--The sun was beginning to set upon this idyllic country road, and the colourful landscape suddenly had a new, bizarre tone. Here was that feeling again. The feeling of travelling between worlds. But why couldn’t it be a happy feeling? Instead, it felt like a toboggan ride spiralling into the depths of hell. As Zarak traversed the winding road, his horse galloping, the hills on the horizon parted, revealing Bluegill village, tucked snuggly between them. Houses set ablaze. Corpses and debris lay scattered about. Zarak’s heart pounded so hard he felt it in his ears. His vision tunneled and he rode past the dead and the dying, some of them still crying for help. Only one thing existed in the entire world - his home. Please let it be spared…

--He spotted it. The roof was on fire, but the house of his childhood was still standing. He felt somewhat relieved. He heard grunts and squeals on the other side, where the entrance was. It sounded kind of like pigs, only deeper and gravelly. He dismounted while approaching the sound’s source. He could see the entrance now.

--His mother was there. She was lying in front of the door, face down in a pool of her own blood. The door was busted open, and inside, Zarak could see his little sister, lying on the dining table. Her clothes were torn, and her body broken. Blood was dripping down her thin, pale arm that hanged lifelessly off the table’s edge.

--Everything suddenly went silent. Sound faded away. So did the colours. He couldn’t move. Was time gone as well? There was naught but a ringing noise, wracking his brain. New things came into his view, slowly, as his temporary blindness was lifting. He now saw the source of the pig-like sounds from before. Four silhouettes were emerging from his home, all four larger than Zarak. They were green, hunched, and made of muscles bulging out of even more muscles. They had grotesque faces with tusks sticking out of their drooling mouths, and thick, black, greasy hair. They smelled of blood, sweat and possibly excrement.

--The ringing intensified. The levee breaks. Zarak drew his sword, and the next thing he knew was – he was standing between them. He was screaming. He felt the warmth of blood spraying on his face. One of the four was now a fountain of blood, cut clean across his torso, from his left shoulder to his right hip. The other two made stupid faces, probably depicting confusion. The third swung his axe at Zarak. Swung high, leaving an opening clear as day, and Zarak, of course, used it. He intercepted the greenskin with the tip of his blade and dug his feet into the ground for good leverage, causing his enemy to impale himself with the attack. The greenskin’s attack connected regardless, and even though most of the force behind it was gone, there was now an axe sticking out of Zarak’s left collar bone.

--He felt no pain, but the force of the blow was enough to throw him off balance and render his left arm useless. As he was reeling, one of the remaining two greenskins smacked his right thigh, bringing Zarak down to his knees. The other one now saw his head as nothing more than a watermelon, waiting to be smashed open. The impact of his club was so violent that a cracking noise followed it, as Zarak’s head was almost yanked clean off of his shoulders. Zarak could taste his own blood in his mouth. He wasn’t sure where he was anymore, but a fire within kept him moving on sheer instinct. His good arm clenched his sword and swung once more, almost blindly, opening the gut of the Ork that tried to crack his head open. The remaining foe swung his club with savage intent, but Zarak blocked the attack with his sword. The club was deflected and slid down the blade, hitting the sword’s pommel, knocking the weapon out of Zarak’s hand. Another swing. This time, it connected with Zarak’s chest. He fell flat on his back. He tried to get up, but kept slipping on all the blood that’s soaking the ground around them. He couldn’t breathe.

--The menacing, green silhouette stood tall above him, holding its club with both arms. The club was swinging above the greenskin to gather momentum, but slowly. The attacker’s lips parted to reveal a perverse smile armed with jagged teeth. The smile was saying:“You’re dead!”

-Another man might have felt fear in this grave moment, as the Grim Reaper was sharpening his scythe, a breath away from claiming Zarak’s soul. Not him though. To Zarak, that smile was an insult. He ripped out the axe lodged in his flesh and furiously sent it flying into that bastard’s face. Blood and teeth splattered about as the battered, rusty axe sunk into the greenskin.

--With the final ounce of strength gone from his body, Zarak fell to the ground with a blank stare, nothing left inside it. Darkness enveloped him.

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--Thank you for reading. I'll take a short break to catch my breath as the past month and a half have had an ever-increasing schedule intensity for me. See you on Monday, at the beginning of a new chapter called "Cigarettes and corpses". If you liked my work, please rate, follow or favorite, to support my content. Till next time...