W
WolfOfOdin
Here's a short excerpt, mind you there is still heavy amounts of magic in play 
The black blade scythed down in a wide arc, the edge letting out a keening shriek as it cleaved air, then armor, bone and flesh. Barbs spread out from the vile weapon, gorging on the blood and misery pouring forth. The wielder choked out a hollow laugh, kicking the thrashing body from his sword. The sodden heap of shredded flesh had once been a general...now he was simply more food for Ahrd Khlaad.
With a grace that seemed alien in the armor-encased figure, he turned and casually speared another soldier, reaching out with a gauntleted hand to crush another's skull to a crimson pulp. He moved as if two seconds ahead of time, a twisting, serpentine dance that stepped delicately between the stab of a spear, the flight of an arrow and the thrust of a sword. Two points of smoldering light burned within the ebon helm, glaring with the fire of twin dying suns. An eternity to him, mere moments to the rest and a circle of butchered meat surrounded him, their blood providing the arid soil its first drink in over fifty moons. The tip of his weapon met the ground, armored hands resting on the pommel as he surveyed the scene below him. His forces had torn through the Duchy's forces with daemonic glee, reveling in the wanton slaughter. The Corpse-Prince would smile on him this day.
"Had I still skin stitched by sinew to muscle and bone, I would grin at such a sight, friend. The weakling sons of Kalliea called us worthless savages, idiot children stumbling blindly through the blasted hell they condemned us to." He nodded to the blade, the inky metal of which seethed, a multitude of staring eyes and fang-rimmed maws bubbling across it. A lesser man would have screamed in terror and prayed to his god. A lesser man would have been consumed by the holy relic. Qayn was none of those, for no longer was he even a man. The blessing of the Corpse-Prince's armor to replace his weakling flesh had seen to that. Now he stood as an avatar of his people, their anger and hate coalesced into steel and daemon-fire. Let the weakling children of the False Gods pray and scrape before their aloof deities....true faith was to found on the battlefield. Every scream of the enemy was a hymnal, every pile of broken corpses a shrine of worship and every gore-soaked battlefield a grand temple.
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This is the intro for one of my main characters, Qayn the Wicker of the Broken Horse tribe
Too typical of a villain so far, or is it too early to tell? I'm setting him up to be a sadistic, ruthless warlord at face value, and someone who's done horrible, vile things in order to get a better stake for his people.
Moved to the appropriate forum, and so it doesn't fall off the front page. -ZM
The black blade scythed down in a wide arc, the edge letting out a keening shriek as it cleaved air, then armor, bone and flesh. Barbs spread out from the vile weapon, gorging on the blood and misery pouring forth. The wielder choked out a hollow laugh, kicking the thrashing body from his sword. The sodden heap of shredded flesh had once been a general...now he was simply more food for Ahrd Khlaad.
With a grace that seemed alien in the armor-encased figure, he turned and casually speared another soldier, reaching out with a gauntleted hand to crush another's skull to a crimson pulp. He moved as if two seconds ahead of time, a twisting, serpentine dance that stepped delicately between the stab of a spear, the flight of an arrow and the thrust of a sword. Two points of smoldering light burned within the ebon helm, glaring with the fire of twin dying suns. An eternity to him, mere moments to the rest and a circle of butchered meat surrounded him, their blood providing the arid soil its first drink in over fifty moons. The tip of his weapon met the ground, armored hands resting on the pommel as he surveyed the scene below him. His forces had torn through the Duchy's forces with daemonic glee, reveling in the wanton slaughter. The Corpse-Prince would smile on him this day.
"Had I still skin stitched by sinew to muscle and bone, I would grin at such a sight, friend. The weakling sons of Kalliea called us worthless savages, idiot children stumbling blindly through the blasted hell they condemned us to." He nodded to the blade, the inky metal of which seethed, a multitude of staring eyes and fang-rimmed maws bubbling across it. A lesser man would have screamed in terror and prayed to his god. A lesser man would have been consumed by the holy relic. Qayn was none of those, for no longer was he even a man. The blessing of the Corpse-Prince's armor to replace his weakling flesh had seen to that. Now he stood as an avatar of his people, their anger and hate coalesced into steel and daemon-fire. Let the weakling children of the False Gods pray and scrape before their aloof deities....true faith was to found on the battlefield. Every scream of the enemy was a hymnal, every pile of broken corpses a shrine of worship and every gore-soaked battlefield a grand temple.
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This is the intro for one of my main characters, Qayn the Wicker of the Broken Horse tribe
Too typical of a villain so far, or is it too early to tell? I'm setting him up to be a sadistic, ruthless warlord at face value, and someone who's done horrible, vile things in order to get a better stake for his people.
Moved to the appropriate forum, and so it doesn't fall off the front page. -ZM