Dance of Death
Just a short little fic about a Bard and Dancer duo in battle. Likens the seriousness of a situation to a mere waltz.
Enjoy!
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They are surrounded.
The heavy footsteps of the Orcs are steady, tramping onwards to chop their foes to pieces.
Yet both of the Orcs' enemies know that the Orcs are easy pickings, and they know that the lumbering monster-like creatures are no match for their speed and skill.
The male member of the duo plucks the strings of his guitar experimentally, the other runs a slim hand along the length of her whip.
As the circle of Orcs closes in, the two exchange a knowing look. He bows, she curtseys, and both are prepared for battle.
He gestures, and she understands that he cannot be her partner for this battle. With another gesture, he knows that she will forgive him. The two are able communicate in such ways, years of training with each other has honed their skills.
He draws another hand across the strings in a sharp, quick moment, the vibrations causing a loud note to resound. It hangs in the air, the Orcs' footsteps seemingly accompanying it as percussion.
As the note fades, two of the antagonists drop to the floor, stone dead. The movement of the whip is so fast that it returns to her hand in a split second.
The music cresendoes to a song with an upbeat, fast rhythm. Her fluid, graceful movements follow it exactly, and axes drop from Orcs' hands as they keel over backwards, some either with gashes ripped in their chests, others arrows embedded firmly in their heads, having shattered their flimsy helmets.
The whip strikes as fast and as viciously as a deranged Sidewinder; the arrows are likened to twice the power and speed of an Assassin's Grimtooth. They are not only musical instruments for pleasing the ear. These can also be lethal weapons.
Every now and then, there will be a pause in the song, a noteless twang of a guitar string, and an arrow will fall an opponent unseen by the Dancer.
She will flash him an apologetic smile, he will shrug, and they re-engage in the fight.
A mindless courage sends wave after wave of Orcs thundering towards them, and they drop like flies as the crack of the whip harmonises with the Bard's melody.
He sings under his breath, watching his childhood friend, now grown into a fine lady, fell Orc after Orc. He does not think that methods used by the two of them are not brutal; they try to kill as quickly and painlessly as possible.
She continues twirling gracefully, the whip flying out with every flick of the wrist. It snakes around an Orc's tree-trunk-thick neck, and she pulls it tight. She waits for the sharp crack of the neck breaking, and she loosens the whip's vice grip, swinging it back over to lacerate another monster's body.
The stream of Orcs seems to be lessening. It is too bad; the fun had just begun. Not that either of them took pleasure from killing, but they wish to be the most skilled pair: both in fighting and in entertainment.
Five Orcs remain. He draws two arrows of solid silver and uses the guitar strings to fire them. His aim is true, and two go down with flashes of light. Her vicious whip attacks finish another two, and the last one stares uncertainly.
Without hesitation, he turns tail and flees.
Both Bard and Dancer exchange glances, faces breaking into grins.
She throws an arrow with yet another wrist-flick, and he slings his guitar back on his back, taking a bow and firing.
Both arrows hit home and the Orc hits the floor with a solid thump.
He bows, she curtseys, and another of their dances of death is complete.
END