Fragments Gallery
Marauders
Atticus Greyhorn eyed the scene below with unease. Gently, silently, he swept more greenery from his view as his lips moved in a wordless count. From his vantage point, sprawled on his belly and hiding beneath the underbrush atop a densely wooded hillock, he had a perfect view of the clearing below. Far more lurked below than he, or anyone else, had expected.
Something cracked behind him and he froze. After a breath he gradually shifted and flipped around; repositioning so he might peer into the clump of vegetation behind. Nothing moved within his immediate line of sight, but that didn’t mean much. Anyone could linger unseen in this darkness, but that didn’t mean they could hide from him.
His eyes drifted shut as he pushed his focus inwards and sought that bubble of light that so many revered. There it was; deep within he caught sight of its pulsing glow. His Naidam, his power, beckoned to him and his lips quivered into a smile as he took hold. It gleefully leapt to do as he beckoned as his will focused and shaped the power. As his eyes opened a black fog rose to blot out the feeble light and completely obscure his already limited vision. That changed as his Naidam took hold.
Light began to pulse in the black. Greens represented the vegetation; with this sight each leaf, each stalk and all of the plants that lived were shaded green. Individual plants had a tendency to glow in slightly different shades but all held verdant colour. Living creatures with greater intelligence such as animals and sentient beings were shaded blue. The intensity of the blue depended on their intelligence and how they thought.
Greyhorn surveyed the green before him, methodically sweeping his gaze across the sea of plants. There, between a pair of trees a short distance away and partially obscured by green glow knelt a blue figure.
It didn’t appear as though the figure had seen him yet so Greyhorn shifted some of his Naidam to muffle his movements. Thus muted he rose. Steel smoothly, and soundlessly, slid against steel as he unsheathed his blade. His footsteps were silent in the long grass as he circled around and towards the figure. As he drew closer he found his suspicion confirmed; this figure, and most likely the silhouettes he had observed below, were orcs. It was safe to assume that they were related to, or even same as, the band that had been terrorising the borders of the fiefdom for months.
Fury pumped through him as he regarded the monster before him. Greyhorn had seen several villages which had been burned by these brutes; none had been left alive. They were dangerous and had to be stopped.
As he approached the orc’s rear it whirled and let out a faint growl. It knew he was there.
Caught my scent, Greyhorn thought as he rushed closer to strike, bloody clumsy of me.
His first swing flew wild as a shield materialised from the darkness, deflecting his blade with a fearful clang.
Damn, he mused, he was getting rusty if he hadn’t noticed the shield. That clang meant this fight needed to end quickly. The others in the camp below had surely heard the sound.
The orc roared in fury as it began its retaliation; its blade swept before Greyhorn’s face as he twisted back. Greyhorn swirled and his arm followed, sending his blade in a broad arc towards the monster’s neck. This time the steel connected and the sword sunk into the orc’s flesh. It dropped quickly and silently but the damage was already done.
Horns ripped through the air as the clash of the fight faded. Greyhorn cursed gently; they would be coming now. He was no longer safe. He glanced back at the camp below, absorbing what he could of its layout before he fled. Once he returned to camp and warned his division they would return to put an end to this war-party. Atticus could only hope that the orcs were still here when he returned. They usually faded into the woods before they could be caught, but maybe this time they would be too slow.
All he could do was hope that these monsters could be caught before they slaughtered again.