Darrius faced the village with narrowed eyes and a serious-set face. He had a wild look about him, tall lean and muscular body clad in an assortment of pelts, a heavy ax slung to his back. A spear hung from his stoy grip, aiding his long and ardous trek. The bare parts of his body showed the underlying tattoos and tribal scarring he had endured as a Mountain-man. Dark ebony skin covered in runes and stylised ink. His face had a lean,hungry look, features seemingly chiseled out of granite. His yellow eyes reminded passerbys of a wolf. No, not a wolf, a bear, a mighty hunter, tempestal creature of immeasurable force. Dreads, thick and flowing in the cold northern winds, were adorned with a few beads, flying around his face as if amidst a storm. Yet he was not alone. His 6''8'' figure was surrounded by fellow mountain men, roughly twenty, all retaining the same lean and hungry predetorial look as he did. Danger seemed to leak out of their very pores, an aura clinging to their skin as did the musk of the wolderness. Every step leaving behind the scent of pines, fresh soil, and salty mountin springs. A very earthy aroma, strong and stinging the nostrils of those unused to its origin. They were mountain men, but not only that, they were raiders, come from the barren north to pillage this land for all that it was worth. Berserkers of a foreign land, wilder and rougher than those that housed here. Barbariens, in every sense of the word.

They all stood on a ridge, over looking the valley of the village, seeing everything, but not being seen. Four-and-twenty strong stood around him, silent, and alert. The only sound heard was the occasional gruff bark of a cleared throat, or the sniff of impatience. Their breathing was heavy and rough, as if they needed more air than the average man.Darrius towered over them, tall even for a mountain-man, unlike the rest, he stood tall and straight backed, not slightly crouched. Usually, this was their natural stance, a slight widening of the feet, a bit farther than shoulder-length, and a slight hunching of the shoulders. The knees were bent just a touch, giving the impression of about to pounce, which was just what it was designed for.

A sweet, overpowering, cloying smell reached his nose, the nostrils flared. His eyes flashed, just for a second, his pulse quickened, and he felt as if his heart sang. It was the Wolf's Brew. To understand the Wolf's brew and it uses, one had to understand the mountain-men and their peoples. Mountain-men were naturally strong, wide shouldered and barrel chested. Yet there was something else, a hereditary trait passed on through the male lines for generations. A madness, a ravaging bloodlust, filling the body woth andrenaline, heithening the senses and unimiting the threshold for pain. They become more beast than man, unstopable and tempestual in their fury. Over the years, this trait was twisted, growing uncontrollable, cropping up at random times, for semingly no reason. Mountain Eldars devised a brew, whose contents were unkown to all but the true bloodline of the Mountain-men. This brew could awaken the berserker trait, unlocking the unstoppable warriors inside. This brew was now being passed around in a small black kettle, the feral snorts and rabid stomping of his men arousing an excitment he had always felt before a raid. When the heavy metal kettle reached him, as he was always the lasrt, being the leader, he lifted it with a single hand, as a child would his wooden cup, and drank it empty. Nigh two liters of the intoxicating concoction flowed down his throat, some of it running down his cheeks, over his chiseled chin and onto his pelts. The brew was hot, and as soon as it touched his lips, his eyes shot open, nostrils flaring. With every gulp he had felt his heart quicken.

Now that it was empty, he tossed it to the ground. His thoughts were elsewhere, everywhere. He smelled the needles on the ferns, the rain that had fallen a day ago, the cooking fires in the vllage, the cattle grazing yards away in the field. The musk, sweat, and saliva that exuded from his men. He heard the rustling of the grass, the flutter of the birds moving along their perch, the mouse a few feet away, slipping almost silently through the grass, the playful laughter, and gruff scornong in the village. A cow snorted, he heard it as well. Hunching into a predetorial crouch, he gave his orders while he could still control his mind. "We...move....NOW!" He deep, thunderous voice bellowed out the last word, body lurching down the ridge and into the valley at a treacherous pace. The heavy spear flew from his hands like lightning, lifting its target bodily, until he slammed into the barnyard wall, two yards away, nailed to the spot. The ax was a livewire in his hands. With every swing, he roared his fury. Every hair on his body stood at rigid attention, dreads swinging wildly as he struck. Who his victims were, he couldn't decipher. Women, children, warriors, elderly, all fell to his blade, a teeming mass of people who looked the same under the visor of his bloodlust. There was nothing he could do, know way to restrain himself. A beast, more creature than man. He grabbed a pile of burning fire wood with his bare hands, throwing it onto a wooden house. He felt no pain, no remorse. One would think that there would be a chance that the berserkers would attack one another, for they all ran around, attacking and pillaging, wildly and with no true direction. But with their heightened sense, they smelled the Wolf's Brew that saturated the pelts and the very skin of their comrades. Instinctively, they knew these not to be foes, ignoring them as they went about their work.

This all happened in very little time.

Soon, the whole village had been reduced to litttle more than smoldering heaps and piles of dead. Even the cattle, now little more than revaged pieces, were all slain. The bloodlust left them, all of the mountain-men kicking through the rubble, salvagin what they could. There was a silo, untouched by their savagery, that they emptied out into sacks. One of the raiders retrieved their horses from where they were stowed,Passing them out to their respective owners. Darrius accepted his with a stoic nod, holding a hand out to his steed and calming the large nickering beast with a stare. It was a beast of an animal, standing nearly 21 hands tall. Large powerful legs rippled when the hooves pawed the ground, digging up dirt like shovels. The lower legs were covered in fur, which attested for an upbringing in colder northern regions.



(not finished, perhaps more to come? Tell me if yI should continue, debating wether or not to put it up as a deviation.Comments and critiques welcomed)