Unlikely Heroes: Content

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Jason
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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Jason » Sun Jul 01, 2012 3:38 am

Great plumes of smoke and ashen spires were all that was left of the Hospitalis fortress. The driving winds and sleeting snow began to obscure the parting structure from view as Nauticus and his Legion began their move Northeastward, moving to engage the next soon-to-be casualty of this rampage. The frost and ice covered plates of armor formed a sea of shimmering ice that bobbed in unison with the sound of distant and tired drums.

Olden had snuck back into ranks of soldiers after the incident on the mountainside chapel in the Hospitalis fortress. He had been a bit on edge at first, but began to calm down as he realized he was in the vast ocean of faceless grunts, no one would ask anything, no one would assume anything different. He continued to ponder these things when a sudden stop was called, and the wave of bobbing stopped slowly. They were in somewhat of an alcove on the mountain's base, where the wind and driving snow were no where to be found. Camp was called, and the Legion began to spread out to its tents.

Olden was trying to find a tent, as he was near the end of the columns, and he found that all the furthest tents were full. Disparagingly he wandered closer and closer to Nauticus' tent, sweat beading on his brow as he could see the large tent coming closer and closer. Finally, he found a tent, it was completely empty save a single soldier. Olden heaved his pack onto a cot and sat on the semi-rigid surface, seriously wondering who he could pay off to move away from that monster. He exhaled deeply at the thought, and quickly cut that breath short as he heard a gruff and sand-papery voice come from across the tent.

"You there, what's got you down son?"

Olden stared across the moderately sized tent to see his conversational partner. Eyeing the soldier, Olden could see that the man that spoke to him was a largish man, a little taller than he, yet stood proud and confident. He was aging, that's for sure. Silver hair, full, yet well kept, beard and mustache, hard, steely eyes and a well built frame. He was armed and armored like every other soldier, except for the fact that he had a longsword instead of the typical arming sword of the legion. Upon further inspection, Olden could see this man was no ordinary soldier. He bore the markings of an Imperial Cohort, the Kings finest guards before the Legions were implemented.

Olden was about to speak when the standing man held up a hand for silence.

"Before you start asking questions, Yes, I am not a typical soldier, Yes, I don't use a standard weapon, and yes, I am too old for this." The man stated.

Olden was a little bit surprised by the accuracy of the mans statement, considering all the thoughts had crossed his mind.

"I am Sir Leopold Ranke, once Imperial Cohort and Champion of the King's Court."

Olden sat for a moment, soaking it all in.

"Why... why are you just an ordinary soldier now? With that line of legacy, you should be a Lieutenant or something!" Olden prattled.

"Well my boy, there are some things that just don't make sense in this world eh?" Leopold laughed.

"They said I was too old to be an active officer in the Legion, and that they would give me a bureaucratic job! Ha! And for their response, I enlisted as a grunt. Technically, I was still of the age, and since my apprentice had gone off to train with Nauticus, there was no where left for me to go." he finished.

"Wow... that's amazing Sir... I-" Olden began

"Ehh. not now boy. Come, lets go for a stroll. I do well to answer your questions in fresh air." Leopold interjected.

The two of them left the tent, and began to walk around the camp when they got to crossing the small open area before Nauticus' tent. They quickly paused their conversation and hurriedly put the distance behind them. It was an excellent move, as a blade came flashing out of the tent flaps, and stuck fast into an old, withered tree. Olden was shocked and raised a hand to his bow, and Leopold settled him with a touch to the shoulder. They walked up to the blade, and noticed it was one of the Hospitalis Longswords.

"Hrrmmm, Nauticus must've taken it as a trophy... I guess it doesn't fit his fancy anymore." Leopold said, tugging the masterfully crafted blade from the tree.

"Here, use it instead of that butter knife they call a blade. You'll do much better against an opponent with the added reach."

Olden took the blade from Leopold, and stuck it through a belt loop where he had unbuckled the short sword that the archers carry. He was about to speak again when Leopold quieted him as they walked back to the tents.

"Before you ask, Yes. Yes I will teach you how to use it." Leopold chuckled.

Olden was amazed that this Gray Fox was still so sharp and walked closely behind him, excited to be around his new mentor.
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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Tuomir » Wed Jul 04, 2012 8:42 am

A sea of gray steel covered the horizon. It made movements, waves, but seemed to stay in the same place. The gray mass seemed to form up, assuming the figure of a robust man, that stood up looking down on the town. It's laugh was the sound of horns, it's feet covered in the steel and soldiers of Westmarch.

Rolnar shook his head and turned his head away. He wondered how he had found his way up to the walls, and how he would get down. Surely, there would have to be stairs somewhere, at least a ladder. If he couldn't find his way down, how would he be able to find himself a guide... a guide for what? Rolnar wasn't sure, but he was sure it was important. What if there was no way down? The thought scared him, that he would have to spend all eternity up on that wall. At least, what was left of that eternity.

After half a hour of searching for a way down, Rolnar had found himself a nice, shadowy nook on the wall, where he retreated to think about the situation. Muttering to himself, he fell asleep.
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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by jackmrnorris94 » Fri Jul 06, 2012 3:08 am

The battle stirred wildly, steel swung and blood shed everywhere, a thick dust was kicked up in the mayhem ensuing around the huge war parties. Swidhelm ducked under the canopy off swinging blades and stabbing spears to dispatch two attackers, each charging straight for him, fell limply to his side as Swidhelm's sword sliced through them with ease. Swidhelm froze, the battle slowly moving around him as all men hoping to oppose him had lost interest. He stood in the small clearing.

A shallow sea of blood and corpses lay around his feet, he looked around him at the battle that unfolded. Shields bashed against one another, swords danced, and spears pierced as the two walls dissolved into a bloody slaughter on both sides. No man gaining the bravery to strike forth or even stand along side Swidhelm, he took the time to observe further.

A storm of arrows and bolts and javelins roared overhead as the missiles were skirmished between both sides, and striking death into the battle's back ranks. Swidhelm looked down and broke an arrow embedded into his shoulder pad, thankful it hadn't pierced his flesh.

Still observing further suddenly Swidhelm saw another clearing forming before him, men were thrown up into the air like rag dolls, their bodies broken and shattered like toys. A monstrous figure manifested before Swidhelm, and slowly the battle had seemed to slow to a complete stop.

Nauticus stood before Swidhelm, a now truly awe and fear inspiring character. He raised his arm, and began to point in Swidhelm's direction. The hair on the back of Swidhelm's neck stiffened. He tightened the grip on his blade and readied his stance. But soon he noticed a host of more figures ready next to him, all ready weapons drawn. And suddenly a night, fully clad in shining armor walked out before them and Nauticus. Standing bravely and ready, the knight before them charged, and the band behind the knight followed, each in full stride.

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

Swidhelm awoke with a gasp, throwing himself forward and up off the ground.

"Huh." Ranger said fitting back into her armor, "Eager to keep moving are we?"

Swidhelm took a moment to absorb his dream, the air smelling cold around him, letting out a soft breath, "Yeah I guess you could say that..."

Ranger looked to him with a look of slight worry on her face, her eyebrow cocked, "You feeling okay?"

Swidhelm rose an eyebrow himself, "Yeah I'm fine, just didn't get a good night sleep is all."

Ranger nodded, "And your chest...?"

Swidhelm stood up and stretched, "Feeling better already..."

"Huh, well good." Ranger replied throwing her Quiver over her shoulder, "Get your armor on, I want to keep moving."

"Alright, Alright." Swidhelm said bending down to begin donning his armor, where are we headed anyways?"

"You'll see."

There was a slight pause between the two as Ranger watched waiting for Swidhelm to finish donning all of his armor. She too taking

"Can't be far seeing how yesterday we pretty much cleared a good amount of the forest." Swidhelm rolled his eyes, then fitted his last plate of armor, "All I know is we're heading north right?"

"Correct." Ranger said, her arms crossed as Swidhelm patted himself off and walked towards her.

"Where in the north though...?" He said passing her looking up that the increasingly lighter canopy above them.

"You'll see."

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

Swidhelm had been noting the increase in incline but now as the forest began to clear and the sight that laid before him became clear, his jaw almost dropped and his body froze. A large mountain stood, staring back down, before him.

"We're not climbing that are we...?"

"You bet." She replied with a smile, her face glowing in the midday light, "We have to hurry though, don't want it to be night and caught on that mountain out in the wind."

"Why are we going up there?" Swidhelm asked looking over the mountain, a look of disdain on his face.

"Meet some friends of mine hopefully... and I don't know... it kind of just feel right... like we should... call me crazy."

Swidhelm took a second to think, looking back at the mountain, and yes. He did have to agree, it did feel kind of right. He swallowed and took a breath.

"Yeah, it kind of does." He agreed and began to walk forward, Ranger at his side.

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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Chaos Farseer » Wed Jul 18, 2012 2:03 am

The tent smelled of vegetables and cured meat. The kitchen staff were running about, scrambling to prepare food for the entire camp, which was roughly one hundred strong.Oswaldo and Irandirel worked at a table along one of the canvas walls, cleaning, peeling, and cutting potatoes. A paige scrambled by, carrying a leg of beef to the large stew-pot on the fire outside. Just as he had arrived at the tent flap, one of the soldiers burst in, knocking him on his back and sending the leg of beef flying. Seeming not to notice or care, the soldier proceeded to shout: “What’re you people doing? Come on! Westmarch is here!”

Oswaldo had not, at that moment, expected to be assailed by a flying leg of beef. Yet that did not change the way the beef felt about him. As it hit the side of his head with a dull *splitch*, he dropped the knife and the potato, nearly severing two fingers of his left hand. Before he had recovered from the initial shock, the tent was empty save for our unlikely heroes. Oswaldo blinked. Then he blinked again. Then he shook his head. What just happened... The elf was already on her feet and she handed him a washcloth. Her face was adorned with a thin smile. Oswaldo picked up his assailant and stared at it. It glared back at him. Oswaldo decided that he didn’t want to mess with this particular piece beef, and placed it carefully on the table. Then he slowly stood up.

“Bloime. Oi tink it doesn’t loike me oll that moch.” He turned to Irandirel. “Whas oll the foss abou’ anyway?”
“I heard something about an army. Aside from that...”
“Oi already got two arms, thanks, oi don’t need anotha. Le’s go see where everyone went.”

The duo stepped outside the tent into the midday sun. Clouds of dust floated over the many footprints in the ground. A tardy soldier hopped by in one boot, muttering something about ‘lost battle plans’. He stopped to put on the other shoe then ran off in clinking armor.

Huor ran up to meet Oswaldo and Irandirel as he saw them exit the kitchen tent. “Come on, Westmarch is here! We need to get going, now!” He said, beckoning the pair.
“Go to where?” asked Irandirel. “To the town? I believe it is in this direction.”

As the trio rounded a tent at a trot, the field of battle came into view. Directly in front of them were the ranks of the Men-At-Arms, slowly lining up and sorting themselves into ranks. Some wore armor fit for knights, and the sun danced and sparkled as it reflected from plate and chain alike. As the formation completed itself, several stragglers hurried past them from the camp to fill in the lines.

The three fell in beside their companion. No sooner had they arrived than Cruros Trannyth opened his mouth to speak, only to be interrupted by a massive clamor across town.

“As much as I would like to take this time to speak, brothers, I fear we do not have the luxury of time. The enemy is at the gates. Let us go forth as we have been preparing to do and strike him down!” Cheers erupted through the ranks of men, and he turned and waved his hand forward. A lieutenant directly behind him quickly called out, “Quicktime, by the left, march!” At his command, the mass of bodies marched forward to the city at a steady speed to the beat of a single drum.
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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Jason » Sat Jul 21, 2012 8:58 pm

Evette sat upon her mare, staring at the small stone wall of the town that lay before her. It was not the largest that she had seen, but it still made enough of a barrier to stop anyone from just running into the town. She studied it for a moment, seeing the clamour of citizens and soldiers running alone the tops, and gathering behind it. There was a gatehouse with a relatively flimsy gate hanging in it, but the approach was much worse. She turned her head to a messenger who was awaiting any command and said;

"Bring in the Brothers from their meditation, tell them we require some... 'extra muscle' to remove an obstacle."

"Yes m'lday, right away." Was the response he gave her, and with a quick salute he ran off into the ranks of soldiers, skirting around the Drakes, as he was but a servant, and they were nobility.

Evette returned her gaze to the city, and from her vantage point she could see the opposing wall of the medium sized town. She could see a smattering of bodies marching up the lane towards the opposite side of the town.

"Seems as if our enemies have some friends!" she said, turning to the nearest Drake next to her, who just laughed heartily at her statement.

After a short pause, she heard a small cough as she turned to see one of the Brothers, an authorized and properly taught member of the Mage's guild.

"I was told that you require some help moving something that obstructs your path, Lady Evette." The mage spoke, very fluidly and smoothly.

"Yes Brother, I require you and some of your brothers' assistance with this 'wall problem' I seem to have." she replied.

The mage turned his head down the slope and nodded, letting a small "ah, yes." escape his lips.

"Very well, however, you must already know that even though we know the correct spells that would remedy this situation, none of us are that elder as to be able to project it very strongly. Usually we merely imbue the spell into a stone of a trebuchet or something of the like." The mage stated.

"Quite right, I did indeed know that Brother. But I had an idea that I think will work..." she queried.

From the look on the Brothers' face, he was quite intrigued and eager to try. He nodded, and Evette turned her head to the flood of soldiers around her.

"PAVISE, FIRST COMPANY, TO THE FRONT!" she ordered.

Within moments, fifty Pavise crossbowmen appeared to her side in formation. The captain saluted Evette and she told him her plan. He nodded, and with the help of a few of the Mage's. they began to weave incantations onto the bolts of the siege crossbows.

With that done, they began to trot down the slope towards the center of the wall, large tower shields packed tightly together as they began to come under assault from arrows and as they got closer, stones and javelins. Underneath the yelling from the walls and the clang of projectiles hitting the sturdy shields, the mechanical cranking of the hefty crossbows cut through the noise. Moments later, they all stopped, and with quick and precise movements they shell of shields opened up and the crossbowmen fired their augmented bolts, and what resulted shocked both parties of this battle. The bolts flew straight and true to their aim, to the lower half of the small wall, and as they impacted, instead of harmlessly bouncing or ricocheting, they elicited a thunderous clap as the shock wave nearly blew over the crossbowman formation, and stones were sent flying through the air, rent asunder from the huge blast. It took a moment to recover, but the Pavise crossbowmen quickly began an orderly retreat from the gaping hole in the wall.

Evette was extremely pleased with herself that her plan worked she watched the crossbowmen move far to the right of the slope, clearing the path for the riders.

"THE BREACH IS MADE, ONCE WE ARE HALF WAY, I WANT YOU TO COME AFTER US AND GIVE THEM ALL YOU'VE GOT!" Evette yelled, flipping down the visor on her helmet, again the lion visage catching the morning light.

"Hyah!" She yelled through the steel, and spurred her horse into a gallop.

The Drakes did the same, and they formed a orderly square formation behind her. As they got closer she nodded to Lord Gray, who raised his lance and held his arm out at shoulder length. They began to pick up speed, and the square formation swiftly became a wedge, with Evette at the tip, Lord Gray to her right. Through the slits in the steel she could see the soldiers had gathered in formation behind the gaping breach that was at least 50 men wide. They were braced and ready, with the teeming mass of civilians behind them, some looking not so courageous anymore.

Evette remained silent as she raised herself slightly in her saddle, and the bouncing of her lance ceased as she expertly held it tight and true. The gap came closer and closer as she was about to clash into the ranks of soldiers, she could hear the rumbling of the hill behind her, as the foot soldiers and infantry began to charge down the hill. Upon reaching the rubble of the wall, and felt a few arrows catch her shield, and one pierce the top layer of her left right pauldron. Her horse lept over a stone from the wall, and she was mere seconds away from the enemy formation. Her aim was straight and true, as her lance impacted her target square the in chest, shattering straight through the wooden shield he was holding, and the lance had appeared on the opposing side of the man. Moments later the world sped back up as the crash of horse and man and steel and wood erupted around her, and she was in midair over the ranks of soldiers that had lain before her. Letting go of the lance, she moved to pull her blade.

The battle had begun, and Evette was a hairsbreadth above it all.
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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Tuomir » Thu Jul 26, 2012 11:58 pm

A word in silence, repeated without end. A figure on top of a tower made out of shadows, a mouth filled with needle-like teeth chanting. A world of serenity and stillness, a canvas for the past. Rolnar could hear the word, but couldn't remember it. He was sure it was something important, but it only brought up emptiness in his mind. He looked around himself. He saw black water, endless, without shores. He saw a black sky, blending on to the water at the horizon. He saw a tower, shadowed yet visible. Nothing here was hidden, nothing was obscured, but nothing had light shed on it, either. The only sound was the repeating word, drowning into the silence, yet flooding it. Rolnar looked at his feet, and saw water. As he started thinking about the curious fact that he was standing atop water, he started sinking. As his ears sunk below the water level, he started hearing the all too familiar screams. He wondered who the people screaming were, and why he remembered their voice. He wondered why he felt flames, heard the crackle of fires when he was underwater. Above all this, he tried to remember the word that he kept hearing. Surely, it must be important if it was chanted from the top of the Veiled Tower.

Rolnar woke up abruptly when the wall he was sleeping on ceased functioning as intended. He saw ground somewhere above his eyes, and pieces of masonry everywhere around him. He couldn't hear a thing, nor feel a thing. As he hit the ground, both his hearing and sense of pain came back to him as a boiling flood. Hundreds of voices shouted nearby, smell of blood filled the air and Rolnar found himself paralyzed by pain. A magical blast had blown off the section of the wall he had been unlucky enough to fall asleep on, and had flung him in to a tree line near the city. He had landed on his left hand, which had been twisted to a very disturbing angle. Blood colored his rags, and his legs were burning with pain. As he raised his head, he saw his staff had somehow remained intact and rested on a branch above him. Something right in the world, he thought, and smiled.
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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by jackmrnorris94 » Mon Aug 06, 2012 10:23 pm

Swidhelm raised his arm to block the gale of snow that was howling down the mountain. He felt wrong for lying about his state of health to Ranger, but he was never one to complain. But now the pain of his wound was begging to shoot through his entire body as it was pounded by the hard wind and legs as he trudged through the waist high snow. Ranger's silhouette moved ahead of him easily in the treacherous terrain, Swidhelm was beginning to feel more like a liability then a true aid. They had been moving up this mountain side for some time now, but Swidhelm felt in his gut that something was right about this path.

Slowly Ranger's shadow slowed to a halt, kneeling down in the high snow. Swidhelm closed the distance between him and her and knelt at her side. Swidhelm whispered under the howling storm.

"What's wrong?" he said, his voice nearly drowned out by the winds.

He was given no reply. The two sat in the snow, scanning the mountainside that lay around them. The winds slowly gave way as they sat in place, and the white out air gave way to a clear and shining image. But still Ranger held her guard, slowly notching her bow. Swidhelm followed her move and drew his sword, shifting his weight in the snow as to look behind him.

"What's wrong...?" He repeated as his head swiveled.

Before Ranger could reply he was given his answer, six figures rose up from the snow surrounding, shaking the snow from their backs, axes raised high they raised a common cry,

"FOR CHIEF ELKHIDE"

Ranger let loose the arrow onto one of the charging marauders, the arrow finding it's place driving through the man's next, he was sent back into his snow covered hiding spot, a plume of powdery mist and blood was released into the air.

Ranger acted quick, notching another arrow in a split second, she let it fly true into another one of the tribal, this time piercing his armor and alike, sending him limp, rolling down the slight slope he charged down.

Before Swidhelm could react one of the men tackled him down the slope, sending up a flurry of snow as they both tumbled down the hill. Recovering from the tumble, his body filled with pain, Swidhelm drove the tip of his sword under the man's chin, staining the snows bellow him in a deep red, the man hopelessly beat his fists against Swidhelm's side until his arms and mind simply fell limp. Swidhelm looked back up the slope and rushed to Ranger's aid.

Ranger drew her sword and the sight of Swidhelm's fall and was now dueling, one sword against three axes. She quickly took the high ground and held the three men at bay with well placed blocks and ducks. Smiling at the sight of Swidhelm rushing their aggressors from behind.

Swidhelm made a wide over head chop with his blade driving into the center most marauder's collar, sending him lifeless down into the ground. The left most marauder swung towards Swidhelm with his axe, Swidhelm was quick to duck the the side, the air sang as the axe went bye. Ranger leaped from her position and in a lighting quick move sliced through the attackers neck.

The last marauder almost trembled where he stood looking at the duo which had just slayed his kin. He made motions to run but, to the pairs surprise an arrowhead drove through the man's forehead, killing him instantly, he fell face first down into the snow.

Now revealed, not standing more then twenty yards off was a white rag clad figure, bow in hand, he waved to both Swidhelm and Ranger friendlily.

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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Crusherfex » Sat Nov 24, 2012 5:23 pm

The gate tower swayed with the explosion, knocking the vat of oil down from its cradle and spilling its contents all over the ground in front of the gate.

“Bugger!”

Oswaldo scrambled to control the vat as the tower garrison evacuated in favor of stable ground and a better position from which to see the enemy army. By the time he had righted it, the only other people in the tower were four archers, who stayed in case Westmarch decided to abandon their impromptu gate and use the regular one. He stood a moment to catch his breath, looking down on the raging battle. I really don’t want to go down there. As he watched, a group of Westmarchian knights smashed into the defending line, sending the hastily gathered defenders flying and clearing the way for the main force.

“Oi! You. The woll’s lost. They broke through. Let’s g...” The tower shook under the impact of a siege weapon, sending Oswaldo backwards over the edge. The last thing he remembered was the shape of the now-empty oil vat as it blotted out the sun for him.

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

“Calcifer! Get up son!”

A surge of blood rushed up Clacifer’s body as he got up. He only had time to open his eyes and see Cruros Trannyth’s lumbering body next to him before he hurled. Trannyth grabbed Calcifer by the scruff and dragged him behind a small house when he finished vomiting.

“Can you hear me?” he asked, snapping his fingers next to Calcifer’s ears. Calcifer nodded slowly, his head aching. Trannyth sighed and handed him his bow. “You dropped this.”

“Thank you, sir. What happened?” Calcifer took the bow graciously and slung it on his back, next to his sack. He only felt a couple of arrows in it.

“Damn scoundrels blew up the wall. Everything’s falling apart,” Trannyth said, peering out from the wall. “Westmarch has won. The one chance we had we lost. We have to get out, take what we can and who we can.”

From across the road a couple of men whistled to Trannyth. Calcifer watched one of the men raise his bow and point it at Trannyth. The other unsheathed his sword. Calcifer instinctively raised his bow, but Trannyth jerked him down.

“They’re friendlies. Prepare a cross fire,” he said, unsheathing his own sword. A couple Feraxans scrambled down the road, passing Calcifer and Trannyth. The galloping of hooves grew louder and louder as the Westmarch horsemen drew nearer. Trannyth raised his sword in anticipation and flicked his left arm toward the street.

From across the street, the archer fired two shots straight at Trannyth, hitting a horse that came stampeding by. Trannyth sliced the horse’s front leg as it passed. The horse tumbled and collapsed, crushing the rider under him.

“FIRE!” Trannyth yelled. From above, a wave of arrows came flying onto the incoming horsemen. The two soldiers jumped forward and into the fray. “COME ON!” Trannyth yelled, grabbing Calcifer’s arm as he too surged forward.

Lycene was a warzone. The wall was in ruins. Buildings were on fire. Bodies were in pools of blood. And Westmarch poured into the town like a wave on a sand castle.

Calcifer look up at the rooftops to see several dozen Men at Arms firing down at Westmarch. He had no time to scan for his friends Huor, Oswaldo, or Irandirel, for a Westmarch soldier cried out as he swung his short blade at Calcifer’s head. Calcifer ducked and the man tripped and fell. Calcifer pulled out his knife and stabbed down on the helpless man. He stabbed once, twice, five times. He soon lost count, as his body soon became covered in more blood than his own. The man stopped screaming for mercy a while ago. Calcifer’s tears never stopped.

“Calcifer! MOVE!” he heard Trannyth yell. Calcifer wiped his face and jumped up from the mangled remains of the Westmarch and soldier, grabbing his short sword, and ran up to the next. He pulled out his bow and fired two arrows into a charging spearman. He grabbed the man’s spear and screamed as he lobbed towards the next soldier. The spear whistled across the air, with only the soldier’s scream overpowering it.

The battle cries of men, the whinnies of horses, and the screams of the dying never seemed to end. Calcifer quickly lost track of time. Had it been an hour? Was it a day? Or was it only five minutes? Calcifer stumbled on a dead body. He dropped his blade and lay there, helplessly. A horse began galloping towards him. He watched as the hooves stomped closer to his bleeding head. Just one more step and it would be over.

“Get up here son!” the familiar voice barked. Calcifer closed his eyes and didn’t move. A firm hand grasped his collar and lifted him up and onto the horse. Trannyth screamed out, his voice deafening everything else.

“MEN AT ARMS! PULL BACK TO BASE! RETREAT!” The horse galloped away from the endless wave of death, until, soon, the clamor of battle eased to the mere clashing of blades, which soon eased to the soft trotting of a tired horse.

“Get down son,” Trannyth said softly. Calcifer slid off the horse soggily and he rubbed his eyes. They were back at the Men at Arms camp. Only a couple men and women were there, grabbing their things and heading out. The occasional soldier or Feraxan would appear dragging himself down towards the base.

“Get some stuff. Food, water, maybe arrows. Then go. Thank you for your effort, but, for your sake, move on,” Trannyth said as he pulled a scabbard from the saddle. His face was scarred and bloody, and there was a huge gash on his chest. Calcifer gulped, wondering how he looked.

“What will you do?” Calcifer asked grabbing the scabbard from Trannyth’s outstretched hand.

“I made a promise to defend Lycene until my last breath. I don’t plan on breaking it. I will go back and fight, try to save who I can. Don’t make me have wasted my time saving you.” With that, he kicked the horse and it turned back, towards Lycene. After a few meters, Trannyth stopped, and turned to Calcifer.

“You aren’t an unlikely soldier, Calcifer. I see young men like you everyday, ready to lay down their lives for Ferax,” he said. “You’re an unlikely hero. You have a gift. Use it.”

And with that, Cruros Trannyth headed back towards Lycene.

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

Huor sat on the roof, watching as the walls of Lycene were turned to dust and rubble before the might of Westmarch. Cavalry began to pour through the gap, as the defenders attempted to regroup.

Around Huor were a few other men, villagers mostly, given hastily made bows, and a few arrows. The same could be seen on a few other buildings nearby. There were maybe 50 men. Barely enough to hold back the ordered ranks of Westmarch.

We’re doomed. Huor thought glumly, even with his combat expertise, he knew things weren’t going well. “Here, hold it like this.” He said, correcting a nervous villager as he practised drawing back the bow.

The enemy grew closer, ravaging the few defenders left. A swathe of the cavalry fell, as the Men at Arms fired at them from multiple sides, taking them by surprise. The screams of man and animal, Westmarch and Lycene, could be heard from all around.

The fighting continued, and Huor thought he caught a glimpse of Calcifer and Cruros fighting back to back, but he didn’t have time to check. A group of Westmarchians had broken free of the fighting and were heading deeper into the city.

“Look men! The enemy come, now is your chance!” Huor shouted to his small group of men, pointing to the detached group of enemies. “Draw back your bows, and pray to whichever gods you believe in!”

He drew back his bow, sighting one of the men.

“FIRE!” He called out.

He let loose his arrow, watched it fly straight and true, hitting the man in the neck.

The same could not be said of the rest of Huor’s men.

Many arrows went wide, falling short by metres. A few hit their marks, but did little against the armoured soldiers.

“Again!” Huor shouted, pulling another arrow from the quiver on his back.

Another soldier fell by his hand, but they were growing closer, and the accuracy of his men was getting no better. Soon the enemy would be upon them.

Huor only had time to fire 2 more arrows, before the Westmarchians reached them. With torches in hand, they began to burn down the buildings.

The few archers scattered, diving from the building, only to be slaughtered by the soldiers below. Huor continued to fire arrows at them, but the building was catching fire fast, flames began to lick up at Huor, burning his legs. He couldn’t stay here much lon-

The building collapsed, it’s structure destroyed by the fire. Burning debris scattered into the soldiers, as Huor fell down into it all.

Far away he could hear a voice calling “MEN AT ARMS! PULL BACK TO BASE! RETREAT!” and he thought, That’s it, we’ve lost...

-=0=-

“Get up!” The sounded distant, far away.

Everything was darkness around him.

“Wake up! Damnit!” There it was again, closer.

He thought he recognised that voice...

“Get up!” Now he could feel something shaking him too, and his eyelids began to flutter open.

Cruros Trannyth stood above him, a few men around him. As Huor tried to stand, pain lanced through his back and he fell back down.

“Thank the gods! He’s awake!” Cruros cried out. “You,” He pointed at a nearby Man at Arms “Look after him, get him back to base camp.”

“Yes sir!” The man replied.

“Good” Cruros said, as he ran off, back into the battle.

“Th... thank you.” Huor managed to get out, between gasps of pain. His back felt like it was on fire.

“Not a problem” The soldier tasked to look after him said. “We had to drag you from the wreckage of that burning building, we all thought you were dead!”

All Huor could do was nod his thanks.

“We need to get you back to base, will you be alright to walk?”

Huor nodded.

“Alright then.” The soldier grabbed Huor by the arm, helping him up and supporting him as they slowly made their way back to camp.

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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Chaos Farseer » Mon Nov 26, 2012 1:24 am

Plip.

A crimson raindrop touched a stone. This stone sat in a field of many stones, but this one was red. Above it trembled a blade sated with its dark purpose. The runes on the steel weeped with red, and another drop rained down.

Plip.

An elven girl coughed and watch the dust settle down onto a familiar black and red uniform. A red stain grew right under the man’s neck. His head rested against a wooden wall and his cold shoulder. She looked into the man’s neck and watched the red dribble off of sliced muscle and crimson bone. She took a slow step back.

Plip.

The girl watched this drop spread over dust and roll down the side of a new stone and touch the earth. Over it was a blade, and that blade rested in her hand. The steel sang no more. She pinched her bright green dress with an unsteady hand and slid the blade through. The red covered the folds of the cloth and overflowed onto her hand. She stared at the warm crimson on her hand and watched a drop roll off her finger.

Ting.

Steel on steel. Irandirel gasped. She looked down the road. Black and red cut through brown-clothed farmers a few houses away. The girl walked the other way, staying out of reach of the man, her tinted blue eyes watching his glazed pupils. Then she was around the corner, and only then did she run. Two cloth soles patted against the unmarked stones and faded into the distance.

Plip.

A drop of red fell from the cooling man’s body and landed on a piece of carved wood. The drop rolled over its polished side and then stained a new stone. A matching piece of curved wood lay next to it, both forgotten.

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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by NotSoNinja » Mon Dec 10, 2012 11:32 pm

There was no light. Oswaldo could hear things, but could see nothing. His eyes rolled uselessly in their sockets. The sounds and silence mixed together into an echo that beat incessantly at the inside of his head, leaving him unable to tell one from another. He couldn’t feel his legs or his left arm. All he felt from his right was pain. He tried to move. Nothing. Then pain. It was too much. Slowly he slipped into blackness. As it engulfed him, the echoes dimmed. Oswaldo relaxed and welcomed the peace it brought.

-=[0]=-

The darkness rippled. It bent, and formed. It had shape, yet no size. It was all, yet was none. The seal came from nowhere. It bloomed from the darkness, splashing forth as if onto shore. It looked at him. He neither cared nor noticed. It waddled along the nothing until it was right next to him. And then it dove inside him. And then he was gone.

-=[0]=-

Oswaldo’s head hurt. He felt like he’d just been hit on the head with an anvil... or an oil vat... Oh. He opened his eyes. The world was blurred, light below and dark above... or was the light above? Oswaldo tried to stick his hand into the darkness and immediately encountered a large amount of dirt. So that stuff’s the ground... It took about a minute for his vision to return to the point of being able to verify that hypotheses. During that time, Oswaldo attempted to move his limbs one by one. His arms were fine, considering the situation. His left leg felt like it had been smashed with an anvil... not too far off from what really happened, he supposed. The other leg just wasn’t responding. He tried to sit up as his vision returned. Nothing happened. he tried again, clenching the staff in his hand. His efforts were rewarded by a momentary, slow increase in elevation, then a stab of pain, and a return to the ground. Oswaldo looked at his staff, curious why it had given way suddenly. Also, why was it squishy? It took him a moment to realize that his “staff” was his right leg. This prompted much blinking, and then a slow check of his lower body. Sure enough, there was an empty slot for that leg right next to his left. Oswaldo looked back at his leg. Then at his body.

Huh?

I could’ve sworn that was attached a second ago... Come to think of it, where am I?


Oswaldo sat up, his severed leg momentarily forgotten, and looked around. He was lying on the side of the road, half covered in grasses, near a small cottage. The only prominent feature he could see about it was a large stew pot sitting in the window. The remains of Lycene were behind him, more smoke and ashes than a town now. He decided not to question fortune. Oswaldo closed his eyes for a second. he sighed. Then he leaned on his staff and began to get up. A split second before he fell, he remembered he’d lost his staff, and was leaning on his leg. Then he fell to the ground and hit his head. How could I have forgotten that? Maybe if I just put it back... Oswaldo attempted to reunite his leg and body, to no avail, as both sides of the wound were long cauterized and just hurt to be put together. That was when Oswaldo remembered he knew magic.
"aut insanit homo, aut versus facit" - Horace

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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Chaos Farseer » Sun Dec 16, 2012 8:17 pm

A cloth slipper patted the smooth stone road. Small stains of blood and dust speckled across the green fabric. The shoe raised off the ground and a tender hand rubbed its blackened sole. Pebbles fell from the pockmarked underside. Then the pointy-eared girl kept walking.
Her eyes ignored the houses with their doors ajar, ignored the blazing pyres of wooden roofs behind her, ignored everything but the stone road in front of her. Her ears heard the din of battle two streets to her right, heard the twangs of bowstrings and the following screams, heard the cries of men who could not stop an army’s advance, but she noticed none of these. Her gaze followed her short steps, each one a conscious effort to make. Her breaths wavered past her heavy heart. Her thoughts spun around a single act she committed long minutes ago.
Murder

The stone road filled her view and never seemed to end, just like the road of her thoughts. A patch of blue interrupted both. Irandirel looked up to see shirts and pants and socks and a dress or two spread across the road. Next to an abandoned house lay a wooden cart, with wood splinters scattered over the stone street and one wheel resting the other side of the road. On top of the cart, near the cut leather reins, sat a rosewood chest with gold-colored metal edges. A pink sleeve drooped out of the tilted box, its end adorned with puffy white lace. Irandirel hopped from tip-toe to tip-toe over blue and green and red garments once pure in color now covered in the dirt and grime of footprints. The elf girl peered into the chest, examining the few remaining clean colorful clothes of a family long gone. Some black children’s shoes and a pair of large leather boots rested on the side of the wooden chest. She reached out to the boots and yanked her hand away. She took two steps to the left side of the cart, peering into the gap between its raised side and the wooden house next to it.
Metal steps. Rubbing of chainmail. Irandirel jumped over the cart. She rolled underneath. Sword clasped in her hands. Heart pounding. Not breathing. Around ten sets of footsteps jogged by with their rustling leather and clinking chainmail and their hurried breaths all following the lead of a hushed voice “Quiet now.” The soldiers stopped and crept away on slow footsteps and quieted breathing which only lasted a few seconds but felt like too many minutes before the steps hurried up and got further and were drowned out by battle cries and screams of surprise. The girl took a quick breath and rolled to the side of the wagon and peaked under its edge to see nothing but the crushed clothes and many bits of wood some of which jabbed into her arm but she didn’t notice. She turned around and crawled to the end of the wagon, looking as she did so but seeing nothing and hearing the snap of wood and a gasp of pain and the clash of steel on steel all from around the corner of a house on the other side of the road.
Irandirel wiggled out and pushed herself up. She inhaled. Her beaten cloth sandals made tiny taps on the stone road as she ran past the corner, and she could see men wearing black plate mail bringing their swords into a man and his fallen companions, the man armored in simple mismatched leather carrying a shattered longbow and a short sword impaled on a black soldier’s sword and making eye contact with the elven girl before she passed the corner and saw no more. She didn’t stop running until there were no more houses to pass. The sharp stone wall of Lycene loomed above her. Clashes of steel echoed in the distance, although that distance shrunk with each passing second. The girl breathed, more out of fear than of fatigue, and ran her fingers through tangled red-orange hair. A small gust blew across her head, picking up a few strands before setting them down again. Her hand, still slightly bloodstained, patted her head looking for something which wasn’t there. She spun around and looked down the road she came from, only to see a tiny green hat rustling on the corner of a broken cart many houses down. Behind it ran more black-clad soldiers, carrying torches and small shiny objects. Behind them burned houses she hadn’t noticed before. She glanced at the green speck and let out a small sigh before turning left to the south gate of town.
She stopped. Voices. Where? Twenty, maybe twenty-one paces slightly to the right. She crept up to the edge of the house with her back against the wall. Her fingers clenched the elven blade. She glanced at the gate and its sharp stone blocks. It would only take twelve paces to pass the abandoned gatehouse and round the corner.
“...emove the arrow, sir.” Male. Words evenly spaced and punctual.
“No need.” Male, older. Closer. Higher? Voice energetic, or tried to be. “I’ll be fine.” Metal clopped on stone. Armor creaked. Something under the second man snorted. “Who’s left?”
“Just us.” Gruff male. Closer. “James’ group didn’t hold ’em off for long.”
Irandirel poked her head around the corner. Two men stood in the street, swords drawn, one on each side of a man seated on a gray horse. The middle man sat up straight, wearing armor made of many metal plates, all chipped and dented. The feathers of an arrow stuck out of his right shoulder, and he held a sword loosely in his left hand. Spots of blood spread across his shoulder, his helmet, his legs and his horse. The man on the right stood a full head taller, wearing similar metal plates similarly damaged and holding a particularly wide sword in a large right hand. The thin man to the left stood next to a backpack, wearing a suit of tiny chain links and holding a shield. He appeared unhurt. All three stood with their backs facing the gate, watching the fires in the distance. “Pity. Any villagers?” asked the man on the horse. His voice sounded familiar, but more tired.
“None, sir. The last ones left four minutes ago.” First man again.
“Didn’t see none,” said the third man.
The elf dashed for the gate. “Gil?” asked the familiar voice. She looked behind to see the third man charging at her, broadsword overhead, nostrils flaring. Irandirel yelped and raised her blade, one palm resting on its flat face. “Gil! Hold it!” The man slashed horizontally at her side. Irandirel fell out of the way. He reared up for another swing, but a blade tapped his. The man on the horse looked down on both of them, the girl in particular. Both of them look at each other in confusion, until the man’s eyes widen. “You were with the boy, Calcifer,” said Cruros Trannyth. A long, dripping gash cut across his chainmail-covered chest. Trannyth’s right arm hung limp, the blood underneath a steel pauldron matching the cuts and scars across his exposed face. Blood dripped from his left leg. Irandirel nodded, still propped up on her arms and still watching Gil’s squinted, quivering eyes.
“Put down the sword, Gil.”
“She-”
“She didn’t do anything to you.”
Gil lowered the sword, eyebrows still furrowed.
The thin man offered a hand. Irandirel looked at it, then grabbed it and pulled herself up. “Are you injured?” he asked. She shook her head, red strands flopping each way.
Trannyth still looked down at her with an unclear expression. “Listen, you need to leave. This town’s done for. Go to the capital or go home, but don’t stay here.” He turned to the thin man by her side. “Marcus, you want to help her out?”
“No, sir. You need our help.”
A cry echoed from down the road. A wall of black and red loomed in the distance, running towards them from many houses away. “Go!” shouted Cruros as he reigned his horse around. Irandirel looked at Gil, his back turned towards her.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
He grunted.
Irandirel backed away as the three men walked towards the incoming tide. A tall figure in gold-trimmed plate armor rode a white horse straight towards the trio. The elf thought she saw a few strands of red hair trail out of the knight’s lion-shaped helmet.
“Last chance. Marcus?” whispered Cruros.
“Until the very end, sir.”
“Gil?
“Ain’t quittin’ now.”
“Alright.” Cruros Trannyth raised his blade into the air, light flashing off of bloodstained steel. “In the name of freedom!” he shouted, “CHAAAAAARGE!” The Men at Arms ran towards the Westmarch commander, their cries of fury smothered by the roar of a hundred men.
Irandirel turned and ran away from the doomed town, hearing the short-lived clash of steel before a massive cheer. She ran past houses and farmland until the stone street ended and split into two. A dirt road trailed to the right, wagon ruts leading to the forest she always knew. Another road turned to the left, towards a circle of white tents. She picked the latter.
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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Rangrok1k » Tue Dec 18, 2012 5:15 pm

"Aauugnargnak!"

Tim had forgotten how hard it was to talk with a pike down your throat... or through your throat to be exact.

Ominous armies were marching past his cottage not long ago. Fortunately, Tim had a stroke of ingenuity! People tend to ignore things that are already dead, and especially if they aren't moving. So, what better way for an army to ignore you than to have a pike going up, through your ribcage, into your collar bone, into your chin, and out of your open gaping mouth. Gruesome, yet effective. For added effect, he decided to half-bury himself in the dried, crumbly dirt that was (at one time) his garden. In addition, the rest of him was coated in an assortment of dead plants and weeds.

Ah, but now his seventh midday nap was being interrupted! He hadn't noticed the man walk in, but he clearly wasn't a military man. So why not greet him? What's the worst that could possibly happen?

Still with a pike in his ribcage, he hobbled up to a pseudo-kneeling position. He gave a friendly wave with his left arm/soup ladle that he'd forgotten to remove. With his remaining limbs he began pawing across his front yard, shambling about with as much grace as one would expect from a shambling undead.
Clearly, I'm a mere walking corpse, shambling through walls of text.

Inactive? Maybe...

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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Jason » Wed Dec 19, 2012 1:08 am

The crash of flesh and steel had filled the air around the town, the muffled thuds and screeches of metal permeating through her helm. Her blade shone in the rising sunlight as she brought it down to bear upon her foes, the righteous fury of a being encompassed with rage. She was angry, enraged, and furious. Every man bore the face of Swidhelm, every woman, his Ranger companion.

The charge had penetrated deep within the town, the formation of mounted knights bursting through the enemy militia like a wave before a wall of sand. The footmen of Westmarch soon came rushing through the gaps, engaging the remainders of the reforming militia. As Evette and the Drakes circled through the town, hitting small bands of soldiers and herding her enemies towards the main part of her army, she found a family leaving their home. She slowed as they hurriedly stuffed packs and boxes, and went out the door of their home. She had stopped in front of the door, with the man coming out first, directly in front of her. He was bumped into by his wife, who in turn was holding the hands of two daughters. The man looked up at this armored knight, white and gold in resplendence, lion visage snarling across its helm, its red plume waving gently in the hot, dry air. He did not for a moment avert his gaze, as his wife hid their daughters close to her and looked down at the ground. Evette moved her hand towards the helm, slowly raising the visor of her helm, revealing her scarred face to the man, who grew wide eyed.

“I am no faceless monster. You have the right to know the face of the woman who took everything from you, should you want to enact your revenge.” She quoted, the words coming from a not-forgotten mentor that came before Nauticus.

The man looked upon her; a serious, but not angry, look to his face took over as he nodded at her. He picked his wife up to her feet and gently herded them away from Evette, not once turning from her gaze until he left her sight. Evette looked out into the burning town, forgotten belongings and bodies lay strewn amongst the cobbled stone roads and the tidy homes, and she looked out with longing.

---
When Evette was younger, much younger, she had her parents taken from her, particularly, her mother. She was a young nobless, not more than nine or ten. Setting about the town they had been ambushed by a band of thieves. Her father died by an arrow to the chest, quickly and painlessly. It had begun before Evette knew what was happening. Her mother pulled her behind her as a shield, and brandished a small knife towards the bandits in an attempt to protect her daughter. As the bandits closed in, a bell rang, calling the guards that district of Westmarch. They panicked, and killed her mother and began to loot the bodies as Evette stood there, terrified.

But she did not stay terrified; she grew angry, enraged, furious. She picked up the small knife her mother had and charged the nearest man, gutting him upon the street he stood. She turned to the others, who were dumbstruck with what had just happened, and she charged them as well. The bandits were confused for a moment, and it was their folly. She had stabbed, sliced, and gutted the three men before the guards had arrived. She stood, knees crooked from exhaustion, hunched over and breathing raggedly. Her dainty and delicate dress frumpled and stained with litres of spilt blood. Her white shoes dyed a deep hue of red. A tall, proud man had come running, leading ten guards down the streets to meet this picture, and was unsure of what had happened. People who had watched informed him, and he walked up to the girl, who had not moved since.

“Young lady, I think you should come with me.” He said to her, bringing his hand to her shoulders and gently pushing her forwards as they walked.

“Captain Leopold... what will we do with her?” One of the guardsmen asked.

“I... I don’t know.”
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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by jackmrnorris94 » Thu Dec 27, 2012 4:07 am

"Who's banner do you fly?!" The figure called down, cupping his hands around his mouth and looking ghostly in the blowing snow drifts. Swidhelm sheathed his sword, Ranger stepping up behind Swidhelm did the same. Swidhelm froze searching for the right words in his mind.

"The cloth of the Keepers!" He called back up, ",Holders of the north pass!"

"Be you the blood of the Picten!?" The figure called down again, inching towards them, his bow now at his back. Stopping to stand upon a rock, "The men who shall keep the pass, in the darkest and lightest of days?"

Swidhelm gave a weak smile, "The purest of blood, yet black in title!". There was a silence. The wind picked up, and for a moment a wall of white swept the mountain side. When the white passed, a crowd had appeared around Swidhelm and Ranger, dozens of white clad figures, all swords drawn and their knees bent. All but the one who stood upon the rock above them.

"Then the true king of the pass lives!" The man called down, ", And the Picten blood continues! And with it the legacy of the pass! The Keepers of the Pass!"

The voice echoed down the mountainside, and independently figures around them in an harmonious manner and an array of voices called out in agreement, "The Keepers of the Pass! The Keepers of the Pass! The Keepers of the Pass!"

Ranger looked to Swidhelm excitedly, whom looked back at her, a smile on his face, "We're home." The man before them made his way down the slope and approached the two, pulling down the white cloth that covered his face to reveal himself. A rough and dirty face, shaved head, broken teeth, a crooked nose and a crooked smile, the man was glowing with joy, "The king returns. We had made you out to be dead."

"The Westmarch could only wish I was killed so easily, my friend." Swidhelm laughed back. Suddenly Ranger walked in front of him, standing between Swidhelm and the man.

"Clediff?" Her voice asked. The man stopping before her, squinting at the girl before him.

"If it ain't Ranger Bloodbow!" He said excitedly, laughed as Ranger jumped out to hug him, Clediff spinning her around before lightly throwing her into the snow, "As if my day couldn't get any better, the best girlie I've ever trained is coming in along with the Prince of the Pass!"

Swidhelm laughed lightly, "How have the years been treating you and the Scouts, Clediff?"

The man's smile retreated, and a sudden seriousness took his tone, "Poorly. Come, may you see your proud people." Clediff turned and began to climb back up the mountain, motioning for Ranger and Swidhelm to follow. Ranger stood and dusted herself as Swidhelm trudged past, swiveling his and watching as the figures surrounding them dissipated into the mountain side.

-----------

Swidhelm walked beside Clediff in the tunnel, Ranger trailed behind talking with other men and women of the Scouts. Clediff walked with an odd limp in his steps, struggling to keep up with Swidhelms long strides.

"The resistance is gaining strength everyday, Swidhelm." Clediff said, placing a hand on his sword hilt and tightening his grip with every step of his left leg, "When the city fell, there was utter chaos. But me and my Scouts have been able to reestablish some order.". A small child ran by, a bundle of wooden swords in his hands and a loose fitting Westmarch helmet on his head, Clediff smiled at the boy as he ran by, and the boy returned it. "The Clan of the Three Wolves has pledged it's allegiance to our cause, along with many of the other mountain tribes. Elkhide's bunch declared for the Westmarch, that was until you slayed what we believe to be the last of them not so long ago. Lord Dani and what remained of his army marched up here not too long ago..."

"Lord Dani?" Swidhelm interrupted, raising an eyebrow at Clediff, "Has Dani given up his crown?"

"He's given it to you." Clediff responded shortly, "His brother was killed in the city, and with him went the Crown of the Lands Past the Cascadian. Lord Dani happily handed it to me below the gates of Cryfder. His instructions, to hand it to you, my King."

Swidhelm walked, a sudden alarm in his mind, "Cryfder? The city's tunnels and passages have been reopened?"

"Where do you think we're headed?" Clediff smiled, "For three centuries the under city has sat silently below the mountain tops. And only at the darkest of times will it's gates be open to those who stand loyal to it's banner, and it's torches be lit for those who seek refuge from times of war."

"The underground fortress of Cryfder..." Swidhelm let that soak in, "How much room is there in this place?"

"When it was first built many centuries ago, King Beiddgar had built it to house nearly a hundred thousand to brave the harsh winters of those times. And although the harsh winters have passed, the fort still remains stable even after the centuries. The whole thing is a sight to behold."

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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Jason » Wed Jan 02, 2013 5:34 pm

“There are things far more noble and ancient in this world young one... things that have not been forgotten by all...” Anatar wove his dust covered hands in an intricate and elegant pattern, the small tiles of varied faded colours began to move and rearrange into faces and shapes, as a depiction of a bustling world grew before all those to see it.

“This is the world as I knew it, vibrant and full of life... My people were those of the earth, humble farmers and workers of the land. We... were a simpler folk than most, but we took our pride in the work we did” Anatar began, a strong timber in his voice as he pined for his past.

“You see, in my age... an age gone past... the realm of gods and men were one in the same. They strode freely amongst their followers, and when their time was up... they granted their will to the most loyal of followers.” Anatar gestured to the tablet, showing men of the earth toiling, sailors and fishermen, workers, inventors, architects and smiths all excelling at their crafts, and one individual each excelling amongst each caste. “For you see, our father, the head of our power was the wisest and fairest amongst us all... He made the choice to give the powers of godhood to his subjects in turn for their devotion. And it worked!” Anatar began to emit a laboured laugh, but with enough force to shake the long standing dust from the inner walls of his hall.

The tablet continued to portray the utopian life of his time, however, on the far right, a patch had not moved since the great stone rose from the floor. Anatar let out a deeply saddened sigh as he made a slight flick of his finger, sending the still tiles to life. “However, all was not to remain... For the caste of the warriors held a terrible fate. The most favoured of their kind, Nauticus, was ascended to godhood at the end of the previous before him. The warriors were the most feared in the land, as well as the most respected... but that soon changed. Nauticus used his station as god of Storms and Fury to change the warriors, and lure their faith to himself rather than to our father. He started an insurrection amongst the gods, challenging our father’s right to rule, and waged a war that spanned... everything.” Anatar’s dust caked and beady eyes grew sad as he fortold the downfall of his people, and he moved a hand to support his chin, heavy with grief.

“Sides were chosen. Banners were raised in the name of Nauticus or the All-Father. The once great smiths who forged things of elegance and beauty now beat their hammers to the drums of war. All but one god sided with the All-Father... a young... naive god... He was swayed by the mighty words of Nauticus, set loose by the confusion he was easily taken from the right path to the path of darkness.” Anatar hung his head low, the hand supporting his chin falling soundlessly onto his sandy leg.

“The one peaceful people were waging a pointless war against eachother, for the battle of the gods would be the deciding factor... Great armies of the faithful were amassed in the Godsplain, and clashes unknown to this world wrought havoc as thousands died in an instant. Resplendant armies in silver and bronze, weapons of war and silken banners bearing the symbol of the Father, and brutally efficient, cold, colourless armies bearing the Bolt and Sword of Nauticus.”

The Tablet began to swirl and change once more, the heavenly plains surrounded by mountains and rolling hills of the Godsplain came to view, the two immeasurable armies massed on either side.

“Nauticus ruled from the head of his army, with his loyal subject at his side. The rest of the gods ruled from behind their armies for protection... Do not mistake my words young ones, for these gods were not weaklings amongst a litter... but the power of Nauticus was more... more than enough to shake the hearts of even his brothers and sisters...” Anatar said, a grim visage plastered over his stony face.

“The clash was immense; immense enough raise the mountains where you now stand, the mountains at the center of the world. The battle was the last stand of the gods, and indeed it was the last. Nauticus took his revelry in killing his kin, making sure to end each by his own hand. When the armies of the faithful were defeated, Nauticus marched to the temple of the All-Father, his gore-splattered and blood stained blade in hand, crackling with the power to kill. He entered the hall to confront the Father, and engaged in a titanic dual, which will never be matched again. The All-Father gathered almost all of his strength to send Nauticus from the Godsplain down to the mortal realm... so more time could be bought at the price of the mortals souls...” Anatar gasped.

“Nauticus crashed to the mortals below, their perpetual state of war gone unchecked for years as the gods waged their own war. The All-Father was near death after his dual with Nauticus, and needed time to regain his strength, but one god was nearly forgotten in the ordeal... The fallen one, the one god that Nauticus had swayed to his side... Me.”

A dry sob could be heard grating through the stones and slabs, the great plinth still raging as tiled warriors killed each other on a massive scale. Gaining some composure, Anatar once again spoke.

“I looked down upon the mortal plane, kings proclaiming to be gods had risen in our places, all forgotten in our own turmoil. I looked down and wept. Wept until I could not weep anymore, until the mortal realm was flooded with rivers that snaked from the mountains... The All-Father forgave me, and sent me to gather the remnants of my brothers and sisters. With the last of his power, he bound the tiny fragments of their essence into a soul, and sent it to the mortal realm. He looked upon me and gave me my charge within this mountain, to watch and protect the mortals when the time of war would end... and here I am.”

The tiles now shifted to the killing grounds of an endless war, Nauticus had become the leader of a large faction to the West, and slaughtered the countless mortal souls with ease and pleasure. It looked like he had almost forgotten about the gods, and took his pleasure in killing these mortals just the same.

The remnants of that soul would not make it to the ground whole, and only a tiny fleck found its mark, a small home far in the West, away from the killing and savagery of war, landing within a small home on a silent farmstead in a quiet night.

“That tiny fragment planted itself in a young person that night, a person who would be charged with stopping Nauticus. In the years, the war was going poorly, and Nauticus had nearly assumed control of the mortal world. In the final days of the faithful, an army dedicated to the All-Father marched towards Nauticus, the remnants of countless mortal armies untied by the chosen, now thirty years of age. The golden warrior, resplendent in shimmering armor atop its white steed charged Nauticus, the righteous fury of its army behind it. The armies clashed and the battle raged for days, the golden warrior locked in combat with the God of War.” Anatar shifted the tiles as the figures grew bigger as the tablet pictured only the two fighting.

“The mortal fought on without sleep, nor food, nor drink. This had stunned and overjoyed Nauticus, as he reveled in a challenging duel. However, he had not anticipated that there could be a creature, immortal or mortal, that was angrier than he. The warrior let out the pent up rage of hundred of lost souls, and gained the upper hand with a warcry that shook the plains they fought on. Nauticus was run through, but did not laugh. His face turned in agony as the blade burned within him, the fury of those he killed passing through him... the golden warrior a catalyst for the hate he had generated. He thought quickly, as he stole the souls of his faithful army, imprisoning them within a realm all his own just before he was cast away into the void, where he would remain in complete isolation for a millennia.”

“Not even I know how he was released young one... but he has returned, and I have felt him gathering his former power to subjugate the mortal world once more.” Anatar finished, the great stone plinth sinking into the ground with the visage of the golden warrior still upon it.

“Now... you have been chosen, like few others in this realm, to be charged with the stopping of Nauticus. You will be faced with hardship, sadness and anger, but you must overcome them all. You alone are no match... for him. Nor will you ever be. It is your goal to find the means to awaken this golden warrior, for it did not fade away, it has merely laid... dormant. The others will receive quests... of their own. You however... You must find the sword. No other, can. I know not where it lay... but I can only point you Northward, to the frozen wastes on the top of the world..”

Anatar shifted in his black throne, the rags that covered his huge body emitting small plumes of fine dust into the air.

“I cannot leave my throne, for it is my duty and my punishment by the All-Father, it is up to those who I have called to my aide. I know not when they will arrive, but I pray... that it will be soon...”
Regardez l'aventure à venir
Esse Eximius Ad Invicem
Bad Company, till the day I die.


DragonRider

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