From Lord to Labor (February 3010) - [Gwathion]
Apr 12, 2018 11:50:10 GMT -5
Post by Captains on Apr 12, 2018 11:50:10 GMT -5
The pinkskins made move as quickly as the orcs had, splitting themselves up—spreading the target. “After them!” The chief bellowed, cursing in the Black Speech of the land. He focused in on the small one, the one rushing toward them; she had made herself a nuisance on his farm before. This time, she was not going to get away.
He was the first to move, stride heavy like a charging bull. He swung the cleaver, a guttural cry rising from the back of his throat as he heaved every fiber of muscle he could into the swing. The rat ducked under it, and he instead bit the blade into one of the other wardens who approached on his flank.
Golmeg snarled, though more from inconvenience and mild annoyance than true anger. “Don’t let it escape!” He ordered. No more trouble from this manflesh. He was going to make sure of it.
Still, as the small form began to duck and weave through their arms, their maces, and their cleavers, another cry began to sound.
"Hey you are with me. It is time to run."
“Golmeg!” One of the other orc alerted him. The chief grunted—it was the only permission they needed. The orc split, half trailing the waif of a manflesh, the other darting after the ones seeking escape.
“Ya die here, rat!” Golmeg cried as he charged forward, seeking to use his shoulder to send the small woman flying. Behind him, orc were dashing off, approaching the new Gondorian Lord with blood intent in their eyes.
“Ye ain’t takin’ ‘r flesh,” one told him, skittering forward with an axe in hand that matched the one the redhead was now wielding. “When we catch the others, they’ll git a beatin’. One they won’t ferget!”
He swung, carving the air with such force the very wind whistled about its head.
He was the first to move, stride heavy like a charging bull. He swung the cleaver, a guttural cry rising from the back of his throat as he heaved every fiber of muscle he could into the swing. The rat ducked under it, and he instead bit the blade into one of the other wardens who approached on his flank.
Golmeg snarled, though more from inconvenience and mild annoyance than true anger. “Don’t let it escape!” He ordered. No more trouble from this manflesh. He was going to make sure of it.
Still, as the small form began to duck and weave through their arms, their maces, and their cleavers, another cry began to sound.
"Hey you are with me. It is time to run."
“Golmeg!” One of the other orc alerted him. The chief grunted—it was the only permission they needed. The orc split, half trailing the waif of a manflesh, the other darting after the ones seeking escape.
“Ya die here, rat!” Golmeg cried as he charged forward, seeking to use his shoulder to send the small woman flying. Behind him, orc were dashing off, approaching the new Gondorian Lord with blood intent in their eyes.
“Ye ain’t takin’ ‘r flesh,” one told him, skittering forward with an axe in hand that matched the one the redhead was now wielding. “When we catch the others, they’ll git a beatin’. One they won’t ferget!”
He swung, carving the air with such force the very wind whistled about its head.
