A song of steel

Axle

Newbie
One - Two
Clang! Crack!

The air that the forest breathes is cool and sharp. The sun, not quite risen, lends a dim glow to the mist and dew shrouded woods.

Two - One
Crack! Clang!

There's a whistling in the air punctuated with the sound of wood and steel being hit.

One -Two
Thunk! Crack!

A black feathered, yellow beaked humanoid leans over panting heavily. His breath creates clouds that mist and then fade on the iron rivets of his armor.

As he wipes the sweat from his brow he dampens the metal again that had so quickly dried.

"Not enough" He whispers to himself.
The leather of the armor creaks as he whips his arms. Each blade sings through the cool morning air.

Two - One
Crack! Clang!

Wood then steel.
His opponent is a representation of an enemy, a tree of middling age, not much wider than the wylderkin, a sword strapped to it's side.

One -Two
Clang! Crack!

He strikes again, right arm this time, a blow to the sword, opening the opponent.

Two
CLANG!

Left arm leaps forward, the shortsword finds it's mark in the heart of the wood.

One
THUNK!

The blade now half it's length seems to somewhat satisfy the Hawk-kin. The tree is a mess of slashes and stab wounds. His hand releases the blade and falls to his side. His right hand slackens on the grip of his remaining sword.

As he admires his handiwork he finds his mind wandering. Images fill his thoughts. He sees the caverns, cold and slick, dark with no sign of the light of the stars or the warmth of the sun.

He sees the yawning portal, a giant crack in the wall of the cavern and the promise of sky blotted out by the coursing masses of stone creatures, slithering and crawling, the horrible creak and rumble of stone scraping earth, looking toward him with singular murderous purpose.

He sees the living stone emerge from the earth, a giant towering above him. It's hammer in hand swinging toward him, a flash of pain and then black.
He feels death call nearby until a gentle touch and warmth brings him back gasping for air as the screams and cry of battle continue around him.

He sees the construct in the city, dead soulless eyes, lightning coursing through it's blade... too late.
Much too late as pain courses through him and he crumbles to the ground, crying out pitifully in hopes of someone hearing.

He sees the faces of people he met friendly and smiling.
He sees those faces twist and warp into fear and anguish as they are enveloped by countless black tentacles and cold, unblinking glowing eyes which turn to countless serrated teeth as they reach out to envelop him.

Stevaan blinks, and takes in the forest once more. The screams of his fallen comrades still ringing through his head. He feels his breath still labored, his feathers standing on edge, and feels the blood that drips from where his fingers ball into his palms.

He grips the shortblade and wrenches it from the wood once more.

One - Two
Clang! Crack!

He swings the two blades.

Two - One
Crack! Clang!

One - Two
Clang! Thunk!

If he was to return to that other world, that Maelstrom he had work to do...

Two - One
Crack! Clang!

Strength, not guile is what he needed now.
 
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