The clang of metal on metal called to Feldard and he was driven in his effort to move—even in the slightest. Bah! But there seemed not even a twitch. Damned spider! Of all the ways to go down.. by a damned spider bite!
Hernane too struggled as best she could against the paralysis. Her mental anguish cried out “If only Grofnar was here! He could strike these orcs down in one mighty swing of his axe and the beast would have fallen long ago against his prowess”.
“In your own time Hasan!” Maruc grinned wildly at the three brute warriors in front of him. He ducked as a blade stung his cheek, and another rang against his shield. The wall to his back offered no retreat ,and he wondered at his actions. Foetid breath and orc spittal assaulted him. His impulsiveness would get him killed. He jabbed an orc with the pummel of his flail, the shock made the orc step back a fraction then Maruc just about managed to get enough room to swing it properly. The orc glazed at the impact and the priest booted the orc in front of him, this one had lost concentration as it joked at his fallen comrade. Not so, the last of the trio who dug beneath Maruc’s guard and violently dented the plates in the side of his armour. Damn that’ll take some beating out though Maruc.
He was starting to feel light headed. It wasn’t a good sign.
With few options left Miklos grabbed his staff. One of the orcs flew backward clutching at his nose. The mage took the opportunity to brain him. In his minds eye the staff all but took the orc’s head off with a sickening thud.
Reality told a somewhat different tale. He looked around to see if anyone had noticed.
Hasan stepped away from the onrushing orcs easily enough, although it it was harder to avoid the garish flight of Miklos’s staff, which featured two twirls for every whirling strike. But the elf stood near the mage—not quite side by side, by near enough—equally animated in defense of the two striken dwarf’s that lay just beyond.
The situation was not at all pleasant. In fact, with his back to the wall and warm streams of blood down both his cheek and side, Stephan was beginning to have that sinking feeling he imagined soldiers had just before death.
The whirling staff of Miklos yanked him from the precipice of despair. He noted the dazzling spins and jabs and thought to suggest the mage perform such in a theatre. But the staff served as more than entertainment. The distraction pulled the attention of the orc facing him away and held it long enough for the fighter to see the opening. He struck with a gutteral call to Halav that reverberated in the cavern. The orc in turn issued a piercing scream that seemed out of place for a brute that size. It fell in the cave muck and was soon trampled by the orc on Stephan’s right.
The clangs and screams set up a deafening resonance. Perhaps it was that, coupled with the warm slick blood coarsing his cheek that somehow focused his battle venom. He found in those moments a narrowing of purpose—an almost insane concentration of will—that shut out all sensory input but a pulsating cave drip that set a perfect pace of melee.
Drip. The shield went up.
Drip. Around came the blade.
Drip. Step to the left.
Drip. Knee to the side.
Drip. Sword down for the kill.
And so he continued in the fight hearing only an all powerful drip that seemed to echo through the cave. When at last the game was up, poor Stephan was flooded with sights, sounds and feelings that overcame his constitution. The fighter slumped against the cave wall.
The orcs had fought fiercely to the last. Unusual for creatures such as these, but they had been motivated by zealotry. In the end, superior armor and weaponry had proved too much for them.