Giant's Maul

Description

These massive greatclubs are two-handed weapons that strike especially powerful blows, designed to lift a foe off their feet. Verys, the Rune of Might commonly marks the striking surface of these weapons.

Marcher smiths claim the design is a tribute to a legendary figure known as Steeple Jack, a man said to be over seven feet tall. He was famed for going to battle armed with a small tree and could knock even the sturdiest warrior from their feet without spell or enchantment. Some stories even claim that Steeple Jack could even bowl over the now extinct horses with a single blow. Giant's Mauls were devised to let lesser humans replicate Jack's feats of strength.

The Giant's Maul is also popular in the cities of the League. There it is employed in the defence of the city walls in times of siege. Invaders stepping onto the walls from siege towers and ladders are often greeted with brutal strikes from these clubs, causing them to lose their footing and fall from the fortifications. This sequence of step, blow, stumble and long fall has become known as the Holberg Hustle among the defenders of the besieged city.

Rules

• Effect: Once per day you may call STRIKEDOWN with this two-handed weapon.
• Materials: Crafting a Giant's Maul requires seven ingots of green iron and eight ingots of tempest jade. It takes one month to make one of these items.

Gawaine looked around in the brief respite from fighting. His soldiers had been ambushed by the barbarians, outnumbered caught off guard in the middle of a torrential downpour. He knew that he had to do something to turn the tide of the skirmish lest he and his men be overwhelmed. He had little strength left - the fighting had been vicious and he knew his wounds were serious. At his feet lay a trio of orcs, their lifeblood flowing from precise wounds. he snorted in disgust at the lack of challenge they had provided. But his concern for his troops was great. “What say you, coward?” he smirked, baiting the orc chieftain into reaction.

He spied the leader of the orc ambush, a hulking creature draped in grisly trophies. He closed his eyes for a second, allowing the tenets of courage to steel his resolve. He knew what he must do.

“You shall fall before this blade, beast! I, Gawaine de Courville, challenge you to honourable combat” the knight spoke, raising his sword to his lips and kissing the hilt before pointing the blade at the towering orc that led the rabble of barbarians before him. The skirmish continued around him, proud Dawnish warriors matching the ferocity of the orcs with steely discipline. He saw that the tide of the battle was turning more against the humans with every moment.

“Your hide will make a fine blanket for my children” the orc snarled, baring jagged teeth that had been filed to sharpened points. It readied the monstrous blackened-iron mace in his hands which had moments before been embedded firmly in the blood sodden ground. The remains of an unfortunate Dawnish warrior hung in visceral strings from the spiked head. With a guttural roar the orc charged forward, the oversized weapon dragging a deep furrow in the ground behind him as it ran. Gawaine raised his shield and prepared for the anticipated clumsy blow of the brute that charged towards him, a simple step to his the left and then a thrust to the throat should see the fight over in seconds. He doubted his shield could survive the impact of such a massive weapon, but it presented a tempting target that he felt sure the barbarian would be unable to resist.

He misjudged the step.

Gawaine heard the thundering ring of metal on metal as the mace connected with his shield and then pain spread through his body. His vision spun as he tumbled through the air like a straw doll. He made out flashes of combat around him and shocked human faces, time seeming to slow to a crawl as he was lifted from his feet to land in an undignified heap a full three paces from where he had stood. He tried to right himself but his head swam and his limbs refused to move, his heavy steel armour pinning him to the rainsodden ground. The orc chieftain followed up, hitting him while he was down, and he felt something break inside him. The beast roared its hatred to the rainclouds, a sneering grin on its inhuman face. Colour leached out of the world, pain threatening to overwhelm Gawaine's exhausted frame.

He struggled to turn his head to face the orc chieftain, pain shooting along his spine, as it stamped away from him. He looked around at his men and knew that this was the pivotal point of the fight. He refused to say in the mud, determined to show courage in the face of the enemy. As he pushed himself up to one knee and raised his shield, he saw surprise on the faces of orcs fighting nearby, renewed hope on the faces of his men.

“Is that all you can muster, beast? You’ll have to try harder!” he roared his challenge and spat onto the mud, the ivory of a lost tooth glistened in the glob of crimson that left his mouth. “Now lets see if you can manage that again!”

He charged the shocked barbarian chieftain, shield forward and sword raised. “For Dawn” he yelled, the cry taken up by his soldiers; he doubted he could survive many more blows from that cruel weapon but he was sure that he would earn his glory that day.