Torren had fallen nearby, his face half laid in the dirt and his hammer still clenched in his hand. His neck had been broken, and he still wore the look of surprise on his features that he'd died with. His upper body was completely bare, and covered in fresh wounds of battle.

Beside Gregory, Algra released a cry of her own. It was not a noise of sorrow or pain, but a deafening roar of outrage. A call to battle, and a thunderclap of murderous intent. Through the waves of gut-wrenching emotion that were hitting him then, it was thanks to Algra's war-cry that he was able to Latch on to his own anger against the horror of the sight before him. The fear, the pain and the loss all faded into the periphery of his being to be ousted by a single, clear desire: To kill those who had harmed his friends.

“Borika, get back to the great hall and raise the alarm. Make sure

Grolfir knows we are under attack," he ordered; running past Talina who had frozen in her devestation.

The shaman offered no argument, only a momentary hesitation as she thought to offer him aid in defending his home. A simple glance in the direction of both he and his mate showed that no assistance would be required, and she immediately turned to disappear on the sound of powerful wings.

The screech of an eagle rang out through the air, and all around them the Embervine Encampment had begun to stir with noise. Though that noise soon cut to absolute silence as he stepped forward toward the orc who had apparently yet to notice that he was about to be on the receiving end of their wrath. Gregory didn't pause in his advance, but he glanced to Algra who confirmed that she'd also Lost her own hearing to the silence. Some magic trick then. It wouldn't make any difference in the end.

Algra snatched up a woodcutter's axe from nearby, and Gregory took the knife Grolfir had offered him from the box he'd tucked into his trunks before removing the ring to hold in his other hand. The feel of the circular band of metal against his skin practically sang out to him, and the desire to put it on might have consumed him had his heart not already been burning with rage.

The orc finally noticed them coming toward him, but by then it was far too late. Gregory Lunged forward to plunge the knife between two of the mismatched plates in its armour. It screamed in silent agony until

Algra efficiently cut its head off with the axe. As the body fell to the ground, the spell of silence was broken and they immediately heard screaming coming from the path toward the training glade.

He Looked up and saw six more of the foul creatures with their backs to him, and beyond them stood Ishka and two other Berserkers with Fiona.

They were clearly defending the path, but the odds did not seem to be in their favour. Ishka was holding one arm against her side as if it were sprained whilst fending off a number of probing attacks with a mere short sword. One of the Berserkers didn't look too physically harmed, but he seemed to be having difficulty finding his balance, and his eyes were struggling to focus on keeping his knife up in the proper guard position. The last was in good health, but found himself armed with only what looked like a broken table leg. Fiona was carrying a couple of the carving knives used for cutting meat at dinner, and though she didn't seem harmed she was clearly terrified at the sight before her.

Gregory shifted his own knife to his off-hand, folding the ring between the hilt and his palm, and then took up the sword of the headless orc now fallen before him. It was a foul weapon, uncared for and bent wickedly to inflict as much pain as possible. He found it to be an ideal tool for what he was planning.

Within moments, Algra and Gregory had fallen upon the attackers. Their charge served to rally the injured Berserkers, and even Fiona let out a cat-like hiss of aggression and Leapt into the fray. Of course, it was

Algra who made the most impact in the battle, swinging her axe in surgical strokes that cleaved into the black orcs.

Gregory simply found a target and unleashed himself upon them with a cold fury freezing his heart to any notion of mercy. With a deft feint, he fooled the black orc into making a slash that he easily dodged before planting his weapon directly through the creature's chest. Their eyes came close, and he saw the orc's dark orbs widen in the pain and shock of his attack. His only response was to twist his blade and feel the outpour of blood across his hands and forearms. The sword was in no fit state to be pulled from the orc after that, and so Gregory hefted the dying creature aside and moved in behind another who was fending off attacks from both Fiona and one of the Berserkers.

Without stopping to consider if it was possible, Gregory stepped up behind the embattled enemy and clamped his arms across its head and around its neck. Every bit of his newfound power was drawn into pulling his arms apart again, forcing the orc's neck to twist off to the side.

He'd intended to snap the neck, but lacked the strength to fully manage the manoeuvre when the orc strained back against him. It didn't matter, for it succeeded in stunning his enemy enough that the Berserker brought his table Leg down hard on the exposed neck, and Fiona soon created several punctures in its heart with her knives.

By the time he looked up again for another enemy, he only found two laying dead at Algra's feet and another crawling away from an injured

Ishka with a sizable stomach wound. Wasting no time, he marched over to the crawling orc and stomped his foot on the back of its neck. This time he heard a sickening crack and the monstrous thing fell still.

“Are there any survivors?" he asked. His voice sounded strangely distant, even to himself.