HOME | DD

Description
They look so proud, Rorin thought as he stared down at the soldiers marching through the forest road. They were not nearly as aware as he had expected them to be, all walking at a leisurely pace, seemingly without a care in the world aside from their destination. There were roughly three hundred or so of the men-at-arms down there, along with another twenty knights. They were Warwell men out of Shorehold, judging by their sea green banners which bore a stone keep withstanding pounding waves, coming northeast to join their allies encamped several days away. Rorin had fifty of the best woodsmen, hunters, and rangers he had been able to put together for the sole purpose of harassing the enemy where they least expected it. This would be the first test of their ability to conduct such a mission.

His first arrow was notched, and Rorin, a ranger himself, felt his heart pounding in his chest. They were all waiting on him to make the first move and begin the attack. His men were motivated by plunder and violence, and he dared not keep them from it for long, though here they were sorely outnumbered. The advantage of concealment and surprise would do them a great deal of good, however, and the violence of action he intended to commit would likely handle the rest.

The arrow seemed to pull back on its own accord, the bowstring stretching tightly. Wait for it… Rorin thought carefully as he eyed up the little lord who led the garrison. Wait… He hardly even felt the moment come, as hunting had become such an instinct to him. The bowstring twanged as it snapped forward and an instant later the yell of the armored rider was stifled before it could escape his now punctured throat. Rorin's men did not miss a beat, having likely been itching for him to start the fight. Arrows, and a few crossbow bolts, flew from both sides of the road. The soldiers of the very recently deceased Roget Warwell began to panic, unsure of which way to turn. Small metal points bearing death were raining on them from all angles, and their own archers were struggling to return fire. Rorin was proud of his men. They were quick to shoot, and smart with their targets; almost all of the horsemen quickly found themselves with several extra holes to breath from.

With the mightiest battle cry the captain could muster, Rorin drew a pair of hatchets and charged out of the woods, his men all across the line following suit. A crossbowman, frightened nearly out of his wits, was struggling to wind his weapon, his eyes going from the mechanical bow to Rorin then back down again in haste. He looked up one more time just to see the hatchet fly between his eyes, splitting his skull open. He'd given the lad a quick death, at the very least.

Rorin looked up to take a quick view of the ambush. His bushwhackers were pouring from the woods and the Warwell men were utterly ambushed. They spun in every direction, complete confusion amongst their ranks as vicious battle cries began to mix with the horrible screams of the wounded and dying. In the half of one second he peered down the road, Rorin saw Torris Fairchilde cut a man nearly in two from shoulder to groin with his great axe, Lomm the Sleeper leap from a branch and tackle a knight off of his horse, and Black Jon put his spear through a soldier's chest. Rorin's wolves had descended upon the Warwells' sheep.

The captain wasted no time in getting back to his own fight. A swordsman swung at him from a high stance, Rorin's left-hand hatchet catching the blade in its curve. The ranger's dirk flashed in the air and was followed by a spray of blood from what had been the swordsman's neck. He moved on to the next target as the last was beginning to fall. The sharp steel of Rorin's dirk slashed down on the boy's spear hand, causing him to howl in pain and drop his weapon. The hatchet went around his shield, which had moved to protect his injured arm, and dug in between to ribs. Rorin felt one crack beneath the weight of his swing. The captain's blade fell upon this boy's neck as well, further covering Rorin in a quick stream of blood.

A spearman who had been knocked to the ground by a fleeing horse was on his hands and knees attempting to regain his feet. Rorin's hatchet found itself buried into the foot soldier's spine, just between the shoulders, and his short blade once again drew across an enemy's neck, spilling the man's life onto the ground beneath him. Rorin had noticed, and had been told, that he had a taste for throats in combat. It was not meant as an act of mercy, as it was a fast death, nor as a quick means of disposing on his foes. It just seemed the natural place for his steel to end up. There was nary a battle where Rorin's face did not become covered in the crimson of his enemies, and he had grown quite accustomed to the taste, smell, and feel of hot blood. To his face, his rangers called him Rorin the Red. When they thought he was not listening, he was known as Rorin the Vampire, for they believed their captain cut throats in order to drink the blood of those he slew. A good story for them to spread, as far as the rangers was concerned.

This moment of thought nearly found Rorin on the receiving end of death, as a dismounted knight came upon him from behind as he let the dying spearman fall to the dirt. Rorin wheeled around just in time to see the armored man charge, sword raised, only to stop suddenly and drop the weapon before his arms fell. Torris Fairchilde's great axe was the only reason the knight remained off of the ground, and it took several shakes pf the shaft before his armor clattered on the road. The enemy was crushed, and those alive were attempting a desperate escape. None made it far before they were shot down or felled by the bloody rangers.

"E's gettin' 'way!" one of those rangers yelled, and Rorin and Torris were nearly run down by a rider attempting to flee the slaughter. In diving out of the way of the galloping horse, Rorin did not even notice Black Jon as he rushed forward, only just seeing him after casting his spear towards the knight in flight. The road had become quiet enough to hear the sound of the weighted spearhead ripping through metal armor and the knight's cry of anguish before he slumped from the saddle. Once he hit the ground, a great cheer rang up from the rangers, directed at Black Jon who raised his fists and joined in the celebration. It had certainly been a marvelous throw.

Looking around, Rorin took in the sight before him. Nearly three hundred and fifty armed soldiers had been caught off guard and cut down by his fifty rangers. Judging from those still standing, Rorin had barely lost a man in the process. His men were descending on the Warwell men once again, this time for the spoils of their victory. Several offered up a recovered coin or two to Black Jon for his miraculous kill with the thrown spear, which one man recovered and returned to him. Rorin's rangers squabbled over who had killed which man and who had claim to what prize, though none could contest Torris, who's massive axe left a most distinct mark upon his slain. Rangers were rounding up the horses and wagons, tossing in armor, boots, weapons, food, gold, and everything else the land pirates could not carry on their own backs. Yes, Rorin's men were like wolves. They had slaughtered the sheep, and now they feasted on them. A wry smile came to Rorin the Red. His men were vicious, evil wolves, and their captain could not have been more proud to lead them.

Description
They look so proud, Rorin thought as he stared down at the soldiers marching through the forest road. They were not nearly as aware as he had expected them to be, all walking at a leisurely pace, seemingly without a care in the world aside from their destination. There were roughly three hundred or so of the men-at-arms down there, along with another twenty knights. They were Warwell men out of Shorehold, judging by their sea green banners which bore a stone keep withstanding pounding waves, coming northeast to join their allies encamped several days away. Rorin had fifty of the best woodsmen, hunters, and rangers he had been able to put together for the sole purpose of harassing the enemy where they least expected it. This would be the first test of their ability to conduct such a mission.

His first arrow was notched, and Rorin, a ranger himself, felt his heart pounding in his chest. They were all waiting on him to make the first move and begin the attack. His men were motivated by plunder and violence, and he dared not keep them from it for long, though here they were sorely outnumbered. The advantage of concealment and surprise would do them a great deal of good, however, and the violence of action he intended to commit would likely handle the rest.

The arrow seemed to pull back on its own accord, the bowstring stretching tightly. Wait for it… Rorin thought carefully as he eyed up the little lord who led the garrison. Wait… He hardly even felt the moment come, as hunting had become such an instinct to him. The bowstring twanged as it snapped forward and an instant later the yell of the armored rider was stifled before it could escape his now punctured throat. Rorin's men did not miss a beat, having likely been itching for him to start the fight. Arrows, and a few crossbow bolts, flew from both sides of the road. The soldiers of the very recently deceased Roget Warwell began to panic, unsure of which way to turn. Small metal points bearing death were raining on them from all angles, and their own archers were struggling to return fire. Rorin was proud of his men. They were quick to shoot, and smart with their targets; almost all of the horsemen quickly found themselves with several extra holes to breath from.

With the mightiest battle cry the captain could muster, Rorin drew a pair of hatchets and charged out of the woods, his men all across the line following suit. A crossbowman, frightened nearly out of his wits, was struggling to wind his weapon, his eyes going from the mechanical bow to Rorin then back down again in haste. He looked up one more time just to see the hatchet fly between his eyes, splitting his skull open. He'd given the lad a quick death, at the very least.

Rorin looked up to take a quick view of the ambush. His bushwhackers were pouring from the woods and the Warwell men were utterly ambushed. They spun in every direction, complete confusion amongst their ranks as vicious battle cries began to mix with the horrible screams of the wounded and dying. In the half of one second he peered down the road, Rorin saw Torris Fairchilde cut a man nearly in two from shoulder to groin with his great axe, Lomm the Sleeper leap from a branch and tackle a knight off of his horse, and Black Jon put his spear through a soldier's chest. Rorin's wolves had descended upon the Warwells' sheep.

The captain wasted no time in getting back to his own fight. A swordsman swung at him from a high stance, Rorin's left-hand hatchet catching the blade in its curve. The ranger's dirk flashed in the air and was followed by a spray of blood from what had been the swordsman's neck. He moved on to the next target as the last was beginning to fall. The sharp steel of Rorin's dirk slashed down on the boy's spear hand, causing him to howl in pain and drop his weapon. The hatchet went around his shield, which had moved to protect his injured arm, and dug in between to ribs. Rorin felt one crack beneath the weight of his swing. The captain's blade fell upon this boy's neck as well, further covering Rorin in a quick stream of blood.

A spearman who had been knocked to the ground by a fleeing horse was on his hands and knees attempting to regain his feet. Rorin's hatchet found itself buried into the foot soldier's spine, just between the shoulders, and his short blade once again drew across an enemy's neck, spilling the man's life onto the ground beneath him. Rorin had noticed, and had been told, that he had a taste for throats in combat. It was not meant as an act of mercy, as it was a fast death, nor as a quick means of disposing on his foes. It just seemed the natural place for his steel to end up. There was nary a battle where Rorin's face did not become covered in the crimson of his enemies, and he had grown quite accustomed to the taste, smell, and feel of hot blood. To his face, his rangers called him Rorin the Red. When they thought he was not listening, he was known as Rorin the Vampire, for they believed their captain cut throats in order to drink the blood of those he slew. A good story for them to spread, as far as the rangers was concerned.

This moment of thought nearly found Rorin on the receiving end of death, as a dismounted knight came upon him from behind as he let the dying spearman fall to the dirt. Rorin wheeled around just in time to see the armored man charge, sword raised, only to stop suddenly and drop the weapon before his arms fell. Torris Fairchilde's great axe was the only reason the knight remained off of the ground, and it took several shakes pf the shaft before his armor clattered on the road. The enemy was crushed, and those alive were attempting a desperate escape. None made it far before they were shot down or felled by the bloody rangers.

"E's gettin' 'way!" one of those rangers yelled, and Rorin and Torris were nearly run down by a rider attempting to flee the slaughter. In diving out of the way of the galloping horse, Rorin did not even notice Black Jon as he rushed forward, only just seeing him after casting his spear towards the knight in flight. The road had become quiet enough to hear the sound of the weighted spearhead ripping through metal armor and the knight's cry of anguish before he slumped from the saddle. Once he hit the ground, a great cheer rang up from the rangers, directed at Black Jon who raised his fists and joined in the celebration. It had certainly been a marvelous throw.

Looking around, Rorin took in the sight before him. Nearly three hundred and fifty armed soldiers had been caught off guard and cut down by his fifty rangers. Judging from those still standing, Rorin had barely lost a man in the process. His men were descending on the Warwell men once again, this time for the spoils of their victory. Several offered up a recovered coin or two to Black Jon for his miraculous kill with the thrown spear, which one man recovered and returned to him. Rorin's rangers squabbled over who had killed which man and who had claim to what prize, though none could contest Torris, who's massive axe left a most distinct mark upon his slain. Rangers were rounding up the horses and wagons, tossing in armor, boots, weapons, food, gold, and everything else the land pirates could not carry on their own backs. Yes, Rorin's men were like wolves. They had slaughtered the sheep, and now they feasted on them. A wry smile came to Rorin the Red. His men were vicious, evil wolves, and their captain could not have been more proud to lead them.