lich ruler

[Methalor]

The innane blabbing of the strange little gnome was getting on Yorrick's nerves.

The little creature had an obsession with battle, it seemed. Like an insane little lemming, the bizarre character of this "Chuck" seemed focused solely around combat. Yorrick knew better than to be sparring at a time like this; the warrior would need his strength for the battles ahead. While keeping one's skills sharp was important, and Yorrick did such a thing frequently before resting for the night, it was better to drill onself rather than hold back while sparring.

"It's difficult to hold back when you're carrying a greatsword!" he thought, silently chuckling to himself. "While control is important, it's pointless to be practicing using the flat of the blade; the point of a slashing weapon is to cut, not bludgeon!"

He walked away from the hyperactive gnome wordlessly. The little fellow seemed quite desperate to prove himself and, while Yorrick could sympathize with that, he'd be better off conserving his energy for a day of marching. He didn't like rebuking the smaller warrior like that, but he knew it was for the best; any knocks and bruises from sparring would be felt in the morning, and they'd likely need all their strength for the trials ahead. He promised himself, however, that he'd give the gnome the fight he was so keen on when they got back to civilization; provided they all survived.

He pulled his bedroll out from his pack, the effort from lifting cloth construct weighing a bit on Yorrick's tired and still-aching muscles. He spread it on the ground nearby to where he'd dropped his pack earlier, a patch of soft, springy ground that would give him a decent rest. "No need to be uncomfortable; a good rest is always important." he thought, no qualms in his mind about choosing the best spot to sleep rather than prove some sort of toughness. Someone... someone had told him that once, Yorrick was sure of it. Somewhere in his past. Some sort of march in some far-off land.

Shaking the thoughts out of his head, he settled into his nightime routine. He drew his sword, feeling the weight of the blade. He bowed to his imaginary opponent, tonight some strangely-garbed warrior from a far-off land. "Heh, looks a bit like that Neshi fellow. Must be invading my subconcious."

Put all thoughts aside. Focus on the breathing. In, one, two, three; hold, one, two, three; release, one, two, three. His mind calm and his body relaxed, he began. Short, shallow slashes, in quick succession. To the arm; then, to the chest; then, to the legs. Swings, now. Chest; arm; leg; repeat.

"That was too wide!" he groaned to himself. He still had a long way to go to being any sort of master of the blade.

His training was interrupted by a loud shout. "HOBGOBLINS!"; the cry rang throughout the camp, jarring Yorrick out his practice mindset and sending the blood coursing through his veins. The shout raised his hackles, and he tensed up, his grip on the hilt of his sword tightening.

"No, no, calmness is key. Fluid motions. Relaxed shoulders." he rebuked himself. Relax. Breathe. "Okay, now I'm ready."

With a shout, he began to sprint in the direction of the cry.

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Spoiler

Show

Yorrick's position (based on Daiy's position):

__D H___ H
N __H___ H
C __H___ H
M_______ H
_________Y

The one attacked is the one directly before me, in Bold.

Action:

Charge (+2 to Attack, -2 to AC for next round)

Attack roll: (1d20+10)[30]

Threat roll if 19 or 20 (Critical damage x2): (1d20+10)[30]

If a hit: (2d6+8)[18] (Strength bonus of 5 * 1-1/2 for two handed, rounded up)

Since we have a critical, 36 damage... Wow. Overkill.

Yorrick raced towards the battlefield, seeing his allies already engaged in combat. The spellslinger appeared to be readying himself for some of his arcane tricks, the overly talkative gnome had sustained heavy wounds, and the foreigner was wielding his strange sickle-sword, the blade still managing to catch a few rays of the setting sun. The sky was blood red that eve, a fitting environment for the combat ahead. The sight of the sickle-sword in action staggered Yorrick for a moment, making him pause his mad dash. Why did the sight seem... so familiar? He had not faced hobgoblins in his earlier travels, and he had never seen the sickle-sword before.

He turned his attention back to the scene before him. Quick thinking was necessary; distractions were unneeded. He loosened his shoulders as he surveyed the situation. The two other warriors seemed to have the initial three attackers held at bay; the four javelin-slingers appeared to be the only ones unimpeded at the moment. Choosing to distract those four, hopefully buying time for the wounded gnome and the spellslinger to act without impediment, he picked a target, the closest one to him, and began to charge.

"FOR EFER-NIM!" he called, conscious thought pushed back and his battle-memory taking over.

The grey-skinned goblinoid had fear written all over its face as the charging warrior beared down upon it. It had no time to react as the blade came swinging towards it. There was no clash against shield or armor, no parry; there was no sound, only the swishing of the blade through the air.

Then, it connected. Cleanly, the massive blade cleaved through the neck of the hobgoblin. The life left its eyes instantly, as the force of the blade carried the separated head far from the body. The creature had stood no chance; for the strike was as true as it could be, that of a veteran of many wars rather than that of a relatively inexperienced wandering warrior. Perhaps it was the hidden memories, the buried warrior within; either way, the cut was true, and the lifeless, decapitated body toppled away from Yorrick, landing on the ground with a thud.

His balance slightly off after the charge, he recovered as best he could in anticipation of the inevitable counterattack.

(OOC: Um... I just rolled two 20s in a row. )