So, guys, to give you all a bit of context, I wrote a short story of my character, Lacthakr. Enjoy~
That single thought rolled in the mind of foggy-headed, pain-filled man. His golden armor was still attached to his body. His hammer still was gripped in his hands, though they were frozen by rigor mortis. He groaned, a barely audible noise issuing from his lips.
The spear...I felt it drive through my heart.
Had he survived? No, he had seen, in his dying moments, the man standing over him. The barbarian with iron dory. Copper breastplate, blood-red cloak. His muscles loosened, he could feel blood rushing back into his body. His heart beat once more.
Still groggy and unsure of what had happened, he sat up. Pain shot through his legs and back, his muscles knotted behind the blood-stained skin. He felt where the stab had pierced his armor. The armor had foldded back into place. The wound was healed.
What blasphemy has gorged itself upon my soul?
The cries of warfare and battle still rang out. The warriors of Hyperborea had been driven back.
By the Gods! How in the Hells have those barbaric men driven back our Glory?!
He stood up, his muscles now fully loosened, his will driven by the burning hate of those barbarians. He walked, though weak, across the field of blood and corpses. Viscera lay in puddles of ichor, and ravens and crows had wasted no time in their feast. He heard the cries of battle grow nearer as he walked to the source of battle. The gleaming dorys of the barbarians of Hellas rang against the shields and swords of the scattered Hyperboraen Army. He charged, the chain between the plates of gold-leafed steel clanking and chattering as he ran.
His hammer tasted the skulls of the barbarians, smashing their bodies into broken messes of quivering, half-dead flesh. He cackled with glee as their bodies gave way to his might, his glory, his nigh-omnipotent hammer and impregnable armor!
A flash of searing, red-hot pain tore through his neck, his jugular severed by the dory of a barbarian, who had cowardly attacked him from behind.
He felt himself hit the ground. He felt the spear dig deep into his shoulder. He felt his life fade.
The single thought rolled through the head of the foggy-headed, pain filled man. His golden armor was still attached to his body. His hammer was still in his hand, though held in place by rigor mortis. The pain of a spearwound was in his shoulder.
He gripped the spear, tearing it out, crying out in pain. He passed out, his mind rolling back into the embrace of darkness.