Heavy, ragged breathing mingles with the cries of the jungle. Specks of sunlight pierce through the thick canopy above, and glisten on the punished flesh of a man doused in adrenaline. Sweat mingles with blood flowing from a large claw wound residing in his shoulder, running down his arm to his glove. The once green moss takes a deep brown as the crimson taints the virgin plantlife.
“After him!” someone barks out in the distance.
The man frowns, and mutters a few curses under his breath. The injury is the least of his concerns. Moving swiftly, he weaves through the trees. They may be close, but he is closer. He would just have to last a little longer --
The barking of hounds snaps his focus, and he looks over his shoulder to catch a pair of the beasts on approach. The white of their maws nearly matches the white of the Ar’taian emblems on their collars. Without his blade, the man is vulnerable. As one of the war hounds lunges at the man, the man whirls around. Flesh tears, blood splatters on the ground, and only a pained whimper arises.
Releasing the fading dog, the man bares his gauntlet at the other beast; the sharp, stained talons on the fingers now dressed with a fresh coat of blood. As vulnerable as he may be, the man is far from helpless. As the other hound only barks at him, he turns around to continue running. The mutts are trained to give away positions, should anyone present a threat to them. However, the reinforcements coming after him is exactly what he is hoping for.
“Stay where you are, else I will recall the mercy my mood imposes!” The man who speaks is none other than an Ar’taian officer, given his fondness for orders. “Did you really believe you could escape, savage? Your god has abandoned your kind, and your primitive tribes.”
“It seems that a worshipper of the Whore of Ice would say that,” the man retorts, slowly turning around to face the officer. “That, and he would bring a cowardly measure of reinforcements,” he adds, counting at least twenty men.
“No precaution is too small, your kind has shown us that much.” The officer beckons to one of his men. They present a long, thin blade, decorative feathers dangling from the guard and hilt. The razor-sharp edge gleams in the patch of sun that breaches the canopy. “Sharp enough to sever bone, and strong enough to pierce shields. This weapon must be significant to you. After all, your culture -- if one can call it that -- believes that each warrior is wed to their weapon.” Wielding the blade, the officer grins at the man’s subtle display of dismay. “I wonder how it will feel, to lose something so dear to you.”
Showing no compromise of his confidence, the man folds his arms over his chest. “I won’t be the one losing something today.” An arrow flies right past his head. It sinks deep into the officer’s throat, preventing even a cry of pain as the shaft obstructs his windpipe. The delay in everyone’s reaction, as the officer crumples to the ground, is one all too familiar.
The one before all chaos breaks loose.
As one of the Ar’taians draws his mace, the rest of the world joins in the continuation. He runs towards the man, his battle cry echoing throughout the woods.
The man stands his ground, watching the imminent threat draw ever closer. He observes the fire burning in the Ar’taian’s eyes. It suddenly disappears, as leaves scatter into the air, and a warrior explodes free from his hiding place under the blanket of plantlife. Others descend from the trees, one landing on the Ar’taian and knocking him down. The warrior brings his club down, granting the Ar’taian a swift death.
“What are you waiting for?” another Ar’taian barks. “Kill them! Kill them all!” He readies his sword and shield, charging forth. Hesitantly, the others comply, following their comrade to battle. The guerilla forces clash with the Ar’taians with just a fierce determination.
The man picks up the mace of the fallen enemy, and looks for an easy opportunity. When the back of the Ar’taian bearing sword and shield is exposed, he plunges his gauntlet’s talons into the Ar’taian’s flesh. They dig in deep to keep the Ar’taian from recoiling away from the agony. The man raises the mace over his head, before slamming it into the Ar’taian’s skull. He draws out the talons as the Ar’taian collapses onto the ground, giving a twitch like that of a squashed bug.
As he starts ripping and smashing through the rest, the odor of something burning assails the man’s nostrils. He looks past the thinning ranks of Ar’taians to spot the manifestation of countless nightmares stomping through the jungle. From the maw of this machine horror, a ball of fire starts to grow.
“Pull back!” the man shouts, but before his words can have any effect, an ear-shattering explosions knocks the man down as flames bloom just above him. Leaves and embers dance together in the air. The sight is unfathomably beautiful to the man, who rolls onto his back, in a daze. A warm hand is placed on his chest, and he turns to look into the eyes of what must be one of the guerilla warriors. It is hard to tell, with how molten his flesh and blackened his clothing are. The burning warrior opens his mouth, letting out a cry of agony that overpowers everything else.
