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Descent into Outland - Page Six, Retreat from Hell
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Linmarion sprinted through the massacre. He ran to get away from the Ramparts, to get away from the carnage, to get away from the disgusting stench of blood and gore, to get away from the guild of letting his four best friends die. His lungs were practically screaming at him for air, painful, throbbing cramp forming around the bottom right of his ribcage area.
He soon tripped, bumping his foot against a fel orc carcass. His body made a dull thud as it hit the ground. Linmarion’s ears pricked, as he heard the grunts of a fel orc team scourging the battlefield for survivors. They had obviously heard him. He quickly scrambled to his feet, ripping a large sword out of an orc’s dead, limp hands, before turning to face the five orcs.
A lone night elven figure crawled his way away from the ramparts. Linmarion was covered in bruises and cuts, a particularly nasty wound on his left thigh removing his capability to walk. The once proud elf’s head slowly looked up, at the faint sound of hooves in the distance. His vision was already blurry without the blood pouring down his forhead and over his eyes.
Squinting, he saw a scouting party from Honour Hold in the distance. Summoning the last of his strength, he reached down towards his pocket. He weakly pulled out a small gun, with a rather thick barrel. Rolling over onto his back, he tilted his wrist so that the gun was facing upwards, and pulled the trigger, releasing a large, red flare up into the sky. The last thing he saw was the party of cavalry galloping his way; then, he let go of his consciousness.
“Lin? Are you finally awake?”
The elf tried to open his eyes, but found that he wasn’t able to. His body was aching all over, and his eyes were ‘glued’ shut, his dry blood forming a thin crust between his eyelids.
“Everyone’s dead, son. You’re one of the only few survivors.”
Linmarion wanted to scream in grief and anger, a speech composed of nothing but curses already forming in his mind. But he couldn’t; it was as if he was paralysed. He couldn’t move. He felt a small, wet piece of cotton dabbing on his eyes. Soon, the blood was wiped off his eyes, allowing him to open them. He was on a comfortable, clean-looking white bed in a large tent. He realized he was in the Honour Hold medical tent.
He saw a male dwarf medic attending to him, and an officer standing nearby him. The elf addressed the officer. “Prepare a scouting force…” he said weakly. “We’re going to need… Thrallmar’s help if we’re gonna down that place…”
“By all respect seargent, our troops aren’t ready to move after the fai—“
The soldier was cut off as Linmarion reached up and grabbed him by the collar of his shirt. The reminder of the recent massacre was enough to send adrenaline pumping through his veins, blocking out the pain.
“Listen to me you happy-go-lucky, potato-eating, pathetic excuse for a human bastard.” hissed the elf. “You’re going to do as I say, or they’ll never manage to pull my sword out of your ass.”
“As soon as I can walk out of here, hell, as soon as I can limp out of here on crutches, we’re going to negotiate with Thrallmar.”
Linmarion reached for his sword, which was leaning against to the wall next to his bed.
This scared the young officer, and quickly scurried out of the tent, barking out orders.
The elf fell back onto the bed again, closing his eyes. He felt the medic treating the wound on his leg, wincing slightly at the pain. The medic realized this, so he finished it off and began to treat his other wounds.
Linmarion drifted off into a troubled sleep.
Wow, don't remember Linmarion being so angry.
elf is angry.
Wow... nice read, but Linmarion's Scaring me =P
Heh, poor Linmarion. But "the only survivor" is just a tad bit sueish - if I used the term correctly. I think it would have been just a bit more realistic if he was one of the "only few survivors."
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