text: Amidst the austere landscape he sat, watching and waiting as the sun slipped past the shore. In the deepening darkness, his mind sought refuge from the demons. Thrice they had traveled to his home. Thrice they have trespassed against his people. Screams shattered the peace of Ulrich’s meditations with their savage fury. He rose to his feet and ran towards The raucous din of battle. Light flashed. Along the ground, green flame burned and snaked its way towards the walls. With a barbarous bellow, Ulrich lunged at the closest demon to him, a meaty paw shoved into the mage’s maw, choking off the prayer of power it attempted to cast. Ulrich tore the jaw from the invader, blood bathing his chest in a crimson coat. The throes of death where loud, but they failed to mask the mob surrounding him. “Thane!” a voice from the crowd called. “Surrender and save your life. We demand only five bushels of grain plus ten silver for the mage you slew.” “I am Ulrich! Son of Ulfinn! I am the champion of Tyr! Thrice I have slain your kind. Thrice I have killed Pictusing pirates. Who are you to make demands of me?” “I am Galan, who raided the city of Celcamoth, who razed the fortress of Alba. Your village is nothing to me but supplies. Do not barter your breath for bread.” Ulrich sneered at the crowd before him. “Bold words for one who hides like a sheep in the flock when facing the wolf. Wrestle me like a man!” Galan stepped forth and dropped his hammer to the ground. The earth shook from its weight. “As you wish Ulrich, son of Ulfinn. Die as you see fit.” The two men circled and stalked, each sizing the other, studying how the other moved. When they embraced, the clap of hand on flesh was thunder. The two men stayed locked, frozen in effort. The moon rose with silvery light while neither man was able to oppress their opponent’s strength, each holding the other still. Ulrich smiled suddenly, slipping an arm low. Galan was caught by surprise as he was lifted into the air. With a mighty heave, Ulrich threw the Pictusing into the village wall ten feet away. Dust and debris drifted down. Ulrich ran forward and straddled Galan. His formidable forearm fell onto Galan’s chest. The crack of bone Broke through the falling stones. Galan wheezed with weak effort to seize Ulrich, but the harder he struggled, the deeper forearm and bone shards drove. With a spasm of pain and a racking cough, the speck of blood on pursed lips heralded the end. Ulrich rose and turned to face the remaining Pictusings. “Go now, and tell of the fall of Galan. A mighty mountain thrown to the earth. Mourn his passing at my hand. Warn your brethren to leave this village alone.” The Pictusings fled Tyr’s favored fighter. Ulrich turned to the village gates and entered as the scriba came out to inventory the fallen foe for Lord Caesarium’s tax. The Romulean would see to the administration while the Thane would see to a bath.