Garbage Day

Full Version: Avalanche (Arthak Snapshot)
You're currently viewing a stripped down version of our content. View the full version with proper formatting.
It was a sunny day. The fires of Gramgunn’kur, fewer than they’d been before, sent smoke up into the blue sky two hundred or so strides away. It was a chill morning, not as cold as the one that preceded it. A sign that spring would be arriving soon.

Arthak sat cross legged in the inch or so of snow, his eyes closed. His armor lay against a rock directly behind him, as did Traitor’s Gift. In front of him, waiting to be called upon were Champion’s Forge and Quel’delar. The Gift wasn’t a weapon for training.

Meditation had been an important part of his regimen since the mountain, since he’d first taken up the banner Samuro had left him. It’s value had only grown since then, as events continued to play out, victories and losses continuing to pile upon one another.

There was too much to think about, and so taking the time to think of nothing at all had become a necessity.

There were his plans. His insinuation into the Shadow Council. His subversion of the Warchief. The retrieval of his lost clanmembers, and of Go’el and the Doomhammer. The return of Shaspira and what her next moves would require of him. The war, and the degree to which he could afford to stay back and lick his wounds.

And there were regrets. Kargath, Garrosh, Remnii. All gone, two of them by his hand. Azuka, Mankrik, Go’el, lost to the ruined world, by his folly or by his orchestration.

The wardrums in his head, calling for the next move, to keep pushing forward, keep climbing. To never stop.

But balance required the indulgence of opposing forces. Action and energy needed to be tempered with rest and rumination.

That time had reached its end however. With a heavy, controlled exhalation of breath, Arthak opened his eyes. He looked between the two swords lying before him.

He took up Quel’delar first, experimenting with a few thrusts and slashes, waking his muscles from their torpor. The heavy curved sword was a curiosity to him, the aesthetics of its design very different from the elven weapons he’d studied. While undoubtedly beautiful, it didn’t have the gilded refinement and avian motifs he’d come to recognize as the Quel'dorei style. It was something more primal in construction, more familiar to him in spirit.

The blade got the sunlight for a moment, shining off of the runes that ran its length. Arthak nodded, and with that he began.

The fighting style of the Burning Blade was legendary amongst the orcish people. In its basic forms emphasized mobility and aggression. It was a way of combat like a dance, moving around the enemy. The deceptive footwork and brazen leaps forced a blademaster’s enemy to constantly readjust their defenses. This was the wind. The blademaster advancing swiftly, spinning and ducking, changing the angle of attack as many as four times before getting within arms reach. A blademaster appeared to be chaotic, even frantic in their movements, but in reality every action was a calculation.

It was effective, as he himself had born witness to on at least one occasion. But it was also, to the Blackrock in him, inefficient. So much energy expended for the sake of confusion, energy that could be spent just getting the job done.

Arthak’s preference was more direct. Stand your ground as a mountain, or fall on your enemy like an avalanche.

Leaving Champion’s Forge on the ground, Arthak turned to the training dummy he’d made shortly after the invasion began. It was nothing particularly complex, simply a log he’d had cut, treated, and wrapped in hides.It was sufficient, though not the most reactive of foes. He’d had some ideas about a dummy built to spin in response to blows, and with arms to “strike” back. But other than a few sketches, there’d been no time to explore the idea.

So, the log.

He was a blur, his feet slamming in the snow and kicking up dirt as he closed with the dummy. Quel’delar screamed through the air as he swung it into scarred bark and leather. As soon as the blade bit in, it retracted and spun in Arthak’s hand, taking the momentum from that first blow and feeding into another, and another, and another.

Another difference with the Burning Blade. For the blademasters the sword was a fire, consuming their foes over time. It was the burn, leading into the consumption. A cut across the forehead, a slice at the forearms and calves, letting blood flow from their bodies and into their eyes, their hands and feet. Blind them, make their hands slick, their stance treacherous. Then the wind blows the blademaster around, and the fire licks out across their back, once, twice, three times. None a killing blow, but each painful, and painful with every movement. The fire burns until it is ready to consume. A blademaster does not go for the kill until the moment is perfect.

Against an unskilled enemy it takes little time to prepare the fatal stroke. Against a skilled enemy it is a careful, maddening onslaught, draining their strength over countless clashes.

It was not to Arthak’s taste. Every blow should be to end the fight. No energy should be wasted. If a strike misses, redirect the momentum for another try. If it is blocked, use the weight of the weapon and the body and bear down. Kill them on the first blow, and if not, apply more pressure. As unrelenting as a landslide. A shield is no guard against the weight of a boulder.

Each blow came down, faster than the one before it, hitting a little harder than the one before it. It was measured, inexorable as gravity. Each one would have left a cooling body in its wake.

Quel’delar was an apt weapon for this sort of practice, though it was not built with his philosophies in mind as Champion’s Forge had been. But Champion’s Forge proved difficult to train with outside of drills. Even trying to pull his swings, he’d had yet to find a practice target capable of surviving long.

Of the three forms he put name too, this was the second. The first, the Mountain, was a defense, and therefore hard to refine outside of sparring. The second, the Avalanche was one form of offensive, a direct onslaught of accelerating attacks designed to overwhelm or exhaust his enemies. It also made an excellent warm up.

Driving Quel’delar deep into where the liver would be, had the log been a creature of flesh, he stopped. Sweat had begun to coat his back and run down his face and limbs, but he wasn’t cold even in the winter air, not yet at least. His face was wreathed in vapor from his breathing. He let go of Quel’delar, letting it stay sheathed in the log, and turned back to Champion’s Forge.

For the third form, it was better to have an opponent, but at the same time, sparring partners were unlikely to come away from it uninjured. He walked over to where his preferred weapon lay, stretching as he did. With a grunt he hefted the gigantic sword, heavy even for an orc of his strength.

The third form was the idea of the Avalanche taken further. Slower, more cautious, each blow intended to be not just inexorable, but inevitable. It took the unemotional ferocity of the second form, and injected fury into it.

Without an opponent, Arthak had to make do with his imagination. He’d envisioned Bladefury, Blackhand, Kargath, Lana’thel, and of course himself. He gave Champion’s Forge a few practice swings, his gaze focused on the empty space a few feet away from him.
Lana’thel today.

In his mind’s eye, he saw the black armored elf standing in the snow, Frostmourne held in her hands, the blue fire of its eyes flaring brightly.

Watching her carefully, Arthak gave her a shallow bow. She didn’t return the gesture, and instead rushed forward, a thin, eager smile on her face as she raised Frostmourne.

At just the last second before the dread blade cleaved through his head, Arthak swung Champion’s Forge up and around, the wide blade becoming a greatshield. Just as Frostmourne connected, he twisted the blade slightly redirecting Lana’thel to his right.

He thought of Gel’nok.

The runes on his flesh exploded into life, and Arthak let out a rumbling growl as fury and  the power of the Breaker’s took hold upon him. His breath hissed out like steam between his stalagmite-like tusks, and he half-turned, raising and dropping Champion’s Forge down upon where he’d sent Lana’thel.

This was the Volcano. As the massive blade fell, dragged down by Arthak’s strength, and by the gravity of its own weight, Arthak dropped into a low stance, another offering of force to the blow. Champion’s Forge crashed into the earth, sending snow and dirt flying into the air.

Glancing through the debris, Arthak saw Lana’thel had ducked into a roll, neatly dodging his strike. Without pausing, he twisted Champion’s Forge around, and swung towards her. This time there was no chance to dodge. Lana’thel let out a shout, and raised Frostmourne to parry the blow. But here, the magic of the runeblade could not help her against the simple facts of mass and force. Frostmourne prevented her from being bisected, but the force of the collision knocked her off her feet, sending her sprawling into the snow, Frostmourne still clutched in her hands.

Opportunity. Arthak let out a roar, anger rising in his breast as he allowed Champion’s Forge’s weight to carry him into a full spin that he turned into a charge at the prone elf. Again, Champion’s Forge fell, carving a trench into the ground as Lana’thel again rolled clear. Her smile returned, she slashed out at Arthak’s legs, but the attack was foiled as the orc smashed Frostmourne away.

Again and again, Lana’thel dodged and parried Arthak’s blows, staying just ahead of dismemberment or death. At the same time, Arthak’s use of Champion’s Forge as a shield was an effective stonewall to her own attacks.

This is not how this fight would go, not in real life. She would not be running from me, fighting like Bladefury or Kargath did, angling for an advantage. She would just come for me, with all the strength she has. I suspect at least. Her hate wouldn’t allow anything less.

The thought pushed Arthak out of his focus, and the vision of Lana’thel in his mind faded. Just as well, as his body had already begun to return to its normal form. Looking around himself, he observed the damage he’d done to the area. The earth was torn and shattered, with deep gouges, scars and even craters left over from where Champion’s Forge had landed.

Once the snow all melted, revealing all the damage he’d done over countless practice session, this field would seem a battleground. He was drenched in sweat now, and his arms burned pleasantly from the exertion.

“Satisfactory.” Arthak grunted, and he gently laid Champion’s Forge on the ground. Walking back to his armor, he pulled out and lit a cigarette, savoring the taste and feeling of the smoke in his lungs. He would need to stretch soon, before the cold set into his body. And after that, perhaps a little more meditation, to ready his mind for whatever the rest of the day would entail.

But for now, he would take a moment, and just enjoy his smoke.