Unlikely Heroes: Content

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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Crusherfex » Tue Jan 15, 2013 5:40 pm

The day quickly turned dark. Calcifer wasn’t sure if it was because of the smoke coming from the burning town, or if the sun was setting. Neither was very comforting.

Calcifer headed into the vacant Men At Arms camp. The soft lull of the wind and the flap of the tents droned out the sounds of destruction at Lycene. The fire that was so bright in the morning was now just a few fickle embers, slowly dying.

Calcifer entered one of the largest tents. Inside, it was nearly empty, the tent ransacked earlier that day. Tables littered with small knives and bolts, swords stacked together on racks, a bow snapped in half disregarded on the floor was all that was left. Calcifer moved through the tent, taking what he thought necessary. He grabbed a small combat knife from the floor and began twisting it through his fingers. He tossed it up in the air and tried to catch it but instead cut his palm open.

“Aaarhh!” Calcifer screamed, hurling the dagger at some empty wooden shelves, impaling them. Calcifer sat down on the floor and stared into nothingness. His head throbbed, his whole body pulsed in pain. His hand was wet and sticky with his own blood. Slowly, his world became darker. It became blurrier. It became slower.


“Hello? Is anyone here?” someone shouted.


Calcifer’s world jolted back to life. Someone was in the camp. A man, from what he could tell from the voice. The man’s footsteps, which became louder and louder, were painful bongs in his head.

Calcifer groaned and shut his eyes tight and pulled his hood over his head. The shuffling of feet came closer, and he heard the tent flap ruffle.

“Calcifer?” the voice called out as it approached him. Calcifer sighed and opened his eyes, looking at two dirty leather boots. He slowly turned his head up to see a thin man wearing a dusty tunic with his arm stretched out towards Calcifer. The scar on his face was unforgettable.

“Hey Huor,” Calcifer grunted. Calcifer grabbed his hood and shoved it down, and combed his braid over his ear. Ignoring the elf’s friendly gesture, Calcifer got up by himself and grabbed at some arrows on a nearby table.

“Packing already?” asked Huor. “Let me help.” The elf spoke in an oddly cheerful voice, yet Calcifer clenched his teeth when he heard it.

“Hey, we’re alive!” Huor said. He sounded almost cheerful, though he had a slight limp by the look of it.

Calcifer strapped an oak quiver to his back, filling it with the arrows he collected.

“Why so quiet, we survived the battle, even if we lost...” Huor said, patting Calcifers back.

Calcifer angrily shoved Huor’s hand off. He grabbed a nearby rapier and hastily shoved it into the scabbard, cutting his palm even more. Huor reached for Calcifer’s arm, but Calcifer jerked away and stormed out.

“Do you need help packing?” Huor tried instead, following him out of the tent.

“I don’t need help, especially from someone like you,” Calcifer snapped back as he went to the mess hall of the camp. The sky was darker by the second. Calcifer stomped on the camp fire on the way to another tent, where the camp’s food lay, waiting for the occupants to return. Huor faltered, taken aback.

“W-what do you mean?” Huor asked, following Calcifer into the tent. Calcifer said nothing as he shoved a few apples and potatoes in his sack, which he then tied around his leg, over a large scar. He headed out of the tent, bumping into Huor on the way out.

“Calcifer?” he asked. “What’s wrong?” Calcifer stopped in the center of the camp.

A mighty cry echoed from within Lycene’s walls. Calcifer looked towards the flaming town, trembling in rage towards the cheers of plunder and conquest. His hands clenched until blood dripped between his fingers.

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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Jason » Wed Jan 23, 2013 1:45 am

Olden had been training at the hands of Leopold for weeks now, as the army marched across the northern mountains eastward towards the Dwarven kingdoms. The trudging snow and howling winds bit at their face and their feet as the blowing snow massed in enormous drifts large enough to bury an entire platoon of men. The only respite the men and women had gotten was the occasional trip through the valley’s that clung to the slopes of adjacent mountains. All the while, Leopold instructed Olden on proper form and technique, and to his surprise the young man was becoming quite the swordsman. But Olden was not the only person to undergo change, the entire legion was changing. The men and women started becoming more cohesive, more mechanical; they could operate with anyone without turmoil or indecision. The standard uniforms changed too, the plain red tunics becoming adorned with small trinkets and spoils, capes and furs appearing more frequent in an attempt to keep warm. The polished and gallant army had become somewhat gritty, more learned looking. Veterans of nightly raids and deathly winds, these men and women were truly warriors now.

Leopold was humming softly to himself as the legion marched wherever Nauticus told them to, tight and orderly ranks of grim looking warriors following his never-ending rampage across the North. Olden peered across his shoulder, gazing upon a pair of mountains settled in a valley. He elbowed Leopold and motioned across the valley with a tilt of his head. Leopold squinted as he looked down the valley slopes, trying to work out what exactly he was staring at.

“Hmm, seems like... a gate? But that would have to be massive...” Leopold mumbled. Olden looked expectantly at the aging warrior, who always seemed to know everything.

“Must be dwarves.” He concluded. “There isn't a citadel that big up here anymore.” Leopold finished.

‘Dwarves.’ Olden thought. “What do you think they will be like?” He questioned.

“Well, from what I can remember... they won’t be giving anything up just because we ask nicely.” Leopold chuckled, his breath becoming visible in waves as he exhaled.

The two continued their march in silence, they knew better than to talk openly about their doubts of Nauticus and this ‘Grand Campaign” that they were on. Someone was always listening.

----------


Evette stood triumphantly over the town of Lycene. Its forces crushed and driven before her, the town lay empty of its original owners save the prisoners captured during the fighting. She removed her helmet, feeling the cool breeze temper her skin against the heat that was built up inside the steely shell. She handed the helmet down to one of her aides, who quickly took the helmet and set it amongst her things that was brought to the city walls.

“Summon me Lord Gray!” She yelled aloud, knowing that whoever needed to hear her command will have.

She dismounted her horse and let her aides undo the buckles of the heavy plate armor and take it to her cart. She felt the shackling weight of the heavy armor dissipate as they were removed. Replaced with her usual combat attire, she waited for Lord Gray to arrive, which he did nearly as soon as she was about to yell for him once again.

“You summoned me, my Lady?” Lord Gray spoke, removing his helmet and bowing lavishly.

“Yes Richard, I did. I wanted to thank you for riding with me.” She spoke, half paying attention to the man as she rummaged about her things and straightened her attire.

“The pleasure was all ours my Lady; it was an honor to ride with someone such as yourself into combat.” He replied.

“Cut the pleasantries Richard, you know you can’t impress me with those dusty formalities.” She responded quickly, shooting him a glance across her shoulder as she found a small wooden box.

“Here, for your service.” She stated as she extended the small box towards his awaiting hands.

“Many thanks my Lady, you are too kind.” He thanked.

Evette stood with her hands on her hips, an unimpressed look on her face. “Right, now, begone with you. I will summon you if I need assistance in the future.” She waved him away as he bowed again and quickly strode back to his men.

But for all that was said and done, she was in a good mood, so she decided to address her legion en mass.
She strode up a pile of the ruined wall and coughed loudly, with the startling effect of total silence from the thousands of soldiers that lay before her. She blinked at the sudden attention, but quickly regained composure.

“My loyal and brave legionnaires! You have fought valiantly against the enemies of Westmarch, you have brought the might of our Empire down onto the rebellious dogs that rally against us! You have made me proud to be your commander, and your companion!” she shouted across the waves of heads and spear tips that dotted her view. She was greeted with a raucous roar of cheering and approval to her speech. She raised her hands to calm down the clamouring soldiers.

“You have done well to honor me and your families, and for that, I am ever grateful. The legion will receive slow march for the next week and one days rest before we move out.” She finished, adopting a kinder, more welcoming voice.

There was one last hurrah from the soldiers as she stepped down from the wall, eager to have her tent set up so she could rest.
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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Cthulu Mechanicus » Wed Jan 23, 2013 6:48 am

Name: Glainglu
Age: 30
Height: 1.5 meter2
Weight: 150 pounds (A lot of blubber)
Personality: Secretive, slightly paraniod, always seeking a challenge.
Race: Artic Leviathan (Dwarf)
Gear
-Head: Large hood to cover face
-Chest: Simple robes
-Arms: Simple robes
-Legs: Simple Robes
-Feet: Wraps
-Miscellaneous: Shell with ice-cold salt water
Physical appearance
-Face: Black and white patterns, face shaped like a half dome. 2 closable slits act as a nose.
-Hair: None
-Eyes: Ice-blue.
-Musculature: Low, but posssess blubber for warmth and protection.
-Defining features: A dwarf Leviathan.
-Racial Features (if not assumed): Amphibious, but prefers the water. Webbed feet, stubby (mainly vestigal) tail, sharp teeth.

Skills
-Strengths: Resilient to cold, amphibious, blubber can absorb badly aimed blows.
-Weaknesses: No weapons, low strength, little, if any combat training.
-Trade/Training Skills: Can survive in sub-zero and aquatic areas.
Biography:
Glainglu was born to a northren Leviathan tribe. Amongst the iceflows the stalked, impaling both animals and shipcrew looking for a shortcut. From birth, it was obvious he was a world apart. Where Leviathans stood tall, he was a dwarf. Where they tore men to shreds, he could barely bruise them. He was exiled in short order, cast out into the warmlands to the south. After an angry, homicidal mob chased him out into the wastes, he learned to disguise himself. With a simple cloak hiding his face, he kept to himself in the Taverns of Westmarch, keeping one eardrum receptive for legends of power. One day, he shall return to his obnoxious kin. And they shall bow before him. Untill then, he seeks anything that will allow him to gain a measure of power.
Last edited by Cthulu Mechanicus on Tue May 14, 2013 3:37 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Fingon888 » Thu Jan 31, 2013 9:36 pm

The Dark Forest was more silent than the deepest tunnels of the Iron Mountains. Nothing moved, but Harval had the feeling of a goblin stalking you. The tingling of your neck and your instincts screaming at you to turn around, until you must. Harval must have looked over his shoulder a hundred times in the first mile. Glorin and Hili had not said a word since they had entered the forest.

“There’s something following us.” Hili whispered to Harval.

“You think I don’t know that.” He answered.

Suddenly, Harval heard the snapping of a twig about ten feet to left of him. A hushed burst of profanity broke the dreadful silence that had seemed like hours between the disturbances.

“Kill the Drawfs!” A newly appeared Westmarch captain cried. Westmarch soldiers disguised in excellent camouflage sprang from the bushes and pulled Hili from his horse, instantly placing a dirk between his ribs and then across his throat. Glorin tried to draw his sword, but he was shot by an arrow that had flown from nowhere, whispering death on the wind. Harval had pulled his hammer now and jumped from his horse, smashing in a man’s face before his feet had hit the ground. He rolled about a foot and jumped up, curing another man of his toothache. Another arrow whistled through and buried itself deep in his thigh. With a loud yell of words not mentioned in polite company Harval tried to pull the arrow from his knee, but quickly stopped when he learned of its barbed nature. While he did this another soldier ran at him, however he was quickly stopped by an arrow in the eye and a hammer in the chest.

Cries of surprise accompanied a second arrow into the bushes, where a scream was heard. An elf steeped out with a third arrow knocked.

“Why are you accosting this stout and gentlemanly fellow? Quite bad manners I must say.” The elf said with the courtesy of Nerikasan emissary.

“Kill the dwarf and his elven friend.” The Westmarch captain ordered. A soldier ran out Harval, only to feel a hammer in his thigh and arrow in his eye. The Westmarch captain had an arrow protruding from his blubbering mouth not moments later. The soldiers immediately fled. The elf turned to Harval.

“My name is Thranduilar de Lyon-Gascon, but you may call me Thran.” The elf said with the grandest bow.

Harval nodded and said, “ And you may call me Harval.
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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by forgot12 » Sun Feb 03, 2013 7:37 pm

Name: Grimwal Grimwallis
Age: 37
Height:6'2"
Weight: 210
Personality: Light hearted
Race: Human
Gear
-Head: Westmarch Army Helmet
-Chest: Westmarch Superior Guard Armor
-Arms: Steel wrist bands/numerous tattoes
-Legs: Long leather pants
-Feet: Knee high leather boots
-Miscellaneous: Belt with large pouches
Physical appearance
-Face: thin with big eyes
-Hair: Long, curly and Black
-Eyes: Dark brown
-Musculature: Little fat, but not muscular
-Defining features: Long arms and big hands
-Racial Features (if not assumed):

Skills
-Strengths: Smart, speaks many languages
-Weaknesses: No morals
-Trade/Training: Skills Soldier with thief background

Biography:

A deserter from the Westmarch army, a middle leval non-commissioned officer, he leads a mixed group of deserters-from both sides. They follow the Westmarch army, looting the remains of the town and villages the army has marched through. At times, they find themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time and will quickly change sides if necessary.

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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Bjorn » Tue Feb 05, 2013 12:40 pm

Tyrael held his breath as he listened to the old giant's story, only breathing quietly when he needed to. Vivid images flashed into his head with the story, painting pictures of simple farmers, huge battle lines and clashes between gods. Titans striding into a maelstrom of carnage with only one emerging again. The god's chest emboldened by the bolt and sword, his blade slick with blood. A flash of light, and peace was restored. Tears welled in Tyrael's eyes as he was forced to witness the downfall of the gods, and the pain felt by them. The unbridled fury of the falling one, the pain felt by a father forced to strike his son, and the weight of a heavy heart felt only by those who survive when all others fall.

And then his head was clear, with but one image. A glimmer of gold, standing alone among the darkness. A single beacon against the pitch black, which seemed to twist and pulse around the light, seeking to snuff it out before the light surged forward, expanding rapidly as the darkness was swallowed up and dissipated. Finally, the scene cleared into a blanket of white, a grey sky and a blizzard. The small hilt of a sword, buried in the ice and frost, somehow staying just above the snow.

Tyrael sighed and nodded silently as Anatar finished, before turning slowly and walking from the hall. The scent of the mountain, of his horse, of flowers and trees filled his nostrils as he inhaled deeply at the exit, before walking out into the world once more, a determined goal in his mind.
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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by forgot12 » Tue Feb 05, 2013 8:33 pm

Grimwal Grimwallis watched the main gate of Lycene from the copse of trees crowning a low hill. Behindl, the Raiders were camped. No fires were burning, to reduce detection, but the men were used to hardships and cold food.
Looking over Lycene, a small walled town, he noticed trails of smoke from whatever areas inside that had resisted the attack of Evette’s Legion. Looking past the town walls, the mass of trees that marked the dark forest covered the horizon. There was only one guard at the gate. A Westmarch foot soldier, looking lazy and bored, stood at the side of the open gate, leaning on his lance.
The main body of Evette’s Legion had pulled out two days ago. Moving to their next target, he assumed. The Westmarch army was moving fast in their conquering of Ferax, and his band of merry marauders would continue following, sweeping up any loose loot or booty that the regular troops had missed. As soon as the conquering army departs, the citizens dig up their buried treasures, or get out the hidden valuables. That’s why he preferred to arrive two days after; the pickings were better.
His band, Grim’s Raiders—self named—was a band of thirty-two deserters from both sides of the conflict. There was no patriotism in his group, only a sad lack of riches, which they were making every effort to overcome. After the Evette’s main force had moved out, there was a few days before the town could be fully garrisoned from Westmarch, and there were usually less than ten soldiers acting as a occupation force. The Raiders had already looted Belmore, and while he’d buried his share, he knew most of his men had either paid off debts owed to dangerous people, converted their share into beer, or maybe a little wine—since wine was cheaper one could get a lot more bang for the buck—or gambled it away. The life of a soldier was one with few thoughts of the future.
Turning to his second officer, Harlin Helming, he said, “Get the men ready, we’re going to move in now. There no danger nearby so bring all of the men. Also the wagons of supplies; tonight we stay in town.” He smiled. “We’ll take a few days to clean this town out.”
“Ay, Grimwal, it’ll be nice to spend some time under a roof, and with a warm-bodied female.”
“Yeah, there is that. Send Snake and his team to collect the guard at the gate. I want him alive, so warn Snake. I want to get some information from the guard before we go into town. I might offer him a chance to join the Raiders and get rich, fat and live a long life.” He turned and studied the town as Harlin left.
Shortly, the team of Raiders arrived with the captured guard. Snake pushed him to the ground in front of Grimwal. Snake was a short, skinny human, and had received his nickname either because of the snakes tattooed on his face, or maybe his cold eyes. In any event, no one knew his real name, and frankly no one cared.
Grimwal stared at the guard. “How many more soldiers in the city? Answer me now or I’ll let Snake have you, and we’ll just get another guard.”
The guard looked around, and seemed to be more scared of Harlin, instead of Snake. “There’s five more inside, all at the armory. Mostly drunk.”
“Good,” said Grimwal. “Now you can choose between joining us or walking back to Westmarch.” He winked at Snake. “We’re real nice guys, no different from the regular army, except the pay is better. What do you say?”
The guard looked relieved. “I’ll join, what has Westmarch ever done for me, huh?”
Grimwal turned to Harlin, “Get the men together we move in ten minutes. Have this guy here lead us in. Okay?”
Last edited by forgot12 on Wed Feb 06, 2013 2:44 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Cthulu Mechanicus » Tue Feb 05, 2013 8:39 pm

Glain's(Yes that's his name now. Glainglu is a bit wordy.) makeshift staff pounded against the cracked cobblestone, a freezing rain drenching his ragged black cloak. His ice-blue eyes slowly scanned the pine forest, taking in the water-slicked needles, the wet bark, and the small animals regarding him questioningly. He takes a break from his breif moment of respite, and moves on. His webbed feet slap against the rock, his small chin-tentacles quivering in this strange new climate. A lone figure stood ahead, a battered sword on their back. He drew it, and entered a menacing stance, as his mouth, full of rotten teeth opened. "Aight ye idjit, 50 peices te pass!" He shouted across the empty distance. Glain paused. Idiot. You've left your element, your people, and you are weak. YOU ARE WEA-He quashed these thoughts. He is Leviathan. He is strong. He is clever. YOU ARE WEAK. He shook his head, shaking off the water. "Oi! You deaf!? 10 peices! Or do I have to bury me axe in ya?!" He looked at his foe. A tanned man, his armour patchwork and barely covering him. He held his axe unprofessionally. YOU ARE WEAK. RUN. He dismissed his thoughts. He was not weak. His foe was. He changed his grip on the staff. He held it like a club, remembering the basics of combat, before his elders came to the false TRUE conclusion that he was useless. "What're ye doin'?!" The brigand yelled, surprised that someone was actually standing up to him. Glain charged, his staff held high, his eyes locked on his foe's weapon. They charged at each other, the Brigand's axe flying high as he grunted, obviously inexperienced. Glain cracked his staff agaisnt his thigh, hearing the stick break in two as he turned. They faced each other, pain in the Brigand's face. He looked at his staff, seeing the broken, jagged wood at the end. "I'm gerna kill ya!" The Beigand yelled, bringing the axe down heavily. Glain almost dodged it. It came down upon his leg, slicing to the bone. He bellowed in pain, driving the jagged edge of the wood into the torso of the Bandit. He elicited a roar, which turned into a soft gurgle as he drove it down further. The body fell upon the blood and rain soaked road. He dropped his stick, and fell to his knees. He looked across the road, lookng for anyone. It was still empty. He began frisk the bandit. Nothing, save a knife. He pocketed it, and moved on, after wrapping his wound in the bandit's clothes. He had a long way to go.
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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by forgot12 » Fri Feb 08, 2013 6:19 pm

The Raiders entered Lycene through the open gate, lead by Harlin and the Westmarch guard. Behind the men, three horse-drawn wagons followed. Grimwal stayed in the rear of the group of men, just ahead of the wagons.
The party moved into a large courtyard behind the gate, and when the last wagon had entered, Grimwal heard a loud, grating slam, and the gate swung shut. He spun around and saw through the bars in the gate, and on the wall above it, a group of armored Westmarch soldiers. There were a lot more than five. More sounds came from all around, and a quick survey of the walls surrounding the party showed Westmarch archers formed in double ranks. The Raiders came to a halt in silence.
Grimwal pushed his way to the front, and saw that there were three passageways out of the courtyard, narrow city streets, and all blocked by armored spearmen. And standing in front of the group was the traitorous Westmarch guard, several knights on horseback, and Grimwal’s second-in-command Harlin. It was a trap and they had been betrayed. He was stunned.
“Surrender Grimwallis, and place your head on the block of Westmarch justice. You and your men will have a fair trial before we shorten you,” said one of the knights. He was probably the leader, since his armor was trimmed with gold and some kind of black crystal. Harlin stood slightly behind the large horse, smiling.
“Damn you Harlin. Just for that you forfeit your share of the booty, traitor. Ha.” Grimwal answered and moved back from the front rank. “Snake, come here.” Snake suddenly appeared at his side, moving silently. “Okay Snake, you are now the Second, and you and I will split his share.”
Snake nodded his head, but didn’t speak.
“Have the wagons brought up front as a barricade and prepare to launch an attack.”
“We attack the gate?” asked Snake.
“No, that’s what they expect. As soon as the wagons are in place, we rush the right side and fight our way to the East Gate. It’s about two or three blocks to the north. Let’s move.”
The wagons were brought to the front and it appeared that the Raiders would hide behind them. Grimwal noticed archers on the walls moving toward the gate preparing for the assumed attack. Good, they would be out of place when the Raiders attacked forward instead of backwards.
“Okay, Snake, go. You lead and I’ll command the rear guard. When they see us move forward, the knights will attack our rear. Keep your helmets on and shields raised to ward off the arrows. I’ll see you at the East Gate.” He returned to the front. “Okay, Harlin, I’m ready to talk, let’s have a parley. Lower your weapons, I’m coming out.”
With loud screams and war cries the Raiders erupted from behind the wagon and rushed toward the right side of the Westmarch line.

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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Tuomir » Fri Feb 08, 2013 6:44 pm

Rolnar was looking up. His staff was up in a tree, and there was nothing he could do to get it down. It was but a few feet above his head, but as it was, he couldn't raise his arms over his head without falling down in pain. Not to mention his left arm was bent in a way that made him unwilling to look down, so as to not accidentally see it. As standing up caused him considerable pains, he finally decided to sit down under the tree. He hoped wind would shake the branches so that the staff might fall. It would also blow away the smell of smoke and death coming from the city, he noted to himself. The smoke brought him into thinking about fire. He shivered, as if someone had touched his shoulder from behind, but as no one was around, he deducted that the one approaching wasn't in the present. And as nothing but the present would hurt him, it was clearly safe to fall asleep and rest.


Rolnar found himself in a darkness. He tried to look for a direction, but saw nothing. He couldn't breath, he felt numb, but he wasn't dieing. Of course he wasn't. How in the world would he die there, where he couldn't even see which way he was looking? It simply made no sense to him in at all. He had to be underwater, he now noticed. Water coursed through to his throat when he grasped for air. He could see a face, and the face was saying a word. He could hear it, yet it escaped him when he tried to think about it.
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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Cthulu Mechanicus » Wed Feb 13, 2013 6:30 am

Glain was leaning more heavily on his stick. He hissed with pain as his bandaged foot hit the ground. The brigand hit deeper than he thought. WHAT PATHETIC LEVIATHAN DOES NOT FALL IN BATTLE!? The kind too powerful to.... He thought back, wishing it was true. He paused and unwound the bandage. When he pulled the bandage back, flesh and pus came with it. His flesh was yellowed, and dripping white ooze. He needed help for sure. A LEVIATHAN NEEDS NO HELP! The voice shouted. He ignored it for once. He set off again, at a reduced pace, seeking medical attention.
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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Tuomir » Wed Feb 13, 2013 9:57 am

Rolnar stared wide-eyed at the sight in front of him. He tried to scream, but instead of sound rushing out, water rushed in to his throat. He was drowning, but not dieing. Regaining his composure, he tried to think through what he saw, to no avail. He was still terrified, looking at the thing that made him terrified, unable to close his eyes, yet he had no idea of what it was or how it looked. He felt heat, like he was up in a tree during a forest fire, or in the attic of a burning house. It was familiar and intensely frightening, yet he recalled nothing of the sort. Soon he noticed the chanting. From somewhere above, a single word could be heard repeated ceaselessly. The voice was clear and calm, like the sound of waves hitting coastal rocks on a sunny day, yet it had the power of a storm in it. Rolnar started making his way towards the voice, kicking with his legs and paddling with his hands.

After an impossibly long time, he saw surface. It wasn't like the surface of a lake or river, nor the surface of a sea. It bore no resemblance to the elegant pools and fountains of the wealthiest, or even the wine in their cups. No light reflected off this surface, no ripples gave life to it. It was cold, and Rolnar felt uncomfortable, yet he still continued his ascent.

After another passage of time that was hard to define but was surely longer than a lifetime, he still hadn't reached the surface. Was he closer, he couldn't tell, but now he something else. It was the Veiled Tower, sitting in the middle of the world, made of shadows in a world without light. On top of the tower, a towering figure stood, like a statue of a long forgotten king protecting his lost kingdom. Yet the figure was clearly no statue, as it moved. It had white face a mouth filled with needle-like teeth, repeating a word, and it had laid out hands, palms out, holding out something. On left palm, it held a pearl, a pearl the size of an eyeball. The right hand held a flame, a white flame that produced no smoke. Then the figure closed both of its fists, hiding their contents, and Rolnar could feel himself sinking.
Rank & Fail

"Tuomir, you're made of win" -ranger
"Tumor is just plain retarted. Tuomir is cooler than that" -jackmrnorris94
"Tuomir has proven his brilliance in this scenario" -The Airman

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Fingon888
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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Fingon888 » Wed Feb 20, 2013 8:33 pm

Harval and Thran had just finished burying Gloin and Fili when Thran asked a question.

“So where are you all from?”

“We are all from the Kingdom of the Iron Mountain. It’s east of here. We came with an army under our king Rajnir the Grey.” Harval replied.

“Why with an army?”

“You must know about the Westmarch legions that are invading the kingdoms around here.”

“No, I have not heard of this Westmarch. Is it an empire to the west? I think it has been mentioned a few of the times I’ve been in Lycene. But, why are you not with your army then?”

“Well I heard some bells, so I followed them.” Harval explained as he lit a fire. “Do you have any food?”

“I have some wolf meat. I suppose I will dine with you tonight.” Thran answered as he gave Harval some wolf meat and sat by the fire.

“I had assumed such. What about you, where are you from?” Harval asked as he began cooking the wolf.

“Well, it is quite the story. Many say it is preposterous and others declare it a well-thought out and elaborate lie. However, it is quite the contrary.” Thran began in a cautious pace. “I grew up in Nerikasana, which is where I got my distinctive accent. My father was a human noble in the dense forest of the Westerlands. He fell in love with an elven chief’s daughter and married her. Much to the dismay of his parents, I must add. Lo and behold, I came into existence. I spent my first 13 years of life in my father’s castle. Then, a rival noble attacked the castle and my father was killed. My mother and I managed to escape and fled to southern Ferax. Unfortunately, at this time Ferax was purging its population of elves. My mother was lynched when I was 16. I ran away after killing five racist peasants, in five seconds. Don’t worry they deserved it. So here I am.”

“What was the preposterous part?”

“People don’t believe I can kill five people in five seconds, but you've seen me.” Thran finished.
"Here they talked of revolution. Here it was they lit the flame. Here they sang about 'tomorrow' And tomorrow never came." Les Miserables

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Chaos Farseer
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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Chaos Farseer » Mon Mar 11, 2013 3:20 am

“WRONG!? EVERYTHING’S WRONG!”

Calcifer turned to face the elf. The cinders of the campfire sparked slightly as he turned, lighting his face up. Anger and hatred covered his face, forever etched into his spirit. His eyes glared ferociously at Huor.

“Look there, Huor!” Calcifer yelled, jerking his bloody hand up at the smoke rising from the town. “Lycene burns! Innocent Feraxan men and women died today!”

Calcifer lowered his arm, his fist clenched, but his eyes never faltered. Calcifer unblinkingly watched Huor take a step forward and shyly speak up.

“We were never going to win anyway, it was pointless to try,” Huor said softly. Calcifer’s eyes widened and he took a step forward. Huor cried out and jumped back.

“Do you even know what that means to me? These are my people who died!” Calcifer stepped back and looked down. Above the anger, the hatred, and the spite, Calcifer was ashamed.

“Why would you?”

Moments passed. The sky darkened even more as rainclouds rolled in and a drizzle began. Huor, his heart heavy, took a few steps closer to Calcifer, his boots sinking into the moist ground. When he was an armlength away, he spoke up once more.

“Listen, Calcifer. We tried our best. There was nothing we could do.” Huor reached out to grab Calcifer’s shoulder. “It’s not your fault.”

Calcifer picked his head up. He felt Huor’ fingers brush his back and he snapped. Calcifer turned around once more and grabbed the elf’s arm. Huor’s eyes widened as Calcifer shoved him, causing him to fall into the mud below. Huor watched in fear as Calcifer’s face changed from dark anger to sneering contempt.

He couldn’t help but let out a whimper.

++++++++++

A drop splattered against a leather tent. The water coalesced and rolled down the dust-covered exterior, gathering particles of dirt as it accelerated down the slant. It slid down, leaving a spotless trail around a torn seam. Inside, Irandirel backed away from the hole, eyes wide. She stood for a moment, taking quick and shallow breaths, and looked around the tent. She ignored the stool with fans of cards sitting atop it, the bowl and its discarded fork, the pail lined of dust. Her purple eyes settled on her red tinted sword, etched with familiar runes, laying atop a disheveled stained tunic and the bed beneath it. Irandirel stepped over the pair of tattered cloth slippers at the base of the bed, plucking the grip and running her hand across the runes on the blade.

“You’re right, elf. It isn’t my fault. It’s yours. Because of you, that happens,” came a voice from outside.
“Lotesse i' seldarine díheno nin,” she whispered with closed eyes.

Irandirel spun around and placed the blade’s bloodstained tip into the hole, slicing down through the seam. She burst out of the tent. “Daro!” she shouted.

Calcifer turned around and found the point of the sword at his neck. He scowled, yet his eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Stop, Calcifer,” she said, narrowed eyes locked with his. “Do not hurt him.” His bloodstained hand reached for the pommel of his rapier, but she interrupted him with a firm “Û.” He pulled his hand away. Irandirel remained rooted in place as Calcifer took a step back into the mud.
“Coward.” He began pacing around the girl and her trembling sword. “You’d fight for each other, but not for a town of innocents?” He snarled. She tensed. “You two are disgusting. You can’t live without each other, you gods-damned tree-huggers.” He gestured at the remnants of Lycene. “While the humans fight and die, you-”
“Leave.”
She stared into his glare and watched his eyes twitch with hate. Rain splattered onto both of them as each stood still, refusing to budge.
“Hmph.” Calcifer stepped back. “Go hide in your forest. I have a war to fight.” He turned around and walked away, every heavy step slushing through fresh mud. “Wasn’t going to hurt him anyway,” he muttered. Then he passed a tent, its flaps floating in the wind, and vanished.

Irandirel stood there, shaking, for a moment. The world blurred. Her sword sunk into the mud as she sunk to her knees, her arms catching her before the mud did. She gasped for breath as tears mingled with rain within a large bootprint. A foot squelched behind her and a hand rested upon her shoulder. “Agoreg vae.” She looked up and grasped his awaiting hand. Once on her feet, she glanced away and blushed. “Le fael.” She stepped away and picked up the waiting longsword. “Guren glassui,” she whispered to no one in particular as she wiped off the mud.

The elf girl stood up and looked at the flapping tent with passive eyes. She followed a set of blank, muddy footprints stretching into the distance. She inhaled, and let it all out with a deep sigh, shoulders drooping in the approaching rain.

Huor caught up to her. “Na man i chûd?” he asked. Irandirel looked up, past the smoke and the trees. “Forod.”



In the forest overlooking the Men at Arms camp, some bushes rustled slightly and lay still.


Elvish Translations (in order)
Elven / English / Literal
Lotesse i' seldarine díheno nin. / May the gods forgive me. / May the gods + Forgive me (metaphorically putting "me" below the gods)
Daro / Stop / Halt
Û / No / It isn’t so.
Agoreg vae. / You did well. / [Familiar] You did well.
Le fael. / Thank you. / [Reverential] You are generous.
Guren glassui. / Thank you. / My heart is glad.
Na man i chûd? / Where is the meeting? / At where is the assembly?
Forod / North / North

Credit for Elven
For the first simple words: http://www.angelfire.com/empire2/angora ... lator.html
For most Elvish phrases: http://www.arwen-undomiel.com/
For, well, everything: http://www.realelvish.net/
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Because one can't be normal all the time.

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Bjorn
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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Bjorn » Sun Apr 21, 2013 10:42 am

Markas pulled the reins of his horse to stop it once the town came into view at the bottom of the valley, as he stood atop a hill overlooking it. A thin dirt path, wide enough for six or seven men to walk shoulder to shoulder led directly through the valley, almost as if the town was built around it. Trees lined the road, splitting it from the various fields. A large river separated the town from the side of the valley Markas was approaching from which would be too large to cross without a boat, or the large stone bridge that spanned it. Squeezing the reins a little, the horse set off down the road at a slow pace.

About halfway along the road, a couple meters in front of the river lay an overturned cart. Three men sat atop the cart, one with a sword across his lap, and another with a bow slung over his shoulder. Riding closer, Markas watched as the one with the bow stood up and jumped down from the cart, and stepped forward a few yards. The Archer pulled his bow from his back, and drew an arrow, firing it in a high arc, the arrow landing at the horses feet.

"You'll go no further, unless you fancy an arrow between your ribs son." The archer turned and grinned to the one with the sword, who simply nodded. "This here road is a special one, and I'm sure your pockets feel rather heavy. How about you let us help you lighten them?" The archer spat on the floor.

"My pockets are fine as they are. Do you know somewhere I can find some supplies?" Markas replied, moving forward on his horse a little.

"You don't look like you're local, so I'll make it simple for you Outsider. Give me your coin, or I'll take it from your bloody corpse." The Archer drew another arrow, and placed it in the bow without drawing it back. "Last chance." The man with the sword jumped down too, spinning it in his hands as he walked forward to the archer.

"I have no coin" Markas frowned. "And I do not see why I would give it to you."

"On your own stupid head be it, boy" The man with the sword stepped forward as the Archer drew the bow string back. "I'm sure I could find something of worth in your pack"

Spurring his horse on, Markas darted forward as an arrow flew over his head as he closed the gap between them, staying low against the horses body. Another arrow flew past, a quiet thunk indicating it's impact with one of the trees behind him. Readying his sword, the larger of the two men took on a defensive stance, holding his longsword in two hands.

Drawing his sword from his scabbard, Markas swung low, cutting into the Archers shoulder as he passed him, the man with the sword rolling to avoid the blow. Wheeling around on the horse, Markas spurred on again for a second pass. Steadying himself, the cutthroat braced again, but this time the charge was different. Markas slowed to a running pace on his horse, before climbing to ride side saddle, and throwing himself to the floor which he hit running with a sword in hand.

Taking the man off guard, Markas slammed into him with his shoulder throwing him off balance. Bringing the hilt of his sword into the man's temple knocked him back, before he swung a large blow which caused Markas to relent his attack. Feinting a wide swing, Markas brought his knee into the man's stomach causing him to double over and splutter. Markas brought the hilt of his sword down on the back of the mans head, before hitting him in the chin with his knee causing him to fall backward onto the dirt. "Alright you bastard I yield!" The man spat blood, his long sword at his feet as he lay flat on his back, looking up at the short sword Markas held to his throat. "Yield?" Markas frowned, slitting his throat. "And you, leave." Markas turned to face the youngest of the three who had remained still on the cart, before he jumped down and ran off into the fields.

Searching their bodies, Markas found a coin purse, before taking the quiver and bow from the dead archer, who had bled out over the duration of the fight, his shoulder practically separated from his torso. Picking up the Longsword too, Markas placed them both on his horse's saddle, and continued on into the town.
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