Mortica
07-25-2007, 01:59 PM
When you wish for death, it rarely comes. When the pain is too much, when you scream for help and no one hears you, what can you do? Death himself ignores you. The gods can’t be bothered to lend a divine hand. And the one killing you can’t be bothered to finish you off; you have to take your own life into your hands. Especially if you’re a troll.
The ground is of soft earth. The wall of stone it old and of a time when there was no war. The ruins and temples of old litter the countryside of the Hinterlands.
Four hands grasp a study spear. Two of the hands are trying to push the spear out. The stronger two, are keeping the spear in. Blood runs from a wound that can’t close from a spear thrust through it. A stream of blood runs from the wound down a mostly bare leg to the ground. A pool is slowly increasing in size as the minutes flow by.
The body of a troll is a wondrous creature. Its ability to heal any wound save the most fatal is a triumph to the survival of the race. It also makes death the quickest and most merciful or the longest and filled with the worst of agonies.
This death is long and filled with agony. Death will be assured when the blood stops its stream to the ground for there will be no more left to heal.
A decision must be made. Fight or die. Weak from blood loss, there isn’t enough strength to push the spear out. Tears start to flow as acceptance has been chosen. Fight. The hands slowly turn to grasp the spear differently. A head bows as will is gathered. A ragged breath is drawn. The body quivers, not in weakness but in hatred. Fury swells within the heart. Eyes start to tunnel in focus as a head rises slowly to look her attacker in the eyes. Hands tighten around the spear. Muscles grip the spear and the tension shows in her arms.
She breathes out in a slow and agonizing breath as she pulls herself along the spear. The barbs on the spearhead of the spear tug and rip at the guts. A barb snags a rib. It stops the movement. She tugs on the spear and it will not go any further. It has hooked on a rib.
Her eyes widen as she understands what has happened, and even more as she realizes what she must do. She jerks the spear and slides forward again. A crack is heard as her head falls forward. A whimpering moan is heard as tears are seen falling to the ground.
Her legs go weak, her arms slacken, and her weight starts to lean on the spear. She jerks in pain and stands up suddenly from leaning on her now broken rib. Her breathing haggard, she pulls herself the further down the spear.
Her eyes start to focus and she realizes that the only two hands on the spear are hers now. She is at its end. She falls off the end of the spear to the ground. The spear falls to the ground behind her. Death it seems today is not interested in her. Her wound starts to close as she lays there on the ground in the dirt.
She sees feet before her. She knows this troll well. “Well done Chaindog. Now you know what it means to be a troll.” says her master as he turns and walks away.
The ground is of soft earth. The wall of stone it old and of a time when there was no war. The ruins and temples of old litter the countryside of the Hinterlands.
Four hands grasp a study spear. Two of the hands are trying to push the spear out. The stronger two, are keeping the spear in. Blood runs from a wound that can’t close from a spear thrust through it. A stream of blood runs from the wound down a mostly bare leg to the ground. A pool is slowly increasing in size as the minutes flow by.
The body of a troll is a wondrous creature. Its ability to heal any wound save the most fatal is a triumph to the survival of the race. It also makes death the quickest and most merciful or the longest and filled with the worst of agonies.
This death is long and filled with agony. Death will be assured when the blood stops its stream to the ground for there will be no more left to heal.
A decision must be made. Fight or die. Weak from blood loss, there isn’t enough strength to push the spear out. Tears start to flow as acceptance has been chosen. Fight. The hands slowly turn to grasp the spear differently. A head bows as will is gathered. A ragged breath is drawn. The body quivers, not in weakness but in hatred. Fury swells within the heart. Eyes start to tunnel in focus as a head rises slowly to look her attacker in the eyes. Hands tighten around the spear. Muscles grip the spear and the tension shows in her arms.
She breathes out in a slow and agonizing breath as she pulls herself along the spear. The barbs on the spearhead of the spear tug and rip at the guts. A barb snags a rib. It stops the movement. She tugs on the spear and it will not go any further. It has hooked on a rib.
Her eyes widen as she understands what has happened, and even more as she realizes what she must do. She jerks the spear and slides forward again. A crack is heard as her head falls forward. A whimpering moan is heard as tears are seen falling to the ground.
Her legs go weak, her arms slacken, and her weight starts to lean on the spear. She jerks in pain and stands up suddenly from leaning on her now broken rib. Her breathing haggard, she pulls herself the further down the spear.
Her eyes start to focus and she realizes that the only two hands on the spear are hers now. She is at its end. She falls off the end of the spear to the ground. The spear falls to the ground behind her. Death it seems today is not interested in her. Her wound starts to close as she lays there on the ground in the dirt.
She sees feet before her. She knows this troll well. “Well done Chaindog. Now you know what it means to be a troll.” says her master as he turns and walks away.