The Hibernian staggered to beneath the oak tree. The Midguardians, and the Albion troops had all gone to the east, searching for the remnants of the Hibernian Force. It wasn't quite fair, as all the 3 realms should be at war…
It was too bad for Hibernia that Albion and Midguard formed steady alliances more often than not to strike them.
Beneath the oak tree, the Champion rested. A fusion between a caster and a fighter, he mustered the last of his energies to cast a spell over himself. Immediately, his wounds began to heal at an increased pace.
"Damned Midguards…" the Champion muttered, "Can't keep their axes to themselves!" Reaching into his pouch, he withdrew a tiny flask. Whispering a spell, the flask enlarged to the size of a fairly large glass of ale.
Sipping at his drink, he looked around him. Trees, covered in frost. Ground, thick with snow. Sky, black like the hide of the Unseelie Dragon. Air, thick with the spell of battle and blood.
Oh yes, the smell has not gone, though it must've been hours since it was over.
"The Trackers will find me soon," the Champion thought, "Better charge up then,"
Sitting cross-legged in the snow, he meditated, becoming one with nature, as he had been taught. Regaining his strength, chasing away his fatigue, tapping into his reservoirs of power.
As all these went on, a part of his mind drifted into nature, observing it in all it's beauty.
The squirrel in a tree just northeast, hibernating, surrounded by nuts of every imaginable size. The moles underground, ever digging their tunnels. The bird of the air, ever so free, unaware of the war that raged below their skies. And of course, the ever falling snow. From the clouds above, falling gently to the ground below…
"He's close! I can sense him!"
Getting up, the Champion smiled.
"Something's not right… His power levels are too high! This thing can't be the Hibernian!"
Oh boy… You'd just better believe it's me
The Tracker paused by the oak tree. He could see the footprints, the blood, even the spot where that heavy oaf had sat. But the Hibernian was no where to be found!
A hand, from the ground!
Screaming, the Tracker was dragged underground by his ankle…
"Agnar!" a Troll yelled. Running, he used his battle axe and struck the spot where his friend had been taken. His axe hit something remarkably hard. Shooting out of the ground, the Hibernian let out a battle cry, his blade flashing.
Standing over the dead troll. The Hibernian smiled, as he felt the others tremble in shock and despair.
"Nimberla,"
the Minstrel whispered to the Scout, "We can't do it… He's
too powerful."
"There's
eight of us, and one of him!"
Charging
out of the trees, the men cried, "For Albion!"
Still
smiling that horrid smile, the Champion faced them.
WHAM!
A wall struck them, knocking all to their knees. The Minstrel scrambled up and away from the battle, prepared to heal his comrades. A blade flashed, and blood spilled everywhere. Here was the Champion they had been looking for, killing them off like they were nothing at all! Fumbling at his belt, the Minstrel finally managed to snag his horn. He blew into it. Hard.
Big mistake.
The Champion heard the horn, and turned to the source, alarmed. Fear turned to rage as he realized that the Avalonian Minstrel had just summoned the whole army upon him!
He directed all his anger toward that Minstrel. That idiot who summoned the full wrath of Albion against him! The Avalonian exploded in flames.
Swinging his enchanted sword, he heard the sound of the already approaching army.
NO!
The wizards from the Albion army
spotted the Hibernian. Gathering their magic to them, they hurled
flames at the defenseless Hibernian.
They
yelped in surprise as the Hibernian easily threw the flames back at
them, pouncing on the army.
I will kill them, I will make them suffer!
Insane, the troops thought, one man could not defeat an entire army!
But to the Hibernian Champion who was left alone, behind enemy lines, who had nothing left to lose…
It made all the sense in the world.