Wednesday, May 26, 2010

Storye Tyme: The Rage of Ognark

Who knows if this will be a regular feature? Who the heck knows?? But I figure I could start spewing things and maybe, just maybe you'll be entertained. Or annoyed. Maybe more of the latter.

Ognark viewed the scene before him. Carnage. Absolute carnage. Ognark thought of what he had to do to survive, he thought of his family and friends-- he thought of home. But not his home, nor his friends, nor his family could help him. No, all they would be is a carnage ridden mess if they'd been there. Ognark Thistlespoon let loose a low whistle. He was actually rather impressed with himself. Normally, it was unfortunate tavern patrons across the land of Evarmoore who would fall to his mighty blade, wielded by his mighty arms which ended in mighty fists. Normally, there would be a maiden or two left over-- bar wenches, perhaps-- who would yell things like "ra-pree-shus swine!" at him, expecting a child of The Waystes to understand any of that nonsense. But this time... this time was different. What was different? Ognark thought for a moment. Well, for one thing, the gentlemen at his feet had been killed with one of those stick things that held up a kiosk awning thing. Ognark had not expected some random fellow in the Market Plaza to be so daft-- or was it deft?-- at removing his mighty blade from his mighty fists. That fellow probably didn't expect the blade to instantly kill a near-by mule, but Ognark was digressing a bit. He was then distracted by the cobblestones and how all the blood--so much blood!-- flowed between them. The mighty bipedal mass of meat thought again. How many people had he killed? He tried counting a few times. One, two, three... fifteen, sixteen... twenty, twenty-one?-- it had to be scores. Ognark had trouble counting past the twenties, anyway. He didn't know what a score was, exactly, or how many victims that could represent, but Ognark was quite sure scores of foes littered the plaza. At this moment, the morsose silence was abrubtly shattered.

"Hoy! What is the Seven Hells has happened here? By Flurgstein's enormous balls, this is madness!! You! You there! What has transpired here?"

Ognark saw a man dressed in what he believed to be the city colours yelling to him. The man had black hair, dark eyes and lots of black facial hair. Ognark quit noticing him, because unless he was slaying him or loving him, he cared not for trivial detail.

"Trans... pired?" Ognark let the words flow slowly from his mighty jaws, "I don't think weather has much to do with this, friend."

The man screwed his face into an expression of sincere confusion. "WHAT? Who are you, sir? From where do you hail? And what manner of creature was responsible for this slaughter?"

Ognark took in a deep breath. He then spied another dead body, this one covered in pieces of various fruits. Ah, that's right, he mulled, he had killed that particular fellow with the contents of a fruit cart.

His voice now a proud growl, Ognark spoke. "I would be that port-icular manner of creature, sirrah. 'Tis me who purpose-trated this righteous fury."

The man looked ill. He seemed to be trying to catch his breath.

Ognark continued. "I pray fear you are next, for Ognark Thistlespoon of Yonder Waystes can suffer no fool... uh, fool."

The man whimpered. "But... but why?"

"Prices, really," Ognark huffed, moving his long, jet black hair from his mighty face with a mighty hand, "Now be a nice lad and fetch me axe. It's over there... in that rather portly man's chest."

To be... continued?

No comments: