Keshig Mograh’Yar watched from an archer’s nest in Helena as battering rams and trebuchet shots peppered the gates. Humans stood in the distance, the size of ants, trying to bust into this city that she might have decided to burn herself had it not been the circumstances. She wasn’t sure why she was on the side that she was on, but her government and her gods had guided her to this point, so she fought with zeal despite her utter indifference to the conflict. She nocked arrows and fired blindly at the swarming humans, their forms becoming larger as they approached the keep and scrambled over rooftops to reach her nest. Cursing, she lined up a shot for her newfound opponents only to hear the whistle of a heavy stone being chucked through the air by a trebuchet. Before she knew it, her armored form was flung from the nest and into a recess between homes. As she hit the ground, managing to tenuously do so on her feet, she heard and felt a snap in her ankle. She didn’t care to figure out what had happened, her only interest was survival so she called incessantly to be freed by ladder.
The day waned on as no-one came to the Fe-Uruk’s aid. However, someone did find their way into her prison of rubble- an Orenian. He swung at her from above, jabbing down with his blade but only scratching her across her betusked face. Roaring in fury, she slammed her mace into his kneecap, sending the young man tumbling into the mud alongside her. The Orenian scrambled to his feet, keeping his buckler raised. This did little to help him as she bludgeoned her way through his shield, mercilessly spreading the poor man’s brains in the mud. The clash of steel and splintering wood had gained someone else’s attention, and with a soft prayer to the spirit of luck she looked up to see who it was.
Lucky for the Snagagoth, it was a Renatian with a rope ladder. He lowered it for her and she managed to clamber onto the debris riddled roof of a building alongside a small detachment of Renatians. Slowly but surely, they made their way across the rooftops toward a section of wall which had been taken by Orenians. Arrows rained down on the group but she managed to escape their whistling, biting wrath. Quickly, the Orenians seemed to vanish from that section of the wall. Mograh, however, had realized she had trapped herself on this section of roof.
She carefully made her way toward the ground, a section of alleyway primarily devoid of any sort of conflict but relatively close to the bottom floor of the keep. She trudged through the mud toward a ladder which lead out into the conspicuously empty, fortified street. Slowly she made her way up it, peering out to see a handful of men doing battle. Carefully, she slipped past them with minimal damage and made her way into the first floor of the keep where she and several Renatians would make their stand.
Breathing a heavy sigh before beginning to catch her breath, her sprained ankle caught up with her. She sluggishly crept to a ledge overlooking the street and nocked an arrow, beginning to take a few shots at some of the Orenians making their way up the street.
To the Yar Elder’s surprise, there went from naught but four or five Orenians to a full force, as if flood gates had been opened. The defenders were quickly overwhelmed, pushed back to Mograh’s newfound archer’s nest as the attackers worked their way in. Adrenaline pumping through her veins, the Fe-Uruk crept back while swinging wildly at any Orenian who approached her. The pain in her ankle vanished as she fought tooth and nail to keep them back, but it was to little avail. Even after putting down one man, she still found herself on the far edge of the room. The heavy metal gates on one side of the cobblestone chamber slammed shut, but Snow Elven and Orenian soldiers still flooded in through the opposite gate. She fought with a small number of Renatians to keep them back, but was forced up to a narrow and short tunnel in the roof.
At this point, all she could think of was not survival but revenge on those that would seek to bring her to her now inevitable demise. Every time one of her adversaries made their way up the ladder, she swung her mace down to keep them down. This plan did not work for long as the tunnel was soon filled with what was left of the Renatian defenders and a handful of snow elves. The fighting was bloody and Mograh began to accrue more and more bruises, cuts and scrapes.
Her nose broken, her eye black, her teeth missing, her armor and flesh torn and several fingers missing and bleeding, she and those in the tunnel with her finally managed to push back. By some twist of fate or luck, she managed to slip out and into where most of the fighting was occuring. It was like a sea of soldiers, the Renatians outnumbered but fighting bravely to the bitter end. She let loose a warcry as she hurled herself at the foe.
Even with her body broken and the blood of a freshly killed Orenian on her hands, her mind strayed to thoughts of home, of her clan, of her children- these are what she was fighting for. As she realized her purpose of being here, of slaughtering men and elves until she met her demise, she was struck in the side of the head by a mace. Sent toppling to the ground, she was trampled and buried under debris and mud. In this moment, she was no longer Elder of Clan Yar, no longer Keshig of Rex Burbur, no longer Snagagoth of Krugmar. No, she was just a young mother lying in mud, ash and blood.