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Message: <blockquote data-quote="VicsHacienda" data-source="post: 9708889" data-attributes="member: 6965574">[This entry brought to you by Viggo. Bio follows entry]Oh yes. Viggo. Viggo saw it all.Or most of it. Or enough of it, through the vitreous jelly of one good eye and the psychically inverted echo of his own ribcage. Viggo relays what he sees telepathically to a clerk of the court of Gallo. He has been told to write down everything as it is telepathically relayed to him. The clerk does so because he prefers his organs to remain inside his body. Let us begin his chronicle, written in ink and sweat and a little blood from that one papercut he refuses to treat.[HR][/HR]“The Battle of Gallo’s Fend, as Interpreted Through a Telepathic Link to a Gallo Clerk”It begins, as most moments of war do, with the sky tearing.Feathers. Feathers and bone. Hawk, goddess of femur and fury, draws her bow. Twice. And twice the sky screams. A griffon cartwheels down like a broken marionette, its clavicles no longer cohabiting in harmony. Hawk doesn’t even flinch. She’s adjusting her spine. A pelvic tilt of command. She owns the curvature of this battle.Look at her muscles. Look at that back, shoulders broad from firing that heavy bow. I would like to graft some wings on there. I wonder what kind of wings she would like.Below, Osnald’s knights, so many muscular legs among them, charge. Dashgoban lancers, their arms driven by centuries of wrist memory and halfling luck. They spear through Steppengardian sternums like meat on festival skewers. The enemy reels, vertebrae unstrung, spinal columns in a drama of tragedy. Bones shatter. Blood sprays. Only a few remain upright, their brains defiantly still in the fight, though their bodies clearly filed for resignation.Filthy Billy, I know what you did, nasty Billy! What did you do with the baby Billy?One commander breaks ranks. I saw his calcaneus twitch before the cowardice took him. I marked it. It was artless.Then--poisoned air. Kelkin’s cloudkill billows like an angry ghost. Everyone leaves, except Fafnir. Oh, Fafnir. That orc has lungs like a cathedral. He coughs, but he coughs intentionally. The kind of cough that unsettles stomachs and silences birds. He stays in that miasma like he paid rent on it.I want to meet Kelkin. I’m going to scalp him of his skin, wear it like a costume, and perform the Rocky Horror Picture Show in its entirety while he watches. I’m going to remove his phalanges one by one and force-feed them to him fondue style.Meanwhile, the Gallo dwarves advance. Their bones low and heavy, dense like hardwood roots. Shields raised, tibias locked. Trevor’s squad charges, swinging—not weapons—but expectations. Sadly, expectations miss too. Armor deflects dreams as easily as steel.But there are trolls now. Stupid trolls. Eight feet of knotted cartilage and emotional neglect. They lurch out of Tim’s sleet storm, wet as newborns and just as cranky. I wonder if Trolls have toes. How do their toes know which way to go? Do their toes have brains? I’ll find out.Wait, who the hell is Tim?Fafnir’s elite squad strikes next. Their weapons? Bohemian earspoons, long and sharp and elegant like the medical instrument of nightmares. They pivot. Pivot! Dwarves shouldn’t pivot! But they do. Joints well-oiled, spines supple as serpents. They flank, stab, twist, and the Steppengard commander doesn't see the pikes coming. Not until three pierce his back and he’s crawling away with only willpower still carrying him forward. A trail of blood-stained snow and mud in his wake.Trevor’s squad of Dashgoban knights sees the dwarves under Fafnir’s command doing some acrobatics. Inspired, they charge at the group of Steppengard soldiers who have all dropped their shields, clearly affected by Osnald’s lovelorn spell. They charge in, but clearly confused by the Steppengardians’ strange behavior, miss entirely. They were probably expecting some resistance, but their aim was off, and the Steppengard squad took minimal damage, if any at all. The knights wheeled around and regrouped, shaking their heads in disbelief.Boom!Leona. My flame queen, my alchemist of the aorta. Fireball. It blossoms in the enemy line like a sun screaming through a keyhole. Trolls and cavalry are cooked—a hat trick of failure. Their skin tightens like drumheads. Beautiful. Someone writes a love letter with a longbow volley—Hawk’s Roughnecks. The enemy doesn’t read it. They just bleed on it. Big Mama’s handing out biscuits, get some!No wonder she’s Hawk’s favorite spellcaster!Leona moves forward and repositions her flaming sphere to scald some enemies. The smell of burning flesh fills my nostrils.Osnald, the brave little halfling, runs toward the battle and casts vicious mockery on the Steppengard commander. “Hey you!” he shouts above the din of the battle, clinking on a dinner glass with a spoon, “Yeah, you!” The commander turns to see the plucky little halfling a ways off. Osnald continues, “You know who’s awesome? NOT YOU! You’re a naughty word!” The commander reels from Osnald’s words, but he still fights, with a visible tear running down his Steppengard cheek.That halfling's voice is a tiny bell ringing in the cathedral of war. The commander hears him. And dies inside before the arrows even find him.Yellow shouldn’t even be considered a color. It’s just a wimpy version of brown.Fafnir, wheezing from the poison in his lungs, steps out of the cloud of green vapor and heals his squad of soldiers, so they can stay in the fight. I can see the blood coursing through Fafnir’s veins. Like a subtle reminder of his power, just gliding just below the surface of his skin.The squad of archers, known as Hawk’s Roughnecks, lob a volley toward the group of Steppengard soldiers and the commander imbedded within. The sky is blackened by arrows and the commander is running around trying to avoid being shot. Trying to rally the soldiers around him, he is ignored by them. The commander scuttles north, and the squad moves south. Just then, the arrows descend from the heavens and lacerate the commander, tearing through him. He dies, his body bent awkwardly and partially supported by several unbroken arrow shafts sticking out of the ground.Tim, the mage from Timor, having cast the sleet storm, concentrates on leaving that up and harassing the enemy at their line. Tim’s shield spell disappears, having done its job. He moves away from the griffon, running up toward the fencing and casting a flaming sphere, drops it in the midst of a group of Steppengard soldiers.I think I’ll order the soup tonight. Last night I didn’t order it, but it looked delicious.Hertiage, our old pal, pounds on his shield and wills his allies to move and attack. “For the Duchy!” Encouraged by the commander’s heartfelt words, Osnald’s squad of Dashgoban knights charges the enemy squad but is ineffective against the heavy armor. Likewise, Osnald’s squad of dwarves moves forward and scowls with futility at the enemy soldiers.I probably should go relieve myself at some point, too much water. Or was it wine? I’m starting to wonder if I can just walk off the battlefield. If I go will they stop and wait for me? It would be polite.Nearby, the Steppengard soldiers attack Fafnir’s elite squad, dealing significant casualties. They step in and around the dwarven unit, causing havoc among the ranks. Seeing a need for his divine magic, Grumde, the Gallo chaplain, runs over there to stay some of the bleeding. Lots of blood, blood-caked hair. F-Troop misses their charge, bless their hearts and their overly polished kneecaps. But Fafnir forgives. He thumbs-up like the orc-father they never had. “Doing great, guys!” the orc yells.The trolls under the Steppengard command run forward toward our line of defense. A squad of Steppengard cavalry likewise charges in and is mere yards away from engaging with the Dashgoban knights.Yes, Viggo. Among the rust monster, near the fence. Owlmo by my side, biding its time. My breastplate hot and bothered. I speak a word—an ancient word. Arcane. The sun flares in response. I beckon it. And like an obedient star, it spears the field with burning radiation. Snow melts and the sun glitters off armor—hot and bright. The Steppengard cavalry roast. Trolls blister. The sun is intense, melting the snow and searing the flesh of three squads of Steppengard cavalry as well as the two trolls unfortunate enough to be in the large area.A group of Steppengard flail-wielders, having seen too much battle already, and running back in a “strategic withdrawal,” get caught in the bright, hot sun. The air warps with impossible heat. They unsuccessfully try to remove all their armor as it begins to smoke. They die, shriveled and burnt, the heat was already inside their marrow. The exposed skin wrinkled and dark, dry as brick. They melt. I taste copper in the air. It’s delicious.Fafnir’s squad of Dashgoban knights, dubbed the F-Troop, charge at a Steppengard cleric, but miss-time their lances and hit nothing but air. Some of their lances harmlessly glance off the cleric’s shield. The cleric mumbles a quick prayer. The F-Troop looks back at Fafnir sheepishly.The other Gallo chaplain heals himself a little and moves to embed himself amid the squads of knights and soldiers on the left.One time, I ate a hamburger and then, like an hour later, I started sneezing. But I don’t think it had anything to do with the hamburger.Trevor sees the griffon in front of him, hovering slightly above. He whips at the griffon with the Aquiline Heart, hitting a talon, but failing to snag it. He deftly pulls the whip back and then, with a quick hand movement, the lash strikes out again at the griffon, hitting it again. The griffon maneuvers slightly out of the way so the whip does not grab it. Screeching and flapping madly, the griffon’s talons try to snatch at him.Just as the griffon thinks the onslaught has paused, Trevor’s stance shifts. Muscles tighten. Focus sharpens. With a snap of leather and a glint in his eye, Trevor steps into a deadly rhythm. The whip coils and cracks through the air like a serpent unleashed, striking again. Trevor’s movements are a dance of violence—controlled and graceful, but deadly. For a moment, time bends to Trevor’s will, and the griffon realizes too late that it was never in control.The whip snaps the griffon right across its beak and wraps around its neck. Trevor expertly yanks the whip and griffon to the ground, smashing it against the frozen earth. Trevor looks up confidently among the fluttering feathers and says, “Next fucker?”It’s poetry. Violent, horny poetry.Oo! I want those griffon wings! Or talons. I bet I could do something interesting with them.With what?With inhuman speed, Trevor runs up and attacks the lovelorn squad of Steppengard soldiers.Trevor doesn’t have any parents. I wonder if he should get new ones. I wonder where you can get parents. Does a shopkeeper sell those? I like making jokes about orphans. What are they going to do? Tell their parents?That squad of soldiers, overcome with jealousy from the lovesick spell, attacks the nearby Steppengard knights. They run in, savaging their comrades with the fury of a lover scorned. The squad of knights reel from the unexpected attack, many of their group overcome by their injuries.Fafnir’s First squad of Gallo soldiers rush in and charge at the enemy, with full confidence based on their past performance. Fafnir, trying to boost their morale, yells at them, distracting the formerly capable squad. Trying to prove their value, many of the First Squad try to stab the enemy but fail miserably.Then—Gallo's pike phalanx moves. Shields interlock like the bones of a spine. Osnald’s voice in their ears like a song made of ambition. They lunge. Crotch shots!  Surgical and unapologetic.With Fafnir’s crusader’s mantle in effect and augmenting the damage inflicted, the Gallo soldiers rout the squad of Steppengardians. They valiantly step forward, filling the spaces in between Fafnir’s ineffective squad and the wavering enemy. They lunge forward and with shields locked and pikes leveled like a wall of iron thorns. The Gallo phalanx advances with grim determination, Osnald’s inspiring words still ringing in their ears. Their boots pound the blood-soaked snow in perfect unison, a thunderous rhythm. The Steppengardians collapse. A wretched, scattered pile of regret and pelvic fractures.“Push forward!” Osnald commands. And they do. Earspoons like sewing needles, knitting new destinies into enemy flesh.I want an earspoon. Would it fit in an ear? What about a big ear?The Steppengard cleric flees toward a troll like a drunk man toward a bad idea. I want to get some troll blood.And Hawk’s Raiders stiffen in their stance and rain arrows again—like truth. Sharp, inevitable, and coming for your vital organs.The field is a graveyard for the unworthy. A clavicle here, a dislocated hip there. The anatomy of triumph is messy, but oh gods, it's mine to witness.—Viggo, Proprietor of Too Many Teeth and Not Enough Boundaries.</blockquote>

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