Fennec's Ramblings

Túr Nia Nifred

As the sun set, the band of trogs descended on the village.
Tall, vaguely reptilian creatures- nearly every inch of their bodies rippling with muscle. The trogs stalked through the woods, their four-clawed hands leaving furrows in the earth and deep scratches on the tall pines. Few of them carried weapons- their teeth and claws were all they needed, and most of them could not have been bothered to fashion tools. Their target- a sleepy Asmarean village- was defended by little more than a simple wooden palisade and single watch tower. With elated whoops and ravenous bellows, the trogs burst from the treeline and charged the open gates with no thought for any kind of strategy. A cry of alarm went up as the human lookout spotted them, but the hapless man was too late. As they burst through and onto the village green, dozens of eyes turned on them. Farmers, craftsmen, goodwives and children of various ages blinked in surprise at the sight of these strange creatures.
Then, the screaming started.
Trogs broke off from the band as humans scattered, running for their homes. The beasts chased them down, bearing men and women to the ground and tearing into them with tooth and claw. Terrified villagers screamed as they were torn apart, chunks of flesh gruesomely shoveled into monstrous mouths. The humans rushed into homes, shut doors and desperately sought ways to barricade themselves against the monsters outside. Undeterred, the trogs not already feasting pressed on, clawing at and slamming their tough bodies against the obstacles.

In the distance, the long, high-pitched sound of a hunting horn echoed in the twilight.

An arrow flew from the darkness, taking a trog in the back and piercing straight through the spine. The creature collapsed as the village lookout nocked another arrow. Unfazed, its fellows jabbered their excitement to one another in a guttural, alien tongue and charged the watch tower instead. Desperation driving him, the human loosed another arrow into the oncoming horde, then another as they began climbing the tower. With a heavy swing of his boot, he dislodged the ladder and sent a trog tumbling, but ever more came, clawing their way up the beams that held the tower aloft. He kept shooting, sending beast after beast back to the ground, injured or dead.
On the other side of the village, a trog cackled with delight as it finally tore from its hinges the door to a house. It stepped forward-
And was immediately flung back as a hurled hammer caved in its skull. A handful of villagers charged out of the building: the blacksmith, two farmers and three woodsmen, all bearing long boar spears; even the village elder, somewhat unsteadily wielding an old, but still wickedly sharp bastard sword. The tiny militia attacked, spears impaling trogs before they could get close. Though less steady on his feet than he had once been, the old man did his best to fend off any that got too close; wide, sweeping slashes forcing the monsters to retreat, leaving them open to spear thrusts from the others. Thankfully, not all of the trogs noticed them, distracted by their feasting, the action going on by other doors or just the general cacophony of the raid. They fought their way over to another house, felling three more trogs on the way, and rallied more villagers to their small band. Weak they may have been, but to lay down and die was not the human way. The defense of Felter began.

Another of the reptilian beasts bounded toward him. Adrenaline pumping through his veins, Ren rammed his spear through the creature's chest. It took a moment for the stupid creature's brain to catch up, but it died, and he yanked the weapon free. The stocky blacksmith swept the spear to the side, blocking a claw swipe meant for old Marc. The village elder took advantage of the opening by running the creature through and black blood stained his sword. All around him, men and women fought the monstrosities assailing their home. The creatures were far stronger than most of them, but the villagers worked together. And he reckoned they fought remarkably well, considering the circumstances. A trog ducked under his spear thrust and tried to push in close, but Tarn stabbed its leg and it faltered long enough for Ren to finish it off. He thanked the woodsman by jabbing his spear at another approaching trog's face, sending the creature stumbling back, awful noises spilling from its maw. A moment later, An arrow flew overhead and straight through the creature's eye, flinging its carcass back a few steps. Marc's teenage grandson was a remarkable shot.
They could do this. They could survive.
They were not invincible, of course. Marta reeled back and stumbled into the arms of two other women, blood gushing from a wicked claw slash across her stomach. Ferrin yelled in panic as a trog yanked him out of the line, then tore open his throat before anyone could react. Ren bellowed in anger, stabbing and swinging at the monsters that dared harm his people. Still more trogs came on, hideous jaws agape and trailing a stink strong enough to make a man retch.
Then, suddenly, they stopped coming. The shaky battle line of villagers found themselves surrounded by only dead trogs and for a split-second, Ren dared hope. Then he saw why they had pulled back: the trogs were regrouping just inside the wall, with only a few stragglers scattered around the houses. The larger group eyed the resisting villagers, evil red eyes glittering in the dark. From their midst emerged a trog of enormous proportions. Even hunched as its posture was, it stood at least twice the height of even the largest of its brethren. Ren could have sworn he could hear the trogs chanting something in their language. It sounded like... Guund.
Guund. Guund. Guund. GUUND. GUUND!
The massive creature raised a clawed hand, pointed directly at Marc and let out an ear-splitting roar. Once more, the trogs charged.