Sigurd Warborn's page

Finally strapped in, Sigurd's complaints would stop and he would grin at the young Imperial with an almost mad look in his eye.

"That's a good lad. Now follow my lead and cut down anything I don't kill." The barbarian would whisper, moving closer to the casters and waiting for the moment he caught sight of an Orcish silhouette. As soon as he could clearly distinguish one of them, he would heft his greatsword and begin to move in. Each step was a little faster now as he felt his rage stir within his blood, the call of battle ringing once more. Bringing down his blade, he'd finally shout with a ferocious roar as he struck at the closest one.

Initiative: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (11) + 3 = 14
Perception: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (5) + 7 = 12
Perception to see how far away one will be when I finally recognize an Orc. I ready an action to charge it as soon as I do or an ally points on out that I can vaguely see.

Power Attack Charge: 1d20 + 11 ⇒ (16) + 11 = 27
Damage: 2d6 + 11 ⇒ (6, 5) + 11 = 22
+1 damage if I'm the only one threatening the target when I attack.

I am simply getting dressed for the bloodbath ball. So either things will go well and the group will ambush them or it will not and I will be all all rushed together to go into combat.

I'm fine with us moving up to the next big scene, I thought we were going to do a more "Okay, you have these many rounds before the Orcs get there. What do you do?" kind of situation than a round by round session.

80 seconds till the pain train

Sigurd quietly complains about how slow Daedaelus is, hasn't he ever put on armor before? Sheesh. :P

Sigurds readies an action to cast "Insides Outside" :P. He'll move and be ready at the front of the battle, closest to where the enemy is coming from once he is all covered in armor.

When Daedaelus awoke Sigurd, he almost ended up with a dagger in his throat before the warrior listened quietly and heard the voices approaching. With gritted teeth, he'd move over to the wagon and wave for the Imperial to help him get some armor on.

I'm not sure how far away the orcs are but if he has time, he'll get Daedaelus to help him put on the scale mail and that'll take 2 minutes with help, 1 minute if donned hastily. If they're super close, he'll don the mwk chainmail hastily which will take 5 rounds.

Sigurd take either the third or second watch, something so that the spell casters don't have to wake as much.

At least for myself...anything masterwork that was there and all the jewelry and such.

"I have my word. Until your children are returned or all that harmed them have died at the end of my blade, I'm with you Daerdryn." Sigurd says solemnly. It is obvious that the man takes his word quite seriously, as he throws another thing of armor onto the wagon. They would, after all, fetch a nice price once they were able to sell them off.

"Afterwards, I am not sure. Perhaps I will come and speak with you elves. As the lady says, I do have a debt I must repay now." Once the remains have been gathered, he hops up upon the carriage and waits for the word and directions of everyone else.

He looks over at Elyana, nodding to her before he spoke. "Real nasty pieces of work you have there. I'm glad you're on our side."

I am down with getting the potion of CMW and 2 potions of CLW. Sigurd is a growing, usually bleeding, boy.

Sigurd kicks the man off of his blade with a look of disgust for now, cleaning the man's ichor off of his blade. His eyes looked over Daerdryn, watching how she reacted after taking her vengeance. She seemed calm enough though, calm enough to carry onwards.

"Very impressive Daerdryn." He says as he climbs onto the cart and begins to look through the supplies they had been gathering, looking back at her. "You strike down with righteous fury and so little hesitation when it is needed. That'll serve you well."

The large man begins looking through the largest of the crates, using his strength to see what he could find.

Perception: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (4) + 7 = 11

The wall of lightning flashes in front of Sigurd, blinding him for a moment before the smell of singed flesh and meat filled the air. When sight returned to him, he looked upon the men that laid ruined upon the ground. A laugh began to leave him as he saw the others begin to flee, his words ripping through the air.

"Cowards! All of you! You're all cowardly dogs!" The pumping anger of his rage continues though and he hears the roar of fear and anger from the fat man who leaped down from the cart. Coming back around the cart, he approached with that heavy blade singing in the air as he twists it almost effortlessly.

"You strike at my promised ward? Steal her children? Call us dogs!?" He growled, clashing blades with the man who seems to stumble a bit under every exchange from the sheer ferocity of the Norden warrior. "I will enjoy taking your life, pig!" Sigurd shouts before bringing his blade down hard and brutally fast with an overhead swipe.

Power Attack: 1d20 + 10 ⇒ (10) + 10 = 20
Damage: 2d6 + 12 ⇒ (4, 2) + 12 = 18

Feel better Idana! The plague children bring are always the worst ones.

Assuming that Elyana moves out of the way and Kieran will move to engage the soldiers to the south of them, Sigurd roars and moves around the cart to attack the soldiers that are there.

He turns around the corner of the coat, mad-eyed and vicious, and he brings the sword to bear at the first soldier to be nearby him.

Move 25ft to attack the bright green soldier. I'm assuming Kieran will be able to engage the enemies to the South and Olyenna will support wherever needs the most support.

Power Attack: 1d20 + 10 ⇒ (10) + 10 = 20
Power Damage: 2d6 + 12 + 1 ⇒ (4, 1) + 12 + 1 = 18

The fat man cries out in anger and fear and the bloodlust builds in his veins. The man beside him lies dying as his grip tighten around the blade.

Move action to activate Powerful Stance.

Taking a step closer to the man in front of him, the greatsword sings as it is swung through the air with incredible speed and strength.

Power Attack v.s Red Lieutenant: 1d20 + 10 ⇒ (7) + 10 = 17
Hopefully that hits his flatfooted.
Damage v.s. Red Lieutenant: 2d6 + 12 + 1 ⇒ (5, 1) + 12 + 1 = 19
Extra point of damage comes from Axe to Grind.

Sorry! I was super tired when I wrote that and mixed games lol. <3

My target is the normal blue border soldier

Initiative: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (11) + 3 = 14

Sigurd, with a roll of his shoulders, charges into the room after Kairon. The greatsword drawn, he uses it with terrible efficiency as he aims to cleave the first soldier nearby him in half

Power Attack: 1d20 + 10 ⇒ (5) + 10 = 15
Power Damage: 2d6 + 11 ⇒ (6, 5) + 11 = 22

Manuevering around his bewildered (and likely split in half) foe, Sigurd's eyes land upon the overweight pig that taunted them earlier.

"YOU!" He growls out like the roar of a predator, as a wicked grin grows upon his face.

Free action to Rage. Move action to move towards soldier. Standard to make his insides all outside.

Sigurd, after hearing what numbers they have facing them, frowns for a moment before he looks back at Kairon.

I can move in and close ranks with the men closer to the cart if you take on the men that are nearby the supplies. Or the other way around, if you think it is best."

He looks towards the multiple casters, nodding to them and speaking softly to not alert the guards in the next room.

"What are your plans, ladies? I understand that...well...I don't know a damn thing about what you do. I've learned though that we should plan together though, let you do what you think is best. Us warriors can adapt to the field depending on your success..." The words coming from the barbarian were a bit wiser than one suggested, as he looked towards the elves.

"Whichever is best with a bow, use that to kill their bowmen. Whichever is best with a blade, go with Kairon and cut their numbers down as fast as you can."

Sigurd moves with purpose down the hallway, like an avalanche given life and flesh. He grips the massive blade by the hilt and feels that surge for battle pulse through his veins again. That pig of an Imperial was still speaking, still talking, and his shouts made the Norden grit his teeth. He readied himself by the door, looking to the others for a moment to ensure that they were ready. He had fought along spellcasters before, some needed a bit of time to prepare their most potent magic and some took that time to ensure that Sigurd was an avatar of wrath.

"Open the doors quietly, elf. Let me see where they stand and I'll engage the worst of them." Sigurd murmured, the eagerness for violence evident in his tone.

Sigurd is easy to bot if necessary; rage and go attack the greatest seeming threat. He will fall back to protect the weaker ones if necessary though. Once he is in melee, he'll enter in Powerful Stance to increase his damage up just that much more. He'll also try to beeline towards spellcasters, taking AoO if he feels confident he can take the damage.

Sigurd would grin as the man's irritation became known and those cold eyes meeting Sigurd's. The Norden would lean back for a moment before a wide grin spread across his face, his features lightening up considerably.

"Good, that is very good. I like you, boy. You may come." He said with a laugh, clapping him upon the shoulder before turning away towards the continued hallways. The others seemed interested in bringing him along, outside of the slight irritation that was Idana, and another body that could wield a blade and kill a man or beast was a welcomed thing. "Worst case, we'll just eat your food when you freeze to death. Come, let us get ready to move."

Sigurd would gather his supplies from the dead, whispering in Norden a small prayer in battle. A commemoration to the dead for their valor and for their souls to pass on quickly to their reward or punishment. Not all Imperials were pompous asses, just most of them.

"I will take this extra vial of healing, my strength sacrifices defense and I will be weathered by many blows." He states to the others, slipping them along his hip. The greatsword, now clean of gore, seems to glimmer in the torchlight. He waits for the others by the door the elves went down, awaiting their report as well as listening to Daerdryn and the young man speak.

Sigurd listened to the others as the elves scouted ahead, a scoff coming from him as the young Imperial explained his situation. It could be interpreted as disgust from his weakness but it wasn't truly that. Not all men were warriors, not all women would stay at home and cook, clean, and secure the home. The Imperials sent their children to foreign lands to die in their name, to bleed out and be forgotten. Yet when he asked to join them, his eyes narrowed and he stood up, clearing his throat and nodding with Idana.

"He did not wish to fight with his men, he would slow us down perhaps or flee when we could use a readied blade." Sigurd moves around till he can see Daedaelus and look him square in the eye. It was a long pause for a moment before he shook his head. "No. He looks frail, too much of his mother's milk." He'd turn away and give a grin to Idana. Sigurd would wait to see how the young man reacted. He'd need to be fierce if he was going to survive with them and he'd need to prove it.

Indeed but that felt a little...abusive. Sigurd just wants to escape.

Sigurd is a heavy armor user. My hope is to go and get my hands on some delicious full-plate at some point.

I'll happily take two potions for that exact reason, Sigurd will be the one getting hurt frequently.

Sigurd will be taking a belt pouch, a bedroll, one full waterskin, a flint and steel, two things of rope, and five torches.

I'll be going through his encumbrance soon and get that all figured out. He'll be carrying a lot but he is a big, strong man :D

Hey there folks!

My girlfriend is coming up to visit me this Monday so I'll be online less for the next two weeks. I'll try to meet the "one post per day" as best as I can but feel free to bot Sigurd if I slow things down.

Sigurd listens to the women idly as he goes through one of the ruined bodies beside him. The poor man's face twisted in agony, frozen in death forever. There was a chuckle from the Nord, as he pulls off a bottle tinted red and smells vaguely of burnt cinnamon.

"I was lucky, didn't break the bottle." Looking to the others, he would nod. "I'm taking this one, we should divvy the rest while the elves are scouting ahead.

He would pop the cork and take a deep drink of it, letting the taste slip down his throat while his wounds closed that much more.

Healing: 1d8 + 1 ⇒ (3) + 1 = 4

There was only the ache in his muscles now from the battle, giving a grin to Sigurd's face as he took the man's waterskin as well. Never could have enough of those when you weren't sure how far you had to travel.

Sigurd breathed a bit deeper, feeling the wounds begin to close and the worst of his cuts growing more shallow by the second. His eyes flickered to Idana, no longer the stormy grey they once were but bright and mirthful.

"Thank you, daughter of Winter. May the next battle have more of their blood spilled than ours." He made no comment at Daerdryn and Kieran's comments, but there was a slight look of distaste on his face. It was good to be idealistic, certainly, but that wasn't the truth of the battlefield. They were all dogs, just some of them had the bigger bite and bark.

He moved to the downed soldier who had received the druid's kindness, watching as the strange and slightly addled girl straddled across his chest and stared down at him. What a lucky boy, to still be alive and then wake up to a pretty sight.

Once there, he'd scavenge from the soldiers any waterskins he could find to begin washing the excess blood off of. Looking to Daerdryn, he'd toss one or two of them her way. "You're covered in it. You'll want to clean up." She had been on the other side of the man he chopped down the middle and was just as bloodied as he was in the end.

He'd laugh at the notion of bleeding out, taking the rag and wiping the blood that he could off of his form. The truth was that he was coated with it, bloodied and dirty. He'd hiss lightly whenever he reached one of the sword wounds, his hands compressing upon it for a moment to slow the blood-flow down.

"I should be fine. I will just need to exercise more caution next time. They were far more skilled than I gave them credit for." The injuries were gratuitous and unnecessary yet Daerdryn and Kieran wanted to save the cowardly soldier and Sigurd was deciding whether he pitied the poor boy or wanted him to just shut up.

"Search the bodies. Perhaps we'll be fortunate and some died with those healing salves upon their body. I could use a drink from one, the strike through my leg burns."

The last man fell and Sigurd would look about frantically, looking for that next attacker, before he would finally begin to calm down. A deep breath left him and he'd reach down, taking a rag from one of the dead men before sitting down and cleaning his blade of their blood.

He watched as Daerdryn moved to take care of the dying men, nodding towards her. "You're too kind to the dogs. They deserve their fate." He looked over at Olyenna, grinning through the blood that coated his face.

"You ain't bad with those blades. If we don't die, we'll need to spar." He looked at his own wound, grumbling for a moment before he shook his head. "Need to find heavier armor..."

Dude...the dice is being terribly mocking of you right now. I feel your pain. <3

Posting here because I don't want to clog the gameplay up too much. I totally agree, Sigurd would definitely be a metalhead. Now I'm working on making a metal playlist for when I am writing posts for the character. >.>

More cuts, more wounds, the slices through the chainmail beat against Sigurd and his impressive. One catches across his face before another stabs through the meat of his leg, pulling a cry of pain from the raging man. He stumbles for a bit, the greatsword lowering as his vision blurs for a moment. It almost appears as though the mighty warrior will crash downwards to the ground, though his voice rumbles out from underneath.

"Is that it? Is that all your weak limbs can muster for me?" Underneath that bloodied cheek are stormy, fierce blue eyes that seem more beast than man at the moment. "Be glad. Your mothers will not have a chance to see how disgraceful their sons were in their last moments!"

The greatsword swings quickly and suddenly as the barbarian continues to fight on despite his injuries, aiming for one of the men flanking them and whichever one was closest towards the frailer escapees.

Power Attack: 1d20 + 10 ⇒ (10) + 10 = 20
Damage: 2d6 + 12 ⇒ (2, 6) + 12 = 20

The greatsword splits the man in half, spilling gore and innards upon the floor. The man's death only seems to embolden the barbarian.

"FOOLS! I'LL TEACH YOU TO FEAR THE NAME WARBORN!"

That's if he dies. I feel confident he dies. If not, then I just yell loudly and angrily :D. Seriously though, I'm hurt. Heal me please? <3

Sigurd watches the lieutenant fall over onto the ground, twitching as the electricity flowed through his form. There was only a moment of respite as the other soldiers rallied forward, striking and attacking. Two of them reach around him, using their combined efforts to strike against him. The blade caught against his flesh, drawing a red line but doing little to deter his wounds.

"Like the stings of bees, you all are! Pathetic!" He roared, his eyes focusing in on one of the men that were going after Daerdryn. The mighty blade lifts into the air as he cries out in rage.

"HOW DARE YOU IGNORE ME!" The blade comes down with the strength of an avalanche, hoping to split the man in two.

If possible, I'll try to 5ft step out of flanking and flank the target. I'll activate Powerful Stance as well.

Power Attack: 1d20 + 10 + 2 ⇒ (12) + 10 + 2 = 24
Damage: 2d6 + 11 + 1 ⇒ (1, 5) + 11 + 1 = 18

Latin will work great for me as well, I much rather get a consensus. Just don't translate it back or it will get all kinds of ridiculous lol.

The lieutenant stabs the man and draws back a blade red with blood and threatens Sigurd, bringing an almost malevolent grin to the warrior's face. Olyenna charges into the room with him and he grins, rushing towards the lieutenant.

"YOU CHOOSE POORLY!" His voice booms like thunder as the greatsword swings with terrible speed and strength, aiming to cut the man down.

I am entering my rage now. I'm guessing he is more than 5ft away so I can't 5ft step and activate my powerful stance. If I am, add +1 to damage.

Power Attack: 1d20 + 10 ⇒ (17) + 10 = 27
Damage: 2d6 + 11 ⇒ (6, 2) + 11 = 19

Sweet. You get to appreciate how terrible Google translate is. Then again, it is also absolutely free so...I can't complain too much. :P

Sigurd moves quicker as he hears the man begging for his life, for his people to flee, and the anger growing in the voices of the others. Looking back towards Kieran, he gives a small nod before looking at the other, quieter folk behind him.

"I suppose it is time to make introductions, then." And the armored warrior begins to pick up the pace. Chain bounces with each step as he gets faster and faster, rushing almost towards where those men were. If there was a door in the way, his foot would rise to kick right above the handle to smash it open. If not, he would charge in with a roar and hopefully the others behind him.

"Afíste ton ísycho, boreíte deiloí!" He shouts in Imperial, eyeing the scene and moving to strike down the first man who bears a weapon.

I used Greek for Imperial and I used the phonetic version rather than the actual letters. If you want to use something else, no worries :D

The man grins at Idana's comments, a low chuckle leaving him before he nods. "On a good day. Sounds like a good night at the tavern." He listens to the others describe what they could and the truth was that he didn't really get what Idana and Daerdryn could do. Idana did things with the cold and winter, Daerdryn did things with lightning and metal. Elyana was about the spirits and the dead while her sister Olyena was simple and upfront like he was in their specialty. Kieran's explanation was one that left the Barbarian curious. Anyone could fight good with a stick in their hand and anyone could throw a left hook pretty solidly. He'd have to see the man fight to get a better idea around his vague words.

Perception: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (11) + 7 = 18

"Imperials. They're arguing over whether they should flee or not. It sounds like things are going to come to a head."

Am I That Clever?: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (10) + 1 = 11

Sigurd will suddenly grow a cunning grin, looking back at the others.

"Can any of you create sounds? If we can trick them into thinking we're those beasts, we can get them to flee. Conserve our strength."

As Daerdryn moves forward, so will Sigurd. He tries to move quietly, keeping the sound of his armor shuffling as minimal as possible as he draws the greatsword off of his back.

Stealth: 1d20 - 2 ⇒ (3) - 2 = 1

Nailed it.

The elves were not wrong with their fear and apprehension, Sigurd had heard stories of necromancers, witches, and the brutality of hags. These girls could be dangerous, deadly, and truly wicked even. Yet they seemed to strive against it yet embraced that it was part of them. Such a fine line to walk, it was a line that Sigurd could respect.

Sigurd would watch the others as they explained what they could do, remaining quiet until eyes were finally upon him. He smirked a cocky grin, lifting his chin proudly.

"I am a proud son of Nordhelm. What is it that you think I do?" He was there with a giant sword, heavy armor, and bristled with muscles. Subtlety was not his specialty, gratuitous violence and glory were his past times.

Sigurd's eyes widen as the spirits seem to come into being, jumping almost as the two that are nearby them. He watches them carefully as Elyana goes through identifying each and every one of them. It was like a child naming their toys and, despite the strangeness of it, Sigurd could not keep a grin from growing upon his face.

"May you live in interesting times..." He murmurs to himself, wondering what his ancestors would be thinking of him right now. He gave a wink towards the one that was supposedly Elsbeth, a challenging glare to the one that called himself Manny. Or she called Manny. The details didn't really matter. They would all disappear from view soon after and Sigurd would nod a little, clearing his throat.

"Well...color me a believer, Elyana. You should be careful though, showing such...gifts...could be dangerous. Your sisters, I'm sure, keep you safe enough. No need to test them any further." There was a sense of understanding growing from the mighty warrior from the North, though he was still wary to some degree. Now was not the time for fear though, it was a time for action.

That works for me too! I am good for that if people want.

Sigurd will happily take either the second from the front or the second from the back. Either position guarantees a chance at sweet and glorious combat.

Sigurd smiled at the man, looking at the quarterstaff within his hand. "What a weak weapon! Is the man going for a walk?" Yet he remembered the warning from some of his raiders that he fought along side with. Be wary of those who disregard armor and weapon yet walk like a warrior, they are trained in old and dangerous techniques and can break a man's jaw as easily as a mace could. The snide grin faded away and he would mentally remark to watch him carefully.

The...display...that Elyena showed as she spoke to one of her spirits drew a concerned look from him for just a moment. The sisters had been helpful, the girl was even kind if a bit simple, but he had been raised with the stories of witches and hags. They bear strange markings, their fingernails were too sharp, they were certainly no human he had ever seen before. They spoke like witches, controlled the elements like witches, it would take time to see if they would be like their terrible origins or if there was something more to them. Yet he could respect their shared bond, the closeness of family was something he had longed for and missed terribly. How long had it been since he felt his's mother's arms around him in an embrace of love? How long had it been since he fought and wrestled with his cousins? No, he could not fault them there, they stood against the world and he would not be another cold shoulder when they seemed interested in joining him.

The blonde woman who he had made his pledge to, she was quite the beauty as well and had a sternness to her that a matron should. She'd make a fine wife to someone and perhaps, if he was fortunate, he could work his way into becoming such a candidate. The Warborn name should not end with him, after all.

The hug is sudden and fierce and for those that can see the warrior's face, the man seems to actually blush for a moment. The red on his cheeks are hidden by the thick scruff of his beard and he nods, not saying another word that could break that stern control that keeps the wetness of her tears. He then moves to the door, keeping an eye and ear out of any oncoming Imperials or Orcs that may have been seeking shelter from the beasts.

Same, let me know if anything is wrong or incorrect. :D

"An enemy of the Imperials is a friend of mine." Sigurd says, straightening up as he pushes off the wall, nodding towards Aayeh. "Let us not waste anymore time then, before those beasts bring the whole fortress down." He stops for just a moment, looking towards the lithe man besides him. "No offense, my friend." It seems being a escapee with the barbarian is an easy way into his friendship.

He would walk towards Daedryn, who is still staring at her newfound youthful appearance. To the barbarian, who had not the time to truly study her features, he seems to have no reaction other than thinking that it was a shame that the fog rose so soon.

"Daedryn, when we're free of here, I would wish to help you find your children. I will not let such a worm of a man do harm to them. I swear, I'll take his lifeblood if he brings them harm." The words are solemn and certain, a somber tone in them as he ensures that he holds the Norden woman's stare before moving off towards wherever the elves begin to move to.

As Elyana stripped nude, Sigurd cast a glance over but in fact seemed to be bothered little by it. She was a beautiful woman, dangerously so with the sisters she kept company with. He only watched for a moment before continuing to undress, the tattoos upon his form being laid bare for all to see. He was massive, even by the standards of the Norden, and appeared to be a man in his prime now that he was out of the dim light of the prison cells. The soot, dirt, and grime seemed almost to compliment his form rather than take away from it.

There was almost a chuckle as the fog began to fill the room, the barbarian stopping what he was doing. Just because the elves had rescued them didn't mean they were really here to save them, it didn't mean the Imperials couldn't come in from another way. It was only when he heard the ringing of armor being donned that he continued dressing, no longer the naked man with the large sword.

He looked more comfortable in the heavy chainmail than he did out of it, the helmet and shields left alone. He didn't wish to be confused for their number and wished for a more traditional helmet of his own kind. Yet he could not deny the lighter make of the chainmail, the smith in him appreciating the skill it took to make it.

Sigurd would take a moment to breathe, exhaling the burning ash that had singed his lungs. His eyes searched the armory and immediately, the massive sword upon the wall called his attention. Grabbing it and lifting it with ease, there were a few quick strokes with masterful precision before he nodded.

"Not bad...for an Imperial blade." He murmured, grabbing a dagger as well and slipping it into his belt. A longbow was next upon his list before he went and grabbed a quiver and arrows.

The next one his list was proper protection. The chainmail was the next upon his form, covering the exposed muscles with the protective covering of metal.

"I agree with Idana, that would be a nice tale to hear." Sigurd murmured as he gathered a pack together to escape this dangerous place.

I'm taking an explorer's outfit, a masterwork backpack, furs, cold weather gear, blanket, a tent, a cooking kit, an empty waterskin, a full wineskin, and a week's worth of rations. He'll also take some lantern oil and a lantern as well. I'll transfer the equipment to the character sheet momentarily.

Stealth was not Sigurd's specialty, the sound of battle all around him made his blood boil. It called him to join in the battle, the bloodshed, but now was not the time. The time would come, the time would certainly come, but not yet.

When the massive creatures land upon the fortress, those terrible roars ringing out, Sigurd felt a pang of something he rarely felt. Fear. These were creatures he had never seen before and part of him was in awe and terrorized by their sheer existence. The flames steal his breath as he gazes upon the carnage they leave behind; seared bodies that are burned beyond recognition. Neither Orc nor Imperial was spared in the end, all was burned, and that surge of adrenaline ran through him.

"What a time to be alive..." Sigurd murmur, his attention focusing on that door across the way. It was a short distance but terribly far considering the battle raging around them.

Sigurd began to spring across the way, not hesitating any longer than needed. He had come to far to die among the nameless soldiers, to be forgotten so easily. Grabbing a dead man and using him as a shield, the torrent of flame that came from one of the great beasts charred his flesh and singed the beard of the barbarian but still he would not be stopped.

An orc came charging, screaming in a battlerage with a spear thrusting towards him. Grabbing the edge, the mighty warrior was pushed back against one of the carts that burned around them. There was a moment as the spear's point pushed closer towards his throat, eliciting a roar of defiance from Sigurd. Another stroke of luck came, as a series of arrows crashed into the orc's back, striking him down. Tossing the body to the side, Sigurd rushed that last bit of distance to make it towards the door.

A new warchief was never good news, even if they all got out of here alive. It meant more war with the orcs, at least business would still be good once he was free of this prison. Sigurd would rise and follow the elves out, only stopping for a moment when those roars echoed out from the storm.

"Never heard a roar like that before..." He murmured to himself, following the others through the prison. His hands longed for the comfort of a weapon's hilt and he was more than eager to exact some vengeance on the fools who thought they'd make an example of him.

Sorry folks, fighting a cold I think.

Sigurd chuckled as the sisters spoke of speaking to the orc tribes, a grim smile on his face. "They are not likely the tribes that frequent the Smithhold. Those ones have learned to treat us with respect and to use the fine weapons as trade. The others...take to the more classic ways." When Daerdryn asked him if he could break his chain, he looked back up towards the wall with a look of determination.

"I do not know, but I will try. I will not die like a chained dog, awaiting death!" And thus he began to pull hard on those chains again, feet pressing into the wall even as the Imperials came down the hallway intent on killing their captives. He let out a roar of defiance only to have it cut short when the Imperials' throats are slit. A grin comes upon his face as the elves muse about their predicament, a chuckle leaving him.

"The Gods provide, it seems. Free us then." He has his own worries about what the elves wish for but that can wait. For now though, survival was the most important thing right now. Once his chains were released, he would stand and rub at his wrists.

"It is good to be free. Is there more of your kin here? Has the armory been secured?" He missed the secure feeling of heavier armor upon his skin and the cool comfort of heavy steel within his hands. With nothing else, he'd pick up one of the longspears that the Imperials had and weigh it in his hand. "It'll do." He thought to himself, missing the sweet simplicity of his weapon of choice.

Sigurd was enjoying a pleasant dream, a dream that brought him far away from this dark and dreary prison and back to his lost home with Smithhold. He ran through a memory of his home, training along with his father before he tried to play the game of politics and lost it all. It was a joyous time, a time when the name Warborn meant something.

The sound of Thunder brought him out of his unconscious state, the Barbarian stirring awake and the sound of battle all around him. He listened for a moment, sitting up as the sounds of combat rang through the air.

Perception: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (11) + 7 = 18
Linguistics: 1d20 ⇒ 11
Kn: Local (Untrained: 1d20 - 1 ⇒ (12) - 1 = 11

"Great...we don't get to burn to death, we get to be enslaved and murdered by orcs." He grumbles, seemingly more upset that he is chains and unable to fight than the fact that they'll try to murder him.

Sigurd growls, hearing the man's foul words. If only these chains were a bit stronger. If only they reached a bit farther. Tomorrow, before they get the opportunity, he'll try to kill that man. He'll show them that the Norden do not cave to such cowardly acts and how fierce they can be when push comes to shove.