Atlantic Roleplay Community Boards

[Tay Thormear]

---

(Based for Saturday night)


He lay bloody and physically impaired on the floor of his private home, a cloak squished under his torso. His hand rested over the open wound underneath his rib cage. His hair matted to his face because of the sweat that had developed during the fight. It was here that no one would find him; it was here that he’d bleed until he eventually ran out.


* * *

Beowulf strode across Minoc on his magical steed, his cutlass in one hand and his shield strapped on his other. The wind blew bitterly against his armor sending a chill through his body. It had been an uneventful evening, and a lonely one at that. Because of current events, Beowulf hadn’t been able to see his beloved Tatiana as much as he’d have liked. Tonight however, he was going to see her, at least he thought he was.


* * *

Dormack stood out front of his large home just west of Minoc, attempting to stare out across the land, instead his eyes set on the large home in front of his. He shook his head in frustration, and than a thought crossed his mind.

Perhaps I’ll take a trip to Minoc.

He was soon mounted on his magical steed, and rode off towards the town of Minoc. His hands gripped his bardiche tightly to insure he didn’t drop it. The wind slapped against his face as he approached the town, ignoring the cold he rode into town. He dismounted suddenly and without a pause continued walking on foot towards the bank.

The town crier caught eye of the dark figure approaching the bank. He took in a deep breath and walked towards the figure, not knowing if it was a Legion member or not. He smiled slightly as he approached and greeted Dormack with a “Hello”. His widened suddenly as he caught sight of the large bardiche held by the figure. He looked pale and slightly decaying.

What…is this? Thought the town crier. He spun on his heel and ran to find a guard, or for his sake a Legion member.


* * *

Beowulf watched the town crier approach in a hurry. He sighed slightly and assumed the citizen had seen a troll on the boundaries of town and was to frighten to go home. He rode forward to the approaching town crier.

“Sir… there’s something, something that looks horrid!” The town crier rambled, out of breathe.

“Hmm, and what might that be?” Beowulf asked, he glanced around slightly not worried at what the answer would be.

“Something…something beyond words!” He hollered.

At that, Beowulf glanced up and saw Dormack striding down the street towards him. He could make out his facial features, and by the armor and the way he carried himself it would have suggested he’d be in The Ebon Skull, but he couldn’t have been sure.

What do we have here? Beowulf thought to himself.


* * *

Dormack slammed the butt of the bardiche in the ground with every step he took. He stared straight down the road at the man mounted on the magical horse. His eyes met his, and they didn’t break contact. Dormack knew who this man was, he had heard much about him, Beowulf Thormear. The one who died evil, and returned…different.

He smirked and continued walking. With only two thoughts in mind; he could kill him now and continue his walk through he town, or he could avoid the fight and go home. It had only taken a second to contemplate.

The Lord of Harrowing does not run from such a person.


* * *

Beowulf sheathed his cutlass and rested his fingertips on his knife. He watched Dormack grow closer; he could feel his heart beat quicker and quicker by the second. His adrenaline told him to prepare for battle, but his head was still unsure. Finally Dormack stood in front of him, and Beowulf said the first words.

“Can I help you?” he asked

“No…you cannot.” Dormack replied in a bitter tone.

“This man seems to be frightened by you, is there a reason for this?”

“Perhaps there is? Perhaps the reason is I belong to the most feared Order among these lands. One that people shutter at the sound of.”

“Oh, you must be in The House of the Gauntlet?” Beowulf smirked.
“Don’t disgrace me. My name is Dormack, Overseer of Harrowing of The Ebon Skull, and you sir are Beowulf.”

The last comment had stung Beowulf beyond words, the Ebon Skull and the name Dormack. He remember Tatiana telling him of the men that came to her house to cut out the baby, and the ones who burned it down. Dormack was a named she had mentioned. Beowulf wrapped his fingers into a fist quickly.

“You are one of the fools that attempted harm on my wife in her home?”

“Attempted? I’m the one the smacked her to the ground before we set her house a blaze.”

Dormack had barely finished his sentence before Beowulf had snapped his wrist forward and cursed Dormack. He shook he his head slightly and spun around swinging his bardiche at Beowulf and his steed, he crashed into the both and sent Beowulf tumbling to the ground.

His knife in hand now he lunged towards Dormack, slitting it across his wrist causing him to drop his bardiche. He regained his footing and replaced his knife with his cutlass. Dormack had gathered his katana and shield.

The wind blew rapidly through the trees. The footsteps of the town crier scampering away were the only things heard either than the sound of snapping branches. Dormack stood staring coldly towards his foe, a piece of clothe wrapped around his wrist. Beowulf returned the stare down; he had healed himself quickly with his magic. Neither of them budged.

Beowulf made the first move, he screamed out in divine fury and sprinted towards Dormack. Lightning erupted from the ground shooting into the area; it came back down in a flash and struck Dormack. Beowulf sliced his sword his foes armor, cutting right through it causing him to bleed. Before he could turn around for the next blow he was hit by a spell, sending a striking pain through his body. Beowulf squeezed his eyes tightly as his he stopped breathing. Dropping to his a knee he was instantly strangled, allowing Dormack to cut his katana across his neck. Beowulf accepted the strike and rolled backwards on to his feet. He begins to yell a series of words, his body sparked slightly as his pain disappeared, and Dormack’s body erupted into flames. Dormack stumbled back a few steps and caught sight of Beowulf running head on. He stepped forward and drove his katana in Beo’s side, stopping him in mid-stride. Beowulf fell forwards, grabbing onto Dormack’s cloak.

They dropped to their knees and fell back, Beowulf tearing the cloak from Dormack’s neck. Dormack pulled himself to his feet and used a less powerful magic to recall away. Beowulf struggled around slightly; he rolled over on to his front. He glanced down to the cloak and coughed a few times, he finally gathered enough power to cast a spell to take him to his home.

He lay bloody and physically impaired on the floor of his private home, a cloak squished under his torso. His hand rested over the open wound underneath his rib cage. His hair matted to his face because of the sweat that had developed during the fight. It was here that no one would find him; it was here that he’d bleed until he eventually ran out. However, he now owned a new cloak, crafted by The Ebon Skull.

Not to his knowledge however, he had missed the birth of his first born.