Last story tonight I promise. For anyone wanting a more traditional fictional tale, rather than the fireside story aproch of the last post. Well without further ado.
The Legend of Oortamus the Warrior
A brisk morning was greeted by the dawn. A misty fog clung to the land, while shafts of sunlight were made visible through it. The wild stock nearby grew restless, their bleats beginning to get more frantic.
A loud horn was blown from a watchtower. The sound woke Oortamus from his dreams. He quickly grabbed his sling bow, and grappling hook and rushed out of his home.
A second blast from a horn alerted him that danger approached from the south. He rushed towards the edge of town. Portions were waking, and rushing towards the town hall. That was the way it went for the builders, bakers, and a lot of townsfolk. Oortamus was different though, he was a warrior.
A third blast of the horn rang as he reached the town wall. The herds of wild stock had begun to run around the walls of the town, the very earth shook beneath Oortamus’s feet. On the edge of the horizon, a line of shadows approached the sleepy village.
As Oortamus squinted to try and make out those who approached, the tower guard dropped to the ground behind him.
“I counted at least forty” the guardsman informed him.
“There are at least a dozen more than that” Oortamus replied.
“Are they riding…” The guard began to ask when Oortamus cut him off.
“Yes, Rift wildstock”
He walked outside the walls, while the guard resumed his post, now joined by the other three watchtower guards. The riders approached swiftly, they would be upon them in a matter of minutes. Would five of them be enough? It would have to be.
“Line up along the wall, use cover, don’t forget your health potions!” Oortamus called up to the guards.
Four on the wall, and one on the ground. It was not the best of formations, but they were out of time. They were here.
The raiders wore skull masks, the lighting blue horns sparked dangerously as the wildstock ran. The raiding party saw and charged Oortamus without delay. A quick grapple got him out of a vicious charge just in time. The wildstock rushed him, only to get pelted by the guards on the wall. They began to change direction when Oortamus used his spray sling bow to rain devastation upon them.
They charged him again, he grappled to a tree, then another, swinging and shooting the assailants from above. The raiders returned fire, and Oortamus found himself getting hit hard and retreated to the wall of the town.
“This isn’t working,” he said, through gritted teeth.
“Perhaps, the rain of fire?” Called out a guard.
Oortamus nodded, yes that could work.
From his pouch, he withdrew a bag of numbers of bombs. Placing his bow at his side, he readied his grapple. He would have to be fast.
Quickly he ran to the west, along the wall. He threw bombs just far enough away from the wall as he ran. The wildstock raiders emerged from the trees at a full charge. Right at him the ran, just as he predicted, a flick of his hand and his grapple hit the south watchtower.
The bombs began to burst, leaving massive creators in the ground quickly toward him. He clicked the return flying just high enough above the explosions to keep from being burned. The raiders could not outrun the blast, plummeting to the bottom of the newly formed trench.
The fall killed them, or rather the sudden stop on the stone below. Still swinging just below the watchtower, the people saw the silhouette of their hero. Oortamus the warrior.