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Boris and Ivan came to a stop at the crown of the hill, surveying the sights laid plain to their eyes. Broad plains, dense forests, sparkling rivers, raging lions... lions?! The stolid pair took hold of their axes, and in the fierce battle which followed barely escaped with their lives.
"That was close," Boris breathed, helpfully speaking English. He looked himself over. He was injured and bleeding, but not critically. He nodded to his companion, who returned the nod.
"A bit close indeed," Ivan cheerfully answered, also helpfully speaking English. Like Boris, he was bloodied from the fight. Had it not been for their twin masteries of defending hills and fighting animals, the battle could easily have gone the other way. Ivan gingerly seated himself, then lay back upon the grassy hill to bask in the warmth of the late spring sun. The lions notwithstanding, it was peaceful here, and despite his wounds Ivan felt happy to have the sun on his face and the wind in his hair. In a few moments, he was gently snoring in sleep.
Then the wolves came.
They were upon Ivan before Boris could respond, and mere moments later only shreds of bloody flesh remained of Boris' closest friend.
"For Catherine and Brahma and Vishnu and Maheshwara and Saraswati and Lakshi and..." he cried, continuing on in his battle cry/list of deities as he chopped at the wolves, anger and pain filling his breast, leaving no room for the sorrow which surely would crush upon him later once the battle was done. He chopped and struck viciously, his only thought to avenge his friend or die gloriously in service to his Tsarina and many, many gods.
"...and Hanuman and Krishna and Shanmukha and- ulp!" Boris' list was cut off after several minutes of battle, the final remaining wolf catching an opening in his guard and leaping up to take out his throat. His final act, the last of his strength channeled by sheer force of will, was to drive the blade of his hatchet deep into the side of the wolf. It preceded him in death by mere moments, but for those moments he had the victor's satisfaction.
Hours later, Boris opened his eyes. He was cold and stiff, though the sun was only beginning to set. He sat up and looked around. The wolf corpses, the shreds of Boris, and his own pale grey form reminded him of everything, and suddenly he knew what had happened.
"Oh dear," Boris commented. "I've become a zombie."
(Take a gander at Boris' strength there. 0.0? With any luck, a few turns of rest and devouring brains will restore him to health, and Ivan to existence.)
"That was close," Boris breathed, helpfully speaking English. He looked himself over. He was injured and bleeding, but not critically. He nodded to his companion, who returned the nod.
"A bit close indeed," Ivan cheerfully answered, also helpfully speaking English. Like Boris, he was bloodied from the fight. Had it not been for their twin masteries of defending hills and fighting animals, the battle could easily have gone the other way. Ivan gingerly seated himself, then lay back upon the grassy hill to bask in the warmth of the late spring sun. The lions notwithstanding, it was peaceful here, and despite his wounds Ivan felt happy to have the sun on his face and the wind in his hair. In a few moments, he was gently snoring in sleep.
Then the wolves came.
They were upon Ivan before Boris could respond, and mere moments later only shreds of bloody flesh remained of Boris' closest friend.
"For Catherine and Brahma and Vishnu and Maheshwara and Saraswati and Lakshi and..." he cried, continuing on in his battle cry/list of deities as he chopped at the wolves, anger and pain filling his breast, leaving no room for the sorrow which surely would crush upon him later once the battle was done. He chopped and struck viciously, his only thought to avenge his friend or die gloriously in service to his Tsarina and many, many gods.
"...and Hanuman and Krishna and Shanmukha and- ulp!" Boris' list was cut off after several minutes of battle, the final remaining wolf catching an opening in his guard and leaping up to take out his throat. His final act, the last of his strength channeled by sheer force of will, was to drive the blade of his hatchet deep into the side of the wolf. It preceded him in death by mere moments, but for those moments he had the victor's satisfaction.
Hours later, Boris opened his eyes. He was cold and stiff, though the sun was only beginning to set. He sat up and looked around. The wolf corpses, the shreds of Boris, and his own pale grey form reminded him of everything, and suddenly he knew what had happened.
"Oh dear," Boris commented. "I've become a zombie."
(Take a gander at Boris' strength there. 0.0? With any luck, a few turns of rest and devouring brains will restore him to health, and Ivan to existence.)
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