Breaking

Grim lay silently, stripped of his armour. He lay on his back, his mind wandering.
His mind's eye looked down on his physical body.

Scarred. Painful.
Breaking.

He was breaking and he knew it. Thirty years or more he had spent alive, fighting in the front lines for the majority of that time.
And he had suffered for it.

His life at war was a map across his green skin.
The dwarven axe that took a chunk from his right arm when he was a teenager. The mess of puckered scar tissue stretching across his stomach from Ghelgor's axe. The cruel whip marks on his back. His left eye gone to a human's sword thrust. The tight knot of agony permanently in his left leg from Maximus' bullet...
All these and more.

The Marauders and others he knew mocked him. 'Grumpy' they called him, or far worse. Though, truth be told, he had little choice but to be that way.
It was anger keeping him moving these days. Only anger keeping the pain at bay. If he let it all go, let all the anger and irritation leave him he did not know if he could continue.

He was breaking.

He had always known he would not live to old age, not father children or settle down for a life of well earned peace. He had always known his fate was to die in, or of battle.
But... the thought of retiring through wounds, the thought of sitting back, useless and crippled filled him with fear. Genuine fear crept through his soul, its tendrils grasping his heart.

Grim grunted. His vision ending, his spirit re-entering his body.

What to do...?

He would not die broken and forgotten, fat and lazy. He would not.... retire.

He felt cursed. Truly cursed. He had had a plan to finally heal himself and then he fell.
He fell, wounded and was captured. Starved and beaten, he was rescued. Once rescued he was beaten again and re-imprisoned. Once freed he was then wounded again.
He had lost everything. Even his weapons and armour. He had lost the reagents gathered for him by Galexan.
Everything was lost, and now here he lay clad in torn robes and armed only with a short sword loaned him by Bloodnose.
He had even lost Sakarah, if Shriukan's words were to be believed.

And now he had lost his rank.

Grim grunted as he tried to stand up. His crippled body forced him to lean on the cave wall to push himself upright. Even standing upright he was swaying with the effort of it all.
He had to get better, and soon. Too much was at stake here.

He needed his friends. He needed to roll the dice one more time and try to get the blessing of all the elements. He needed the aid of his friends to start a ritual.

A sentient life was needed, as death was the most powerful form of sacrifice. A promise too was needed - what would he offer the elements? He needed his weapons back, and his steed.
And finally power. Power needed to flow through him, fed by willing friends.

One more roll of the dice.