knightforce
March 31st, 2013, 02:40 AM
He closed his eyes briefly, to see the sleek, dusky face peer out at him from that veil of long, golden hair. His body twitched slightly. There was little he loved more than combat and physical exercise, the pitting of his pain, his anger and his will against fatigue-ravaged muscles. He held a little contempt for those who saw the art of swordsplay and the forging of the body as nothing more than a means to curry a woman’s favor. Yet, for reasons he could not articulate or understand, the thought of her stoked some sort of battle fury within him. He’d heard someone once describe another woman as the sort that “sent men scrambling in search of dragons to slay for her.”
He didn’t know if Maleekah was that sort of woman. He didn’t know if he loved the dark elf or if he even knew how to love. Yet, on the occasions that songs of love did stir him, he was stirred with thoughts of her.
With a grunt, Noriack pulled the sleeveless chainmail shirt down over his chest and down toward his waist. The real challenge was his stomach, lined with veins, over which his green skin was stretched taut. Though his chest was wide and jutting, his stomach protruded out past it. He’d heard it likened to a bundle of rocks stuffed into too small a bag, or a turtle’s shell. And of course, to the belly of a pregnant woman. It was a belly full of muscle and void of fat, but apparently women perfered a stomach that was flat and pretty rather than one large and powerful. Though he had to admit that his belly was unusually large, even given its strength. He couldn’t fault those who never saw him without his shirt for thinking it was it derived its girth from too much time spent at the tavern rather than a lifetime of training.
A final jerk and the shirt finally came over. He slung his bastard sword into its sheath and then picked up his horned helmet. Over its silver mouthpiece was a emerald visor which, through some strange craftmanship, the wearer could see out from as if looking through his own eyes. He looked at the helmet for a moment.
Since he was a child, masks had fascniated him. And so of course, he had delighted in the fact that the mouthpiece and visor left the face of whoever wore the helmet completely concealed. With his face completely hidden, he was no longer one whose features were rough and savage for a human and soft and effeminite for an orc. He was suddenly in line with the heroes of legend, suddenly limited by nothing other than his own actions and choices. He wasn’t really sure if the heroes of legend wore such masks or not, though he knew that Rom, at least, did. But in his imagination they certainly did.
He fitted the helmet over his face. Goodbye, Noriack. Hello, hero.
He bolted from the armory, towards the fading horizon.
He didn’t know if Maleekah was that sort of woman. He didn’t know if he loved the dark elf or if he even knew how to love. Yet, on the occasions that songs of love did stir him, he was stirred with thoughts of her.
With a grunt, Noriack pulled the sleeveless chainmail shirt down over his chest and down toward his waist. The real challenge was his stomach, lined with veins, over which his green skin was stretched taut. Though his chest was wide and jutting, his stomach protruded out past it. He’d heard it likened to a bundle of rocks stuffed into too small a bag, or a turtle’s shell. And of course, to the belly of a pregnant woman. It was a belly full of muscle and void of fat, but apparently women perfered a stomach that was flat and pretty rather than one large and powerful. Though he had to admit that his belly was unusually large, even given its strength. He couldn’t fault those who never saw him without his shirt for thinking it was it derived its girth from too much time spent at the tavern rather than a lifetime of training.
A final jerk and the shirt finally came over. He slung his bastard sword into its sheath and then picked up his horned helmet. Over its silver mouthpiece was a emerald visor which, through some strange craftmanship, the wearer could see out from as if looking through his own eyes. He looked at the helmet for a moment.
Since he was a child, masks had fascniated him. And so of course, he had delighted in the fact that the mouthpiece and visor left the face of whoever wore the helmet completely concealed. With his face completely hidden, he was no longer one whose features were rough and savage for a human and soft and effeminite for an orc. He was suddenly in line with the heroes of legend, suddenly limited by nothing other than his own actions and choices. He wasn’t really sure if the heroes of legend wore such masks or not, though he knew that Rom, at least, did. But in his imagination they certainly did.
He fitted the helmet over his face. Goodbye, Noriack. Hello, hero.
He bolted from the armory, towards the fading horizon.