ThieviusRaccoonus
One Thousand Club
Morrath
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Fantasy Anthroterra (1:1, closed, scantilycladsnail & ThieviusRaccoonus)
- Thread starter Thread starter scantilycladsnail
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scantilycladsnail
One Thousand Club
Morrath: 1
MEGAYEEN: 4 (wall, 3 houses, a bridge, shop buildings)
The Mega-yeen barreled through the Trade District like a catastrophe wearing skin.
Its grotesque limbs tore through the narrow market streets, each step a ruin. Stalls were reduced to splinters. Tents ignited from the sheer heat of its passing. A butcher’s shop vanished beneath a single stomp—marble counters shattered, meat hooks twisted into shrapnel.
A group of kin fled across its path.
Too slow.
CRUNCH.
The beast didn’t veer.
Three were swept beneath its legs—bones folding like paper, cries snuffed out in a burst of crimson mist. Another scrambled sideways, only to be hurled back into a wall by the swipe of a bone-jutted elbow, his form ragdolling into shadow.
The Mega-yeen laughed.
Not like a man. Not like a beast.
Like all of them—the chorus of the fused dead, shrieking in terrible joy, voices stacked and split, some crying, some giggling, some praying.
It turned down the final rise toward the temple grounds.
There—the Altar. Looming now, just ahead. Holy ground, untouched by war, preserved by generations.
Morrath can now roll 3d100.
MEGAYEEN: 4 (wall, 3 houses, a bridge, shop buildings)
The Mega-yeen barreled through the Trade District like a catastrophe wearing skin.
Its grotesque limbs tore through the narrow market streets, each step a ruin. Stalls were reduced to splinters. Tents ignited from the sheer heat of its passing. A butcher’s shop vanished beneath a single stomp—marble counters shattered, meat hooks twisted into shrapnel.
A group of kin fled across its path.
Too slow.
CRUNCH.
The beast didn’t veer.
Three were swept beneath its legs—bones folding like paper, cries snuffed out in a burst of crimson mist. Another scrambled sideways, only to be hurled back into a wall by the swipe of a bone-jutted elbow, his form ragdolling into shadow.
The Mega-yeen laughed.
Not like a man. Not like a beast.
Like all of them—the chorus of the fused dead, shrieking in terrible joy, voices stacked and split, some crying, some giggling, some praying.
It turned down the final rise toward the temple grounds.
There—the Altar. Looming now, just ahead. Holy ground, untouched by war, preserved by generations.
Morrath can now roll 3d100.
ThieviusRaccoonus
One Thousand Club
Morrath skidded through the rubble-strewn path of the Trade District, claws dragging deep grooves into the stone, ash clinging to his soaked fur. His steps were no longer thunderous—they dragged, heavy with blood and weight. The gash along his shoulder had widened, pulsing with each breath, and one of his hind legs faltered every third stride. His mouth hung open, steam curling out between ragged pants, foam gathering at the corners.
He was slowing.
He knew it.
But he couldn’t stop.
Ahead, he saw it—the smear of red across shattered stalls, the broken butcher’s frame, kin lying twisted and still in the dust.
He roared—hoarse and furious.
Then howled, the sound tearing from his throat like it had claws of its own. It echoed through the alleys, through cracked walls and shattered windows, grief and wrath laced into one terrible, feral cry.
The Mega-yeen was already cresting the final rise.
Morrath stumbled, then caught himself, his vision lurching—but he saw it.
The Altar.
Its white stone spires reaching through the smoke.
The statue of Mercy at its heart—still standing. Watching.
His heart hammered.
He forced himself forward, paws slamming the earth, leaving streaks of fire and blood behind. Every breath rattled, but still he ran—driven now not just by rage, but by something deeper. Older.
That altar could not fall.
Not while he still had breath in his body.
He was slowing.
He knew it.
But he couldn’t stop.
Ahead, he saw it—the smear of red across shattered stalls, the broken butcher’s frame, kin lying twisted and still in the dust.
He roared—hoarse and furious.
Then howled, the sound tearing from his throat like it had claws of its own. It echoed through the alleys, through cracked walls and shattered windows, grief and wrath laced into one terrible, feral cry.
The Mega-yeen was already cresting the final rise.
Morrath stumbled, then caught himself, his vision lurching—but he saw it.
The Altar.
Its white stone spires reaching through the smoke.
The statue of Mercy at its heart—still standing. Watching.
His heart hammered.
He forced himself forward, paws slamming the earth, leaving streaks of fire and blood behind. Every breath rattled, but still he ran—driven now not just by rage, but by something deeper. Older.
That altar could not fall.
Not while he still had breath in his body.
ThieviusRaccoonus
One Thousand Club
Morrath
scantilycladsnail
One Thousand Club
MEGA-YEEN
ThieviusRaccoonus
One Thousand Club
The altar loomed.
Too close.
Morrath’s breath came ragged, blood matting his fur, his shoulder screaming with every stride. His legs faltered—but his eyes never left the beast.
And then—something shifted.
Not in the world.
In him.
A surge of fire, deeper than muscle, older than rage. The wrath that made his name. It tore through him like lightning.
He roared, louder than before—so loud it cracked the soot in the air—and burst forward.
The Mega-yeen reached the edge of the temple grounds, one massive leg lifting to leap—
Morrath bit down.
His jaws clamped around its hind limb, fangs sinking deep into sinew and bone. The beast shrieked—dozens of mouths, all screaming at once.
But Morrath held.
He reeled back, muscles straining, paws grinding into the dirt. The Mega-yeen stumbled.
And Morrath pulled.
With a furious twist, he whipped the monster sideways, slamming it down into the earth with a thunderous crash.
Dust exploded.
And Morrath stood over it.
Bleeding. Burning.
Still standing.
Too close.
Morrath’s breath came ragged, blood matting his fur, his shoulder screaming with every stride. His legs faltered—but his eyes never left the beast.
And then—something shifted.
Not in the world.
In him.
A surge of fire, deeper than muscle, older than rage. The wrath that made his name. It tore through him like lightning.
He roared, louder than before—so loud it cracked the soot in the air—and burst forward.
The Mega-yeen reached the edge of the temple grounds, one massive leg lifting to leap—
Morrath bit down.
His jaws clamped around its hind limb, fangs sinking deep into sinew and bone. The beast shrieked—dozens of mouths, all screaming at once.
But Morrath held.
He reeled back, muscles straining, paws grinding into the dirt. The Mega-yeen stumbled.
And Morrath pulled.
With a furious twist, he whipped the monster sideways, slamming it down into the earth with a thunderous crash.
Dust exploded.
And Morrath stood over it.
Bleeding. Burning.
Still standing.
scantilycladsnail
One Thousand Club
MEGA-YEEN
ThieviusRaccoonus
One Thousand Club
Morrath
scantilycladsnail
One Thousand Club
LETHAL STRIKE AVAILABLE, will dissipate into shadows!
The Mega-yeen hit the ground like a collapsing cathedral—its fused limbs buckling, grotesque weight dragging dust and debris into a cloud of ruin around it. The echo of its fall rippled through Umbrafane, silencing even the distant screams for a heartbeat.
It twitched once.
Then again.
But it didn’t rise.
The tower of fused flesh and bone sagged into itself, spasming as the voices inside began to stutter, stagger, unravel. The laughter turned to static. The prayer-like gibbering guttered into silence. Its red eyes blinked rapidly—panicked now, not furious. Dimming.
The Mega-yeen hit the ground like a collapsing cathedral—its fused limbs buckling, grotesque weight dragging dust and debris into a cloud of ruin around it. The echo of its fall rippled through Umbrafane, silencing even the distant screams for a heartbeat.
It twitched once.
Then again.
But it didn’t rise.
The tower of fused flesh and bone sagged into itself, spasming as the voices inside began to stutter, stagger, unravel. The laughter turned to static. The prayer-like gibbering guttered into silence. Its red eyes blinked rapidly—panicked now, not furious. Dimming.
ThieviusRaccoonus
One Thousand Club
Morrath stood over the collapsed beast, breath shuddering through flared nostrils. Smoke poured from his mouth with each exhale, his body ringed in shadowflame—thick, roiling tendrils that curled and snapped around his limbs like a storm barely leashed.
The altar still stood behind him.
Untouched.
Safe.
But the thought didn’t calm him.
The Mega-yeen had tried.
Tried to reach it.
Tried to break it.
Tried to lay its rot-stained filth upon Mercy.
A guttural snarl tore from Morrath’s throat, raw and rising.
Then—he lunged.
Fangs gnashing, claws scraping, the beast within took the reins. He came down on the Mega-yeen like a blazing comet of fury, tearing into it with everything left in his failing frame. His jaws locked onto twisted flesh. He ripped. Slammed. Dragged. Bones cracked, shadows split, static laughter sputtered into shrieks.
His claws raked over plated bone.
His teeth shredded at the fused mess of limbs.
And still, he bit down.
The world around him muted—sound slipping into a dull, slow-motion hum. Flames slowed. Screams faded. The only thing left was the snarling. His. The beast’s. One and the same.
He didn’t know when he stopped.
Only that he was standing again.
Over the mangled ruin of the Mega-yeen. Its red eyes gone. No twitch. No twitch. No laughter.
Morrath’s head hung low, steam pouring from his jaw, breath hitching in sharp, uneven bursts. His chest heaved. His legs shook beneath him, blood trailing down into the ash. He blinked through the flames, wide-eyed, as if seeing himself from far away.
The beast took one step—then another.
Then staggered.
Morrath’s legs buckled beneath him, the fire dimming along his spine. With a low, rasping grunt, he collapsed onto his side amidst the rubble, the stone hissing beneath his scorched fur.
He didn’t move to rise.
Didn’t growl.
Just breathed.
Slow. Heavy.
The fury still flickered in his chest, but for the first time in what felt like eternity—there was silence behind his eyes.
Not peace.
Not yet.
But stillness.
And in that moment, it was enough.
The altar still stood behind him.
Untouched.
Safe.
But the thought didn’t calm him.
The Mega-yeen had tried.
Tried to reach it.
Tried to break it.
Tried to lay its rot-stained filth upon Mercy.
A guttural snarl tore from Morrath’s throat, raw and rising.
Then—he lunged.
Fangs gnashing, claws scraping, the beast within took the reins. He came down on the Mega-yeen like a blazing comet of fury, tearing into it with everything left in his failing frame. His jaws locked onto twisted flesh. He ripped. Slammed. Dragged. Bones cracked, shadows split, static laughter sputtered into shrieks.
His claws raked over plated bone.
His teeth shredded at the fused mess of limbs.
And still, he bit down.
The world around him muted—sound slipping into a dull, slow-motion hum. Flames slowed. Screams faded. The only thing left was the snarling. His. The beast’s. One and the same.
He didn’t know when he stopped.
Only that he was standing again.
Over the mangled ruin of the Mega-yeen. Its red eyes gone. No twitch. No twitch. No laughter.
Morrath’s head hung low, steam pouring from his jaw, breath hitching in sharp, uneven bursts. His chest heaved. His legs shook beneath him, blood trailing down into the ash. He blinked through the flames, wide-eyed, as if seeing himself from far away.
The beast took one step—then another.
Then staggered.
Morrath’s legs buckled beneath him, the fire dimming along his spine. With a low, rasping grunt, he collapsed onto his side amidst the rubble, the stone hissing beneath his scorched fur.
He didn’t move to rise.
Didn’t growl.
Just breathed.
Slow. Heavy.
The fury still flickered in his chest, but for the first time in what felt like eternity—there was silence behind his eyes.
Not peace.
Not yet.
But stillness.
And in that moment, it was enough.
scantilycladsnail
One Thousand Club
Eryon’s charge hit like a landslide—raw weight, trained muscle, a force of legacy behind every strike. His polearm clanged against the towering form of Belarus, the haft jarring in his grip, boots grinding stone as momentum carried him forward like an avalanche.
But Belarus didn’t move.
His black, chitin-armored body absorbed the impact like a fortress built in the dark. The crimson glow along his segmented limbs pulsed faintly—not as a defense, but a heartbeat. His plague-white mask tilted slightly, the empty eye sockets unreadable, insectile antennae twitching once like they were tasting the weight of the blow.
He caught the polearm in one of his lower arms—without force, without flourish. His other limbs moved in eerie synchronization, folding in tight against his torso like the loading of some grotesque siege weapon.
No strain.
Only control.
He leaned in—massive, coiled muscle shifting beneath the slick armor of his void-touched form. Heat clashed against unnatural cold. The mask stared blankly, but the voice that followed was deep, low, and precise. Each word fell like stone in a crypt.
“I respect your conviction,” Belarus rumbled, his voice less like speech and more like pressure in the spine. “You strike with purpose. With honor.”
The upper arms adjusted their grip. The lower pair moved with mechanical calm, as though priming for dissection.
“It is wasted.”
ThieviusRaccoonus
One Thousand Club
Eryon didn’t flinch.
Even as the claws gripped his polearm like it were kindling. Even as the mask stared without mercy. The heat of his breath steamed in the cold, lips drawn into a grim line beneath the rough edge of his beard. Dust and gravel cracked beneath his hooves, steady and unmoved.
He met the void with stillness.
Not defiance. Not pride.
Just purpose.
The wind tugged at the braids tied into his mane. His voice was gravel—old stone from a mountain that never bowed to time.
“…Then I’ll waste it well.”
He wrenched the axe free with brute strength, iron creaking, shoulders broad as old oaks bracing for the storm. Eryon turned his stance—feet planted like roots, axe low, horned head tilted just slightly as if in some ancient Brakarholt salute.
“I don’t hate you. But you’ll not pass.”
A pause.
He was ready. Ephraim and Morrath had gotten away to safety.
Even as the claws gripped his polearm like it were kindling. Even as the mask stared without mercy. The heat of his breath steamed in the cold, lips drawn into a grim line beneath the rough edge of his beard. Dust and gravel cracked beneath his hooves, steady and unmoved.
He met the void with stillness.
Not defiance. Not pride.
Just purpose.
The wind tugged at the braids tied into his mane. His voice was gravel—old stone from a mountain that never bowed to time.
“…Then I’ll waste it well.”
He wrenched the axe free with brute strength, iron creaking, shoulders broad as old oaks bracing for the storm. Eryon turned his stance—feet planted like roots, axe low, horned head tilted just slightly as if in some ancient Brakarholt salute.
“I don’t hate you. But you’ll not pass.”
A pause.
He was ready. Ephraim and Morrath had gotten away to safety.
scantilycladsnail
One Thousand Club
SYSTEM: Belarus' Pain Share
Each turn (5 total): Eryon rolls 2d50 for 5 turns, Belarus will not roll.
Goal: Reach a total of 250+ over 5 turns. If he reaches that after the 5th turn, he may finish the fight by cracking Belarus' mask. At every turn, Eryon may choose to make a roll to escape instead, this will roll on a D10, with a 6+ needed to successfully escape.
Belarus will be on the constant offensive, Eryon will be on the defensive.
Whenever Eryon gets a 50 or higher on a turn, he may counter/cancel/refute Belarus' attempt an attack.
Belarus did not speak.
He simply moved.
A blur—not of speed, but of inevitability. The kind of motion carved from centuries of practiced stillness. His upper right arm snapped forward—not with anger, not with flourish, but with judgment. The runes on his forearm flared to life as his hand clamped around Eryon’s throat.
Not crushing.
Holding.
Lifting.
He held Eryon there—not to strangle him. To speak to him.
To make him listen.
“You do not hate me,” he echoed, low. “And I do not blame you.”
A pause, heavy as lead.
“But your body will.”
ThieviusRaccoonus
One Thousand Club
Eryon’s hooves scraped stone as he was lifted, muscles coiling with fury beneath his hide. His hands gripped the polearm tighter, but he did not swing. Not yet.
His jaw clenched. The veins in his neck bulged against the hold. Every breath came hard through flared nostrils.
But his eyes—dark, unblinking—locked onto the hollow mask.
No fear.
No yield.
Only a growl behind his grit, low and ancient, like the sound of earth before it breaks.
“…Then break it.”
His jaw clenched. The veins in his neck bulged against the hold. Every breath came hard through flared nostrils.
But his eyes—dark, unblinking—locked onto the hollow mask.
No fear.
No yield.
Only a growl behind his grit, low and ancient, like the sound of earth before it breaks.
“…Then break it.”
scantilycladsnail
One Thousand Club
|
The air trembled.
Belarus answered not with words, but with force. His grip tightened for a breath—just long enough to anchor the weight of Eryon’s challenge—and then came the release.
Not downward.
Upward.
Outward.
He pivoted like a siege tower turning, every inch of his motion deliberate, grounded in precision honed across a hundred wars. And with one monumental heave, he hurled Eryon through the air like a thrown boulder. The donkeykin warrior flew—not flailing, but braced even as he was launched—his body slamming through the heavy timber frame of a stone-shelled forge.
The wall exploded outward in a rain of splinters and shattered masonry.
Eryon’s form vanished in the rubble—then burst out the other side, rolling once across the dust-caked ground before planting the haft of his polearm and skidding to a stop.
And then—
Footsteps.
Slow. Unhurried.
Belarus emerged from the ruin. From the same wall. His massive form passed through the gap Eryon had carved like a silhouette molded from consequence. His skin bore a matching trail of bruises and dust, his tunic torn at the shoulder where masonry had struck—but he walked as though none of it mattered.
Because to him, it didn’t.
The runes glowed brighter now—crimson light pulsing in quiet rhythm, the sigils moving faintly across his skin like breath in stone. He rolled his shoulders once, the sound of it like grinding mountains.
The air trembled.
Belarus answered not with words, but with force. His grip tightened for a breath—just long enough to anchor the weight of Eryon’s challenge—and then came the release.
Not downward.
Upward.
Outward.
He pivoted like a siege tower turning, every inch of his motion deliberate, grounded in precision honed across a hundred wars. And with one monumental heave, he hurled Eryon through the air like a thrown boulder. The donkeykin warrior flew—not flailing, but braced even as he was launched—his body slamming through the heavy timber frame of a stone-shelled forge.
The wall exploded outward in a rain of splinters and shattered masonry.
Eryon’s form vanished in the rubble—then burst out the other side, rolling once across the dust-caked ground before planting the haft of his polearm and skidding to a stop.
And then—
Footsteps.
Slow. Unhurried.
Belarus emerged from the ruin. From the same wall. His massive form passed through the gap Eryon had carved like a silhouette molded from consequence. His skin bore a matching trail of bruises and dust, his tunic torn at the shoulder where masonry had struck—but he walked as though none of it mattered.
Because to him, it didn’t.
The runes glowed brighter now—crimson light pulsing in quiet rhythm, the sigils moving faintly across his skin like breath in stone. He rolled his shoulders once, the sound of it like grinding mountains.
ThieviusRaccoonus
One Thousand Club
Eryon stood.
Dust clung to his fur. Blood threaded down one arm. His back steamed from the heat of broken timber, ribs howling beneath the skin—
but he stood.
The haft of his axe dug into the earth, his knuckles bone-white around it. Shoulders squared. Horns leveled.
He didn’t speak.
Just a glare—sharp and steady—as if daring Belarus to throw him again and see what broke first: stone, or will.
A snort cut the air, thick with grit and fire.
Then silence.
The mountain hadn’t fallen. Only shifted.
Dust clung to his fur. Blood threaded down one arm. His back steamed from the heat of broken timber, ribs howling beneath the skin—
but he stood.
The haft of his axe dug into the earth, his knuckles bone-white around it. Shoulders squared. Horns leveled.
He didn’t speak.
Just a glare—sharp and steady—as if daring Belarus to throw him again and see what broke first: stone, or will.
A snort cut the air, thick with grit and fire.
Then silence.
The mountain hadn’t fallen. Only shifted.
scantilycladsnail
One Thousand Club
Belarus watched him rise.
Unhurried. Unimpressed. Unmoved.
The slow, methodical pulse of the crimson runes across his forearms continued—beat… beat… beat—like the ticking of some ancient war clock measuring every breath, every ounce of resistance. Not to gauge it.
To witness it.
His four arms flexed in eerie sync. Two behind his back. Two free.
And then he moved.
Not fast.
Just certain.
Footsteps like falling verdicts—each one deeper than the last, until the ground between them folded into silence. Then—
Grip.
Belarus’s hand closed around Eryon’s chest plate, just beneath the collar. Not choking this time. Just lifting. One arm. No strain. The Brakarholt warrior’s body hung in the air again, legs just brushing the ground, axe still gripped in hand—dangling.
Unhurried. Unimpressed. Unmoved.
The slow, methodical pulse of the crimson runes across his forearms continued—beat… beat… beat—like the ticking of some ancient war clock measuring every breath, every ounce of resistance. Not to gauge it.
To witness it.
His four arms flexed in eerie sync. Two behind his back. Two free.
And then he moved.
Not fast.
Just certain.
Footsteps like falling verdicts—each one deeper than the last, until the ground between them folded into silence. Then—
Grip.
Belarus’s hand closed around Eryon’s chest plate, just beneath the collar. Not choking this time. Just lifting. One arm. No strain. The Brakarholt warrior’s body hung in the air again, legs just brushing the ground, axe still gripped in hand—dangling.
ThieviusRaccoonus
One Thousand Club
Eryon’s breath hissed through clenched teeth as the ground slipped from under him again. The grip was unshakable—unfeeling—but so was the fire behind his eyes.
Still, he held the axe. Still, he stared.
No cry. No fear. Just the faint creak of leather stretched over bracing muscle.
Then—
A sudden twist of the shoulders. His torso coiled like a drawn bow.
And slam—
Both hooves snapped backward, a full-force donkey kick driven by centuries of mountain-blooded grit. The impact cracked against Belarus’s midsection with the sound of stone shearing.
The grip faltered.
Eryon dropped, catching himself low in a crouch, one hand slamming the axe haft down to anchor his weight. Dust exploded beneath him as he rose again, breath heavy, chest heaving.
He snorted—louder now. Sharper.
Muscles tensed beneath dust and blood. Eyes locked like flint.
“Try again.”
Still, he held the axe. Still, he stared.
No cry. No fear. Just the faint creak of leather stretched over bracing muscle.
Then—
A sudden twist of the shoulders. His torso coiled like a drawn bow.
And slam—
Both hooves snapped backward, a full-force donkey kick driven by centuries of mountain-blooded grit. The impact cracked against Belarus’s midsection with the sound of stone shearing.
The grip faltered.
Eryon dropped, catching himself low in a crouch, one hand slamming the axe haft down to anchor his weight. Dust exploded beneath him as he rose again, breath heavy, chest heaving.
He snorted—louder now. Sharper.
Muscles tensed beneath dust and blood. Eyes locked like flint.
“Try again.”
scantilycladsnail
One Thousand Club
Belarus staggered back a step—just one.
The blow landed. Not with force enough to break, but enough.
The runes across his abdomen pulsed brighter—reacting, absorbing. His massive frame bent slightly with the recoil, boots grinding a deep scar into the stone floor as he slid. One of his lower arms snapped wide to catch his balance against the alley’s fractured wall.
He looked up.
And for the first time—
He paused.
Not wounded.
Not shaken.
Just… registering.
The mountain kicked back.
His upper arms adjusted his balance, shoulders rolling with that eerie, fluid weight again. Then, wordlessly, he reached out with one lower hand and tore a chunk of stone from the broken wall beside him—a jagged slab the size of a riot shield, dust crumbling from its edges.
He spun once—shoulders twisting in brutal, perfect form—
And hurled it.
The wall chunk screamed through the air like a thrown tombstone, spinning violently as it sailed toward Eryon, force and weight behind it that would flatten lesser kin where they stood.
The blow landed. Not with force enough to break, but enough.
The runes across his abdomen pulsed brighter—reacting, absorbing. His massive frame bent slightly with the recoil, boots grinding a deep scar into the stone floor as he slid. One of his lower arms snapped wide to catch his balance against the alley’s fractured wall.
He looked up.
And for the first time—
He paused.
Not wounded.
Not shaken.
Just… registering.
The mountain kicked back.
His upper arms adjusted his balance, shoulders rolling with that eerie, fluid weight again. Then, wordlessly, he reached out with one lower hand and tore a chunk of stone from the broken wall beside him—a jagged slab the size of a riot shield, dust crumbling from its edges.
He spun once—shoulders twisting in brutal, perfect form—
And hurled it.
The wall chunk screamed through the air like a thrown tombstone, spinning violently as it sailed toward Eryon, force and weight behind it that would flatten lesser kin where they stood.
ThieviusRaccoonus
One Thousand Club
Eryon didn’t flinch.
He saw the slab coming—heard the roar of air around it, felt the shadow cast in its wake.
And still, he didn’t move.
He planted.
With a guttural breath and a twist of the shoulders, he raised the broad head of his axe like a shield, bracing the haft across his chest.
Then—impact.
The stone slammed into him with bone-crushing force. The clang of steel, the crack of wood, the wet crunch of something giving. Eryon staggered back, boots carving trenches in the dust. The slab shattered against his defense—but not before biting into his side, slicing open flesh beneath the armor’s edge.
He dropped to one knee, chest heaving. The axe slipped—half an inch—from his grip.
Blood hit the dirt.
His shoulders shook.
Then—
A harder snort. Louder. Sharper.
He rose.
One knee, then the next. Hands clenched tighter around the polearm, knuckles bloodied, the haft groaning under his grip. His stance returned, wide and low, knees still trembling—but refusing to give.
Face bloodied. Eyes locked. Axe ready.
“Not done,” he growled, low as thunder through a gorge.
“Not near.”
He saw the slab coming—heard the roar of air around it, felt the shadow cast in its wake.
And still, he didn’t move.
He planted.
With a guttural breath and a twist of the shoulders, he raised the broad head of his axe like a shield, bracing the haft across his chest.
Then—impact.
The stone slammed into him with bone-crushing force. The clang of steel, the crack of wood, the wet crunch of something giving. Eryon staggered back, boots carving trenches in the dust. The slab shattered against his defense—but not before biting into his side, slicing open flesh beneath the armor’s edge.
He dropped to one knee, chest heaving. The axe slipped—half an inch—from his grip.
Blood hit the dirt.
His shoulders shook.
Then—
A harder snort. Louder. Sharper.
He rose.
One knee, then the next. Hands clenched tighter around the polearm, knuckles bloodied, the haft groaning under his grip. His stance returned, wide and low, knees still trembling—but refusing to give.
Face bloodied. Eyes locked. Axe ready.
“Not done,” he growled, low as thunder through a gorge.
“Not near.”
scantilycladsnail
One Thousand Club
Belarus stepped forward—slow, deliberate, the weight of inevitability pressed into each motion like the ticking of a final bell. His boots ground against stone, the rune-etched bracers at his wrists still glowing dim, still pulsing with the rhythm of something that wasn’t quite a heartbeat.
Then—crack.
A hairline fracture split along the side of his jaw.
Not bone. Not flesh.
Chitin.
From the seam, a sliver of shadow oozed—no, moved. Tiny shapes, flickering in the firelight. Ants.
They spilled out, crawling down the side of his neck like sweat born from suffering, then returned—crawling back in through cracks along his ribs, his joints, his spine.
Not pain.
Redistribution.
The pieces of him moved.
Reassembled.
And still he walked.
He stopped just a few paces away, towering above Eryon like a tombstone carved from myth.
He didn’t blink.
Belarus murmured, tilting his head, his voice echoing as if a hundred insects whispered at once. “Only ‘we.’ Purpose. Pattern. Pain.”
He raised two hands—upper limbs coiling with coiled magic, the lower set relaxed but twitching, adjusting for balance.
Suddenly, the air shifted behind Belarus.
Boots hit the stone in unison—three heavy thuds that echoed like a war drum resuming its rhythm. Dust swirled. Smoke parted. And through it stepped three more Brakarholt donkeykin, each one carved from the same mountainous bloodline as Eryon. Broad shoulders. Braided manes. Eyes like winter storms. And each of them—carrying an axe.
They said nothing.
No declarations. No battle cries. Just presence.
One tapped the butt of his weapon to the ground once.
The second rolled his neck with a metallic creak of armor.
The third—youngest—twirled his axe once in a wide circle before resting it on one shoulder, chin lifting in silent defiance.
Behind Belarus now—they stood like cliffs behind a tide. Ready. Waiting. Breathing in rhythm with the wind that cut through the cracked courtyard.
This wasn’t a duel.
This was a wall.
And their eyes were locked not on Belarus…
…but on Eryon.
Waiting.
One nod.
Just one.
And they would strike.
Because Belarus was never just one.
But neither was Brakarholt.
Belarus didn’t turn.
Even as the three donkeykin stepped into place behind him, even as the air thickened with the weight of Brakarholt iron, he did not look back.
He stepped forward once.
Slow. Steady.
And something changed.
Not a shift in stance. Not a drawing of weapons.
A shift in form.
From the right side of his body, just above the rune-marked bicep, the chitin rippled.
A small fissure opened in his exoskeleton, pulsing like a wound. Then—burst.
Not with blood. With movement. Ants. Hundreds—thousands—spilled out from the gap like water through a broken dam, crawling over his arm, fusing into one another, building atop the living structure of his body. They didn’t scatter. They didn’t run.
They assembled.
A writhing, living limb of them—vast, gnarled, grotesquely muscular. Fused with black chitin, it twisted outward from his original arm until it reached the length of a war-club and the thickness of a tree trunk. The ground cracked as it dropped once, testing its own weight. Ants still crawled across its surface, layering and thickening the mass with quiet, skittering diligence.
A mutation. A weapon. A hive.
His voice didn’t rise. If anything, it grew quieter.
“I did not ask to be made this way,” Belarus murmured, rolling the grotesque limb once at the shoulder. “But I do not apologize for the function of my design.”
PHASE 2: THE LINE HOLDS
Belarus has 220 HP. Eryon and his 3 Donkeykin allies must deal 220 total damage before they are all slain. When they reach 220 damage, Eryon makes a final strike on Belarus’s mask that cannot be reflected. If it hits, Belarus is defeated.
Team Attack (Each Round)
- Eryon rolls 2d10 for his damage.
- Each Donkeykin rolls 2d5 for their damage.
- Add all damage together; it applies immediately to Belarus’s HP.
Donkeykin Death Check
- After the Donkeykin roll their 6 total dice (3 Donkeykin × 2d5 each), count how many 1s appear.
- If there are 2 or more natural 1s in that round’s Donkeykin rolls, exactly 1 Donkeykin is killed.
- Only one Donkeykin can die per round from this effect.
Kill Countdown (Once Donkeykin Are Gone)
- As soon as all Donkeykin are dead, Belarus starts rolling to kill Eryon outright.
- Each round, Belarus rolls a “shrinking” die:
Round Die Eryon Dies on… 1 d6 Natural 6 2 d5 Natural 5 3 d4 Natural 4 4 d3 Natural 3 5 d2 Natural 2 6 d1 Automatic - In each of these countdown rounds, Eryon still rolls his 2d10 damage before Belarus’s kill roll.
- If total damage reaches 220 at any point, Eryon attempts his final strike on Belarus’s mask.
Victory Condition
- When the team’s total damage first reaches 220 or more, Eryon makes a final attack.
- This final strike cannot be reflected or prevented.
- If it hits, Belarus is defeated. If Eryon dies before dealing 220 damage (or before landing the final strike), Belarus wins.
ThieviusRaccoonus
One Thousand Club
The wind stirred.
For a breath, only the sound of it moved between them—the slow howl threading through shattered stone and cracked timber, whistling low across the empty battlefield. Dust curled around their hooves. Smoke coiled around their shoulders. And then—
A voice.
Low. Gravel-touched. From the eldest of the three Brakarholt warriors, beard braided with bands of iron.
“Eryon,” he rumbled, steady as a drumbeat. “We came at first light. Thought you’d need the mountain.”
The second—leaner, scars across his throat—smirked beneath a helm stitched in old Brakarholt red.
“Didn’t think you’d start the war without us.”
And the third—barely grown, young eyes hard with earned fire—spun his axe once, planting the blade to the stone.
“Can’t let you die before I beat your record.”
Eryon didn’t look back.
Didn’t smile.
But his chest lifted once in a breath. Not relief.
Readiness.
He stared at Belarus, watching the swarm thicken, the limb twist, the ruin become flesh. He listened to the words—
“I did not ask to be made this way…”
And Eryon answered, voice low, hoarse as the forge-stones of home:
“…None of us did.”
A pause. His hooves shifted. His hands flexed on the axe.
“But we’re here. All the same.”
He turned his head slightly—just enough to catch the eyes of the three who stood behind him.
“Brakarholt stands.”
Three axes raised in unison. No flourish. No delay.
Then—
A cry.
Not a scream. Not a roar.
A call, ancient and bone-deep.
Guttural, from the back of the throat, from the marrow of the old world. The kind of war cry that had echoed through fjords and over ash-choked hills since time remembered war.
“HRRAAHH–!”
And then they moved.
scantilycladsnail
One Thousand Club
HP: 196/220
The runes along Belarus’ body flared—a pulsing red deepening into something black. Not with decay, but with density. A terrible compactness of will.
And the arm answered.
The mutated limb writhed at his side—ants converging, folding, splitting and rejoining, bone snapping within the mass like a drumbeat of war. It was no longer just a limb. It was weight. A forge-hammer of living flesh and insect command. Every twitch of his thought bent it anew, reshaping the mass into brutal, singular purpose.
The first Brakarholt warrior reached him with a downward cleave, the axe blade roaring through the air—
CRACK.
The mega-arm moved.
It swept up—not in panic, not with speed—but with mass. The strike met it and stopped. Not because Belarus blocked it.
Because it could not move him.
The second warrior came from the flank—faster, a feint in the air, blade tucked low.
Belarus turned.
The arm rotated with him, the ants peeling back into new muscle—slamming into the second Brakarholt’s ribs, pushing him back.
The third warrior, the youngest, surged in. Quick. Too quick.
The mutated arm retracted halfway—then split, the forearm segment unraveling into writhing lengths.
They struck like a serpent’s head.
Whip—THWACK.
The youth was caught mid-run, slammed into the dirt with force enough to rattle the bones in his ancestors’ graves
He turned back to Eryon.
One massive foot stepped forward, his chest rising with the rhythm of inevitability.
“I see you now,” Belarus murmured, four arms shifting in perfect sequence—two to balance, one to guide, the fourth flexing the mega-arm with grotesque elegance.
“You brought your mountain,” he said.
His head tilted.
“I am the avalanche.”
ThieviusRaccoonus
One Thousand Club
The two Brakarholt warriors still standing flanked Eryon once more—bloodied, breath sharp through their teeth, but unbroken. The youngest groaned where he lay, still alive, his fingers twitching toward his axe.
Eryon stood firm.
Dust coated his shoulders like snowfall, blood seeping through the rent in his armor—but his grip never wavered. Not once. The weight of his people stood behind his eyes.
He watched Belarus—the heaving limb, the shifting form, the voice like crushing stone.
“I am the avalanche.”
Eryon’s jaw flexed, the deep lines of his face tightening.
He answered without raising his voice. Just a low, grounded growl that tasted of pine smoke and cold wind.
“Aye.”
His hooves dug in. Axe lifted.
“An avalanche comes fast.”
A beat. A breath. A silence.
“But the mountain’s still there when it’s done.”
Then—
A thundering cry from the warriors beside him.
“FOR UMBRAFANE! FOR BRÁKARHOLLT!”
They surged again, blades raised, striking not with desperation, but heritage.
And Eryon moved with them, heavy as the earth, carving forward like the world itself meant to rise and meet the fall.
Eryon stood firm.
Dust coated his shoulders like snowfall, blood seeping through the rent in his armor—but his grip never wavered. Not once. The weight of his people stood behind his eyes.
He watched Belarus—the heaving limb, the shifting form, the voice like crushing stone.
“I am the avalanche.”
Eryon’s jaw flexed, the deep lines of his face tightening.
He answered without raising his voice. Just a low, grounded growl that tasted of pine smoke and cold wind.
“Aye.”
His hooves dug in. Axe lifted.
“An avalanche comes fast.”
A beat. A breath. A silence.
“But the mountain’s still there when it’s done.”
Then—
A thundering cry from the warriors beside him.
“FOR UMBRAFANE! FOR BRÁKARHOLLT!”
They surged again, blades raised, striking not with desperation, but heritage.
And Eryon moved with them, heavy as the earth, carving forward like the world itself meant to rise and meet the fall.
scantilycladsnail
One Thousand Club
HP: 164/220
Belarus didn’t flinch as the cry broke over him like surf against black cliffs.
He stood tall, unmoving, the mutated limb pulsing at his side like the beat of a second heart—if hearts could be made of fury and insects. Ants crawled along the runes across his body in intricate paths, feeding strength into the shifting structure of the monstrous arm. His mask—still unreadable, still whole—tilted just slightly at the oncoming charge.
Then—
Impact.
The first axe came low—aimed for the hip. Belarus stepped into it, and the mega-arm collapsed downward, a sudden gravity of muscle and carapace that caught the blow and drove it into the dirt. Dust flared. Sparks bit the air. The warrior staggered—thrown not from pain, but from displacement.
The second Brakarholt blade found a home in his shoulder—but only for a moment. The ants surged. Pincers snapped. The head of the axe was ejected, hurled free as the runes along his chest sparked to life, bleeding red light into the cracks of his skin.
CLACK.
The mega-arm twisted.
And with a single downward arc, it smashed the ground in a semi-circle, scattering the warriors like bowling pins.
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