Dhaath SplitHorn the Skull-Hunter, Drillmaster of Battle

Role

Chapter 3

A settlement in a clearing, deep within the Hardan woods.

Rudimentary thatched structures house a clan of free roaming Minotaurs, who
survive off the forest. Lacking ties to comfortable civilization within reach
nearby, led by an aged chieftain, governed by loose rules of conduct and with
a history of combat as a way of settling hearth and differences, is the
StoutHorn clan. A crude circle of rites to conduct the goring festivities
which the minotaurs conducted to commemorate everything, from the celebration
of the birth of a minotaur, to mourning the passing of a Sharp StoutHorn or
the festivities of a feast, was the prime landmark of the settlement. Their
pride were their horns, and indeed, in the early barbaric days it was
customary for the minotaurs to charge and gore their neighbours, friends,
relatives or perfectly startled strangers merely as a ritual of greeting.
Those days had passed however, and the days of merely verbally expressing
heartiness and eagerness to gore were in force.

In the hut of the chieftain was delivered, by unnatural means, a wonder baby
minotaur. The baby had a single, powerful horn emerging from its forehead,
more like a centaur rather than a minotaur, the length and girth of which
could put the best pair of horns in the Clan to shame. To the minotaurs this
was an amazement, and a gift from the gods, rather than some freak gene
mutation (since they were not so technologically, and verbally, advanced) and
it was immediately agreed to gore the youngling a few times to annoint him
the heir apparent to the aged chieftain.

Time passed, as it will, and the chieftain was no more. Dhaath, for that was
the name of the Centaur Minotaur, stepped into his place and became the
youthful chieftain of the blissful StoutHorn clan.

Blissful until the Empress of the nearby citadel of civilization received
reports from her arcane elite of entire swathes of the countryside lying
unclaimed, and allegedly harbouring unruly and disorderly criminal elements.
This to some extent was true, since those wanted by the Tribunal would often
rush into the villages and fields of Aturi to escape execution by the
ruthlessly efficient Mounted Guard of the city. But these elements rarely
wandered into the Hardan woods, which presented its own set of dangers, not
the least of them being its zealous druids who were not inclined to look
kindly upon intrusion into their sacred confines. The SoutHorn clan had
always been orderly in nature, and they had their own set of goring laws,
which in a sense were no different from those of civilization.

In a bid "to bring the bliss of order to those barbarians" and "to ensure the
safety of our citizens" and bolstered by the succesful expansion of the
Seantryn docks and the partially succesful urbanization of the Seantryn Bay,
the arcane elite headed by a crescent-shaped dagger wielding cloaked figure,
decided to advice the empress to expand the city to include the lucrative
natural resources of the Hardan woods which awaited her, to trade with and
fund the expansion of the ever growing cities of the eastern continent.

The economic reasons were only the sub plot. The elite magi under the chief
arcane had long studied the arts of manipulation of the anatomy of the
natural-born races. The minotaurs were a rac

Role

Chapter 2

The Bull pawed the ground and began his charge. As always, he exulted in the
power coursing through his limbs, the smoke curling out of his nostrils, his
sharp horn aimed surely at the heart of his horrified target. He felt the
blood rush through his limbs, up his torso, rage in his ears and finally,
blaze in his head seemingly setting the world alight. He sensed more than
felt, the distance closing between him and his gore and renewed fury coursed
through him. And so he charged. But wait.... The world seemed to him to
glimmer even more, as a lamp will flicker just before it dies out, and then a
darkness seemed to fall like a shroud. The mage was merely a few feet away,
and sure as dead, and yet.... The Bull found himself drawn up into the air
seemingly, his enormous momentum fading away and then the world that had been
rushing past began to slow down. He shook his head and snorted, and watched
as the magi's face faded from a look of horror to one of relief, and then,
the Bull sank down.

When he came to, he was tied by a solitary chain in the circle of rites of
his uptorn settlement. He tried to look around, and found none of his
kinsmen. The Seantryn Guard had suffered heavier losses, but then they had
more men. He looked up and saw the magi chief standing there, staring down at
him with contempt, surrounded by the survivors of the Guard. The Bull might
have been able to snap the chain, but he felt despair course through him. Not
for himself, but for the futile loss of life for a battle which had been
thrust upon them unecessarily, and all for what? Just because they wanted to
live free?

The magi chief stepped forward and looked the Bull in the eye and spoke.

"You, the chieftain of the clan, and just an impostor masquerading as a
minotaur. You all present here, do you see this magnificient speciment of a
horn? I will harvest it and present it myself, to the Empress, as a symbol of
our conquest here. And you, Bull, I will let live. For what Pride will you
have left, once your Horn is harvested? The symbol of your eminence, the
reason behind your becoming the chief, and... a reminder of your masquerade.
I can think of no greater punishment for you. Death would be mercy, compared
to the life you will lead. And this life, I grant you."

The magi chief put out his hand, and an axe was placed in it. Knowing little
of using such weaponry, he raised it high above his hand, looking down
contemptously at the kneeling Bull before him. Even as he raised his hands,
he knew he had opened himself up fully to the Bull, and he saw the flicker of
red torch the eyes of the Bull as he let out a snort. He swung his axe
quickly, hoping to complete his act, but he was already too late. The Bull
Chieftain, Dhaath, bounded to his feet in a single graceful leap and erupted
out from the circle towards the mage. The chain restraining him snapped into
two, the whiplash neatly decapiciating an unfortunate seantryn guard. The
Bull was also, however, a fraction of a second late, for just as he drove
himself into the magi, the magi brought down the axe with all the strength he
could muster. The axe neatly sliced through the Bull's horn, rendering it
into two, a whiff of smoke erupting from the tips which chipped outwards into
ominous curls. One side of his horn sliced

Role

Chapter 1

The scene is a war torn village, host to a dozen or so rudimentary thatched
huts of different sizes and shapes, around a blood square. Wooden breastworks
encircle the mound over which the village hosts the war, culminating in an
entrance consisting of wooden gates lit by tall braziers. Between the gates
implacably stands an enormous giant. Your immortal presence bypasses him.

You pause before a hut, stranger looking than most. Two tufts of hay, bound
by twine and forced into a curved shape are posistioned on the top of the
thatch to form a crude pair of horns. You assume it hints at the virility of
the resident, but maybe not. Another feature distinguishing the hut is the
exceptionally dense strands of threaded skulls that shroud the entrance, a
feat matched by few of the other residents seemingly. You stride in
imperviously and survey the minotaur splayed on the floor in front of you,
drooling and snorting in his sleep. The Captain of the Shields.

The room churns dizzily into a sweltering rainbow of colours.

I have a sensation of weightlessness sometimes. My guts lurch erratically. My
tongue lolls around inside my jaws. The gums seem to pry themselves apart and
my teeth vibrate and chatter rapidly. They surge loose and fall out, tumbling
end over end, pieces of stark yellow ivory against the azure blue sky.

An uncomfortable feeling surges in my throat as if I have imbibed
firebreather. The warmth spreads downwards and all of a sudden a radiant
blast of heat strikes me, singeing my hair. The acrid smell of burnt leather
wafts up into my nostrils as the blast knocks me down onto my knees. When the
smoulder settles, I open my eyes. And see a forge.

A dwarf only in name, so enormous is she as she stands silhouetted in the
process of felling the blow. Her arms swell with divine strength and
vitality. Her form is flawless, the poise perfect. Her hammer rivals that of
Thror. She swings the hammer and it falls. On a blessed soul glowing red hot
with purity. The soul succumbs to the bliss, refined and honed. The dwarf
turns and looks at me and mutters an oath. A throbbing pain sears through my
skull and my eyes roll backwards. I pass out, I think.

I see them curling outwards at the tip, a tendril of smoke curling lazily
away, cleaving shiningly into half. The split marches inexorably downwards
until it dies at the end. A structure which is the cause of much pride and
pain, blood and gore, honour and history and ultimately revenge and
redemption. It is painful to watch as they fall away into the abyss, out of
reach of my clumsy hooves. I feel the dwarven goddess at her forge,
contemplate my ebbing vitality with narrowed eyes.

I awake with a soundless scream. My hut is empty. The village is quiet. Too
quiet. I need blood. Of the magi kind....


The Bull snaps to his feet, snorting and stomping, blood and saliva dripping
from his jaws as if he sensed your presence. You watch with bated breathe.

Immortal Comments

PK Gank-O-Meter

PK Wins

PK Statistics

Skill List

Skill List

Title History

PK Wins

PK Wins

PK Wins

PK Wins

PK Deaths

Leveling History

Timeline

Mob Deaths

Edges