LordLuck
The Wicked Historian
- Joined
- Feb 10, 2011
- Posts
- 2,649
(closed for graves101)
His land was his.
From over the rocky crag, M'Gul watched down into the vast expanse of a wild and savage woodland. His Kingdom. His land. His forest, home an heart. For more than 600 years had his people rule unopposed, every creature paying it's tithe in order to fall in the arms of his benevolent protection.
Except the damned, cursed Wolves.
These were not simple wolves. These were the half-breed, the creatures spawned from a madman's mind and genious, half-men and half-beast, that prowled the land and hunted. Hunted his protected. Hunted the deers. Haunted the land with their inhuman cries, their barbarism so savage that many of the creatures had come into his arms, unable to fend off the invaders.
"My lord...", a rough voice called him, coming from behind his back. "It is time..."
***
It was midnight.
The clearing stood quiet - everything sood still. No bat flew. No creature wandered around. No puma hunter. No wind blew. Nothing dared to break upon the sacrossant silence that had descended upon the meeting that was about to happen. The wide clearing was dark, except for the shining moonlight.
Taurus, the chieftain and king of the minotaurs, stood at ready. The ancestral owners of this land, protectors of this entire region and every living being that belonged here, this minotaur was furious with the appearance of the nomadic werewolves, creatures that prowled and hunted, disregarding any and every piece of the natural balance. The land was unhappy with those invaders, and now, Taurus had brought upon his shoulders to see them off.
Be it thought personal combat with the Lord of this marauding pack, or through war. War.
The region had not seen true clash and combat for more than four centuries. It would be a most unlike thing to happen, but so had Mother Earth called, and so it would be - if the invaders decided not to leave the land. Standing tall, his thick black fur untarnished by anything, his pitch-blackness marking him as king of his people. Standing at 2.20m, his broad-shoulders were both strong, held by his massive, muscular chest. He wore nothing beside a loincloth, his powerful, sharp horns a testament of his will to defend the land from the rape the werewolves had been inflicting.
And so he awaited, alone, his bodyguards concealed by the shades of the woods.
His land was his.
From over the rocky crag, M'Gul watched down into the vast expanse of a wild and savage woodland. His Kingdom. His land. His forest, home an heart. For more than 600 years had his people rule unopposed, every creature paying it's tithe in order to fall in the arms of his benevolent protection.
Except the damned, cursed Wolves.
These were not simple wolves. These were the half-breed, the creatures spawned from a madman's mind and genious, half-men and half-beast, that prowled the land and hunted. Hunted his protected. Hunted the deers. Haunted the land with their inhuman cries, their barbarism so savage that many of the creatures had come into his arms, unable to fend off the invaders.
"My lord...", a rough voice called him, coming from behind his back. "It is time..."
***
It was midnight.
The clearing stood quiet - everything sood still. No bat flew. No creature wandered around. No puma hunter. No wind blew. Nothing dared to break upon the sacrossant silence that had descended upon the meeting that was about to happen. The wide clearing was dark, except for the shining moonlight.
Taurus, the chieftain and king of the minotaurs, stood at ready. The ancestral owners of this land, protectors of this entire region and every living being that belonged here, this minotaur was furious with the appearance of the nomadic werewolves, creatures that prowled and hunted, disregarding any and every piece of the natural balance. The land was unhappy with those invaders, and now, Taurus had brought upon his shoulders to see them off.
Be it thought personal combat with the Lord of this marauding pack, or through war. War.
The region had not seen true clash and combat for more than four centuries. It would be a most unlike thing to happen, but so had Mother Earth called, and so it would be - if the invaders decided not to leave the land. Standing tall, his thick black fur untarnished by anything, his pitch-blackness marking him as king of his people. Standing at 2.20m, his broad-shoulders were both strong, held by his massive, muscular chest. He wore nothing beside a loincloth, his powerful, sharp horns a testament of his will to defend the land from the rape the werewolves had been inflicting.
And so he awaited, alone, his bodyguards concealed by the shades of the woods.