Wednesday, April 22, 2009

Impiltur's History: Varkaok Elfslayer

As his blade swung, Varkaok waded into the throng. He moved with a sense of purpose unusual for his kind. His friend Darius Whiteplume had found him fine instructors over the years. Few are willing to train orcs, but the wizard can be very persuasive. All that preparation, it appears, was for today's fight.

Standing a foot taller than his foes, Varkaok was like a bull in a flock of sheep. He scythed through the hobgoblins, raining foul-smelling blood, skin, muscle, bone... In his youth he would have loved this, but now the work sickened him. This was not combat, it was practically murder. Then he saw his goal ahead. A harsh smile came to his lips and he pushed on with greater determination.

That sword, he thought, must be destroyed.

A bright light shown in the sky. The star Whiteplume had warned of. He was running out of time. He began moving more wildly — letting the old rage fill him; slapping the hobgoblins aside with his shield and trampling them underfoot. The crackling light from the Sword of Impiltur was glinting off his foes' armor. He could see the witch-king, smell the odd mixture of brimstone and electricity. The witch-king looked his way briefly, then up at the falling star.

"Varkaok!" came Whiteplume's voice from behind. He pretended not to notice for a moment, but then came to his senses. He owed his life to the wizard and must obey.

The wizard was standing next to Arden Ravenclaw, the druid. She was working some magic on the hobgoblins.

"It is too late friend, Varkaok," Darius said, "I need you to go to the portal I showed you."

"This fight is far from over," the orc replied.

"I have Brynn here to aid us. Please, brother, you must go and take Arden with you."

"What?" the druid exclaimed, "I will not flee, I have business in these woods. Your concerns and mine are parallel, but they are not the same."

"Varkaok. Brother. Please do this for me," the wizard practically begged. He had always treated Varkaok as a friend rather than a bodyguard, but he never called him brother.

The orc grabbed Arden by the arm. She spoke a word and spit at his face. The orc had seen this before and wisely dodged. He saw it hit a hobgoblin and heard the sizzle just before the screaming started. He grabbed the druid , threw her over his shoulder like a calf, and ran off into the woods. She struggled in vain, raining curses upon him. Some of which, he worried, would stick.

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