RP:Hureig Apprehended

From HollowWiki

Part of the Rise of Larket Arc



Summary: Directly following the jailbreak at the sheriff's office, Hureig draws the attention of The Larket Guard trying to recapture Kelovath. Drawn by alarm bells, Macon arrives to assist in the aprehension of the giant. Two iconic weapons clash.

Larket Town Square

A giant stood in the middle of Larket, and it was a scene from legends. He had sacrified himself and his freedom to make sure the righteous succeeded, turning away from the fleeing Josleen and Kelovath and running with his weapon raised and his life forfeit. But unlike legends, he was no knight in a suit of shiny armor---he was a giant, a gargantuan thing whose broad back and shoulders carried more muscle than even his race's frame should rightly hold. The haze of magic, of some old and virile enchantment, kept hale the nearly twice two large musculature across his entire body. He was not swinging a sword like all those old legends and tales sang; the guards that lay around him in a circle of destruction held the guts, clutched broken arms and legs, and bruised more than they bled.  He swung a mace of sorts, laying low guard after foolish guard with a stone piece, a fossil of sorts that looked far too similar to a bull mammoth's...mating wand. "Come, you little fools!" The frost giant roared between swings and breaths, the latter coming quite a bit more than the former. "I will lay all of you low! I will break your backs, steal your sugar, and demolish your city with my Mammoths!" The swings became slower though no less effective in stopping armored and non-armored men alike. How long could a giant, even a giant enhanced, swing a solid, fossilized, mammoth appendage? His roars became more desperate, his threats of pillaging and destruction broken by much needed heaves for air. "You…will…regret the…day you imprisoned…my little human!”


Alarm bells have pulled Macon from a meeting of minds at The Red Ogre. The armored man accompanied by a contingent of guardsmen and a sickly looking, old drow. The former council member takes possession of his axe and The Rage Stone within it from that dark elf as the party rushes up the road, joining reinforcements that have been pulled towards the yells and crunching bones of their compatriots. Upon arriving at the gigantic scene Macon immediately needs to duck the oncoming body of one of the Larket Guard that has been bashed clear off his feet and sent hurtling through the air. Those alarm bells seem to punctuate each spaced out word the giant bellows out and The Death Knight stands back, butt of his Great Axe resting against the surface of the road, with the blade and red, pulsing artifact of fury up near the man's head. A new wave of Larketian Protectors rush forward, at least two of which do not even brandish weapons, appearing somewhat feral, a clear demonstration of The Rage Stone's ambient effects. Behind those men however come the bows and arrows. These reinforcements have come prepared to keep their distance from the giant they mean to apprehend now that word of members of the jailbreaking party has made its way through the city. Still, Hureig has accomplished his goal of drawing quite a force away from the escaped fugitive. Hopefully he can take comfort in that fact while a volley of four arrows is loosed his way with another soon to follow. Macon patiently watches ‘his’ guard at work… for the moment. 


Hureig was no fool when it came to battles; there was only one way to gain the martial prowess that saw the unwieldy, unbalanced, and thoroughly unorthodox weapon laying low men like a thresher does wheat. Though he berated them for their lack of intelligence, this dance would end with the humans wizening up and bringing out their thrown weaponry. "Bring out your slings and pebbles, you fools!" He bated them on between a bashing of the first enraged guard and a thrashing of the third, the poor soul sent skidding into a heap at the smartest of the whole humanoid bunch---the ones who stood far, far away. "Do you...think...your little..." The petrified mace rang against the chest plate of a poor unfortunate, but it bounced off the steel more than throwing it off, "puny...pebbles...will...hurt...ME!" 

The first volley of four put his words to the test; three arrows tore through his sleeves, their arrows embedding themselves deep into his right arm. The limb numbed, his hand falling as useless as a mace in an archery fight from his weapon. If it hurt him any further, the frost giant did not let it show, though the thuds did send him staggering back---and a body he had laid out behind him caught his boots and sent him toppling onto his back. The air left his lungs before he could let out a curse, though he was able to watch the other volleys fly through where he stood. "Oh. So you lowlanders want to throw things! YOU WANT TO THROW THINGS!" 

Hureig was up, damning both the archers and his useless arm. But pain and unfairness brought a new vigor to him; his heart pumped his anger and his second wind through what parts of his body were not already wounded. He would answer the archer's volleys in kind. A poor guard groaned when a vise grip of a hold latched onto his ankle. He groaned even louder when he was heaved from the ground by his leg. And only the archers would know what sounds the poor guard made when his body was thrown into their midst. Another was quick to follow the first, and a third would not be too far behind. He would match them body for volley.


Macon takes a single step to his left as Hureig sends a bludgeoned guard sliding towards his feet. The poor foot soldier had already been enraged by the furious aura of the stone The Death Knight carries, but now he's either unconscious or pretending to be. Larket’s Traitor turns up his nose at this felled minion before using the butt of his weapon to fling off the guard’s helmet and press against his forehead like he is rubber stamping a document. The Rage Stone in the axe head glows bright for a second or two and the man roars back into consciousness, angrily swatting the handle of the weapon away from his face before limping as quickly as he can back towards the man-flinging giant, ignoring any pain his likely broken leg is shooting towards his brain.

Three of the four archers dive for cover when the first body is hurled their way, one of them landing on his bow just right so as to snap it at the center causing Macon to shake his head and make a mental note to call that guy a ‘moron’ later. The lone bowman left standing manages to get off two more shots, the second one coming just half a second before a thrown guardsman comes sliding into his legs, taking him out, head over heels. Macon makes no mental note to high five that archer for standing in there and taking the big hit to get an arrow off.

The arrows have stopped flying, for now and the former sheriff has had “Enough” of this (or he sees the giant is wounded and tiring) and thinks it is time he steps in. Three clanking, slow steps forward quickly transition to a small hop that ends with him sprinting towards Hureig, axe in one hand, held at the center of the handle out towards his side. The Death Knight uses that limping, furious guard as cover or a decoy of sorts. By the time he is range of the mammoth weapon’s reach he has already started a downward, overhead swing, both his hands holding the Rage Axe so low on the handle that it almost looks like he is about to throw the massive weapon. This unorthodox style of wide arcing swing should sacrifice driving force for added torque and weapon speed, but whatever finds its way to the blade of The Rage Axe will feel that ‘oomph’ it should rightfully lack, almost as if there's a second, unseen pair of hands pushing the weapon forward higher up on the long handle. If one is to believe Macon that he has been chosen by The God of Death then it is simple to describe this phenomenon as unholy intervention, while nonbelievers will have to delve deeper to explain the power on display. Regardless of the reason for it, the man displays far more strength in this strike than one his size should be able to. Enough to match a normal sized giant, and he hopes enough to match this wounded, extra buff one. Given the height difference this attack is likely headed towards a thigh or lower. 


“Cowards!” Hureig howled his response when that lone arrow, unimpeded by flying bodies or raging attackers, tore into his shoulder of his right arm. It was dead weight to weight either way, but the pain of being pierced was enough to stoke his rage and coax what little energy his tired body had left to the fore. He saw that raging puppet, that wounded soldier who was so influenced by Macon’s energy that he limped at an astonishingly high speed at the guard trebucheting Frost Giant…Hureig had something special in mind for him. He waited for the psychotic to come close, so close he could see the burst blood vessels in his eyes, before he reached down for another ankle to bat the fool over the city walls. Hureig reached down…and he found nothing.

Macon’s infected man bowled into Hureig, throwing the Giant off balance and, once again, onto his back. Fists flew. Teeth gnashed. Heads were used like battering rams…and that was just what Hureig was doing! He bested the puppet with his forearm beneath the man’s throat; he focused what strength he had left to fling the man from him. The giant had only a moment to gather his wits once he pushed himself before Macon’s Rage Axe was about to stove in his head.

He reached for whatever was near, his left hand finding the unruly mammoth “mace” he had discarded earlier. Unyielding, and unable to be used for much else defense with one good hand, he tucked it underneath his left arm and slid it up in the axe’s path. Stone would not give way to metal! Stone would defeat that weapon that radiated rage! He held his breath when the axe connected with the petrified penis, but his eyes went wide when all the stone did was turn the axe. The sharp metal sheered from the stone an entire side, removing from its trunk a piece of ossified flesh that no doubt would have been very painful if the mammoth had not received the operation when it was a child. All the way down until it struck the stone road, caught between hard stone and the softer flesh of Hureig’s side.

The Frost Giant, stupefied by how a layer of stone skin had been sheered from his most cherished family heirloom, could only look up at Macon.


Hureig appears to need no assistance from The Rage Stone to sour his mood. So the effect, if any, from increased proximity to the angry artifact goes unnoticed. Macon is fortunate to have the thrown feral guard narrowly miss him to his left, as starting his wicked swing so early leaves him with little chance of moving to avoid human shaped projectiles. The now twice-thrown man skids lifelessly to a halt behind the oncoming former councilman just as the axe comes down.


The grunts and shouts of battle are silenced suddenly by the clash of phallic stone and furious metal. The two iconic weapons that will surely be immortalized in the Larket history books clash to the sounds of a thunderous ‘clunk,’ a ‘shing’ which seems to last an eternity as the blade travels down, through the improvised bludgeon, and a thud and crack when the axe finds the ground, embedding itself in the road. The giant and the knight seem equally wide-eyed at the result and for a moment or two it feels like the only sound in the entire city is the constant ringing of the alarm bell that has been the soundtrack for the aftermath of the jailbreak. Finally Macon shakes his head, releasing himself from the shared stupor while releasing the handle of his weapon with both hands. “What are ya waitin’ for!? Seize ‘em!” He barks out the order just before the axe head begins to shake within the ground and suddenly loosens itself of its own accord, hovers weightlessly for a moment, and then pivots midair to fly its handle back to The Fury Knight’s right hand. It sticks there like it is held in place by some powerful magnet, the man not even needing to close his fingers around it to keep it from dropping. More giant-prepared men with huge chains and shackles move in now, requiring the buddy system to even lug these heavy things around. Hureig is about to find himself at the base of a dogpile that Macon will choose to sit out.


The Frost Giant was wounded. He was bleeding. Even if he were able to somehow manage to extract himself from the situation, he wouldn't make it too far before lack of blood had him face first in the ground with his rump in the air. "I yield." it was a hard thing to say and an even harder pill to swallow, submitting to tin can lowlanders commanded by a foul man whose made all the more repugnant when he disregarded the giant's yield and wouldn't even arrest him himself! Needless to say, the mountain of limbs and lowlanders didn't erupt, and once every shackle was on every limb and every chain was wrapped around him, the surrendering giant was hauled back to his feet. "Afraid...ta get...your boots dirty?" He smirked a bloody smirk at Macon before hocking a mouthful of bloody spittle on his boots. He had submitted, but he most certainly was not kowtowed. His little show earned him the ire of his nearest guard, as much of a fanatic as he was a torturer. Three of the four arrow shafts had been broken under the dogpile; the fourth was snapped by the guard, who took great umbrage when Hureig did not show the excruciating pain that simple act produced. "Best get your furs," He spoke to Macon once more, his eyes as dark and deadly as they were weary. "The North will come now."



Macon let's out a long sigh as blood, spit, and mucus spill onto his shoes. Perhaps one day soon he will have an encounter again that won't require him to buy a new pair of boots, this isn't it. The Death Knight taps the tips of his feet, one at a time, against the ground, dispelling as much of the mess as such an action does onto the road. “Take’m away.” He gives the order just as the shift of the arrow is broken by the guard. “Wait. Wait wait!” he shouts when they start to move, “Where are y’going? The Fort. The Fort.” and directs them in the opposite direction of the sheriff’s office that Kelovath has so recently been broken out of. The captive and his escorts get themselves turned around and Macon smirks at the threat, “Le’them come. -Larket- is not afraid.” arrogantly substituting ‘Larket is’ where ‘I am’ should have gone. With the Frost Giant being hauled off the former councilman's grey eyes drift over the sliced off piece of fossilized mammoth junk. It looks kind of sharp… maybe he could make a swor- No. He shakes the thought from his head and will soon be heading to the fort himself.