The Legends of Eroris: Brotherhood [IC/Fantasy Medieval]

by **Zanera** » Mon Sep 24, 2018 5:16 pm

Nimshat Rasul
Outside the Walls of High Rock
Camp of the Red Gauntlet

Upon arriving back to camp after his meeting with the Lord of High Rock, Nimshat Rasul ordered a contingent of men to go sift grain from the dole and to put the bags onto their wagons. Each bag was to be topped off as much as possible. While they did that, the camp would pack up and then head closer to the walls of High Rock, where they were now allowed to settle. For how long their services would be needed, no one knew. They did know a siege would end up relatively comfortable for them. High Rock was a place that rarely fell at all. They had a new load of grain to use in their mush that would last them a long time. One of the first things you were expected to know, or at least learn how to do, was to break a camp as fast as possible with the littlest trace. It was one way to discipline someone, and it was one way to make sure your employer was not dissatisfied with you because you left a load of waste across his land. There were many people packing up different things. The barracks tents would be easy. It was a chest with several bedrolls and then the tent itself, ideally. The blacksmith and mages were troublesome to pack up. The anvil needed a small crane to load with, and the mages needed their tools loaded delicately. The mess tent required its cooks to pack at the latest possible time since the troops ate one last time before they began marching. This would all take half a day before they moved out to the next few miles back west to the walls of High Rock.

Herrius Endean had to pack up his own tent onto his own horse, and waited to follow the Red Gauntlet to their new campsite, whatever they would make it. He had thought all that day and had thought onto the night and slept. It was now the next day, and it was going to be today that Alyndel would receive his punishment. He sat just outside his tent on the perimeter of the Red Gauntlet's camp, smoking a pipe and thinking furiously of the Gauntlet's legalisms.

The platform the Mayaar would receive his punishment on was built. The men were done with breakfast. Most of the Red Gauntlet was now being assembled in front of the platform, some others were watching the perimeter. One piece was missing, and it could be called up at any time. It was now called up, Alyndel pushed to his knees and tied to a post. It was time to address the crowd. A mage amplified Nimshat's voice with a spell, and he said," This is Alyndel, a Mayaar, and a deserter. His grievance against us is a hundred years old. There are only a few of you that know him at all, but that is the nature of his desertion. A crime of a hundred years. A breach of contract so severe, so extraordinary, that the consequences, to be delivered now, will be extraordinary too. Walking away from a contract, any contract anywhere, is a foul thing. It is a complete breach in the very foundations that constitutes the concept of a contract. The punishment for this is: hot pepper juice, straight from the plantations of Pandora, is to be lathered upon his back, where he will be flayed until he is unconscious."

Alyndel's heart had been beating fast because of the injuries he knew were about to be inflicted on him. Upon hearing the punishment, however, he tried to tear away from the post with all his might. He felt something hit him so hard it went into his skin, tearing back out of him. When the pain came he yelped, but he still tried to break away from the post. The second strike was just as painful as the last, and he sat still. The next thing he knew was the smell of the pepper and its burning as it was spread across his back. It burned madly as it was spread over his open wounds. He expected such a thing from an orc, not an Anduran. It was a pain he had not felt in an age. The one spreading the juice whispered in his ear," I'm real sorry about this, mate."

"I'm sure you are."

Unfortunately, as the punishment wore on, he persevered. Undoubtedly his voice carried on for as long as a voice can carry in open air.

As Herrius heard the brutal shout of agony, he finally figured it out. It was far too simplistic for him to not have figured it out sooner. Red Gauntlet troops had five-year contracts that they had to renew. After a hundred years, there was no doubt that the contract had expired. Alyndel had broke the contract whilst he was bound by it, sure, but he could now very well get a third party to mediate the dispute since Alyndel was no longer under the tenets of punishment laid out in the contract since he was also no longer in the contract as a stipulation in that same contract...or something. Either way, Nimshat would have the same amount of time that Herrius had had to think about it. It would likely stop the punishment, so he just needed to get into the camp...which wouldn't be that hard with his skills.

But as it turned out, infiltrating the camp would need more than one skill. There were patrolling mages, no doubt to counter him. They would cast a spell to sense nearby people that Herrius' invisibility spell would not protect him from, so he had to hide and use another spell to make his signature seem like a rat, which was twice as difficult as invisibility. By the time he had reached the back of the stage he was dizzy and gulping another potion. Blocked by a couple of guards, he called up to Nimshat over the cries of Alyndel. His cries did not stop as Nimshat stepped down the stairs to just behind his guards and addressed Herrius. "You have come at a very inconvenient time for your friend, but considering the skill you must have to get past the mages, I will listen to you. I need not give you a time limit, your friend has already established it. Speak then."

"A contract with the Red Gauntlet expires after five years. That someone can be punished for rule-breaking is a stipulation in the contract, yes, but another stipulation that nullifies that fact is the expiration of the entire contract. Sure, he broke the contract whilst he was under it, but now you will both need a third party to help resolve this long-standing dispute since the contract is expired. As of now, I think he can press charges for assault and kidnapping," wondered Herrius. Nimshat called off the whipping, listening to Herrius' next words," Unless a deal can be worked out where the contract no longer matters...or even exists."

"I see your point. He will be cleaned up and healed to the best of my mage's abilities. You can see him afterward," said Nimshat, walking back onto the stage quietly giving various orders. He released his troops, and then walked off the stage.

"Hello Alyndel. How do you feel?" asked Herrius.

"Whipped."

"Of course you do. Anyway, I pulled a legalism on Nimshat. I have an idea on how to clear all this up. I ar-"

"Clear all this up? He covered my back in hot peppers and flayed me, and now you say that we'll all act like that never happened?"

"Was that what that smell was coming from that one cadet's case? I'm sorry I couldn't arrive sooner, Alyndel. However, I still maintain my idea. Nimshat burns your contract, gives you back your spear and other gear, and some healing potions, and we both walk away. All you must do, is agree with this deal. You said the night we escaped that you wanted to go west to visit Darath Jorn's grave. I can lead you to the very spot. We clear this up, and there is only the west."

Alyndel stared at the wall of the tent and finally said," Fine. I really wanted my spear back anyway."

Herrius had went back to Nimshat, and everything was cleared and Alyndel's items restored to him. Alyndel had decided to move to Herrius' tent. Still, he was unsatisfied with his quarters.

"Are you sure, Alyndel? We can move the tent tomorrow. You must rest now."

"I want the camp out of my sight, whether I am in the tent or outside of it. I don't want to see it anymore. It makes me furious."

"Fine. We can go into the cit-"

"No. I want that lord away from me, too. I want to move away from the resident assholes, not towards them."

Herrius sighed. "Very well. But only because you've been flayed. Otherwise I pick where we settle my tent."

by **Ithalian Empire** » Tue Sep 25, 2018 10:12 pm

He was riding hard and fast, the horse beneath him frothing with sweat. He could still smell the acrid smoke of chard flesh and the burning of an entire village. He still felt the fear, the anger, the anguish. They had tried to fight them, tried to defend the village. Divines how the tried. And for what? He had seen his comrades cut down by the mounted horrors as the broke down the wooden palisades, he had seen them cut down men women and children all the same. Divines above he had never seen so much blood, never thought so much blood could be spilled. The screams of the dying innocent still echoed in his mind, but above all that the last orders of the garrison commander.

"Go to the Rock." That was all the old man had said before his head was taken by a sword.

And so this lone rider went, driven by the horrors behind him, and pulled by the last order of his commander.

Heremond Carcaster

"Thoughts, m'lord?" Said Mettius.

Heremond thought them over. Mettius's suggestions where sound advice he knew, the ash elf had seen more war and combat than any other in the room. The bridges had to be destroyed, that was certain. The Knights of the Order would be useless in a siege, their strength came from there mounts, speed and maneuver where there art and it would be wasted in the confines of the city. The lighter troops of the Dutchies army could also be used to stall. Whatever the case, the forces of High Rock could not be committed to a pitched battle like the one envisioned by his father-in-law.

"Mettius, your advice is sound. One hundred knights and as many volunteers from the guard and militia as you can gather will be yours to take. Your first task is to destroy the bridge at Mulber, any enemy scouts are also to be engaged. You are free to leave as soon as you are ready. " Heremond turned his attention to the rest of the council. "The city of High Rock and the Rock itself will be hard to take. The Black Pheonix was the only mortal to take this place, I will no see Cedric Gardeners damned banner riding over this city. I want every man who can carry a weapon to be issued one and thrown in with the rest of the militia, all the food from the surrounding villages and their populations are to be evacuated here. There are three other strongholds in the Dutchy. Lord Rodger, make sure that Mason Crest and Pithythe Keep are ready for a siege. Lord Gloster, ride north and ensure that your lands are ready as well."

Just then the doors came open. In walking two Guards, between them was a man dressed in the household colors of one of the smaller houses of High Rock. His skin was pale and covered in blood an soot, and in his eyes, Heremond could see fear. The fear of an animal who has seen death, the fear of a man who has seen things that his mind was not prepared to see.

"Lord Carcaster," said one of the Guards," This man just arrived from the lands of Ser Hwitmann Kilbery, he said he had an urgent message for you. He won't talk to anyone else."

"What is your name?" Heremond asked the man. Ser Hwitmann was a loyal man, his family had ruled over a small hamlet north of Tinham. Ser Hwitmann was noticeably missing from his seat amongst the senior knight of the Order.

"A-alred Smythe, m'lord." The fear was still in the man's voice and Heremond began to dread what Alred would say next.

"What news do you bring?"

"The hamlet of Kilbery, m'lord. I-it, it's been attacked. We tried, oh Divines, we tried to hold them off, but there were too many of them, so damned many of them. Mounted knights, they swarmed our defenses and slaughter us. The killed anything that moved m'lord. I would have stayed and died with the rest of them, but Ser Hwitmann ordered me to come here and tell you what has happened. M'lord, your lands are being set ablaze, hamlet by hamlet and homestead by homestead."

Heremonds blood began to boil. This was the war the Cedric Carcaster wanted to wage. This was the character of the bastard. To attack and but to the flame and to the sword innocent people, homesteaders and simple farmers who worked hard just to get by even during the good times. He tightened his fist. Heremond now knew what must happen, Cedric Gardener, and the whole Gardener dynasty must be brought to justice for this.

"Damn him, damn him to the lowest pit in Dread! I will not rest until Cedric Gardener pays for his crimes in blood!" Heremond said, rage boiling out in every word.

Cedric had awakened a hatred inside Heremond, a rage that Heremond didnt know he had inside of him.

by **Derelldia** » Thu Sep 27, 2018 4:25 pm

Port of Lenora 3rd of Second Seed
Iarlaith O'Kjotvis

The wind was blowing fair as the ship docked in Lenora. The Lupan managed to catch a ship from Ancalen that lead to here, he had a favour that was owed to him by a jewellery merchant and a sword from a thief that seemed to be worth more than anything the thief had. A sword like this surely had to be more ceremonial than anything else, or at least it would be made for some sort of ceremony. Iarlaith figured during the journey. The journey itself was relatively uneventful, as far as some boat journey's have been in his past. Once out of Ancalen's port it had been all easy, even with a few days of rain, the water stayed calm.

Lenora was the capital of the Reach, a grand city that houses the Temple of the Eight and the High King of the Reach himself. Built by Elves who settled The Reach, who then bred with the Nords as they came in which led to the creation of Reachmen. But those were unimportant to Iarlaith, he wanted to know what this sword was worth and who it belonged to. He knew just the person who to talk to about it. Erconbert Voss, a shrewd but likeable Reachman jeweller with a reputable shop on one of the main streets coming into Lenora.

Ercon Gems and Ceremonials, Trunk District, Lenora

With the heavy Legion presence in Lenora it's safe to get around at most times but being a Lupan means getting stopped by almost every guard that has the time, even if they don't you're always getting watched when even just walking down a street. Fortunately the jewellery Iarlaith was looking for was easily found. Ercon Gems and Ceremonials, gold letters sat on painted black wood above a shop window. In the window all sorts of gem encrusted jewellery sat, enticing in the wealthy to wear the finest they could afford. Nothing Iarlaith could, or even would want to, buy for himself... Especially not the silver.

A bell rang out into the shop as Iarlaith walked through the door, a Mayaar couple were looking at a box of necklaces. One of the women eyed around and scanned over Iarlaith before looking back to the other and they whispered to each other. Before either Mayaar could say anything to Iarlaith, Erconbert walked out from a back room carrying another box.

"This box contains the newer sapphire necklaces that you were requesting to take a look through." He sat the box down in front of the Elves and looked up, spying Iarlaith staring at a cabinet of rings. He walked around from behind the counter and towards the Lupan. "I thought animal bone charm bracelets were what Lupans used more in ceremonies?" He chimed up with a bit of a laugh in his voice

"Hmm?" The Lupan turned his head, looked at the middle-aged Reachman walking to him, and laughed back, "Assuming that I'd ever settle down with anyone, old man?"

"No. I know you're here for me to take a look at a sword you found. Something you said looks like a ceremonial blade. Your letter was a bit vague on details."

"I was headed up this way since I don't have much else to do currently, was easier to send a letter to give you a heads up that I'd be paying a visit." Iarlaith unstrapped the sword from his waist and set it on the table nearby counter. Erconbert moved around the table to get the sword out of it's sheath and take a closer look at it.

Inspecting it for a couple minutes, spinning it over, studying the hilt and small inscriptions on it. He stumbled upon a stamp that gave him a realization.

"Well that's at least gonna point us the right place." Ercon held the sword up and pointed out the Pendragon stamp, "This stamp points us that it was made by someone connected to the Pendragon Trading Company hall in Atlas. So head there and I'm sure someone knows who's had a sword this rare be stolen from them. Or at least you'll find the blacksmith who's got a record of the order."

"Well guess my next stop is Atlas then. Any clues as to where the hall for this Pendragon company is located in Atlas? Last time I was there was almost a year ago now and I don't recall seeing anything related to this company there."

"It isn't a new addition to the city, it's been around for a good couple decades at least, though Atlas could very well have seen much more recent expansion in terms of who they're having join. But I'm sure if you ask around you'll find them easily enough."

"Well, guess I should pack up and head for Atlas as soon as possible then." Iarlaith sheathed the sword and attached it to his waist with the others. "Well, my helpful Reachman, I guess take this as me now out of your hair. For at least until you need me again that is." The Lupan waved behind him to the man as he left the shop.

The Road to Summerset 23rd Second Seed
Urzoth Murbol

Folks moving to and from Summerset were never a rare sight. Be it a carriage of people, a Legion patrol, a merchant caravan, or even a party of adventures. The forest outside the city would stretch on for days in some directions. Interspersed along the road, one could sometimes wander into clearings where villages and little hamlets along the path had set up. It was a long road to travel, but one well walked by many. One thing that would be a sight that few would still hear tales of, an Orc riding upon a warg. It had been a long time since such a thing was seen this far east, at least when it wasn't someone in Legion armour.

The wind blew through the leaves of trees as an Orc rode on through the forest on the back of her warg. Dressed in full renstone armour, and with her grand mace slung on her back, most folks who could generally gave her a wide berth not wanting to be in the way of an orc like her. Anytime she would pass through a village people would almost scramble to get back into their houses, even as their children stood in a stunned awe at her. The few days where she'd stop in a tavern almost always ended with someone thinking they could take her on, and then end up face first through a couple tables before she decided to leave and continue on.

For the most part though, it was quiet. The occasional attack from either a group of bandits or packs of animals would happen, but that would be nothing for someone as capable as Urzoth. But she did have a quest, get to Summerset. She was tracking someone, and if they that someone needed to get anywhere in the Reach then someone at Summerset would probably know... She hoped. Ceureon had no information except about how the person she was tracking had dealt with a bandit gang harassing merchant caravans, and then how they disappeared towards Summerset with little more than a wave. And so, she followed his trail to the city.

by **Spindle** » Fri Sep 28, 2018 3:23 pm

Sinnweld
Imperial Highway
The Reach

The straps on her carrypack dug into her shoulders as Sinnweld dragged herself forwards, one step at a time, the pressure in her head mounting in a slow, inexorable tide. It would occasionally recede, a few minutes of blissful relief before the pressure would return with crushing force. It was a pattern which continued over and over, each repeat inching the pain higher and higher until she was forced to pull out a wad of rustleaf and start chewing. The pain sharpened, became clearer, and she boxed it away from her body, feeling a hint of vigour return to her step. Aerys gave her a sidelong glance and a faint glare before continuing to glance around the forest.

"That stuff messes with you." The other Battlemage said after a moment, before tapping the side of her head, "Up there, I mean. If you overdose, it can drive you mad."

"I know."

Aerys heaved a sigh, glanced away again. They continued to march.

"If you compartmentalise things, they won't become better either."

Sinnweld glanced away as the voice continued. The colours were still sharpening, the leaves around her defining. She shunted the voice around until it was with the pain, in a box which she didn't have to deal with. And the leaves were so fascinating. The grooves were so clear. She could see how they rippled, how they writhed, how they moved in the breeze. In the breeze she could feel on her skin, the breeze which was coming from from south which was odd since the breeze had been blowing across their path all day and the day before and there were ripples in the breeze she could feel, it wasn't quite right in fact and her eyes were snapping around as her hands came up and she reached out into the streams and pulled and her mind was flooded.

Two flames to the south, one burning with a dark energy seeping out into the world and one with tongues of long-silvered flame reaching out and lapping harmlessly at the world. She reached out, brushed against them for a moment. She recoiled moments later. One was roiling, churning with barely-suppressed energy which seemed to reach out to her with open hands which sought to brush against her and spread its sickness to her. The other was old, far older than anything had a right to be in this world. She shuddered, raised her guard. The streams vanished from her grasp, the breeze strengthening and sending the trees swaying.

Sinnweld slung the carrypack off of her shoulder.

"We need to stop." She muttered, then glanced over to Aerys, "I said we need to stop."

The other Battlemage glanced back.

"But we've-"

"Get everyone here. Now."

Aerys opened her mouth to reply, and as she did the wind died down for the briefest moment. A few words escaped her mouth before the wind snatched the words away in a howling gale which now sprang up. On the road behind them, the cobblestones began to crack and darken and bulge up outwards as tree roots began to snake inwards, slithering into the cracks and splitting the road further. As the ground became uneven, the shadows darkened and deepened, writhed and twisted, then burst free in clouds of hissing wings and skittering claws which milled and spread aimlessly.

A figure rounded a turn in the road, blurry and indistinct with distance yet still evidently misshapen and contorted. Behind it cavalry lurched and jerked forwards, riders mechanically raising their arms before slashing down into the red-streaked flanks of their animals. The creatures made no noise, and simply staggered forwards in a vicious mockery of a cavalry charge. As they neared, Sinnweld realised that the riders and their beasts were one and the same now - flesh and bone had simply sunk into each other and fused.

Aerys was already moving, and Sinnweld could feel the pressure in her head mounting as the other Battlemage reached into the streams to send a wave of fire rushing down the highway towards the oncoming cavalry. More streams were seized as the other Battlemages began to react to the threat, precise patterns of fire washing along the path followed by shards of ice, jagged splinters of rock and lashing streams of lightning. Cavalry-creatures fell, seared to the bone or crushed or sliced apart, but even as they did they attempted to drag themselves onwards, ever-closer towards their prey.

A stab of pain sent Sinnweld reeling, her mental box crumbling, as the mage on the other end of the highway reached out into the streams. Gritting her teeth and forcing her hands out, Sinnweld reached out in response. Both twisted at the same time, and Sinnweld barely managed to blur the world around her before tendrils of inky night erupted from the ground mere inches from her face. She could feel hoarfrost spreading across her fingers as she forced herself to reach deeper into the streams, to try and disrupt her opponent. She sent forth her mind to poke and probe at her counterpart's defences, but sheer madness proved a biting deterrent and black flames forced her back with a chill touch.

The swarms of formless night began to converge on the Battlemages as they slowly began to retreat, step by step, swallowing up the ground beneath them as they rolled forwards inexorably. Spells tore into them, and were promptly swallowed and vanished without a moment's hesitation. Searching, Sinnweld found their minds, but it was a thing of such primal malevolence that she had no purchase on it - her suggestions and illusions simply slid away. The mage at the far end of the highway began to pull at the streams, and Sinnweld settled in to deflect and distract her opponent. Even as her mind tried to probe the problem from every angle. How could she win through before the silver flame arrived?

by **Rodez** » Mon Oct 01, 2018 1:01 pm

Therron Esmond
Duchy of High Rock
The Reach

Even the birds had fallen silent.

Therron noticed as much when he nudged his grey courser, Snowball, forward. Nothing stirred within the burnt wreckage of the little hamlet. Even the wind seemed to have momentarily hushed, as if poised for something.

But there was nothing. The bodies that Therron rode by were charred and blackened from fire and ash. He guessed they were two days old at most. Whoever had fallen upon the unfortunate settlement had not come to plunder trinkets and take prisoners; they had come to annihilate.

Therron twisted in the saddle and gazed back down the narrow country lane. The dirt track was flanked on both sides by towering maples and drooping willows, a bucolic image of the Reach amidst total devastation just a few yards away. He looked away and tried to avert his eyes from the corpses, keeping his gaze locked firmly on the path in front of him.

High Rock was at war. Cedric Gardener had put much of the Duchy to the sword in the name of High King Harold. Therron had originally been making for Summerset by following the Gold River north, but it was proving impossible to avoid the fighting without moving ever eastward. As news circulated - Atlas was mobilizing to defend its vassal, and King Wilking of Summerset was marching south in force - Therron found that the inevitability that had driven his whole life was now upon him. He would reclaim Caflon, his birthright. He would redeem the Esmond name, if that was even possible, considering the act of incest that had birthed him in the first place.

"Oi, who goes?" a voice called out.

Therron brought Snowball to an abrupt halt. "Just a traveler, passing through," he replied. "I wont be wanting any trouble now."

Two men stepped out from behind a rocky outcrop adjoining the road. They both wore chainmail hauberks, and held their sword arms tensely, hanging just off the belt. "You know, Kedge," one man said. "Oi don't think those fine folk back up the road wanted trouble neither."

The second mockingly propped his free hand up on his chin as if deep in thought. "That's the funniest thing, Byron. I don't remember us talking with 'em much at all." He flashed a yellow, greasy smile at Therron.

Therron, for his part, gradually slid his left hand back so that it rested behind him in the saddle. "Whom do you serve, lads?"

"Lord Cedric Gardener," the one named Byron said, with self-satisfied mirth hanging off every word. "Representative of His Grace, High King Harold." He performed a bow and tipped an imaginary cap with thumb and forefinger. "Who in Dread are you?"

"A passerby."

"Ain't no passers-by in these parts," spat Kedge. "Not with the war on." He took another step forward. "The truth, now."

A look of annoyance passed over Therron's face, pulling the corners of his mouth downward in an aggrieved scowl. "Very well."

In a whirlwind of movement, Therron unslung his bow, notched an arrow, and fired it square into the chest of the first man who charged him. It pierced the soldier with a wet thwack, sending the man to the dirt in a crumpled heap. Within a second or two, Therron slammed his heels into Snowball's sides, sending the mount careening into a gallop down the track, away from the screaming curses of a certain Kedge.

It was now to the endeavor which had compelled Therron here that he returned to. A war was on, which meant opportunities for men of low means such as himself, and right now the Duke could use every man he could find. He rode on through the desecrated countryside of High Rock. Though the sun shone, it was if the fields and little woods were cloaked in a murderous darkness that clouded the mind and dampened spirits, rather than vision. He passed a corpse swinging from a tree, with a torched Carcaster banner draped across its rotted shoulders. War was here. Even the birds had fallen silent.

The stream of peasants was nearly a mile long. Traffic on the main thoroughfare slowed to a crawl as desperate farmers and their families made their way sluggishly through the gates of High Rock. All had fled the countryside for the same reason: The Gardener host was approaching. War was approaching, and the High King's armies would soon be at the walls of the city. A matter of days, probably, Therron thought. He was stuck in line just like everyone else, although his grey courser looked very out of place amidst the hackneys and mule-driven carts employed by the smallfolk. A few odd looks were shot his way as the line inched its way tediously towards the gate.

It took another hour before Therron was before the guards. A half-dozen men with crossbows and assorted polearms had the duty of searching suspicious-looking folk and disabusing any troublemakers of the notion that they could, well, cause trouble.

And Therron had to admit, he probably did seem like trouble. The guards looked him over, taking in his expensive horse, the bow and longsword that he hadn't bothered to conceal, and the dour expression that he wore most days.

"Who the hell are you?" one of them asked.

"I am called Therron. Therron Esmond." He didn't sit any straighter in the saddle or look at the men with any expectation. Ser Kenward Holmes, his late mentor, had long since taught him that his name, dragged through the mud and associated with sin, would do nothing for him, that he would have to be his own man.

Another man in a steel half-helm stepped forward. He wore a sword at his side, and seemed to be their captain. "You don't look like any sort of farmer to me. What's a man like you doing in High Rock at a time like this? Can't you see we're at war? Eh? Answer me."

Therron looked around. "I can see you're at war, friend. I thought the Duke would want every sword he could find. Was I wrong?"

The captain didn't respond, clearly grappling with an unexpected situation.

"We can't just take a man out of nowhere," a guard pointed out. "Could be he's a bloody spy."

"Could be he's a deserter from Cedric's army, mate," the captain retorted. He looked back at Therron. "Are you a deserter?"

"Neither." Therron grabbed the reins as Snowball shifted impatiently underneath him. "I've come to pledge my sword to your lord, Duke Heremond. Nine Dreads, man, let me in! Do you want to keep holding up the line?"

Glancing down the road, the captain took in the miffed expressions of the peasantry. "Bah, fine. Cause any trouble, though, and you're first in line for the stockade." He waved Therron through.

Behind the walls, the city was packed. Carts full of people or supplies lined both sides of the streets. Armed men were everywhere. Some of them were professional soldiers, with armor and swords. More were militia, garbed in their work clothes and armed with nothing more than a spear or cudgel. Therron picked his way carefully through the tumult, until Snowball carried him right up to the gates of the Rock, the imposing castle of the Carcasters.

Here, unlike at the city walls, the gates were barred, and the eight men that Therron counted atop the gatehouse made sure that their loaded crossbows could be seen by all who approached.

"Who goes?" a voice called down.

"Therron Esmond. I wish to pledge my sword to Duke Heremond."

by **Shadowwell** » Wed Oct 03, 2018 8:57 am

Spindle wrote:
Sinnweld
Imperial Highway
The Reach

The straps on her carrypack dug into her shoulders as Sinnweld dragged herself forwards, one step at a time, the pressure in her head mounting in a slow, inexorable tide. It would occasionally recede, a few minutes of blissful relief before the pressure would return with crushing force. It was a pattern which continued over and over, each repeat inching the pain higher and higher until she was forced to pull out a wad of rustleaf and start chewing. The pain sharpened, became clearer, and she boxed it away from her body, feeling a hint of vigour return to her step. Aerys gave her a sidelong glance and a faint glare before continuing to glance around the forest.

"That stuff messes with you." The other Battlemage said after a moment, before tapping the side of her head, "Up there, I mean. If you overdose, it can drive you mad."

"I know."

Aerys heaved a sigh, glanced away again. They continued to march.

"If you compartmentalise things, they won't become better either."

Sinnweld glanced away as the voice continued. The colours were still sharpening, the leaves around her defining. She shunted the voice around until it was with the pain, in a box which she didn't have to deal with. And the leaves were so fascinating. The grooves were so clear. She could see how they rippled, how they writhed, how they moved in the breeze. In the breeze she could feel on her skin, the breeze which was coming from from south which was odd since the breeze had been blowing across their path all day and the day before and there were ripples in the breeze she could feel, it wasn't quite right in fact and her eyes were snapping around as her hands came up and she reached out into the streams and pulled and her mind was flooded.

Two flames to the south, one burning with a dark energy seeping out into the world and one with tongues of long-silvered flame reaching out and lapping harmlessly at the world. She reached out, brushed against them for a moment. She recoiled moments later. One was roiling, churning with barely-suppressed energy which seemed to reach out to her with open hands which sought to brush against her and spread its sickness to her. The other was old, far older than anything had a right to be in this world. She shuddered, raised her guard. The streams vanished from her grasp, the breeze strengthening and sending the trees swaying.

Sinnweld slung the carrypack off of her shoulder.

"We need to stop." She muttered, then glanced over to Aerys, "I said we need to stop."

The other Battlemage glanced back.

"But we've-"

"Get everyone here. Now."

Aerys opened her mouth to reply, and as she did the wind died down for the briefest moment. A few words escaped her mouth before the wind snatched the words away in a howling gale which now sprang up. On the road behind them, the cobblestones began to crack and darken and bulge up outwards as tree roots began to snake inwards, slithering into the cracks and splitting the road further. As the ground became uneven, the shadows darkened and deepened, writhed and twisted, then burst free in clouds of hissing wings and skittering claws which milled and spread aimlessly.

A figure rounded a turn in the road, blurry and indistinct with distance yet still evidently misshapen and contorted. Behind it cavalry lurched and jerked forwards, riders mechanically raising their arms before slashing down into the red-streaked flanks of their animals. The creatures made no noise, and simply staggered forwards in a vicious mockery of a cavalry charge. As they neared, Sinnweld realised that the riders and their beasts were one and the same now - flesh and bone had simply sunk into each other and fused.

Aerys was already moving, and Sinnweld could feel the pressure in her head mounting as the other Battlemage reached into the streams to send a wave of fire rushing down the highway towards the oncoming cavalry. More streams were seized as the other Battlemages began to react to the threat, precise patterns of fire washing along the path followed by shards of ice, jagged splinters of rock and lashing streams of lightning. Cavalry-creatures fell, seared to the bone or crushed or sliced apart, but even as they did they attempted to drag themselves onwards, ever-closer towards their prey.

A stab of pain sent Sinnweld reeling, her mental box crumbling, as the mage on the other end of the highway reached out into the streams. Gritting her teeth and forcing her hands out, Sinnweld reached out in response. Both twisted at the same time, and Sinnweld barely managed to blur the world around her before tendrils of inky night erupted from the ground mere inches from her face. She could feel hoarfrost spreading across her fingers as she forced herself to reach deeper into the streams, to try and disrupt her opponent. She sent forth her mind to poke and probe at her counterpart's defences, but sheer madness proved a biting deterrent and black flames forced her back with a chill touch.

The swarms of formless night began to converge on the Battlemages as they slowly began to retreat, step by step, swallowing up the ground beneath them as they rolled forwards inexorably. Spells tore into them, and were promptly swallowed and vanished without a moment's hesitation. Searching, Sinnweld found their minds, but it was a thing of such primal malevolence that she had no purchase on it - her suggestions and illusions simply slid away. The mage at the far end of the highway began to pull at the streams, and Sinnweld settled in to deflect and distract her opponent. Even as her mind tried to probe the problem from every angle. How could she win through before the silver flame arrived?

Kyrenic Olafir, Seeker of Knowledge
Tracking the Legion, The Reach
901, 4E

It had been some time since Kyr left the Battlespire and the Portal to it nestled in the foothills of the Mountains of the Moon. He had been following the trails left by possible Shadow Legionnaires who had fled from the Battlespires. He had changed into a less tattered set of armor, but had not replaced his weapons, if needed he could pull a hidden blade. He had left the foothills on foot but was now riding a mount, a mount rather different from the Griffon he had ridden from Ishnrion.

It held wings much as the Griffon had, but it was altogether much, much different. It was several feet long with feathered wings colored brown and white. It appeared for all intents and purposes to be a large rabbit, atleast for the most part, Its fur was the same mottled color, brown and white, as its wings. Aside from its wings what truly set it apart from any natural creature of Eroris were three things.

The most noticeable of the 3 things was its etherealness, though it had colored wings and fur you could almost see through it, as if it was illusory. From its head emerged two antlers not too dissimilar to dear or other game animals. The least noticeable but strangest thing of the creature were the two fangs peeking from its mouth. What it was was a Familiar, Kyr's first familiar in fact, the first he summoned back when he was a simple acolyte.

Though altogether strange the creature was not unpleasant to look at, in fact, some could consider it cute. Despite its looks it was an astonishingly powerful creature, it was not only fast and tough but could summon an ethereal swarm of its kin to fight for a time. Once it was a small cuddly creature but it grew as Kyr did over the long, long years. It was currently large enough to seat two or more people let alone just Kyr.

As he tracked the remnants of the Shadow Legionnaires what he saw worried him, there were not just signs of their passing, but signs of battle, they had lost some of their number to pursuers. As he grew closer to their position he sensed a Dread Mage, a heavily corrupted one by its aura. There were many Dread Beasts present, a few seemed to have accompanied the Dread Mage into conflict against the Legionnaires, even more seemed to be more recently conjured.

As Kyr gazed down from his position in the sky he was able to take in the current battle with his eyes. There was a group of Shadow Legionnaires holding against a force made of bizzarre foes led by a Dread mage who was engaging a young battlemage with short hair. A battle between the two was taking place, though not in a way an average citizen of Eroris could see, he could feel the magical energies pulsing between the two.

The young battlemage, little more than a girl really was putting up an admirable fight against the Dread Mage and its minions but the struggle was getting to her. Kyr could see that easily, her brow was knitted in effort and pain. The rest of her group was in similar straits, fighting desperately against the Dreadling swarm and the misshapen cavalry like figures. Kyr knew he had to act soon if this group was to survive.

He directed his familiar into a dive towards the battle, he did not gently land but dove off it before landing. As he fell through the air various runes and glyphs shone upon his flesh, filling him with power and might, simultaneously a pair of blades formed in his hands. Kyr landed while rolling, a small cloud of dust and dirt rising from the muted impact, he rolled into a standing position. There was a pause in his movements as he surveyed the scene and his familiar landed behind him.

A glowing wave rushed out from Kyr's strange familiar, within it forms began to take shape. There were numerous forms only a foot long at their largest, each reminiscent of the familiar itself. Moments after they formed the ethereal creatures rushed forward in a glowing wave as they flowed into the middle of the battle. They did not target the Legionnaires, they only targeted the Dreadlings and the other Dread creatures. They tore into the swarm of shadows and fleshy abominations as if they were mice tearing into a hunk of cheese.

At that same moment, Kyr went into action against the Dread Mage itself. From its looks it had once been female, but now was anything but, it had been twisted by the powers it sought to wield. Kyr's body was surrounded by a glow as he rushed towards the Dread Mage. His path to the Dread Mage was far from clear, the Dreadling swarm was occupied by his familiar's kin, but there were still a few of the fleshy cavalry-like abominations in his way. Kyr spun as his blades cut into the first of them, it fell screaming, crippled by Kyr's magic which coated the blades. He used his legs to push off from the falling abomination towards the Dread Mage, blades cutting through the air towards it.

by **Spindle** » Wed Oct 03, 2018 1:51 pm

Sinnweld
Imperial Highway
The Reach

Streams twitched and shivered as Sinnweld tried to find something to throw back into her counterpart's face. The air around her was thick with energy, ripping into her mind with a savagery she could dimly remember recalling, once. Sensation overflowed from the boxes in her mind, lights and colours assailing her eyes and the howling gale feeling like the very breath of winter against her outstretched fingers. The crack of a spine shattering roared its primal triumph, sprays of blood winking evilly at her as they sailed languidly by.

Her opponent shifted tack, and Sinnweld surged forward a moment. Magic coagulated in the air until it was as thick as blood, but her opponent's return stroke severed those streams and she felt the sympathetic shock hit her like a boulder. Something in her arm popped wetly, jarring her shoulder and echoing through her skull as she searched for new streams to hold back the new assault. She could feel the brambles slithering out of the ground around her, snaking up her shins in rivulets of blood, but her body was leaden. Moving was too hard.

To one side, she saw a skittering swarm of formless shadow engulf Thromm. The Orc was practically glowing with the power he was channelling, and small fountains of that light burst out from the clouds surrounding him as Sinnweld watched. Aerys was charging a horseman-thing, each step kicking up dust which trailed in her wake like a flowing, ephemeral cloak before she thrust into her opponent, blade lengthening and widening as she did so to bisect the rider. The beast below continued to thunder past, yanking her sword along with it.

Twists in the streams sent pain searing through her neck before she could find her own streams and pushed them to intercept. The two forces knotted, detonated in the space between the two mages with enough force to rip Sinnweld away from the ever-growing brambles and throw her bodily to the floor. Pain washed through her world, her vision flaring white before darkened sky above her faded into view. She could feel the other mage trying to sort out her streams moments before a second shockwave tore into her mind and - she noted with an almost detached shock - the Dread Mage's.

The streams around them were blazing with a silver fire, and she swore she could see that fire burning through into the world around her. A wave of something ephemeral rippled out from figure of silver fire, the shadows and homunculi burning away like dew in the morning sun. Pushing herself onto unsteady feet, she reached out with her mind to grasp the burning streams. She could feel her skin drying and shrivelling, her eyes glazing silver as the silver fire carved through one of the remaining cavalry-things.

The Dread Mage gathered her streams together for a final push as the silver fire moved to cut her down. Magic shimmered, streams twisted, and Sinnweld severed the bunching of magic with a single clean pulse. The sympathetic shock sent sprays of blood arcing through the air before two wet snicks in rapid succession heralded a far larger burst of crimson. What corruption had held onto this area clutched on for a few moments more, before it was purged in silver fire. Shadows scattered, cavalry-things collapsed like puppets with their strings cut. Sinnweld could hear one of them whispering a prayer of thanks as it passed.

And it was over. The silver flame was standing there before her as the rest of the Battlemages limped into a half-circle facing the inferno before them. She knew she should try and slip into a more mundane vision, but her world was veering between lucid sharpness and blurry-edged shadows. She really should try and say something, but words were hard to grasp. She squinted into the flames, made out the face of a...Reachman?

"Huh." She managed, "I always thought you were a Mayaar. Guess the knife-ears don't have a monopoly on your kind."

by **Everhall** » Wed Oct 03, 2018 6:42 pm

Wars and Intriuge

Cedric Gardener

The army of the Gardeners had come to a standstill. They stood before a river, meandering in its way into the Sea of Lunara, at the edge of their target: The Duchy of High Rock. Cedric Gardener, the leader of the army sat upon his brown warhorse at the head of the host, looking off pleasantly into the distance, his retainers, the Count of Nymeria, and Rex all similarly mounted by his side. Under normal circumstances, his force would be crossing the bridge into High Rock, set on taking the territory as his own personal lands. That bridge, however, was up in flames; likely set by the forces they were due to go into battle against in the coming days. Cedric smiled quaintly to himself, "Looks like the Carcaster boy's wisened up. It was to be expected, but I admire his effort nonetheless." Cedric turned to the Count of Nymeria, "Prepare to cross some of your men across the ford to construct and camp and bridges for us to cross, we'll work on our end here and should be able to cross by nightfall."

Wymar nodded and rode back towards to host in order to command his men to march. Multiple raiding parties had been sent into High Rock already, but they had never been able to storm an actual fortress. With the army of the Gardeners, fifteen thousand strong, however, all this would change. Heremond Carcaster was young, inexperienced, never having endured an actual conflict. Cedric Gardener was a veteran of many battles, strong and skilled with a blade, but age was slowly creeping up on him. Knowing these advantages one might think Cedric was arrogant in the belief that he would have no trouble dealing with the Carcasters; this, however, was not the case. High Rock had stood for a thousand years only having fallen once to the forces of the Black Phoenix a century ago in a time before even his father was born. Now stood Cedric, about to cross the river so many other and crossed confident in their assured victory only to limp back across it defeated and in tatters. The Carcasters were a strong lot. Cedric clenched his fist, I will not join in the number of those who have fallen at your gates... Heremond Carcaster, I hope you are ready...

Lance of Canem

"Don't..." she had told him with tears in her eyes. His mother, held by a stranger who had set their home ablaze, bloody and wounded. All he could do was stand there, paralyzed unsure of what to do other than glare at the man with all his might. Why was this happening? How could this be happening? Were the Divines punishing them all? Why? Why? WHY?! The fever broke.

Lance awoke with a start breathing heavily as he sat up from a bed of hay. He was in a room with glasses, vails, and various assortments of plants were scattered about, with a green, fire-like energy flickering just below one of the largest of the beakers. A jagged wooden door sat in the far corner of his surroundings, with golden light of what could only be the sun flooding into the room. How long was I out? Lance wondered to himself. It made no difference ultimately, for his eyes then glanced towards a wooden table next to him, were a girl sat with her head down, most likely having fallen asleep at his bedside. He recognized her immediately; Monika, the alchemist from just one town over... the one he was supposed to see on that day to ask her what had been brewing within his mind for quite some time.

He watched as her shoulders rose and fell, her soft, blonde hair falling in strands by her side, before sighing and sitting back onto the haystack he lay upon. As soon as he did, however, he felt a strong tension-like pain across his chest, starting near his lower left hip and ending near his right shoulder, causing him to grimace from the feeling. He looked down towards the source of the pain to find several heavy bandages wrapped around his chest and abdomen. This was the price of his failure. Failure to save his father, failure to save his mother, failure to save everything. He ran his hand slowly across the bandages and sighed, only jumping slightly when he saw Monika looking at her with happiness in her eyes.

"Ah-! uh..." Lance blushed and stammered, "Monika!... Uh, how long have you been... um..."

"Not that long," she smiled sweetly her blue eyes gleaming, "If anything you should be worrying about all the time you weren't awake to see me, you..." she faltered for a moment, "You took a lot of damage."

Lance's brown, downcast eyes looked down to his knees as he placed a hand to his chest, "How many made it how? Who found us?"

"Only you, Lance. Ieuan and a few of the militia discovered Canem after the Gardeners had already left. I'm sorry..."

He couldn't believe it. He just couldn't believe it. Everyone he and known and loved in his home village... dead? The thought was impossible to imagine. Sloan, the butcher, who always
cracked a bad joke at the tavern, gone; Mildred the baker who always gave a piece of bread to the hungry children in the streets, gone; Omaril, the Dark elf blacksmith, who always talked about his service during the War of the Black Phoenix, gone; and his mother and father, the people who had birthed, raised, and loved him, gone. The weight of all their losses crashed upon him. Especially since he was the one who was responsible for it all. If only I hadn't run back to the village... if only I hadn't run back to it...

"Lance?" Monika asked with concern, "Are... you going to be alright?"

"No..." he confessed, "I won't be... not until I see that man rot in Dread... I'll glue his face to memory, so when I find him they'll be nothing stopping me from killing him. That I promise myself... That I promise my family. Monika," he turned to the alchemist, "What's the fastest way to High Rock?"

Councilor Lhoris Varian of the Wise Council

Dark storm clouds clashed in a monstrous fashion above his head as Lhoris slowly rode into Isnhrion atop his horse. A group of guards from his manor accompanied him, with the Golden Eagle of the Varians emblazoned proudly on their armor. Fergus rode to his right hand, hand placed securely on his steel broadsword, surveying the scene around them. Lhoris had thought at first that it was a bit much for the newest member of his guard to worry so much about his safety, but knowing how hard he had taken Ruven's death as a member of the Order of the Phoenix and the new threat of the woman in black put aside his thoughts. His safety, however, in entering the city would be most assured in the way they had come. In the Arcanium District, where many of the rich and powerful of the Empire resided, the College of Mysteries dominated the division. Lhoris had been a student of the College in his youth and had even risen to the position of Archmage during his tenure there. The current Archmage, Selywin Cadmus, was a personal friend of his so he was likely to find allies among the College masters. It, however, was not the reason Lhoris was in Isnhrion. The reason he was there was because of the masked woman.

"An enigma," she had called Julek, "No ordinary elf," she had said to him with a dagger at his daughter's throat. Lhoris clenched his reigns in anger at the memory. The bitch... He had no desire to get Alesane involved in more of the capital's intrigue, and he prayed to Kuruth that she would never be dragged into it. As much as he loathed the masked woman, he knew that what she said wasn't a farce. He had seen the magic Ruven had unleashed on the day of the Proving, magic that no one could survive; no one but Julek. Julek, the man that had killed his grand niece; Julek, the man that had killed the person that had been like a son to him. I'll investigate Julek, but I'll do it without your help. He first, however, had to meet with an old crone.

"Hama Far-Seer, it's been too long." the well-armored Reachman cordially greeted the Priestess of Kuruth. Lhoris entered into the Temple of the Divines as they spoke, and, weary of the Reachman, cautiously approached the two as they talked. It was clear from his armor, full-plated steel with trimmings of gold and a stripe of purple, was that of a General of the Ashen Legion.

"Nothing is long when you have the sight, Flavius. You still are the same ambitious young boy I met on the Orcish Wastes," Hama smiled honestly. It was one of the few times that Lhoris had seen her do it. On a different matter, he now knew with whom she was talking with. General Flavius Silva of the Ashen Legion. His short grey hair and neatly-trimmed beard were almost impossible to mistake up close, "It seems, however, that we have a visitor."

Flavius turned a raised eyebrow towards Lhoris, "Lord Varian? I wasn't aware that you were the religious type. What brings you to the temple outside of service?"

"I could ask the same of you, Flavius, last time I heard you were freezing your ass off in Norravägg. I trust you aren't violating orders?"

"Nothing of the sort," he shook his head vehemently, "Emperor Julek and Chancellor Sentinel have recalled me to the capital. Finally, some recognition for my talents and service. I'm to meet with both of them today."

"All very well and good," Lhoris shot the General a downward look, "But I think it'd be best if me and the Priestess talk... alone." He would not have General be privy to what he was about to say.

"Very well, Councilor," Flavius nodded stiffly, "I shall take my leave then. I hope you'll not talk foul rumors about me behind my back. In any case, good day to the both of you." With that Flavius turned heel and began to strut out of the Temple, his footsteps echoing loudly through its tall, empty halls. Once the white doors of the Temple of the Divines closed behind him, Lhoris finally felt safe casting a spell to prevent any eavesdropping on their conversation.

"A counter-intelligence spell?" Hama chuckled lightly, "I guess it is something you wish not to get out that you wish to speak to me about?"

"Yes," Lhoris nodded, "it is," Hama was one of the few people in the world that possessed the power of the premonitions, "the Sight" as it was called, often confused with the Sight from which arcanists did magic. Her knowledge would be useful in any investigation Lhoris was to conduct, "It's about the Emperor and his... activities."

"What you're about to ask is tantamount to treason, you're aware of this yes?"

"I am aware, indeed," Lhoris' expression hardened, "But that is a risk I am willing to take... Tell me, what can you ascertain about Julek's mother?"

The Echo

Nobody

Why did he keep going? He could see nothing in front of him. Every second he tripped, every moment he ached, why did he keep going? It seemed to be paradoxical, impossible that he could still be alive, but here he was in the flesh, walking in the depths of Divines knew where. Why am I even alive? he asked as he continued to grudgingly drag himself across the hard stone- road? Was this a road? How- no, that was a question for another time. How did I even survive? was the thing that was on his mind. He shouldn't have, no, he couldn't have. The Leap of Ryenar had no end; this much was clear to him, and even if it did, he would be long dead by the time he reached it. What was stranger still was even though he had escaped relatively unharmed save for the lack of his arm and the multiple wounds that covered his body, his armor was not so fortunate. His helm was long since gone from the time of the duel, but the rest of his set looked much worse for wear. It was blackened, different from the pristine silver shine it held before the Proving. Pieces were bent every which way like broken limbs, but miraculously, none of them had gone so far as to pierce him. In the end, he couldn't just go hauling around the equipment he had left with. He felt some sort of guilt leaving it all behind, especially the shield which... seemed to mean something to him, who he was. In the end, all he took was the sword... because he had no idea what awaited him. The first thing he had to remember, however, was his name. My name?... he came to a halt looking with pain into the darkness ahead of him.

"Ah Ruven," she had said, "You have such a loving tender heart."

His eyes widened with tears... "Mother," he whispered. That was when a single light flickered in the distance.

Soundtrack

A single flickering light, isolated in the darkness that was the depths. He... hadn't seen it before. What exactly was it? He limped slowly towards the source, it seemed to follow that path almost exactly. While he moved forward he bumped into something, a rock perhaps, almost tripping him to the ground onto his stump. It felt strangely brittle, yet solid at the same time. He almost ran into several more like it on his way to the light, which turned out to be a burning brazier. The brazier stood at a large crossroads, only illuminating a few feet away from it's burning embers. The fire looked weak swaying in the subterranean air, it was a miracle that it even continued to burn as he approached it. It flickered gracefully in the darkness, emanating as the one glimpse of hope he had in the Dread that he had fallen into.

"Wait..." he murmured silently to himself as he looked the brazier over. In the center on each of the four sides of the stone lay a symbol. It was hard to make out in the light, but it seemed to denote the sky over an impressive city. What was strange about image, however, was the noticeable lack of any stars but one large one in the center of everything, blocking out even the sun in its radiance. People kneeled in the city below at the display before them, showing expressions that he could not make out in the dimness of the cave. He ran his hand along the edges of the symbol, and a light glowed from behind him. Usually, he would have whirled around quickly in order to face whatever threat had come from behind him, but in his weakened state he could only move slowly to turn to see what had happened: another brazier had been lit, bearing the same symbol. He took a step forward, and another brazier lit revealing even more of the path forward. He took yet another staggered step forward, and the fires within the braziers began to burn with more intensity, revealing much more of the path around it. On each side strange foliage was revealed, unnatural to the world of the surface, and most likely native to the cavern. It stretched out like crooked knives into the air, bending in strange unnatural positions. He looked to the path behind him. He- his eyes widened as an overwhelming feeling of nausea overtook him. Those... weren't rocks... They were bodies. Frozen in place and cowering in fear. Some seemed to be running, others held their children in their hands. Their eyes were all the same, however, hallow and devoid of all light. Their shadows flickered wildly in the darkness, stretching out like phantoms over the pathway. He wretched at the sight, not that much anything was left in his stomach and fell to his knees before the statues. They were everywhere, all running along the same path he was. Was this to be his fate? What dark path was he trodding? All these people dead and forgotten, people he had never heard of right beneath his feet. It was a thought was given him unease.

No, Ruven... he told himself, You can't stop. NEVER stop. Keep moving. Keep moving if you want to get through this alive. He had seen burnt bodies before, they clearly had to be them. His time in the Legion was enough to show him the horrors of war. But this... this was something else entirely. They weren't running from some man with a sword or a skilled battlemage, they were just running in panic. What had they seen? What had happened here? It was a question he didn't know the answer to and one which even if he knew he wasn't sure if he wouldn't go insane by knowing. All that was left to him was to move forward, so he turned to look at the path illuminated for him.

A city, a settlement much like that depicted on the braziers stood before him with its front gate broken into ruins. In the center of it all, rising high above what he could see of the settlement's walls stood a monolithic tower of stone rising many meters into the sky before disappearing in a shroud of darkness. It looked oddly familiar to him, like something he had seen before in a distant memory. How could I even remember this? I haven't been here... have I? Whatever the answer was he had no other choice. He staggered to his feet, blade held limply in hand, and entered through the city gates.

Signs of battle were everywhere; buildings destroyed by projectiles thrown many thousands of years ago and rubble and debris that covered most of the city's entrance. A statue of some sort had once stood near the center, but now it lay in pieces at his feet depicting some unknown figure of the past. In the middle of it all, however, stood yet another pit into some sort of dark expanse. There were even more statue-like corpses in the city, fleeing like the rest he had seen outside of it. "Wait..." he murmured as he narrowed his eyes toward a distant point near the black stone tower. He got closer than he wagered to the pit to get a closer look, but he saw the remnants of... some kind of fortress? near the rock. There was something else strange, something almost too far away to see, but that was when he heard it: Hissssssssss Almost like a snake but something was off, something unnerving, something unnatural, he turned around to face it, but he found himself falling, calling into the night as the shade receded from view.

by **Tayner** » Wed Oct 03, 2018 9:13 pm

Mettius Clement
High Rock

"You are free to leave as soon as you are ready." Duke Heremond said after giving his orders, founded in Mettius' advice.

"Yes, m'lord." He said before preparing to depart, however the meeting was interrupted when a young lad entered, bearing news of an attack on Kilbery. Ser Hwirmann's lands. Mettius had always appreciated Ser Hwirmann's loyalty, and his father's before. The news of his death and his land's destruction upset him. It even moreso upset Heremond.

"Damn him, damn him to the lowest pit in Dread! I will not rest until Cedric Gardener pays for his crimes in blood!" He shouted, angered to the core at the news.

"I will depart at once, m'lord." Mettius said, before making to exit the room. However he was detained for another moment as Heremond thought up some last minute revisions for Mettius' orders.

"Mettius, wait." He started. "Take Alano with you, and when you complete your objective march south to Mason's Crest." He said.

"Yes, m'lord." He found Ser Alywin, and beckoned him to join him and Alano as he made for a courtyard where many militia had been gathered. "Ser Alywin, go gather 100 knights of the Order, and meet us at the gates." Mettius said, before stepping up upon a crate to speak to the militia.

"Countrymen!" He started. "We find ourselves in a dire situation. Our enemy is marching upon us as we speak. As of now their advanced forces are raising hamlets and homesteads all across High Rock. Your neighbors, your cousins, your friends, your families, all are in danger. I call upon you, sons and daughters of High Rock, in the common defense of our homes. Volunteers for a war party step forward, and prepare yourselves for a march to the west!" He shouted.

Nearly every man that was crammed into the courtyard stepped forward, and Mettius was happy. He wouldn't need to go to another courtyard. After making a quick trip to the Guard's Barracks he also got a small force of guards to augment his forces. The war party, 300 strong, had mustered just outside of the Rock. Ser Alywin, Alano, and Mettius all gathered around in a small tent, looking over a map. Soon a lord who was in command of the militia and the guard commander joined, and Mettius began his briefing.

"We will march on Mulber and destroy the river crossing there. We will keep scouting parties ahead of us and on our flanks at all times in case we encounter any Gardener forces. Most recent reports only show advanced raiders in our territory, with their main body still a few days out at the most. Once we reach Tinham the Militia will remain there in reserve, while the knights advance on the bridge and the guards hold our flanks while we destroy the bridge.

"Mulber houses the only crossing for leagues along the river, so we'll most certainly delay them at least a day. Once we've destroyed the bridge, we'll turn south towards Mason's Crest. Questions?" Mettius asked.

"Say, what happens if we're too late and the Gardener's main army is already in our land?" Alano asked.

"Then we'll improvise, but we'll still burn the bridge." Mettius responded.

"And if we meet a raiding party that is on even footing with our war party?" Alano asked again.

"These are our lands, I've marched every bit of this Duchy myself. We'll use our knowledge to our advantage, and we'll prevail." Mettius answered.

"Very well." Alano asked, and the rest of the leaders gave their approval.

"We'll start marching now, we should reach Mulber before midday." Mettius spoke.

They had already engaged multiple war parties, ranging from a dozen Gardener militiamen to two dozen knights. It mattered not, the sheer numerical advantage of the war party allowed them to easily defeat the enemy. No survivors were taken, and any who stopped to surrender were ran down by mounted knights. When they reached Tinham, Mettius took in the scene. Encamped on a hill west of the town was a small camp of Gardener knights, numbering at around 30, or so the scouts reported.

The town had already been fought over twice the local militia commander reported, but most of the damage was superficial. The Carcaster militia had been whittled down by the enemy, and were sure the next attack would finish them, but the Gardener Forces were also in bad shape, and had withdrawn to await reinforcements. No doubt they saw Mettius' war party as they entered the city, so they would have to act fast to keep the Gardeners from escaping west and reporting Mettius' arival.

The Knights of the Rock were to ride around and encircle the enemy while the militia and guards attacked. Within the hour they had dispatched the last of the knights.

"Ser Alywin, see to it that the people are evacuated immediately now that we've secured Tinham. We'll be leaving soon and the Gardener Army will surely raise it once they arrive. The local militia will join us, and we'll leave no supplies behind. I'll ride with the knights to Mulber. For now we follow the plan. Alano, you ride alongside me." Mettius ordered.

"Very well." Alano replied, and they set out.

Apart from a paltry garrison of Gardener soldiers, Mulber was mainly undefended. After a quick assault, Mettius, Alano, and the other handful of men who could cast a fire spell set the bridge ablaze. They remained for half an hour to ensure the bridge was properly destroyed. However, one of the knights spotted movement across the river.

They were just in time, had they been an hour later they'd surely would have been knee deep in Gardener shit. After casting another few fireballs the knights retreated back to Tinham.

"Archers!" Mettius yelled. "I need volunteers!" He shouted, before getting 50 men and taking them to a hill just across the river ford where the Gardeners were crossing. Concealed by tall grass and terrain, they waited until the first party of men crossed the river to make their move. Then, on Mettius' order they fired a barrage of flaming arrows soaked in pitch at the enemy, catching them off guard and surprising many across the river. The enemy army had made to retaliate but the Carcaster forces made a hasty withdrawal.

The entire force regrouped at Tinham, and once everything was accounted for they marched South towards Mason's Crest.

Captain Hawthorn
The Duchy of High Rock

Hawthorn had been given command of a company of militia, and two battle mages were assigned to him to help support his forces. He had elected to send out many raiding parties across the duchy, while keeping a larger main force mobile. Right now they were marching to the town of Tinham, some of the knights were being held up there. However, a number of raiding parties failed to report in, and his forces were diminished after days of raiding. His army stood at nearly 200 strong, but it would be enough if his strategy held.

He only needed to wait another day before he would be relieved and commended for his actions. It was late afternoon when they had finally mustered to march on Tinham, following the road closely, they'd be attacking from the west, getting the sun in the defender's eyes, making it more difficult to prepare and defend their fortifications if the clear skies held up.

They would follow the road and seize anything they could, and raize everything they couldn't take with them.

Mettius Clement
High Rock

His advance scouts spotted another Gardener army to the south, not as large as the one perched across the river, but still a substantial force. Mettius had been pushing his men to march quickly in case Cedric sent a pursuit force across the river to follow him. If they kept on course, they'd meet toe to to with the enemy army, and Mettius wouldn't risk it. He looked at a map for some time before seeing a good course of action. They would march west, and remain in the woods to conceal themselves, and they would attack the enemy as they marched near, oblivious to them. It took some motivating, but the army was quickly deployed to the forest.

"We will wait, and the knights will lead the attack after an archery barrage. Knights will ride at full gallop supported by guards and militia. Speed is key, the more time we spend in the open fields is more time we'll be making caskets for our soldiers. Understood?" Mettius asked.

Captain Hawthorn

by **Ithalian Empire** » Wed Oct 03, 2018 11:07 pm

Heremond Carcaster

It was no small wonder that Baldric liked to come up here. To the very top of the tallest tower in the Rock, the farmland the surrounded the city below him stretched out. Beyond that, he could see the countryside, wooded groves and the old smoke of hearth fires from now abandoned homesteads. Farther out and the world started to blend together on the horizon. From here the world was distant, so small and insignificant. From up here, he could see the stars as clear as crystal suspended in the inky black of the night sky.

But Heremond wasn't here to escape the whos of the world stretched out before him. He was here waiting from a message from Atlas. And a message did come. For the first time since he came back home, he felt some sense of hope. The Blacktydes where marching north to support him. Nearly 9,000 men in total were the force that Atlas could muster, added with the forces he had under his command they would have an army almost the size of the one that the Gardeners had mustered.

But Heremond wasn't going to march with his full strength. He would be too slow and leave his lands undefended. Mettius had already ridden out with his force of 300 men to go and destroy the main bridges. Heremond also knew that the old ash elf would be hunting the raiding parties that had crossed the river. Heremond would send a rider, the fastest he could find, to deliver new orders to Mettius. Destroy the bridges, then make for Masons Crest. Next he himself would gather men.

The rest of the Order of the Rock, some 200 mounted knights as well as 500 members of the guard and a further 600 members if the guard and a handful of mages would march with Heremond to Mason Crest to meet with the force under Mettius. From there they would march to meet the main force from Atlas. That was as far into the future as Heremond was going to plan, the inevitable was going to happen anyway. The two forces would meet, most likely here at High Rock itself, or somewhere nearby and a battle would be drawn.

But another idea was kindling inside of Heremonds mind. Battle didn't necessarily need to be made, in truth only one of two men really had to die. Cedric Gardner or Heremond Carcaster. As Heremond walked down the long winding steps of the tower, this thought hung in his mind.

Baldric Carcaster

The ride from the capital had started for Baldric the same day the Heremond had left. However, unlike his older brother Baldric was in no way in a hurry to get back home. He and the two knights with him rode at a leisurely pace, stopping at the inns along the road, eating hot meals and sleeping in warm beds. It took them about a week to cover the ground te Heremond had covered in two and a half days of mad riding. The arrived and North Watch just as the morning sun began to rise.

"Who goes there?"

It was Baerwald who answered, " Who the fuck do you think it is? Can the damned watch recognize Knights of the Rock and a Carcaster anymore?"

A new voice came from the battlements of the North Watch, Higbald Stonier's deep voice calling down to them, " Berwald, you drunken lout, don't you know a war is on?"

"I may have, things I heard back in the capital may be a bit hazy." Baldric knew that the Pithythe had filled his gut with as much booze as he could while he was at the capital.

"You knights of High Rock. Duke Heremond is gathering his army. Just got a bird in this morning, he marches south." Higbald grew much more serious in tone, " I would be careful, raiders have been burning the countryside as of late. I have tried to send more patrols out, but there just aren't enough of us to do it."

"Damned shame. If only more young men were willing to live in shitholes like this." Baerwald said, "Well, Higbald, I hope that the next time we meet it's in a fine in with bellies full of booze and women at our sides."

"The same to you Baerwald."

With that, they rode on to High Rock. It was midday when the arrived at the city, a long line of peasants already waiting to get in the city. Baldric had seen some of them, local farmers who sold their goods in the markets during the summer, men who had been granted homesteading rights and had attended feasts in the Great Hall of the Rock. Here they were now. All of them carrying what little the could grab, many with nothing at all save the clothes on their backs. The line moved swiftly enough and the three men entered the city with no issue.

They rode up to the Rock itself, Thurstan and Baerwald heading to the Great Hall where Heremond was holding a council of war. Baldric went down to the crypts of High Rock. Dug out when the Rock was first built the crypts held the mortal remains of every ruler of High Rock, from that unnamed elven house who first saw the imposing pinnacle of stone to House Vrex and finally to House Carcaster. Under the fortress lay the hundreds, of men and yaar who had built the city and had guided the Dutchy for better or for ill. Here lay his father, and his grandfather, as well as the mother he barely knew and other members of the Carcaster family.

He walked to the newest addition to the many dead within the darkened halls. Here lay his father, Duke Hweatmund Carcaster. Baldric felt a lump rise up in his throat and tears well up in his eyes. He wished he had been here before his father passed. To say something, anything, to his father passed away. To garner the praise his father had so scarcely lain on him. Just once. Just one damned time, Baldric would have given anything to have made his father proud of him just once.

Baldric hadn't noticed that he had begun to sob uncontrollably when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He jumped slightly, surprised that someone what standing near him this entire time. It was Everlid.

"I figured I would find you here Baldric." Everlid sighed, " I know what you planning on doing, and I know that Heremond is letting you. But please don't. Don't go off to seek adventure or fame, I-"

"You what?" Baldric snapped at his sister, "You think I am going to go off and get killed right away? You think I am unable to take care of myself? Is that it?"

"No Baldric, it's not. I-I have seen things...in my dreams. Baldric a great darkness is coming, larger than any that Cedric Gardener could bring to us. I have seen the ground soaked in blood, armies fighting before the gates of the city. Baldric I have seen you and Heremond fall in battle and-and."

Baldric hugged his sister, "They are just dreams Ever, nothing real."

"No Baldric, I dreamed of father death, and it happened just as it did in the dream. I dreamed Heremond leading an army out of High Rock, and he is going to lead an army out of High Rock. Ever since I was little I have had these dream Baldric. And I fear them, I fear sleeping, I fear what face I will see dead on some battle field, I fear that I will see the darkeness that hanges on the edge of everything."

Baldric looked at his sister," They are just dreams sister, and only that. Now lests get out of the crypts. I have a long day of riding ahead of me."

by **Zanera** » Fri Oct 05, 2018 1:52 pm

Alyndel and Herrius
Near River Atlas
Seeking Fording

"If I had a copper for every time you said," started Herrius, scrunching up his face in feigned pain, sarcastically saying," 'O Lord Ryenar, grant me strength', then I'd have enough money to buy myself onto the Elder Council!"

Alyndel exasperatedly put his hands back down on the cot. "Well the potions don't do much for the pain, and the damned pepper juice that didn't want to sterilize me, for Kuruth's sake, keeps giving me damn horrific fevers. Excuse me if I wake up in shivers six times a night while I sweat like a Nord in Onyx!"

"Yes, I'm aware of all that," insisted Herrius, putting down his stirring spoon, "but I saved you from that and I think, just from a point of gratitude, maybe you can stop incessantly praying to a god that doesn't help people that lie in bed all day!"

"Three days," said Alyndel, gesturing with three fingers," and three potions. It's the fourth day and I'm still bed-ridden. I'm barely strong enough to get out of bed to crap. Nimshat must've given us weak health potions. I might as well have been given potions for headaches! I felt less sick while I was getting whipped!"

"Then maybe you should go back and receive your oh-so-enjoyable lashings given to you by that lovely Anduran gentleman!"

"I would receive about as much bedside manner as I am receiving now."

"I'm not a healing maiden, I'm a Valyaar mage."

"What, is there no sickness in Valyaria? Is it a plague-free fiery paradise of ashen wastelands?"

"It's certainly better than hanging around in the same cramped tent as some whining princely Mayaar!" exclaimed Herrius, storming out of the tent and leaving the soup to simmer over cooling embers.

"Great, now the soup should go cold!"

"Are you ready to mount, Alyndel?" asked Herrius, standing by the packed horse, looking down on Alyndel, who was sitting on a stump hunched over, clammy, with sweat dripping from his chin.

"Ryenar does not seek those who seek pity," said Alyndel, standing up. He nearly collapsed backward clear over the stump, if Herrius had not caught him. "Perhaps we should stay for another day," suggested Herrius.

"I won't have to use my legs once I'm laying on the horse."

"This coming from the one that complained about his soup being cold!"

"Well it was!"

"Why do you think you can travel when you can barely stand up?"

"Because there's armies of men that want to slaughter each other on this side of the river, and the other side doesn't have much of that right now, does it?"

"That may be true, but you might end off worse on the other side of the river after you've traveled through your fever then if a raiding party starting parading their banners through our camp. Besides, I think we diverted south enough."

"Screw it, Herrius. Just prop the tent back up," spat Alyndel, as he curled up on himself from a sudden headache and hid his eyes from the sun. Herrius quietly set the tent back up, Alyndel shivering every so often from a simple breeze. By the time the cot was set up, Alyndel was shaking on a sunny, warm noon. Herrius decidedly searched for some healing herbs and hauled water from a stream in the next couple of days, as Alyndel tossed and turned in his fevered fits of sleeplessness. Herrius was concerned, but nonetheless he hardly spoke to the ill high-elf, knowing the arrogant trait of his race was shining through in his ailment. Fighting would hurt their cooperation, anyway, any they both conveniently had the same goal: to go back to Herrath where Darath Jorn's grave was. Except, he would enlist the Mayaar to help him find the elven traitor in the Order of Ryenar that had did in his old friend.

"Well since you're on the horse, you'll have to tell me where a good crossing point is," said Herrius. Alyndel sat straight up in the saddle, looking across the horizon.

"We need a hill, not a person on a horse," prescribed Alyndel. Herrius discussed with Alyndel what the tallest hill in sight was, which turned into an argument, and then a discussion about optical illusions. Eventually they settled on the second-shortest hill with the best view. It took an hour to journey there and to get to the top, Alyndel getting off the already weighted horse in order for them all to get up the hill in a timely fashion. The Mayaar was immensely better, his fever having broke after he threw up from bitterroot. He made sure to cut a few chunks to plop into Herrius' bowl of soup earlier in the day to give the ash elf a taste of his own medicine.

There was no visible crossing, nothing but wide river for miles, with a column of black smoke hard to the northeast. To the southwest lay a cabin by a clump of trees gathered by the river. It looked overgrown and some of the thatch was missing, but it was the only bit of civilization around for a reasonable amount of travel time.

As they got closer they saw a perfect circle of wasteland around the cabin. Dead field mice lay cut open on small jagged stones, weeds having grown and died in the presence of once-lively bushes. The dirt was deprived of its nutrients and its root-anchors and kicked up dust when it was walked upon. It looked like descriptions of Orsinium. A noise from the cabin made the three stop dead in their tracks, the cabin being in worse condition then it had looked from afar. Dry resin oozed from attempts to fix opening in the planks, and small pebbles were stuffed in the cracks of the cobblestone base as if it was enough to keep a house from collapsing. The thatch and the walls were green with algae and yellow vines climbed up the walls and gathered at the roof's edge where wasps flew about. One of the supporting posts was being digested by termites. The windows were boarded up so the inside looked utterly black despite the afternoon sun. There was random trash across the lot, nails and wood-chippings and rotten planks.

Herrius' horse grew from uneasy to overwrought. Herrius had to drag its head down with the bit and pet it to calm it any. They both knew to look around, to listen for anything, but they could only hear the whistle of the spear that unavoidably killed the horse. Alyndel put his bear head's hat on, both elves slamming their backs against each other, one looking around the cabin and the other looking at where the spear came from. One woman emerged from the cabin wearing a rusted, misshapen helmet that his her face. Her clothing looked more mismatched than a beggar's, with halves of two different shirts sewn together, and the bottom part of her blue dress being a red pattern. She carried a rusted sickle, and spoke nothing. A few more people like her emerged, their clothes growing mold, whites yellowed, and jackets moth-bitten. They all had old rusted helmets that hid their faces, and their weapons in no better shape.

A voice without a body whispered through the air," Slay them."

All the maniacs charged, weapons raised, shouting some obscure daemons' name. Herrius engulfed a dead bush in flames, throwing a piece of the inferno unto one of the maniacs. The flames caught well, but the maniac still ran in his crazed fervor. Despite the nature of an ash elf's physical body, Herrius still kept his distance as he sparred with the flaming madman. Alyndel's spear was knocked aside, and as he withdrew it the maniac chopped down with their decayed scimitar. Alyndel fell back onto the ground as the scimitar plunked into the ground between his legs. Driving the base of his spear into the ground, he aimed it as the maniac moved in again, the madwoman uttered some slogan and openly throwing herself onto the spear once it was clear there was no dodging it.

As she convulsed from the lightning enchantment another maniac was on top of Alyndel. He rolled away as the maniac continued to attack, and the madwoman fell over with the spear. The maniac looked deep into the glowing eyes of Alyndel's bear cap, entranced in some superstitious idolization. Alyndel circled around the maniac, tensed, ready to move, closing the distance. The maniac perked their head and suddenly flung themselves at Alyndel. He rolled past the maniac and ripped his spear out of his former adversary and threw it at the maniac as they turned around and ran back at him. He looked at Herrius. The burning cultist had succumbed to the fire, and the ash elf now stood on his downed horse, parrying and landing blows with his sword as he tried to concentrate on a new spell. Alyndel dashed for his spear and hurtled toward one of the maniacs, plunging his spear into their chest. Herrius kicked over the other and jumped onto them, slamming his blade with theirs until he finally cut the cultist's throat.

"Excellent, excellent," said the disembodied voice. "You have proven yourselves. I can give you power you could never have imagined before. Join me in your servitude, and you shall be rewarded greatly."

Alyndel and Herrius looked around, at the rundown cabin, at the filthy cultists, at the death and decay that permeated the very ground. "I prefer to retire to a more ashy wasteland," said Herrius.

"I'd like a green lawn with wildflowers and chipmunks," said Alyndel. Herrius looked at him funny. "You're just jealous Eldrion has cute fuzzy animals."

"Fools."

Herrius summoned a flameball and sent it sailing toward the cabin, the wood popping and snapping as the disembodied voice began to shriek. "Praise Aduranos."

"Praise Ryenar."

"Come on Alyndel, we're going to have to decide what we're going to bring with us. We can only carry what we can put on our backs, now."

Herrius and Alyndel walked over to the clump of trees, a serene, picturesque scene compared to the cabin's landscape behind them. Their heavy packs swung around on their backs and small sacks containing whetstones, cheese and wax hung around their belts. Before them was a rowboat in excellent condition sitting on a shore with gently lapping water, surrounded by what can only be described as life. "You know, Herrius, why is Man so barbaric and backwards?"

"It must be a lust for power. You can't say Mayaar don't succumb to it."

"And Valyaar don't?"

"They do these days."

"And if they didn't then Valyaar would be perfect?"

"Yes."

Alyndel snorted and shook his head. They both put their gear into the rowboat and stretched for a long afternoon of rowing. Then they pushed off and rowed for Herrath, never looking back.

by **Ithalian Empire** » Sat Oct 06, 2018 10:32 pm

Heremond Carcaster
The Lower Gate

High Rock wasn't just a city with a fortress, no, after the War of the Black Pheonix the Carcasters had poured considerable amounts of wealth into making sure that the entire city was a fortress. The City of High Rock was surrounded by a high curtain wall, this was studded at regular intervals with strong towers that could be easily defended by as few as twenty men. Behind this wall all along the length of it was a dirt filed that created a fifty feet wide no man's land should the enemy take the first wall. Farther back from the first wall, surrounding the gentle slopes leading to the Rock itself was a second curtain wall, like the longer primary wall this one was studded with towers and strong points. At the base of the Rock itself was a structure that would have been called a castle by others. This was the Lower Gate of the Rock, and it held the narrow path that leads all the way to the High Gate and The Rock itself.

The previous day, Heremond had gathered his force and readied himself to march out. That had taken him the rest of the previous day. Now, he was here, leading almost a thousand men down the path to the Lower Gate. Orders had been in place that no one would pass the Lower Gate unless they had official business with the Duke. Heremond reached the Gate atop his horse, a chestnut-colored stallion called Swidbert. Heremond stood up on the sturips of his horse.

The Guard Captian who stood at the gate looking down at the young man. Damned shame a war had to come in there lifetimes. More damned was that it would have to be the young Duke Heremond who would lead them. The Guard had no ill will for the young man who was now his liege, but he was untested, his metal unproven. Sure, the Duke was a knight, he had killed men before, bandits and brigands who got past the Watch or crossed the river. But this was different. This was a real war, not a bandit hunt. And the man who leads the opposing force was one who was right to be feard thought the guard.

Cedric Gardner was a right hard sonuvabitch, and again in the guard's opinion, should have been made High King instead of his older brother Harold. Cedric was a fighting man, a man who had been tested and his metal had been proven. But what was the guard captain sitting on the battlements of the Lower Gate supposed to do? All he was to do was his job, and his job was to fallow Heremond Carcaster. Just as his father had, and his father before that. As he though his thoughts a man had come up to the Lower Gate, alone, and hardly looking like anyone important.

"Who goes?" The guard called down.

"Therron Esmond. I wish to pledge my sword to Duke Heremond." said the lone man

The guard and his mates all chuckled, " I ain't ever heard of you Therron Esmond, but if you want to enlist you should go down to the Armory where common pukes like you sign up."

Another voice called up from the opposite side of the gate. A voice all the men on the battlements knew.

"Bedwig, you oaf, I ordered the gates open. Open them now, or I'll tan your demand fat ass."

Bedwig, the guard who had been doing the speaking up until now, went pale, "My Lord Carcaster, some vagabond wishes to pledge his sword, I was telling him to go to the arm-"

"If he wishes to join us, let him. He will fall in with me, now open the damned gate."

Bedwig did just that, and the army of Heremond Carcaster, with the stranger in tow, went out into the City. The main road had been cleared for them beforehand, faces of children and women and other common folks all looked out in curiosity at the host that marched through the city. Mettius' had trained the militia and Guard well, their feet rang out in unison as the went on the coble main road to the cities southern gate. Some of the peasantry had come out of there houses and began to fallow the army, giving men farewell gifts of flowers and bread, some maidens kissed the cheeks of the soldiers.

But the feeling was not gay, there was no marry meant, and these were not gifts given out of joy. The people of High Rock had seen the refugees from the countryside, the stories of what had been done to the hamlets and homesteads and spread across the city. Rumors circulated that some of Cedric's men had eaten their victims. There where other tails, of mounted dread lords riding with the Gardener host, that there was a necromancer in there ranks rising the dead to attack there living kin. Such tails were not true of course, in Heremonds mind it was far more terrifying that normal men could do such atrocities as he had spent the entire day hearing of as more and more frightened refugees made there way to High Rock.

The host left the city and turned south. Some of the Knights broke into squads of five and ten and began to act as a screening force around the army, they were the eyes and ears of Heremond Carcaster. They would not be taking to the main road, it was too predictable, and while it would allow them to travel faster, it would be impossible to avoid detection. Instead, the took to paths and trails that only those who had road every square foot of the Duchy could now about. At midday, a messenger caught them and delivered a message to Heremond from Mettius.

The Bridges were burned, and the Gardeners were at the river.

They would not stop marching until the where deep in the Calmanda Forest. Heremond only stoped so the horses of the knights could eat and drink as well as the men. Some did so, while others tried to get some sleep. No fires where lit, the squads of knights had reported minor Garndener activity in the area, most of which had been silenced by the end of the lance or by the edge of a sword. There was however something of intrest. A small loging town, one of many in the forest, that held no name or marker on any map, was flying Gardener colours.

It seemed as if the raiders, instead of killing every one and burning what couldnt be carried, had taken it upon themselves to enjoy some of the small hamlets luxuries. Namely the booze and the wives and daughters of the now dead loggers. Heremond was in a rage. And he intended to do something about it. He, and fifty other knights road to the hamlet. The Gardeners had to be drunk, no sentry had been set and the lights of the main hall of the hamlet/logging camp where blazing.

Heremond road up to the door and dismounted, drawing his sword as he did so. The other knights followed suit. Inside the could hear the noise of drunken men making marry and the expense of frightened women and children. Loud shouts also indicated that the Gardener men where starting to have disagreements amongst themselves.

Heremond kicked the door in, sending splinters into the hall. Thirty drunken faces turned to him, women and children hugged the wall, Divines knew what the had seen and what had been done to them. "Who the bloody fuck are you?" said a rather drunk knight, most likely the one that had lead this rabble in the first place.

"I, I am Duke Heremond Carcaster, and your a dead man."

It took a while for the intoxicated men to realize what this meant, but when the realization came, they drew their swords. "The only duke of High Rock is Cedric Gardener, yous just sittin' in es spot."

The fight was brutal but short. The drunken men fought as such, there blows where clumsy and slow, while Heremond and his knights had clear heads and slew every last Gardener man in the town, save one. A boy, maybe fifteen years of age had been found in the back. He, like the others, was far too drunk to put up a good fight. He stood, barely able to raise a sword. "Fuck you, you piece of shit Carcasters." the boy said, even as drunk as he was fear could still be heard on his voice.

He died like the rest.

by **Rodez** » Sun Oct 07, 2018 7:02 pm

Therron Esmond
High Rock

Therron shifted uncomfortably in the saddle as the laughter of the guards trickled down from the walls. "I ain't ever heard of you Therron Esmond, but if you want to enlist you should go down to the Armory where common pukes like you sign up," said one.

He was prepared to do just that when a new voice spoke up.

"Bedwig, you oaf, I ordered the gates open. Open them now, or I'll tan your demand fat ass."

"My Lord Carcaster, some vagabond wishes to pledge his sword, I was telling him to go to the arm-"

"If he wishes to join us, let him. He will fall in with me, now open the damned gate."

The gates cranked open gradually, leaving a space just wide enough for Therron to ride through. He didn't meet Lord Carcaster, though. As it turned out the Duke was riding forth from the city in strength. They delayed only long enough for a sergeant-at-arms to get a look at Therron and make sure he wasn't a spy or some clueless farm boy. Within a few minutes they were marching through the city streets, on their way to war. It was a solemn occasion, with the townsfolk and country refugees wishing them well, but professing no joy at seeing them go. Against such a host as the one Cedric Gardener commanded, the odds of victory were not great. That much was plain to see on the faces of men and women alike as the soldiers passed out of the city.

Therron rode among the knights, although he wasn't one, and looked severely out of place in his worn leathers and long cloak, with a bow in one hand where other men hefted lances and warhammers. Some of them snickered at the country bumpkin who presumed to ride in their midst. "Hope you stole that horse from the Gardeners," one quipped. He paid them no mind.

As they turned south, many of the men broke off in groups of five or ten to screen the march. As he rode off with one such group, Therron caught another brief glimpse of Duke Heremond atop his chestnut mount. He'll hear me out when this over, perhaps, Therron thought. He seems like a just man.

He spent much of the morning in the company of nine others who were part of the same screening force. Their travel through the backwoods trails proved uneventful, until they happened upon a small cottage at the edge of the forest. Five men were milling about it, paying no heed to the crumpled corpses that had obviously been the woodsman and his wife.

"Those are Gardener colors," one of the knights seethed. "Two of us for every one of them."

"Aye," said the commander, a grizzled sergeant named Hobney. "Doesn't look like good odds for them. Let's ride, boys!" They spurred their horses forward before Therron, who picked up the rear, could object.

In a matter of seconds they had closed the distance to the Gardener men and were cutting them down with gusto. A few swings of the sword later, they had joined the woodsman and his wife.

"That's that, then," said Hobney. "Well d-." The sergeant grunted in surprise as Therron bulled Snowball into his mount, throwing the man from the saddle. A crossbow bolt smacked into the ground where the horse had stood a moment before.

Therron notched an arrow, turned to face a tall oak tree on the opposite side of the cottage, and fired. There was a gargled cry and a loud crack as a body fell to the ground.

The men galloped over, with a stunned, dismounted Hobney in tow.

"He's a Gardener, alright," said one knight. "Well shot."

"That was an eighty-yard shot!" exclaimed Hobney. "You saved my life, lad."

"I'm not a 'lad,'" Therron replied brusquely.

"You're younger than me, you're a lad," Hobney retorted. "I couldn't make that shot, and Divines know I've put in the practice time in the yard. Where did you learn that?"

Therron grabbed Snowball's reins and turned him back towards the woods. "An old man taught me. Let's get back to the main host before I have to do it again."

Therron laid down to rest as soon as Heremond called a halt in the Calmanda Forest. He had perhaps two hours of sleep before he woke to disturbing news. Some Gardener men had taken over a logging hamlet and were engaging in the worst sort of rapine and looting. The Duke took fifty knights to deal with the menace.

As no one had given him orders to the contrary, Therron mounted Snowball and rode in the rear of the column, bow at the ready. When Heremond dismounted and entered the great hall with the other knights, Therron stayed behind. It wasn't that he didn't want to punish the Gardener men for what he knew they were doing to people; it was more that the Duke would hardly require his help.

He waited until the sound of swordfighting and shouting rang from the hall before he rode on through the village. There were precious few souls hanging around outside, most of which were Gardener men, which High Rock knights promptly rode down.

Therron looked around for something that could use his talents. Then, he saw it: at the edge of the village, a knight was casting off his plate armor and making a break for the woods.

Sighing, Therron notched another arrow and let fly.

by **Tayner** » Sun Oct 07, 2018 8:43 pm

Mettius Clement
Warrick Wood

The Carcaster forces under Mettius were laying in wait at the edge of the woods. No fires were lit, no man was talking. They were concealed by the thick foliage as the Gardeners marched by a road about 200 yards off, oblivious to their presence. The raiding party was large, almost enough to match Mettius' forces, but in their haste to march north they had failed to send out a screening force into the woods, likely believing they had already secured the route when they marched south from Mulber.

It was almost too easy.

Captain Hawthorn
The Duchy of High Rock

Mid march they had noticed smoke stacks starting to form to the east. Scouts would be sent out to investigate, and the company would come to a full halt. An hour went by, and Hawthorn was pacing by as he waited for a report. Their failure to return made him assume they had be discovered and attacked. He summoned a knight, and ordered that another scouting party be sent out, reinforced by a dozen knights. The sun was setting now, still shining bright over the tree line in it's last hours. The men had begun to start breaking ranks to collect wood for fires as they had decided to make camp.

Mettius Clement
Warrick Wood

Ser Alywin had succeeded, his distraction managed to stall the enemy force. However he watched through an eyeglass as over a dozen riders broke away from the army towards Alywin's position. Stay safe and ride hard. Mettius thought, hoping Alywin and his men would heed his orders and break toward's Heremond's forces. He would act as a messenger, to seek out Heremond who would likely be in the Calmanda Forest if they were marching to Mason's Crest, taking the night to rest there. He would bring news of Mettius' engagement, and would join Heremond's march to the rendezvous at Mason's Crest.

Mettius planned to have a good report to deliver.

The Gardeners had just begun to make camp, laying down their swords, helmets, and armor to pick up tents, woodcutting axes, and other menial tasks, a small force maintaining a guard, however they were focused towards the east, toward's Alywin's distraction and away from Mettius' army. The knights and guards rode at full gallop towards the Gardener camp, closing the distance from the tree line and the camp in a mere minute, giving the Gardeners little time to prepare. The ground shook as they rode through the camp, striking down as many as they could before the militia arrived.

After fifteen minutes the Gardeners who were still standing surrendered.

Ten of his guards guards and two dozen of his militia had fallen, with three times as many men wounded. Two dozen Gardeners surrendered, mostly knights and officers. They were all brought before Mettius, who looked down upon them from atop his stallion, a strong white war horse named Ivy. "As enemies of High Rock, and criminals against her people, I hereby sentence you all to death." He said. The enemy commander would be excluded from the punishment, at least for now. The prisoners were stripped of their armor and put on their knees.

Mettius raised his hand and beckoned for Alano to come to him. "Alano. I task you with the execution of these criminals." He said as he came within earshot. "Then we ride for Mason's Crest for the rest we very much deserve." He said. It was true, the army had been marching non-stop and fighting all day, they were due for a real break from action soon.

by **Arengin Union** » Sun Oct 07, 2018 9:04 pm

The Woods of Norravägg, outskirts of Bellenwhod

So cold, it was so cold. That's all she could really think about while quietly moving through the frozen sea of trees covering her sight all around, bow in her right arm and arrows on her back she moved silently but quickly through the branches and undergrowth of the forest. She was on the trail of the hunt, following close and careful to not make too much noise. She stopped for a few seconds, looking around her, only to see the white empty landscape nothing else, her warm breath showing while her hands were beginning to numb. Adria moved yet again, following the trail of deer foot prints, her bow still on her hands as she itched to finally get a sight on the thing.

The half Nord girl kept tracking the snowprints, her boots sinking down on the several inches of snow that had been developing around the area. It seemed like she was finally closing in on it, but the snow kept slowing her movement as she sunk deeper on it and it became harder to walk, widening her steps each time. Ever since she began hunting it was difficult for her to walk in snow heavy areas, her father or any other kid of her age could do it with little issue but she was still scrawny by Nord standards. Still, Adria didn't let the snow stop her as she pressed on to follow the trail of the animal.

Where'd you go? She thought to herself while getting near a small frozen riverway, the tracks ending there in the ice layer of the frozen stream of water. She then heard what seemed to be leafs or branches breaking and looked at the noise's direction to see the deer she'd been trailer, right across the frozen lake above a formation of rocks and eating on what seemed to be unfrozen vegetation.

The young girl raised her bow and quietly took out an arrow from her quiver. She set the long wooden arrow and prepared herself as she pulled it back along the cord and she aimed and adjusted her sight. Don't hesitate... Was the only thought as Adria let out a breath, the icy cold air around her making her cheeks blush. Then she let it go.

The arrow flew across the frozen lake clearing and right across the rocky formations, piercing right into the deer's lung area. The deer immediately let out a yelp and tried to run across the frozen river but it quickly succumbed to the deadly shot as it feel right into ground, not even getting 10 meters away. Adria couldn't believe it for a second as she lowered the bow and had a grin of satisfaction in her face. She quickly made her away across the frozen layer of water, hearing small cracks as she moved but nothing serious. She made her way to the animal's body, she could see as it was still breathing, the arrow on it's side and blood on the white snow. She knew what she had to do, she set her bow on her back and pulled her dagger from her sheath and approached the deer, it let out whimper which made her walk back a bit. Adria gulped and closed in with the blade towards the creatures throat.

"May the gods guide you in the other world and may you be used for plenty and never wasted." Adria said as she stabbed the deer's throat and moved the blade sideways to open up the wound, it was dead. Adria let out a heavy breath as she looked at her bloodied dagger and then at the dead deer's black eyes, she couldn't believe she had managed to hunt it, all by herself.

"Good job." A loud, brawn and familiar voice spoke from behind Adria who immediately turned around, a smile on her face. It was Hankir, her father, carrying his metal chest piece and a sack on his bag, an ax on his belt as well.

"I did it father! It worked, I hit the right spot!" She said with an excited tone.

Hankir nodded at her, "That you did daughter. Now we must do the less arduous part of the hunt and take it back home." Hankir said as he approached his daughter and took a knee close to her, even when crouching he was still much taller than her.

"I can carry it father!" Adria said excitedly as she began to pull at the deer's antlers, trying her best to pull it away from the snow to little effect as she quickly got tired and even sweaty, Hankir simply chuckled at the sight as he got up.

"Maybe other time Adria. Argo is not to far from here, I'll carry it." Hankir began setting up the carcass carrier, setting up the thick leather pelt with several wood logs and then preparing the rope to pull it. The hulking Nord then easily pulled the deer by the antlers and set it on the sleigh and covered it with the sack. All while Adria watched with a bit of disgruntlement over not being able to carry the thing. Hankir noticed this.

The father began to pull the sleigh using the rope, while Adria walked at his side. He looked at her as he pulled the body. "At your age I couldn't even lift a great sword. Do not be ashamed."

Adria looked at the icy floor and in a quiet voice said "We both know that's not true..." Hankir couldn't really say anything else to make the girl feel better, at least not on the matter of her physical strength.

"You did good regardless. This will serve a good meal for quite some time." Hankir kept pulling the sleigh and her daughter tried to raise a smile of happiness at making her dad proud, though she still couldn't get over the fact it wasn't her pulling that sleigh, if it weren't for her father she would've been lost. The father and daughter began making their way out of the frozen river and back into the woods.

by **Derelldia** » Thu Oct 11, 2018 4:35 am

Atlas 24th of Second Seed
Iarlaith O'Kjotvis

A long road walked alone. Words spoke by the old cryptic sage, from his younger years in the Lupan tribe, foretelling of what his future would be like. Fond memories for Iarlaith to think back on during peaceful stretches of his journey. Up until losing his family to Nord slavers, Iarlaith would always laugh at it when people mentioned it to him. I didn't worry about anything but the next hunt I'd go on, back then. What I would give to be living back with them all, if they're even out there. he would think to himself. He smiled to himself before shaking and lowering his head. He forced his mind back to his present task. Atlas, and the owner of a Silversteel sword.

It wasn't long before he was approaching the gates of Atlas. The smell of the sea was a penetrating, yet refreshing, smell across the city. It was a city that prided itself on it's prowess at sea, but the land army it housed couldn't be ignored as a ferocious fighting force. As Iarlaith walked through the gates he noticed there was a lack of troops both on the walls and patrolling the streets, or at least less than what was usual. He mainly noticed this because he wasn't being hassled, but he wasn't really complaining about that. Must have just arrived at a guard change. He thought to himself. He shrugged and moved on, have to find this Pendragon Trade Hall, or whatever Ercon told him.

The streets were quieter than usual, especially as the main street seemed to have recently had some sort of celebration happen. The main street still had many trampled flowers and other things between the bricks that made up the street. He, again, shrugged and decided it wasn't worth thinking much about. He followed the main street, asking at a couple of blacksmiths and tailors where the Pendragon Trade Hall was. Some ignored him, he wasn't buying and they had other customers or whatever, others gave vague directions that didn't overly help. Eventually he came across someone who gave him useable directions to where he wanted to go. Soon he was facing the imposing doors of the Pendragon Atlas Trade Hall.

Pendragon Atlas Trade Hall

It truly was a hall. Large imposing decorated wooden doors, a building that seemed monumental when standing right at it, decorated walls, and a stain-glass window showing the sigil of the Pendragon name. The guards outside the hall were wary of Iarlaith, but didn't stop him or say anything as he went inside. The hall had many Reachmen, Mayaars, Valyaars, and even some Dwarves. Most people seemed to be merchants or people bartering for whatever they need. Inside the hall was a long fire that went down the middle of the building, tables lined up near it. There was a friendly atmosphere to the place, despite being busy and loud. At the end of the table, on a slightly raised platform was another table with a smaller fire in front of it. Sat at the table was an Aduran, flipping through papers and writing things down.

His skin was quite dark, even for Aduran's that still lived in Pandora. His hair was bundle into dreadlocks and tied back from his face. He was wearing an expensive looking light-red and brown outfit, which almost seemed baggy on him from a distance. A colourful stone necklace hung around his neck.

Iarlaith moved through the room towards the man, he seemed to be one of the few people in the room who hadn't been drinking at all. As he approached the steps up the raised area, the Aduran looked up and leaned back in his chair with a smirk on his face. He stood up and walked around the table,

"Welcome, my Lupan friend!" He grabbed Iarlaith's hand and shook it and continued, "You must be Iarlaith? The one coming down from Lenora?"

"Yes. I am... How did you know I was going to be coming?"

"A mutual friend of ours, Erconbert Voss. He sent a letter that arrived a few days ago talking about a Lupan armed to the teeth and wanting to return a stolen sword. Ah but where are my manners. I am Shaina al'Dune, the Pendragon representative for Atlas's hall." He returned to grab his papers and glass from the table. "Please, follow me and we'll discuss things in a quieter setting."

Shaina's Office

The pair walked out of the main hall and up some stairs to a long hallway. They approached a door that had a maid who opened the door for them, leading them into a room almost lined wall to wall with books, ledgers, and other papers. The desk near the middle of the room wasn't tidy even a tiny bit, you almost couldn't see the actual wood it was so covered by paper stacks.

"Apologies for the mess, I've only been at this post for two months now and my predecessor who would have made this room right now look tidy. A disaster of a man with a disaster of a work ethic." Shaina set down his things at his desk and gestured Iarlaith towards the table and chairs off to the side of the room. Iarlaith sat his weapons on the floor beside him before sitting down. He took the silversteel sword off from the belt and set it on the table instead.

"So what is this sword that you bring with you? It must be something impressive for the renowned Erconbert Voss to write about." Shaina spoke as he seemed to pull another glass from his desk, "Drink of scotch, also?"

"Yes, thank you." Ialaith unsheathed the sword, setting it on top of the sheath. "It's a silversteel sword. Has a Pendragon stamp that leant itself to some smith here in Atlas. So Ercon thought that someone working here could lead me either to the smith or the actual owner of the sword. Provided there was anything written about it."

Shaina walked over with the drinks, handing one to Ialaith, and taking a seat across the table. He took a sip before setting his glass down to look over the sword. A few minutes pass with him finding and studying engravings and the stamp on it. He got up and then started looking through the bookshelves in the room.

"Ah. Here it is. A book talking about the elven smith who deals with swords like this one." Shaina walked back to the table while scanning down the pages. "This one has engravings that talk about a noble here in Atlas, so based on that I think I can probably figure out who it's talking about."

"And how long would it take to find them?" Iarlaith spoke up from behind his glass.

"Probably not too long, however it is getting late and I feel you would appreciate somewhere to sleep? Also it's likely the noble is asleep if they're even in the city still."

Iarlaith shrugged and stood up. "Well if it's late then it might be worthwhile getting some rest." He finished off the drink and sat the glass down on the table. He started picking up his weapons and putting them back on him.

"Maid, take this fine man to the room three doors down," Shaina kept his eyes on the book as he spoke. "She'll deal with anything you might need for the night, Iarlaith. Have a good rest, depending on who this noble is, tomorrow might be an interesting day."

Iarlaith followed the maid out of the room and to another, one that was certainly for higher class guests staying the night. Haven't had a good night's rest in a couple of years, tonight probably won't be any different. Iarlaith thought to himself as he got ready to sleep.

by **Ithalian Empire** » Fri Oct 12, 2018 9:13 pm

Heremond Carcaster

They were on the march again, only having stopped for four hours that day. Above there heads, they could hear the patter of rain on the canopy of fresh spring leaves. A distant rumble warned the troop that a thunderstorm was on its way. They marched on under the cover of the forest and its many little trails. That day had seen little Gardener activity, their attention seemed to be focusing out of the forest and to west along the more populated farmlands. Mettius would be riding south almost parallel to them Heremond figured. He wouldn't be surprised if Mettius had taken to the Warrick Wood to shield his advance from prying eyes. They had been marching for a little over five hours, the forest had begun to thin down and the countryside grey more and more visible.

The rain began to come down on them, no longer protected by the thick canopy. That was when Heremond, riding at the lead of the column, say movement along the trail. Five riders in armor, knights, riding hard down trails that only men who had ridden them before could. As the neared, he could see emblems upon there armor, a golden castle upon a blue field, the colors and emblem of House Carcaster. Heremond halted the march as the riders neared. They where knights of the Order, and even from a distant Heremond could recognize the proud figure of Ser Alywin the Bold.

"Ser Alywin, a message from Mettius?" Heremond askes, already knowing the answer.

"Aye my lord. We waylaid a large raiding party under the Gardener colors not but a half days march north of the Crest." Alywin was clearly winded, he must have ridden hard and fast to catch up with Heremond and age wasn't helping the knight who was well into his 50's." Ser Clement orders me to ride with you the rest of the way to Masons Crest."

"This is excellent new Alywin, we will be at the Crest by days end if this damned rain doesn't slow us down."

Alywin nodded and fell into the column.

Heremond surveyed the land in the dying light of the day. A long hill stretched for about two miles before him, broken only by the road the was dug down into it forming a man-made gully. This was the Crest, from which Mason's crest took its name. The mason part was because of the stone quarries that produced most of the building material for High Rock. The City was a quarter of a mile behind the Crest. The city that was the seat of House Pithythe, Heremonds father-in-law. A rider sent by Rodger had arrived inviting him to stay in the city that night, but Heremond could not in good conscious sleep in comfort while his men slept out in the rain and muck.

No, Heremond would sleep in the rain and the muck, just like his men. It was the burden of power. Something that men like Harold Gardener and Julek Ashen hadn't been taught. He had power, yes, but that power came with a price. His men were going to fight and die in his name, fir his family. He owed it to them to be there every step of the way, to be there when they were fighting and dying in his name, and to fight and possibly die with them. That had been the way of the Carcasters, ever since the first Carcaster, Jerom Carcaster took power after Alaro Ashen united the bloody land of Eroris.

That had started nine hundred years of near unbroken Carcaster rule over one of the most strategic points in the whole of the Reach. It had made them rich, made them powerful even for the small size of there armies there lands. And, Heremond supposed, that's what made High Rock such an attractive target to the Gardners. He looked over the Crest a final time.

Yes, he gut told him, this will be the place.

by **Zanera** » Sun Oct 14, 2018 12:34 pm

Edmyn Blacktyde
Just South of Mason's Crest
The Army of Atlas

"We should probably give the men another break. Morale is high but we don't want to squander it," counseled one of Edmyn Blacktyde's top men, Algar Hedwin.

"Aye, but we'll do it at Mason's Crest. We'll go there and ask for news, and whatever kind of news we get, we still march north. After the march break," said Edmyn. The column had marched for days, as fast as they could go. Scouts had picked up reports and gossip about what was happening northward, and it sounded like High Rock was doing what they could, but they wouldn't be able to fight the Gardeners on their own. That was why the army at Edmyn's back was here for. The army the Gardeners had exhibited was large, but they probably lacked the same drive that drove the Blacktyde army, a force higher than the gods themselves: duty to one's land and the protection of a soldier's family that lived in it, as well as every other family in the county. The Gardeners had made it known that their campaign was nothing but a hard conquest. The only way to protect one's family was to commit to duty and to destroy the Gardener army.

"This is going to last longer than the Gardener army. We may have a year or so until our strength fails against the Empire," said Ardith Adythe, a countess. She was more stout, in both definitions, than some of the militiamen in the army, and could fight like a wild lioness. And she was right, unless the county could gain more allies there wasn't a chance in Dread the county could gain independence for very long. The Ashen Empire had millions of square miles worth of soldiery to call upon, and the county was surrounded on all sides, including an unknown enemy strong enough to kill an Emperor and to destroy a massive fleet. Sooner or later they would have to be addressed, but as of now...

"If we focus on the tasks just ahead of us, then we will have victory and a foothold with which to work off of. If we let our minds wander, then we may be doomed. As of now, we make our way to High Rock to rid the county of the Gardeners, and after that we lay our strategy," said Edmyn.

"I think we should ask for more food supplies at Mason's Crest, enough to make sure our men our good and fed as we approach High Rock," said Algar.

"Aye. Food, rest and news then," said Edmyn. As they came around a bend in the roads, Mason's Crest exhibited itself to the lead of the army. Edmyn knew the city had been an important stone quarry, but knew not the name of the man in control of it," That be Mason's Crest. Who's in charge o' that one?"

Algar pulled a map from a saddlebag and checked it. "A Rodger Pithythe, unless he's died and the settlement's changed hands. I would count on Rodger being alive, though."

"I hope Rodger has the latest news," said Edmyn. The army stopped just to the south of the city, resting and eating jerky and hard tack. Ardith oversaw the men while Edmyn rode to the gate of Mason's Crest with Algar and Wulfric. He implored at the gates," I be Edmyn Blacktyde, lord of Atlas and king of this county, head of a host to fight back the Gardener maw. I ask to see Rodger Pithythe immediately."

by **Ithalian Empire** » Sun Oct 14, 2018 5:49 pm

[quote="Zanera";p="34767983"]

Edmyn Blacktyde
Just South of Mason's Crest
The Army of Atlas

" I be Edmyn Blacktyde, lord of Atlas and king of this county, head of a host to fight back the Gardener maw. I ask to see Rodger Pithythe immediately."

A man approached the top of the battlement. He was old, nearing 70 years of age, yet he didn't seem to be afflicted by the common maladies of on so advanced in years. His hands were not knotted from arthritis, nor was he hunched over like a beggar. No, this man was taller than most men, even amongst the Nords, he would have been tall. He had a face that most described as hawkish, a crooked beak-like nose and piercing pale blue eyes.

"This is he," Rodger said, his voice was cold like his eyes, " If you are in the business of killing the damned Gardeners, my son-in-law is over that way." Rodger pointed to the Crest as it rose up over most of the local terrain, "He is the one you want to speak to."

by **Zanera** » Sun Oct 14, 2018 6:08 pm

Edmyn Blacktyde
Just South of Mason's Crest
Edmyn's Company

"Aye, that I will do. Thank you for the direction," said Edmyn, turning his horse to ride along the wall of Mason's Crest, Wulfric and Algar right behind him. They kicked their horses into a gallop, riding straight for the Crest. It was an odd thing that Heremond wasn't at High Rock, but maybe there was some kind of rear force. He knew Heremond might be new to this level of combat, but the young tended to want to see what they were made of. Edmyn was mostly sure the young lord wasn't chickening out; he did have Mettius with him. Mettius' is probably one of the weightiest counsels in the county, or so far as Edmyn understood the elf. There was something going on.

As Edmyn rode through the high grass and around boulders, Wulfric yelled," Should I turn back and raise the army back to marching status?"

"Not right now, Wulfric, but soon," Edmyn called back. As they neared the number of Heremond's men was more countable. They had a small number of troops relative to the armies having been amassed, but the number would swell soon enough anyway. Edmyn stopped near the edge of the troops, waiting for either Mettius or the Carcaster to come forth.

by **Tayner** » Sun Oct 14, 2018 8:31 pm

Mettius Clement
The Crest

The reunion at Mason's Crest was prompt. Mettius reported his news to Heremond, and immediately set about making battle preparations. The city itself was already undergoing preparations, evacuating the peasantry into the keep while the massed armies under Heremond and Mettius consolidated at The Crest. The Gardeners would be approaching from the north, and if they followed the main roads, it would be an easy fight.

"Ser, to the south, look!" A scout hollered as Mettius was riding by on his mount, making his rounds about camp. He produced a eye-glass from his horse's satchel and surveyed the scene before him. Multiple riders coming from the city. They wore the colors of Atlas. Thank Aduranos. Mettius thought as he saw King Edmyn riding at the lead. He rode out to meet the king, a few of his own knights in tow. They met at the edge of camp, Mettius waving the sentry to stand at ease.

"King Edmyn," Mettius started as he slid off his mount and onto his knee before the king. "I'm honored by your presence." He said.

Edmyn looked down on the elf. It was an ash elf...none other than Mettius. "While I am honored by your humility, as you are such an accomplished person, I think you should stand so that we might talk as equals for the planning of the coming battle."

"Aye sire." Mettius spoke as he stood to his full height, over a foot taller than Edmyn. "As you wish. Come, there's much strategy to discuss with Duke Heremond." He said, gesturing for the King to accompany him as they made way towards Heremond's command tent. Some men took the reigns of the horses that were dismounted and led them to be hitched.

"How has this Gardener business been going for High Rock's lands?" Edmyn inquired.

"Cedric Gardener has sent raiding parties to seize the countryside. Many hamlets and homesteads have been destroyed, but we've retaliated in kind, hunting down the enemy with extreme prejudice. Right now the Gardeners are fording the Blacktyde River." Mettius answered.

"I suppose we could force a battle at the crossing, but it probably won't do us much good. We'll need to hit them with finality. What's this current situation at the Crest?" The King asked, further assessing the situation.

"We have some 1,600 men amassed here, while we get the peasantry to safety inside the city. I've already engaged them at the crossing with a harassing volley of arrows, and I expect they'll send a pursuing force to engage us before dusk tomorrow." Mettius said.

"Their entire force?"

"No, only a detachment. I expected their main force will march directly east to seize The Rock" Mettius answered.

"Well, damn. I'm guessing that detachment is why we're both walking to the command tent, so let's get there." Edmyn said.

"Yes my liege." Mettius said as they made the final strides to the tentative headquarters. He held open the tent flap for King Edmyn and announced his arrival with a booming voice. "Duke Heremond of High Rock, I present King Edmyn of Atlas."

by **Ithalian Empire** » Sun Oct 14, 2018 10:10 pm

[/align=center]Heremond Carcaster
The Crest
[/align]

Heremond was looking over a map of the local area. Not that he needed to. He had been to Masons Crest so many times that he new most, if not all the trails, the slight undulations of the Crest. Heremond new that this place would be perfect for the battle he hoped would be fought here. If Mettius was right, and the elf was hardly wrong in these manners, than a Gardener force had indeed crossed the river and was marching south. Right here, right into what Heremond was hoping would be the perfect trap.

His attention was snapped away from his map and his thoughts by the booming voice of Mettius.

"Duke Heremond of High Rock, I present King Edmyn of Atlas."

Heremond gave a slight bow. He wasn't one for most of the manners of the courts that the nobility had made for themselves, but he would show his respect to his liege lord.

“My King Edmyn, thank the Divines you have arrived. No doubt Ser Mettius has informed you of the situation already.”

"For the most part," said Edmyn, walking over to the map, Algar right behind him. Wulfric moved off to the side, mildly interested. "No doubt this area is fruitful for those who would take advantage of it," Edmyn said, looking over the map, his eyes growing hungry out of sheer possibilities.

“Aye, as you can see on the map, my forces have taken positions on the Crest itself. The woods and rocks will make it impossible for the Gardeners to effectively use mounted troops. Furthermore, on the left flank,” Heremond pointed out the area with his finger, “The woods screen our forces, making for the perfect place to spring an ambush.”

"I can see that being so. I would like to add, that from the forestry and hills in the south, there should be another sizable force in waiting to sweep northwest to crush them between two sets of men. An ambush will do good, but not very much good unless we truly capitalize on it. Even if the rocky field makes cavalry charges difficult, it is still a plain, and cavalry can do a lot upon a plain."

“Yes, an encirclement. Say, if my knight where to smash their left flank from the northern part of the Crest and yours swepts them from the right We could use our combine infantry to cut of there way forward and back. Destroy the whole detachment in one swoop.” This had been Heremond idea since the beginning, but he didn't think he would have the force to pull it off. Now he did with the help of King Edmyn and the rest of Atlas.

"Easily. The plan is fortunately simple, else we'd be wrapped up in complications. Those come later," Edmyn said. He turned to Wulfric and said," Go back to the army and have them march to the Crest. We must brief the officers and prepare for the coming battle."

Wulfric nodded and left the tent. Wulfric was a troublesome young man, but he could also be dependable when absolutely necessary. Now was one of those times when he had to be dependable. It was very hard to fail at the task anyway.

Algar spoke up, asking," Are we using any trails or do the men have to charge through brush when the attack starts?"

“No, if you went charging through that without as any idea of the terrain you wouldn't have any horses worth riding. There are trails that lead to the top of the Crest, I will have some of my knights guide yours down them. As for the infantry, we will mainly be worried about the break in the Crest where the road cuts through. I think the fighting will be thickest here, it would be wise that who ever holds the gap is a strong and competent man with the best of our infantry.”

The damned gap was always going to be an issue, a natural weak point right in the middle of the line. The only saving grace was that should the Gardeners break through they would be met with the walls of Masons Crest and a hail of missiles. But Heremond didnt want there to be anyone to get out of, at least no one alive. No, this would be retribution. For the burnt farms and hamlets, for the dead whose blood cried out for vengeance. For the widows and orphans. Heremond had set in his heart that this battle would be a warning to Cedric.

Algar said," Well, I have an idea of who that could be, but they're a woman."

"Aye," said Edmyn," She may not be a man, but the only time she'd break is if she were cut down, but her last blow would surely be a killing one. I recommend putting her in charge of holding the line. I am here to protect my vassals, and if I have anything to say about my devotion, I would say it with Countess Adythe."

Heremond thought. He had heard the name before, and the reputation the preceded that name was rather impressive. Countess Adythe was said the be a literal bear of a woman, able to drink, spit and swear with the best of them. And to top it off was her unwavering dedication and loyalty that seemed to infect any troop she was in command of.

“Her reputation precedes her my lords. She will hold the gap with the heaviest infantry we have. That will be the knot of our noose.”

"And the throat of this Gardener force will be wrung when it closes. Shall we discuss the details to make this noose finely-made?"

“This is what I have been thinking about all day and most of the night. We can encircle them easily enough. Our cavalry will ensure that. But cavalry can not hold that noose tight long enough. We need to dedicate a force to follow up behind our cavalry, preferably men armed with polearms. We need to press them at all turn. Where ever a Gardener looks, he should see our force. We can do that now, with the men you have.”

"Aye, cavalry will provide the shock, but they only have so many in number. Sort of an obsidian sword. The polearms will provide longevity, and hopefully it will make the enemy feel fully doomed. What if the force is cohesive and breaks the encirclement? I assume, in that case, our infantry should make for the gap while the cavalry remain behind enemy lines to deal blows."

“I count on the enemy being cohesive. They are marching in, thinking we will give them battle. They think the 300 men Mettius marched here is the main force here. They don't even know that our forces have linked up. And this is where the second part of the plan comes to play. They will see the Countesses troops in the gap and make for an attack. That is when we attack with our cavalry and tighten our noose. They may break our line, and yes, the will find our lances waiting for them. My lords, the enemy marches strait into their doom.”

Heremond looked outside the tent. The sun was setting. The next day would bring the battle. “The hour grows late. We should all try and rest, unless there is something else?”

"I will be mulling this plan over, but right now I cannot think of much more to plan for, and there isn't anything else that can't wait until after the battle. My army requires nourishment and rest, we will camp behind the eastern hills, and I will organize them again early in the morning."

Heremond bowed as the king left. So far, things looked hopeful for the first time since the war began. Tomorrow would be his first test he knew. And so far everything was riding on the strategy he had just put forth. Win or lose, the fates would decide. But Heremond Carcaster was satisfied that he had done as much as he could to type fate in his favor.

The golden sun of morning would bring him his answer.

by **Rodez** » Mon Oct 15, 2018 12:09 am

Therron Esmond

Word filtered down through the sergeants within the hour. Battle would be met in the morning. Every man in the Duke's army had watched the coming and going of King Edmyn Blacktyde with great interest, and it had not taken long at all for news of the next day's battle to leak out, although many details were still up in the air.

Therron bit back words every time he caught a glimpse of Duke Heremond or King Edmyn. He very much wanted to speak with either or both of them, but knew that he had no standing whatsoever to do so. Even if either man could be convinced of his birthright, which was no sure thing, that alone would not place him in their counsels. All of that aside, it was an extremely unhelpful time to bring up such a thing. Heremond was dealing with the destruction and invasion of his lands, and the King an unwarranted attack on his vassal.

Patience. You pledged your bow to Heremond and must remain true. This is a just war you fight in.

And it was. The Gardeners were cruelly assaulting their own vassals with a nod from an Emperor who was either deeply confused or simply had no interest in the welfare of the Reach, Therron was unsure which.

He had his own axe to grind with Harold, at any rate: the High King had sat idly by while House Risley led the destruction of the Esmonds and stripped Therron of his rightful inheritance. Ranulf Risley and Harold were close allies, and for that both men would pay. Fighting here at Mason's Crest is the first step back to Caflon.

With a small shiver, Therron recalled the last words Ser Kenward had said to him, before old age and ill health had taken him: Nothing is given.

He glanced up at the sun, large and sinking in the golden sky. Perhaps an hour remained until nightfall, he estimated.

After wolfing down a supper of bacon and bread, Therron strode over to a large elm tree at the edge of camp. Drawing his knife, he whittled away at the bark until he had a rectangle the height of his forearm and the width of three hands.

Fetching his bow and quiver, he retreated until he stood a full forty paces from the elm. Therron pulled an arrow forth, notched, and drew, just as he had done countless times before. A single breath, long and deep.

Twang.

Thwack. The shaft smacked squarely in the center of his target.

Therron reached back into his quiver.

A smattering of clapping confirmed what Therron knew to be true as soon as he released the shot: he had hid home once again. The once-pristine square he had cut into the elm was now choked full of arrows, with thirteen shafts protruding from it. Two "errant" shafts hung from the bark immediately adjacent to it. The gathered soldiers had chuckled when he loudly cursed the two shots that had missed the target by an inch or less: Therron's standards with the bow were . . . . different from other men's.

Deciding that fifteen shots was enough for an evening, Therron went to retrieve his arrows. The assembled men, two score or so, dispersed in twos and threes, returning to the warm comfort of their tents and fires.

Therron did the same, laying out his gear in the grass so he could equip it all rapidly when the morning came. As he did so, he caught sight of a rose bush just a little ways away, difficult to make out atop a small hillock in the newly settled night.

Something about the roses struck a chord with Therron. A very old memory was jogged, an ancient folk song of the Normans burned into his mind in early childhood. He hummed the tune at first, letting the memory fill his mouth. Then his lips parted, and he began to sing. His voice was unpracticed, but nonetheless had a certain sweetness and melancholy that lent the song solemnity:

As I was a walking one morning in Spring,
For to hear the birds whistle and the nightingales sing,
I saw a young damsel, so sweetly sang she:
Down by the Green Bushes he thinks to meet me.

I stepped up to her and thus I did say:
Why wait you my fair one, so long by the way?
My true Love, my true Love, so sweetly sang she,
Down by the Green Bushes he thinks to meet me.

I'll buy you fine beavers and a fine silken gown,
I will buy you fine petticoats with the flounce to the ground,
If you will prove loyal and constant to me
And forsake you own true Love, I'll be married to thee.

I want none of your petticoats and your fine silken shows:
I never was so poor as to marry for clothes;
But if you will prove loyal and constant to me
I'll forsake my own true Love and get married to thee.

Come let us be going, kind sir, if you please;
Come let us be going from beneath the green trees.
For my true Love is coming down yonder I see,
Down by the Green Bushes, where he thinks to meet me.

And when he came there and he found she was gone,
He stood like some lambkin, forever undone;
She has gone with some other, and forsaken me,
So farewell to Green Bushes forever, cried he.

Therron put out his little fire and crawled into his tent. He laid with his head against his saddle and his legs wrapped in a traveling cloak. Though he shivered in the night air, three words lit the fire burning in his heart.

Nothing is given.

by **Shadowwell** » Mon Oct 15, 2018 8:38 am

Spindle wrote:
Sinnweld
Imperial Highway
The Reach

Streams twitched and shivered as Sinnweld tried to find something to throw back into her counterpart's face. The air around her was thick with energy, ripping into her mind with a savagery she could dimly remember recalling, once. Sensation overflowed from the boxes in her mind, lights and colours assailing her eyes and the howling gale feeling like the very breath of winter against her outstretched fingers. The crack of a spine shattering roared its primal triumph, sprays of blood winking evilly at her as they sailed languidly by.

Her opponent shifted tack, and Sinnweld surged forward a moment. Magic coagulated in the air until it was as thick as blood, but her opponent's return stroke severed those streams and she felt the sympathetic shock hit her like a boulder. Something in her arm popped wetly, jarring her shoulder and echoing through her skull as she searched for new streams to hold back the new assault. She could feel the brambles slithering out of the ground around her, snaking up her shins in rivulets of blood, but her body was leaden. Moving was too hard.

To one side, she saw a skittering swarm of formless shadow engulf Thromm. The Orc was practically glowing with the power he was channelling, and small fountains of that light burst out from the clouds surrounding him as Sinnweld watched. Aerys was charging a horseman-thing, each step kicking up dust which trailed in her wake like a flowing, ephemeral cloak before she thrust into her opponent, blade lengthening and widening as she did so to bisect the rider. The beast below continued to thunder past, yanking her sword along with it.

Twists in the streams sent pain searing through her neck before she could find her own streams and pushed them to intercept. The two forces knotted, detonated in the space between the two mages with enough force to rip Sinnweld away from the ever-growing brambles and throw her bodily to the floor. Pain washed through her world, her vision flaring white before darkened sky above her faded into view. She could feel the other mage trying to sort out her streams moments before a second shockwave tore into her mind and - she noted with an almost detached shock - the Dread Mage's.

The streams around them were blazing with a silver fire, and she swore she could see that fire burning through into the world around her. A wave of something ephemeral rippled out from figure of silver fire, the shadows and homunculi burning away like dew in the morning sun. Pushing herself onto unsteady feet, she reached out with her mind to grasp the burning streams. She could feel her skin drying and shrivelling, her eyes glazing silver as the silver fire carved through one of the remaining cavalry-things.

The Dread Mage gathered her streams together for a final push as the silver fire moved to cut her down. Magic shimmered, streams twisted, and Sinnweld severed the bunching of magic with a single clean pulse. The sympathetic shock sent sprays of blood arcing through the air before two wet snicks in rapid succession heralded a far larger burst of crimson. What corruption had held onto this area clutched on for a few moments more, before it was purged in silver fire. Shadows scattered, cavalry-things collapsed like puppets with their strings cut. Sinnweld could hear one of them whispering a prayer of thanks as it passed.

And it was over. The silver flame was standing there before her as the rest of the Battlemages limped into a half-circle facing the inferno before them. She knew she should try and slip into a more mundane vision, but her world was veering between lucid sharpness and blurry-edged shadows. She really should try and say something, but words were hard to grasp. She squinted into the flames, made out the face of a...Reachman?

"Huh." She managed, "I always thought you were a Mayaar. Guess the knife-ears don't have a monopoly on your kind."

Kyrenic Olafir, Seeker of Knowledge
Target Sighted, The Reach
901, 4E

There was a moment of silence as the battle ended, the ethereal swarm his familiar had manifested vanished soon after their foes did. As the corrupted abomination that was the Dread Mage's corpse fell, Kyr rose and the ethereal blades within his hand melted away leaving only a slight glow for a moment. Kyr gave a sigh as he observed the corpse and muttered.

"I was hoping that strike would not be so fatal, difficult to wrench knowledge from a corpse."

He turned away from the carnage around him and glanced at the young Arcanist as he responded to her statement.

"My master was a Mayaar, but he believed in spreading Kuruth's gift to more than just his own people. As for-"

The rest of what Kyr had been about to say was interrupted by a sound that certainly did not fit the current surroundings. It was a kind of keening cry, not too dissimilar to the inquisitive mewl of a cat or the playful growl of a Dragon hatchling. The cry belonged to Kyr's familiar, the strange rabbit like familiar hopped from its spot amidst the gore and carnage towards Kyr. He gave an inquisitive sound as his familiar gently rammed him with its head.

"Hmmm?"

As Kyr's gaze met the familiars it performed a series of gestures, gestures which were both cute and strange considering what it looked like. The first gesture was a simple twitch of its nose, the next it raised a single paw, tapped the ground and left a scratch with a claw. It then fluttered its wings, twitched its nose once more and smacked the ground towards Sinnweld.

Kyr gave a slight chuckle as he deciphered his familiar's statement.

"He says it is unusual to find one so young to hold such potential, let alone the skill to be able to become a Shadow Legion Battlemage."

There was a brief pause as Kyr observed the pale countenance of the young Battlemage and the rest of her group. He turned back for a moment and waved a hand as magic spread from him to the ground around him, the cracks began to smooth as the ground reformed. Soon enough the only signs of the earlier battle were the corpses and carnage. As he turned back towards the battlemages another wave emerged from him.

The wave of magic was lighter in color a soft gold, it washed over the Shadow Legionnaires bringing a gentle warmth with it. It was a spell from the Light Discipline of magic 'Rejuvenate', simply put it refreshed people, it healed some fatigue of those affected and ump started the healing process while healing small wounds.

It was a useful spell but could be dangerous if used by despicable individuals. It used a portion of a person's energy to jump start the healing on wounds, large and small. If an Arcanist cast it incorrectly or put too much magic power into it the spell could have dire effects. A wounded individual could be healed entirely but the person could still die due to a lack of energy in the body to fuel the effects.

The spell ended not too long after it began but its effects would persist for a time, long enough for the legionnaires to recover or be properly treated, hopefully Adeus would smile upon them and Sokva, Sokva, and Styke would turn them away. The first two of the Godesses of Death could always use more skilled warriors. Kyr spoke as the effects began to find purchase, he addressed the young battlemage who seemed to lead the group.

"One should not hold preconceived notions, else they will oft be disappointed by the unexpected."

by **Arengin Union** » Thu Oct 18, 2018 11:03 pm

Bellenwhod, Nord lands of Norravägg

It had been a few days since the last hunt, Adria and her father had managed to take the deer home and its meat was still plenty for at least a few more days. Daughter and father both at home, warm and away from the cold of the outside, Hankirs armor strapped to the rack at the side of the door. The Nord in casual wear was tending to the deer pelt, cleaning it and knitting it with leather to create a new piece of clothing for his daughter, she was particularly vulnerable to the cold after all. As Hankir kept fixing up the pelt he noticed his daughter sitting silently near the fire, looking at her necklace as the warmth of the fireplace embraced her. Hankir was about to say something to get her attention, but for a moment he thought, then he opted against it, continuing on his work.

Why do I feel so different... Adria thought to herself while looking at the amulet of her necklace, a blue labradorite engraved with a weird dark symbol unknown to her, and the metal around the mineral was also weird, nothing Nordic in the slightest. The necklace had been her mother's, Adria never meet her and this was the only thing she had of her.

"I wish I would've known mom..." Adria thought out loud, Hankir stopped midway as he was cutting part of the pelt, his sight turning back to Adria who was still near the fireplace. Hankir then remembered, he remembered her, her white pale skin and her soft dark lips. The piercing yellowish eyes contrasting to the dark brown of him. The widower closed his eyes for a second, the image of her coming back to his mind for a bit and for a moment he felt like before. Hankir opened his eyes and came back to the world he knew, the house made of stone, wood, leather, and hay, adorned by book shelves, fireplaces, pelts everywhere and weapons scattered in some, a nice house but not the one he once had had with her.

"She would've been proud of you like I am. I always am." Hankir exclaimed, his voice keeping his usual brawn and flat tone but Adria could notice there was something more there, a melancholic fixation that lasted for a moment or two. She knew she shouldn't have mentioned her, but that was a mistake she couldn't undo now but she always felt like she had been responsible for her mother being gone, she had taken the life out of her and now her father was alone, sleeping in a big bed with an empty place besides him. Sometimes Hankir would go to accompany her daughter during cold nights in which he would gently embrace her in his arms to keep her warm all while he sustained the cold that at times the big stone and wooden walls could simply not stop. And sometimes she would accompany him in his bed, the nights that his grunting and mumbling from nightmares of a past life would befall him. Both cared for each other, yet she would always feel as if things would be better if she just we'rent part of the life of his mother and father.

"Thank you, father." The Norse girl said, with nervousness as always and curling up with her blankets and pelts that her father had made for her through the years. Hankir didn't answer, he simply kept silent and went back to work.

She had fallen asleep, right on the big long armchair besides the wooden benches in front of the fireplace. Hankir moved closer to inspect his daughter, she was fast asleep and tightly cuddled with the blankets and the pelts which kept her warm alongside the fire. He didn't bother to mover her upstairs to her room, he just sat besides her and patted her head, she looked so much like her, like Eleanor. The father remained besides her sleeping daughter for a few minutes, watching the fire and reminscing about the days of war, the days of adventure, those days. The fire began to die off, the wood holder was empty and he needed to keep the fire going. Hankir rose from his place, grabbing his hatchet from the table he moved to the door and exited, quietly.

The Nord exited his home to find the village nearly deserted, the sun was gone and everyone was on their home, at least most of them. Hankir didn't take time to move to the side of the house where there was a series of stacked wood logs, a flat tree stomp right out in the yard with signs of much woodcutting. Hankir set one log on the stomp and with little effort chopped it in two, he then grabbed another and repeated the same process for a few minutes, the night was calm and he could hear the voices from the tavern down the road, and the inn a few meters away from his home, it was all peaceful.

Hankir finished cutting the logs and setting his ax on his belt he grabbed as many as he could and moved to the door, then a voiced stopped him from entering the house, a young voice, a vibrant voice, the voice of a man he hated with a passion. Achidian, the mage of Bellenwhod.

"I see you ran out of logs in your house." Achidian stated the obvious.

Hankir turned his head back to see Achidian, standing right in front of the porch of his house, wearing his usual brown robes, his hood turned back to reveal his long braided hair.

"Yes, that is why I went out to chop some more, and now I'm going back into my home. Night." Hankir said with a fast pace, trying to end the conversation he turned back to open the door only for Achidian to keep the conversation going.

"How's your daughter?" He asked, this caused Hankir to let go of the chopped wood and turn his whole body to face Achidian and he simply looked at him, not saying anything, his eyes said it all.

Achidian caught the message, but he kept nailing on the subject. "You know, magic can be quite a challenge for a Nord to even achieve adeptness in. Adria seemed to have quite the mastery of it for a person her age." The mage said with a small smile and his usual friendly tone.

"Magic is forbidden in this house." Hankir said, his eyes still looking right at Achidian.

"Yeah well, outside its a different thing Hankir." Achidian opened his belt sack and got out a book, a yellow book with a weird symbol on it.

"Here, if you're interested in her learning some more about the outside world. I'm sure she would find it interesting." The mage set the book near the steps of the porch, he then went on his marry way, nodding at the Nord while passing a town guard with a torch.

Hankir picked up the book, he looked at the tittle. "The History of The Elven People and Their Culture" it read, with the symbol being the same as Adria's amulet.

Hankir's eyes widened at the sight of the symbol and he immediately began to rip the book apart with his bare hands. He then used the lighting torch besides the door and burnt the remains. His mannerism now aggressive and angered the Nord picked the wood from the floor and entered his home and closed the door behind him.

Achidian had watched the whole thing from afar.

The Legends of Eroris: Brotherhood [IC/Fantasy Medieval]

Who is online