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daemon stigma

Original notes

There are a few spelling errors I have fixed in the web pages. They are preserved here as they exist in the original notes.

daemon stigma

(minor edits 2003-01-13)

A swarthy wolvore stepped forward. A scruffy crest adorned his head,
sweeping down his neck and encircling his throat, a vibrant slash of
blue against the dusky black fur. His eyes burned, seering through
the shimmering heat, 

"One man!!" the words blasted forth, "shall be your bane. Stand proud,
for by your deaths you witness a new order. No more shall we fall before
you, no more shall we tremble at your approach. No more! Today, one man
shall strike you with force such that cannot be matched. As you stand here
now, so shall I cut you down." <terrible pronouncement>

Tarqe lunged forward.
The center of the line exploded at the impact. <leader> vanished
in a fountain of red as the deadly scythe began its work. <companion>
and <companion> scarcely moved before the silver streak rent the air
and a dull boom ripped them apart. Man and beast alike staggered at
the onslaught.

Tarqe gently rolled to his left. A mile or more the line stretched, from
hill to shore. At an easy run he took them, wending left then right through
the ranks. In their ignorance he slew them, from behind, the side, even right
in front, his savage grin imprinted in the last instant of memory.

The last man, edgy, sweaty fingers clamped around a spear. He never knew what
hit him as Tarqe stretched the scythe across his chest. A thin line of red
burst into life as Tarqe braked and turned.

Pressure swelled behind him, an exhalation of air rushing in his wake as the
world came alive. Sand and rocks swirled shrieking from the ground to sting
the air as a wave of blood leapt up, pouring forth from those Tarqe had touched.
The screams followed a heartbeat after, but fell silent before they began as
the first ten ranks toppled. Blood cascaded from the sky, drenching the bodies
in bright scarlet.

Tarqe roared in laughter and lifted his muzzle to the skies.

"Scythe! Scythe!" demons yelled, fists, claws and talons alike punching the sky.
"Scythe! Scythe!" the chant swelled to a roar until the very ground began to tremble.
Swords clashed on shields, the tumult feverish in its intensity.


"Blood to steel!" a voice shouted. A thousand rivulets of red sharped to silver.
Tarqe stepped aside as the needles pricked the ground where he had stood, hissing
as the grass was stained a dull rusty grey.

"Tremor blast!" Tarqe roared, slamming the ground with his fist. The terrain buckled
instantly, a furious wave expanding around the wolf <knocking over men, trees, blah>.
A half glimpsed flicker and Tarqe raised his right arm as <dude> slammed into him.
Back he bounded, arms flashing to deny metalled fists as they flew fast and furious
at his face.

A gauntlet cracked against his right arm above his face, a second smashed into the
left in the same instant. Dull explosions boomed forth as the gauntlets withdrew and
flashed forward at chest height again to be blocked. Spinning, Tarqe whirled,
his arms blocking swords, spears and daggers as they came at him. Five, seven, he lost
count as their attacks blurred together in a kaleiodascopic dance, shimmering silver 
flashes against a hanging curtain of blood rain.

He met them all, blocking with such power that many fell back in shock. Others came
on and he ducked below their blows. Springing forward his claws ripped out throats,
fists punched through armoured coats, knees knocked men crashing to the ground.

Read the tale as presented on this website:

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© Ben Boyle 2002