The Horned One

He walked with a purpose and confidence unrivaled by most other players. There was a sort of conviction in his steps, and more evidently, a burning rage. He was not a war hero in real life, hell, he hadn't even reached his 21st birthday yet, but that meant nothing now. It was the key factor of his being, the will to act against terrifying odds with courage, backed by anger, of course. He was a barbarian down to his very core, even outside the game. A young man who would face down a gun with reddened eyes and gritting teeth, only to psyche out the man whose finger was on the trigger. He'd face off against an imposing opponent who dared to bully the weak and possibly get his ass handed to him, but was all the more respected and feared as a not so easy target for it. He felt it was his duty to take those people down a notch. This isn't a hero, he likes to think of himself more so as a force of nature. The rage of the innocent and downtrodden personified. The anger of those oppressed and shot down by those with power, a force that rips and tears at that which allows such to exist, as well as the very vehicles which carry out such evil. What was his name? Unimportant. Because now, he was Horns. And he was angry.


The war cry echoed across the battlefield, the Fellowship may very well have thought that they'd had a surprise enemy on their hands, an anomaly in the code that decided to summon a barbarian mob of one of the fiercest races in the game, the Tor. For those who didn't know, Tor were Orc-like goblinoids that had been genetically influenced by the will of a dragon overlord of a very similar name. The result is a warrior of unwavering confidence, staggering endurance, oh, and the ability to breathe fire as easily as one eats chicken nuggets. This, in spite of what his intentions were, was the beast of a humanoid that was rushing toward the Fellowship right now.

With another fearsome growl, the Tor lowered his head, before colliding horns-first with the nearest Gnoll in sight. Not even bothering to remove the skewered mob from his head, he turned and swung his battle axe at another Gnoll. The mob was fast and made to dodge the swing, doing so successfully but to no avail. Horns inhaled, before releasing that air as a column of hot flame.

Every Tor has an organ in their body that holds a pouch of flammable gasses, upon a flexing of muscles similar to retching, the gasses are released and flow up the esophagus. At this point, the sharp fangs in the Tor's mouth strike against each other like a match, causing a spark and, voila! The flame is lit. This all happens in about the same amount of time one could muster up a burp.

Horns released the ignited gas, blowing hot death onto the Gnoll until its hide was blackened and worthless, not that it wouldn't have been in the first place. The Gnoll keeled over before going stiff. A single Gnoll remained, visibly scared shitless at almost literally encountering one of their natural predators, from a combative standpoint.

A Tor is meant to be a fearsome mob, much like an orc or a goblin, however Tor are a bit more intelligent, not to mention capable, so a Tor siding with humans is not unheard of. This explains how Horns finds himself in a position to be this beast in the first place. Most players wouldn't choose to be the ugly beast whose whole shtick happens to be raging out and merc'ing anything that moves until they cool down, however, Horns' player happens to be a troubled individual who played the game, not as a way to escape the harsh reality of real life, but to let out his pent up anger on realistic pixels and players he would deem as "bad" or "evil", using the whole force-of-nature angle to justify the destruction his rampages would bring about.

All in all, that was the person that now stood before the Fellowship, even as he grabbed the petrified Gnoll and twisted its neck until it popped, and viciously ripped the half-dead, bleeding Gnoll from his horns, ripping it apart and ending its misery, it soon became clear he wasn't done. Alas, this was the reason Horns' whole entrance had been so sudden, so splat-tacular, because this player wasn't some happy-go-lucky, quick-to-please ally who would wholeheartedly fall in line with those of his creed on similarities of circumstance alone.

Horns huffed with still present rage, smoke bursting from his clenched tusks and fangs in blackened puffs. And then he turned to the Fellowship. In the face of them all, he didn't so much as display a hint of insecurity, let alone fear. The dramatic entrance of the Dread Knight meant nothing, he hadn't even noticed him as he came charging in, there was something else on his mind.

"You all are players." Horns started with this observation, before raising his axe and pointing it in their general direction.

"How many innocents have you slain? And what do your numbers aim to accomplish in this world?"

Questions and judgment, not all that barbaric for the barbarian. As he spoke, Horns might have given off a sense that there was some sort of intelligence beneath his rugged demeanor, like that of Legate Lanius from Fallout New Vegas, an absolute weapon of a man that is just as capable of having a philosophical debate with you as ripping you apart with his sword. Though Horns is no philosopher, the point is made, he is no mere brute, he just definitely can be.

The Tor had yet to identify the leader of the Fellowship, so his queries were open-ended and up for answer by anyone who wanted to speak up, though it was unclear how the Tor would react to an unsatisfactory response...

(Get used to this more bombastic style of writing folks, because I'm going all out on every post I can from this point forward!)

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