Post by Dolen on Dec 23, 2010 1:04:50 GMT -5
((Figured I'd start a bit of Moors RPness, not that creeps have any particular like..subject to RP about aside from nomming freeps. This post is profoundly graphic, as any subject matter relating specifically to monsters and murder ought to be. If such things gross you out, I'd advise not reading it! Other than that, do enjoy, and feel free to chime in or begin your own thread related to such beasty things as orcses and wargses.))
The Tarks were pushing again, and the miserable orcs pulling back. The numbers did not seem so bad; perhaps half a dozen armored Tarks in front, backed by a similar number of Elves. In truth, it was a bit of a grim sight - Orcs feathered with arrows, Uruks off balanced, barely shielding themselves from incoming blows from blade and hammer. One particularly commanding Uruk, in the midst of shouting some order to the bloody maggots in front, took an arrow directly through his throat, crumpling to the ground soon after. It was a slow push, but the Tarks pushed forward, stepping over the bodies of fallen Orc and Uruk alike.
Akraht growled deep in his throat, glancing over his shoulder at the small pack at his hind. Each warg had the same feral glare, watching the battle intently, each instinctively finding the least armored and most appetizing foe on the field. There were six in total including himself, hidden in a patch of tall grass at the foot of some long-forgotten stone ruin, now little more than a wasting pillar. They were eager to sink their teeth into man-flesh, but the time was not right.
Turning his attention back to the fight unfolding before them, Akraht examined the exposed flank. Sensing a victory, the armored Tarks had shaped their line to more of a concave pattern, pressing the orcs back and onto themselves, limiting their range of motion and ability to defend themselves. It exposed the archers and cloth-garbed filth behind them, but they had not pressed far enough from their bridge to guarantee they could not close the line once a charge had begun. He growled again, not wanting to chance the advance, but also knowing his pack had set themselves on tearing at these invading fools, and a hungry pack was a volatile one.
Turning once more to his pack, he jerked his head in the direction of the advancing army and growled in the language of the Wargs, "Now." He led the way, stalking through the tall brush first, his five wargs following close behind. The creatures, while massive, moved with a cat-like grace, making no sound that could be audible over the din of battle and keeping low enough that chances of the Tarks noticing movement was slim to none.
Once within a dozen paces, Akraht burst into a full sprint. His heart surged with fury and passion, the thrill of battle seizing him from somewhere deep within. He reveled in the feeling of the bitter air combing through his fur, the muddy ground tearing beneath his taloned paws, the deep thunder of his pack's charge pounding the ground at his heels. Much to his dark amusement, not a single one of the fools had noticed their advance until it was far too late.
The dainty Elf Akraht had chosen turned her head to take note of the incoming creatures just as the warg had launched himself into the air. The several-hundred pound beast collided with the frail creature with as much force as a charging aurochs, knocking the Elf backwards almost ten paces before she was slammed to the bridge's paving stones. The impact itself was probably enough to kill the fragile thing, but wargs did not deal in restraint. His fangs sank deep into her throat, crushing it entirely and, with an instinctive rip and shake of his head, likely severing the spine as well.
Similar scenes took place all around him, his pack all finding their targets unaware. Blood coated the muzzles of each of them as they bit into their prey with more-than lethal force. The din of battle had changed, no longer was it cries of Gondor and the free-peoples, but instead a mess of panicked commands, overwhelmed by a gutteral cheer in the black speech. Akraht sat up from his ruined foe and surveyed the battle, yellow eyes searching for another exposed foe, gore still drooling from his thick, fanged maw.
His pack had found other engagements, biting at the hamstrings of soldiers or ducking away from their blades. A cry drew the chief warg's attention. Up the bridge a ways was what looked to be a young Tark, though he could never tell the age of those wretched creatures. The lightly armored soldier yelled something in the tongue of Man sounding like a challenge and raised his bow, arrow drawn back to his cheek.
Akraht turned to face the man, lowering his head and responding with his own challenge, "I will feast on your children this eve, Tark!" The man, apparently unmoved by the harsh language he doubtlessly could not understand, loosed his arrow. The finely sharpened arrowhead only grazed the thickly-muscled warg, carving a long gash down his back and hind and skittering harmlessly away across the paving stones. Unfortunately, wargs do not feel pain as men do. It was the bite of battle, a feeling as welcome as a mug of coffee might be for a Man on a crisp winter's morn, or the embrace of a long lost lover.
The warg advanced, snarling, amused. His prey took a step back and began fumbling for the sword at his hip. Akraht considered letting the man draw his steel for a moment, that he might provide a decent fight. Alas, the bleeding wound across his back was practically a drug for the beast, driving his sense from him in place of a savage instinct. He lept forward and was on the man in three long strides. He ducked low, avoiding the man's arcing blade as it released from its scabbard. In the same motion he lept up, biting for the man's throat and instead finding an arm raised in defense.
The warg's powerful jaw clamped down hard on the man's forearm, biting through the light steel plates, through his flesh and into bone. Taloned claws rose to claw at the man while he twisted and tore at his arm, tearing the material of his uniform with as much ease as his fangs had snapped the previous elf's neck. Blood coursed over the man and beast, and before long the fight had gone to the ground. It was a messy thing, the fervor of a warg once his prey had been downed. Claws tore aimlessly, his jaw snapped wildly at any exposed flesh. Eventually the man was still, though the bloody mess atop the bridge could hardly be identified as one any longer. Satisfied, Akraht rose and returned to the battle at the bridge's base.
The struggle had been quick. With the elves defeated and wargs harassing the Tarks' backs, they had fallen almost immediately. Seeing their chieftain, the five other bloodied wargs fell in beside him. One, the next-largest warg in contention for the lead of the pack, moved up beside him.
"What now?" he asked in the thick, almost slurred speech of a frenzied warg.
"We wait," Akraht replied, "The Tarks will return, and when they do, we will slaughter them on our grounds."
"We should advance, pick at their lines as they leave that elf-city!"
Akraht halted in his tracks, turning and snapping his jaw towards the warg beside him. The warg ducked back, a defensive gesture, and kept his head lowered. Akraht, still alpha of his tribe, stood over the challenging warg, fangs beared, growling loudly. Wargs were beasts, and the strongest amongst them led by that virtue alone. A warg that allowed himself to be herded by one of his pack was as good as slug-meat.
No words accompanied the show of force, their body language telling the entire tale. Akraht, retaining his dominant posture, slowly advanced while the other warg backed away, not returning the challenge with anything but a murderous stare. Once satisfied he had made his point, the chieftian turned away and continued along his previous path, brushing past wounded and dead orcs on his way to more suitable prowling grounds. His pack followed in tow, each bouncing with the step of a warg that had enjoyed a decent meal.
The Tarks were pushing again, and the miserable orcs pulling back. The numbers did not seem so bad; perhaps half a dozen armored Tarks in front, backed by a similar number of Elves. In truth, it was a bit of a grim sight - Orcs feathered with arrows, Uruks off balanced, barely shielding themselves from incoming blows from blade and hammer. One particularly commanding Uruk, in the midst of shouting some order to the bloody maggots in front, took an arrow directly through his throat, crumpling to the ground soon after. It was a slow push, but the Tarks pushed forward, stepping over the bodies of fallen Orc and Uruk alike.
Akraht growled deep in his throat, glancing over his shoulder at the small pack at his hind. Each warg had the same feral glare, watching the battle intently, each instinctively finding the least armored and most appetizing foe on the field. There were six in total including himself, hidden in a patch of tall grass at the foot of some long-forgotten stone ruin, now little more than a wasting pillar. They were eager to sink their teeth into man-flesh, but the time was not right.
Turning his attention back to the fight unfolding before them, Akraht examined the exposed flank. Sensing a victory, the armored Tarks had shaped their line to more of a concave pattern, pressing the orcs back and onto themselves, limiting their range of motion and ability to defend themselves. It exposed the archers and cloth-garbed filth behind them, but they had not pressed far enough from their bridge to guarantee they could not close the line once a charge had begun. He growled again, not wanting to chance the advance, but also knowing his pack had set themselves on tearing at these invading fools, and a hungry pack was a volatile one.
Turning once more to his pack, he jerked his head in the direction of the advancing army and growled in the language of the Wargs, "Now." He led the way, stalking through the tall brush first, his five wargs following close behind. The creatures, while massive, moved with a cat-like grace, making no sound that could be audible over the din of battle and keeping low enough that chances of the Tarks noticing movement was slim to none.
Once within a dozen paces, Akraht burst into a full sprint. His heart surged with fury and passion, the thrill of battle seizing him from somewhere deep within. He reveled in the feeling of the bitter air combing through his fur, the muddy ground tearing beneath his taloned paws, the deep thunder of his pack's charge pounding the ground at his heels. Much to his dark amusement, not a single one of the fools had noticed their advance until it was far too late.
The dainty Elf Akraht had chosen turned her head to take note of the incoming creatures just as the warg had launched himself into the air. The several-hundred pound beast collided with the frail creature with as much force as a charging aurochs, knocking the Elf backwards almost ten paces before she was slammed to the bridge's paving stones. The impact itself was probably enough to kill the fragile thing, but wargs did not deal in restraint. His fangs sank deep into her throat, crushing it entirely and, with an instinctive rip and shake of his head, likely severing the spine as well.
Similar scenes took place all around him, his pack all finding their targets unaware. Blood coated the muzzles of each of them as they bit into their prey with more-than lethal force. The din of battle had changed, no longer was it cries of Gondor and the free-peoples, but instead a mess of panicked commands, overwhelmed by a gutteral cheer in the black speech. Akraht sat up from his ruined foe and surveyed the battle, yellow eyes searching for another exposed foe, gore still drooling from his thick, fanged maw.
His pack had found other engagements, biting at the hamstrings of soldiers or ducking away from their blades. A cry drew the chief warg's attention. Up the bridge a ways was what looked to be a young Tark, though he could never tell the age of those wretched creatures. The lightly armored soldier yelled something in the tongue of Man sounding like a challenge and raised his bow, arrow drawn back to his cheek.
Akraht turned to face the man, lowering his head and responding with his own challenge, "I will feast on your children this eve, Tark!" The man, apparently unmoved by the harsh language he doubtlessly could not understand, loosed his arrow. The finely sharpened arrowhead only grazed the thickly-muscled warg, carving a long gash down his back and hind and skittering harmlessly away across the paving stones. Unfortunately, wargs do not feel pain as men do. It was the bite of battle, a feeling as welcome as a mug of coffee might be for a Man on a crisp winter's morn, or the embrace of a long lost lover.
The warg advanced, snarling, amused. His prey took a step back and began fumbling for the sword at his hip. Akraht considered letting the man draw his steel for a moment, that he might provide a decent fight. Alas, the bleeding wound across his back was practically a drug for the beast, driving his sense from him in place of a savage instinct. He lept forward and was on the man in three long strides. He ducked low, avoiding the man's arcing blade as it released from its scabbard. In the same motion he lept up, biting for the man's throat and instead finding an arm raised in defense.
The warg's powerful jaw clamped down hard on the man's forearm, biting through the light steel plates, through his flesh and into bone. Taloned claws rose to claw at the man while he twisted and tore at his arm, tearing the material of his uniform with as much ease as his fangs had snapped the previous elf's neck. Blood coursed over the man and beast, and before long the fight had gone to the ground. It was a messy thing, the fervor of a warg once his prey had been downed. Claws tore aimlessly, his jaw snapped wildly at any exposed flesh. Eventually the man was still, though the bloody mess atop the bridge could hardly be identified as one any longer. Satisfied, Akraht rose and returned to the battle at the bridge's base.
The struggle had been quick. With the elves defeated and wargs harassing the Tarks' backs, they had fallen almost immediately. Seeing their chieftain, the five other bloodied wargs fell in beside him. One, the next-largest warg in contention for the lead of the pack, moved up beside him.
"What now?" he asked in the thick, almost slurred speech of a frenzied warg.
"We wait," Akraht replied, "The Tarks will return, and when they do, we will slaughter them on our grounds."
"We should advance, pick at their lines as they leave that elf-city!"
Akraht halted in his tracks, turning and snapping his jaw towards the warg beside him. The warg ducked back, a defensive gesture, and kept his head lowered. Akraht, still alpha of his tribe, stood over the challenging warg, fangs beared, growling loudly. Wargs were beasts, and the strongest amongst them led by that virtue alone. A warg that allowed himself to be herded by one of his pack was as good as slug-meat.
No words accompanied the show of force, their body language telling the entire tale. Akraht, retaining his dominant posture, slowly advanced while the other warg backed away, not returning the challenge with anything but a murderous stare. Once satisfied he had made his point, the chieftian turned away and continued along his previous path, brushing past wounded and dead orcs on his way to more suitable prowling grounds. His pack followed in tow, each bouncing with the step of a warg that had enjoyed a decent meal.