Of Birds and Bears (Randall x Brunhild)

The border of the Halidom. A treacherous mountain region, where few people tread with delight. A sprawling, unkempt region, where the frills of civilized city life are dreams of the sun-bleached peasantry who tend crops day and night, all in the hopes of an empty life; but it is not so. It is a region filled with strife and bloodshed, where brigands raid and ransack villages, slaughtering all who oppose them.

Yet, sometimes, there are a few "good" hearts. Rather; simply not as bloodthirsty. There would be a loose assortment of various militiamen and mages, yet among them would be a specific man. This man would be known as Randall; Crying Eagle to some, but to those close to him, he bore the status of a leader. Someone so talented in commanding and fighting, that he rarely bore the loss of a single man on the field of battle. That is why they followed him. They knew, every one of them, that under his banner, he would lead them to prosperity.

They maintained a vigilant watch over villages they considered theirs. They were more a band of warriors, keeping hold of their homelands, than they were bloodthirsty, savage, ruthless barbarians. However, under proper circumstances, they more than certainly were.

Howls of fury and pain alike loosed themselves amidst the rocky peaks and grassy knolls. Axe, spear, and sword all clashed as men, some armor-clad and others dressed in naught but a leather jerkin, ran across the field of battle enduring blows that would fell ordinary peasants in a single stroke. Spell and arrow were slung across the battlefield, burning bodies and piercing flesh with the strangest ease. A volley was launched, all directed toward a lone figure darting across the battlefield. He lunged and leapt through the crowd of arrows, sprinting into a nearby village -- it wasn't one of his. Not yet. Now, however, was not the time for conquest. Rival bands had been threatening his territory -- something he did not smile upon. In a way, it was a toe-for-toe, leg-for-leg brawl, of which he would live through.

Racing through the village gates, gleaming waraxe in hand, he ducked behind a stone hut as arrows chinged against stone walls and whistled through the air. The villagers had already retreated into the huts in fear. He peered around the corner of the hut, coming eye-to-eye with an enormous, muscular warrior, baring axe and sword. One, a dark steel; the other, a lustrous metal not unlike his own axe. He stood, and faced the threat. It was clear immediately who was the larger of the two; Randall almost seemed small compared to this goliath of muscle and flesh. He bore his teeth, flashing a blade of sharp, gray steel. It was enormous; almost as tall as Randall himself. He leapt at Randall, crashing into the dirt and stone of the ground as the ever-nimble Randall rolled out of the way. He was old, frail. His joints and bones creaked and groaned as the stress worked its way through his body, ultimately shooting through his legs as he stood. He flashed his twisted axe for a brief moment -- whipping through the air, perfectly slicing through the colossus's steel cuirass, tearing into his flesh as blood split onto his axe's blade, becoming keener, sharper, ready for another taste of the crimson liquid.

The goliath recovered, twisting his body and his torn, broken cuirass until he stood again on the ground, almost a total foot taller than Randall. His massive gray blade sliced into his body in an instant, a flash of steel preceding a burst of red. All across his chest, a massive wound reared its ugly head -- he needed help, but, already occupied with a fight, he could not possibly apply bandages -- or even vulnerary to himself. He threw himself at the brute again, slicing into his body, rending bone, wrecking muscle -- the brute was already weak, prone to attack. Randall dealt a killing blow, cutting into the flesh of his body with such force that blood and gore spilt over the next ten feet of ground. But, he himself was already on the ropes, hanging onto life by a thread -- hopefully, he could gather himself within in the next few moment, otherwise he would be finished.

The village was in an uproar. Criers ran about the town, warning of the coming bandit horde. Families boarded up their windows and doors, squeezing into the nooks and crannies of their homes for safety. Arrows flew from the coming crowd to the town walls, any closer and they would start falling into the village. The church was in a bustle, beginning prayers all among the pews targeted at village safety. There stood Brunhild, war-torn and silent, folded hands deep in prayer. She was grim, knowing in her heart that she would need to treat many wounded this day.

"If it weren't for that maniac with the axe, we wouldn't have seen them coming." Said the friar. "We're closing the gates as soon as possible. They've got the winch going. . ."

"Heard he took quite a hit." said the reverend. "Had he not bumbled in and got cut we wouldn't be prepared."


". . ." Brunhild stayed silent. She thought about their words, however.

With little else said or done, Brunhild sneaked out the back of the church. She mounted her horse, giving him a stroke on the neck. He whinnied as Brunhild undid the fence gate. Brunhild sighed, today wasn't starting off very well. She rode through the town and watched as villagers doled out arms to each other and prepared for the wall to be breached. As Brunhild had instructed, they were all prepared for combat even if the town was overall secure. Brunhild watched men scatter about with wood-cutting axes and pitchforks. She hoped she wouldn't have to see another village burn down. Her hopes rode on the security of that man they spoke of.

Brunhild rode up to a party of four of the Temple Knights. They were draped in green cloaks and clad in red armor. Two of them were lightly armored soldiers, and the other two were a mounted cavalier and a heavy armored tank of a man. Brunhild nodded to them.

"Stay with these people. This one taketh leave. Dost thou follow, the shall be hurt. I goeth alone." Brunhild quietly notified her comrades. They didn't understand, but they had faith in her ability to heal. She could heal herself if she got hurt, as well.

Brunhild rode to the slowly closing gate. This was it, she would be separated from the others for good if she left now. She galloped to the perimeter gates without a moment of hesitation. She raised her staff high above her head. One arm rested on the reigns. Brunhild meditated a prayer to the gods. With a grim silence she begged for the health of the man. She wished for his safety knowing she could help protect the village with him.

Brunhild looked down the road at the man who was hurt. Randall was covered in a large circle of green light. Words of prayer spiraled around him. The words clasped together and circled him in rings. Randall lurched as the wounds on his body were affected. It was a delayed, but powerful surge. Slowly his body came back to health all at once. But Brunhild didn't watch, she was trotting toward him without looking.

"Come, we must meet them in battle. The gates are almost closed. We have no time to spare!"

Floating sigils and characters danced in his vision. Red stained his eyes; it stung like the sandstorms that occasionally whipped around the mountains. He shut his eyes tight, like a vice, only to find himself feeling totally rejuvenated within an instant.

He opened his eyes. The massive blow across his chest was no more. Remnants of sacred magic littered the air. He could feel it. An empowering energy filling the air, slowly but steadily. It was obvious, at least to him. He stood up, picking himself up from the ground, laying eyes upon the corpse of the goliath immediately. Something wasn't right about him; there was something deeper... something behind his eyes. Like his movements weren't really his. He shuffled through the corpse, removing his breastplate. Around his neck was a small chain, its links fine and delicate. A plate attached to the chain identified the mass of muscle and flesh as a Plegian foot soldier.

"He's not just some bandit. Plegian. Military, at least, as far as I can tell," he concluded, looking up at the mounted healer. She was already almost to the gates. He lugged up his axe, snatching the chain from the man's neck. It was time to reengage in the fight; a war was more like it. It was destined to follow, if the Halidom ever found out about it. Clenching it in his fist, he ran through the gates just in time, following the thus far enigmatic healer through the gates and back onto the mountain.

A brigade moved onto their location. A dark haired man sitting atop a silky brown horse led the group; he wielded an iron blade, with a spearhead forged from glass resting atop a wooden pole resting on his steed. Behind him was a pair of mercenaries, and a small group of archers following behind. They numbered six in total; three-to-one, comparatively. Randall knew he could do this. The horseman charged first, lashing Randall's hide with his iron sword. It stung, fiercely. Wicked, sharp edges tore into his flesh; it was clear his blade was more than ordinary.

It was Randall's turn now. Retribution was all that filled his mind; and soon, it would be his. He lashed out wildly at the horseman. A near miss! He piloted his horse with expertise, evading the attack deftly. Randall roared with anger, as the two swordsmen closed in upon him. He was ready. Focused. War was like the current of a river; if you threw in a few stones, it would change the tide dramatically. Fortunately for him, he had more than a few simple stones; he had an entire horse and someone who could channel healing energies with ease.

One swung his enormous longsword down onto his body. It landed across his body, the blade thrashing into his flesh. His crimson blood spilt across its greenish glass blade, but retribution was his: his sharp, amazingly sharp waraxe lacerated his opponent's flesh, sinking deep into his torso. Randall pushed harder into his body. Flesh tore, bone cracked, and gore split onto the ground. The mercenary's corpse dropped onto his axe. He flung it out of the way, into the course of the next mercenary's wide swing. His blade came clean out of his grasp, the nearly 200-something pound body of his comrade slamming into his side. He pulled his enemy in, rushing him from the side. He missed. Gore flew from his axe into his eyes, and he hesitated at the last second.

Brunhild trotted back around. She had pulled her horse in a circle to avoid enemy fire and to prepare a staff. She equipped Laevateinn and rode over to Randall. With a small tap on the head, she soothed his injuries. The red staff gleamed as she slid it back into the harness. With a flourish, she pulled out a silvery staff.

"Thine haste is for notte." Brunhild announced.


Riding quickly through the ranks, Brunhild aimed for the cavalier. The staff in her hand gleamed, a simple rod with a ball at the end. She swung it through the air toward the cavalier. There rang a clank as the man was pulled from his horse and onto the ground. He dusted himself off, furious. He strode over with his allies to attack the pair. But Brunhild was still riding past them. The air got cold suddenly, a chill ran down the cavalier's spine. He turned his head slowly to see Brunhild riding up behind the archers with a porous wooden staff in hand.

"You wouldn't!" cried the cavalier.

Brunhild circled her horse behind the archers who were taking aim at Randall. She raised her staff skyward and hoped that something nasty would happen. The right-most archer sported a wry grin as he tilted to the left. He let fly an arrow not at Randall but at his fellow cavalier. The man fell back with an oomph, pierced in the shoulder. His lip quivered as he reoriented himself. He was disturbed all the way down to his heart.

"You witch! Pox-ridden foul!" the cavalier exploded.

"Soldiers of fortune, I may ask that thou reconsider and hiketh back to Plegia." Brunhild suggested.

"Nay! It is you who will reconsider! Surrender to us before we take your head, hag!" the cavalier replied.

The cavalier snapped the arrow shaft to to make it less awkward. His horse was bucking wildly behind him. He turned and snapped his hand onto the horse's rear. With a scared whinny the horse stood still. The cavalier re-mounted himself onto the horse. Brunhild smirked as the soldier showed his tough side. She knew a few more magic tricks would shake him up. But the archers had turned their focus to her and began to fire.

"Have at them, stranger." Brunhild said to her comrade while avoiding arrows on horseback.

Guzol marched across the battlefield, his weighty iron spear in hand. He hustled over to Boris and Jacques, engaged against a handful of foes. Boris's enormous sword, as black as coal and rectangular in shape, crashed through a Knight's armor, piercing with great ease. It was almost like butter. Jacques-Harald loosed a bolt of thunder with a crashing boom trailing behind it. Its magical energies trailed through the Knight's shining black armor, crashing into his body as he fell backwards, dead.

Pierce was a stones throw away, being assaulted by quite a few Fighters. They garbed themselves in hard leather jerkins, their axes mighty and gleaming. They were physically huge, their muscles jerking and contrasting with each movement they made, but they simply were not fast enough to lay a finger on Pierce. His brown hair flowed behind him as he moved faster than any of them could see; he appeared to flicker out of existence for a brief moment before landing behind one of the fighters, blood spurting from his neck as he body fell limp onto the ground. The crimson liquid dripped from the tip of his glass scimitar as he struck a pose, poising for another assault onto the group. One dropped. Two dropped. Yet, Pierce had not moved even an inch. Arrows stuck out from their backs, maing the culprit clear.

Up in the skies, Ophelia served as a sentinel. She flew up high, having a clear view of the entire battlefield. The knolls, the rugged mountainside, even her comrades down below. She observed a line of enemy archers, wary of her pegasus's weakness, as it was quickly broken and scattered by two of her teammates: Guzol charged the front, his skill with a lance or spear being nothing to scoff at. He pierced through their hides as slowly, one by one, they fell. But it wasn't from Guzol. Daggers flew from the shadows, piercing through their cheap leather vests and puncturing their guts and torsos, a few landing lodged within the necks of their opponents. She held tight to her glass javelin, a chain linked to it as she flew in the skies. A panicked mercenary fought against Boris, intimidated at the alarming rate he and his comrades were being picked off. Of what had been a regiment of sixty units, only thirty remained.

She flew low, closing in. Her pegasus's hooves almost skidded along the ground. She focused. Intent on hitting her mark, she hurled her javelin with an alarming mount of force as it collided into his arm, disabling him. "Ophelia! We've been through this!" Boris shouted as he swung his enormous blade around, chopping deep into the side of the enemy mercenary as she pulled her lance back with its chain. Its links were fine and graceful, like a pegasus knight.

"We've got bigger things to deal with," interrupted Pierce. "We got separated from boss. We need to find him," he continued, sheathing his scimitar. Guzol and Vivian both approached from the same direction while Margaret came walking down from a bit of foliage cover where she'd been shooting from.

"Excellent tactics as usual, Guzol," Jacques kidded. While the rest were quarreling, he was one to be playful.

Ophelia interrupted their conversations, "There's a village a way south of here, almost off the mountains entirely. There were good number of troops there," she continued, her pegasus whinnying, "I bet that's where he is. But, since we got separated, I'm not sure how well he can hold his ground down there by himself. I'll scan the rest of the mountains for any more attackers," she finished, taking off on her horse, its white wings shimmering in the sunlight.

Guzol shifted uncomfortably, "I don't like the looks of this. There's not alotta knights 'round these parts. If we're lucky, he's a bandit who just happened upon some poor sap's armor, but the worst case? He's plegian," he finished, their group beginning to make its way down the steep mountain slopes.
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Randall loosed a frightening laughter as he smashed into the already wounded cavalier with his axe. Nothing could save them now. They had stoked the fire, and now they were getting burnt. Arrows flew around the battlefield, but it was like a dance to Randall. Arrows whizzed and shot through the sky, ineffective against him. He swung around, grabbing hold of the cavalier's foreguard as he swung his blade at him. He kept swinging himself around, twiling, until he had totally dismounted the cavalier. Another blow bit into his armor, flesh and bone, finally subduing the weakened man: was this all that Plegia could muster? Could they send no one stronger? Randall scoffed, one of the two surrounding mercenaries' blades just barely hitting him. He swung back around, plating his axe deep into his torso. These enemies were weak, laughably so. So much so that he was actually laughing!

"Gwarhahahaha, if only they were here to see this!" He roared, the other mercenary's blade striking a blow across his chest. He hadn't hit deep, however; he would be fine-- thunk, thunk. Arrows planted themselves in his body. Two. In his side. He eyed the only archer who currently wasn't fixated upon Brunhild, the troubadour who had saved him -- and perhaps she would do so again soon. Unworried, he hefted his axe yet again, hurling it at the archer. Randall could certainly be called a fiend who deserved death, but he would not find it. Not today, at least. His gleaming axe tore deep into the archer, crunching bone with its impact. The archer's body was hit with such force that he had actually knocked it back, noticeably so.

More units moved onto the field. Soldiers, cavaliers -- knights and wyvern riders, even. It seemed Plegia was finally upping its ante as a trio of dark mages, garbed in black and purple robes, moved onto the battlefield.

The battlefield became loud as the coming enemies trampled toward the pair. Brunhild turned her horse back toward Randall. The pair of archers drew their bows at her. Brunhild raised Laevateinn to the sky and began to heal Randall and herself. She flinched and coughed up blood as arrows began to pierce her torso. She continued trying to heal herself in hopes of counteracting the arrows. She continued healing herself and him. . . and the arrow wounds and the gashes on Randall began to disappear. Brunhild snapped the arrow shafts and finished closing her wounds.

Next was an important step. Brunhild turned her horse back to the archers for a final assault. She raised her well-ranged Wormwood Staff and focused a Berserk spell on one archer at a time. With a little redundancy the pair turned to their allies and knocked their arrows. The archers seethed in anger under the effect of the spell. They aimed down the field at about the level of the knights. This made Brunhild furious. She rode to the archers and put her hands to her head in disbelief.

"Notte the k'nights you TWITS. Aim for yonder wivern! Succumb to thine wrath verily. The skyward beastie cometh." Brunhild barked in frustration.

In the time it took to shout at them, the archers awoke from their spell. The pair turned around and kept their arrows drawn at Brunhild. She clenched her legs around her horse to vent her anger. It seemed like she had to reapply the spell, much to her lament. She clamored for the staff again as she had placed it back before. An arrow flew into her gut as she bumbled with the staff. Brunhild was met with searing pain to her abdomen.

"FORSOOTHE BY NAGA BY GRIMA, MINE WOUND THROETH THUSLY!" she boomed over the din of battle.

One of the archers noticed the heft of the reaction and responded.

"Can you not just cry 'ouch' like a normal person?" he inquired.

Brunhild turned her Berserk Staff back at the archer and filled the rod with her rage and agony. The archer made a face-heel turn. He knocked another arrow and aimed for the wyvern. Brunhild screamed as she struggled for control of his fury. Blood gushed from her mouth as she shrieked. The turmoil of her situation made the staff respond in a faster and more violent way. The archer shuffled his feet and adjusted his aim. He began to scream as well as a throbbing pain assaulted his cranial dish.

The archers finally began loosing arrows at the wyvern. The rider was much closer at this point, though this made the shots more effective. Arrow shafts pierced the wings and torso of the wyvern. The beast let out a droll whine as it flapped toward the ground. Brunhild went for her healing staff again and cast it on herself as she tore the arrow to smaller pieces. She looked toward Randall as she began to close up her wounds.

"Mine comrade wouldst thou disable these bowmen so that we can put a halt to forthwith prickling?"

"If you can keep up with the healing!" He was in great health, now. It was like he'd never been touched at all, in fact -- something he was quick to demonstrate taking aim at the archers, just like she'd requested. With enough luck...

He threw his axe. Maybe, just maybe, he'd manage two. However, at least one casualty was ensured; with as sharp and strangely durable as it was, he had little doubt he'd cleave one of their pretty, little heads right off. He licked his head as he prepared for the eminent bloodbath -- and, as his connected and began to tear through the first archer's neck, Randall saw the sheer terror, the absolute loss of belief, evident in the bowman's eyes. And then his axe came spinning back.

He caught it with ease, already used to it from years of experience. He eyed his next target: a knight whom had approached largely unnoticed. But there were still archers to be slaughtered, killed, maimed -- carnage to be wrought, and havoc to thrive amidst.

But this armored individual would be so much more fun. An insane grin spread across his face, like he had just realized they had no idea who they were actually fighting yet -- but they had. They had realized their opponent's sheer insanity, his broken and deranged mind, and most of all they felt his blood lust in the air. He licked his lips once more, savoring the thought of more and more destruction and death yet to be had.

He was going to enjoy this.

He leapt at the Knight, who tried -- attempted to, at the least - parry his ferocious onslaught with the shaft of his lance. What he wasn't expecting was for the axe to be thrown with such force that it slammed into his armor, cutting into him with such force that he thought himself dead then and there. Even as Randall threw his entire mass against the knight's spear, the Knight struggled to remain stalwart in the heat of battle.

No! We are better than this! He shall know the might of Plegia! The knight continued to chant and spout verse inside of his head, biting through his own tongue to suppress the pain he was feeling, in order to impale that damned demon upon his lance. Anything was better than dying like a coward.

And the Knight's lance surely did find its mark. It landed a solid blow against Randall -- for a moment, he thought to have dealt a fatal blow to the madman he was surely facing. No... "No!" The knight shouted as Randall smashed into the knight's armor with his axe for a final time. He was enjoying this -- more than he ever had! He got to kill Plegian dogs. What was better than watching a wounded animal struggle? Watching the fear of its inevitable demise bleed into its eyes.

"Rrrr!" Randall gritted through closed teeth. "Troubadour!"

"Why not mend my self?" the troubadour asked herself. She cantered her horse, exhausted.

Not a moment was spared. She drew her horse at an angle back toward the fighting as the archers fell off their feet. Tougher than most of the cloth, Brunhild had still taken a staggering blow. She was prepared to fall back at a moment's notice as she came forward to repair the wild man. Her thoughts did shift back however, to her wounds. It was very like herself to sacrifice herself for a stranger. She grasped her strongest staff and cast Wish on the young man. She quickly returned to gripping her chest and trotting away. The massive orb of light blasted into the air and slowly hovered toward Randall. It was not the most reliable spell but it would serve them in the calm after the latest foe had fallen.

"All I need is the slightest herb in my pouch to keep me from death's bale of souls." Brunhild conversed with her horse.

The woman dug around in a small satchel near her waist. A handful of green branches slipped out. Were these even enough to find relief? It wasn't certain. She had heard stories of people who would ease their pain with sweet drinks. Brunhild consumed the medicinal herb, applying it to her wound while chewing much of it. It was too soon to properly remove the remains of the arrow. She prevented further bleeding by leaving it be.

Something swift entered the corner of her eye after she'd finished dressing her wound. It appeared to be... a man holding a knife to his chest and a burlap sack over his shoulder. 'Twas a thief for certain. Likely here to take advantage of the chaos to loot the fallen soldiers and town. Brunhild's strength and confidence came back. This person was a true coward, not even facing pain and death like Randall. She rode past him, as he was not swifter than her mount. She clubbed him lightly in the head with her staff. The man tripped backwards as his head was thrown the opposite direction of his legs. Though he was unhurt, he was left on his back in the weeds.

"Try thine luck stealing while the guard is on watch." she condescendingly boomed to the fallen thief.