135th of Gnielm, 131 RI
Sandsheen, Athal
Micai felt his breath, hot air of the waste sucking into him. He felt the beads of sweat, and the weight of his hammer in motion. The orc to his left folded in on themself, exposed chest caved. Already, he was arcing back for the next swing, and the one after that.
Across the battlefield, a pulsing thrum mingled with the screams of elves and orcs alike. It was like the reverberation of a gong, like light to Micai’s moth. He carved his way through to it, unwilling to resist.
He was at the very center of the battlefield then, called there as the king by a sorcerer all of gritted teeth and gnashing eyes. What he found there was a knife, slipped quietly between his plate, as he thrashed and screamed and bled and bled and bled.
The Etra Anthology 