Total Votes: 20

Vote for your favourite, and I mean YOUR favourite.

Vote closed!
Burnsides Story (unamed main character) 10% [ 2 ]

Razorfanes story about Sven and Syllabear 15% [ 3 ]

Tr3nchtowns story about Nessaj 45% [ 9 ]

Bardmans story about Axe 10% [ 2 ]

Flameseekers story about Traitorous Mortred 10% [ 2 ]

Lithiumpicnics story about Fuzzy 0% [ 0 ]

Lemonteas story about Axe 10% [ 2 ]

LithiumPicnic

Dominating Posts: 145 Joined: 04 Apr 2007 5007 gold

Posted: Sun Jan 20, 2008 5:06 pm

Heres, my own story, and no, it follows no known back story in dota, so deal with it:

Night-Fell

A low moan sounded, significant in its deep pain, that of a creature facing impending doom, was immediately followed by a defiant roar of rage.

This creature would not quietly.

She was young still, barely fifty summers past and yet she was endlessly training, and endless cacophony of 'thunks', arrows striking a tree, though
the night was humid and the sweat gathered upon her brow, she would not relent. Having exhausted her quiver, she strode up to the tree and gathered her arrows, by now her fingers dripping blood from endless exposure to bowstring. She was about to return to her mark, to resume her endless toil, when she heard the two cries and though still yet a child, something moved deep within her breast, and spun about, running to the sound.

Rushing through the usually quiet glade, the endless barrage of leaves streaking her cheeks with frshly formed dew. Normally, this would leave her laughing, exalting in the beauty of the night, now, she paid it no heed.

Another raging roar, a more urgent flight.

Cresting a low rise within the sheltered boles of the mighty ashenvale forest, she gained a line of sight, a means of which to spot the source of the desperate pleas. Her eyes scanned the area, until in the distance, she spotted what was obviously the cause for the consternation.

The moisture on her cheeks was no longer merely dew.

A furbolg, the camoflauging fur marking him as an adolescent, yet his bulk and power was easily the match for the mightiest of ursa warriors. Herheart broke, each of the tiny pieces wishing that she had not discovered him in such a hellish situation. The wounded creature, it appeared to the young Mirana Nightshade, was caught in a scene born from the nightmares of a crazed artist: corspes of dismembered ghouls were strewn about, as if flung there by some horrific, indifferent child. Though many undead had fallen this night to the noble beast, one remained.
A fell creature, spawned of the lowest circle of hell stood, in mocking pose above the furbolg. Dessicated wings were spread out, blood dripping from the extended claws of the beast, though if the blood were its own the furbolg's was impossible to tell. Mirana had heard tell of this creatures: dreadlords, sent by the lgeion, thought to have been obliterated, but clearly, one had shifted in its allegiance. The very night seemed to have coalesed and condensed around this creature, creating an even deeper, elune-vacant night about it.

"Fear me beast, for I am Balanar, the nightstalker, and though you shun the Lich King's call, i am not dissapointed, for tonight, I hunger!"

Balanar tilted his head back, and howled in his evil delight.

"Mirana! Where are you?" Furion Stormrage was growing impatient with the child, although unusually driven, she was given to a childs mischief, and this night he was in no mood for it. He had been searching for her at the training glade, and only found a small blood trail. To weak to be serious, he thought it was some prank dreamt up by the spirited child. A howl suddenly split the night.
"That is the call of Balanar, and Mirana..."
He summoned his power and teleported closer to where the call originated from.

Tears streaming from her face, for the shot was impossible for her, Mirana nonetheless raised her bow and nocked an arrow. She drew her bead, and began to pray:

"Elune, by your light guide this arrow. Elune by your grace, bless this arrow. Elune, by your mercy, bless this arrow"

She let the arrow loose, already filled with despair, yet something piereced through the haze of her sadness. The arrow was glowing a brilliant blue, almost so bright as to be white, and as it flew, it seemed to draw strength from the flight. What amazed her more, the arrow was flying true: it would hit Balanar!

The arrow struck in a blinding flash of power, opening a ragged wound in balanar's back and leaving him reeling. After the shock had worn off, Balanar turned and said

"You have wounded me pitiful child, never start a job you cannot finish!"
Upon saying that, he burst forward and fired a blast of virulent magic, which ripped through mirana, opening wounds and leaving her, racked with pain, lying on the ground. Balanar threw his head back and laughed, only to see a crzed furbolg, a bloom of power born of rage enveloping the beasts claws.

As if from an outsider's perspective Balanar saw the furbolg execute a precison flurry of blows, each wound deepening, until with the fifth blow, the sight, from inside his head or out, permenantly left his eyes.

Mirana was awakened by the gentle nudging of a moist nose, and opened her eyes to see a huge face beset by concern looming over her. Seeing that she was alive, the furbolg gathered her gently into his massive arms and began carrying her back home. She looked up him and said

"Guess we showed him, eh Fuzzy Wuzzy?"
A bemused expression on his face, Fuzzy only growled a little at his new name.

On a distant hill, Furion looked on, a new hope burning deep within his soul.
_________________
Chopsticks are part of the reason the Chinese didn't invent custard

STORY COMPETITION

Total Votes: 20

Vote for your favourite, and I mean YOUR favourite.