From: gaejin@aol.com (Gaejin)
Date: 20 Jan 1998 11:55:25 EST
The night had gone without event, and Seraph passed the time observing the inane exchanges between the resident shrews that opted to lounge within the Arena. To his left, two men of little skill were duking it out within a ring; to his right, a duo of harlets were debating upon an issue of little importance, and may it be added that their arguements were hardly terse, much less cogent.
Amid the screeches of the mindless and the clangs of the skillless, a third element was added: the knock of wood upon wood---the door having been flung open. This abrupt sound alerted Seraph's attention to the entrance, his blasé gaze sliding upwards.
The backlighted forms of four trolls skewed the moonlight which shone through the high overhang, casting a grotesque mural of shadow upon the wood-panelled floor below them. With less than careful steps, the quartet stomped down the stairs; then, they made it their business to navigate the scant distance 'tween them and their target, whereby they paused, their leader, Trog, stepping forth.
"'Ey you, da boss wantz ya'z," he grunted, enhancing the sonorous quality of his tone in order to impress his three cronies. It worked - to some extent; they merely huffed in surly agreement.
Seraph responded with a cockeyed, sidelong gaze, like one who refuses to believe a statement merely from the droll nature of it.
"Depart; I do not wish to be bothered by ones such as you." Seraph finally informed in a flat tone.
Trog pivoted a little in order to face Slog, Drog, and Grog, who each gazed at him expectantly. "Hey guyz!" he exclaimed with a leering grin, "Dis boyie wantz us ta leeve!".
The other three humanoids erupted into a fit of mad laughter, large globules of spittle cannonballing from their gaping maws. Trog joined in, satisfied and proud that he could sway his peers so.
Seraph, however, found little humor in this; and, with a persistant simpleness, proceeded to recapitulate the "humorous" statement.
"Leave, now."
Moments passed; after the trolls' laughter had subsided, Trog again spun to face the annoyed Daemon. He pulled a long, thick knife from his beltstrap, and pressed it against the exposed jugular of Seraph. A thin trickle of blood rilled from the shallow wound, though its owner showed little surprise or shock at the sight.
The only acknowledgement that Seraph spared to the posed blade was a brief downward glance of his eyes; upon completing this, his oculi shot upwards, a dark flare prominent behind their cool exterior.
Trog, failing to notice the subtle admonition, pressed his advantage; in doing so, he pressed the dagger harder upon the ashen flesh of Seraph. More than a trickle seeped from the new wound and, with a newfound sense of brazen courage upon learning that the Daemon can, indeed, bleed, Trog again informed Seraph of the boss' wishes.
"You iz wantid, boyie; da boss iz expectin' ya."
Seraph eased the dagger from his neck with a tepid push and paced a few steps backwards, creating a gap 'tween the trolls and himself. "You would do wise to leave, now, afore I discard my pleasant demeanor," he counseled.
The trolls merely forced a snicker at his indirect threat, and Slog stepped forward to address Seraph in a patronizing voice: "Look, budee, if yew knowz whut'z best for ya'z, yoo'll come wit' us, eh?"
Seraph remained still, poised; the trolls determined that he was not going to acquiesce without a fight, and they drew their weapons in preparation for such. Their armament consisted mainly of heavy, blunt objects with which to smash skulls, though the sporadic nail-in-the-board was amongst the motley crew.
In a final attempt to intimidate their opponent, they howled like wild beasts and gestured menacingly with the drawn weapons. This, to their glee, failed to instill a sense of fear within Seraph, and they proceeded to take offensive stances.
A brief nod from Slog informed his cohorts that he was going to have the first shot, and he proceeded to take the liberty of doing so. Grunting heavily, Slog sprinted the dozen feet to his target. A flash momentarily obfuscated the unfolding altercation from view; when it cleared, the wickedly curved longsword was drawn and readied, poised to strike. Slog's eyes adopted a look of pure horror upon this sight, and it was evident that he attempted to
halt to the extent of his skills.
But it wasn't enough. Slog's expression was ever more locked in a state of fervent panic, as the serrated blade parted through the saturated flesh and fairly decapitated the asinine trolls' head from his square shoulders. The separated member rolled about upon the floor, spewing puddles of blood as it did so; it finally came to rest within a remote corner of the Arena, and it remains there still - to the extent of Seraph's knowledge - rotting with
the various other hopes, dreams, and histories of the sport.
Seraph spared a glance about the Arena; no one seemed to notice. How surprising, he thought, they never notice anything. He darted past the remaining three trolls and sprinted up the stairs, absconding into the vast expanse of blackness that composed the gelid RhyDin night.
It's only Humanoid.
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From: gaejin@aol.com (Gaejin)
Date: 20 Jan 1998 12:19:27 EST
The trolls made pursuit, trailing his efforts and similarly exiting the Arena, though they exercised some modicum of caution, lest they be caught in an efficacious ambuscade. Their trepidation provided little defense, as Seraph manifested by promptly leaping from a large tree and landing upon the ground, sword drawn, catching the trio off-guard.
The trolls quickly scrambled to beset Seraph in a makeshift circle, neither opting to take the first step forth. Seraph maintained a defensive stance as he swirled about slowly in order to prevent an attack upon his posterior.
Subtle facial tics and equally discreet body language allowed the surly humanoids to converse in silence. They decided upon a direct mode of attack: one that would provide Seraph with too many adversaries to effectively deal with.
Screaming wildly and flailing their arms about, they bolted for the center of the circumscribed circle in which Seraph was the nucleus. The trolls fell upon the surrounded form with a flurry of swings and a horde of kicks in which a care for one's safety was quite absent; that is, a good portion of their blows missed their mark, instead falling upon a comrade who, in a similar fashion, returned the blow.
To Seraph's alleviation, the trolls soon erupted into an inclusive brawl in which the Daemon was not a part. Fists and feet flew through the air, catching a random target upon an equally random portion of his body. Seraph wisely eased away from the fray, opting to let the trolls handle each other lest they were reminded of his presence.
This senseless brawl continued well into the waning of the moon, until only one - Drog - was left standing. He immediately slumped into a position in which he could catch his breath, arms clasped around the drawn knees. Seraph viewed this from behind the cover of a nearby, conveniently placed tree, and he decided he would set an example.
Quiet, light steps granted Seraph unhindered passage into the clearing; he used this to the utmost advantage. Silent, he stood behind Drog who currently was regressing into a state of infantile reverie, as his thoughts were mainly upon food and its uses.
"Mmmm... lamb chopz..." the troll whispered to himself, unaware of the looming presence behind.
Seraph mused with the concept of Drog's epitaph reading that exact phrase, though he did not allow his personal whims to distract him from the task at hand. With a spryly deft slash, Seraph ensured that those would be the last words ever uttered by the troll. The serrated edge fully immersed itself within the corpulant torso of the humanoid, piercing a random few of the internal organs crucial to the creature's survival.
Seraph wrenched the blade from the troll with a disgusted jerk. He kicked at the troll; finding no response, he determined the troll dead.
He quickly destroyed Grog, who lay prone upon the ground, a faint heaving the only sign of life, with an impartial skewering.
For the next few hours he worked upon meticulously severing the extremeties and limbs of the dead trolls, and then connecting the disconnected pieces of flesh to an intricate series of chains in order to form a train of gore; periodically he would butt Trog upon the temple with a club to effectively smash the conciousness from his aching head. Finished, he embarked upon the task of connecting the grotesque article of garb to the unfortunate troll.
Upon completion, Seraph rose listlessly and regarded the final creation with an analytical, studious glare. Trog was beclothed within a cape of flesh that he would have a rather bad time removing, as various barbs and hooks held the weighty construction in place. Chains also graced his body, as did blood, which fairly esconced his entire form.
Seraph, a content man, departed from the grisly scene and soon thereafter retreated to his abode to hibernate for a spell, which roughly equated to a night.
The humanoid awoke some hours later, bedecked within the aforedescribed cloak; his expression was far beyond horror---it more closely represented black dread; insatiable, black, dread.
"Da Boss" would extricate him from the responsibility, he hoped; after all, It's only Humanoid.
Date: 20 Jan 1998 12:19:27 EST
The trolls made pursuit, trailing his efforts and similarly exiting the Arena, though they exercised some modicum of caution, lest they be caught in an efficacious ambuscade. Their trepidation provided little defense, as Seraph manifested by promptly leaping from a large tree and landing upon the ground, sword drawn, catching the trio off-guard.
The trolls quickly scrambled to beset Seraph in a makeshift circle, neither opting to take the first step forth. Seraph maintained a defensive stance as he swirled about slowly in order to prevent an attack upon his posterior.
Subtle facial tics and equally discreet body language allowed the surly humanoids to converse in silence. They decided upon a direct mode of attack: one that would provide Seraph with too many adversaries to effectively deal with.
Screaming wildly and flailing their arms about, they bolted for the center of the circumscribed circle in which Seraph was the nucleus. The trolls fell upon the surrounded form with a flurry of swings and a horde of kicks in which a care for one's safety was quite absent; that is, a good portion of their blows missed their mark, instead falling upon a comrade who, in a similar fashion, returned the blow.
To Seraph's alleviation, the trolls soon erupted into an inclusive brawl in which the Daemon was not a part. Fists and feet flew through the air, catching a random target upon an equally random portion of his body. Seraph wisely eased away from the fray, opting to let the trolls handle each other lest they were reminded of his presence.
This senseless brawl continued well into the waning of the moon, until only one - Drog - was left standing. He immediately slumped into a position in which he could catch his breath, arms clasped around the drawn knees. Seraph viewed this from behind the cover of a nearby, conveniently placed tree, and he decided he would set an example.
Quiet, light steps granted Seraph unhindered passage into the clearing; he used this to the utmost advantage. Silent, he stood behind Drog who currently was regressing into a state of infantile reverie, as his thoughts were mainly upon food and its uses.
"Mmmm... lamb chopz..." the troll whispered to himself, unaware of the looming presence behind.
Seraph mused with the concept of Drog's epitaph reading that exact phrase, though he did not allow his personal whims to distract him from the task at hand. With a spryly deft slash, Seraph ensured that those would be the last words ever uttered by the troll. The serrated edge fully immersed itself within the corpulant torso of the humanoid, piercing a random few of the internal organs crucial to the creature's survival.
Seraph wrenched the blade from the troll with a disgusted jerk. He kicked at the troll; finding no response, he determined the troll dead.
He quickly destroyed Grog, who lay prone upon the ground, a faint heaving the only sign of life, with an impartial skewering.
For the next few hours he worked upon meticulously severing the extremeties and limbs of the dead trolls, and then connecting the disconnected pieces of flesh to an intricate series of chains in order to form a train of gore; periodically he would butt Trog upon the temple with a club to effectively smash the conciousness from his aching head. Finished, he embarked upon the task of connecting the grotesque article of garb to the unfortunate troll.
Upon completion, Seraph rose listlessly and regarded the final creation with an analytical, studious glare. Trog was beclothed within a cape of flesh that he would have a rather bad time removing, as various barbs and hooks held the weighty construction in place. Chains also graced his body, as did blood, which fairly esconced his entire form.
Seraph, a content man, departed from the grisly scene and soon thereafter retreated to his abode to hibernate for a spell, which roughly equated to a night.
The humanoid awoke some hours later, bedecked within the aforedescribed cloak; his expression was far beyond horror---it more closely represented black dread; insatiable, black, dread.
"Da Boss" would extricate him from the responsibility, he hoped; after all, It's only Humanoid.