A single bard played on their mandolin that night at the Busty Bosom Chateau, a sad and reflective tune that could make one stare into themselves. This tune was accompanied by the sound of a heavy downpour, the cracking of thunder, and the percussion of the rain upon the clay tiles of the roof, bringing an even greater sense of misery and foreboding to this usual spot of merriment and sin.
The Lord Commander himself sat alone at the bar, nursing a cold glass of whiskey with as much love and attention as a wet nurse gives to a newborn. His eyes staring deep into the glass and the clay bottle next to it, trying to find something that perhaps no one could explain. No matter what it was that he sought after, no one bothered him, for how could they after what happened not even a month ago. When Clan Stonetooth decided to fight with the Blood Bath Corp in one of the bloodiest battles seen since the war with the Mordok, there weren’t really any words a person could use to describe the events that happened that day.
The rain took him back, back to that muggy and hot June day near the frontlines of Clan Shattered Spear. Blood Bath Corp had just succeeded in driving back a Clan Grimward warpack with ease. A few bruises but nothing that would prevent them from continuing their fight on the front lines. Their march took them near one of the main supply lines for Clan Shattered Spear, a critical area that needed protection if there ever was one. All they had to do was wait for anyone foolish enough to attack this area. They set up on top of a wooded hill near the roadway that lead further north, keeping fires low at night to avoid detection from the road. The first night they entertained themselves with drinks and a few games of throwing daggers into a stump, Sunny won that one. The others were groaning about having to pay more silver to keen eyed archer, but Volrok would too if it wasn’t happening every third to fourth night since the war started.
The second day went by without concern, same that night, in which a game of boasting and storytelling took place. That time Katya was the victor in the game, having told a fantastic tale of how humans came into the possession of horses back on Faedrun. A story that Volrok still remembered since its telling, and one that is now dear to him. The third day was much the same as the last, activity as usual without any issues. During that third night Wren took the glory for the camp game, a brawling match that resulted in a melee between half the unit until Volrok had to tell them to knock it off. She knocked out twelve of the others before the incident ended, and many agreed her fists were ones to avoid. The Fourth day, it downpoured harder than they have seen in years. A rain so powerful that trees bowed to the skies as if worshiping the fury of the goddess of wind and storms herself. The rain continued into the night, leaving not much to do other than be in their tents. Volrok remembers singing quietly into the night around the small fire in the circle of tents, and some of the others joining in on a song about Richtcrag, and the lives of those lost so long ago.
The fifth day was when it all happened. The day started as usual, early wake up, shift reports, breakfast, and patrolling the roadside. On their patrol though, they came across a Clan Shattered Spear warpack in the thick of combat with the very same Clan Grimward forces they made retreat only a few days prior. Seeing a chance to finish the job, the Blood Bath Corp got in position and started its advance to pincer the Grimward forces. That changed quickly, too quickly Volrok considered, as a warpack of Clan Stonetooth Marauders appeared from the otherside thinking to do the same thing to the Clan Shattered Spear forces. They wouldn’t stand a chance, Volrok thought, We need to counter and stop them! So that’s what they did, he directed the Blood Bath Corp to circle around and none of them protested, for they saw the same thing he did. They jogged around and got in front of the forces and took defensive positions with pikes, hooks, and bills creating a defensive line as archers fired arrows into the charging force. The arrows may have been the rain from the prior night, it seemed to have done little to slow that charge. Finally, they collided in melee combat. Shields splintered to hammer, axe, and great sword, armor being punctured by arrow, sword, and spear. There was no room for defense on either side. Volrok watched as those around him fought with a ferocity he rarely saw, a reckless abandon that could only come from a rage and pain that was deep within. The memory of their friend Vales was still fresh, and was a vigor that may have saved the day. Each blow they received, they returned with interest, and it was returned in kind. Eventually the sounds of armor being broken, turned to the sounds of screams and pain as the weapons themselves began to find home in the flesh of their respective opponents. The air became hazed in a mist of red as the water in their soaked armor, clothes, and the soil mixed with the heat of the battle. Blood sprayed and covered everything, the soil was then slick with mud and gore of both friend and foe alike.
Volrok cannot remember much, he remembered a spear to the leg, a blow to the right arm, an arrow to his left leg, but looking back, he could remember a few of the unit fighting as if the gods themselves were there. He watched Wren with her warhammer and shield shatter and break bones of Clan Stonetooth as if they were twigs, moving as if Bjar himself moved their ferocity. At the same time, the amount of arrows in her legs, arms, and chest looked as if it may be her final moments.
Katya could be seen further back, their glaive spinning like a whirlwind around them. Fending off three Stonetooth as a few others retreated to get some first aid nearby. They parried and attacked to the best of their effort, which did allow those behind them to escape. Sadly one cannot parry a deathbolt, and one reached their leg and left a crater the size of a fist.
As for Sunny, she fired her arrows until her fingers bled. Each arrow finding home in a Stonetooth warrior’s body. When arrows became unavailable, she moved between combatants like a leaf on the wind, collecting arrows as she went along. However, luck and skill lasted so long before a hand axe found itself embedded in her chest, she collapsed shortly after.
The battle turned for the worst at this point, both sides had their armor destroyed and slashed and thrusted spears with a fevor Volrok hadn’t seen in years. Something stirred in him, as a mace clocked him in the back and forced him to the ground, a feeling he had almost forgotten, fear.
As he laid on the ground, his eyes stared into the Stonetooth that took up a smile of victory, of one who would gloat of Volrok’s death.
Have you forgotten the lessons I’ve taught you? A voice like steel stated in his mind.
‘Ulfkell?…’ He thought weakly as the voice rang in the mind.
Have you forsaken who you are? Have you truly done all you can? The voice stated once again.
‘How can I fight anymore? How can I watch my friends die again? How can I endure? I have fought with all I have, is this not an honorable death?’ Volrok thought, as time seemed to have slowed as the dagger raised to thrust itself into his chest.
So what of those who still live, do they deserve death? What of Aurelia, does she deserve heartbreak and sorrow? Why do you falter Battle-born? Give in to who you are, be the warrior you are meant to be. The voice echoed in his mind, this time with images of his friends in the Broken Blade, his loved one, his home, their future, those that lived. With it, an urge that was long suppressed began to surface, the urge for bloodshed, the urge to fight and fight till he couldn’t fight no more.
They took from you twice and they will take no more. Now take everything from them! Now get up Battle-born! I said GET THE FUCK UP! The voice bellowed in Volrok’s mind while a flash of eyes as red as fresh forged metal appeared. Then he could hear it, the sound of battle again, and with it, the sound of hammer and anvil. Time went back to normal, and his hand thrusted upward with the very dagger that his ancestors handed down, the broken blade itself that was now lodged in the Stonetooth’s neck. With a jerk he removed the blade and was bathed in the blood that flowed from the would be killer.
He hurt, everything hurt, he was battered, beaten, and bruised, but he stood up. He looked at the foe’s around him, and his blood boiled. They were few, but they could still win the day. He dug deep into his lungs, an inhale that seemed to suck the energy of the battle into himself, and roared a question into the battle to all those that still stood.
“TELL ME BLOOD BATH CORP, WHAT MAKES THE GRASS GROW?!” He roared. No response came, and Volrok stood there alone and in silence among the field of corpses. The battle seemed to have stopped as the remaining Stonetooth gathered for another run at them.
“BLOOD! BLOOD! BLOOD MAKES THE GRASS GROW!!!” came a chorus behind him, as Wren, Sunny, and Katya rushed with about ten other members to form up. Blood oozed, wounds barely patched, and bones that were clearly broken didn’t dampen their resolve. They were as one, and they would not allow Stonetooth to claim victory there that day.
“FOR HONOR, FOR GLORY, FOR THE BATTLE FATHER!!!” They all roared as one, charging into the Stonetooth warriors, who now looked a bit more shaken that the resolve of these human ĺoclaochra charged into their lines with almost a religious fervor. For when they reached their foes, not even the gods could have held back their fury and rage. Roars of defiance came from the opposing force, even if it was short lived, for the melee had commenced once again. This time though, the Blood Bath Corp took the upper hand. Axe halfs shattered, spears splintered, swords shattered, maces crumbled, for neither side wanted to give up in this lake of mud, blood, viscera, and gore that both have created, but the victor was soon decided. Katya, Wren, Sunny, and Volrok stood with two others as the last of the severely wounded Stonetooth fled the battlefield. Their slashed sleeves heavy with blood and gore, their bodies beyond weary. As they fell to their knees roaring a cry of victory, sorrow, and rage, it was only then that the Clan Shattered Spear unit was able to approach and save the few of them left from dying outright.
He swirled his glass, staring into the drink that has helped dull the pain of his broken ribs, hip, and multiple arrow wounds. He couldn’t taste the alcohol like he used to, all it did was slightly burn going down, but there was no joy, no solace found. He stood up slowly and paid the bartender.
“Hey Lord Commander, why are you smiling?” said the barkeep as they took the coin for the evening.
“Oh… Just found something silly was all…” Volrok replied
“Oh? Like what?”
“Isn’t it funny… How blood makes the grass grow?” he said as he turned to the rest of those at a booth; Katya, Sunny, Wren, and the two others that survived the battle of Richtcrag’s Bloody Cry.