Müller was shocked as he slammed into the ground, several hundred pounds of angry undead slamming into him.
Graveclaw clawed into the Werewolf's flesh, slashing into his back. Müller let go of the sword and placed both hands on the ground trying to lift himself up. Graveclaw slammed him back into the ground.
Again Müller tried to force himself up, and again Graveclaw slammed him back into the ground.
Müller collapsed panting from exhaustion. Graveclaw pulled back with one taloned hand, and roared as he drove it into the Werewolf's back, reaching deep into the meat of his body.
Müller's eyes dilated as his mind was overwhelmed by the outstanding pain.
Any other living creature would have lost consciousness from shock had they not been killed instantly.
Instead something awoke inside Müller. It was a drive of his species. The will to survive. His mind flashed....
Memories far more painful than the wound inflected on him washed into his mind...
Müller was eight years old and running for his life in the Arden forest of Bretonia. His father chased after him, drunkenly running at his son.
He knew then that his life, painfully short and consisting of nothing but beatings and abuses, was over.
He wept as he ran. He ran for the river that crossed through the forest. Here was where he would play. Alone. He found comfort in the forest, away from the stares and whispers of 'bastard' that rang in his ears, spoken from the mouths of visiting nobility.
He slipped and fell on the wet stones near the river, his arm scraped and bleeding. He heard the slurred yells of his father chancing behind him. His eyes widened in fear.
But then he heard his father scream.
Standing and looking behind him, he saw the prone form of his father laying on the wet stones near the river, having slipped and fallen just like Müller had.
The eight year old Müller stood over his unconscious father.
One desire overwhelmed his heart.
He wanted to live!
He beat his fathers brains out with a rock and returned to his estate smeared in congealed brain and blood.
Müller was eighteen, and he plunged his sword into the chest of a Chaos Marauder seconds before the north man could bury his ax into his neck.
The chaos marauders had come screaming from the west, raping and slaying his servants. The estate he had taken from his father burned freely. He alone was left alive, and he faced off against the marauding hordes of barbarians alone.
Innumerable wounds bit his body, his muscles ached with each herculean act of butchery.
A sword plunged into his upper leg and Müller fell to the ground, losing his grip on his sword.
The ugly face of the bearded Norsemen loomed over him.
One of them raised his axe for the killing blow, the execution of his enemy.
A single thought surged into Müller's mind, forced its way into his weary body.
I want to live!
He caught the axe as it swung down at its hilt, and threw the Norseman down into the mud with him.
He killed them all with his bare hands and teeth that night.
Müller was twenty five, and he lay dieing on the ground. He had lived the rest of his life as a drifter, without home or company, other than his sword. That weapon, his only friend, lay on the grass stained in the blood of the bandits that had attacked him.
He had slain them all, but not before a well aimed dagger sliced into his lung.
Each breath he took in was more labored than the last. He tasted blood on his tongue. His vision became dark.
Something black loomed over him.
A voice spoke to him in the darkness.
"Do you want to live?"
He knew not if it was his own mind that spoke or if there really was someone watching over his final hours. He didnt care. It was a simple question. Müller had a simple answer.
Berkhard Müller summoned all the strength he had left in his dieing body.
He screamed his answer to the wind, to the gods, and most importantly, himself.
"I WANT TO LIVE!"
Müller didnt know how old he now was. He had lost count of the years.
He could smell the stink of the Strigoi monster that pinned him to the earth.
He could hear the wind creaking through the trees.
He could see the two moons hanging in the air above the mountains.
The werewolf placed his hands on the ground for the third time.
For the third time he tried to raise himself up, his arms shook as they worked upwards.
For the third time Graveclaw tried to smash him back into the dirt.
Müller did not fall.
The Stirgoi's face grimaced, and pushed down with all his might.
The werewolf paused only for a moment. Müller clenched his jaws, fangs grinding.
He forced himself up.
Müller tore the Strigoi from his back, ripping the vampires claws from his skin. He held the massive struggling form in a vice grip, never relenting for a moment.
With a grunt he lifted the undead monster up over his head, his broken leg shaking at the monumental effort. He held him there, eyes glaring at Vekarin, his mouth panting with the effort.
He roared with all the breath he could muster,
"I WILL LIVE!"
In one motion, Müller threw Graveclaw through the air as hard as he could straight at Vekarin Banespike.
what you ssssstarted, with Graveclaw!" he roared.