Joined: Tue Feb 08, 2011 4:47 am Posts: 1869 Location: Lost in the world of whatever book I'm currently reading...
Emerging from his slumber, Huor was temporarily blinded by the light. The sun was high in the sky and he realised he had slept in. He cursed. Calcifer would probably be in Lycene by now.
Crawling out from his sleeping bag he began to pack away his stuff. In minutes he was ready to leave and he looked around the clearing for one last time. It was as he had left it the night before. The trees were as dark as ever and the stream continued to flow beside him.
Going through his bag one last time he grabbed an apple. He'd have to eat on the go if he was to catch Calcifer. He started on his way and began eating the apple. It would have to last him till lunch. He couldn't afford to waste time making a proper meal.
The trees seemed to rush by and become a blur. All Huor thought about was just moving forward and getting to Lycene as fast as possible. Before Calcifer hurt himself. He was making good progress, he'd reach Lycene before nightfall. Supposing nothing bad happened.
He kept on walking, until he reached a peculiar little place. There were obvious signs of a struggle, and a large dog lay dead on the ground. It had been torn to shreds and there was blood everywhere. The maggots were just starting to get to its body and the whole place reeked of death. He k=could find no signs of an attacker.
Huor kept walking.
The Dark Forest was full of evil beasts and he's rather not ponder what could have done this.
After what seemed an age of walking he saw lights off in the distance. They were torches, stung between large stone buildings. Huor had never seen anything like it.
It was the biggest group of buildings he'd ever seen before. And made of stone no less! Huor had troubles crafting even simple things from stone! It was an amazing sight and he dreaded the fact that he would have to locate Calcifer somewhere in there.
_________________ Clabbage is our young protegee, and is a pawn in an unfathomable plan, from this point on you will call him by his offical name Yeeg'MAK Rider of the wild Rookangs and he shall be your messiah to lead you into a new age - Paladin
Joined: Fri Feb 10, 2012 12:38 am Posts: 10 Location: Lost in Thought
The shockwave brought Oswaldo to his senses. It pounded every inch of his body with an unrelenting fury, as if the sound was trying to rip the skin from his bones. He didn’t even have the energy to cry out. As the sound passed, Oswaldo’s left eye blearily opened.
Irandirel jumped at the thunderclap. She took a moment to calm down before looking to the left and watched the rolling storm clouds as living lightning writhed and flashed above a mountain. Also unnatural. Decidedly unnatural. She'd never heard a storm like that before, not once during her life. Was there an angry god up there?
Her thoughts were interrupted when she heard the man's burlap shirt rub on the wood of the warehouse wall. A tired brown eye looked back at her. Was he conscious?
“... Hello? Are you awake?” she asked.
A blurry blob eclipsed his field of view. As he tried desperately to make his eyes focus, the words ripped through his head. "Helllooo??? ARre yooooo awaaaakkke?" Everything happened more quickly than his mind could deal with. Oswaldo clumsily pressed his hand against the side of his head. Slowly the ringing died down. Then fire-red hair materialized on the blob. Then ears. And finally a face. Then he realized it was talking to him.
Slowly the pieces came back together. His eyes, finally focusing, brought confirmation to his theory. It was the elf from before. Good. She hasn't stabbed herself. Looking around, he saw a field in front of him, and felt a wooden wall at his back. Then, back to the elf, "Umm. Sorry 'bout earlier. I... augh, my head..." He trailed off, wincing as he held his head in his hands.
Irandirel watched the man as he grasped his head. “Are you all right? You seem... hurt.” From her seat a couple feet away, she offered a hand of comfort. However, she snatched her fingers away just before they would contact his hand.
Instead, Irandirel brushed aside a streak of hair. “I would like to thank you for...” 'For what? Saving my life? Saving me from myself? For coming back?' “... for caring.” She wasn't sure why she looked down when she finished her sentence. Was she afraid of how he would respond?
"Loife's wifout value. I've been in your position before. M'sorry I... well, didn't recognize your sichuation soona."
The ringing was dying down, and Oswaldo found his ability to form complete sentences growing exponentially. For the first time, he took a good look at the elf. She was younger than he, and thin, with burnt-red hair. As she spoke he saw a glint of metal around her neck. The green dress, embroidered with flowers in all sorts of winding patterns, was dirty, yet an unmistakable mark of station. Or, maybe all elves had nice clothes. But he doubted that. Three gashes cut through her visage, running along her left cheek as if she had been attacked by a wild animal. In her eyes, he saw a deep-seated distrust for him, almost a suppressed fear, combined with superiority. She must be looking down on him. Oswaldo sighed. Elves must be just as bad as humans when it comes to ego. Then a question popped into his mind, seemingly out of the blue.
"Where on earf did 'at sword come from?"
Irandriel leaned forward a bit. “I apologize, but I did not...” 'What did he say? His accent garbles up his words.
"Where on earf did 'at sword come from?"'
“Where onerf did at sword come from?”
sword = Megil'
She sat up again. “Sword!” She grabbed the wooden cane from where it lay on the dry ground. After swiping off the dirt, she lay it on her lap and glanced up again. “Do you want to know about the sword?” At his nod, she excitedly continued. “It is the only item I have. It is” 'the sword of my mentor, Drathenyr. He was one of the last of the Reavers, and he hid his sword in this cane. It is the only weapon in the village. I only have it because he...
Arrows streaked through the air. Blades cut down the women. Blood spilled to the ground. Bodies dropped to the grass. Flames licked at the houses. Laughter rang through the air.
The head slumped aside and stopped moving.
The mentor stumbled back and let go.
The mother fell down and lay still.
After a second, Irandirel opened her eyes and let go of her head. She gasped for air. Her heart still pounding in her ears, Irandirel looked up at the puzzled man. “... a long story.” She pushed herself to her feet and stumbled a bit, rubbing her forehead until the nausea wore off. She swiped off a bit of dust and glanced towards the oncoming storm. “Is there another place we can go? This location feels ... exposed.”
Ah, a flashback. A few years ago, he would have laughed at the notion, but since then he had had them himself. The sword seemed to be the key to memories she did not want to share. He wouldn't intrude. Like it or not, the elf needed help. Not exposed, huh? That meant in the city. And the city and elves still don't mix. He could make it work though. Gonna have to find something to cover those ears... later.
"Oi got a 'otel room. You kin 'ave it for da noight. Got a roof'n everytin. We're gonna 'ave to 'ide those ears o' yours, though. Don't wanna cause a lynch mob."
He also got to his feet, his legs surprisingly stable compared to his vision. "Use ya 'air for now."
He thought for a second, paused, then, “Wha’s ya name?”
"I am Irandirel Dyandra." Almost as an afterthought, she added: "What is your name?"
“I’m Oswaldo Perez. Noice ta meetcha.”
He sniffed the air, sampling humidity. The smell of rain was strong. "Les go. Dis way." With that, he set off across the field in the direction of the Western gate of Lycene. It was a relief to partake in the familiarity of walking. The earth was soft underfoot, and there was no strain on his mind whatsoever. Magic was tougher than he remembered. He'd have to get back into practice. He had a sinking feeling that this wasn't the last time he'd need it. The stars twinkled through a hole in the ever-gathering clouds, giving the pair a small amount of light to see by.
After a short walk, they arrived at the inn. Oswaldo was frankly surprised that the guards hadn’t paid them more mind, but they seemed preoccupied. There was a distinct lack of people in the streets, and the pub in front of the inn for that matter. There was also a distinct lack of Irandirel by his side. Having her running around the city wasn’t a good idea, her being an elf and all, but he hadn’t seen her go. Oswaldo sighed. He’d wait right here for a while and see if she came back.
Irandirel simply followed the man. Oswaldo stepped forward with the certainty of his goal, so she did not question it. All of the people's accents twisted on the words she had studied, but none as much as this man's. What she understood from his statements confused her even further. Lynch mob? When he said it he said it with distaste, so it must be dangerous or harmful in some way. His use of the Elven word for self made no sense grammatically in either language. And what was his notion with her air?
Irandirel noticed neither the houses passing by nor the road as it abruptly became stone. Her foot banged into the edge and she fell flailing to the ground. The sudden tingling, stabbing in her hands and knees made her gasp in surprise and pain. She pushed herself back onto her feet and wiped the gravel out of her palms, hissing as the rocks rolled over small cuts and bruises. The worn dress seemed alright, but the stinging in her knees meant she was hurt down there. She would check how serious it was later, she thought as she swiped off some dust in the flickering light of a few lanterns.
Wait. Both hands were on her dress. Therefore...
"Rhaich." Where did it go!? Irandirel spun around, but all she saw was rock and dirt and a few unimportant buildings. "Rhaich!" How could she have forgotten!? She turned around and sprinted away.
Slippers pounded on the dirt road as blood pounded in her pointed ears. Red hair and green dress trailed off into the darkness. Her legs ached and her lungs burned, but she ran. Faded moonlight lit the houses and farmland as she ran by. The barren road raced by until she spotted where she contemplated her end.
Irandirel kneeled down in front of the forgotten cane. She ignored the pain in her knees as she picked up the wood and ran her fingers across the grain. No damage. Good. She clutched the carved cane to her chest. She could not abandon her heritage. It was all she had left.
As she got up, Irandirel picked up Oswaldo's hat. It had lain on the ground from when he fell, dusted and forgotten. She twirled it as she walked. It was made of a solid, brown material tougher than cloth. The hat seemed a bit . . . dry? It wasn't a material she recognized. She stepped over the start of the stone road. After a moment's contemplation, she put on the hat. A pair of guards waved her by as she walked through a gate, but she took off the hat soon afterward. It didn't match her dress and itched too much for her tastes.
Oswaldo leaned on a wall up ahead, looking bored. "'Bout time," he grumbled. "You forgot your hat," Irandirel replied. She had no idea what a bout was. He took the hat and placed it on his head. "Roight. Les go in." When she didn't move, he sighed. He grabbed and turned the doorknob and pushed the door open. "An' that's how ya open a door."
Irandirel rushed in and tried the doorknob. So that's how it worked! She turned the handle a few times.
“You done yet?” Oswaldo asked, then, “Come on, I’ll show ya to ya room.” The people in the pub, however few of them, might get suspicious, or, worse yet, see her ears, so the best course of action was to limit her contact with the pub-goers for the time being.
He led her down the narrow hall. The old boards creaked underfoot. They reached a rough old door with the number four boldly carved into its front.
“This’s it.” He handed her the key. “You try it.”
After watching her try the doorknob for a moment, he said “Da key goes in dere.” As soon as Irandirel had demonstrated her full mastery of the fine art of opening doors, he said, “Good. Dere’s a bed in dere. Da out’ouse is out that door down the hall. Ya know wot an out’ouse is, roight?”
“I believe so.” In reality, she didn't understand at all. The fatigue had finally caught up with her and she didn't want to talk anymore. She could probably figure it out on her own. Then, “Where will you sleep?”
“I’ll get moy own room. ‘noight.” He turned and walked away down the hall.
Afterwards, she resigned to the room. It was bare and square, without the friendly round walls she was used to. A bed on the side took up most of the space. Irandirel pulled out the key and shut the door before flopping onto the bed. It was somewhat soft, and it was so veryeasyto...
When he reentered the pub, Oswaldo couldn’t help but overhear the men talking at the bar. They planned to leave at first light. Something or other about Westmarch. More worries. The bartender, who carried out a dual role as innkeeper, was congenial enough. Another room for the night, and not too much more expensive. It was room number seven, just down the hall from the elf, no from Irandirel. That was good. If she made a ruckus he could step in. He was tired. His eyes hurt and his back ached. He was asleep almost before he lay down in the old, straw-mattress bed.
_________________ "aut insanit homo, aut versus facit" - Horace
Ranger reentered the home, an annoyed look on her face. Her arms on her hips as she stopped before Swidhelm.
"I can't believe you let her talk to us like that." Saying that she picked up her mug of tea and finished it with an "unlady" like speed.
"What did you want me to say, Ranger?" He said before finishing his own drink, "Please let us step outside and kill each other? We can't go about everything headstrong. We're wanted me-... people as is. I'd rather not have your emotions get in the way of our survival."
"What!?" Ranger pounded her fist against the table, "My emotions!? When I have someone insult me, right in front of me, I'm going to get angry. Ugh!"
Ranger sat down in the nearest chair, Evette's old seat and placed her head in her hands.
"I just want to go home Swidhelm is that so hard to understand?" She said her voice finding a calmer tone.
"I'll see you home Ranger..." Swidhelm said placing his cup on the table, "But now I need you focused. I can't have you letting your emotion's take he helm. But dead or not I'll see your body in Picten, one way or another."
"Yeah... I promise." Swidhelm nodded his head solemnly, "Now we have to get going. We can't stay here, that's for sure."
Swidhelm stood next to Ranger and put out a hand to help her up, she complied and shot out of her seat. They shared a quick smile before being interrupted by Sydney.
"Is everything alright in here?" She said cautiously collecting the empty steal cups which lied around the table, "Or shou-"
"No, no, no. Stay." Swidhelm said waving his hand to stop Sydney, "We have to get leaving, it's not safe for us here..."
Sydney sighed, looking up to Swidhelm, "Will I ever see you again?"
Swidhelm froze, then looked to the floor, "I can't promise you... but when this war is over... and if I'm still alive. Yes."
Sydney dropped the mugs and rushed to hug Swidhelm, holding one another for a few seconds, Sydney let go, "Go, if you're leaving now you have to hurry..."
Suddenly there came a knock to the door, everyone inside froze, the air hung quietly. Swidhelm pushed aside the folds of his cloak and placed a hand on his sword's hilt. Slowly he approached the door, Ranger closed behind him, her dagger at the ready. Swidhelm with hesitation opened the door, and his grip tightened when he saw who was knocking.
"We are here to arrest two imposters." A Westmarch soldier said reading from a piece of parchment, flanked by a taller and stockier ally, "By the order of Westma-"
Swidhelm lunged forward delivering a swift kick to the soldiers chest, sending the man back into the street he drew his sword. The guard struggled to his feet out of breath, his helm knocked loose by the blow. The second guard drew his sword and took a stance parallel to Swidhelm's, the guards fingers danced in the air in anticipation. The first guard found his breath and took his stance in front of ranger, a smile on his face when he saw the face of his opponent. In unison both soldiers launched their attack. Ranger was quick to dodge the swing at her chest and quickly placed two stabs of her dagger into the first guards underarm forcing him to drop his sword, Ranger followed her counter with a swift punch to the man's jaw knocking him out cold on his back. Swidhelm was quick to block the second guard's swing with his own blade, the two blades locked, the two locked eyes until finally the soldier broke the stalemate and went for a slash to Swidhelm's side, but was shocked when Swidhelm grabbed his arm with his freehand and stopped the blow mid swing. Swidhelm tightened his free hand's grip on the man's wrist, his face writhing in pain under the pressure of Swidhelm's hand. Quickly the guard made a move with his own freehand to deliver hits to Swidhelm's hips but the blows merely bounced of the thick layers that lay beneath Swidhelm's cloak. Swidhelm was quick with his next swing, bringing the pommel of his sword to the soldiers temple, the man blacked out after two powerful blows, falling limp to the cold street waiting below.
Swidhelm sheathed his sword, and looked to Ranger who did the same. Both looked back to the house who's door was now closed, then quickly in unison the began to sprint down the road the arrived from. Sprinting with full force Swidhelm's armor began to clatter below his cloak, Ranger moved almost in complete silence next to him. The town itself was almost completely silent despite for the some noise coming from the camp surrounding, the lights were off and the streets were cold and empty. The two darted past the Westmarch checkpoint, the soldiers there not giving chase. Ranger and Swidhelm neared the edge of the forest, slowing down, as they reached the edge of the wood they stopped and caught their breaths, but Swidhelm was quick to notice something was wrong.
Joined: Fri Feb 10, 2012 12:38 am Posts: 10 Location: Lost in Thought
Oswaldo stretched and yawned. He could see the rising sun through the cracks in the shutters. He’d overslept. Forgoing his usual routine, he hurried out to the outhouse. It was a small, wooden closet, which sat at the end of a worn path from the back door of the hotel. As with any such building, it had the certain repelling stench of human waste. Oswaldo had to wait about five minutes before a little old woman came out. Then he took his turn.
With his biology satisfied, Oswaldo went into the pub to see if Irandirel was up yet. That girl really didn’t understand how precarious her situation here was. The pub, attached to the front of the inn, served as an entry hall and dining area, as well as a normal pub for the locals. It was packed with people buying food before going to work in their shops or fields. Thankfully, the elf wasn’t among them. After checking with the bartender, who hadn’t, “Seen the young lass ye came in with,” Oswaldo decided to fix the ear problem. He had a little money left, though the second room had taken a large toll on his very limited coffers.
At around eight o’clock, Oswaldo sidled onto the street, yawned, and set out in search of a hat. At around nine-thirty, he stomped back, pockets completely empty, but carrying a brand new, leaf green, delicately patterned fabric lady’s hat. He hoped she’d wear it. Elves were not known for wearing hats. But the alternative… he shuddered to think of it. After consulting the bar tender again and looking around the now much quieter pub, Oswaldo sat down to await the awakening of the elf. He just hoped she’d be up before noon.
_________________ "aut insanit homo, aut versus facit" - Horace
Joined: Sun Aug 10, 2008 3:17 pm Posts: 5691 Location: Winnipeg, Manitoba
Nauticus now rode back to the Legion with Stagg and his bodyguards. Stagg had been curious as to what transpired before his eyes, but he knew it was safer to not ask, and just assume it was for the good of the crusade. Once they had joined back up with the Legionnaires, the march began once again. The thunderous clouds slowly dissipating from their low, oppressive tracking of the Legion's movement. The rain lightened, and as they marched, turned into the light sprinkling, giving everything a cool wind. However, the further North they began, the colder and colder it became.
"My General... The temperature is dropping rapidly. We must allow the men to don their winter gear." Stagg said, breaking the icy silence of the marching.
Nauticus gave no motion to aw knowledge the request but exhale deeply, seeing the white cloud pierce the collar of his cloak. After a short few meters later, Stagg got a response of;
With that, Stagg blew his horn, signaling for a halt, and again in a series of notes to alert the captains that a camp was to be made. The Legions pulled in, creating the preliminary positions and erected the first set of tents, and fanning outwards as the supply carts began to distribute furs and heavy winter clothing. No one had spoken a word as to what happened on the mountain top, or what they heard come from its inhuman peaks.
Evette had been sitting in her tent, gazing into a small mirror at the stitched wound across her face as the healer quickly shambled into her tent. Bowing deeply the healer woman began to flip through a large tome bound in leather. Opening a small salve container, she dipped her pinky finger into the grayish paste, and quickly ran it across the stitched wound. Mumbling some words from the tome the paste seeped into the wound, pulling the skin tighter together. Wincing as the paste and healing magics worked, Evette watched in a mirror as the stitching thread fell out of the wound, and the skin had formed a new, shiny layer of scar tissue. Pearlescent and pale in colour, it matched the long trail that lay across her eye and down to her chin. The healer woman smiled, and Evette couldn't help but giving a smile in thanks and dismissed the healer. Outside the tent she heard somewhat of a commotion, and assumed that it was just her soldiers being soldiers; rowdy and anxious for fighting.
Outside it was different to what she thought. A man was being dragged and herded through the camp by three Westmarchian soldiers. Pushed along between the rows of tents he being brought before the General. As they neared Evette's tent, a commotion broke out. The man stopped, elbowing the nearest guard, and pulled his sword free from its sheath. Now armed with the guard's sword, the prisoner began to fight the guards that have brought to bear their own weapons. Stabbing the guard who he stole the sword from through the stomach, he readied himself in a combat stance, the flames of the campfires playing on his helm and suit of armor. The guards rushed him, and in a set of perfect maneuvers he dispatched three of them, the remaining became cautious, throwing the occasional slice or chop towards him. He parried and dodged them all, managing to close the gap between himself and a guard. Ducking under a blade, he thrust his sword through the sternum of the guard, then, pulling and spinning he delivered a slice to the throat of the guard who was approaching him from behind. With the death count rising past five, Evette finally came from inside her tent, having changed into a set of tighter trousers and a more formly fitting tunic.
"What is all this commotion, don't you fools understand tha-" she cut herself off as she rounded the corner, guards at her side. Seeing the bloody handed would-be-prisoner surrounded by dead soldiers she furrowed her brow and adopted a frown. Placing an elbow on her side and holding her hand just below shoulder-height for a guard to place her blade in her upturned palm. Pulling it from its sheath, she approached the bloody prisoner, who accepted the challenge he was presented with, and they began to circle each other around a campfire, stepping over the dead bodies of the guards. Her bodyguards stood at once side of the growing circle of soldiers that began to appear, eager to watch the fight.
Standing up straight, she flipped her blade up towards the sky, blade obscuring part of her face as she stood in her ready stance, preparing for combat.
"Who might you be, eager warrior?" She queried.
She was answered with silence from behind the helm. Until the prisoner spoke one word. "Brisbane."
Raising an eyebrow, Evette was curious as to the origins of this armored warrior, but she did not press on the matter.
"Well... Brisbane.. are you ready? You will find I am much more of a match than the average guard." she finished with a wink, her blade still obscuring half her face.
A deft nod was her reply, and Brisbane had adopted a ready stance, rolling his free hands shoulder.
"Have at you!" Evette yelled, leaping over the fire in a seemingly inhuman bound, gracefully landing a flurry of slices and stabs.
Brisbane parried the assault, and sidestepped into his own attack. Evette twirled, blade blocking the slice. The back and forth began strong, and as the minutes went on, it only continued to escalate, to the amazement of its onlookers. The flurry of swipes, slices and stabs became a rhythm between the pair, becoming a deadly dance. The grunts of Brisbane could begin to be heart through the holes in his helm, while Evette's breathing remained calm and composed, much like her style. The pair became the manifestation of opposites, Brisbane showed a system of technicality, of hard training and expertise, while Evette displayed a fluidity and gracefulness of natural prowess. The two's dual began to last over the half hour mark, and by this time the dual was beginning to take its toll on both parties. Minor nicks and physical exertion was tiring out the locked combatants. Evette was playing along with Brisbane, but she was surprised at his skills, for no other had lasted this long in single combat with her. The dual began to drag on to an hour, and the two were starting to reel from exhaustion. As Brisbane raised his blade for a critical strike at the half turned Evette, she spun the blade around in her hand, dropping to one knee as the blade flew horizontally where her neck had been, and she plunged the blade between the plates of his armor. He reeled back, hand on his gaping wound, and Evette spun as she rose, kicking him to the ground. Putting a foot on his chest she raised her blade to his neck, droplets of sweat falling onto his breastplate from her face. The light of the campfire playing on the steel.
The pool of blood began to collect under Brisbane, a sputtering cough could be heard under his helm. "Well, you have fought valiantly sir. I commend thee. However, you chose your death when you accepted my challenge, and your death you shall receive" she finished. Using the point of her glistening wet blade to flip her opponents helmet off, a malicious grin set upon her face. She was mildly surprised at the face that lay beneath the formed steel and whispered "too bad..." as she plunged her blade into the underside of his chin, killing him instantly.
"You, you and you. Get rid of these bodies before the entire Legion see, GUARDS! Get these soldier back to their tents." she commanded, her bodyguards dismissing everyone back to their duties, and running back to their posts at the front of her tent.
Evette walked back to her tent wiggling her nose in attempt to stretch the newly formed scar tissue. Standing within her tent she let out a prolonged exhale, calming her mind and her muscles from the intense work she just completed. Gazing down at her figure she noticed the multiple tears and rips within her tunic from the fighting. Sighing, she removed the tunic, the shock of the cooling air on bare damp skin enough to make her shiver. She rummaged through the large chest that housed her belongings, and found a form fitting thick winter tunic. The rough fabric was not unpleasant, but certainly different to the thin, and now sweat soaked and torn, tunic that she fought in. Sitting back on her bed, she prepared for sleep, as she found the folds of fabric too enticing to resist.
_________________ Regardez l'aventure àvenir Esse Eximius Ad Invicem Bad Company, till the day I die.
Joined: Sat Jun 04, 2011 6:42 pm Posts: 365 Location: Jumping the gun.
<<Mother, I just had the strangest dream...>> A wooden ceiling welcomed her eyes. Sunlight squeezed between gaps in the shutters and illuminated the room. She sat up and sighed. The cane and the key still lay discarded on the floor and the blankets still lay unused on the bed. A bit of pain entered her knees as she swung her legs off the bed. Bits of crimson stained her dress above her knees, and she hissed as she pried the dress out of the scabs. Two red splotches decorated her bare legs and she felt the raw wounds as they lay exposed to the dry air. Irandirel let the dress fall and she tried to open the window.
'It is very similar to a set of doors' thought Irandirel as warm sunlight greeted her. Outside the sun shone high in the sky, leaving small shadows behind the crowds of humans walking by. A group of wagons packed with possessions rolled by to the east with a sense of urgency. The man at the front of a wagon shouted at some people who blocked his path. A pair of children huddled next to their mother in the rear.
She picked up the cane and sat down on the straw bed with it. She hated the death and sorrow associated with the thing, yet she could not bear to part with it. As much as she hated to remember, she couldn't bear to forget. But at the same time, it reminded her at the most inopportune times. She would try and suppress the... the event.
She stood up and walked out of the room. -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=--=- The stench and the look of the 'outhouse' was a memory she wish to purge from her mind. Irandirel tried not to think about it as she walked back to the room marked with the number four. Only this time, the doorknob felt jammed. Of course. She left the key inside. 'An absolutely useless human invention,' she thought. 'There was no reason to block someone's entry with a solid wall of wood, unless they were afraid of someone intruding. Their society must not be very well developed.'
She was still thinking about it when she noticed the aroma of a home-cooked meal. Her stomach growled, and she couldn't remember the last time she ate. She walked into the bar and quickly spotted the man – no, Oswaldo sitting on a chair right around the corner. He looked up at her, then to the chatting people sitting at nearby tables, than back at her. “Here ya go.” He handed her a large hat a bit too green for her tastes. “It is a nice hat, but --” “Put it on!” After glancing around, he whispered, “B'fore they see ya!” “But-” It just didn't really suit her. She stood there, holding the hat in one hand and the cane in the other, when a man sitting at the bar looked at her with a mouth full of rotten teeth. She couldn't stuff the hat on fast enough.
Oswaldo sighed as Irandirel slid down into a chair across from him. “Ehm, how does one obtain food here?” she asked. He sat his head on top of his arm. “Ya can't.” Irandirel blinked. “Then how do they have something to eat?” She gestured at the various meals scattered on tables around the room. Was he messing with her, or – “Don't have no money. Y're an expensive gal y'know. Spent th' last've my gold on that hat of yours.”
Irandirel looked at him quizzically. “What is this 'money'?”
Joined: Sun Sep 18, 2011 4:21 am Posts: 138 Location: Dieing horrifically to saw blades
I stand in darkness, alone and soulless. The others have gone purposely leaving me behind in cold dust. This is the end of the line for me, I'm afraid. My very being has brought me to this judgement and as such I have suffered for it. We all have. All except one. If it wasn't for him I would still be walking the very fabrics of mortality. We all would be. As the light closes towards me, I know that it is finally time for me to embrace the cold skinned nature that is..
"Come on! Wake up!" She poured more water over its cold lifeless face, "Please wake up! I know there's life in you still!" It was no good. Like the others it was dead. Tears running warm down her loving face she began to move onto the next one expecting the same results.
I finally meet you face to face at last. So will you let me pass on with the others? No? What do you mean 'that it isn't my time'? Wait don't go! ... Light.
Cough. She turned around quickly wiping stuffy tears from her eyes. Expecting someone to be standing behind her there was nothing. Ignoring the tricks her mischievous mind was playing on her fragile state she focused her attention back on the wounded and damned. Cough. There it was again. Feeling slightly nervous she turned once again towards unturned graves and called out for someone. Silence. Muttering under her heavy breath she felt violent winds blow furiously through her rich golden locks. This was a dangerous place to be who knows what creatures would love to prey on hundreds of bloodied bodies. Cough. Looking down at the base of her lace infused dress there lay the previous patient that she tended to. Its monstrous face filled with a cavern of jagged yellow rocks all curled behind pompous lips coughed vigorously as it fought for new life. Immediately she knelt down to her feet to save the only remaining soldier, she could finally do something right for once.
Light pouring into sensitive and weakened eyes. Scents rising through to raw unused nostrils. Tastes swirling around bitter rotting teeth. An uneasy and disturbing sense was felt chilling through lifeless bones. It was as if something dead was waking up inside the Mer, something primed to explode out of every limb. Something unnerving, something unusual but something incredibly alive.
Joined: Sun Aug 10, 2008 3:17 pm Posts: 5691 Location: Winnipeg, Manitoba
The chamber was rebuilt. The dust had settled. Anatar sat upon his throne, in deep ponderous thought, deep ragged breathing coming from the man seemingly made of sand and stone. He knew what he must do, but to do so would herald the deaths of many of the mortals in this land, and after the first war, he was unsure if it was worth it once more. He made a laboured and strained gesture with his hand, tracing circles and paths in the air as the stones of the floor gave way to a huge stone tablet, hundreds of feet in length, and impossibly tall. With a final gesture the plain stone tablet groaned as markings began to appear within its surface, a blue light tracing along the marks, and as it spider-webbed out from the middle, words and pictures began to appear. Anatar roughly smiled at his work, the chronicles of the world ever since that faithful day. The tales of lost civilizations of unity and chaos, of destruction and rebuilding. He scanned over the smooth stone with his eyes, until he came to a darkened portion of the stone, the natural marbling conveniently complimenting the text and graphics that lay atop it. A lightning bolt and blade, pointed towards the sky, with an unfathomable account of soldiers that lay beneath it.
Continuing on with the picture, Anatar felt sadness creep over him as he saw nine figures upon a battlefield, some still fighting, but about to be overrun, while some already lay upon the ground, broken and defeated. Looking up above the darkened stone, he saw the peaks of mountains and clouds that lay beneath them, a starburst of light that came from them. A large figure, clad in robes stood between two pillars in the sky, pointing subjectively down into the darkened patch. Looking to the left, a figure stood, atop a horse, bearing sword and lance, Emblem of a Winged Blade upon its chest. As with before, this person had an unfathomably sized army behind it, and the riders that stood behind this cavalier rode on, lances at the ready. His memories dulled with age, the finer points of the millenia had faded from his mind, and he could not remember who this rider was, yet he knew, that it was the key to defeating Nauticus. He scanned the stone with increasing fervor until he came upon what he sought. Eyes widening he found the scripture, but his excitement waned as he remembered that no one of the mortal world would know this information, dooming them to the fate of the Fury of the Storm.
Pondering on how he may let someone know, He remembered the ancient tool given unto him by his master, should he ever need it. Anatar put his hands on the arms of his throne, closed his eyes, and felt through the mountain until he came to one of the peaks of the range. A modest tower, with an enormous iron bell sat atop this peak, above the clouds. He knew this bell would be heard across the land, but only to those that were the ones destined to set about the demise of Nauticus. With a calming breath, he used his power to pull the stone on the end of the long bell-rope. He pulled it hard, just to be sure the chosen few would hear it, and prayed that Nauticus would not.
The giant bell let out a deep, clear note four times before it settled to rest once more. Anatar knew the deed was done, and just had to wait for the patrons to hear it, and be naturally drawn to the sound, and in turn himself. The power of the bell would draw them in, their curiosity getting the better of them in their future decisions on where to go.
Looking back to the great stone tablet, he gazed upon this section as a whole, seeing the titanic battle between the two figures and their armies, as the figure between the pillars pointed towards the coming carnage, a twinge of fear in his eyes. Anatar sighed, for he knew the outcome of the battle, and the fall of Nauticus. His only fear, was that the others were not awake, and only the mysterious rider was a match for Nauticus all those years ago, not even his fellow brothers and sisters could best him, and it resulted in the nine being defeated. Only himself, his master and Nauticus remain, unless his brothers and sisters can be awakened...
_________________ Regardez l'aventure àvenir Esse Eximius Ad Invicem Bad Company, till the day I die.
Tyrael awoke to a world of Chaos. The cries of pain and ringing of the alarm bell filled his ears. The smell of smoke and the metallic tang of blood flooded his nostrils. Sitting upright, the room seemed to spin, but then refocused. Standing up, his eyes adjusted to the darkness quickly, allowing him to look around the dimly lit room. With blinding light, the room lit up, the flickering of ethereal flames filling the open window. Almost as soon as the room had been illuminated, it was plunged back into darkness. As his eyes readjusted, Tyrael moved his hand over the table in the middle of the room where his Blade and his bow sat. Grasping toward the table, Tyrael's hand hovered over his bow for a moment, but as he attempted to grab it, his arm moved toward his blade, firmly grabbing it. Power surged up his arm, and a feeling of relief washed over him. Taking the blade firmly in his grip, he moved toward the door, gaining speed as he brought his foot to bear, planting his boot just below the door's handle. The wooden door swung open, causing Tyrael to be blinded for a moment as the light of the flames filled his eyes.The night sky was clear, moonlight filling the courtyard. Bringing his sword up, he noticed his arms for the first time. They had changed back to his form he had taken on in the dream, a brown rock with a glowing magma like substance flowing between the segments. His focus on his arms was broken as a loud battle cry filled his ears.
"Yeeaaaaaarrrgggghhhh!" The charging figure roared, blood lust filling his voice. Bringing his sword up in front of him, Tyrael slashed low, cutting open the man's abdomen. The mans eyes widened, he dropped his sword and instinctively moved his hands to his gut as he fell to the ground. Coughing blood, Tyrael gazed down, making eye contact with the dying man. The mans hands moved slowly, grasping at his entrails and trying to push them back inside the large wound. Another cough brought more thick, dark red blood to the mans lips, splattering down his chin and onto his white surplice. Tyrael's eyes widened as he realized who he had killed. It was one of the Guardian caste. Bringing his sword down, Tyrael killed the man quickly, putting him out of his misery. Pulling his sword from the mans chest, Tyrael clutched it tightly, the flames shimmering on the polished black metal. Looking around the courtyard, all he saw was violence and destruction. Monk fought monk, blade clashed with blade. Brother fought brother. Moving toward the fray, a familiar voice filled with urgency made itself known.
"Tyrael!" Jeremiah cried out, sprinting toward his friend.
"Jeremiah?" Tyrael managed to cry meekly, before his friend shoulder barged him, knocking him to the ground. Grunting in pain, Jeremiah brought a small dagger from beneath his robes, grasping it in one hand, a crazed look in his eyes. Lunging forward, Jeremiah brought the blade down toward his old friend. Kicking upward, Tyrael caught him in the stomach, knocking the wind from him and throwing him off to one side. Jeremiahs eyes seemed to widen in shock as he registered Tyrael's skin for the first time. Rolling to one side and scrambling to his feet, Tyrael held his blade in front of him, opposite Jeremiah who was holding his stomach. Lunging forward again, Jeremiah slashed wildly, catching Tyrael's arm, bright orange liquids ebbing out the wound. The brown segments realigned to close the gap, stopping the flow almost immediately. As Tyrael dodged and let Jeremiah pass him, he turned to see a multitude of arrows fly over his soldiers and impacting his friend in the back. Three arrows stuck out of him, causing him to fall face first into the mud. Spinning around with his sword raised, A trio of Archers moved on, the leader of the group nodding to Tyrael and then moving on, firing arrows as they moved. Tyrael turned back toward the melee, gazing around for familiar faces. He spotted the twins standing back to back, each fighting different opponents, As Simart killed his opponent with a short sword, he spun, grabbing his twin's head and slashing his neck with his sword. Crimson blood sprayed the Guardian that Nehemial had been fighting, covering the attacker as the body slumped to the floor. Tyrael gasped, Simart wiping the blade on his brothers surplice as blood still trickled from the wound he had caused. Lifting his sword, Tyrael tried to charge forward, only to be stopped by a powerful voice, which echoed above the brawl.
"Azrael!" The firm voice roared in challenge. "Azrael you lying Bastard! Fight me!" The Sentinel roared, his gleaming silver arm standing out in the mob. His broadsword cleaving heads from the shoulders of men who tried to attack him. A gust of wind knocked Tyrael to one side, a black blur filling his vision as it moved toward the Sentinel with great speed. Slamming into the armored figure, Azrael burst from the blur, drawing his sword as he moved. The two titans clashed, Azraels sword clashing with the Sentinels Broadsword. Azrael landed blow after blow, failing to find a way to penetrate the Sentinels armor. Counterattacking, the Sentinel brought the hilt of his sword into Azraels temple, knocking him off balance and to the ground. Bringing his sword to bear, Sentinel tried to stab straight through his chest, but Azrael kicked straight into the Sentinels knee, dislocating it from it's socket. With a Cry of Pain, The Behemoth collapsed, Falling to one knee as Azrael moved in for the kill. Lowering his sword, Azrael brought his elbow into the Sentinels skull, shattering his cheek bone and knocking him out cold. Almost at once, a group of Forty or so armored men charged from the Citadel, swiftly finishing any Guardian stragglers.
"Gather the bodies into piles and burn them. This fight is not over, Tend to the wounded and get some sleep. Expect an attack at Dawn." Azrael's voice carried over the courtyard, and all the surviving Archers, Hunters and the knew Armored figures moved to follow his orders, dragging the bloodied bodies into piles and helping wounded into the Citadel. Two particularly large figures flanked Azrael, Picking up the Unconscious Sentinel and carrying him back into the Citadel, Azrael nodding to Tyrael as he passed. Moving to the defensible walls and slouching down against the walls, his head in his hands.
Joined: Sun Jul 03, 2011 2:34 pm Posts: 2408 Location: Right behind you. Don't look.
Calcifer slowly opened his eyes as he lay flat on his back over some sharp twigs. His body felt pounded and stretched, and his brain throbbed immensely.
When his eyesight readjusted to the sunlight, he looked around. The surrounding area was a clear patch of grass, except for a small circle around him. The ground was dug up, grass flung all over the place. Blood spots were dried where Calcifer was sleeping.
He lost it again.
Calcifer groaned loudly as he got to his knees. His wolf-form was still hard to control. He only had a distant memory of what happened, and what he did remember he did not like.
Calcifer began to head back to his stash. As far as he remembered, he hadn’t touched it. It was time to get moving, the Dark Forest still brought chills to him. After an hour of moving through the familiar branches of the Dark Forest, he finally reached his stash…and puked.
Next to it was a huge dog. Dead. Flies buzzed around, slowly eating it alive, as ants crawled up through its open stomach. After he finished, Calcifer covered his nose and walked as far away as possible from the dog. He reached his stash and quickly ran back into the bush. Calcifer finished dressing and felt better with his bow and knife by his side. He began to set off to Lycene.
A few hours passed and the sun was as high as it could get. Lycene was just beyond the woods now, but Calcifer was exhausted. He hadn’t rested since the morning before, and the night wasn’t pretty.
Caclifer broke through the shrubbery and into the West Gate of Lycene. Lycene was impressive, no doubt. Colt looked like a children’s playplace compared to this. Calcifer began to head through the gates, and two guards opened the doors. Calcifer thanked them and walked briskly inside.
Find the closest place to sleep. There. An inn. Perfect. Calcifer strode into the near empty pub-entrance and he almost drooled at the smell.
The smell wasn’t great. The smell of burnt meat and alcohol. But it intoxicated him the instant it rubbed its aroma on his face.
Calcifer strode through the pub and towards the bartender. As he passed by, he met the eyes of many. They stared at him aggressively, noticing the scratches and bow he carried. He turned away and took a seat at the “bar”. The bartender stared with a blank expression, as Calcifer slammed down a couple gold coins. “Got any good meat?” Calcifer asked. He hadn’t eaten much overnight. He was too busy attacking anything he saw. The bartender nodded and began shouting at some hidden man, who shouted back and began hacking at some meat. “Traveler?” the bartender said, acknowledging Calcifer’s get up. Calcifer nodded. “We don’t like that,” he continued, giving a nudge at the bow slung on Calcifer’s back. “Don’t worry, I’ll be out of here soon. I just need a place to sleep toda—er, tonight,” Calcifer corrected himself. The bartender raised an eyebrow but shrugged it off and collected the money. “I’ll need a little more for the room,” the bartender noted. Calcifer groaned and pulled the last of his spare change out and slid it over. The bartender smiled and passed him a key and a plate simultaneously. “Enjoy.”
Calcifer stuffed the key in his pouch and picked up his plate. He looked for a seat away from the door, and the other people. No need for unwanted attention.
He headed to a table for two, near an odd couple, and quietly sat down. The woman had a green hat and a fine dress, whereas the man seemed nowhere near as luxurious. The couple reacted and turned over slightly. The man pulled down the woman’s hat a little more, and looked away. Calcifer ignored it and took a huge bite into the rabbit.
For a few minutes the pub was quiet. Low conversations were spoken. The couple next to him seemed worried about something. From far away, Calcifer heard this inebriated drunkard talk about Westmarch.
Calcifer began to cry a little, wondering where he was now. Was he on the battlefields right now? Or worse, was his platoon ambushed already and killed? Calcifer tried not to think about it, and focused on his meal.
He ate quietly for another minute as he licked a leg clean, until the door of the pub opened again. A man who looked exactly like Huor stepped into the pub. His clothes were rather rich for the average Feran, but he lacked the elfish features Huor had.
Regardless, Calcifer nearly jumped out of his seat. He immediately stood up and picked up his plate. He didn’t want to interact with Huor, an elf, in the middle of this group of people. It would be best to get to his room and take a long sleep.
Calcifer began to walk to the trash, unaware of his surroundings. He banged his foot on the table and cried out in pain. He tripped over himself and his platter flew out of his hands…and right into the woman with the green hat’s face. She cried out and fell back as well, and her hat fell off her face. The man cried out and quickly ran over to the woman. “I’m so sor—“ Calcifer said, before he saw the woman’s ear. Pointed. Calcifer shook his head and looked again. However, the man had already placed the hat back on. Calcifer stared in confusion at the couple in disbelief, not noticing the complete silence in the pub.
_________________ Realize every dark cloud is a smoke screen meant to blind us from the truth, and the truth is whether we see them or not - the sun and moon are still there and always there is light.
"What do you mean!?" Ranger said between breaths rushing to Swidhelm's side, "He's just gone?!"
"He's just vanished... the horses are gone too..." Swidhelm muttered, his heart sinking, slowly he placed a hand on his sword.
Ranger took a pair of steps to where they had left Brisbane, kneeling down, she picked up a hand full of dirt, and let it sift out from her hand. Her face straightened as she stood.
"Not without a struggle..." Her voice was low and serious, "They captured him."
"Are you sure?" Swidhelm spoke his voice curious, he neared Ranger.
"Very." She said looking up to him, "There's no blood."
"So what do we do?"
"We get him back."
Ranger lay still, only a couple hundred yards from the Westmarch camp. Her intended targets in sight. Her hood was up, keeping her hidden under layers of low hanging brush. She controlled her breathing, and slowly brought her bow before her. Taking an arrow she had prepared before hand, the tip wrapped in cloth and soaked in oils, she placed it against a rock. Using her flint she ignited the arrow, and quickly she pulled back on her bow. Her target in sight, she took a breath, closed her eyes, and released.
Ranger's eyes shot open, her target was going on mark, and her signal was launched. She continued this process, moving to various spots, firing a flaming arrow at the largest and most regal tents, and the circling and repeating. Her goal, stir chaos.
But as she did this an hour or so after reaching the spot of Brisbane's disappearance, she felt in her gut it was too late. Firing her last arrow, she took shelter under the best cover she could find and watched.
And for a few seconds, she could of sworn she saw Swidhelms' shadow move amongst the chaos. Dead or Alive. Brisbane wasn't staying in Westmarch hands.
A gentle tap on his shoulder awoke Tyrael. The Archer from before removed his hood and his mask, sitting against the wall next to him. Looking him up and down, Tyrael sighed and moved along to give the man some space.
"I'm Gregor, but my friends call me Grom. And you are Tyrael. You're different than everyone, aren't you. I saw your skin, even if it was too dark for others to see. I have sharp eyes." Grom chuckled, patting Tyrael on the shoulder. "Do not worry. I will be silent if you wish, although I think we shall all know soon about it." Grom smiled, slouching back against the base of the wall. He moved his bow out of the way of a ladder leading to the ramparts, placing it across his lap.
Grunting in acknowledgement, Tyrael opened his mouth to question how Grom knew his name, but decided against it. Tyrael's thoughts drifted to the battle over a few hours ago, how he had seen the twins killed and Jeremiah attack him. He was snapped out of his Daydream by the marching of the armored figures walking past. Azrael stared ahead stone faced as he lead the pack of Twenty or so figures, whom had formed a tight box around something they carried in the center of them. As they reached the front gate, they climbed the stone steps atop the Ramparts, stopping along the top of the Gate. Azrael turned, all eyes on him from people in the courtyard.
"We have been betrayed. The traitor thought to swap us for promises of power and glory. I will admit I knew about this, but the violence and death of our beloved friends last night was needed. For our Order to survive, we must trim the fat. The dead and the traitors provided the majority of the fat, but the coming weeks will truly remove the weakest from our ranks. Like the Phoenix, we will arise from the ashes and be reborn in flames!" Azrael's voice grew louder, his voice booming across the courtyard. With his final word, his body was engulfed in a dark green flame, forming a cocoon around him and dissipating in a matter of seconds. Tyrael recognized the figure as soon as the flames disappeared. Azrael's eyes were glowing white, Black segments covering his body. Green light pulsed from beneath each plate of flawless crystalline rock. Various gasps from figures in the courtyard filled the silence, before Azrael raised his hands for silence.
"My form is known now. Prepare yourselves, a storm is coming."
And with that, the Armored figures prepared a Banner behind Azrael. The Large wooden cross that suspended the Banner was filled with ornate carvings of symbols and strange markings, yet the banner a Plane white. Almost as one, the crowd collectively gasped in shock at the sight they witnessed. Holding the Sentinel to the cross, A pair of Soldiers worked at each arm, hammering a nail through the forearm to stick him to the cross. His Armored plates were ripped from his body, leaving only the large form of a man wearing naught but a loincloth. Two more nails were added to his feet, trapping him against the Cross, the banner providing a Backdrop. Azrael stepped over the now awake Sentinel, who began roaring in frustration and pain. Placing his boot on his Abdomen, Azrael drew his small sword. The mage Azrael kept in his library stood at his side, chanting a soundless incantation. A Chill ran up Tyraels spine as Azrael knelt down, plunging his blade into the center of the Sentinels chest. Even thought the blade dug deep, no blood emerged when the knife carved through his flesh. Dragging the knife down the chest, Azrael released the knife when he reached the bottom of the Sentinels ribs, whose eyes were now wide and glazed over. Pushing his hands under the skin and grasping at the ribs on each side, Azrael gave a mighty tug, tearing the chest open and revealing the organs inside. The Mages eyes now began to glow darkly, gently pulsating with light. He whispered more fervently as the Armored figures hoisted the banner, placing it above the gate.
"This is the fate of Traitors" Azrael barked, the mages eyes returning to normal, causing the man to wince in pain and double over. As soon s the Mage finished chanting, blood poured from the Sentinel, his organs dangling from his chest from various other body parts. The Sentinel shuddered once, then became still, his eyes empty and cold, Deaths release finally being granted after all his suffering. Gazing out over the wall, An arrow burst from the Treeline, striking the man next to Azrael in the throat. With a Blare of a large horn and the yells of Sergeants barking orders, around 100 or so Westmarchian soldiers began moving toward the walls, forming a moving shield wall. Inside the courtyard, the loyalists scrambled to gather weapons and move to the walls, Arrows already felling people as they were fired blindly from the trees. The Archer cadre began to take its toll on the moving wall of shields, but with only Fifty survivors from the previous battle, there was only so much damaged they could do. With the Two dozen Hunters that survived, a decent amount of arrows was being fired, but the steel of the Westmarch soldiers held. Azrael moved from the wall, flanked by his mob of armored figures. The other Twenty moved from the Citadel, rejoining the group. Moving toward the gate, they formed ranks, their shields raised and their spears pointed low. Three ranks of spears formed a bristling line of spikes, ready to impale any foolish enough to attack it directly. Tyrael moved with Grim behind the line of armored fighters, Drawing an arrow as he moved. Tyrael readied his sword and Azrael drew his, both his blades engulfed in green flame as he imbued them with a portion of his power. Tyraels sword was coated in orange flames, the feeling of relief once more filling him, a quiet yet repetitive thump thump thump in the base of his neck.
All was silent for a moment, then all hell broke loose. A large fireball engulfed the left portion of the Westmarch Shield wall, living flames spreading quickly as they searched for life. The screams of men and the scent of charred flesh made themselves known. The Mage whom had remained on top of the walls collapsed, his flames coming from his eyes and his mouth. Clutching his head, he fell back from the walls, a burnt out husk. Azrael sighed, knowing he had lost a powerful ally, even if he had killed many before his death. Moments later, the first group of men began pounding at the door, splinters flying from it with each hit. The Doors swung open, only for the first rank of men to charge into a waiting block of spears. Moving as one, the phalanx moved into the opened gate, stabbing soldiers as they entered. Grim fired volley after volley of arrows onto the incoming swarm, yet his arrows did little damage. The Archers on the walls continued their bombardment, now firing directly down from atop the wall into the swirling chaos below. The Golden armor of Azraels bodyguard stood out among the dark browns and black of the Westmarch soldiers, whom had began to overwhelm the monks. Sheer numbers forced the monks to pull back, moving as a line rather than a mob like the invaders. Falling back to the steps of the Citadel, the Westmarchians pressed on, some splitting of and attack those who remained on the walls. Tyrael yelled in anger as he saw a group of young hunters, no more than 14 years of age cut down by the swords of their enemies. Ten minutes passed after the loss of the gate, and Tyrael remained as the last of the hunters. Only a handful of Archers had survived, and only Thirty of the Golden figures remained to hold the line. Grim had been killed by a stray Javelin, impaling him through the chest. Azrael had been reaping a bloody toll on the attackers, killing swathes of those who dared challenge him. A Westmarchian Sergeant charged him, but was stopped by a spear into his stomach. Of the Forty or so survivors, hardly any of them were uninjured. In the raging inferno of the battle, Tyrael realized something; He was scared. Fighting a battle, where you can be killed by an arrow from an enemy you never even see face to face, scared him. A soldier lunged toward him, snapping Tyrael from his Daydream. Hitting the Soldier in the stomach, the man doubled over, allowing Tyrael to stab into his collar, his sword plunging deep into the mans chest. Once the man hit the ground, the same loud Horn blared another time. At once, the Westmarchians retreated, moving back from the citadel, trying to fight as they went. The Monks pressed their advantage, striking hard and finishing any stragglers who fell behind. The remaining soldiers broke and ran, desperately fleeing for their lives. Azrael signaled the halt of his men, allowing three dozen men escape from the original hundred that arrived to attack.
"Gather the horses, quickly. They will return with more men, and we must leave." Azrael barked, his golden warriors moving toward the stables and pulling powerful black horses from them. Only Twenty three of his Warriors remained, the Archers and hunter cadres effectively wiped out, and only Twenty two Golden figures still lived.
"Tyrael. Gather some of their Armor from our dead. These two will help you dress, and then we ride." Azrael spoke quietly, the two closest men moving toward Tyrael to follow Azraels orders.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-( A short while later)=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Tyrael mounted his horse, his new armor weighing him down and restricting his movement. Falling into rank with the other Soldiers, he was about to speak to Azrael when he heard it; A Loud Bell, ringing Four times clearly and precisely. Almost as if something had awoken inside his head, Tyrael knew what he must do.
"Azrael. We will find help further west. I know this." He whispered to Azrael who was riding alongside him.
"I take it you heard it too then. Good. Let us ride to Ferax." Azrael replied, and with him finishing his sentence, he spurred his horse, as did his followers. The Band of Twenty Four men set off through the Forest, riding hard to the west.
Name: Margus Gan Age: 34 Height: 6’1 Weight: 215 Personality: Composed & refined, statesman like. All the while maintaining the edge of an alpha male. Race: Human Gear -Head: n/a -Chest: plum colored linen smock that extends to his knees, and overtop that is a brushed steel breastplate -Arms: ornate leather bracer on his left arm -Legs: dark linen pants with leather leg wrappings -Feet: knee high boots -Miscellaneous: thigh length tiger hide cape, a pair of jade rings for each hand, belt pouch containing his coins and favorite clay sipping cup, bull horn handled skinning knife, horse -Weapons: two-handed Claymore sheathed under his tiger cape Physical appearance -Face: broad, squared, statuesque, respectably sized beard -Hair: hay colored mane that ends at his shoulder blades -Eyes: pale green -Musculature: powerful, well shouldered -Defining features: his surrounding amber tinted hair and beard give Margus a slight lion like resemblance
Skills -Strengths: hunting and horsemanship, swordplay, diplomacy and trade, poised determination -Weaknesses: refuses to lie, prideful, never pulls weapon first -Trade/Training Skills: Biography:
Margus Gan was recently known as Constable Gan, the primary enforcer and liaison of Baron Solon, a lord and nobleman in south Nerikasana. Margus had served the Baron for twelve faithful year, and the two men had great amounts of respect for one another. Baron Solon gave his Constable several responsibilities, some of which included: maintain peace on his lands, collect taxes from his serfs, negotiate trade and alliances with the other nobles of Nerikasana, and help educate the Baron’s only son Nyam. All of these tasks Margus undertook with enthusiasm, and his energy helped keep Baron Solon extremely wealthy.
Friction grew as Nyam aged. The boy, while grateful of Margus Gan instructions, envied his position next to his father. The final division came when the armies of Westmarch threatened all of the surrounding lands. Constable Gan urged the Baron to send troops and resources to help fight against the invading army, but Nyam, now in his late teens, convinced his father to not get involved. Baron Solon foresaw a rivalry brewing between his son and his loyal Constable, and with a reluctant heart he removed Margus from his position. Margus Gan was unemployed for the first time in his adult life, but the more pressing matter of aiding the war effort against Westmarch and their feared General was his first priority. To get involved directly meant Margus needed to journey north, into the Kingdom of Ferax where the heart of the conflict would soon take place. And that’s exactly what he did.
_________________ Space Marines excel at warfare because they were designed to excel at everything.
Stromm slid to the side to avoid the shot, the flaming elemental hurling his way past. Bringing his blade to meet him as he charged past, slicing through his body and leaving Jak in two on the forest floor. Jak sputtered blood, trying to convert to air but was losing life to fast. Stromm grabbed out a cloth and wiped the blood from his blade, watching as the life poured out of Jak. Eyes rolling back, Jak departed. Stromm merely stepping over the body and continuing on.
_________________ "...You my friend are an unnapropriate." - Commodore Awesome "this is why I love you Wulfrun <3" -Sniperfex