Role

Chapter 3

The clash of iron, the strong pounding deep within ones chest, hard
breathing as the brawl ends, the taste of blood, some your own and some
the enemies, are traits that every warrior comes to know. The warriors of
legend, those who are known to be the strongest and most fierce in the
land are known as villagers or more well known Battle Ragers. The
mighty men and women whom come to know this village and its battle
share a near indescribable legacy, with many of their tales and
adventures that would inspire even the lowly field-hand to stand proud
and take up arms as though they were a warlord of a mighty army. The
tales one hears often are rooted in truth but many have been so stretched
that they border on fairy tale. One such tale stems from a courageous
warrior who one day falls prey to the spells of a strong dark paladin. This
is his story.

In root from the ocean headed toward the city of Galadon he is taken by
surprise and forced into a magical slumber, submitted to endure plagues,
and curses so dire that they were almost unimaginable. The warriors
body wracked with maledictions where the very strength flees his limbs
and his body convulses at the sheer agony of a horrid plague, lies near
helpless at the hand of his dark assailant. When the battle begins a
stirring within him tells his legs to run and hide. Wicked balls of ice whiz
by his head with bits stinging him as harsh as the frigid wastelands ever
were. Some luck or maybe as fate would have it, he escapes, does his
best to clear his vision and makes use of what weapons he can still
manage to feebly pick up. Now with some arms to defend himself he
moves to a place he believes he can defend and prepares to make a
stand.

Soon his attacker has found him and more hale rains down around him
as he nears his final destination. He arrives at a fortified hillock, a place
where many battles have been fought throughout the ages, the vigilant
massive giant of the battle ragers at his back he digs in for what will be
his last stand. The dark fiend charges again invoking more ice and hale
from the very fabric of the world itself. Passing blows the warrior fights on
with grave injuries, and his diseased body failing him, he just may win,
the thoughts race through his mind. Maybe, just maybe his enemy seems
to be losing blood more quickly that he, he could possibly come out the
victor. He dashes around with what little strength he could muster from
his failing legs and in the most dire of moments he attempts to slam into
his attacker, this was it, it was this or fall, it was going to end now. He
could feel the wind as he rushed toward his target, his aim was true, but
his failing legs would not allow him to continue, he stumbles... At a time
which victory was within his grasp, he had failed, or had he. His enemy
now himself writhing in agony from all the pain this warrior was able to
inflict was attempting to run, and as if compelled by a gazelle he dashed
to safety. The battle was over and the warrior slumps over in exhaustion.
Perhaps he was lucky, maybe it was his fate, who knows why he was
alive when the plague was rotting his body away. He was a victor, maybe
he had won, but just as his legs became fully exhausted his as