Ghoul boy bird
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- 6
The night bit with autumnal chill, as cold breeze blew the tall grass of the Allir Reaches westward. Every tall, individual blade, swaying with beautiful subtlety. Although this stunningly crisp night was not going to be enjoyed by Zastava.
His green eyes looked forward down the dirt road. His armor clanked with each step he took, far from a graceful walker. He was slow, methodical, each step he took was one with purpose.
As vile as that purpose may be.
At this point his boots were coated in dirt, but he didn't mind that. Zastava was never one to care about keeping himself all too clean.
He takes a moment, placing his hands on his hips. It was a beautiful night. Those eyes of his rest upon the reason why he was clad in full gear, and stalking the night. A small homestead, isolated in the plains. The dim flicker of candle light could be seen in its window.
Slowly, a grin spreads across the man's face. It felt like ages since his last raid. And even though he was one man, stealing from one house, he never saw it as burglary. Much more romantic to call it a raid.
Besides. Burglaries are a stealthy affair. And the steel clad Zastava, with shoulders broad as he is foul, was far from stealthy.
He'd head along the path a while longer, until he was at the homestead’s doorstep. To call the place a homestead was giving it too much credit. It was much more of a farming hut, with a grass roof, and crudely made wooden door with rope hinges and no lock.
Zastava swings the door open slowly. His eyes narrow a bit as he looked inside. There was no fire going in the small pot belly stove in the center. Only the aforementioned candle in the window sill as light. It cast a comfortable glow over the interior. Not much to look at. A small vanity, a pair of chairs, chamber pot in the corner. All very simple. It reminded him of his childhood home.
Zastava shakes his head, pushing past the nostalgia.
Finally his eyes rest on the denizens of the homestead. A young couple, sleeping peacefully on a wooden framed cot with no padding.
The floor was dirt, so it wasn't the creaking of floorboards that woke the husband from his slumber. It was the clinking of armor.
Zastava would cherish the look of fear that the young man gave. It wasn't every night that you are awoken by a hulking mass of metal at the foot of your bed.
The young man got to his feet, shaking slightly. Before he could say much of anything, Zastava was already taking action. With a heavy stride forward, Zastava would grab the man by the top of his head, and start to squeeze. The poor soul would hopelessly kick, scratch at the armored arm that held him in place, and yelp.
It takes 2,300 newtons of force to crack a human skull. Twice as much as any normal man should be able to do with their hands. But this was The Iron Bull Zastava. And he was no normal man.
The temple was the first to go, Zastava's thumb punching through. The top of his head was next, the hair beginning to mat with blood as his four fingers did their work like a vice grip.
His hand was coated in crimson by the time Zastava was finished. He'd turn to focus on the man's wife, only to find her gone. The cheap wooden door was swinging.
She ran as fast as she could down the dirt road. Screaming loud prayers to the Gods. Prayers for help.
His green eyes looked forward down the dirt road. His armor clanked with each step he took, far from a graceful walker. He was slow, methodical, each step he took was one with purpose.
As vile as that purpose may be.
At this point his boots were coated in dirt, but he didn't mind that. Zastava was never one to care about keeping himself all too clean.
He takes a moment, placing his hands on his hips. It was a beautiful night. Those eyes of his rest upon the reason why he was clad in full gear, and stalking the night. A small homestead, isolated in the plains. The dim flicker of candle light could be seen in its window.
Slowly, a grin spreads across the man's face. It felt like ages since his last raid. And even though he was one man, stealing from one house, he never saw it as burglary. Much more romantic to call it a raid.
Besides. Burglaries are a stealthy affair. And the steel clad Zastava, with shoulders broad as he is foul, was far from stealthy.
He'd head along the path a while longer, until he was at the homestead’s doorstep. To call the place a homestead was giving it too much credit. It was much more of a farming hut, with a grass roof, and crudely made wooden door with rope hinges and no lock.
Zastava swings the door open slowly. His eyes narrow a bit as he looked inside. There was no fire going in the small pot belly stove in the center. Only the aforementioned candle in the window sill as light. It cast a comfortable glow over the interior. Not much to look at. A small vanity, a pair of chairs, chamber pot in the corner. All very simple. It reminded him of his childhood home.
Zastava shakes his head, pushing past the nostalgia.
Finally his eyes rest on the denizens of the homestead. A young couple, sleeping peacefully on a wooden framed cot with no padding.
The floor was dirt, so it wasn't the creaking of floorboards that woke the husband from his slumber. It was the clinking of armor.
Zastava would cherish the look of fear that the young man gave. It wasn't every night that you are awoken by a hulking mass of metal at the foot of your bed.
The young man got to his feet, shaking slightly. Before he could say much of anything, Zastava was already taking action. With a heavy stride forward, Zastava would grab the man by the top of his head, and start to squeeze. The poor soul would hopelessly kick, scratch at the armored arm that held him in place, and yelp.
It takes 2,300 newtons of force to crack a human skull. Twice as much as any normal man should be able to do with their hands. But this was The Iron Bull Zastava. And he was no normal man.
The temple was the first to go, Zastava's thumb punching through. The top of his head was next, the hair beginning to mat with blood as his four fingers did their work like a vice grip.
His hand was coated in crimson by the time Zastava was finished. He'd turn to focus on the man's wife, only to find her gone. The cheap wooden door was swinging.
She ran as fast as she could down the dirt road. Screaming loud prayers to the Gods. Prayers for help.
