|
Metaliturtle
|
 |
University of Wisconsin Stevens Point
Mar 2002
time: 23:26
|
|
Waves of heat rolled through the air, amplifying on the line of sweat soaked men in their thick padded armor, as body heat mixed with the noonday sun. Headgear on the army of the Pharoah aided his men, but the Hordes from the north had no such knowledge of the terrain, and sweltered it out in thick wooden helmets banded together by heavy iron.
The drums began, and the Viking horde let forth their battle cry. The bellowing men made a thunderous noise even on the thick sands of the desert as they charged the Egyptian line.
As their foes advanced, the Egyptian regulars began their own chant of the names of their gods, those for war, and those of the individual villiages, creating a layered and very unorganized sounding cry from the Egyptians. This did not aid in the morale though, because the Norsemen were already upon them.
The battlefield began to break down into the overall bedlam that always occurs at the onset of fighting. This is the part of the battle where a hero could be born, amongst the small skirmishes that break out. Perhaps a particular soldier will stand out among the rest as stronger, slaying a noticeably larger amount of men, cutting through them with ease. Perhaps a defender, faced with the bodies of his comrades all lying deceased around him, makes a last-ditch attack that turns the tide of battle. All of these things can occur in the initial commotion.
Soon, two heroes had emerged as being crucial to each side, so much so, that the battle nearly halted when they squared off, certainly, hundreds of men made a wide berth around the two heroes, and for a moment friend was next to foe, unified in their lust for the blood that was certain to spill at any moment.
Trog was a Viking berserker. He faced the egyptian, wearing next to nothing, what the heat didn't force him to shed, he shed himself out of pure insanity. In his left hand he was swinging a two handed battleax with such grace that it looked out of place in proximity to this furry, primitive looking, half naked man. In his right hand, he had a dagger, the sign of the true Norse berserker, he began cutting his arms and chest in order to get into a berserker state. Men from both sides taunted him, the Egyptians out of ignorance, the Norse out of knowledge.
Squaring off for the Egyptain side was the quick and nimble Amune. he was wearing some decent quality bronze mail, he carried a sword of medium length and wore a bronze buckler across his left arm.
Trog came flat out upon Amune's first step. The axe flew from the top right and landed on the shield with a terrific clang. Trog was getting dozens of shots in easily, and with each swing, Amune was hurt more and more by the overall shock of the axe.
Soon, the relentless onslaught shattered the buckler, and this was Trog's time to shine. the blade went back, started coming forward towards the head, but the axe went down, twisted, and Amune was knocked unconscious by Trog.
The fight was finished, Trog had done his job well.
|
22-02-2003 11:57
|