[01:21p] › WaylandSmith changes topic to: Remnants of Gor: The swollen Vosk river flows past a recently built jetty. RP required,Gor/NZ
[01:21p] › WaylandSmith changes welcome message to: The weather is indifferent but the air is damp from recent rainfall. There is a clear area of a passang in size from the edge of the forest and cover to the jetty.
[01:31p]
WaylandSmith The creature strove to make the killing blow, its head twisted slightly sidewise and its fanged mouth ready to bite into the bulging veins of Wayland's neck. As it bent towards him, the creature's back arched slightly allowing just enough room for Wayland to punch his arm upward and placing an elbow before his throat. Vicious fangs pierced his skin and teeth made ready to tear his limb to shreds.
[01:46p]
WaylandSmith Supressing the pain and the fear of going through life without his right arm, the smith bit his lips till they bled. The tiny blade twisted in his fist; was stabbed upwards in a likely futile attempt to scar the face of his attacker. The murderous rage that ripped through his opponent made the creature careless of the shiny tiny blade that was thrust before it.
[01:55p]
WaylandSmith A fight is often not unlike a choreographed dance, with the opponents circling or sweeping over each other in apparent sympathetic coordination. So it proved here because just as the smith desperately twisted and turned under the bulk of his opponents that later bent his head down with all the force his sinews to rip off the smith's arm. In so doing the twisting knife sank fully into the creature's eye socket, the tiny sharp end slicing into the brow bone and lodging itself there.
[01:55p]
WaylandSmith : Kurr: Roaarrrr (etc...)
[02:03p]
WaylandSmith Screeching screams tore through the air drowning out the roar of the Vosk river. The smith for his part was momentarily stunned, still in shock from the unexpected attack and the violence of his opponent's strikes he had almost resigned himself to an ingnominous death. Then the crushing weight atop of him multiplied - it seemed to him - a thousand fold before being lifted altogether. The pressure had emptied his lungs and he praised his constitution that his ribcage had not cracked like so many dry twigs.
[02:07p]
WaylandSmith Winded and with his eyes suddenly seeing the dull cloud covered sky it took him a moment to get his bearings. Raging adrenaline coursed through his veins supressing the sensations of his multiple wounds but breath was slow to return. The creature meanwhile ran hither and thither its clawed hands clasped over the wounded eye socket, it too was momentarily too distracted to deal with its foe.
[02:13p]
WaylandSmith Wayland was the first to recover, arching his back and raising his knees he jumped to his feet ready to confront his assailant and at least die on his feet rather than crushed into the mud of the Vosk River. Still unsure what had happened he saw the creature's distress only half divining its origin, it was obviously in great pain and distracted. Without waiting an ihn longer the smith dove towards his cart, extending an arm and rolling over his shoulder to return to his feet next to his cart.
[02:18p]
WaylandSmith The creature's cries - meanwhile - had been lowered to a high pitched type of moaning, the haphazard movement slowing to a stroll as it took control of itself following the injury. It stood a twenty-five feet from the cart, its claws descended from its face seemingly unable or unwilling to dislodge the blade from its socket. With two pointed ears raised straight up, fur matted with blood and the remains of an eye - it looked like a creature of sheer terror.
[03:28p]
WaylandSmith The fight was not over but now that the benefit of surprise no longer hampered the proceedings, it was time to equal the odds a little. Wayland drew out his trusty gladius and slid his hands into the spiked buckler he used for a shield. He was by no means as skilled as a red caste or as silently deadly as a black but more than one that had underestimated him in the past had paid the final price.
[03:33p]
WaylandSmith Tentatively he swung his sword in a pattern of eight and found that his movements were not - yet - impaired by his injuries. The bite marks bled but this was probably for the best lest infection settle in. Verdigris eyes still bright from the exertion now gazed at his adversary, Wayland had never seen such being but he recognised it nonetheless. It was a creature of legend, spoken of in whispered tones to frighten Gorean children into obedience. A Kurri - a sentient race hostile to humans.
[03:44p]
WaylandSmith The Kurri also took stock for a moment, its tongue slavering over its range of sharp teeth that had come so close to tasting Wayland's flesh. It seemed the pain in his eye had subsided or simply that the creature had mastered its discomfort, it looked sullenly at the weaponry now arrayed against it - if it was fearful it did not show it. It’s one eye narrowing in on the human, it desired his death and lusted after his flesh - so much even the untrained eye could tell from the way it beheld the smith.
[03:46p]
WaylandSmith : Kurr: Your weapons will avail you nought human. Your race has failed - you must be one of the few that escaped the <unpronounceable and irreproducible word>, this gladdens me because I may still feast on fresh human-chattel flesh. Already we of the great Kurri race had resigned ourselves to consume only the charnel remains of defunct race.
[03:51p]
WaylandSmith the speech of the creature took the smith by surprise, rumour and legends were rife around the Kurr and he could not rightly remember any story of them speaking the tongue of Men. The creature's words came out in an odd rolling tone, with long Rs and deep G's - its speech sounding stunted as if his vocal chords - if it had them - were unsuited to voicing the sounds it produced. The only word that was spoken fluently being incomprehensible.
[03:56p]
WaylandSmith : Kurr: I see from your face that you have not heard of <unpronounceable and irreproducible word> - it was always well known to us who seek dominance over this world that this moment would come. It is the twilight of Men, your kind is all but dead a precious few of you escaped by luck or coincidence but you will not prevail. You are a member of a dead race - your obstinacy and sword waving is futile - I will do you the honour of a quick death. You may kneel before me and your ending will be quick - this I promise.