BLOOD, bile, and worse puddled at the feet of the massive, armored tshahark, as his axe sang through the air, ringing loudly as the weapon parried another of its kind. Grinning to himself under the face-masking helmet, the warrior spun his axe around in a deft motion, countering the blow, and splitting his foe, a burly, one-eared halforc, from collarbone to the opposite armpit. Sliding the tremendous weapon into his belt, the tshahark removed his helmet for but a moment, picking at a scale torn loose by a vicious headbutt earlier, and revealing himself as Skragna Malketh. Even now, so many years later, the thrill of blood, fury, and battle sang its siren song, seducing him toward more, and greater, acts of ferocity... and barbarity. With a deep sigh, he pushed the feeling away, leaning against a nearby wall in the old, half-abandoned house, and beginning to bind his various hurts.
After ensuring he wasn't going to bleed to death, he reached up, gently touching the cross at his neck, a physical symbol of his faith in the two Good Gods, and called upon them for a boon. Some in the Crusade likened their abilities to the miracles of clerics, but Skragna... he knew differently. There was, to be certain, magic in them, but more than that, it was a reflection, a power from within themselves, that allowed the abilities to manifest. The Lord and Lady only granted them the power to use their own faith as the, for lack of a better term, torch. The stronger the faith, Skragna had found, the stronger a Crusader's abilities. Looking down, he fingered the cross, then, releasing it, looked at the emblems emblazoned on the warg hide it was made from. The arrow, and the tree. Taniel and Evren. Order and Nature. Light and Life. He wasn't the smartest creature around, and knew it, but his mind was sharper than most of his kin, and he saw, in the pair, a number of similarities. In nature, there was order, of a sort. The best wolf led the pack. Not necessarily the strongest, for a cunning wolf could also become the alpha. The best rabbits survived. Not necessarily the fleetest of foot, for nothing could outrun a hunter's arrow. Sometimes wiles were required. Order, in something as seemingly chaotic as nature. Perhaps not perfect order, as Taniel would like, but order still. He wondered to himself if he could possibly manage to reconcile his own opposing sides. The raw, seething fury of his youth, never far below the surface, and the deeper, equally strong desire to protect those unable to do so themselves. That, however, was something he couldn't figure out himself. With a mental shrug, he rose to his feet, drew his axe, and moved on, deeper into the ancient house.