By ThunderAxe
Dalin shifted his grip on the ragged haft of his worn out axe, desperately searching for an opening in the defenses of the angry troll. Unconsciously, he twisted his fists around the pitted haft, his grip alternating between the grooves of the handle, squeezing out stray droplets of sweat and blood that had accumulated between his thick, gnarled fingers. Though he had been fighting the Troll for a brief span of minutes, it felt like the two had been engaged for hours, as was evident by the volume of sweat pouring off Dalin’s short beard and his ragged breathing.
For some reason, his Da’s training would not come to mind. Was he to wait for the Troll to drop a shoulder, in order to complete “Moon rises in Stormy Weather”? Or should he bend a knee and complete “Wind in the Thistle”? His indecision resulted in a faltering attack that missed the Troll by inches and opened his right flank to a sweep from the Troll’s spike-encrusted club.
Belatedly, Dalin remembered the completion maneuver to his attack and spun out of the Troll’s reach before further damage could be realized. His reward was to feel hot blood course down his side and the accompanied grating pain associated with jagged ringmail dragging across damaged flesh.
“Well” he thought, “at least it’s my side and not my chest”. Shifting the axe once again, Dalin side-stepped the Troll’s next swing and head-rolled away to come up out of harm’s reach.
As the two warily circled each other, Dalin’s blood loss and fatigue caused his thoughts to wander….
Why oh why did he have to be choose this Blooding Quest? His best friend Gerrick Shatter Pike was able to complete his Blooding Quest in hours, happening upon a group of young Gnolls out for a hunt. He returned with a bundle of shattered spears that went into the Shatter Pike Clan’s Honor Vault and was properly vested with Pike and Shield, all without really breaking a sweat. Or maybe he could have been an Earth Warden. His other friend, Shale Earth Warden had delved a hidden shaft of Mithril Ore high up in the Veil. The honor of delving Mithril on a Blooding Quest was uncommon to say the least and the result was Shale being apprenticed to the renowned weapons artisan Keegan Axe Grind. He would become a crafter of endowed weaponry and would be rich beyond his Clans’ wildest dreams. They had already picked out a new Earth Warden Clan dwelling that would require years of stonework and mining to carve out from Bordinar’s Cleft, but in the end, it would be magnificent.
No, he had chosen the route of the Warrior and Axe Wielder and had been searching for a Troll to fight for 6 long, cold days.
Oh no…he had to be a….
Dalin’s helm was the only thing that saved his eyes. The spikes on the Troll’s club grazed the bearded dwarf’s steel cap and continued down across his face. He felt the tip of one spike caress his cheek like the departing caress of a morning lover, separating the skin as if it were light silk. Instinctively, he pulled back, dropped down and rolled between the Troll’s legs, coming up behind it, his axe cleaving a chunk out of the Troll’s inner thigh on the passing swing.
Roaring in anger, the Troll spun into the air and came crashing down, its leg muscles quivering in protest at the agony caused by the hairy thing’s hated weapon. It had not expected the little thing to be so agile in all that metal.
Dalin leaped to his feet and spun around to face the Troll. Now accompanying the pain in his side was the agony of the gash on his face, open and spilling blood into his beard. His patrician nose, once a source of scorn among his brethren, was saved by the virtue of not being the typical bulbous snout of most dwarves. Had his nose been of the large, rounded affair, it would surely have been pierced and rent in two by the spikes now dripping with his lifeblood. Another thought flashed through his mind, the wound on his cheek would be permanent. Though a healer would undoubtedly mend the gash, if he survived the Blooding Quest, the bite of a Troll’s club usually resulted in a festering wound, due to all the other unspeakable nastiness that was left over from the Troll’s last few encounters. If healing was not administered forthwith, the scar was always permanent. This was his first Blooding Quest, to ensure his named birthright and place of honor among his clanmates and immediate healing was a luxury he had not yet earned.
Breathing hard, Dalin sprayed a great gout of blood and mucus at the Troll. His eyebrows were dropped low across his eyes and he knew he would have been censored for such behavior in front of an enemy.
Woolgathering in the midst of battle, what in the Hells was wrong with him? Many a dwarf had come to a messy end on the battlefield, even when they were paying attention to those around them. The Fog of War was legend but it always applied to the battlefield proper and battlefield intelligence, not the brainless bonehead of an unblooded dwarf…
As if in response, his father’s words came unbidden to his mind…
“Dalin lad, (slap) listen to me. Trolls are a stringy lot. They have a great store of energy, so ye must hew away at them like you would a slab of heavy stone. Let up on the stone, and it will find ways to reinforce the cracks ye’ve beat into it, pound at it relentlessly and it will eventually shatter under the constant pressure. Let a Troll control the fight, and it’ll bleed ye slow, all the while awaitin fer the lifesblood leavin yer body to make ye weak and killable. Combined attacks will destroy their defenses. Remember (slap) combined attacks will….”
As the Troll reared back for another swing with its great club, Dalin planted his feet and dropped his axe into a one-handed stance. Screaming in bestial fury, the Troll closed the distance between the two with incredible swiftness. Dalin waited for the club to begin its descent. When he saw the commitment behind the monster’s eyes, he knew it was time to attack.
Swinging his arm wide, the axe held out as if looking to throw, Dalin stutter-stepped toward the Troll, beginning the attack chain called “Will of the Rockslide”. As the spiked club began its descent, Dalin stepped inside the swing and brought the axe around for a satisfying crunch against the Troll’s knee. Bone gave way to the fury behind the axe, for though the weapon was old, it was well-maintained and sharpened to razor-edged keenness. The Troll faltered in its attack, as pain exploded up its leg.
Not waiting to admire the hit though, Dalin continued to move and spun on one foot, the axe coming around to be gripped by both hands. Blood flew from his face wound in a crimson arc of heat and pain. He allowed for the momentum of the axe to change his direction after the initial hit and, bunching his shoulders, delivered a blow to the other knee.
At this point, the Troll was in agony. The short, hairy thing had seemed to be on the verge of death, what had changed? Confusion crossed its eyes as the hairy thing’s axe bit into its other knee. Now the Troll was scared. The club dropped from its hands as it struggled to balance itself. All thought of the kill went away as the hairy thing launched itself into the air, its helmet butting the Troll in its chin. Stars exploded and the Troll knew it was about to die. Such a hairy thing…it would have tasted good…
Dalin saw spots as he slammed his helmet into the chin of the Troll. Was it supposed to hurt like that? He did not waste time to ponder as he completed the attack chain with “Stalking the Tree” and “Reaver Sows the Wheat”. He would have to come up with a name for the chin butt, for it was not a normal bridge for this type of attack.
“Stalking the Tree” planted his feet firmly on the ground after the chin slam, allowing him to pivot on the balls of his feet and utilize his great shoulder strength for the closing move. “Reaver Sows the Wheat” brought the axe across in a horizontal swing, cleaving into the side of the Troll and through to the middle.
As the Troll’s ribs burst asunder and hot blood showered him in a stinking gore Dalin had one quick thought before inky blackness took him....”Da woulda cleaved it through and through…”
Darkness…and as an after thought…pain…
The veil of unconsciousness parted slightly, allowing a bright dagger of sunlight to pierce through the blood-encrusted eyelids of the bloodied dwarf…”Dalin, that’s my name….right?...Dalin….yes….”
“Dalin ThunderAxe, now” he thought, as a wave of nauseating pain lanced through his aching side and face, forcing him fully awake. Fearful of shaking his head to clear the cobwebs, Dalin slowly sat up, blearily looking around the clearing. The late afternoon sun bathed the forested clearing in liquid reds and yellows. The seasonal turning high up in the Widow’s Veil had resulted in a riotous coloring of yellows, reds and greens, all competing with the blustery ground cover of snow and winter grasses to form a color palette that would, under normal circumstances, be a sight to behold. For Dalin, however, all it did was remind him that being caught in the open highlands at night, covered in blood, would attract every major predator in the area. Normally this would not be an issue, as he and his Dwarven brethren had hunted these hills and mountains for untold generations. In his current predicament, though, he was woefully unprepared to take on anything short of a newly seasoned Gnoll and even that would be in doubt.
The odor that assaulted his senses and added to the nausea caused by his many wounds, reminded him of how he ended up on the ground and galvanized him into action. Standing on shaky legs, weak with fatigue and blood loss, Dalin worked as quickly as possible, securing the necessary accoutrements his clan would require for the Blooding Ceremony. The spiked club and harness that were characteristic of nearly every Troll went into the Questing Backpack, harness deep inside the tough leather, while the club was strapped to the outside with heavy iron buckles. Dalin searched the Troll for any other trinkets it might have picked up from its many victims, jewelry, coins, anything of note that could be added to the Thunder Axe Clan’s Honor Vault. He found a curious piece of leather embroidered with small gems and markings and thrust that into the backpack along with a crude copper earring, a gore-encrusted black dagger and a torn piece of fabric from some long lost shirt worn by an unfortunate traveler.
Sighing, he finally turned to the most unsavory task of the whole venture. It took some effort to roll the dead weight of the Troll into the proper position and more than once he gagged on the incredibly vile stench that arose from the burst innards of the monster. Drawing his axe from its belted harness, he planted himself firmly and drew back, with an eye on the Trolls exposed neck. Swiftly he brought the axe down and separated the Troll’s head from its body, thanking the All Father for the small trickle of blackened blood that leaked from the open wound. He grasped the head by what passed for tufts of hair and fur and quickly thrust the gory trophy into the specially lined pocket of the pack. Countless Troll heads had been sent to the same resting place and Dalin’s stomach rebelled again at the thought of all the gore and blood that had gone into this one piece of leather and iron.
Chuckling to himself, he wondered what his brethren would think if they knew he had, for a brief moment, mourned the death of the Troll. “Gods, I would be shaved, stripped of axe and tossed down the first flow valve” he surmised, shaking his head.
Once the Troll was secured, Dalin saw to his wounds the best he could. He tenderly probed the face wound while peering into the half-moon blade of his axe. Wincing, he realized the jaggedness of the cut would make for a wide, thick scar. He had always scarred deeply and this one would be a constant reminder of the price of mooning in the midst of battle. His face felt pulled into a curious position as the blood had congealed while he was passed out and he did not relish the pain that would come from reopening the wound before the healers could administer him. He took his waterskin from his other pack and lightly irrigated the wound, breaking apart the crust that had formed. The wound began to seep again as he applied a small poultice with a bandage. Once he finished, he inspected his handiwork reflected back at him from the bright blade. He suspected his ma would be pleased with the results…
Wincing in pain, Dalin twisted sideways to probe the gash on his side. The wound appeared more problematic than he first realized. Not only did he have a large cut across his ribs, but the integrity of the ring mail vest he wore had been weakened due to the strength of the attack. His leather jerkin was split down the side and the wound had already swollen an angry red, forcing him to relieve himself of the ring mail and loosen the jerkin in order to feel some degree of comfort. His ribs did not feel broken, but very possibly cracked and at the least, severely bruised. Once again, he irrigated the wound with water and broke apart the scabs that had formed. Grimacing in pain, he applied a larger poultice and bandage to his side and wrapped it as tightly as he could. After insuring his wounds were taken care of, Dalin pulled his leather jerkin over his head and wriggled into the ringmail vest once again. At least the links weren’t dragging across the wound anymore…
Knowing the path he planned to take, Dalin briefly thought of the heavy plate awaiting him back at Bordinar’s Cleft. Well maybe not the whole set, but his Clan breastplate, greaves, tasset and surcoat had already been fitted and ordered through the Clan blacksmith, Maris Thunder Axe. With pride in his heart, Dalin Thunder Axe of Clan Thunder Axe thought of his other path…the beginnings of the life of a warrior, in service to protect those unfortunate enough to not be able to wield an axe.
Casting a wary eye at the sun and sighing once more, he headed up the trail that emptied onto the High Road. He needed a better helm, the chin bash was an inspirational idea, but in retrospect, would have been more effective with a short tipped spike on the top and more padding on the inside. He would ask Maris if the spike would survive multiple blows and if so, would commission that as well. Whistling a drinking song, Dalin pulled his packs over his shoulder and started up the trail. Now all he had to do was keep from tripping and killing himself on the way back to the Cleft….