Topic: Luck

Grenn did not know fear. Blood and fury, gore and death, these things he knew well, he had made them his constant companions. Fear had left him years ago, lost on some forgotten battlefield. Fear was a thing for children and women. Grenn was a mountain of meat and rage and only the foolish stood in his way. One such fool did so on this day. He would not be there long.

The fool did know fear. His village was lost, it’s defenders scattered. Their homes burned as Grenns raiders pillaged and robbed. Yet he was brave. He held sword and a shield at the ready, he would not run. Perhaps his futile stand would give time for some few of his charges to flee to the hills, his life traded for a child, a mother, a family. Grenn could respect that. With a grunt and a glance he signaled his men to give them space and hefted his battle axe. The fool’s sword only wavered slightly as Grenn strode forward.

With a ferocious roar Grenn wound up for a two handed roundhouse swing aimed at the man’s shield, anticipating the crunch of metal as the blow connected. He was already preparing the backhand his foe would stumble straight into, seeing it played out in his mind as so many others had fallen before him.

*THUNK*

Confused, Grenn felt the shock of impact as his axe met with a decidedly unmetallic substance.. His foe (who had closed his eyes in anticipation of his impending doom,) opened them and both of them stared dumbfounded at the axe, buried in the trunk of a stout tree.

“Where did that come from?” thought Grenn. The villager, just as surprised, failed to take advantage of the opening as Grenn wrenched the weapon loose.

Mentally scolding himself for careless overconfidence, Grenn switched his stance, making some probing swings that forced his opponent to dance back. With reach on his side it was only a matter of time before he connected. After a few tense moments he saw his opening, a brief stumble left his opponents shield low. With speed belied by his size Grenn sprang, aiming a devastating chop at the man’s exposed neck. It was a killing blow that often ended in a spectacular decapitation.

*Thud*
*Oof*

Grenn briefly saw stars as his skull hit the paving stones. His axe skidded away. Looking down, saw what he had tripped on, a root from that damnable tree had ages ago pushed up under the pavers just enough to trip the unwary.

As he was making a mental note to have his men burn that damn tree to the ground he was reminded of his opponent, who had recovered his wits enough to press his own attack.

The blows were frantic and unpracticed, most glancing off his armor as Grenn  scrambled to his feet and retrieved his axe.

“Time to finish this,” he thought as he spun to face the man again. Grenn towered over him and raised his axe, preparing to split the poor youth in two like a rail. The villager finally quailed, his courage failed and he turned to run, Grenn barked a savage laugh and without lowering his massive weapon moved to chase the coward down.

*Crash*

He was sprawled face first in the street when he looked up he saw the brave young man and a surprising number of fellow villagers escaping to the south. As he tried to rise he felt suddenly chilled in a rather sensitive area. Looking back he realized that his pants had fallen down and tangled his feet. At some point in the desperate flurry of blows that had failed to even scratch him the bastard had sliced clean through Grenn’s belt.

All around him his men, hardened raiders all stood gaping. First one smirked, another tittered. Soon the whole company was guffawing as their commander struggled to his feet and and wrestled his dignity back into place.

Finally, as his foe escaped into the hills and laughter taunted him from all sides, only then did Grenn remember. Only then did he remember fear.

(This has been a story about rolling ones.)

Lou Doench