Snippet #1848656

"Generally, nothing does." Neira touted about The Children's flames. It was as he had feared. A shield of iron would not provide much protection; He would he to rely on magic to do that. His specialty, however, was Terramancy, a boon at any rate as far as defense was concerned.

"The easiest way to deal with a fire-breathing Child is to slit the throat before they can exhale. It backs up and immolates them." It sounded like she was familiar with them, and there was no reason she shouldn't be. He wasn't necessarily keeping tabs on these soldiers, but Neira was a hardened veteran, by the way word spread around camp. He knew she was skilled in unarmed combat, which made him mentally question her ability to slit a Cultist's throat. Perhaps a punch was just as good?

"Take it to Mialee. If he can’t do anything about it, he might know someone else who can." Turha? The human artificer, no doubt. He was reserved, and always walked about with any number of golems in tow. Artificers made Torga uneasy on principle. They were a complete world apart from each other, and Torga didn't much like the prospect of bending the elements to the will of a mortal to create such unnatural creations. The shaman had always viewed his own magic as more of a commune, of sorts. For a moment, he questioned why he even allowed himself to use metal weapons, but he put the thought out of his mind; It seemed he wasn't quite as innocent as he thought himself to be. It was only natural, however, that all warriors should be versed in metal weaponry.

“If it is effectiveness you seek, versatility is important.”

"That's precisely why I'm here. I need to know that I can count on my weapons. After the encounter at the prison, I wasn't so sure I'd be able to count on some of the recruits around here. Even that warlock let me run head first into a hallway of them without intervention. Don't get me wrong, I can handle myself, but-"

Torga's sentence was cut short by an unfamiliar orc drawing a crossbow on Neira. He was lucky that Neira's reflexes were so incredibly sharp. She caught the arrow, it seemed, and had thrown it back at the would-be assassin with more force than with which it had been fire. The crossbow bolt punched through the Orc's armor and disabled the arm he had fired with. The shaman stomped his foot on the brick-hewn street, as a reverberation shook the bricks loose, and sent one flying through the air, colliding with the crossbow that had just fired it's arrow. It clattered to the ground, as Torga prepared to cast another spell.

"How about stopping this one from going anywhere, hm?"

"You read my mind!" Torga shouted enthusiastically. Another foot stomp, and a massive earthen fist erupted from beneath the loose bricks, wrapping its earthen fingers around the Orc's body, covering him from his knees all the way to his mouth. The fist clenched the Orc and hoisted him off the ground.

Torga cracked a smile as he walked up to the helpless assassin. He let out an unsettling laugh, as the hand brought the Orc down to Torga's eye level. The fist began to clench tighter and tighter. The metal armor began to audibly strain beneath the pressure.

"I've been looking for a way to relieve some stress." Torga punched the helpless orc in the face. It felt good.

"You deserve this." Torga thought. Rage began to surge from his stomach. It was like a roiling cauldron, overflowing and filling him with a hate he had never felt before.

Torga began to punch the defenseless Cultist in the face again. Over and over. One after another. Bones began to crack; Whether it was his fists, the Orc's face, or some combination of the two, Torga didn't seem to care. He just kept striking the poor Orc with fists. Blood began to seep out of his now broken nose as his eyes became swollen under Torga's barrage.

"DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID TO MY PEOPLE?! YOU ALL DESERVE TO DIE! EVERY LAST ONE OF YOU PIECES OF SCUM! ARRGH!"

Torga's rage began to subside as he felt the pin-pricks of eyes watching him beat a defenseless man, who in all honesty probably deserved what he had gotten and then some. Torga looked down at his hands. They were covered with blood. He couldn't tell if it was his or the assassin's. It probably didn't matter. The blood on his hand was as symbolic as it was literal. This Orc deserved his fate, but should Torga be the one to administer such fate? A killing in cold blood would not solve anything. He knew that. It would only make him as bad as the ones who had wronged him. One thing was certain, however.

It felt good.

Just beating the Orc to a bloody pulp gave him a rush of satisfaction that he had never felt before. It was justice. Every blow was vengeance for all the tribesman he had lost. He couldn't even be sure that this assassin was even associated with The Civil or The Children, but he still wanted to snap his neck.

Torga grabbed the bloodied Orc's head and stared deeply into his black, swollen eyes, and began to shout. "You are alive because The Paragon wills it so. I would have killed you. Slowly. Painfully. I would crush every bone in your body. I would burn the flesh from those broken bones. I would take the air from your lungs and replace it with your blood. You will thank The Paragon for allowing you to live even an instant longer than you would have in my care, and you will pray to whatever Dead Gods or Dragons you believe in that they do not release you to my "care", because I will make you regret the day that you ever turned your back on your own people."