Castle Bruma, 4E 190

The escaped Orc, by the name of Durzub gro-Yargol could see the barricade he had put up quickly beginning to dwindle, as the shouts of the Imperial guard on the other side of the door brought forth a savage bloodlust inside of him. This, coupled with the screams of the guard he had just tortured, prepared him mentally for the battle that was about commence.

"Prisoner! Open the door immediately, and you shall be spared!"

Durzub simply stood there, drooling at the prospect of more death. In a trance like state, he watched as the desks, chairs, shelves and racks he had put up against the wooden door budged. With Claymore in hand, he looked over to the wounded guard on the floor, contemplating as to whether he should slay him. The guard took notice of this, and cowardly betrayed his own men. Indeed, foreseeing vicious intent in Durzub was an easy task; it was the horrible look in his eyes that gave it away.

"Please no! ...The bookshelf! It's a secret passage leading to the cellar, now please... don't kill me!"

Durzub if anything, saw this as a challenge. This puny human doesn't think I can handle what's on the other side. I'd like to prove him wrong. Deep in thought, and gripping his weapon tightly, Durzub eagerly awaited battle. The door flung open, and the strong, honourable Bruma guard sprinted towards the Orc with their weapons unsheathed; intent on killing him. In innumerable numbers they continued to charge one-by-one. Durzub took to his Steel Claymore, slaying one particularly clumsy guard with a single swing, but the guards did not learn from his mistake. Heads flew, blood poured, and most importantly, Durzub gro-Yargol's lust for battle grew stronger and stronger with each kill. Five lay slain, and seven remained. The debris.. it's beautiful. If I die on this day, I go with honour. The initial attack had slowed down to a great extent, and the guards surrounded Durzub with their shields raised. A fine, unbreakable formation. Fear was absent in his psyche, he began to taunt the guards.

"Come my children, taste my steel. Sate my hunger!"

Durzub grinned maliciously. For him, this was a fine day to die. A fine day to prove himself to Malcath, he did not wish to grow old and withered. A single guard made the first strike, and was countered by the Orc's Claymore immediately, and soon found the weapon lodged violently in his chest. A brutal, intense scream was let loose from Durzub, as he made short work of yet another guard in a vicious group of offensive attacks. Durzub heard steel hit the floorboards, as a single guard ran in fear. Now only four remained, the Orc's odds were looking good; not to mention that in his mind, he would prove himself to the cowardly Imperial by defeating his colleagues.

"Let's dance ladies! Come on you filthy Imperial cowards!"

Three such Imperials took him up on his challenge, and initiated combat once more. All Durzub saw was red, all he could feel was unforgiving anger coursing through his veins. In his mind; he was as much of a sadist as he was an Orc. All four Imperial guards began to swing their weapons in his direction, and many of their strikes cut through Durzub's limbs. Those that didn't damage him personally reflected off of his armour that he looted from the dead jailer earlier this evening. Durzub had not even made a successful strike yet, instead he focused on the pain; the pain that reminded him bitterly of his childhood. He had that look in his eye again, that menacing glare. It was as though the pain fuelled him, like he thrived on it. All of a sudden, his left arm began to bleed profusely. An Elven sword had cut through the muscle of his arm, and teared right into the bone. The Imperial behind this injury took a step back, noticing how Durzub seemed entirely indifferent to the pain. A cold trickle of sweat ran down the guard's cheek, the Orc simply grunted; glaring intensely at him. In a swift moment, the Imperial guard found that his head had part ways with his body in a berserk decapitation. Durzub screamed manically. He didn't even need to look to know that the remaining guards had scattered hysterically. Without breaking a sweat, he approached his old friend.

"Get up. You're escorting me out of the castle. And if I'm feeling nice, I'll make your death quick."

"Oh, I see... Erm... Yes! Of course, hah! Very well! Lead on..?"

This Imperial man was forced to use energy that he no longer had to pick himself up, and head towards the bookcase that he mentioned earlier. The grunting of Durzub behind him sent chills down his spine; not to mention that he was still suffering from the debilitating pain of being de-nailed by him. The shelf looked seemingly ordinary, filled with many unremarkable books that did not differ from one another. It was not until the Imperial man tugged briefly on one particular book that it's true nature could be seen. The bookshelf flung open, and led to what appeared to be a bottomless abyss. Durzub gro-Yargol observed the passage for a brief moment, and then, looked towards his accomplice.

"Get moving!"