Loth-Holm - Outer Blightlands
Ivar wrenched at the hilt of his great-ax, forcing the half moon blade free with a sickening squelch of flesh.
His head slowly turned upward, surveying the battlefield. Corpses littered the ground around him hundreds upon hundreds of bodies. He could see Orcs, Northmen, Wargs, even a giant or two that had joined the fight at some point. The Crows did not seem too picky about which flesh they consumed, and all over he could see black wings slowly fluttering.
In the heat of the blightland the stench was already starting to be nearly unbearable, but men and women both still walked among the field of corpses to pick clean anything that might be of value. Ivar frowned for a moment, watching them with distaste as he turned back towards Loth-Holm.
The ancient fortress still stood, though barely. It's walls had been battered down by Menalus' siege engines, and the great tower that had once stood at the center of the Keep was now all but rubble. Yet most of the citizens had survived, even if the soldiers had not. It was the fourth time in a hundred years that the Fire Giant had tried to take one of the last free cities in the Blight, and it was the fourth time he had failed.
If only barely this time.
Were it not for the intervention of the northmen the Blight Orcs might have succeeded, a fact which was sure to anger the ancient ruler of Molthal.
Ivar stared at the broken ruin of a city, and then slowly began to trudge back towards it. Pyres were being built, and he could hear songs being played as a celebration of victory began. It was a dour thing, tinged with those lost. Yet the people of Loth-Holm had a reason to cheer, it was another day they would survive, another year that they might yet go on free.
That was something.
By the time Ivar reached the city gates the party had already started, as meager as it was.
Ivar wrenched at the hilt of his great-ax, forcing the half moon blade free with a sickening squelch of flesh.
His head slowly turned upward, surveying the battlefield. Corpses littered the ground around him hundreds upon hundreds of bodies. He could see Orcs, Northmen, Wargs, even a giant or two that had joined the fight at some point. The Crows did not seem too picky about which flesh they consumed, and all over he could see black wings slowly fluttering.
In the heat of the blightland the stench was already starting to be nearly unbearable, but men and women both still walked among the field of corpses to pick clean anything that might be of value. Ivar frowned for a moment, watching them with distaste as he turned back towards Loth-Holm.
The ancient fortress still stood, though barely. It's walls had been battered down by Menalus' siege engines, and the great tower that had once stood at the center of the Keep was now all but rubble. Yet most of the citizens had survived, even if the soldiers had not. It was the fourth time in a hundred years that the Fire Giant had tried to take one of the last free cities in the Blight, and it was the fourth time he had failed.
If only barely this time.
Were it not for the intervention of the northmen the Blight Orcs might have succeeded, a fact which was sure to anger the ancient ruler of Molthal.
Ivar stared at the broken ruin of a city, and then slowly began to trudge back towards it. Pyres were being built, and he could hear songs being played as a celebration of victory began. It was a dour thing, tinged with those lost. Yet the people of Loth-Holm had a reason to cheer, it was another day they would survive, another year that they might yet go on free.
That was something.
By the time Ivar reached the city gates the party had already started, as meager as it was.