Fight:Quenching the Thirst of Aramoth

Morana gives a slight nod to the hawk, arm lifted with a quick motion to lend to the animal's lift-off. Saeldur flies up towards the rafters for now to take a watchful position, whilst Morana sighs once more and rolls her eyes, "How boring." A dismissive gesture is given towards Gorkall, "Go on, shoo. Take your lame big ogre machismo somewhere else to someone who cares to pay it any mind."

Iroril breaches the portal in that muted cadence which defines and signifies the richness of his blood, the taciturn mien that is consuming his features further proof of his race. Gathered close in ruddied vestments the wood elf simply eyes the Ogre, his discourse unheard of course but the increasingly irritated emotions which flowed through the bond the ranger shared with Mor' alerting him to the situation far in advance.

Calthyr :: The elf relaxes only slightly, for yet another elf enters the tavern. Surely the situation could not amount to anything immense with the assistance of his kin so near. The female's continuous words with the ogre however, could potentially spark a unwanted situation. The elf simply sits and waits with anticipation for the climax of this encounter.

Gorkall growled lightly as he placed his right hand into his left and proceeded to pop his knuckles. The massive beast of a man unamused by Morana's choice of words. "Your a fiesty little runt arn't you tree-born? I'll give you one chance to eat your words and apologize for the cruel things your speaking before I knock your skull in. Understand?" Gorkall stood double the wood elves hight and more than quad-drupled her weight. For the being to speak so carlessly to Gorkall was a foolish mistake. Usually Gorkall would pass it off as some temper tantrum and allow the being to go free but Aramoth needed battle. He needed to see some pain and he beckoned to his minions to aid him. Gorkall so happened to be one of them.

Calthyr :: From the audience elven hands retreated within robes. Pale fingertips grasped elongated metal in preparation for what seemed inevitable. The blue eyes of the elf glimmered as adrenaline was soon to crash over him.

Morana yawns as she turns her back towards Gorkall, all casual and how do you do - as if she doesn't give a rat's ass about the words coming out of his mouth, nor about his overwhelming size that easily dwarfs hers. Blatant disregard - that's elven arrogance for you. Instead she does what may be considered a bit of an odd action as she layers one hand over the other and extends them, leaning forwards a bit. After the reason for this odd behaviour becomes evident and her assistance no longer needed, Morana grasps at the shaft of a poison-tipped arrow and swings back around to drive the bolt in towards Gorkall's side.

Iroril wastes no time in worded rebuttal or interjection, relinquishing the shreds of social decorum that stayed his tongue to instead reply with action; mercilessly swift and telling in its entirety. Like an explosion his muscles take to fell deed, the sinuous chording of his legs decimating the relatively nonexistent distance between Morana and he. His comrade's proffered hands are used as a basic pedestal to grant him extra spring, the dexterous ranger somersaulting, with some room to spare, over the head of the Ogre to land deftly behind him; amidst his descent a pair of daggers are released from their hip-side hold and splayed to his left and right the serrated edges of the wicked, crescent blades seeking out the tender hamstrings of his towering opponent as he deals with Morana.

Calthyr :: Eyes simply watch as it seems the pair of elves have the situation thoroughly controlled. or seemingly controlled. However, knuckles (although beneath robes and unseen) whiten further from the already pale tones of skin as the exiled general leans forward, poised and ready to launch himself with haste and efficiency into the struggle if need be.

Gorkall was rather stunned by the actions that unfolded before him. The behemoth releasing a deafing laugh as Moranas arrow makes contact only to shatter as it collided with his thick war-beast hide. The daggers of Iroril also make their mark and only slice through the monsters skin but a few cenimeters deep. Gorkall grinned at the duo and spoke in a heavy voice. "Finally! Aramoth will be pleased!" Reaching to his chest Gorkall jerked at his robe vestament and tore it from its place. The cloth ripping with ease to fall to the floor, repeating the action to his robe bottoms Gorkall now stood before the tavern covered only by a wolf-fur loin cloth. The robes seemed to give the Ogre no honor as once they were removed his true form was shown. The priest had muscles that buldged from his body in mountains of glory and his veins shown high in the flesh. Gorkall tossed his book to the table with his staff and balled his hands into fist. He raised both of his hands and slammed them hard into the taverns floor snapping the crude wooden planks from their place sending a shower of shards of wood flying throughout the general area. The beast opened his maw and released a blood-thirst roar as he stared to Morana. Saliva and chunks of other waste flung from his gapped mouth towards the direction of the wood elf as Gorkall cocked his right leg into the air and then thurst it behind him towards Iroril. The ogres foot would pack a bone-breaking punch if it made contact to the smaller race yet his main interest remained on the smart-assed wood elf before him. Drawing back his right arm a flash of electricty could be seen erupting from Gorkalls bracers to his forearm as he pulled for a powerful blow. He thrust his arm towards Morana with fierce speed and aimed the blow to the females upper-torso.

Calthyr :: With fervor the elf springs forward from his table. With a swift kick to the floor and another kick off the table; the elf is airborn and sailing toward the conflict. Before landing once more upon the cheaply furnished, and now splintered floor of the tavern, pale hands appear from blue robes holding two metal tuning rods, which are then brought together with a loud, resounding clang. It is with this intense sound that the elf finds his power; hands raise upward as feet land; the air within the tavern beginning to cause the terribly old and weak wood to creak. Finally, the elf brings arms down toward the ground, hurling forth an immense gust of wind that causes the glass panes of the windows to shatter and the door of the tavern to swing open with an intense slam. This now visible current of wind propels forward, hastily eating away the distance between itself and the ogre. The impact of the wind to crack bone or dislocate; at the very least to throw the ogre completely off balance giving the other assailants a very evident opening to strike the creature down.

Morana :: "Tiresome." Morana notes dully as her arrow shatters. Her smirk belies the fact that a silent communique is sent, it's nature presumably one full of insults and ill-will towards their foe mixed in with the usual amount of dreary gloom. A moment of attention is paid for her companion's plight before her own becomes known, deft footsteps pulling her back, a quick jerk pulling her torso back just enough to avoid being struck by that ham-fist. Electricity jumps, however, attracted to the studs that line her chest piece. The jolt is enough to turn her stomach and make weak her knees, though her fortitude is not weak and she does, soon enough, push beyond what pain is present to stand tall and proud again. A sharp whistle sends her hawk bombing towards Gorkall's face, while Morana herself draws the long blade of a hunting knife and presses forward in hopes of plunging it deeply into a thick-hided, well-muscled stomach.

Iroril pivots around to face his foe, only to find a ferocious boot coming directly for him; an alacritous sashaying backward taking place to spare him the brunt of the strike. Ir's daggers return to their leather homes in a flash and his hands continue smoothly to grasp the heel of the behemoth - an impressive display of acrobatics transpiring as the ranger lifts himself near-completely horizontally into the air, his weightless boots coming to land on the crux of the Ogre's knee, gifting him precious purchase as he scales the mountains of muscle the creature possesses. Arcing his body to avoid the pulled-back elbow of the punching arm the Elf continues his ascent, clinging to Gorkall with his left hand for dear life, the combined struggling and intensity of the wind by no means making it an easy task. His free digits reach once more for his blade to supplant a critical strike to the base of the beast's neck, severing the connection of skull and spine, a mortal blow should it connect.

Gorkall caught sight of the third elf from the corner of his dulled gaze. Feeling the corse of the wind changing at the elementalist will Gorkall smashed his legs into the already damaged tavern flooring to allow himself better footing. In the heat of the moment he had failed to realize Iroril moving up his own person. Suddenly feeling the feel of flesh splitting Gorkall released another cry. His eyes shot down swiftly to see Moranas blade lodged into his stomach. Not even a quarter of the blade had pierced the beast yet the pain was still evident. Gorkall swiped his massive palm down against the blade and broke the steel in half leaving part of the metal lodged into his person. It was now that he felt Iroril clinging to his person and realized his vulnerable spot. Thrusting his torso forward he bent his neck towards the ground and reached with both massive hands to throw Iroril from his back. Once the elven kin had been removed Gorkall realized that with three swift fighters on the assault he would need some aid. Luckily his second cry had been enough to send for the help he needed. The taverns doors were swiftly smashed in as a second Ogre appeared at the entrance. A four-armed berserker allowed no time to elaspe as it noted Gorkall under attack. Gorkall called to his brethren in a heavy voice. "The wind breaker, Og!" The berserker took in the sight of Calthyr and charged forward with no heed for the other patrons in the tavern. The berserker leapt into the air when it was six feet distance from its target. Raising all four hands into fist the berserker brought down a fierce blow towards Calthyrs figure. Meanwhile Gorkall had failed to notice the avian that began to swipe down on his visage and manged to peck at his left eyeball. "Damn creature!" Gorkall managed one heavy swipe to the bird and felt a clip of the wing which should throw the animal off balance. His attention now turned back to the duo before him. A smile plagued his face and his greened teeth grinded fiercly against each other as he taunted the tree-born. "That all you got tree-huggers!?" The bracers around Gorkalls wrist began to charge again as the Ogre slammed his hand into the floor board and ripped a spiked plank from its hoist. Gripping the object tightly in his right hand Gorkall pulled back and released the board with great speed toward the small form of Iroril while he then yanked his beaten feet from the floor beneath and charged toward Morana. Grabbing a table and slamming it against the wall on the way the Ogre now wielded a spiked club of remains from the furniture and swung it towards Moranas skull with heavy force hoping to pop the females head from her shoulders.

Calthyr :: As the battle ensued, blue eyes glittered at the success of his kins' offense. However, the time to idle was scarce as another ogre burst through the tavern door. It came crashing toward him, and the elf quickly kicked off the floor, propelling himself backward and atop the table he had just cleared. With haste, elven hands return rods to their holsters and are replaced with vambrace daggers. A simple flick of both wrists and the daggers are whistling forward, one destined for the eye, the other for the neck. Then, with equal agility the elf summersaults behind the table, kicking it and launching it toward the ogre -- an action not to wound, but to slow him down as rods are once again in hand and wind once again begins to form around the exiled general.

Nathaniel Khar emerges into the tavern, following in the wake of a rather unusual four armed beast that has drawn the attention of the Ancient. As soon as those skyblue eyes fall upon the destruction and chaos unfolding within the tavern, the General of the Republic eyes those seemingly involved in this brawl, and focuses his attention upon both ogres. Within a single fluid motion, the avain draws forth his elaborate longsword from the scabbard upon his side, the shrill cry of the metal echoing faintly against the roar of the battle unfolding. Luckily enough for the Khar, he is still barbed in the ceremonial, yet proven, armor that is a symbol of his rank. And it is with confident steps that he begins to stalk towards the four armed ogre, seeing as the other already preoccupied itself with two capable patrons.

Morana :: Saeldur's wing is clipped, sending him spiralling in semi-controlled flight right for Olivia's face. Oh dear. "What an overused insult. Befitting your intelligence, I suppose." Morana murmurs, giving yet another dull sigh as yet another weapon is rendered into scrap. At least this one got through and into the flesh a bit. Carelessly the hilt and what remains of the blade is tossed aside as she takes several steps back to give herself some distance. And a good thing too, as the ogre tears free of the floorboards and his secured position to charge the wood elf after throwing a board back at her companion. Watching carefully Gorkall's movements his intentions are clear, making her counter-actions a matter of course as she leaps to avoid having her head used as a baseball, whispered words coming from her lips midst it all. Nature heeds her call, invogorating the wooden structure of the tavern with new life, rapid growth vines shooting up to entwine around Gorkall's legs, fibrous bonds possessed of an ironclad strength not-so-easily torn through, even with an ogre's strength. Meanwhile the leap which kept her head safe is clipped, makeshift club striking her leg and sending her tumbling to the ground within the ogre's reach, even with the bindings she'd prepared to hopefully keep him still.

Iroril 's muscled-perch is usurped by the massive force of the goliath, the lean elf hurtling across the tavern to meet the wall in a heavy collision; shattered plasterboard raining down over the prone ranger like confetti on a death march. The forthcoming board also collides with the wall, landing across his legs with less impact than originally intended, a groggy grunt perforating the all-consuming din of the brawl as he struggles to find steady footing again. Morana's aetheric deviations are felt, rather than observed, his own magics beginning to come into play now as his vision and mind clear. Juxtaposed to the flora-based commissions of his comrade his hands alight in a sickly flame. All along the length of his forearms incinerative sparks flare up into verdurous tendrils. Upon reaching the tips of his fingers they lash outward to meld with the exponentially incarcerating vines and set them ablaze in a flesh-melting heat; their trapped foe about to turn shishkebab. Ir' stands slumped and tired, his left arm returning in the wake of the casting to be cradled delicately across his chest.

Gorkall felt the vibration of impact run up his arms as his club collided with Morana's legs. A smile branded across his visage as the club exploded into splinters that went flying about the tavern. The insult from the elf went unheard as Gorkall released a howl of victory to his blow. He could feel his muscles growing stronger and his stamina raising as the battle raged on. Thus was the blessing of Aramoth for fueling the gods much needed thirst. It had been far too long since a good fight had been seen through out the lands of Hollow. Gorkall had his thoughts of appeasing his god broken as he felt the vines of the earth creeping up his legs. With a mere pull of his leg he uprooted the plant life and began to sling it from his appendage. It was at this time that he felt the heat of Irorils magic catching on what vine remained on the monsters hide. In retaliation Gorkall raised his right palm and a small orb of electric charge quickly sprung to life from the center of his hand and extended its reach to his fingers. Gorkall concentrated all of his energy into his right arm which required a great set of determination for one of his race to perform. Within seconds a group of streaks set forth extending their way to find themselves combating with Irorils own infernal magicks. As the two elemental powers collided a flash of purple and orange could be seen flickering between the Ogre and Elf. As this act raged on Og had continued his charge upon the third elven breathren. The two daggers that had been thrown in his direction were spot on. Unable to dodge the attack one of the daggers pierced into Og's eyeball and the other simply bounced from his neck hide considering the lack of force behind it. Og released a cry of pain as he lifted one of his four arms to grip the dagger that had ripped through his optic and he quickly jerked it from its hold. The dagger was swiftly removed along with the berserkers eyeball as blood and other misc. liquids spewed from the wound. Tossing the dagger to the side Og simply threw two of his hands against the table that had been aimed for him and caused it to smash into pieces and send splinters across the room. He readied another attack on Calthyr but was quickly averted to the sound of another approaching from his rear. Og could barely make out the image of Nathaniel coming towards him but he wasted no time. He could feel the wind of the elementalist charging and decided that this attack would also press the avian away from the duo. Turning to launch his assault Og charged once more towards Calthyr and leapt in his direction this time much closer than the last. Crossing all of his palms together into one giant fist Og brough it down to Calthyrs right shoulder hoping to have enough force to break through the wind barrier and break the elven mans shoulder from its place. Gorkall had finished his spell-cast on Iroril and now stared to both of his elven foes. He had caught sight of Og's eye being gored from its hold and for this very reason Gorkall laughed in glee. "Yes! Bathe in the blood Aramoth, Bathe in the blood I bring you!" Gorkalls heart beat heavily against his chest like the war drums of Gamorg as he readied his next attack. He had no intention of ending the elven kins lives yet he did wish to teach them a lesson in both manners and battle. The behemoth wasted no more time as he jerked up the last table that stood on their side of the tavern and snapped its leg. Holding the flat surface of the table as a shield and the leg as a club the Ogre slapped his makeshift weapon against the shield and called forth to his foes. "Come forth. Show Aramoth that Sage still holds its place in battle! Show Aramoth you still bless his name! Fight elves! FIGHT!" The massive foe charged toward Iroril this time, Morana was already down and he feared another blow could be fatal to the female. Focusing on Iroril Gorkall gripped his Club tightly until he was only three steps from Irorils location pressing his left foot against the crude floor he was able to push himself into the air and press his right foot forward aiming it at the elves legs hoping to make contact and snap the bones in half, rendering the being useless for the rest of the fight.

Nathaniel is a skilled veteran of centuries of battle. He has faught both the saurian race, and the immortals, and so, when he saw a chance to strike, he did not hesitate. Instead of choosing the apparent target of the four armed sasquatch, the Ancient instead opts to use his flanking position to try and land a decisive blow upon Gorkall, and aid the elven duo as best he can. With the aid of a powerful leap Nathaniel lunges forth, sword tip aimed to cleave between the ogre's shoulderblades as the beast stands ready for the elven rangers. With lady luck's hope, and the power of his swordarm, perhaps the Khar stands a good chance of landing a solid blow upon such a warcrazed monstrocity.

Calthyr :: With concentration broken, the collected air mass weakened and was sent forward hastily in an attempt to slow the ogre down even just slightly. The ogre as well, paused momentarily before charging at the elf once more. These two events however, were not enough to create enough time for the male to evade the attack cleanly. Instead, the ostracized elf spun and pivoted away from the attack in a feeble attempt to save himself. The elven agility would not save him this time however, and his arm was struck quite firmly; the dull thud followed subsequently with an audible goran. However, during the pivot the elf had lunged forward with his farther arm out, elongated rod jutting forward for the ogre's other eye -- an attempt to effectively blind the foe and give the avian enough time to slay the beast.

Morana :: "Boring." Morana mutters, wisps of pain tainting the dull quality of her voice. While the ogre has taken it's attention off of her, she takes a moment to expends a minutae of healing magics upon her leg - enough to give it the strength it needs for now, though later the limb would need much more thorough attendence. She stands with only a slight buckling at her knees to give pause, joints bent a few times to loosen their stiffness. Malachite eyes search beyond Gorkall's form to settle upon Iroril, silent understanding passed between the pair as one slender hand reaches up to fish within her tunic. A handful of multi-hued leaves is fetched; orages, reds, yeloows, purples, greens - a veritable rainbow of foliage. Languid grace sees them tossed into the air as booted feet shift her stance with a dancer's turn. The leaves hang in the air, rotating on a slow axis as she repeats her previous motion, bringing forth another handful and tossing them into into the air. The whispered words of an elvish song drift through the air, no regard shown to the rule stating only the common tongue be used within the tavern, each beat corresponding with the fluid movements now taken of the gloomy elf's form as she dances, leaves following her motions. A harsh note signals the end, as her arms thrust forward, body facing her ogre foe. With marked celerity they fly forth, path taking them on an undeniable course for Gorkall, to surround him to an end which as of yet remains unfathomable.

Iroril is ailing most definitely but not to the significant extent that his Elven heritage fails him completely - the cumbersome kick of his massive foe avoided by the, most certainly deliberate, merest of inches. The ranger's left and right arms come to cross themselves across the heavy embroidery of his chestplate, the single gem held within the attire refracting the jaded hues of the Elf's spellcasting as it takes place. Lyrics warm and soft surround and scintillate the Ranger falling from his lips akin to rivulets of water spiraling down from a waterfall to wash the land clean in the benevolent caress of Mother Nature. He is moving now, swaying in time to the archaic tones of his discourse as he sashays betwixt the assembled furniture with a prenatural grace. Morana's machinations soon become clear, the ruddied tones and colours of the leaves alighting in the now-complete cerulean of his gaze, the cornea of his eyes simply dissipating into the proverbial ocean of his pupils. With a resounding clap his hands come together, signaling the cessation of his casting and announcing the arrival of his intent; a series of deafening explosions taking place from the razor-sharp leaves with enough power to blow holes in the gargantuan mountain that is Gorkall. Amidst the cacophony of sound and smoke Iroril departs, clutching his injured left arm close and joining the chaotic masses of patrons who pour out onto the Kelay roadside in the aftermath of he and Morana's actions.

Morana too takes leave in the smoke which ensues, injured hawk collected moments before she follows on Iroril's heel.

Gorkall had managed to dodge Nathaniels assault before he even knew it was happening. The lunge towards his tree-born foe saving his life from the expert swordsmen that hunted his head. Gorkall has missed his attack and came crashing into the taverns wall causing the entire foundation to shake and shiver yet he held his shield and club tight. The behemoth pushed himself to his feet and was suddenly embraced by the sound of the elven song. The music whispered into his ears and actually seemed to sooth the beast until the final note was hit. Gorkall jerked into a fully-awakened state once more and caught sight of the leaves flying towards his person. "Urgh!" The Ogre quickly dropped to one knee and tossed his club to the ground as he gripped his makeshift table with both hands and readily awaited the impact of the leaves. He left his back open to Iroril and cringed as the sound of thunder rumbled through the kelay tavern. Gorkall couldn't help but scream in pain as the feeling of his hide being split apart and burned quickly plagued his body. After a few more seconds the beast opened his eyes to find his shield completely destroyed. The charred remains turned to ash and fell to the ground and the massive Ogres flesh was sizzling and seeming to boil yet he had survived the attack. Confused he cast his dull-grey eyes around the room in search for his two foes yet found them no where. He caught sight of Og clobbering Calthyr and he released a feral roar. The berserker had managed to snatch the elven mans pole from mid-air and held it tightly in his four arms as he cast his attention to Gorkall. He caught the Priests' wishes and nodded. Og looked down to Calthyr and snorted dropping the pole-arm back to the ground before moving to the edge of the tavern and looking to Gorkall as he placed one of his four hands against the gaping hole where his eye used to reside. Gorkall felt worn but the praise of Aramoth was upon him for finally quenching the thirst of the battle-starved god. His eyes rose and turned to see the Ancient Avian still staring him down. Placing his burned hand onto what remained of the Kelay Taverns floor Gorkall managed to push himself back to his feet after a few seconds time. He weaved to and fro from the conflict but could only offer a smile to Nathaniel from his position as he raised his hands together and popped his knuckles once more. His dry, cracked voice came out from split lips as blood fell from his mouth. "The elves of Sage prove they are still fit to fight for Aramoth." He tilted his head towards the damaged Calthyr. "They lay broken and run defeated but they stand and fight against what they must. Tell me birdy. Can you still serve Aramoth!? Can you still give the great Aramoth what he needs!" The worn Gorkall raised his right hand and motioned for Nathaniel to give him all that he had. The beast obviously devoted to serving his gods ever need until every challanger he had stood down defeated. He awaited Nathanials next attack as his burnt hide seemed to slowly cool itself and his muscles still pulsed in tense anticipation of the knights next move. Gorkall had just fought four warriors with the aid of only Og, he was sure he could handle one more avian.

Calthyr :: With shock and resignation, the elf cradles his definitely fractured, if not broken arm and collects his tuning rods before he too, after giving a simple roll of the eyes, strides toward the exit. His kin had left this conflict; he no longer had any reason to stand and fight such savage creatures.

Nathaniel recovers with skillful ease as his blade seems to have missed its mark so easily, and has to react quickly unless he becomes devoured by the explosion caused by the druidic magic used by the elven duo. In a rather impressive display of dexterity, the avian General spins upon the heel of his plated boots just as the last wave of the blast washes over him, the ancient using the remains of what used to be a decent sized table for cover. And, just as Gorkall turns to make his proclamation, the Khar brings up his blade in the traditional salute before his enemy, and thus proceeds to valiant charge forward, well toned muscular legs propelling him forth in powerful strides. It is now that perhaps this servant of the war god Aramoth could see the platinum cross that drapes from the avians neck, the faintest of auras radiating off its brilliant surface. As Gorkall seems to be drunk of the bloodlust of battle, Nathaniel has become cleansed in the blessings of the gods of light. Fear is replaced with courage, focus now adamant. This ogre now faces a man driven not by selfish pride, but by the will of powers far beyond mortal comprehension. It is only in a matter of moments before Nathaniel and Gorkall clash, the rather impressive stature of the ancient possibly giving him some kind of leverage as he comes down on the priest with all the strength he can muster. His blade, forged in the fires of the now fallen city of Ashtaeum, and made from the precious metal known as true-steel, is brought to bare against the ogre in a series of calculated and powerful blows. Centuries of combat has honed martial skills to near perfection, and such is evident in the display of swordsmanship that now befalls the ogre. If he is not quick enough, or able at all, to keep up with such an assault, then the ogre faces the grave threat of taking serious damage to either his left knee, right elbow, or kidney, as these are the specific targets the Khar focuses his attacks, in effort to hinder the beasts movements, and perhaps quench his desire to continue on fighting.

Gorkall felt the left side of his face lift as a smirk curled. The Ogre watched with intent as Nathaniel charged toward him. While Nathaniel had the centuries of experience, the master swordsmanship and the benefit of stamina on his side the exhausted Gorkall wasn't ready to heave over and surrender. Aramoth still gave him the strength he needed to proceed with his battle until he was the last man standing. It would seem that both of the religious fanatics had been drawn into a spiral of their own honor and faith and would stand by it until the end. As Nathaniel closed in Gorkall simply thrust his left hand out in an open palm to catch Nathaniels wrist of his right hand of which he bore his blade and he gripped the appendage tightly. Such a straight-forward rush against a ten-foot towering behemoth was a bad choice in tactics for the poor avian. Gorkall smiled into his foes eyes as he ran his tongue across his greened teeth. "Feed me." The Ogre jerked Nathaniel up from the floor with his left hand if he were so allowed and then balled his right hand tightly into a fist and pressed forward against the chest of Nathaniels cerimonial armor with a great force that would knock the man clear across the tavern into the opposing wall if it were to make contact.

Nathaniel allowed a smile of his own to form from parched lips underneath the golden mask he wore, as the ogre lifts him into the air. Without hesitation the avian general extends his free hand out, and drops his sword with precision aim deftly into it. Just as Gorkall rears back for what must be a mighty blow, Nathaniel thrusts the four foot blade forward, just as Gorkall unleashes his mighty blow. Considering that the beasts momentum would be driving him forward, and an ogre's reach does not past eight or nine feet, Gorkall faces the grave danger of taking the blade directly between the eyes. Of course, the beast's blow lands, and Nathaniel is sent forth some considerable distance, to land in a most unpleasant manner upon some rubble twenty feet or so away. The wind is knocked out of him, but he manages to rise, his hopes lying with his blade being lodged in the ogre's warcrazed brain.

Gorkall felt the bones in his right hand pop as the blow made contact. Yet the beast had no time to savor the moment as he quickly jerked his head to the side to avoid the Avians sword. Though Nathaniels blow was not in complete vein as the tip of the steel made contact with Gorkalls bare shoulder and for the first time in the evening had enough force to go through the Ogres thick hide. A howl of pain emitted as Gorkall gritted his teeth and without hesitation reached to jerk the blade from it's hold in his flesh. As the Ogre ripped the weapon from it's lodged position he examined the metal that was now covered with his crimson-black blood and he chuckled to himself lightly. His eyes rose to face the downed Nathaniel and then back to the blade as the Ogre cotemplated keeping the blade as his own personal trophy. But instead Gorkall saw Nathaniel laying there amongst the rubble, in his mind, Gorkall saw this as a victory. He had successfully defeat all four of his foes and was the last standing. Aramoth would be please. With that the Ogre tossed the blade to the mid-way point between Nathaniel and himself and he looked to the avian with no emotion. "You fight well for Aramoth. He shall praise your name. Hail." Gorkall moved through the destroyed portion of the tavern and made his way to his things that had been thrown about. Gathering his ripped robes, Aramoth tomb, and goblin-skulled staff he smiled to himself. Pressing the torn cloth to his wound he looked around the rubble and chuckled lightly. He knew Mesthak had to be on the verge of a panic attack but plenty of blood had been spilt and the gods thirst was quenched for now. Turning to make his way through the destruction he looked to Og and nodded and his now one-eyed friend followed the behemoth out of the tavern. The duo making their way to the nearest healer for rest and relaxation. It had been one hell of a night, and Gorkall had loved every moment of it.