((lol, I guess some things were lost in translation, but basically, "The Frail" looks just like any regular Emissary: Example
. He's got the wicked headdress with the blades, rags, and everything - I put a linked image in my char. sheet - so he doesn't have horns like a helmeted Alpha would. More-or-less he looks like a nasty-bad Emissary toting weapons (and shield) instead of a staff. As for the other lost translations (not by you Tysy, just saying there are other flaws
), well, they're up there, but I won't get into it.
- Also, before I forget, thank you for the praise Tysy!))
"The Frail" prodded the dead body of the Alpha Hurlock he
killed, it's corpse reminding him of days long past, during the rise of the Archdemon. Days of when he once used dark magics to enforce the will of the corrupted Old God.
With his left at the face of the lithe figure who bounded into the reeking, corpse filled camp, "The Frail" did not notice the female who stood within the blind spot of his shield-arm. Still tired from beating back the single ogre of the Darkspawn marauders, "The Frail" was caught off-guard, staggering at the sudden shrill cry of the smaller being, his wrapped face whipping around to catch only a short glimpse of the woman who let it out.
After thunder, there comes lightning, ((Wait a minute....-_-....I got that wrong! Oh well, it still sounds cool!)) and like the searing hot flash of a storm, the woman was on him, throwing herself into him. Though she was not nearly the weight of his fellow Darkspawn, nor a man, his fatigued state, and unsteady position caused him to fall back, his strength the only thing allowing him to remain standing after the charge.
He rooted himself, thrusting her away from himself; he paused, following the woman's gaze as she grinned at a spot on his armored body. There, two dents were evident, superficial, he never felt the strikes, and had been too distracted to hear them hit. He realized it could have come out worse if those strikes had went through the crude, stylized armor, but brushed this thought on into the past, his dull gaze lifting to look at the woman, his look telling her that her pride was vain, she had accomplished little.
Thin lines of dying light etched their weapons and armor as the image of dusk faded into night, the hollow light of flames from the camp soon removed them from the world around in a surreal atmosphere of timeless, flickering patterns. Orange tongues teased by nearby bodies lit their world now, smoke rising from those who'd fallen and smothered small fires, the glowing embers beneath roasting them slowly. The moon was low, not yet at it's apex, and "The Frail" had the advantage.
Swiftly he turned, flinging dust and dirt upon the still living flames, killing them, like their makers. Darkness, a thing that Darkspawn thrived on during their days in the Thaigs. For "The Frail" those days were a lifetime ago, but the truth still stood, he was the master when shadows ruled.
He stared at her in the dark, little detail was lost with the transition, he saw her like he had in the fading twilight. He knew she could not say the same.
Lowering himself, centering his center of gravity, left side towards her, he brought himself forward, and up, the shield on his upper left arm slamming her in the diaphragm and underside of her females' chest. He felt how light she was as he lifted her on his shielded shoulder: he'd encountered few women in his life - other than Broodmothers - and could make little judgment on them at all. If he took a guess, he'd have to say she was probably heavier than most of her gender, her warrior lifestyle giving her muscle, and thus weight. He could debate these facts in his song-silent mind for hours if he wanted, but battle came first, and as the defender, he was not about to let his guard down.
"The Frail" felt her carry away from himself as her light body stopped pressing upon him, his nighteyes witnessing as she went up and away from him, the momentum of his blunt strike carrying her away from him. Then a thump, and she was on the ground; he remained, shield-arm towards her, his stance low, prepared for retaliation.
Had he felled her without harm as he'd hoped? "The Frail" knew that the woman had struck out at him for only one reason, and he knew that reason all too well, it was as familiar as the crushing darkness around him.
((Hahar! Well, the fight doesn't have to end if you don't want it to, Tysy, so this doesn't have to be her defeat if you don't want it. Just have her recuperate if need be.