The Epitome of Fantasy

January 23, 2014
By Anonymous

Walking amongst crumbling ruins, teetering pillars, and ancient debris, was the last Green-skin on earth. A grass colored, muscular figure. He stood seven feet, his jaw hanging low, two jagged canine teeth crooking upwards out of the maw that was his mouth. His eyes, blood red, seething with anger as he stumbled across the dead land. Clutched tightly in his right hand, was a large axe, the length of his arm. In the other, was mirrored. The Green-skin continued his deranged trek for several meters, breathing deeply with every step, as if it could be his last. Suddenly, he stopped. In the distance was another figure, not quite as large as our Green-skinned protagonist. From a distance, however, his skin appeared metallic and shone brightly with the light of the moon. As the figure approached, armor began to distinguish itself from the rest of the image. It was a man, clad in knight-armor, a battle-tunic draped over his head and striped down his breast plate. The helmed stranger continued to steadily approach until he stood five meters from the Green-skin, his posture never waning in the presence of the latter. They stared at one another for some time, as if visually debating as to whether or not the other should leave.

The Green-skin raised his weapons slowly, in an attempt to get some sort of response from the armored man. No such response came, and the man continued to stare through the slits in his visor. This deadlock continued for what seemed like eternity, threatening to last longer. Until, a cloud passed over the moon, blotting out the last light of the dark night. As quick as lightning, the man unsheathed a stygian blade, and removing a hidden shield from the buckles on his back. Jumping quickly to close the gap between him and the Green-skin, he brought down the long sword in one cutting motion, barely giving the grassy figure enough time to react. The Green-skin crossed his axes, blocking the strike almost as quickly as it had come. Sparks flew from the two blades as Folded Steel met Stygian Iron. The knight retreated a few steps, before returning to the attack. Each time he brought down his blade, the Green-skin evaded, successfully avoiding the killing blows coming to him. As the last strike soared through the air, sound cutting at the wind, the grass colored figure assumed control of the fight, and began his turn of attack. As the armored man recovered from his previous strike, the Green-skin swiftly kneed him where his helmet met his neck line and proceeded to melee him with the *ss-end of his battle axe. Now wary from the blows received, the knight retreated yet again. He had obviously underestimated the power of this Green-skin, and feared that he had perhaps made a mistake in attacking first. The former scolded himself for taking an Ork lightly, promising to be more careful from now and onward. The Green-skin, with renewed vigor, struck the armor-clad with his axes. The Knight blocked each attack with his crested shield, however losing ground with every strike. He could not find an opening between any of the Green-skin’s attacks, being forced to bash the Ork with his shield. The slab of iron shot upwards and pushed the green figure backwards causing him to stumble over the rock and debris. The latter fell onto his back, before briefly rising up to his knees, attempting to regain control of himself as his anger slowly began to broil. The knight, seeing an opening, threw himself towards the Green-skin, only to be met with a swift underhanded attack with the flat side of the Ork’s axe. The Ork had recovered quickly, far too quickly than any normal Green-skin could have done.
That’s When the armor-clad realized that this was no ordinary Green-skin. He had the rage of a beast, the eyes of a demon. The man retreated for the third time, stepping away from the Green menace. The Ork, now grimacing sadly, as if it pained him to slaughter the poor, weak creature that stood before him, began to blink away tears of blood streaming down the side of his hardened face, a common side-effect of what Green-skin kind once called “Forced Anger”. The Ork entered this state of thought in order to hone his skills for the fight when he had been knocked down, channeling his rage as if it were part of his animalistic instinct. The grass colored figure, now ready for the coming conflict, threw back his head and screamed the most incoherent Ork battle-chant of all: “WAAAAAAAAAGGHHHH!!!!”

The Ork closed his gaping maw, and lunged at the now startled Knight. The armor-clad, slowly returning to his senses, barely managed to parry the axes coming at him from two directions. He gave riposte which was met with a similar blocking motion, and attempted to take the initiative before the Green-skin could raise his weapons for another attack…
The Skirmish continued for an hour, or five, each combatant shedding ichor at the scrape of the other’s blade. Red blood mixing with black, dampening the soil at every touch of the flowing liquid as it danced across the ancient, cobblestone road. The warriors, now unbelievably scarred, stood yet again facing one another, blood glistening on each other’s skin, shining with the light of the moon. However, this time, they stood closer than before, Stygian iron locked with folded steel. Yet again deadlocked, they’re weapons uniformly crossed. Neither remembers when it began to rain, only that when it did, it came as refreshment to the bloody duel. Both took it as a sign from they’re gods. The Holy knight prayed to “Gromm”, and the Green-skin thanked “Karn”. They released each other from the tightly locked blade-embrace, and backed away from one another. The Ork, who had long recovered from his “Forced Anger”, took a deep breath. The armor-clad, now straining himself with every inhalation of air, closed his eyes to calm his nerves.
The Violent Summit would soon come to an end.

The Green-skin flexed his muscles, the previously healing cuts now re-opened, blood dripping from every inch of the orifices, harnessing his rage for one final blow. He exhaled his last breath, and his eyelids flew open, revealing nothing more than the eyes of a long dead Ork, who’s soul might as well had already left his corpse, continuing to fight only through incredible stubbornness and sheer willpower…
The Knight, now prepared to meet his maker, removed his helmet and opened his eyes to gaze at the now dawning sun before slowly letting them drift back to the hulking, Green beast lurching towards him. Tossing his helm to the floor, he screamed, at the top of his lungs, the fulfilling mantra that he had been taught to follow as law since his early childhood: “PRAISE THE SUN!!!”, and with that final outburst, he sprinted forward, shield raised, Stygian blade twinkling in the dim sunlight…
They clashed for the last time, ichor splattering in the foggy air. The Green-skin raised his axes for the killing blow with lightning fast speed, swiftly bringing the dual blades down with the cleanest arc of all. The man was as good as dead when he glimpsed the Ork raise its weapons, but suddenly everything began to churn slowly for the Knight, as if time had begun to blend and move through melted butter. He reacted thusly, evading to the side of the strike he could not hope to block, even with his crested shield. He watched as the axe blades missed they’re target, before thrusting his Stygian iron blade through the abdomen of the towering figure...

The Green-skin, miraculously, still standing managed to push the armor-clad away. But, he could not remove the blade. So deep had it been pushed through him that he could not even begin to hope that he could rip the piece of iron out. The Ork was dead, and he knew it. Blood seeped from both sides of the wound, as the sword had pierced all the way through his body. Clutching the hilt of the blade, he dropped his axes and lurched forward, falling to his hand and knees, staring intently at the ground. Although consciousness escaped him, he could not help but feel relieved that he would be joining his ancestors in the wake of Karn. He felt at peace, the only peace he had ever known, in a dying world writhing uncontrollably with despair…
The Knight, Gasping for air, grabbed at his breast plate, as if trying to clutch his heart. He could not believe he was still alive. After checking to make sure none of his limbs were missing, he closed his eyes, and sighed deeply. The Duel was over, and the Green-skin lay dead. He scratched the back of his head, his messy, shining, white hair danced with the wind. The armor-clad shambled to the Ork’s lifeless corpse, and gazed into the face of what he had thought of as death at the time. It was timeless, and appeared at ease, albeit, still quite ugly. The Knight put his hands together and gave quick prayer to Gromm. He then wondered if the Ork would have done the same to him. He figured any other Green-skin would have probably spit on his rotting carcass without a second thought. But, deep down he believed that this one would have honored him. The Knight was glad to be able to send him to whatever Pagan lord he believed in, because he now realized that these “Heretics” weren’t all as bloodthirsty as the chantry would have you believe. The Knight stepped over to the corpse yet again, and removed the Stygian blade from its oozing cavity. He inspected the blood stained Iron of the long sword, before letting the blade hang loosely in his right hand.
The Knight gazed up into the sky, reminiscing on the recent event. So much had he learned from that Green-skin in a single fight, that he began to feel that he had a deeper understanding of the Xeno-Races. He began to doubt the somewhat prejudiced teachings of the chantry, and they’re generalizations of all other races. One thing was for sure, however, and that was that this conflict was the single most challenging, life changing happening that he had ever witnessed. He already ached to fight again, the steaming blood of the need for conflict now rushing through his veins. He ached for a challenge on par with this one!
That’s When he realized, he had just killed the last Green-skin on Earth…

The author's comments:
I wrote this piece because i felt like it. No, seriously. I sort of noticed that most Fantasy books,games,movies follow along this sort of point, so this is my generalization of fantasy scenes. also, this is sort of a demo for future stuff i might do that involve alot of action, so im basically testing my self.
Riposte: to attack after opponent attacks
Xeno: Foreign
Ichor: Fancy word for Blood
Chantry: type of church
Summit: Meeting

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This article has 1 comment.

Xionsith said...
on Dec. 11 2015 at 2:23 am
Xionsith, Sacramento, California
0 articles 0 photos 1 comment

Favorite Quote:
'They shall be my finest warriors, these men who give themselves to me.
Like clay I shall mould them and in the furnace of war I shall forge them.
They will be of iron will and steely muscle.
In great armour shall I clad them and with the mightiest gun shall they be armed.
They will be untouched by plague or disease, no sickness will blight them.
They will have tactics, strategies and machines such that no foe will best them in battle.
They are my bulwark against the terror.
They are the defenders of Humanity.
They are my Space Marines...
...and they shall know no fear.'

-The Emperor of Man

Been years since I posted this. Did anyone even like this?


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