The Strike

The sun beats down as Grue pulls him arm back, preparing to strike. Beads of sweat form on his brow from the exertion, mingling with his beard as it runs down his face.

His stance is solid, the right foot behind with the toe pointed out at an angle. His left foot is forward, leading his body in the assault.

The warhammar in his hand seems almost like an extension of his arm, giving credit to the traditions of his people. It reaches one extreme and he begins to swing.

His posture shifts forward, toes digging into the grass and dirt. The goblin in front of him cowers as he sees his fate clearly. Eyes darting from side to side, looking for any opportunity to escape.

In a pathetic attempt to soften the blow, the goblin raises its hands up, so it’s the first thing the warhammar connects with. The power of the strike cares little of their presence, and barely even slows on its journey downward.

Finally, the warhammar connects, instantly dispatching Grue’s foe. Its job done, Grue wipes the hammer clean and straps it to his back, ready for the next time it’s needed.