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Game of life

by Arokk


A dark and cool night in the valley, not to cold but just right. A man walks down the road from town to town, a drifter with no place to go. Tall and skinny, short back hair parted from his face with a black stripe across his eyes. Arokk of the Nightmare Legion, paranoid and cowardly. He jumps when the trees around him creak from the wind and walks to the side of the path as to not get in any one's way. Truly a lesser of a man, who thinks even less of himself then others do.

He hears people coming, jumping to the side of the road and he hides behind a close by tree. A party of soldiers pass by, swords unsheathed looking for a fight. As they descend from the hill that they scaled, they chatter amongst themselves. Soon they pass, without even noticing Arokk hiding. Not being noticed is a thing he is used to, often overlooked by the people around him. He slowly creeps out from behind the tree and starts to ascend the hill. Self loathing and depression engulfs him.

Atop the hill, Arokk's gaze falls upon the field of tall waist deep grass ahead of him. In his sight he sees a warrior standing in a field with a mountain to his back and the moon creeping over it. A scout left by the war party. Tall and young looking, this man could be no older then Arokk. He begins to cower and move to the side, thinking he can avoid him without conflict. Making it halfway through the field, he twitches and slightly goes limp. In a quick jerk he jumps and stiffens with a slight shake. His head lifts, his eyes gain sight and a small laugh comes over him. His eyes widen then narrow upon the warrior scouting the field.

"Free to play." he whispers under his breath. He he, Arokk coughs as a grin cracks.

He pulls his great bow, old and finely crafted, to his side. Lays half a dozen arrows into the ground head first to his side. He grabs one and readies it with his bow. He aims for the unsuspecting warrior's lower back and pulls the arrow back, his bow howls under the pressure.

Feeling the tall grass tug across his waist and the cold night air kiss the back of his neck, all the warrior can think about is how great this time of night is. Perfect, unlike any other time of the day. He hears a whip and a whistle as he feels a strong jerk that nearly knocks him to his knees. A cold stinging sensation vastly turns into a burning pain that spreads across his lower back. As he pulls his arm around him to feel his back, he finds an arrow has found its way into him. Pulling his hand back, he looks down as his hand is covered in blood. Two more whistles follow and he feels something clip his ear, tearing it off in a viscous rip. Time feels like it is going by very slowly to the warrior, he felt like he could see the arrow fly past him with his ear impaled upon it. Shish kabob style.

Blood starts squirting and flowing from the side of his head, in a quick understanding of his situation. With a sluggish start the warrior begins to push for a sprint. Whistle and begin to fall beside him. An arrow comes down on his calf muscle, tearing half of it out. It rips with force, as part of the muscle stretches and finally tears away from the bone, strings of meat that once held the leg together fall to the side. Blood sprays and stains the grass all around as the warrior tumbles to the ground.

Ready with his great bow and arrow at hand, Arokk sees that the man is no longer any real threat. He eases his arms and struts his way over to his fallen foe. With each step, not clearing a path through tall grass but trampling one. With each footstep the fallen warrior can hear his death approaching.

The grin appears.

He gains ground upon the fallen, with the man scrambling for a defense. The fallen warrior grasps hold of a patch of grass and begins to try to drag himself futility, with his foot still pinned to the ground. With a snap of his great bow crack and thud the man cries out, as his hand is nearly split in half from the sheer force of the impact. Now nailed to the ground, helpless and ruptured. Arokk's grin widens, the distance between them is shortened.

The man howls with a mix of grunts and whimpers. Raging for his life he almost finishes the splitting of his hand as blood gushes and spits until the ground gives, the arrow is unearthed. He leans up and grips the arrow with his one good hand as his other eviscerated hand dangles and flops to his side. Useless and a burden. In one last final attempt at futility he raises the arrow as if to use it as a weapon. With an effortless flick of the bow, Arokk's arrow strikes the warriors only good hand. Piercing the hand and forcing his hand down back to the earth. He falls to his back and rolls from side to side, while his one hand flops and his other hand pined.. Slowly he calms and gains a sight of his tormentor's face, a face full of joy. His ego shattered and his body broken he lays back while hate begins to fester in him.

Arokk's teeth bare as his **** eating grin spews out a hearty chuckle. He reaches his foes body, destroyed by his very hand. He stands to one side and leans over his victim. The grin returns. Their eyes meet, in a fit of rage the warrior tries to raise his head to spit in the face of his reaper in one final act of defiance but fails as his body has gone limp and numb from blood loss. Arokk cocks his arm backwards, with a burst of strength and a crack he lays down a mighty slap across the face of his fallen prey. The fallen warrior spits out a mouthful of blood and a few teeth. Through the grin Arokk yells with great excitement and joy:

"TAG! Your it! Come and get me!"

In a whip Arokk jerks to one side and jets across the grassy field. As he is running, maniacal laughter is echoed across the valley for all to hear. The fallen warrior is near death and within the cold grasp creeping over his body. The laughter bangs and seethes into his mind, leaving only enough room for one thought - One word:

Tag?

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