A stricken, hissing howl.

Chapter 5: Blood!

From deep within the dimming, twilit forest behind you arises a ragged animal cry. Through your calming, meditative mind it pierces to your very heart. You **** on the sudden sensation.

This is a noble beast in excruciating pain. Not a small animal, no, but also not one you immediately recognize by its shrill, hollowed call. You rise, gripping the hilt of your blade as if the goblins were ready to fall upon you from the trees, but, no. The echoes are still a distance away.

"K'ron," utters a low, sonorous voice behind you. "K'ron!"

"Myr?" you whisper, seeking perhaps to soothe the woman beneath the falls, but the orc is suddenly frantic, bounding from the waters of the bathing pool. Your eyes are drawn to her, but hers are glued to the depths of the forest. To her, you no longer exist. The moonstone in the hilt of your blade is radiating light and heat the likes of which you've not seen or felt since... since you slew the goblin chieftain outside the gates of the Holm...

Blood... Battle...?

By the time your eyes conclude to follow the orc she has already leapt up the rocky shore and reclaimed her spear, bow, and quiver, and her shapely ass is bounding, naked and dripping-wet, into the depths of the darkening forest.

The hilt of your blade is singing, vibrating, pulsing in your hand; a bloodlust is burgeoning inside of you.

Deep within the recesses of your mind, you knew this was coming. He knew.

"Myyyyyrrrrrrr!" you hear your voice bellowing, but you are suddenly and utterly ripped from the present.

You forget your armor, your leathers, your chainmail. You forget her gourd, her bone hair-clasp, her leather boots. Before you even fully realize it, you are bounding after the warrior woman, naked and emboldened! In your mind's eye the full disc of the moon is red and bloodied, and you know the hunt has been fully rekindled. Of course! In hindsight, that flame never died! The moonstone told you thus!

A distant, echoing howl fills the dusky forest, and you've already traveled fifty paces before you realize that echoing cry is your own. Your bare, calloused feet pound through the soil and mossy roots. The deep purple twilight above you dims to near blackness as the foliage thickens with every sprinting step of your feet. In the distance you finally see the shape of a warrior amidst the shadows. An answering, somewhat more feminine bellow echoes around your ears. You see a bone-tipped spear thrust itself through a small, dark shape enmeshed in the shade of the wood.

The blood moon pulses. It flashes red.

"****!" You cry. "In Myr's name, you heathen shall die this day!"

"K'ron!" answers the woman's bloody call. It echoes piercingly in the dim distance of the sheltering branches.

A shadow leaps at you from behind an approaching tree. There is a babble of some high-pitched language that ends in a bloody gurgle as Myr guides his blade through the miscreant's chest. Another cackling scream sounds above you, and a flicker of your eyes sends a bolt of unmitigated fear into the goblin bowman's heart. For just a moment you feel the tenebrous connection, the ferocity of your god's ire as it pulses into the faint goblin heart. You feel the weak organ burst and hear the faint gurgle of its dying breath, but your mind's eye is already on the next two victims of your god's holy wrath.

Whether it was one swing or two doesn't matter; your vision is filled with the Blood Moon of Myr. Every shadow is black as pitch; every goblin heartbeat is as white as the core of the hottest flame. An orcish war-cry pierces your eardrums. She is a green blur in your peripheral vision as the two of you crash together into a puny grey circle of goblin archers. She is clearly the fiercest foe, but some part of you remembers...

Your sword decapitates one puny archer. Her spear impales two in a fierce, bloody column. Another is cleaved in twain by Myr's holy blade as you roar, bleeding your rage into every movement of your quickened sword-arm.

"Foul vermin," you hear your voice echo in the madness of your own skull. "I am he who has slain your chieftain! I am he who has sundered your clan to ribbons. To shreds! To bloody pulp! I am the Hand of Myr! Face me!"

Most of the goblins before you tremble, their weapons lowering hesitantly. But a few are brave. A few are righteously enraged! Good!! Myr's blade has already hewn their brethren, and it is already circling back for them. There is no stopping it. There is no surrender. Arrows fly; puny spears lunge; swords swing... An ambush of goblins pounce from their perches within the trees onto the orc woman's surging body. They die. They deserved nothing better. They all die. Some die by your blade; some die by her pummeling, vengeful fists.

"K'ron!" shouts the woman beside you. Your heartbeat slows...

In your blood-red sight you see a vision of orcish beauty, naked and wielding a longbow of cleverly-crafted yew. The splintered haft of a broken, bone-tipped spear emerges from the torn, headless body of a large goblin. His luminescent warpaint marks him as a leader of this carelessly-assembled warband. Good riddance.

"K'ron!" She screams... No... She wails... Holding aloft the head of the goblin 'chieftain'. She claims her victory, her prize. As before, most tremble; a few are merely emboldened... enraged(?). Why do they bother, you wonder, plunging your holy blade through yet another goblin chest... These, too, shall surely die...

"Ah," you finally realize... Following the orc's frantic eyes, you finally see a bloodied, limping specimen of a Smilodon.

What a creature!

It is magnificent: its striped orange fur mottled with splashes of red and its tusks and claws all dripping with goblin viscera. Through the pain and fury it remains an elegant specimen of the hunt. But it is gravely wounded... Its thick, noble hide is already pierced by multiple arrows. The great beast falters weakly in your sight as four more foul goblins encroach upon its flank. Two knife-wielding vermin leap from the shadows behind the beautiful orc beside you. She howls in anguish as one of the goblins plunges a crooked knife into her shoulder and she falls to her knees.

The Smilodon stumbles and twists onto its side with a painful yelp... Rolling like the dexterous hunter it is, it rears back in a flash of claws and fangs, but falters midway as its straining muscles fail. It emits another sharp, reverberating howl that echoes through your warrior bones as it falls onto its back. Next to you, the orc's bow snaps in half as she ragefully crashes it through one of her assailant's heads. Her quiver is empty. Her once-green shoulder is slick and black with blood. The other goblin is snarling as it pounces upon her flank.

Your eyes flash blood red. "Vermin!! Die!"

But you can't help them both.