Fhenrir
05-26-2006, 06:59 AM
(( Aheh, decided to write this story up as an explanation for where Fhenrir was during that 4-day vacation I took recently. It's an excuse for a story based on Fhen at least. Better yet, a violent one!
Hope ya like it! ))
Fhenrir had been serving under the Frostwolves for weeks. They’d told him if he proved himself, he just might walk away with a new hammer.
Countless battles raged. Countless lives lost. Yet Fhenrir emerged victorious from the Valley yet again. On the victory march back, one of the Frostwolf soldiers stopped him. The solider told him excitedly that he had proven himself to them exceptionally, and kneeled before him to present him his hammer, along with the Eye of Command.
As Fhenrir held the hammer high, admiring it's beauty, the horn of battle sounded again. Hopping to his wolf quickly, without even the time to leave the Valley, he’d already rode back into another battle.
This time he was less fortunate. He was picked to lead a charge on the Stormpike stronghold, and with mace held high he rallied the troops. They gathered at the bridge leading into the Stormpike base and called out a battle cry “For the Horde!” as they began to charge.
Fhenrir was caught in the shoulder with an arrow as they approached the Alliance’s front line, composed mostly of warriors and paladins. Wincing at the pain, he kept pressing forward and clashed into the Alliance, smashing his mace into a nearby paladin’s skull brutally. The entire Frostwolf army was behind him, but swords and axes flailed at him fiercely. Frantically he dropped his mace and grabbed his shield from his back, holding it over his head as a mace came barreling down onto him, his shield barely blocking the blow. He was dazed, dropping his shield limply as he staggered back and forth on his hooves. The mace came roaring in again from the side and crashed into Fhenrir’s ribs. He coughed up a bit of blood as the blow lifted him from the bridge and sent him toppling over the side, landing in the snowy area below with a loud thud.
He awoke to find himself stripped of all his equipment, and a very loose Stormpike tabard thrown over his otherwise naked form. He was in a Stormpike jail cell. He was surprised to be alive, but furthermore only the blow to his ribs still ached. The guards standing outside his cell sneered at him as he looked at them, rubbing his head with a confused expression.
Fhenrir examined his surroundings and found it to be nothing fancy. A small “bed” jutting from the wall, which was really nothing more than flat stone. Also a wooden table in the center, which had a few red stains on it. It reeked of death.
What Fhenrir guessed to be a couple hours after he awoke was when they came in. Four dwarves (one may have been a muscular gnome) wheeled a cart into his cell, and wasted no time in securing him to the table in his cell. They opened the top of their cart and began fishing through it for tools, soon retrieving what appeared to be poison coated daggers, maces, and other painful looking, yet tiny tools.
A surprised expression crossed his face as one of the dwarves spoke to him in a very rough orcish. “Ach, tauren. Now, yer gonna tell us how to get into the Frostwolf stronghold, or yer gonna hurt. A lot. Aye?”
It all became clear to Fhenrir as one of the dwarves immediately drove a dagger into his waist. He yelped loudly as the dwarf dragged it down his side roughly before pulling it out. “’Urts, aye? Now talk, ya furry bastahd. We can understand ye.”
Fhenrir grimaced and spit in the dwarf’s face as he finished talking. “Big mistake, fuzzy…”
The time dragged on like hours, but it may have only been minutes. Fhenrir’s body was the victim of injuries ranging from burns to cuts to bruises before they left. He hadn’t said a word since he spit on the dwarf, although he had whined, howled, growled, and even passed out twice.
Three days passed, every day leaving Fhenrir more and more hurt, his wrists and ankles red from being strapped to that damnable table. Even worse, he noticed that his wounds weren’t healing at all. They were just bleeding. Particularly the first gouge that had been sliced into his waist, which still bled fiercely. He had torn a piece of his tabard and tied it around his wound, hoping to quell some of the flow. The poison appeared to slow his natural health, and left his wounds aching as much as the second they had been made.
Fhenrir wasn’t sure how much more he could take. His mind drifted constantly to his wife, and lead him to concerns of his death. He had never been worried about his own life before, but the thought of what it would do to her left his heart aching worse than any of his physical wounds. Perhaps he should talk. Perhaps he would tell them all about how to get in next time they came with their weapons. Maybe they would show mercy and let him return to her loving arms.
Suddenly, he was snapped from his thoughts as one of the guards in front of his cell let out a loud cracking sound, and fell to the ground lifeless. The other guard turned to his fallen comrade in horror, but he too fell to the ground with a “GURK!” as a dagger found it’s way into his spine. Without a second to waste, the mysterious figure dug through the guard’s pocket and retrieved a key, quickly opening Fhenrir’s cell.
“You wanna live, right? Come with me!” The orc grunted to him and gestured towards what appeared to be a newly “crafted” pathway leading to open light. Without a second thought, Fhenrir nodded and started to make his way across his cell. He suddenly fell to his knees and hacked out blood onto the stone.
“Oh, hell. They cut you up really bad, didn’t they..? Well, come on! Hurry up, mate, or you’re gonna be hurt a whole lot worse!” Fhenrir nodded slowly and rose to his hooves, shuffling across the cell and making his way to the orc. The orc showed him through a tunnel that he had crafted through the dirt, which ended up being quite cramped for Fhenrir.
They found their way out, and Fhenrir immediately collapsed into the snow. Quite a fair share of blood spilled onto the snow as he fell, which left the orc grimacing. “Not here, not here! Come on, we’ve got a few grunts waiting around the hills over there, just a… DAMMIT!”
Much to the orc’s dismay, a tracking hound came barreling around the corner, only slowed barely by a chain around his neck, with a dwarven riflemen hanging onto the other end frantically. The riflemen appeared to be a trainee, and likely wouldn’t present much problem… but when the orc reached for his daggers, he found he’d forgotten to take his dagger back from the dead guard! He frowned to himself as he looked down at his single dagger, and the problem this presented him. With a heavy sigh he whipped his only dagger forward at the dwarf, catching the surprised novice in the eye and sending him face first into the snow, to remain ever still.
The hound’s eyes flared as his master fell, the enraged beast charging rapidly into the weaponless orc. Crashing into the snow, the orc wrestled fiercely with the hound as he yelled loudly at Fhenrir, who was struggling to breathe.
“You have to move NOW! If you ever want to see your lover again, GOO!” The orc screamed as he wrestled the hounds jowls away with his hands, already staining the hound’s fur and the nearby snow with orcish blood.
Fhenrir gasped suddenly as his thoughts traveled to his wife again, and he quickly rose to his hooves. Blood gushed fiercely from his wound, but he clutched it tightly and made a mad dash for the hills the orc had gestured to.
Much to Fhenrir’s relief, there were a few well-equipped grunts waiting as Fhenrir came around the corner, who quickly took him up onto their mounts and allowed him the chance to rest. They eyed each other nervously as they noticed the orc wasn’t with him, and frowned as they heard a loud yell from behind.
“GO DAMN YOU, SAVE FHENRIR! I‘ll be fi…” was all they heard, as they’d quickly mounted onto their wolves and begun riding back to the Frostwolves’ base.
Over the course of the following day Fhenrir had made a slight recovery, with several first aid experts and shamans looking out for his well being. However, they were stumped by the poison the Stormpike had used. They mended all his wounds, with the exception of the large gash in his waist. They couldn’t do anything for the poison without knowing what it was, and regretfully informed Fhenrir that, unless he found a way to cure it, he would slowly and painfully die.
Fhenrir scoffed at the shamans and turned in his Frostwolf tabard, telling them that he was resigning from duty. With one final salute, Fhenrir slammed his gauntlet into his chest piece loudly, drawing similar salutes from around the room. The shamans frowned as he coughed up blood in response, and turned to leave their base. They’d lost contact with one of their most talented rogues to save him, and he had just resigned. Worse off, he was doomed to an eventual death. With a heavy, resounding sigh the Frostwolves began to prepare for the next attack the Stormpike would surely mount...
Hope ya like it! ))
Fhenrir had been serving under the Frostwolves for weeks. They’d told him if he proved himself, he just might walk away with a new hammer.
Countless battles raged. Countless lives lost. Yet Fhenrir emerged victorious from the Valley yet again. On the victory march back, one of the Frostwolf soldiers stopped him. The solider told him excitedly that he had proven himself to them exceptionally, and kneeled before him to present him his hammer, along with the Eye of Command.
As Fhenrir held the hammer high, admiring it's beauty, the horn of battle sounded again. Hopping to his wolf quickly, without even the time to leave the Valley, he’d already rode back into another battle.
This time he was less fortunate. He was picked to lead a charge on the Stormpike stronghold, and with mace held high he rallied the troops. They gathered at the bridge leading into the Stormpike base and called out a battle cry “For the Horde!” as they began to charge.
Fhenrir was caught in the shoulder with an arrow as they approached the Alliance’s front line, composed mostly of warriors and paladins. Wincing at the pain, he kept pressing forward and clashed into the Alliance, smashing his mace into a nearby paladin’s skull brutally. The entire Frostwolf army was behind him, but swords and axes flailed at him fiercely. Frantically he dropped his mace and grabbed his shield from his back, holding it over his head as a mace came barreling down onto him, his shield barely blocking the blow. He was dazed, dropping his shield limply as he staggered back and forth on his hooves. The mace came roaring in again from the side and crashed into Fhenrir’s ribs. He coughed up a bit of blood as the blow lifted him from the bridge and sent him toppling over the side, landing in the snowy area below with a loud thud.
He awoke to find himself stripped of all his equipment, and a very loose Stormpike tabard thrown over his otherwise naked form. He was in a Stormpike jail cell. He was surprised to be alive, but furthermore only the blow to his ribs still ached. The guards standing outside his cell sneered at him as he looked at them, rubbing his head with a confused expression.
Fhenrir examined his surroundings and found it to be nothing fancy. A small “bed” jutting from the wall, which was really nothing more than flat stone. Also a wooden table in the center, which had a few red stains on it. It reeked of death.
What Fhenrir guessed to be a couple hours after he awoke was when they came in. Four dwarves (one may have been a muscular gnome) wheeled a cart into his cell, and wasted no time in securing him to the table in his cell. They opened the top of their cart and began fishing through it for tools, soon retrieving what appeared to be poison coated daggers, maces, and other painful looking, yet tiny tools.
A surprised expression crossed his face as one of the dwarves spoke to him in a very rough orcish. “Ach, tauren. Now, yer gonna tell us how to get into the Frostwolf stronghold, or yer gonna hurt. A lot. Aye?”
It all became clear to Fhenrir as one of the dwarves immediately drove a dagger into his waist. He yelped loudly as the dwarf dragged it down his side roughly before pulling it out. “’Urts, aye? Now talk, ya furry bastahd. We can understand ye.”
Fhenrir grimaced and spit in the dwarf’s face as he finished talking. “Big mistake, fuzzy…”
The time dragged on like hours, but it may have only been minutes. Fhenrir’s body was the victim of injuries ranging from burns to cuts to bruises before they left. He hadn’t said a word since he spit on the dwarf, although he had whined, howled, growled, and even passed out twice.
Three days passed, every day leaving Fhenrir more and more hurt, his wrists and ankles red from being strapped to that damnable table. Even worse, he noticed that his wounds weren’t healing at all. They were just bleeding. Particularly the first gouge that had been sliced into his waist, which still bled fiercely. He had torn a piece of his tabard and tied it around his wound, hoping to quell some of the flow. The poison appeared to slow his natural health, and left his wounds aching as much as the second they had been made.
Fhenrir wasn’t sure how much more he could take. His mind drifted constantly to his wife, and lead him to concerns of his death. He had never been worried about his own life before, but the thought of what it would do to her left his heart aching worse than any of his physical wounds. Perhaps he should talk. Perhaps he would tell them all about how to get in next time they came with their weapons. Maybe they would show mercy and let him return to her loving arms.
Suddenly, he was snapped from his thoughts as one of the guards in front of his cell let out a loud cracking sound, and fell to the ground lifeless. The other guard turned to his fallen comrade in horror, but he too fell to the ground with a “GURK!” as a dagger found it’s way into his spine. Without a second to waste, the mysterious figure dug through the guard’s pocket and retrieved a key, quickly opening Fhenrir’s cell.
“You wanna live, right? Come with me!” The orc grunted to him and gestured towards what appeared to be a newly “crafted” pathway leading to open light. Without a second thought, Fhenrir nodded and started to make his way across his cell. He suddenly fell to his knees and hacked out blood onto the stone.
“Oh, hell. They cut you up really bad, didn’t they..? Well, come on! Hurry up, mate, or you’re gonna be hurt a whole lot worse!” Fhenrir nodded slowly and rose to his hooves, shuffling across the cell and making his way to the orc. The orc showed him through a tunnel that he had crafted through the dirt, which ended up being quite cramped for Fhenrir.
They found their way out, and Fhenrir immediately collapsed into the snow. Quite a fair share of blood spilled onto the snow as he fell, which left the orc grimacing. “Not here, not here! Come on, we’ve got a few grunts waiting around the hills over there, just a… DAMMIT!”
Much to the orc’s dismay, a tracking hound came barreling around the corner, only slowed barely by a chain around his neck, with a dwarven riflemen hanging onto the other end frantically. The riflemen appeared to be a trainee, and likely wouldn’t present much problem… but when the orc reached for his daggers, he found he’d forgotten to take his dagger back from the dead guard! He frowned to himself as he looked down at his single dagger, and the problem this presented him. With a heavy sigh he whipped his only dagger forward at the dwarf, catching the surprised novice in the eye and sending him face first into the snow, to remain ever still.
The hound’s eyes flared as his master fell, the enraged beast charging rapidly into the weaponless orc. Crashing into the snow, the orc wrestled fiercely with the hound as he yelled loudly at Fhenrir, who was struggling to breathe.
“You have to move NOW! If you ever want to see your lover again, GOO!” The orc screamed as he wrestled the hounds jowls away with his hands, already staining the hound’s fur and the nearby snow with orcish blood.
Fhenrir gasped suddenly as his thoughts traveled to his wife again, and he quickly rose to his hooves. Blood gushed fiercely from his wound, but he clutched it tightly and made a mad dash for the hills the orc had gestured to.
Much to Fhenrir’s relief, there were a few well-equipped grunts waiting as Fhenrir came around the corner, who quickly took him up onto their mounts and allowed him the chance to rest. They eyed each other nervously as they noticed the orc wasn’t with him, and frowned as they heard a loud yell from behind.
“GO DAMN YOU, SAVE FHENRIR! I‘ll be fi…” was all they heard, as they’d quickly mounted onto their wolves and begun riding back to the Frostwolves’ base.
Over the course of the following day Fhenrir had made a slight recovery, with several first aid experts and shamans looking out for his well being. However, they were stumped by the poison the Stormpike had used. They mended all his wounds, with the exception of the large gash in his waist. They couldn’t do anything for the poison without knowing what it was, and regretfully informed Fhenrir that, unless he found a way to cure it, he would slowly and painfully die.
Fhenrir scoffed at the shamans and turned in his Frostwolf tabard, telling them that he was resigning from duty. With one final salute, Fhenrir slammed his gauntlet into his chest piece loudly, drawing similar salutes from around the room. The shamans frowned as he coughed up blood in response, and turned to leave their base. They’d lost contact with one of their most talented rogues to save him, and he had just resigned. Worse off, he was doomed to an eventual death. With a heavy, resounding sigh the Frostwolves began to prepare for the next attack the Stormpike would surely mount...