Screams of terror, roars of savagery, and shouted commands still strain through the locked door.
Tulden flinches with annoyance but says nothing to the half-elf. He lifts the wood bar and pushes the door open, stepping out into the street.
"I can't see..." he calls back to Quick, "but it sounds like an attack beyond the walls. I'm going to help," he adds resolutely.
The blast of a horn punctuates the healer's assessment, likely the city guard sounding the alarm. The rest of the people in the bakery are fully awake and wide-eyed.
"Stay inside! Lock that door!" urges Flori, her gaze shifting from the open door to the children burrowing into their parents.
"Let the guards deal with it," moans the formerly snoring half-orc on the floor.
Seeing Tulden leave, Quick looks back to Henry, around the room in irritation at the talk of hiding, then finally asks, "We're with Tulden right?"
"Stay here if you wish, but I am going to help." With that, Vylyra slides out the door and towards the screams.
When the intriguing woman with the red hair leaves, Quick points after her, then shrugs at Henry. With a casual air that screams overt intention, Quick shuffles out the door in search of the pretty lady.
Quick and the huntress walk into the street. The night is at its darkest, and only the lit torches on street corners or carried by guards help light the way of the half-elves. At the wall and small gate directly south of them, stand four armored guards. One of them peers through the iron barred gate, and the other three stand atop a stone wall with waist-high battlements. The three hold heavy crossbows pointed out over the wall, but not aiming at anything in particular. By their posture and movements of their helms, the guards are straining to see beyond the torchlights on the walls. Not far from the gate, a stone stairway leads up the twenty-foot high wall.
The one by the gate holds his halberd like a staff as he peers out through the iron bars. As the crimson-haired woman reaches the gate, she too can see two campfires among the disorganized tents and wagons where the refugees sleep. Right now, many of the displaced are crawling out from their camps, craning their necks further south than she can see. The sounds of fear, rage, and destruction still carry out from the dark and into the streets of Redstone Keep.
"I like this women." he declares as he heads threw the door. Once outside he heads toward the gate, pulling out one of his javelins. As he reaches the gate he addresses the guards, "There are people under attack. We must help them. Open the gate and come with me."
Henry Southgard's indignation at being woken so early fades as he recognizes the sound of battle. He quickly gathers his stuff, shoulders his pack, and sets off after Quick.
Henry Southgard is not an easy man to spook. This is not his first siege, and definitely not his first siege in the dead of night. Being the defender rather than the attacker is a little more novel, but what set him on edge was the eerie stillness of the night. Like the calm before the storm, if not the eye of the hurricane.
It was never a good sign.
For a moment, he is transfixed by the two campfires, flickering like the embers in his dream. The big man's declaration shakes him out of it.
"This may not be our fight."
“No,” barks an order from the ramparts down to the guard at the gate. “If we open the gates, the attackers will breach our defenses.”
At the furthest fringes of the campfire light, it begins. Men, women, the old and young, dart through the shadowy and ramshackle terrain of carts, tents, and bedrolls. All of them rush upon the small gate. A handful of them move slower, walking backwards, holding up pitchforks and cattle prods against the sound of chaos that grows closer with each passing moment. Dirty fingers wrap around the iron bars, and grimy hands reach out past them, and cry out. “Let us in! Let us in!” Over a dozen press themselves against the gate, squirming tightly together to escape the coming carnage, and many more still rush the walls.
“Ready!” the command went out, but already every guard up on the wall has their crossbow raised and pointed, searching for a target.
The guard at the gate wears an unsure look, glancing from the big man to the pleading refugees, then to the officer on the wall. He sets his jaw and stiffly grips his halberd, the other hand resting on his ring of keys, as though to keep anyone from forcefully removing them. He shakes his head uncertainly at the big one lugging around the tower shield.
For those looking past the bustling crowd of refugees, they see the those armed with farming tools suddenly brace in the dim lighting. Hulking, half-seen forms approach them, and with a flash of steel and spray of blood lit by the fires, the peasants flop to the ground. Others step past the killers and into the light. Garbed in leather armor dotted with bones, teeth, and other fetishes, orcs of grey and green skin carry huge, crude lengths of metal with notched blades already bathed in blood. Out of their yellow-tusked mouths spews their guttural tongue, reveling in the violence.
“Loose!” shouts the officer, and three crossbows snap.
Two bolts hit their mark, embedding deep into orc chests. The raiders reel, then with a savage roar still stand from a wound that would kill a man.
Over the din of refugees and orcish war cries, sharper ears hear a barked order from the raiders. “Gebruik dekking! Agter waens!”
“Reload!”
Behind those awake and out of the bakery, they can hear the clanging of running men in heavy armor down the street. They are still a distance away, but their approach is unmistakeable.
Quick's dread rises with each new bit of information taken in. His terror mounting, he slides up to Henry and speaks softly. "They're here for me! They're hunting me! We have to get these people inside the walls. We can hold the gates until more troops arrive. We didn't get to talk last night, but I can't let these people die because of me. Be ready."
Quick shouts to the big man with the big shield. "You want to help!? Come with me!" He turns his head toward the fire-headed half-elf. "You look good in a fight. I mean, you look like you can fight. I mean. Ah, hells, help us!"
Finally, Quick approaches the guard with the keys. "We have to get that gate open and let these people through. This band means to enter this city and we'll not put them off easily if we dig in for a siege. I know you're going to get all racist and wonder if I'm an agent of theirs of something, but we haven't got time for that. We need this gate open now!"
In one fluid motion Ajaxx stows his javelin and draws his flail. (quick draw) Slamming his shield with his flail he exclaims. "I AM AJAXX THE WALL. I will hold this gate. Now open it or people will die."
He then turns to the gate. "EVERYBODY MOVE. I NEED THREW TO PROTECT YOU!!"
Set and ready to head out Ajaxx peers into the night.
His eyes strain against the darkness but all he sees is people in need.
"Well, you're not wrong. I do look good." Vylyra says to the greenish one with a half-cocked grin.
Backing away to let the refugees through, she turns to the same guard who appears sympathetic, and chimes in, "You must open the gate now. If you do not, their blood is on your hands."
When Henry Southgard was a young lad, his parents had hired a tutor to teach him mathematics and natural philosophy. Natural philosophy, as the old Elf had styled it, was the ideal of accepting that one does not know what one does not know. Among its central tenants was that words did not have meaning, but were only associated with meanings. The same word, used by two different people, had subtle and not-so-subtle differences in connotation and denotation in the two minds. Words could be arrange in patterns, which the laypeople call 'sentences'. These patterns of meaning, arranged according to arbitrary and loosely-enforced rules, somehow conveyed lofty concepts and principles across the sea of chaos that isolated intelligent minds, which was nothing short of miraculous. And this principle goes beyond mere words, and into symbols and images and anything else which the mind might extrapolate meaning from.
His younger self had thought that the philosophy was a load of waffle cooked up by senile old men who had contemplated trivia until their brains dribbled out their ears, and he had not changed his opinion one whit in all the years since. But still, the philosophy provides a useful model for the working of his mind.
"Quick", in Henry Southgard's mind, is a branching tree of connotations and denotations that link memories to ideas and identity. "Quick" is the person of mixed Orcish and Human lineage that Henry sat down to break bread with in Port Elam. "Quick" is a nascent magic-user, who wields arcane power drawn from his heritage. Quick is the keeper of an all-but-dead religion, a personification of dark secrets that Henry has only scarcely begun to unravel. Quick is the focal point of a prophesied apocalypse, which could be the Orcish invasion of Vyren or the evil conspiracy of a Dark Elf.
And there are other memories. An odd bit of banter with one of the Orcs in Port Elam. His antics up in the mountains when Henry and Gorim had discussed the greenish-grey horde's objectives. His general reticence about his past. Dangling mysteries. Loose threads. Tumblers.
Now imagine a pattern of words, their meanings overlapping like the ripples of rain in a pond. This pattern is a very special pattern, one perfectly shaped to connect meaning and bridge memories, to twist them and make them fall into place much as a key manipulates the tumblers in a lock. This is a revelation, an action that sparks insight and fundamentally transforms the way Henry Southgard sees Quick.
Or, rather, it would if only Henry hadn't missed half of what Quick whispered and misheard the rest.
"Here for meat? Of course they're hunting meat. They call us 'long pig' for a reason."
"The young lady is right, sir," he says to the guard. "Twenty years from now, you're going to be retired and lying in bed this time of night. Would you rather sleep peacefully, or toss and turn as you remember the faces of every one you could have helped and didn't? Open the gates, and we'll wade through and hold the greenskins off long enough."
The guard sneers at the half-orc, but when the fairer folk back him up, his frown softens guiltily. Ajaxx’s bold promise seems to make up his mind. He unhooks the keys from his belt as the guardsmen on the walls crank back the strings of their crossbows.
He inserts the key into the lock, and then lifts the iron bar. “Easy, everyone. Don’t come rush-” the guard is drowned out and bowled over at the surge of peasants scrambling to get inside. True to his name, Ajaxx stands strong as the wave of refugees crashes against him. Henry, Tulden, and Quick are less, well, quick, and while much of the momentum of the commoners is diminishing, there are still a lot of them frantically charging onto the streets of Redstone. The three are knocked over as well.
Over the clamor of rushing refugees, the attentive hear a command from somewhere among the orcs. “Gooi spiese!”
Ajaxx can see some of the orcs darting through the campfire light and hiding behind the wooden wagons left by the refugees. Where the fire light wanes, he can still discern the tall, muscular shapes of orc raiders bearing down on the gate, but they are difficult to see. The ten foot wide iron gate hangs open, and those around the shielded warrior that are ready for a fight were just knocked to the ground. Save for the charming half-elf, who had the sense to get out of the way.
Suddenly, a hail of spears fly from the darkness!
Most of them clatter against the stone battlements, though a couple guards jerk to one side and the thrown spear soars over the wall, striking the cobblestone at the feet of the crimson-haired half-elf and the nearby refugees. One soldier cries out when one javelin hits its mark. He yanks the point from his shoulder and lets it fall to the ground. “Bring it, you filth!” he shouts defiantly.
“Sarenrae protect me from this evil, so that I can protect others.” Tulden intones as his rises to his feet. His form flickers with a warm light for just a moment, or was that just a nearby torch?
Quick dflects the first body to pummel him, but his momentum carries him into another, larger man whose weight bears Quick to the ground. Quick tries to rise immediately, but the crush presses in too hard for a few seconds.
The moment it subsides enough, Quick springs to his feet bellowing in frustration and embarrassment. "You pack of ingrates! Disperse now or face the very fear you flee from!"
Vylyra slides through the running refugees and moves back towards the front of the gate. In one fluid movement she stows her bow on her person and pulls out her falchion, ready for battle.
"You made the correct choice," she says to the guard.
Seeing that nearly all the refugees have made it threw the gate he readies himself to pull the gate closed. For a split moment he considered that the orc attack was a diversion to allow a spy into the city, but he quickly shakes that off. Thoughts of subterfuge would have to wait until the people were safe.
Turning to the guard he shouts. "I'll close the door! You lock it!"
Striking out with the flat of his hand and the butt of his crossbow to make the flood of bodies part around him, Henry Southgard rises to his feet and pushes forward into the crowd. Those with ears to hear will hear him screaming less than heroic things at the refugees running into him.
Some of the mob is still addled from their brush with death, and the ones surrounding the sorcerer cower when all they see are half-orc features and a heavy blade in his hand. Quick’s outburst succeeds, though perhaps not in way he anticipates.
“Gah!”
“Run!”
“One made it in with us! Guards!”
The crowd spreads out through the streets, just as the last of the refugees clear the gate. The guard with the keys pushes himself to his feet. He rolls his eyes at the frightened crowd, though afterwards he turns a warning look to Quick. The iron gate slams shut with the help of Ajaxx, who also slides the bar into place, and the soldier quickly inserts the key and turns it. “‘Scuse me, Miss…” he says, squeezing between the battle-ready half-elf and the big man.
“Loose!” comes the command from above.
A deadly volley from the walls hit three raiders, one right in the heart, one into a side, and another piercing a meaty neck, but the orc brutes shake with pain and fury and refuse to fall!
“Reload!” The officer wastes no time with the order, before turning to look down at the cry for help from the spreading throng, and at its center, an armed half-orc. “How did one get through?!” he shouts angrily from the top of the wall. He lets go of the unloaded crossbow, and the sling carries it to one side as he draws his longsword from the other. He starts down the stairs with a dangerous eye on Quick.
A long string of commands roars from beyond the wall, amid the beastly bellows. “Stoot waens, bly agter! Jy Korgrut rotte, gooi spiese! En jy, vind 'n leer! Jy bloeiers, hef die poort is!”
“Push wagons, stay behind! You Korgrut rats, throw spears! And you, find a ladder! You bleeders, charge the gate!”
Three thrown spears strike harmlessly against the stone battlements. In the light and half-light of the torches and campfires, many of the orcs already hiding behind wagons begin to push them forward, closer to the wall. Others move behind the larger tents, making it difficult to see where exactly they stand. Two with crossbow bolts sticking out of them let out fearsome, guttural warcries as they vault for the iron gate with upraised weapons.
The jagged falchions rain down a small shower of yellow sparks when they strike the iron barred gate. One side of the gate has a small notch cut into it near the hinge from the force of the blow. The two orcs make bloodthirsty snarls at Ajaxx, the guard, and the half-elven lass just beyond the iron bars.
Tulden rushes to stand beside Quick, with open hands held up at the guard in a placating gesture. "He fights the enemy, not against you! I can vouch for him; he is just young and dumb."
The guard officer peers at Tulden and Quick uncertainly.
Letting his flail fall from his hand to hang from its strap, Ajaxx pulls a bottle of lamp oil from his pack. "You're going to want to back up." He then throws the lamp oil at the feet of the orcs at the door.
Turning to rest of the people on his side of the wall. "Does anyone have a light?"
"You daft bastards seriously think an Orc could've made it past that mountain of muscle? He's with us!" Henry Southgard shouts.
"Also," he says, pointing to the torch above Vylyra's head. "There's a light right up there."
"So there is." Vylyra deftly grabs the torch, passes it to Ajaxx, and takes a few steps back, preparing for the fire fight.
Quick gives the guard his best "Really?" expression then steps up behind Vylyra and makes a show of staring intently at the battlefield and definitely not at Vylyra herself.
Some of the refugees scatter further along the roads, and others look on as the defenders reload their heavy crossbows. A blaring trumpet sounds from a distant part of the town, indicating that this sally port is not the only attack on Redstone Keep. The guard officer sheathes his sword with a half-hearted grumble about wasted time as he returns to the top of the wall.
The two orcs at the gate, one of whom now has well-oiled feet, bring their weapons down again on the iron bars.
They send out another shower of sparks, but the gate holds strong. One of the sparks chances to find the lamp oil on the cobblestone, and the fuel at the orc's feet ignites. The raider bellows in surprise as his feet begin to burn.
Another hail of javelins fly from the darkness, and one of them strikes one of the reloading soldiers. He grunts in pain as it falls from a bloody wound, but he completes his task of cranking back the bowstring. While the rest of the orcish warriors put their backs into pushing the wooden wagons closer to the wall, one lone orc wanders around near one of the campfires, staring at the ground. Suddenly, he stops and reaches down. A small tent collapses and he rises with a ladder in one hand, and a falchion in the other.
"Henry." Quick shouts as quietly as possible, hoping not to get Vylyra's attention. Once Henry looks at him, Quick shrugs, indicates his sword, points to his crossbow, and mimics battle spells befor shrugging again.
Ajaxx flips his flail back up into his hand, but lets is hand slack by his side. "You might have made it in if it hadn't been for us being here. Bad luck for you." As the orc resets to make another attack Ajaxx flicks his flail up and out to strike the pommel of the falchin as well as the gnarled knuckles holding it in an attempt to knock it free.
Hearing the trumpet sound from elsewhere in the city Ajaxx realizes this will be a long night. Resetting for another swing and addressing the ocr grasping his hand in pain Ajaxx demands, "Why are you attacking? What do you hope to accomplish? Is this just a raid or is there something more going on here?"
"What? Oh," Henry Southgard says. He shoulders his crossbow, takes aim at the flaming Orc, and fires.
"Well, in this stage of the conflict, we're really just poking each other, seeing what each side is made of. We mostly try to keep the walls secure and figure out who is in charge of this mess, they try to impress us with their blood hymns and their inexhaustible supply of javelins and their ability to rip gates out of stone walls barehanded. You speak Orcish, let's go up top and listen for the greenskin shouting orders."
"Oi!" he shouts to get Vylyra and Ajaxx's attention, and then points upward. Without another word, he sets off for the stairs.
Quick follows Henry.
The flailhead glances one of the iron bars as Azjaax swings through them to disarm the orc. His weapon grazes brutish knuckles, but fails to knock the falchion free. A second later, a crossbow bolt zips between the defenders at the gate, piercing the hide of the burning orc. Despite the pair of fletching sticking out from its chest and the fire that licks at its legs, the raider bellows, bent on destruction.
Tulden follows after the mercenary and young mage, and overtakes them with at the stone steps. On his way up, he produces a throwing spear from his pack. Reaching the top, he peers out over the battlements to the orcs below.
Vylyra shrugs, sheaths her falchion, and follows the rag-tag gang up the steps as well. When she reaches the top, she pulls her bow off of her back and knocks an arrow, ready to loose.
The guard officer sees that his men are finished reloading before he is. “Loose!”
A third bolt buries into the shoulder of the gatecrasher, and still he stands!
“Reload!”
With flames burning away at his legs, the gravely wounded orc lifts his falchion high over his head. He wobbles, and with a mighty roar brings down the heavy blade.
The gate shudders and tears with a shower of sparks under the mighty blow, and orc crumples after the feat of savage strength. The raider falls dead into the pool of blood and oil. The lamp oil, mostly burned up, sizzles at his hulking lifeless form.
The guard beside Ajaxx gawps at the crooked-hanging gate, and the orcs press their attack.
“Jy! Aan hulle! Stoot waens tot muur, bly agter! Jy drie, gooi spiese!”
“You! To them! Push wagons to wall, stay behind! You three, throw spears!”
Three javelins, and one thicker, shorter spear fly toward the wall defenders. Most clatter against the stone wall, but Tulden flinches to duck a second too late, and the shortspear pierces his side.
One of the wagons is pushed to the wall, and the rest inch closer, into the torchlight from the walls. The orc carrying the ladder drags it to the wagon up against the wall. Many of the orcs hide behind them or remain in the dark, just at the fringe of the light.
Quick pricks up his ears, then shouts the alarm. "They're using the wagons to get close! The spears are a diversion! Fire the wagons!"
Turning to the guard standing next to him, "That orc needs to die!" he says pointing to the remaining orc at the gate. He then lets his flail again fall slack on its strap and pulls a small vial from his belt. It glows as though liquid fire bubbles within. Grumbling about needing a resupply after this. He then cocks back and throws the alchemist's fire at the middle waggon.
Ajaxx curses as it sails up and over the gate. Clearly not his best throw.
Henry Southgard is right on Quick's heels up the stairway.
"Flare out!" he calls, purely out of habit, as he draws an alchemist fire flask from his bandoleer and lobs it over the battlement.
"That's the last of it. Someone's going to have to run for more lamp oil!"
Vylyra reaches the top of the battlements ready to fire her bow.
Quick moves onto the battlements and shoots a bolt of force at the gate crasher. "Fus!"
“Well the diversion is working!” gasps Tulden in response to Quick. He clutches at the blood running from his side.
Ajaxx’s throw lands on the already dead orc, though the some of the liquid fire splashes onto the living orc just on the other side of the gate. The raider waves a burning arm frantically, but is quickly put to rest when spell springs from Quick’s hand. What looks like a flying little glass ball hits the flaming orc with great force, and the warrior succumbs to his many wounds, falling dead at the gates. Another flask of liquid fire bursts open and envelopes one corner of the wooden wagon. The orcs crowding behind it flinch back, beating at the chemical burns on their shoulders or heads.
Some of the bystanders in the street begin to move. A couple pound onto the door of the bakery-turned-hostel, and others beat on the doors of nearby establishments. Their calls are difficult to make out with the sounds of battle nearby.
The refugees pounding on doors are demanding lamp oil from whoever might be inside.
The guard officer levels his heavy crossbow at one of the orcs below.
The bolt misses by a few feet.
“Jy! Laat die vuur! Sit leer oor wa! Oor die muur! Die res van julle, stoooot!” Quick sees him as he bellows orders from the dark. The only orc among the raiders that carries a wooden round shield, which he holds over his shoulders as he pushes against the middle wagon.
“You! Water the fire! Put ladder on wagon! Over the wall! The rest of you, puuush!”
One of the burned orcs nearest to the wall drops his ragged iron blade and lifts up the waterskin on his belt. Holding it up over the burning wagon, the cords in his arms flex as he tries to rip it open over the flames.
The leather tears like paper in his brutish grip. He shakes and sloshes the water, and much of the flames gutter and extinguish.
The orc dragging the ladder behind him hurries to where the wagon is stopped up against the stone wall. He clambers onto the wagon, parts of which still smolder from Henry’s flask of alchemist fire, and lets the ten-foot ladder rest against the masoned stone. Other raiders are fast behind him to ascend the wall, though the highest rung is a good five feet from the top of the battlements.
Meanwhile, the horde gathered round the middle wagon grab its sides or rally behind it, rushing it towards the damaged iron gate.
The wagon speeds into the iron gate with a resounding CRASH. The groan and squeal of bending metal mixes with the splintering of wood. Those atop the wall can see the front half of wagon pass the threshold of the gateway, and the clutch of raiders let out roaring cheers at their success.
Ajaxx and the soldier beside him see the wagon smash into the gate with tremendous force, rolling right over the dead orcs, and sheering the iron hinges clean off the stone passage. But the iron gate and the wagon keep coming! The two men are knocked back, though the guard scarcely keeps his footing and skids back a bit further than the big man with the shield. The useless iron gate falls into the cobblestone with a harsh clang that rings out through the streets. Many of the refugees watching the defense of the town wear paled faces of shock. The orcs are moments away from entering Redstone and unleashing their carnage.
"To the keep!" they shriek in fear. "Run!"
“Trek wa! Doodmaak! Doodmaak! Doodmaak!” roars one orc with a shield, spittle spraying from his tusks with the cry.
“Pull wagon! Kill! Kill! Kill!”
The officer's hand strays toward the horn at his side...
"It's like I said." Ajaxx begins as he pulls another jar of lamp oil out and throws it at the waggon with the flames licking at bottom of it. "I am Ajaxx the wall, and after they have crawled through the flame, THEY HAVE TO GO THREW ME!!"
Ajaxx takes a step forward to take advantage of the orcs struggling to get over the wagon as it burns.
"Not good!" Henry Southgard shouts as the wagon crashes into the portcullis.
"Don't let them pull the wagon out!" he shouts as he sights on one of the Orcs.
Henry's target has a fit of twitches when the bolt sinks down into muscled shoulder, but still clutches the wagon.
Tulden hurls down a javelin with a grunt, aiming for the one hit by the crossbowman.
The point pierces an orcish leg, but the twitching raider reflexively yanks it out and turns a roar up at the defenders on the wall.
The shrouded face turns to look at Quick and Henry a few moments after Ajaxx bellows again. "I'll be down below. They must be stopped, and the loud man will need help."
His boots tap against the stone steps. At the bottom he wheels around and makes for the gate, a curved scimitar already in his grip.
With an audible "thwang!" Vylyra lets loose her prepared arrow at the orc standing nearest her.
...Something's not right.
Henry Southgard has the shakes, and it has absolutely nothing to do with green hordes or foreboding dreams or lack of sleep.
He keels over and leans against the parapet, praying for his head to stop spinning soon. For some reason, his crossbow feels alien to him, as if it had a bunch of boxes and levers and sliders and escapements bolted on where they had no business being. Some of his greatest shots flash before his eyes; the final shot that had killed the Drow, that last-ditch shot that had killed the Orc in the alley in Port Elam, more shots from fights he'd been in before he'd ever heard of Vyren.
One last memory flashes before his eyes, of that one time outside of Atephra when Shaleclast's Free Company had found out exactly which parts of a giant spider were edible.
The sickness departs, and so do the shakes. Henry takes deep breaths of the cool night air, catches Quick's eye, and gives him the thumbs up.
"I'm alright... I think."
Quick sheaths his sword and draws his loaded crossbow.
The few among the refugees banging on doors cease doing so, and all of them turn and scramble down the streets with screams of panic.
The guards, save the officer, finish loading their crossbows.
One bolt sticks into the wooden wagon near the orc at the ladder. The other pierces downward into an orc’s muscular back. Yet the brute shakes his falchion with eagerness to rush inside the city.
The soldier at the gate hears Henry’s order and lets his halberd fall to the ground, taking hold of the wagon with two gauntleted hands. He strains as he pulls it against the grip of many orcs.
The guard officer lifts his horn to his lips, and lets out three shrill blasts.
“Trek! Gee dorp! Doodmaak!” the orc with a shield roars.
“Pull! Enter town! Kill!”
Despite the soldier’s best efforts, the blazing wagon gets pulled back from the gate, and orcs come spilling through.
One orc shoulder crashes against Ajaxx the Wall, and stops with a surprised look. Another orc bowls over the guard, who goes sprawling to the cobblestones. The savage plods out onto the streets, notices the shroud-face, and turns in that direction. Two others follow behind him, though the fallen guard lunges out at one to grab at his feet. “No!” the man cries out desperately.
Armored gloves fail to make purchase on the orcish leg, and the raider instinctively makes a backhanded slash with his heavy blade as he pushes through and the guard recoils with a cut along his side. The one that got away rests his eyes on a fleeing refugee, and closes the distance with murderous intent.
And murder he does. The villager’s head rolls over the street stones as the body flops to the ground.
The defenders on the wall suddenly see a pair of orcish fingers curl over the top of the battlements. With the half-elf’s arrow sticking out of his shoulder, the beast pulls his upper half above the wall, and wrestles to stand onto it with his curved blade clamped between his yellow tusks. The raider’s eyes gleam by the light of the yellow torches on the wall, with a hungry look down at Quick.
The other orcs below swarm up onto the wagon, eager to climb the ladder. One of them instead wanders over near the gate, drawn to that less-crowded point to entry.
The wagon burns brighter and the three orcs that pulled it step away. They move towards the demolished gate.
"I didn't say you could enter this town!!" Ajaxx yells as the orcs pile past him, over the fallen guard. As the first orc comes into range Ajaxx swinging the his flail above his head to bring the orcs guard up, he then brings it down hard at the shins of the first orc.
"I can't leave the gate. KILL THOSE ORCS!!" Turning back to the orc in front of him Ajaxx brings the top of his shield up toward the face of the orc in front of him. As he does so he twists his hips to swing the flail at the legs of the orc. Waiting for only the split second for the flail to wrap itself around the knee of the orc, Ajaxx twists his hips in the opposite direction, pulling the orc's face into his shield and pulling him off his feet.
Vylyra sneers at the orc who just climbed the wall while she switches out her bow for her falchion once again. She brings the blade down on his shoulder as swiftly as he arrives!
Henry Southgard's first instinct is to ignore the Orcs inside the walls and focus on killing the ones still trying to get inside. In his estimation, any momentary lapse in the defenses will be an opening through which the whole horde will pour through. But an Orc that passed through the gates could return to those same gates and attack the defenders from behind.
Quick and the redhead could hold the wall for a minute, and there were two other guards for chaperons.
Quick drops his flat bow and raises icy energy around his body, covering him like a second skin. "Qah!" Now protected, Quick draws his sword.