Meet the Splitter

Kutch spat the ground that separated him from the demon. He closed his eyes, for he did not want to gaze into those eyes and let his will and tenacity falter against those of the unholy.

One charge, that was it; he did not expect to survive, so he did not need to open his eyes. His headlong charge was not meant to kill; he had come to terms with the fact that this foe could not be beaten by normal means.

Kutch leapt back, measuring the distance between the demon and himself, -Perfect- he thought, -10 standard strides, knees bent, rulebook charge. - That hideous face was laughing as if he could predict the tactic accompanying the dwarf’s maneuver. –Well, for the beard of Grimnir, he might as well know for all the good it will do to him. Gathering strength in his stout legs, mind blanked, ready to move: he leaped.

The world seemed to move slower, he could distinctly hear the clashes of metal against metal, the hymn of war. He could hear the chanting of the priests, the warcries of thousands of combatants. He could see his feet, picking up dust, avoiding the pieces of armor, weapons and warriors on the ground. He could smell the putrid stench emanating from the demon as he closed in. He could see the demon’s axe moving to one side. Most important, from the way the demon moved his weapon, he knew he was dead.

At the last fleeting moment, feeling the impact before it was even there, his world swirled, all the air escaped from his lungs as a horrible impact was made to his sternum. His vision blurred. –So, this is it then. - He thought, and closed his eyes to rest with his ancestors.

“If ye were trying te die my lad, I cannot tell ye there is nay honor in that my lad, I can tell ye though my lad, ye should leave the dying te those who commit te seeking it. My lad.”

The knowledge of him not dying was a surprise, but a little one at that compared to the pain that not dying came with. Gasping for air he turned on his back, eyes readjusting he looked at his interloper and the shock washed away all pain and numbness. He realized that it was not the demon’s axe that had cleaved through his torso, but a dwarfish fist that plummeted him out of his trajectory. A gauntleted fist that was attached to the most hideous of dwarfs, no nose, one ear, a cheek cut in half with skin still dangling, golden rings protruding from several places in what resembled a face, tattoos all over the body, a red crest that housed more dirt than the mines below them, no armor and a fearsome two-handed axe that looked as if it could cut anything that got in the way. This was Splitter, the head Slayer serving under the King, and next to him, the King himself standing proud and mighty.

“Nicely done youngling, I’ll take over from where you left off. Watch my back now, chaos worshippers aren’t known in our holds for taking a duel as an honorable thing.” The king said.

It was the demon’s turn to spit and look more menacing than ever. “At last you show your deformed face eldest from the elder. My minions will enjoy corrupting your hammer once I pry it from your helpless hands.”

“It is I who will have to pry it from your crushed skull, no more chit chat, ill let me hammer do the talking.”