Recent content by Gerra

Bright crimson blood gushed from her severed stump, spattering. Gerra closed his around her arm tight as he could, seeking to cut off the spray. Agony still roiled his own gut and he felt as though he might vomit upon the ground from the effects of the toxin. His eyes hazy with pain, he tugged...

“No!” The shout tour from his throat, raw and ragged by his own battle with the toxins. Confusion flowed into grief, cold as the ocean, flowed into anger, hotter than the volcano in which they stood. “No,” this time the word came low and rumbling, full of that old power that made men tremble...

The liquid dribbled between his lips and his throat bobbed, some part of him willing to live still, even after everything. He did not know how long he lay there, body still wracked with pain, before the constriction in his throat loosened and he felt able to breathe again. Eyes like shimmering...

He did not reach for it. No man wished to be tortured to death, even one who believed he deserved it. Instead, confusion in his near sightless eyes, he looked up at the woman. Helpless. At her mercy. And wondered… “Why?” He rasped. Did she not seek to be free, had she not made her choice...

The mind had accepted death, but the flesh was weak. Fingers stretched out for the antidote, desperate, hope fluttering through the pain - a light in the storm clouds of his ending. Then she smashed the vial beneath her heel, extinguishing all hope. His hand fell, flopping against the floor...

A single cut, stinging at first as the blood welled. He looked down, surprise etching his features. A mere cut? Did she mean to slice him up slowly, death by a thousand slashes? He had known her to be callous, cruel even, but that seemed more befitting her father than her. "Would that it were...

"It may," Gerra acknowledged solemnly, again. For once, Gerra turned his intellect not upon how to best use her to his ends - he had no ends, not anymore - but upon her. This woman whose life had imploded the day Annuakati siege towers had encircled her home. "We did use you." Use her as...

The tip of the dagger nestled against the muscles of his chest, needle sharp pushing at the skin. He wondered if it was poisoned. Maybe just a scratch would set his humors aflame and he would die writhing in pain. The him of yesteryear might have seized her wrist, forced her to plunge the...

He only nodded at her words. Yes. He should have died before Drakormir, upon the battlements of Lor Holdram, maybe, or the hundred battles afterward. How many would still be alive? Or. Would the world be a darker place, ruled by dragon tyrants of myth? If he had not sent Drakormir into the...

G E R R A Son of Molthal. Legions of blight orcs in ill-fitting, mass-produced steel, stamping pikes and chanting. An ambush in a town, dozens of dead orcs. A great siege of a dwarven fortress. Thousands of bloated bodies, festooned with arrows and bolts growing from them like strange flowers...

The questions fell upon him like his own hammer blows fell upon a piece of molten iron, each one reverberating through his being as though striking to the core of his existence. Again and again they rung upon the mettle of his psyche. He felt as if he might unravel, the whole of him crumble...

"I..." he took another step back, placed a hand on the anvil to steady himself. Images raced through a minds eye. Immense siegecraft, larger than his home. Far larger. Their arms groaning as they hurled their contents at a city. More images. Visions of sand, soaked muddy by rivers of blood...

Now she stood closer, he could more fully make out the hard bronze of her features, smooth but unyielding, and the gleam of those verdant eyes, so much of the viper in her. Beautiful, but spitting hate. He did not doubt her fangs. The viper. Where had that thought come from. “Of Molthal,” he...

The hammer stopped mid-swing. Paused there, as if frozen in time. Slowly, the giant turned, his figure scarce-lit by the ill-flickering of the forge, casting shadows every way. Glowing eyes like embers fixed upon the woman. Without recognition. Gerra’s brows knit together. “How… do you...

Upon an island volcano of Sheketh, farthest from the reaches of civilization, a lone figure smites a forge. His blows are full of fury, full of sorrow, and there is a hunch to once proud shoulders. Sparks fly from his hammer strikes. In the embers he sees visions of a different life. One he...