1-16-15 Writing Warm-up
Artwork © Carlos Cabrera, All Rights Reserved - http://artbycarlos.deviantart.com/
Story and Characters © Corey Blankenship, All Rights Reserved
Brought to you by Four Fools Press: “Crazy Good Stories”
Grond had had enough.
The vermin race bound, used, and killed his people for sport. Vil’hal. тролль. Peikko. Gnomo. Troglodytarum. Tröll.* The tribal slurs' nuances mattered little; they all meant the same. Monster. Yet, who had cut off his hands and burned unbreakable cauldrons onto his limbs? Who had heated metal to glowing white and placed it upon his brow, the last thing Grond would ever see? Hatred was not innate to his kind. It had been cultivated. Grond fed its flame with each new grievance, and today it burned pure inside him.
The villains had tortured and murdered his wife and his children.
The fiends had made him listen.
The quiet footsoldier in the High Lord’s Helborn Legion stood up in the pit he had been caged. He heard the dull clunk of forged metal rungs against their housing. He raised his ram-fists and struck his own ankles with blows that would flatten men and break troll bones. Agony, the taste of iron, and mud smashed into Grond’s mind. Pain nearly betrayed his plan, but his steeled will clamped back the anguish within him. He lay in his own blood for long spans. A sickly pop announced marrow rejoining bone. The warrior leaned against the wall, recovering from the grizzly ordeal. He took a ginger step and heard nothing beyond the plop of muck protesting his titanic paw.
Grond smiled as he had not in years.
Twenty men-at-arms hurled like flies in summer, shattered bone and broken mail tinkling on the stony ground. No guttural roar heralded Grond’s escape. He gave no alarm, no quarter, no hope. Ears keen by constant use picked man-breaths from horse-neighs, even as the stench of sweat and fear marked the cowards’ paths. The son of titans arose from his prison with judgment for the mortals who dared to chain him. Grond’s hammers shook the foundation of the hills and soon cries of dismay answered his blows.
Men scurried like smoke over stone to either escape or hamper the raging feral-troll. Like wheat before the scythe, smoke upon the wind, rows of men withered from his mammoth blows. Spears whistled, arrows howled, and Grond’s seasoned reflexes turned steel against steel. The thump of poisoned barbs against unflinching mail incited a chuckle from the living mountain. Weak lords these vermin had been. The flecks of their lifesblood hardly tarnished his mauls. The warrior forced the survivors into the wind and advanced.
A final chorus arose from the remnants. Grond understood his plan had succeeded. Standing upon a spire of rock, the victims and their victor loomed over the man-halls below. The giant could hear the bells and shouts down in the city. Grond raised his iron limb and smashed men and stone into dust. Another ironfist rose and fell. Another mortal and shale broke. At the last, Grond opened his mouth and released the pent-up rage of years of enslavement, torture, and murder. The timber of his warcry roared curses generations’ long and nine realms’ high. Man, beast, and mountain quailed at the voice of the trollkin’s hate. Hammer and shout pounded in a terrible crescendo, pouring forth slabs of stone upon the hidden vale. Death rained upon the halls of men with unrelenting speed. Silence followed the sickly echo of their screams amid the thunder of stones. The warrior’s wife and children’s smiling faces flickered within the haze of his mind’s eye. Whatever gods remained in Asgard had honored his cry for justice. The sacrifice upon the fire of the troll’s rage smelled sweet to his bitter heart.
Grond had not yet had enough.
*Variants of Troll.
Blood-cauldrons burning in angry flame
Heaped up agony, overflowing shame
Foul are the kindred hauled from hills
Vile are the Vil’hal who villagers kill!
Blessed Braddox, Breaker-of-Beast,
Slaved the Wicked to save the least!
Yes, Braddox Will-Snapper spared all
When he clapped Grond with iron maul.
Heaped up agony, overflowing shame
Foul are the kindred hauled from hills
Vile are the Vil’hal who villagers kill!
Blessed Braddox, Breaker-of-Beast,
Slaved the Wicked to save the least!
Yes, Braddox Will-Snapper spared all
When he clapped Grond with iron maul.
Grond had had enough.
The vermin race bound, used, and killed his people for sport. Vil’hal. тролль. Peikko. Gnomo. Troglodytarum. Tröll.* The tribal slurs' nuances mattered little; they all meant the same. Monster. Yet, who had cut off his hands and burned unbreakable cauldrons onto his limbs? Who had heated metal to glowing white and placed it upon his brow, the last thing Grond would ever see? Hatred was not innate to his kind. It had been cultivated. Grond fed its flame with each new grievance, and today it burned pure inside him.
The villains had tortured and murdered his wife and his children.
The fiends had made him listen.
The quiet footsoldier in the High Lord’s Helborn Legion stood up in the pit he had been caged. He heard the dull clunk of forged metal rungs against their housing. He raised his ram-fists and struck his own ankles with blows that would flatten men and break troll bones. Agony, the taste of iron, and mud smashed into Grond’s mind. Pain nearly betrayed his plan, but his steeled will clamped back the anguish within him. He lay in his own blood for long spans. A sickly pop announced marrow rejoining bone. The warrior leaned against the wall, recovering from the grizzly ordeal. He took a ginger step and heard nothing beyond the plop of muck protesting his titanic paw.
Grond smiled as he had not in years.
Twenty men-at-arms hurled like flies in summer, shattered bone and broken mail tinkling on the stony ground. No guttural roar heralded Grond’s escape. He gave no alarm, no quarter, no hope. Ears keen by constant use picked man-breaths from horse-neighs, even as the stench of sweat and fear marked the cowards’ paths. The son of titans arose from his prison with judgment for the mortals who dared to chain him. Grond’s hammers shook the foundation of the hills and soon cries of dismay answered his blows.
Men scurried like smoke over stone to either escape or hamper the raging feral-troll. Like wheat before the scythe, smoke upon the wind, rows of men withered from his mammoth blows. Spears whistled, arrows howled, and Grond’s seasoned reflexes turned steel against steel. The thump of poisoned barbs against unflinching mail incited a chuckle from the living mountain. Weak lords these vermin had been. The flecks of their lifesblood hardly tarnished his mauls. The warrior forced the survivors into the wind and advanced.
A final chorus arose from the remnants. Grond understood his plan had succeeded. Standing upon a spire of rock, the victims and their victor loomed over the man-halls below. The giant could hear the bells and shouts down in the city. Grond raised his iron limb and smashed men and stone into dust. Another ironfist rose and fell. Another mortal and shale broke. At the last, Grond opened his mouth and released the pent-up rage of years of enslavement, torture, and murder. The timber of his warcry roared curses generations’ long and nine realms’ high. Man, beast, and mountain quailed at the voice of the trollkin’s hate. Hammer and shout pounded in a terrible crescendo, pouring forth slabs of stone upon the hidden vale. Death rained upon the halls of men with unrelenting speed. Silence followed the sickly echo of their screams amid the thunder of stones. The warrior’s wife and children’s smiling faces flickered within the haze of his mind’s eye. Whatever gods remained in Asgard had honored his cry for justice. The sacrifice upon the fire of the troll’s rage smelled sweet to his bitter heart.
Grond had not yet had enough.
*Variants of Troll.
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