Dean_the_Young
King
- Joined
- Aug 2, 2009
- Messages
- 811
Kuruk the Bear was a Chislev berserker. Like his namesake, he was more bear than man. Among his comrades, he was the strongest, the most fearsome, the most devastating on the battlefield. Even Saverous the Thrall would have been impressed, had Saverous been one of those comrades. Even without the rage-drugs of the Chislev, even without the Overlord's maddening promptings, even without Meskwaki's spiritual fury driving him on to greater violence, he was a poweful force on the battlefield. In the previous war with the Yokaido, it was said he had wrestled a Midgarsomar with his own bare hands in the swamps. And won.
With them, he was even worse.
Kuruk had been among the first of the Berserkers. A peculiarly Chislev development. No one else alive could so naturally throw themselves into the fray without regard to their own survival, and yet fight with such passion. Zombies had no fear, would just as gladly throw themselves on enemy spears, but they lacked the spark to surpass what most mortals were capable of. Only a berserker could take an iron club and swing with such force that even Mithril would buckle. Only a bersker could nearly single-handidly run into a line... and not only survive, but send the next line into disarray. A berserker could do these things and win because no one, not demon or angel or anyone else on Mazera, could imagine it until they saw it for themselves.
One berserker was fearsome. Ten were terrifying. A war band was... devastating. That was what the Grigori defenders were learning in retreat. Berserkers could die, technically, but they so rarely seemed to. Even when a sword was speared through them, they would take it out and use it. And after the battle when the wounds would claim them... mages and wisemen with regeneration magics would come, closing the wounds and making them better than they had been before.
Now the Grigori were experiencing it more than ever. Their militia were in near route. Their heralded Serpentine Slayers were sick, struggling with the Plague that the Chislev's secret allies infected them with. Their mages were gone, retreated to Midgard to try and solve the Plague. And while the Grigori reeled, the Chislev advanced. Soon, so soon, they would be back to the borders, and beyond.
Niyol, a scout of sorts, came to him. He was grinning in blood lust, Meskawaki's magics still lingering in his blood.
"The militia have been broken. They retreat in disarray," he said.
Kuruk nodded, calm until that moment of bloodlust in battle. "Then we will advance," he said. "We will catch them in the chaos, and make it ten-fold."
But Niyol shook his head. "Our Masters have a different task for you," he said, and Kuruk couldn't tell which masters he was talking about. Those of the Deep, most likely.
"The Grigori have a hospital to our left. Inside are many of their Serpentine, who could not be evacuated with the rest for fear of the Plague. And with the militia fled, they have no defense besides the Ordine with them."
Kuruk understood, and shared Niyol's grin. Niyol continued.
"You are to go forth and massacre them all. No one, Serpentine, Ordine, or other, is to survive."
With them, he was even worse.
Kuruk had been among the first of the Berserkers. A peculiarly Chislev development. No one else alive could so naturally throw themselves into the fray without regard to their own survival, and yet fight with such passion. Zombies had no fear, would just as gladly throw themselves on enemy spears, but they lacked the spark to surpass what most mortals were capable of. Only a berserker could take an iron club and swing with such force that even Mithril would buckle. Only a bersker could nearly single-handidly run into a line... and not only survive, but send the next line into disarray. A berserker could do these things and win because no one, not demon or angel or anyone else on Mazera, could imagine it until they saw it for themselves.
One berserker was fearsome. Ten were terrifying. A war band was... devastating. That was what the Grigori defenders were learning in retreat. Berserkers could die, technically, but they so rarely seemed to. Even when a sword was speared through them, they would take it out and use it. And after the battle when the wounds would claim them... mages and wisemen with regeneration magics would come, closing the wounds and making them better than they had been before.
Now the Grigori were experiencing it more than ever. Their militia were in near route. Their heralded Serpentine Slayers were sick, struggling with the Plague that the Chislev's secret allies infected them with. Their mages were gone, retreated to Midgard to try and solve the Plague. And while the Grigori reeled, the Chislev advanced. Soon, so soon, they would be back to the borders, and beyond.
Niyol, a scout of sorts, came to him. He was grinning in blood lust, Meskawaki's magics still lingering in his blood.
"The militia have been broken. They retreat in disarray," he said.
Kuruk nodded, calm until that moment of bloodlust in battle. "Then we will advance," he said. "We will catch them in the chaos, and make it ten-fold."
But Niyol shook his head. "Our Masters have a different task for you," he said, and Kuruk couldn't tell which masters he was talking about. Those of the Deep, most likely.
"The Grigori have a hospital to our left. Inside are many of their Serpentine, who could not be evacuated with the rest for fear of the Plague. And with the militia fled, they have no defense besides the Ordine with them."
Kuruk understood, and shared Niyol's grin. Niyol continued.
"You are to go forth and massacre them all. No one, Serpentine, Ordine, or other, is to survive."
