponent clean in the chest, felling him instantly where he stood. He turned to see his saviour, a white-clad elementalist, running towards the fallen. He realised the man was still alive, and sought some words for his worthy opponent. As he opened his mouth to speak them, he was cut off by the elementalist, who, while running over the fallen man, simply said:
r0Fl pwnt!!!!111OneOneTwo@ 1 r t3h pwnz0r 13333337!!!!!OneOneTwo