Unlikely Heroes: Content

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Jayertheslayer
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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Jayertheslayer » Mon May 21, 2012 5:01 pm

A smile shone from Lienth's face while tears trickled down her warm cheeks. Through the thickening mud and bitter colds, she had emerged safely on the other side. An overgrown hell even equipped with its own mindless horde of savage daemons, and she had beat it triumphantly. But she wouldn't of done it alone, the unexpected companion, the Mer had successfully kept true to its word and illuminated the masked paths that stood shadowed. Its bravery, its persistence and its might, pulled them through, and it truly was both the knight and steed that were told to her in legends and tales.

Sniffling as the droplets ran down her moist face, she turned towards the creature that had nobly guided her.
"I'm afraid this is where we part ways Mer,"
"Why's dat?"
"A friend of mine who lives here has said he will look after me as I can longer return back to where I originally came from. And as much as I enjoy your company, I cannot say the same for him,"
"So ya goin' den?"
"Yes and please don't follow me, but your services should be rewarded,"
In a leathery satchel tied around her waist she pulled out not only a few vials of water but also a tattered cloak and several gold coins.
"Here," she said as she handed them over, "If you're going to live in Lycene or at least stay there you will need those things,"
Picking up the glittering coins, the Mer stared at them blankly.
"Oh, you're probably not used to currency or money for that matter," taking a short pause to best explain how money worked she then spoke,
"Basically if you want something you give people those, understand?"
The creature nodded slightly but still looked somewhat uncertain with the brown musty cloak. Noticing that for out the whole time they had been travelling it hadn't worn any type of clothing, all this stuff she was presenting to the foreign outsider must of been completely alien. So instead of letting it figure out for itself she insisted on putting the cloak and hood on for it, trying to hide all traces of beastly limbs and body parts that would terrify the locals. And at last they were done.

Grymskale looked nothing but a walking entanglement of damp cloth, just another stranger who wanted to keep their identity hidden. Lienth looked at him lovingly, she always hated goodbyes especially ones to those who she had grown to like and adore. Wiping her face she gently kissed him on the forehead tasting the disgusting traces of rotting blood and filthy dirt through her lips. Her face twisted and gnarled as her palette was ruled by horrible flavours but ignored them to show politeness. Turning back on the creature she then headed towards the lively civilisation of Lycene hoping that the one individual she trusted would accept her into his lifestyle.

And just like that Grymskale was alone.
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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Fingon888 » Thu May 24, 2012 5:11 pm

"This is the Dark Forest, m'lord." Glorin announced. "Are you sure this is the way?"

"We are going the right way. I feel we must go through it. What lies beyond?"

"Picten, Hospitalis, the Germani, to name a few." Hili answered.

"What would be in these northern lands. I need more information about the bells."

"M'lord, perhaps we should seek the knowledge in Hospitalis, the holy knights of that kingdom guard ancient knowledge within their libraries."

"Very well, to Hospitalis it is."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

The group had spent a few hours going through the Dark Forest, before they saw the first troll. He was a forest troll, not nearly as strong as the mountain trolls that plagued the Kingdom of the Iron Mountain. Hili had fought trolls in his youth as a Red Slayer, so the troll was dispatched quickly. The trolls may prove to be hard battle if one of the tribes descended upon them.
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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Bjorn » Mon May 28, 2012 7:30 am

After riding for what seemed like hours, Tyrael allowed his horse to stop and drink from a small stream that was flowing along the plains he rode on. He had been riding north hard, fleeing from the legion they had encountered earlier, not knowing if they were sending people after him or not. Bringing his hand to shield his eyes from the sun, Tyrael spotted Mountains in the distance. The grass swayed gently in the breeze, the crisp autumn winds picking up the further north Tyrael went. Thinking quietly to himself, Tyrael pondered what would happen once he reached the place he felt like he needed to go to. Even though he had no idea what it was or where it was, Tyrael felt like he knew exactly what to do.

After thirty or so minutes of rest, Tyrael mounted his horse and continued on his journey northward, to the realms of ice and frost.




(Sorry about the short post, revising for exams.)
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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Jayertheslayer » Tue Jun 05, 2012 5:33 pm

He hated to admit it but things were somewhat better when the human was around. At least it provided company. Being alone in this alien world was something of a mystery yet also an adventure. The marshlands were all that he knew of and still he had never fully explored its hostile environment, whereas this, this was completely different. Whole new landscapes full of pudgy creatures, all of which ready to be spread across his two bloody knives.

Getting up off the moist ground her observed a living breathing settlement, the one which Lienth had wondered off to. It was strange seeing it without being completely ablaze as he had gotten used to from when he partook in the suicidal crusades. He missed those sights and sounds of carnage and mayhem they made him feel alive, nothing was greater than pulling out human organs and watch them scramble and shriek in terror as they pathetically race to put them back in. But this was what he had to get used too, there was no way back only forward.

Keeping the rubbery clothing pressed against his own tight leathery skin, a series of uncomfortable reactions trickled down his spinal cord. It was always confusing on why the humans constantly focused on wearing thin sheets of battered cloth over their already decent skin, maybe they didn't want to reveal the ugliness that is their stupid pink flesh. Although from what he had seen humans weren't exactly born into adaptable bodies, it wasn't their fault they had such terrible hides and awful skins. Marching himself towards light and civilisation Grymskale was approached by something glittering yet strangely familiar.

"Halt, who goes there?!"

He froze to the very ground on which he stood, he wasn't warned about this. What could he do? Clutching his worn robes closely to his beating chest he also felt for the sturdiness of his dreaded knives, in case things turned nasty.

Noticing that the masked stranger wanted to remain hidden, the deceitful guard knew he could milk this opportunity.
"Sir or madam I require several coins in advance for you to progress, town policy and all that,"

"Sir or mad man I quire sever alls coins inad vance for youtoo progs ress, own licy and althat,"

It was going to take a while for him to adjust. Remembering on what Lienth had said to him, he reached deep into ragged folds of his mouldy pockets and placed a couple yellow plates in the shiny human's hand hoping it wouldn't blow his cover.

"Welcome to Lycene," the guard said joyfully as he hid the golden treasures away from prying eyes.
------------------------------------


It was an experience like no other. A world so alien yet already seen. The roaring flames and endless screams were nonexistent and in its place was a thriving settlement leaking with nurtured life.

Wondering aimlessly down dusty paths keeping to himself Grymskale ever so often peeked glances at those passing him. Fingers rubbing down the roughened grip, hungering temptation wormed away at thoughts desperately trying to turn them to the dangerous side of a savage and wild. Biting tightly onto his bulbous lips he knew he needed somewhere to settle down for a pristine patience to kick in, spotting a bright glow emerging from within a loud uproar of another boarded building, curiosity emerging he decided to head inside.
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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Bjorn » Sun Jun 10, 2012 8:56 am

After two days and countless hours of riding, Tyrael reached the end of the Dwarvern kingdom. Grass become rocks, soil became gravel and solid dirt. Trees became barren, having lost their leaves. Tyrael felt different. He did not mourn his lost family, he did not feel sad nor did he feel lonely. He simply felt angry. Rage and Hatred forced him onward, drowning out the feelings of hunger as he rode using what little supplies he carried. The wound Tyrael suffered in his abdomen had began to heal, but it forced Tyrael to watch what he was doing as not to slow the healing process. Tyrael began to slouch forward onto his horse, slowing it as he walked along the various cliffs and paths in the north.

Tyrael rested on the back of his horse as it walked along the now rocky ground that lead toward the much harsher ground of the north, outside of the Dwarvern kingdoms. The rocky ground led toward sheer cliffs and steep hills, which Tyrael felt drawn to though he did not know why.Tyrael dismounted his horse and rounded a large cliff side, the morning sun throwing shadows across the ground. Gazing at the cliff face, Tyrael noticed a strange symbol carved in to a boulder that lay against the cliff face. Instinctively Tyrael moved his hand and placed it on the symbol.
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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Chaos Farseer » Tue Jun 12, 2012 2:40 am

“Oi! Iri!” shouted out Oswaldo. “We’s gon’ eat wit’ouch ya!”
Irandirel walked into the dining room with dark rings around her eyes. She pulled out a chair and fell in next to Oswaldo and Huor.
“Didn’ sleep a bit, did’ya?”
The elf shook her head.
“Ah, that’s a’right. You’ll get over it.”
Calcifer nodded to the elf and sipped his milk. He started up again when Irandirel settled.
“So I came here to follow my brother. I was hoping he’d be here, you know, with the soldiers coming and going. But I asked around yesterday, and I doubt he’s ever been here. I have no idea how to find him. I just--miss him so much. He accepted me for --” Calcifer stopped.
“For what?” asked Huor.
“Nothing,” Calcifer muttered, gulping down the rest of his milk.
It was quiet for a moment, before Irandirel turned to face the door. “What is that?”

Everyone in the pub looked out the window to watch a commotion outside. There were people streaming towards something out of view, with words of curiosity and concern. The door slammed open. A breathless man shuffled into the room, with an equally breathless horse visible in the doorframe and a mob of men behind that. The bartender immediately poured a glass for the newcomer, but no sooner had the glass been placed on the counter than the man snatched it up and drained the contents in a single gulp. He let out a quick gasp and slammed the glass back down as he wiped his mouth with a hairy arm.
He turned tired eyes to the crowd, still slightly out of breath. He spoke in a ragged voice, punctuated by large breaths. “Westmarch...is coming. They got to...Belmore...yesterday… morning. Thousands...”
“Where are they going?” shouted out a man in the corner of the pub.
“Here.” Several people gasped. “They’ll be here...tomorrow.” The man pulled out a small brown sack and flicked a silver coin at the bartender. Then the man stood up and stalked to the doorway. He looked around once more. “You’d all leave, too...if you know what’s good for you.” With that the man grabbed the reigns of his horse and pushed his way through the crowd.

The tavern was in an uproar. People shoved their way out of the doorway as others began to push their way in. Voices rose as men argued about the truth of the news, while others wondered what to do or began acting upon it. The bartender was never so busy.

“Belmore wouldn’t give up! They’ve always been faithful to Ferax!”
“Two bottles of whisky!”
“No, I’m not buying your farm! I gotta get out too!”
“Jessa, get the kids! We’re leaving!”
“...heard something about some fish creatures...”
“Dawn tomorrow, we’re goin’ out with the Gypsies.”
“Army a mile wide!”
“Sorry! Just sold my last horse.”
“Where’s Ferax’s army when you need them?”
“Twenty gold for a wagon! Last one I’ve got!”
“Oh gods oh gods oh gods-”
“Daddy? Has anyone seen-”
“You’re a traitor if I ever saw one!”
“-can’t sell the house-”
“Walls won’t do jack **** against them.”
“Stop! Thief!”
“All out of wagons, too.”
“Gonna need some food-”
“Five gold n’ we’ll bring ya t’ Darken.”
“-just sold out...”
“Ninety pounds?? Are you-”
“Won’t be a town left after this.”
“Can’t sell the house. Nobody’s stayin’.”
“-just surrender-”
“What are we waiting for? Let’s go-”
“What can we possibly do?”

Calcifer slammed his glass down to the ground. The shatter rippled through the crowd, heard throughout the streets, the whole town listening in.
Calcifer jumped onto the table, ignoring the fearing eyes of the elves and Oswaldo.

“Listen here, Westmarch is on its way. Face it. We can’t run from them. We can’t hide. We can’t surrender. There is only kill or be killed.”

By now, the whole pub was silent, and the door continued to spew in more men and women.

“Outside, somewhere, my brother is giving his life to save Ferax. Him, and hundreds of other Feraxans are laying down their lives for you!” Calcifer gulped and let a tear slide down his cheek.

“They can’t win.”

At this, the pub exploded into pandemonium. Everyone began yelling out, demanding, arguing, pleading. Pleading for help.
“Who will save us?!” the call was heard over the crowd. From close to Calcifer, a little girl sobbed quietly.
“I don’t wanna die,” she cried, her mother grabbing her and smothering her in her chest. Calcifer stared at the girl for a moment, and stood, anger building up.

“HEY!” Calcifer yelled out. He took a chair and threw it across the pub. The innkeeper cried out in protest, but Calcifer ignored him.
“We are all different. Farmers. Merchants. Workers. That’s why we fail.”

Calcifer took a deep breath and steadied himself.

“But we are all the same. Feraxans. And that’s why we will win. Like many of you, my brother was a farmer. He was not built for war. He was not ready. But like all of you, this is his home. He would not run away from defeat. Instead, he would sacrifice his blood, his sweat, and his tears to make sure Ferax still stands. He would never surrender, not knowing his given everything he’s got. Because he’s a Feraxan!”
A murmur of approval washed through the mass as Calcifer jumped down from the table and into the people.
“And you’re all Feraxan!” Calcifer shouted out, patting each man, woman, and child he passed.
“This is your home too! Would any of you give it up so easily? ANYONE?” Calcifer yelled out. A few men shouted out “NO” in almost perfect unison, walking towards Calcifer.
“Then fight back! Blacksmiths, make your swords! Farmers, pile up the food! Brothers and sisters, fight together! Defend your home!”

The crowd roared out in approval. Their voices were echoed throughout Lycene. They spread throughout Ferax. The soft wind carried their defiant cry right into the ears of the Westmarch.
They would fight.


The men and women poured out of the pub, each to their own home, ready to fight, adrenaline and pride pumping through their blood. In seconds, the pub was near vacant, aside from Calcifer, Oswaldo, the elves, and a few beefy men. Oswaldo nodded encouragingly at Calcifer. Huor’s countenance could not etch away its smile. Irandirel silently mouthed ‘Thank you.’

Calcifer apologized to the innkeeper and gave him all his gold he had earned the day before. The few men walked to Oswaldo and the elves and began talking to them. Huor gestured for Calcifer to come over.

“We could really use people like you,” one of the men said. “You could really help us spread.”
“Who are you?” Irandirel asked.
“We are the Men at Arms,” spoke the leader of the group. His chainmail clanged as he pulled over a chair and sat down. He stared at them with unflinching brown eyes set in a stoic face. The man spoke with an assured and commanding tone. “We’re here to fight against Westmarch as well.” The four other men around him nodded.

“What’s your name?” asked Calcifer.

The man’s eyes were alight with passion as he proclaimed, “I am Cruros Trannyth. You may have heard of me, or my associates here. I have assembled the finest men in the lands, for the noble cause of defending those who cannot defend themselves throughout the land. These days, it is primarily Westmarch we have the... fortune... to fight. You brave souls look just the sort to join us in our noble cause.”

“Definitely,” said Calcifer.
Oswaldo, though slightly skeptical, nodded his head.
Irandirel spoke softly. “If we can truly help...”
Huor shrugged.

“Capital!” Cruros stood. “We’re camped Southeast of the city. The sooner you get there the better. We can outfit you with everything you need. The important thing is that we leave soon. We need to beat Westmarch to the punch. Pack your things and meet Gil here, he’s the one with the face, outside the South gate. We’ll leave from there.” He and the other men paid the bartender and left the pub.

Oswaldo stood and stretched, then made as if to follow them.
“You’re following them then?” Huor asked of Oswaldo.
“Yop. Oi got nowhere elshe to go, an’ this ‘ere ‘s oll oi own. Oy’m followen them, o’corse,” With that, he trudged out of the bar after the men.
Irandirel stood up and followed after him.
Huor stood “You’re going too, Irandirel?”
She paused. “I ... have to help somehow.” She turned back towards Huor. “Will you accompany us?”
He thought about this for a second. “Yes, I suppose I have to now.” He finally said “I just need to grab my bag.” And with that he ran off to his room upstairs.
“I’m going to need a bit more time to pack. Let them know, okay?” Calcifer said before dashing back towards the rooms.
Irandirel stood and said nothing.
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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by NotSoNinja » Wed Jun 13, 2012 2:29 am

The clouds were lighter than they had been in a while, and rays of sunlight shone through the gaps. Oswaldo walked down the streets toward the South gate slowly, taking a last look at everything in the city. People bustled about, packing wagons and harnessing their horses. An oxcart trundled by in the opposite direction, carrying wheat to the granary for storage. Oswaldo wished he had pockets. It was warmer than the previous days had been, but it was still cool, and burlap is not known as an insulator.

The gate looked almost as if it was painted in a picture. A ray of sunlight pierced through the clouds to land squarely on the guard, as he stood on the battlements above. The Feracian banners swayed in a gentle breeze. The road was filled with carts and wagons going to and from the city, with pedestrians interspersed wherever they could fit.

Oswaldo shivered, lowered his head, and went on his way. No use standing around. To the guard, he was just another peasant leaving the city in search of shelter. As he exited the city, he turned left to follow the Southeast road. Traffic thinned out a little as he got farther away from the city. Before long, he arrived at a curious arrangement of tents in an abandoned field. It was too small and asymmetric to be an army camp, but too large to be a caravan. This was especially so because caravans had retreated further into the kingdom as the threat of war spread. He reckoned this was it. As he turned off the road, he almost ran into another wagon, which earned him some unkind words and gestures from the driver, before he drove on. Oswaldo stumbled through the ramshackle gate and made his way down a freshly beaten trail through the weeds to the camp of the Men at Arms. It was a curious name, to be sure. He decided he’d have to ask about it when he found Cruros again.

As he approached the ring of tents he was hailed, “Ho, traveler. What brings you to the camp of the Men at Arms?” The speaker, a lightly armored young man, carrying a bow and dagger stepped forward to greet him with a quizzical gaze. “Are you lost?”

“Oi don’t think so. You’re the Men at Orms?” Oswaldo knew he didn’t look like a soldier, but had never considered it a drawback until now. Perhaps Cruros had only meant Calcifer and Huor, both of whom were armed. He wouldn’t have known about Irandirel’s sword-cane, and Oswaldo… well, he thought to himself, at least I can try.

“Yeah, that’s us. Who sent you? Ya don’t look much like a soldier to me…”

“Dis goy named Cr’rs Tranth said some’m about you lot, so oi thought oy’d see for moyself what you oll do. Thought oy moight be able to help.” Oswaldo was about to turn away in defeat, as the young man paused.

Then, “Captain Trannyth, eh? Well, come with me. If you’re lying, you’ll be sorry.”

Oswaldo followed him timidly through the tents, being careful to step around the barrels of weapons, tent ropes, and miscellaneous armor lying on the ground. People sat around in various states of undress, polishing armor and sharpening weapons. Oswaldo reckoned this small force had a better equipped fighting line than the Feracian army. But then, the Feracian army was larger by far. A man strummed a lute, and the man next to him clapped his hands over his ears. A woman struck repeatedly at a training dummy with a short sword. All around were various crests, coats of arms, and symbols denoting mercenary clans, lords, and patrons of the warriors assembled. As they rounded a corner, they came to a stop before a slightly larger tent, bedecked with two identical banners, each with a white sword superimposed on a plain, grey shield.

“This way,” the young man said, as he passed the guard and went into the tent. Oswaldo followed without a word.

The interior of the tent was dim, lit by a few candlesticks that sat atop the main furnishing of the room, a large table with maps spread out all over it. Over the table, in the center of the center of the room, stood Cruros Trannyth. He looked up when the Oswaldo and the guard entered. “What is it, Mr. Hood?” he asked with a paradoxical tone of mixed patience and urgency.

The young man snapped to attention, “Captain Trannyth sir! This man claims he is here at your behest. I thought I should check whether he was a lying Westmarchian spy or not.”

Trannyth straightened, “Very good, Private. This man is indeed here at my behest. Though how he got here without Gil… Well, you did your duty. Good work. You are dismissed.” He turned to Oswaldo as the private left. “Now, I invited you along because you are friends with that speech-maker. That doesn’t mean you get a free ride. Everyone here, down to the lowliest servant does his or her part. Now, the question is, what can you do?”

Oswaldo was stymied. Everything was rushing at him faster than he could think about it. “Uh, well, oy can cook. An’ I can work wit wood. An’ farm, bot o don’t think you have moch use for farmers.”

“Right, then. Off to the cook with you. He always wanted someone to peel potatoes for him.” So saying, Cruros Trannyth returned to his charts, and ended the conversation. Oswaldo began his journey around the camp in search of the cook.
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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Jason » Thu Jun 14, 2012 3:57 pm

The winds were soft upon her face as she rode along at the front of the columns of troops. The chilling autumn air was crisp, and little wisps of breath could be seen in front of her. The steady thrum of marching boots and drum beats accompanied her every thought as they made their way into Ferax, and closer to Lycene. Her bodyguards were at her sides, and then her second in command and other top officers further away. When the streams of smoke and steam appeared over the crest of a bern, the town of Lycene lay off in the distance.

"What a quaint place." She said aloud, raising a clenched fist to signal a halt at the top of the hill that lay below the Vally.

The columns came to a stop in a domino like effect, the sound of marching slowly becoming quieter and softer as the troops further back came to a halt. The clinking of armor and shuffling of feet, with the occasional protest of a horse, were all that remained of the solid tempo that is an army on the move.

Evette placed a hand on her brow to shield her eyes from the sunlight, giving her a clearer view of the surrounding area. Surveying the land, she began to formulate a battle plan should it come to it. Satisfied with her plan for the time being after a short moment contemplating, she waved an arm in the air, signalling for two of her officers and a diplomat to approach her.

The two men and woman rode up to Evette and put a hand to their heart in salute.

One of the men spoke; "What is thy bidding, my lady?"

"You are to be the Royal Envoy of Westmarch. Go forth to the town of Lycene that lays before you and negotiate their surrender." Evette ordered.

The diplomat, a young woman retorted; "And what if they refuse my Lady?" with an uncertainty in her voice.

"Then, you declare war upon them." Evette answered.

"Y-yes, of course... m'Lady...."

The envoy set off down the hill, maybe two miles from the town.

"Take your time." Evette called after them, getting a wave of acknowledgement in response.

Evette turned around on her horse and began to shout her orders, and the officers began to order their sections and regiments around the hill, her battle plan beginning to take effect.

"Bring up my cart! And fetch my servants!" Evette roared. "Send word to The Drakes! ... They are needed at the front!" She finished, staring at one particular messenger.

With a start, the messenger began to run through the shallow passages between the regiments, sprinting with adrenaline and slight nervousness. He stopped at the cart master, and relayed his commanders message to bring her cart to the front, with her servants, and began to make the long run to the rear of the army. After fifteen minutes, he arrived at the end, finding a man on a plain brown horse, wearing an equally plain tunic and pants.

Slightly out of breath, the messenger took a moment to compose himself, and the man on the horse called for his company to halt.

"Lord Gray! Lady Evette has called you and your men into service at the front!" The messenger relayed loudly.

Lord Gray raised an eyebrow to the messenger, the man of his early-thirties sniffed, and nodded quickly to the messenger, promptly turning his horse to see his men. The messenger had begun his sprint back to the front to tell Evette of his tasks completion.

"Men, looks like the illustrious and Beautiful Lady Evette commands our presence to the front!" Lord Gray commanded, a flourish of his hand punctuating his statement.

"Fly like the Dragon, Strike like the Lance!" was his men's response.

-----------

The Drakes are a company of Knights, made up from nobles and warriors from around Westmarch. They are the finest Horsemen of the Western kingdoms, and they have reportedly never fled or retreated from a battle. They are adorned in the finest of plate armor, their horses the swiftest and strongest in the lands. Their matte slate gray armor adorned with the sword and book insignia of Westmarch, and have resplendent red streaks and thin, long banners on their lances. The charge of the Drakes has never failed, and even if they are made of aristocratic and somewhat arrogant members, they are deadly and brutal. They take no prisoners and they deal no quarter.

-----------

Evette's cart came to the front, and she ordered her servants.

"Fetch me my riding plate."

The servants quickly nodded and began to take out the beautifully crafted pearly white steel plates. The delicate gold filigree accenting the subtle curves and shapes of the steel. Dismounting her horse, the servants began to remove her light armor, and began the process of strapping on the plate armor.

She intended to ride with The Drakes if the town chose their death.
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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Cthulu Mechanicus » Thu Jun 14, 2012 4:33 pm

Lakaz was (Perhaps blissfully) unaware of how long he had been walking. his footwraps were torn and his feet bloody, his staff beginning to crack at the bottom. Indeed, Lakaz has been walking for days straight, dedicated to Papa's swamp unknown goal. So.... Tired... Must... Rest.... No! Papa keeps me strong... He plodded onward, ragged strips of mud caked cloth flapping against bloody and raw feet. He looked up from the seemingly endless sea of useless plants and saw plumes of smoke rising up ahead, as well as a great grey wall of stone, and a sea of black and red. A smile grew upon his haggard face. "Thank you Papa." He set off towards the sea of darknes, determined to join with those prophecised.
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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Chaos Farseer » Sun Jun 17, 2012 1:20 am

Irandirel followed close behind Huor and Calcifer. It seemed a bit strange for them to walk out of the city they had just sworn to protect. And it was so quick, too. Calcifer simply said “Good afternoon” and they were outside the city walls. It seemed strange. Almost dreamlike.

At least the sky began to clear up. It would be a welcome change to the dark and dreary clouds of . . . yesterday? She wasn’t sure. It was so easy to lose track of oneself. Huor and Calcifer had been talking for some time now; she thought so at least. Where were they now? They weren’t on the road she had come in on a few days before. This road spiraled away from the forest and towards a group of tents she couldn’t remember. Weren’t they supposed to meet someone? Bill? Gill? She yawned.

And then stopped. Huor and Calcifer continued ahead as she glanced back at Lycene. Irandirel thought she heard something. But it didn’t look like anything was going on... She ran up and gave Calcifer a quick tug.

Calcifer felt the tug of the elf, and pulled back sharply. Although he wouldn’t admit it to himself, Calcifer was uncomfortable around the elves. They’re different. What use would they have for the Man Arms, or whatever they were called?
Calcifer realized he acted rudely, and let himself be tugged at.
“We’re going, don’t worry,” Calcifer said to the elf. He continued to walk a few feet in front of her.
“Did you hear something?” Irandirel asked.
“No, I didn’t hear anything. Come on, their camp should be somewhere nearby,” Calcifer snapped impatiently.

Irandirel was surprised. She looked at the town again, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. ‘Perhaps I’m just hearing things.’
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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Bjorn » Sun Jun 17, 2012 1:33 pm

The rune carved into the wall began to glow once Tyrael's hand contacted it, growing brighter and much more intense. Within seconds, flames spread and formed a Doorway in the stone, causing Tyrael to step back and watch in awe. Tyrael was unsure how he knew, but he was certain that the Bell's toll had originated from here. He felt drawn in, almost being forced to enter. Taking a deep breath, Tyrael stepped through the doorway, which closed as fast as it had opened.
Tyrael slowly surveyed the grand hall he now stood inside. A Black iron throne sat at the end of the chamber, a skeletal figure resting atop. Small intricate trinkets made of wood and metal adorned his robes, delicate runes carved gently into the various materials. The ancient figure on the throne stirred into life, the cracking sounds of rock and plaster filled the room when it spoke.
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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Tuomir » Sun Jun 17, 2012 4:36 pm

Name:Rolnar Veilwhisper
Age: Unknown
Height: Average human height
Weight: Scrawny
Personality: Coward, crazy as a bat in a swimming pool. That's really crazy.
Race: Human size and more or less proportions, so presumably human.
Gear
-Chest: Long robes covering the entire body, hiding its' shape in countless shadows. Looks as if it was white ages ago.
-Miscellaneous: A staff made of driftwood
Physical appearance
-Face: Pale nearly bloodless skin tightly over the skull, full of scabs and dirt
-Hair: Long straight hair, the exact length hard to pinpoint
-Eyes: Large and wary, red veins coloring the edges of the eyeballs. No visible eye color.
-Musculature: non-existent
-Defining features: Essentially looks like a shabby tent that has fallen in.
Skills
-Strengths: Awareness, occasional foresight.
-Weaknesses: Do I need to add more? He's weak every way you look.
-Trade/Training Skills:none
Biography: Rolnar Veilwhisper is not a name one hears often. Most often when people talk about him, they refer to him as "walking pile of dirt", or with other such appealing nicknames. They only see the bony arms sticking out of the swallowing sleeves of the dirty rags or the eyes that look like any light would blind them yet they never close. And those people aren't exactly wrong, either. No one knows where Rolnar came from originally, but he is always traveling, whispering omens to strangers and warning people of coming disasters, usually dismissed as a madman and quite rightly so. Yet somehow he seems to stay on the face of the world like a cockroach, refusing to drop dead.
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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Tuomir » Tue Jun 19, 2012 5:15 pm

Dark lake with no shore to be seen. A lone figure, no, a tower, rising out from the black water. No sun nor start cast their light at it, yet somehow it was enshrouded in countless shadows. No windows or doors punctured the mysterious walls, yet somehow a gaze could be felt, watching the endless waters surrounding the tower. No waves moved the waters, no fish breathed under it. The only reflection shining from the water was the lone tower. A whispering voice filled the air. A mouth whispered a single word over and over again, filling the lake with a dark meaning. A mouth filled with needle-like teeth. It wasn't threatening. It whispered truth, truth and justice. And then came the flames. Flames and screaming. Men, women, children, their voices filled with terror. Heat that crushed everything, even life. But the past couldn't be burned away, it remained in ashes, waiting to be found.

Rolnar woke up covered in sweat, like so many times before. He looked around himself. It was a damp, dark alley behind the town inn. There had been some noisy business in there earlier, shouting and crashing sounds. Nothing of his concern. He scratched his long black hair, combing it down with his long thin fingers. He was in Lycaden. He recalled the events of previous days, but only one thing stood out. The bells. Never before had he heard such bells. He was sure that it was a call from his master, but to where? No one had told him the way. Did master expect him to find the way himself? Was he supposed to find a guide? He was inclined to believe in the latter. Yes, he needed a guide, and he needed to guide the guide to the truth. For he, and he alone, accepted the whispers of the Lord of the Veiled Tower. Slowly, Rolnar rose to his feet, and walked to the brighter streets. He had to find himself a guide, after all, even if that guide were oblivious to it.
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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Jason » Thu Jun 21, 2012 8:28 pm

Evette watched as the Legion began to spread around the hill's crest, masking the hill top under a sea of soldiers. The cool wind rustling the banners, making them flutter and gently whip around the poles they hung from. The deft and quick hands of her servants had applied her riding plate in their usual record time, and she stood in the heavy armor, gazing down the easy slope towards Lycene. The envoy had entered the town, and she awaited their return anxiously. The jostling of armor and talking became louder as the legionnaires had moved into position, and stood at ease with each other, passing the time when suddenly a call from the left flank.

"The envoy is coming back! ... Looks like they are riding rather fast!"

Evette walked quickly over to the hills edge, gazing across its rolling slope to see two figures racing back to the hill.

She thought to herself "I sent three env-" and she cut the thought off and scowled. She continued her grimace until the two figures rode up to her and dismounted, out of breath and panting.

"My... *puff* My Lady." The officer said, loosely saluting, sword still in hand. "We went forth as you commanded with the offer of peace, and they became enraged! They killed my comrade, and only through luck and my training was I able to rescue our diplomat." he finished, swallowing and inhaling deeply.

Evette peered over to the young woman who she sent as the diplomat, she had a cut on her shoulder where a blade was swung at her, and she looked petrified.

"Take your rest soldier, you have gone above your call of duty to Westmarch. You are granted five days rest, no march." Evette commanded towards the bloody officer.

He nodded, and helped the diplomat off her horse, towards the healers.

Evette could see the anger on the faces of her soldiers, the frowns and in some cases the outright rage of some. She liked it. This is what she needed.

"Far too long has it been since these men and women have fought a real enemy..." she thought, her trademark wicked smile creeping slowly across her face.

Somewhere in the sea of soldiers, a figure started humming a tune of a song that was in the heart of every Westmarchian. A song sung in times of war and desperation. Soon, that hum grew as other figures began to chime in, till eventually, a man broke into verse:

Axes flash, broadsword swing,
Shining armour's piercing ring
Horses run with polished shield,
Fight Those Bastards till They Yield
Midnight mare and blood red roan,
Fight to Keep this Land Your Own
Sound the horn and call the cry,
How Many of Them Can We Make Die!

Then, more and more began to sing, till nearly every soldier on the front was bellowing the song towards the walls of Lycene. The drummers began to whip up a beat, and the bag-pipers roared to life, adding their sound to the wave.

Follow orders as you're told,
Make Their Yellow Blood Run Cold
Fight until you die or drop,
A Force Like Ours is Hard to Stop
Close your mind to stress and pain,
Fight till You're No Longer Sane
Let not one damn cur pass by,
How Many of Them Can We Make Die!

The stamping of feet broke into the ground, creating a low rumble as the uncountable feet began marching in place, swords, axes and spears clanging off shields followed suite.

Guard your women and children well,
Send These Bastards Back to Hell
We'll teach them the ways of war,
They Won't Come Here Any More
Use your shield and use your head,
Fight till Every One is Dead
Raise the flag up to the sky,
How Many of Them Can We Make Die!

The clop of hooves came into existence as the ocean of soldiers parted, and the now fully armed and armored Drakes rode into view. Evette mounted her steed, and placed her full helm on her head, its golden lion visage glinting in the sun. Being handed a kite shield and lance, she gripped the great lance tightly, her leather gloves squeaking as she tightened her grip. The white and gold banner that adorned the mighty pole fluttered to life as she lead The Drakes to the edge of the hill, all the while the orchestra of war was blaring around her.

Dawn has broke, the time has come,
Move Your Feet to a Marching Drum
We'll win the war and pay the toll,
We'll Fight as One in Heart and Soul
Midnight mare and blood red roan,
Fight to Keep this Land Your Own
Sound the horn and call the cry,
How Many of Them Can We Make Die!

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Hmmmm... Yessss..." the dusty voice filled the hall.

"Come child, be not afraid."

Anatar lifted an arm towards the figure that has entered the hall, beckoning him closer.

"You... are one." He said, a dull smile cracking across his face, pleased that his call had been answered by one of the many.

"Come, come. There is much to say young one, much to say. There are many things you will learn, many things you will need to know for your journey that lays ahead of you."

The dust in the air shimmered for a moment, as the great stone plinth rose from the ground, the stone slabs parting as the massive wall rose and rose. It stopped with a dull and echoless thud, the sand falling from its surface from the sudden jolt. Upon its face lay an enormous pictograph, ancient in origin and design, yet beautiful and masterfully done.

From his throne, rose a hand towards the pictograph, revealing that it was no painting at all, but actually a giant mosaic, made from millions upon millions of tiny fragments of colored stone. The tiny figures and settings began to move, as if they were alive, being manipulated by Anatar.

"Now... we must start at the beginning..."
Regardez l'aventure à venir
Esse Eximius Ad Invicem
Bad Company, till the day I die.


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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Chaos Farseer » Tue Jun 26, 2012 2:25 am

“Ah! There you are. I’m glad you could join us. What was your name again?”
“Calcifer.”
“Calcifer! Good to meet you. Come along Gil, we’re going to show the boy around.
“Are those your friends there?”
“...Yes.”
“What can they do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Cooking duty it is. Let’s go, Calcifer. We’ve got some important tasks for you.”

In an instant it was over. Irandirel sighed. A man guided them out of a tent flap but she paid him no heed. Thoughts ran through her head.
‘They disregarded me as if I was nothing. Both of us. As if we were useless insects only able to--What can I do? Calcifer can speak to these peoples but I could not. The humans still confuse me. What about Huor? He can hunt, correct? That means he could go and kill-’ she shivered ‘-no, I could not do that. And the third, the strange one with the accent -Oswaldo?-, what does he do? He understands people and he can do whatever-that-was. But I cannot.’

“We’re here.” The man ushered them into a large tent. “Nevil needs all those potatoes chopped and peeled by noon. You’d best get started.” Within lay a massive mound of hard, round, dirt-covered vegetables stacked up to the side. The tower loomed over a familiar mustached man who sat beside it with a knife. He sliced away at a potato held within a dirt-covered hand. With a quick toss the pieces tumbled into a large metal cauldron in the center, clanging several times before coming to rest at the bottom. Then he picked up another and began pulling off its skin. “Oi,” he said, without pause or even a glance. Oswaldo kicked at a couple of knives at the base of the pot.

Irandirel picked up a knife and slid it across a fingernail. Nothing. Disappointing. She grabbed a ‘potato’ instead, feeling the dirt running off its rough skin. She held it for a moment before tossing it in the air.
Click Shing Clunk Thump
The vegetable bounced off the beaten dirt with only a sliver of skin missing. The blade still hummed, but now a bit of skin and juice covered the rune for ‘i’. Irandirel wiped the potato pieces off of the sword with her hand before sliding it back into its sheath. She clicked the cane shut and gently put it on the ground. She picked up the potato and swiped off the dirt as she sat down aside the pile. She looked at it for a moment before picking up a knife and starting to peel it.

’I cannot do anything.’

Irandirel sat there, with potato and shame, ignoring the confused looks of her companions.
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