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DiabloII.Net Member
Join Date: Jun 2004
Posts: 415
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“C’mon ye little fekker, ge-e-et up!”
As if on command, several pieces of a Fallen One reassembled themselves, climbed to their feet and raised their spiked club.
(Left! Right!)
“H’graaaa!” they tried to say, but only got to about “H’gra…” by the time they were lying once again in a heap at the feet of the insane woman.
“Ge-e-et up! On yer feet ye nasty little man-thing.”
Like a marionette, the severed torso and limbs jerked upward into a fighting stance.
“H’g…”
(Low! High!)
“Again!”
Again the bloody stumps and broken bones became whole, and again they attacked.
(Groin! Neck!)
The huge, sweating, panting warrior dropped her two-handed great sword and bent over, hands to knees, catching her breath. While she rested so did the severed remains of the much smaller demon. After about a minute she picked up her sword, looked toward the Fallen Shaman standing several yards away and shouted, “Again!”
The Fallen Shaman nodded and waved his staff. Instantly a faint and strangely glowing mist began to rise from the corpse, and then the dead Fallen One at the woman’s feet arose once again. The shaman watched as the woman swung her great sword first through its groin and then, on the back swing, through the neck; both swings decapitating a portion of her target’s anatomy. And, by her will, and the shaman’s necromantic magic, the scene repeated again and again.
Even the demon witch doctor was shocked.
This woman had attacked without warning and in a just few minutes succeeded in slaughtering his whole tribe. And the way she did it: mutilating and cursing each one as they fell. When he was the only one left standing and fearing that his turn would be next, she hesitated. Then she stepped up to a nearby corpse and looked at him, like she was waiting for him to bring it back from the dead, which he did, which he was glad to do, at first. But that had been just the start of the series of brutal slayings that he was now witnessing.
Again and again she struck down the same undying Fallen One, with the same mechanical strokes, first from right-to-left, low and through the groin, then back left-to-right, high and through the neck. Each time the same perfect, powerful, cruel, killing strokes; each time the crazed look in her eyes as she commanded him to raise up the victim again; each time the shaman obeying with trembling hands and weakening knees in spite of his great and ever-growing feeling of nausea.
Except for this woman the shaman had never seen a human act this way, and few demons either. If it can be said of demons that they have even the tiniest shred of decency, even the faintest notion of a code of honor, then he found this human woman’s behavior starkly appalling. To the Fallen Shaman, she was, plainly and simply, a monster.
He had no idea of what a truly exceptional woman this was, or of her fame and reputation among humans. If he had, he would have known that it was a reputation not normally associated with madness and slaughter.
She was very nearly a giant of a woman, taller by a full head than any man in her village. Strength and quickness she had in equal parts, both matching her formidable size, and her fighting skills were matchless. She was, single-handedly, the warrior elite of her village and surrounding lands.
She was honored and known by all. She was welcome in any home for any meal. Parents encouraged their children, though mostly the boys, to be just like her. Men respected her and vied for the honor of fighting at her side in battle, although once the fighting was over, they were not so eager for her company.
To the people in her village she was a superstar, a living legend. But like all truly exceptional individuals, she was also viewed as a bit of a freak. Some of the women called her an Amazon behind her back, and others even less flattering things. But what she hated the most was when the men called her ‘sir.’
She knew it was not to ridicule her. For most it was simply a title of honor and respect which she had richly earned. But to her the word made a sound like a door closing, closing on a dark and lonely room containing her womanhood.
In her own way she felt like a normal woman. Yes she was an unusually large and powerful woman, but she felt that that was only on the outside. She could remember being a young girl bouncing on her father’s knee. She could remember having crushes on her drill instructors. And she could remember liking the men in the village and wanting to get to know some of them better. But she never did.
Sir.
What man wants to marry a Sir? Or hold hands? None of the bastards had ever even asked her to dance.
Like a normal woman, she had her girlish dreams of epic romance and passionate nights, knights in shining armor, but she also knew sensibly what was really important to her. What she really wanted was a partner, a mate, someone with whom to spend tender mornings and intimate walks, a friend who was more than friend. She wanted a man who would to talk lovingly to her, to coo over her, to call her, and only her, his “Dumpling.”
“Dumpling.” That had been her parent’s pet name for each other. She wanted what she had witnessed pass between her parents. Love, respect, affection, and a physical closeness that was at once both gentle and firm, like a bond between them, like they were two people with a single, shared heart.
Sometimes she felt she was still the small, supple girl that once bounced on her father’s knee, who could be carried sleepily up to bed, or tossed easily in the air, who had somehow become trapped in the tall, strapping body of a champion warrior.
Yet these were private thoughts that she did not share with others. And she was not completely unhappy. For most of her life she had been honored and praised. She was the girl who had graduated from the Rogue Academy at 13, five years ahead of most girls. At 17 she had beaten the best warriors in the village, and soon after, those in all the surrounding villages. She’d been a champion ever since.
Now, in her late twenties, she was a respected leader and warrior, and had many friends, if not one special friend. She lived with her mother, now widowed, and was fairly content with her life. But she felt her life was incomplete. She had been raised to be a good girl, a proud warrior, and a wise leader, and most of the time that’s just what she was. But there were other times that showed the deep cracks in her happiness, times when she became a maniacal killing machine.
What led to this most recent bout of madness was her recent trip to the barbarian city of the North.. After years of training and questing she had finally reached the level of accomplishment that granted access to the waypoints of the northern highlands, an honor attained by very few.
Having given up on the local men, she had turned to dreaming of the men of the great barbarian hordes, legendary for their size and strength as well as their courage and valor. She had imaged herself in the city: among crowds in the thronging markets, in the cheering arenas, the rowdy public rooms. She knew she would feel at home there. And among the many skilled and handsome warriors there would be one, her one, her one and only, the man of her dreams.
He would be beautiful. He would stand at least a half-head taller than her, though probably more. She would know him long before he ever noticed her. She would see him about the city and in all his deeds he would be perfect: friendly in his manner, honest in his dealings, a ready wit and joke always at hand, kind and gentle with women, the elderly and especially with children.
And he would have large hands, hands that could hold hers, firmly, gently and safely. And he would have large knees that she could sit on, and broad shoulders to lean against, while draping her arms around his massive neck, against which they would look long, slender and feminine.
On the day when he finally noticed her, the sun would be shining bright and the air crisp and sweet. He would drop whatever he was doing and come straight toward her. And smile. And she would nearly faint at that smile. And they would talk easily and long, and laugh often, and the day always ended the same way, her in his arms, being carried into a glorious sunset.
Such things are daydreams made of. She was not a silly girl to completely believe in her dream, but like a warm fur it was a comfortable blanket to curl up within, which she did quite regularly. And in earnest she waited for the day when the waypoints would open to her and she could make the voyage for real.
She had taken that voyage just one week ago today.
At first it was just as she had imagined. The new town and its new places were exciting. Among he men were many fine specimens. She entered some of the warrior contests and was already becoming well-known about town. But for several days she had not found him, and was feeling a little discouraged. She felt that these men of the north were her last hope. What if he wasn’t here?
And then one day there he was.
She had stopped by the stable of the local guard. She was fond of horses and there were some fine ones here. Rows of low tents served as the barracks. She saw him emerge from the flap of the nearest tent and walk over to his horse. He was magnificent: taller than her and much broader with a face to be carved in stone. He had dark chestnut hair like his stallion’s mane. Beautiful. But what was he like?
She hid herself behind a fencepost and watched him. For a few minutes he busied himself tending to his horse and arranging some items in a pack slung over its back. He treated his animal gently but firmly, and went about his work with clam confidence. Good, very good.
Then another man emerged from the tent and called out. He too was large man, strongly built with shining blonde hair. Her man turned his head back and smiled. The blonde man walked up to him and took him by the shoulder. Then he whispered something into the other man’s ear and they both laughed. Her knees went weak at the sight of his beaming smile. He had a good sense of humor and he was a good friend. She knew it! She smiled broadly believing that he must be the one.
She was till smiling when the blonde man leaned in and kissed her man full on the lips. Still grinning as he dropped his hand to her man’s buttocks and gave them a squeeze. By the time she had watched the blonde man take her man by the hand, lead him back into the tent, and tie the flap closed there was no hint of any expression on her face whatsoever.
But slowly that changed.
She began to feel like she had been kicked in the stomach by a horse. She looked around at the other men in the camp. Suddenly they all seemed different, strange, not for her at all but beyond her reach, beyond her wildest dream. She felt ridiculous for being here, ridiculous for setting her hopes on unknown men in a foreign land. And it burned.
And it still burned.
It burned as she stood panting on this field, on this day, among the torn and twisted remains of a small tribe of Fallen Ones. And at this very moment she was trying to remember where she was and what she doing.
Then she realized that something had interrupted her. It was the Fallen Shaman, the witch-doctor of the decimated tribe, who had stopped the endless parade of victims, who was standing there, watching her.
And still it burned.
“Again,” she called, but the shaman just stood there trembling.
“Again,” she screamed, desperate for another object for her fury, but the shaman just slowly shook his head.
“I’m warning ye. Raise-up this little shyte again or I’ll have ye’re hide,” she bellowed, changing her grip on her sword and holding it over her head in one hand like a javelin.
“Now!” she cried. But the shaman did nothing more than bow his head and wait for the inevitable.
The inevitable came as the point of the woman’s sword entering his body at a vital spot. The shaman fell in pain, praying for death.
Death came at the heel of the woman’s boot, planted firmly atop the demon’s windpipe, and then driven downward with brutal finality.
She then moved her foot from the dead shaman’s throat to the stomach, just above the point at which her sword had struck. Thus she pinned down the demon’s body while pulling out her sword, sunk to its hilt in the gaping wound. With a yank, she pulled it free, and, bending over the demised demon, wiped it clean of the demon’s blood on its own clothes.
As she stood back up and straightened her back she felt her fatigue for the first time. How long had she been engaged in that mad rant? She had no idea. But she felt a little better, less burning anger, more human. Surveying the carnage surrounding her she noticed that the sun was starting to set. The silent calm of the countryside and the soft twilight of the fading day seemed peaceful. She could feel herself start to rest.
She stood gazing toward the sunset for a good while; until she felt that it was time go. She was just about to start back when she saw it.
A small figure moved in the distance. It was far away and, under the large orange disc in the sky, difficult to see clearly. But there was something intriguing about it. At first it seemed to be barely moving but after a few minutes she could see that it was actually coming toward her. The figure grew as it approached and before long she could see it clearly enough to realize what had drawn her interest.
It appeared to have the general shape of a man, although not quite of the right proportions. Too broad at the shoulders and not nearly enough head. It was covered in hair and its long arms, ending in huge hands, seemed to hang down well past its wide, knobby knees. It was unlike any creature she had ever seen. It was clearly a monster of some sort, but also man-like: a kind of half-man, half-monster.
As it came closer it saw the woman and changed its course to head directly for her. It moved quickly, covering the ground with long loping steps, its arms swaying slightly from side to side. As it closed on her, the woman crouched and gripped her sword firmly.
“D’guhp,” it seemed to say is it approached. Its voice was deep and breathy; loud, but what could have been a whisper for such a great beast
When it came within arm’s length of her, its arms length, which was roughly twice that of hers, it reached out with one arm and, almost casually, clubbed her with the back of his arm and hand, swatting her with a motion that seemed effortless.
But despite appearances the force of the blow lifted the woman bodily off the ground and sent her and her sword airborne for a good ten feet. With practiced reflex she managed to land safely, but the impact of the creature’s blow stunned her, and although she regained her feet quickly, it was upon her again before she could pick up her sword.
The creature swung its arm easily across its body in an outward motion the same as before. She felt almost insulted. Did it think it could catch her with the same move twice? Easily ducking the easy swing, and noticing that the creature was male, she decided on a hard kick to its softest spot, which the monster did not even try to avoid.
“D’glup!” it bellowed and quickly clutched its privates. She was still quite close to the creature and saw clearly the change in the expression on its face. It seemed somehow less a monster as it, as he, winced in pain. She had hurt him badly, she could see that, and more, she could see something in the eyes that seemed almost human.
But she had no time for sympathy at that moment. Despite its ridiculously out-of-proportion, man-sized head, the creature was easily twice her size, and quite angry after her last attack. She gathered her sword and took her fighting stance, waiting for the monster to recover and charge.
It came at her much faster than before, with both of its huge hands outstretched. She side-stepped it and swung her sword over her head and downward towards the creature’s neck. This time it reacted to her attack and fended off the blade with its forearm. Its thick fur was able to stop the sword’s cutting edge, but the force of the blow still hurt and it retreated, cradling the one arm in the other.
“D’plplgh,” it mumbled as it circled the woman.
“What’s he doing,” she thought. Every demon or monster she had ever fought had had but one single tactic: charge. No matter their numbers, their size, or how close to death they seemed, none of them had ever had more sense than to come at her head-on. This fellow was obviously different.
“Yer a smart fella, aintcha,” she called.
At the sound of her voice it stopped and looked at her. Again she thought she saw something human in the face. Like it was surprised to hear her speak.
“D’fllh.” It said. It sounded almost like ‘da-fella’ to her.
“I wonder…” she started to think, but in the same instant the creature charged again, catching her off-guard. All she could manage was an awkward back-step and a weak defensive swing. The creature caught the blade in its hands and grabbed hold.
She tugged on the blade, twisting it slightly, and she felt it move an inch. The creature screamed in pain as the sharp edges of the blade sliced both its hands, but it did not release the blade. Again she saw the pain on its face, and something more.
She had expected it pull its hands away the instant it felt the cut of the blade, but it did not. Instead it held-on in spite of the pain, as if it understood that the sword was her one advantage over him, that his survival might depend on getting it away from her. She watched n fascination as she began to see something else it its eyes.
Intelligence.
That was the look in the creatures face then, and as they strove over the blade, she at the hilt, he at the point, gripping the blade ever tighter as it cut ever deeper into his hands, his face changed again.
Determination.
She couldn’t take her eyes off the face, the now so-human face, which showed pain and intelligence and even courage. Their eyes locked while the struggle continued. But it was clear now who would win this contest. The creature’s massive strength was just too much for the human woman. With one last heave he tore the weapon from her hands, and in one continuous motion cast it over his head, sending it high in the air far from the scene of the battle.
The woman was thrown forward to the ground as she lost her grip, and before she could fully regain her feet, she was swept in the air by another of the creature’s back-hand blows. She fell hard this time, twisting her ankle, and, weaponless, began to feel a certain desperation in her circumstances.
The creature, meanwhile, was tending to his wounded hands. He had found a certain weed and was rubbing it roughly between his palms. When he approached the woman again he recognized that she could barely stand on her injured leg. He pulled back one arm as if to strike her again but then dropped it after seeing her reaction to it. She had flinched. Then he did it again, and again she flinched.
“D’pfpft,” he said, and it sounded to the woman like chuckling.
The woman could scarcely believe her ears. Did that thing just mock her? Did he think she was defeated? Did it have mistaken impression it could tease her? She? Her people’s champion? The woman warrior that all human men feared and respected?
“If ye think I’m done ye’ve got another thing coming ya big oaf!” she yelled. She could feel the burning begin anew. And then it did something that sent her blood back to a boil. It turned its back on her.
“D’pfpft’pfpft. D’ppffft!”
“I’ll show ya to point yer arse at me,” she said. Ignoring the pain in her ankle she ran toward the creature and jumped on its back, throwing her arms around its neck and grappling with all her might to pull that tiny laughing head right off the huge shoulders.
“D’gluug,” the creature bellowed, in a tone that was definitely not laughter in any language.
The woman had him good. He flailed his long arms over his shoulders and around his back, but he could not get a hold of her. He tried grabbing one of her legs but she wrapped them around his waist and held fast. Choking and gasping for breathe he stumbled around, desperate to get the crazed woman off his back.
In his panic he did not notice how near he was to the embankment of a somewhat steep hill. Not until he fell down it, that is. And the woman went with him. Over and over they tumbled. At first the woman held firm to the creature’s neck, but as they were bounced and buffeted by the hillside her grip slipped and she found herself just grabbing any convenient fur and hanging-on for dear life.
About midway down the hill her grip slipped again and just when she thought she would be crushed under the weight of the creature on the next bounce, she found herself in the grip of both its arms. For the rest of the fall it held her close to its chest, curving his body around her to keep his weight off her and protected from the impact.
At the bottom they came to rest flat on their backs, each lying upon one of the other’s outstretched arms. Stunned and weak from the fall all they could do at first was tug feebly on their respective arms, each not realizing that they were pinned by the weight of the other. Simultaneously they looked toward their unresponsive arms, saw each other, and caught one another’s gaze.
“D’ppft, d’ppft” the creature chuckled.
All she could think to do was to use her free arm to slap him across the face as hard as she could. Which she did.
“D’mplg!” he cried and instinctively raised his free arm to strike her back. But when he brought it down toward her face, he paused, and held it there as if unsure what to do with it.
“What?” she said. “What did ye say, ye great beast?”
“D’mplg.” he said.
It sounded remotely like ‘dumpling’ and even though she knew it was just an odd coincidence of the creature’s guttural language she couldn’t help grinning.
“Did ye just say dumpling?” she said, and then she repeated the word slowly, “du-um-pling.”
“D’mplng,” he said trying to mimic the woman’s strange words.
“Well ain’t ye the charmer. I suppose a wee thing like me would be no more’n a dumpling to a great brute like ye’re.”
And she looked at the mannish eyes of the hairy beast and found them even more human than before. Then she looked at the giant hand above her face and saw the cruel gash that ran across the full width of it. She reached up and touched it softly with her fingertips. The creature flinched at her touch and gently pulled back, but she held his hand firmly.
“There, there dumpling,” she cooed, and gently pulled the huge hand down to her lips and kissed it.
The creature was puzzled by this gesture. At first he thought she might bite him, but something deep within told him it was different. It reminded him of something he had felt long ago, something that his tiny mind had forgotten completely, except for the feeling.
He had forgotten a mother who kept him fed and warm and safe for the first years of his life. Forgotten brothers and sisters with whom he had nestled for warmth on cold nights. The memories were gone completely, but not the feelings, which he felt again now.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“D’ssrgr,” he said.
A minute later they had managed to disentangle themselves and get to their feet. Apparently the fight was over and now both of them had a long climb ahead of them. The woman found that she could walk in spite of her injury and with determination began limping slowly toward the hillside. But before she could reach it, the creature stepped into her path.
He turned towards her and extended one of his long arms. When she did nothing he nodded toward his arm and then knelt down on one knee to bring his arm down closer to her level.
“What’s this,” she asked.
Then it dawned on her. He was offering to help her up the hill. This big, hairy, stinking, pea-brained, wild half-man was showing her more gallantry than any human man she had ever known in her life. And she liked it.
And she saw him then in a different way. She saw the small man-sized head on the shoulders of an enormous beast and imagined that the head belonged to the body of a normal-sized man that had somehow become trapped in the body of a monster.
“Well, ye’re certainly hairier and smellier and dirtier than any man I ever met, and I dare say a dern site uglier than any man I ever meant to take home to meet mama, but maybe you’ll do brute. Yes. Somehow, I think you’ll do.”
And with that she stepped forward and leaned on his arm for support, but before she knew it she was swept up into both his arms and being carried gently up the hill. She rested her arms on its furry shoulders and arms, and found the ride warm and comfortable.
He carried her up and over the top of the hill, but didn’t stop there. He carried her over to the spot where her sword had landed and collected it. And still he walked on with her in his arms.
And their path just happened to be in the direction of the sunset.
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RevenantsKnight
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