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| Heart of Sword; Eramas' Prologue | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Oct 26 2007, 08:54 PM (124 Views) | |
| Post #1 Oct 26 2007, 08:54 PM | Idyllwyld |
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The installment was actually an audition post I wrote in order to get into an "exclusive" RP forum. What was merely a single battle, meant to end on a cliffhanger turned into an entire world and storyline, and Eramas lived on. Eventually I worked his story into a greater RP. The first three installments are meant to be Eramas' backstory before he "enters" into the RP, while the final installment here (written much, much later) occurs after that RP. Enjoy. |
Peasant
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| Post #2 Oct 26 2007, 08:55 PM | Idyllwyld |
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The wind howled as it flew between the ranks. It flittered between arms and legs, heads and bodies. A host of soldiers, a gigantic block of steel, flesh, blood, and sweat stood at attention, paying it no heed. Each legionnaire rode atop his mount, their bodies encased in a shell of steel, ridged and layered like scales. Flared shoulders tapered to a point, and each end just barely brushed the one next to it. Iron fists held the reigns in an unforgiving stranglehold. Their war-helms were slashed open in the shape of a T, the opening betraying the human inside. The horses too, were plated, their heads shelled with light plate. There would be no chink in armor here, not on man, not on animal. Metal-covered boots prodded steeds back into formation, each man giving the countenance of a hulk across a beast of war. Only one dared to ride to war lacking this impregnable protection. His choice of clothes practically an insult to all whom he faced, daring them to strike him down. His position lay at the very front, all the more brazen to the enemy. He wore a crimson cape, regardless of its obvious tactical hinder; it made an excellent traveling cloak. His boots were mud-crusted and well worn--the trace of an experienced traveler. His light red tunic had a ridiculously tall collar, buttoned up around his mouth and nose, keeping the elements back. A wide-browed red hat sat atop prematurely white hair, with a tall, white feather sticking out; the only article that could really be considered vain. The wide hat kept his face in the comfort of constant shadow. All that could be seen of his visage were cunning eyes and sharp, white eyebrows. Compared to the war machine behind him, he appeared insane, dressed in such wanderer's garments, especially in such a bold color such as crimson. But there was no room for fools in this army, no. Occasional gusts of shrieking wind revealed the most minimal armor on his person. Blackened plate, the poor man's alternative to constant shining and care, wrapped around his chest, while dark plate covered his waist. Ebon bracers around his forearms and shins were the only other protection on him. A single dagger sneaked into view on one of the bracers, originally designed as a last-ditch weapon. A lone general swathed in red and trimmed with black--not the most discreet fellow. Once, he was questioned about it. His only reply was that "When you're covered in red, your opponent can never tell if he's wounded you or not. As for such little armor, I prefer the freedom of movement rather than being a slow-moving bludgeon." Eramas was a person of functionality and practicality. The fortress that beheld the army stood with its walls held high. They were barely a mile away, yet, there was no response at all from the defenders within. Scouts had determined there were figures scurrying along its scaffolds, but no further steps had been visibly taken to stop Eramas and his army. "Very well then, if they don't care enough to defend themselves, then they won't care for our taking their land for the Principality of Axur," smirked the crimson-clad figure from beneath his collar. He looked back to one of his Captains. "Alert the troops." As the Captain disappeared back into the maw of soldiers, a leather gauntlet reached back and whipped out Eramas's saber. He held his right arm out, blade prostrated to the sun. His grip opened, and his fingers danced the handle back and forth. The once steady sword swung around and around, becoming a brilliant cyclone of reflected light and metal. The crimson-clad arm brought the array to the front, and his fist shut close, freezing the sword in position. The saber pointed over the fortress walls. Eramas raised it high, the blade reflecting the feather in his hat. "Haaa-ttack!" The cry struck chords, the entire block uttered a horrific roar. Eramas raced downwards to the fortress, saber leading the charge and slicing the very air in its path. The host broke as if a bottle containing wine had been shattered. From above the fortress walls, a tidal wave surged forward. A sea of metal and fury shouted in madness. A crazed lunatic covered in red flew across the earth; in his wake swords, axes, lances, maces, and pikes followed like rabid animals. They were nearly upon the gate. The white feather flittered from the violence in the air itself. Four other horsemen flanked the leader's charge, each of them carrying a wooden bludgeon of pure force. They aimed for the gates. Eramas and the legionnaires were closing in. The four demolishers were nearly about to crash that pathetic doored barrier to splinters. He spared a glance upward. And glimpsed the figures atop the wall wrenching back their bows. |
Peasant
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| Post #3 Oct 26 2007, 08:56 PM | Idyllwyld |
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It rained arrows. It hailed lances. A fence of wooden shaft and metal point brushed up against the tidal wave of invaders; leaving pierced dead in its wake. It only excited the bloodlust. The four Demolishers were the first to fall. The hulks flew straight off their horses as if slapped by the wind. Their remains landed no longer as humans, but as pin-cushions. Four razor sharp bolts rammed into the side of Eramas’s mount. The beast had not even begun to fall when another four darted towards him. Despite the carnage, despite the utter annihilation, the host pressed on. True to their appearance, they charged like some hell-bent machine ever more towards the fortress. One warrior shouted, and soon everyone bellowed a warcry so thunderous that it challenged the very shrieks of the arrows. The furor grew into a frenzy. Horses, their masters already slumped lifeless across their backs, raced towards the gate. The training drilled into their equestrian mind dictated so. The crimson-clad general's dead steed lay atop the bloodied earth like a beached whale atop rocks. Shafts continued to rain about it, but inert it remained. The rain moved on to more lively targets. It didn’t go unnoticed. A crimson-coated arm reached out and grasped one of the rocks. Its twin stretched out and took hold of another. First the forearm, then a shoulder. The tip of a hat’s brow, and finally the tip of a feather pulled itself into the clear. Eramas craned his neck to get a more efficient view of the battle. What met his gaze made his eyes narrow and his brow furrow. With a sigh he reached back under his fallen horse and unwrenched his legs. His saber still thirsted for victory; he couldn’t deny it that right. Eyes honed in on it; fortunately it had not been flung too far. Eramas drew himself down into a low crouch, keeping the carcass behind him as cover. Arrows continued to slam into his self-made barricade, sending its loose skin rippling. The onslaught paused for just a moment. He lunged for the weapon-- And was rewarded with a brusque yank around the throat. A growl escaped from behind the raised collar. He glared back at whoever dare hold him back. No one stood there ready to strike the general down, nor to help him up. The only sight beyond the corpse’s sides were raging men and punishing death from above. Eramas tugged lightly at the cape and followed the roll, and could only gape at the source of all his trouble. Three infernal bolts pinned the cape to the bloody horse’s belly. Another growl ensued. The commander slipped out his dagger and slashed off the bottom portion of the garment. Free once again, he hurried to his sword. “Well, this is just perfect,” said the red general as he slipped the saber into its sheath. The scabbard lay inside his boot, and after following up his calf was strapped ‘round just below the knee. He took another survey of the situation. “You, and you,” he shouted at two aimless armored soldiers, “come with me.” The trio scampered to what Eramas had spied earlier: one of the fallen handheld battering-rams. One soldier raised up the rear end, while his companion beared the middle. The commander himself led the ram, the bludgeon thrown over his own shoulder. With a barked order, the battering ram was off. They formed a flying wedge, soaring over fallen comrades and row upon row of planted arrows. The momentum garnered the attention of others, and soon the wedge formed another onrushing wall. Far from the tidal wave that had come before, this newly rallied mass was still undoubtedly a threat. *************************************** Far below the carnage reeked with the scent of death. The mordant, choking fumes of coppery blood wafted up to the aghast archers. Across the hellish fields were piles of bodies, some clumped together in a final, failed battalion, others all alone as picked off stragglers. Lifeless horses, riddled with shafts lie strewn over the landscape, abandoned. Those riders who survived rushed and ducked, strafing the few arrows that still fired upon them. Cries of anguish pierced the air whenever one of them was shot. Armored figures ran desperately towards one another, trying to piece together another company before they were all wiped out. Yet the legionnaires persisted. Even as comrades next to them were struck down mid-stride they advanced. Soon their companies swelled. Individuals now joined together in impromptu mobs. Meanwhile the stream of arrows from o’er high grew less with every volley. As fewer shots rang out, more and more did the multitude expand. Young Heshvan of Etone could do nothing but watch. His quiver was long emptied, and his comrades were soon approaching their limits. Others just gaped at each other, eyes wide, faces fear-stricken. “This is insane. Why do they keep coming?” “We’re dead! We’re dead! Look at that armor! Our swords can’t do anything against that!” “The arrows were supposed to stop them!” Behind the panicked murmurs the Captain of the Guard howled for order. The calls fell on deaf ears. Heshvan just turned back and stared outwards. The mobs were merging into another charge en masse. “Draw swords! Prepare for close quarters combat!” Everyone along the scaffold stiffened and responded automatically. Bows were dropped to the floor and quivers tossed off. Every man instinctively reached down, grabbed tightly, and swung out their swords. “Everyone to the lower decks!” The troop turned at the snap of a heel and marched down the ramps. Formation was perfect, each warrior synchronized with the other. The hike down was smooth and efficient. The fierce stamp after stamp of the charge outside could not be ignored down at ground level. As the fortress guard stepped down they couldn't help but pause. The roars outside seemed to push against the gates. The defenders of Etone braced their weapons, and themselves. *************************************** The battering ram pushed through the air. One of the two soldiers hefting the bludgeon hollered for a final push. Every single tissue in every single man surged in reply. Footsteps became insignificant. Legs ceased to carry their bodies. Rather, they simply moved. Through sheer will the wedge flew; feet desperately struggled to keep up. With a horrific and terrific explosion all the force gathered in the charge rammed against the gate. Nearby soldiers crashed their shoulders next to it, adding to the destructive blow. Enough power to tear the sky asunder struck the gate dead center. Dust billowed from cracks within the wood, particles that had never once been disturbed ever before now swelled forth like a squeezed sponge. Everyone, everywhere, stopped. Breathing halted, hearts paused, even the brain itself took a moment to stop and comprehend the instant. The ancient dust cleared. The door still stood. The bludgeon had merely dented it. The shoulder impacts had left no mark. The door continued to stand high; it creaked once... And… It… Opened… |
Peasant
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| Post #4 Oct 26 2007, 08:57 PM | Idyllwyld |
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Inch by inch the mighty doors creaked asunder… The warriors of Axur gazed into the heart of their target. Their quarry lie dead ahead of them. Rows of staunch men clothed in light chain mail and heavy, boiled leather greeted their gaze. Atop their heads sat a metal cap with a single slice running in front of the nose. Two straps secured the flimsy helm to their heads. Armor suitable for archers, but pathetic for footmen. Yet, not a single rattle escaped from their side. Each fearsome glare from the invaders was met with an equally stubborn one of resistance from the defenders. Despite the fact that all they grasped were short-swords, not a single soul backed down in front of the armored warriors. Several men at the front also gripped a long chain, it disappearing behind them as they stood atop most peculiar wooden planks. All this, compared to the hulks still standing stunned before them. Their monstrous forms, already buffered atop what horses remained, stood almost choked in the gateway. This battle would be a clash of classes. Strength against agility. Power over speed. But without their bows, they’re powerless, was the single thought that crossed beneath the crimson hat. Eramas spied across the sea of defenders obstructing his path their general at the rear; and found his own fierce stare reflected back to him. He gave his opponent’s forces one more glance. The roars began. War-cries crashed through the air to the other side. Armored brutes brushed past the caped commander in their charge towards the fortress guards. Riders galloped over fellow comrades as each man raced forth to draw first blood. “Now! Tally up!” The last syllable just barely escaped the Etonian general’s mouth when all the defenders at front tramped two steps back and pulled stalwartly on the chains. The ties jangled irately and then went taunt. With a groan the wooden planks drew themselves up and in front of the defending army, forming yet another wall. Narrow slits revealed the eyes of soldiers holding the barrier up until it was firmly still. The mounts brought their masters faster to the other side than the invaders on foot. The just raised partition only delayed the inevitable. With a swift kick the riders urged their steeds ever faster. Those left horseless dashed as fast as their bodies allowed, and then even more so. The fleeting distance closed rapidly. The chargers gave a loud shout. Pikes shot out of the slits just as the attackers reached within arms-length. Every horse was instantly impaled, riders thrown flying off by the abrupt halt, careening over the wall into the hands of certain doom. Those on the ground met a worse fate as their momentum carried them through to the spikes. Others never even touched the wall, their abdomens struck dead-center, hanging off their feet, dangling from the pikes. The red-general’s eyes widened at the ghastly sight. His already severely diminished legion was falling incredibly at single instants. Eyes narrowing again, his saber whipped out of its sheath and returned home to his right grip. His feet stepped slowly towards the spiked barricade, cape blown back by the ever-present wind. The legionaries’ eyes followed their leader as he approached the wall. He stopped, and turned his head just enough for one eye to stare back at his men. “Knock. It. Down!” cried out from behind the red collar. The left leg slid back as the right one bent forwards. The saber swung ‘round back across his chest. With a piston-pushed leap from his leg, he dashed onwards to the barrier, shoulder at front. His comrades bellowed a cry of support and followed. *************************************** “Hold your positions! Keep that wall steady!” shouted the Captain of the Guard. Soldiers were still reeling back from the initial impact. Others lay inert across the ground, knocked unconscious. Men struggled through the masses to reach their fallen brethren and support the barrier. But it was too little, too late… More cries were heard from behind the barrier, followed by the rampant pound of footsteps. Heshvan closed his eyes and looked away from the chaos that was the front line. His comrades’ shouting and bustling wreaked only more disorder. He whispered a silent prayer, and reopened his eyes with a grim stare of determination. Knuckles turned white as they tightened around the sword. He moved his way slowly to the front. The young defender gazed across his brothers-in-arms, and his chest heaved with a sigh. He glanced up at the fortress walls around them; what was home for each of them for so long. He lazily followed his stare to ascend up to the scaffolds. Both pupils halted at the sight of the one abandoned quiver. Feathered shafts peeked timidly out. “Here, take my sword,” uttered the archer to a nearby compatriot, “You’ll need it.” And with that he raced up the ramps. *************************************** Eramas and his troops ran as a united line. One foot pushed ahead from the other, each person practically launching themselves towards the formidable wall. It was not until they closed in did the line fragment. The aggressors were sure to avoid the fatal spikes and aim straight for the wall itself. They bellowed with the impact. Shoulder upon shoulder rammed it at once. The wood shivered with the single collision. Yells of surprise erupted from behind the pikes. Shuffling was heard from behind the partition, chains rattled as they hit the floor. One person screamed. The vast wall creaked, and shifted once. It groaned again with movement, and started falling backwards. Not a second was wasted. Each of the invaders pushed with all their might against the wall. Others repeatedly rammed it again and again. Soon enough, the shadow of the divider began to envelope the archers. The area was too confined, the troop formations too tight. The piked wall arched over the defenders. Those at the front frantically shoved their way through to the back. Those at the sides desperately ran farther to the rear to try and avoid it. Everyone scattered and rushed out of its way. The groans of the wood overwhelmed the screams. Those trapped beneath the shadow were condemned to their fate. The hardwood wall fell atop the poor souls with a sickening crunch, cutting off the screams like a knife. The deathtrap had just settled atop its grisly cushion when a crimson-clad fiend leapt atop it. Wickedly cast steel battalions lumbered up and paused behind him. The fleeting grace period lasted no more than a moment. The invaders charged deep into the Etonian lines, like a blade through flesh. The defenders were mowed down with the initial rush, crushed and cut down. The chain mail proved no match at all against such superior armor. The longer, thicker warblades shattered the smaller swords. The bloodletting was relentless. Furious roars stamped out the cries of terror. And then a single Axurian screamed out in agony, and collapsed to the ground. A single arrow stuck out his back. Several more shafts zipped through the air, finding their mark every time. One by one, the armored hulks fell with the feathered bolts protruding out from backs and heads like flags. The onslaught paused as various warriors scattered, attempting to run out of the newly appeared sniper’s sights. The brief pause gave birth to a single realization among the fortress defenders. Their numbers encircled the invaders almost entirely. Hundreds had been lost on the attacker’s part, while the only casualties for the Etonians came from the falling wall. With a shout the defenders pressed back. Military instincts took over from panic’s reign, and the invaders found themselves being repulsed. Eramas dashed straight into the fury. His left arm reached out to his right, and with a quick jerk flipped out the dagger from the bracer. Charging down into the maw he struck at one chain-mailed figure, knocking him back. Another swung to his left, nearly striking his shoulder. The red commander shifted right, and slashed at his chest. Just as that man fell down another raced to him from behind, sword raised high. The blade cut down, fully intent on slicing open his skull—until Eramas’s dagger thrust itself in the way, trapping the blade in its hand-guard. The defender pushed, urging the sword to throw back the commander’s measly dagger. Eramas flicked his wrist and flipped the stiletto facing away, his opponent’s weapon caught underneath the dagger’s hand-guard. Another flick, and the sword was snatched from the Etonian’s grasp and flung far aside. Before his saber could finish the job, more threats approached, armed with lances thrust menacingly outward. He only ran towards them. Dagger parried while sword struck, and the shock had barely registered on the lancers’ faces before they were put down. The battle as a whole, however, was far more of a failure. The light protection and rapid reflexes of the archers drove circles around the heavy-clad Axurians. For every swipe, they dodged. For ever thrust, they side-stepped. For every slash, they evaded. The defenders ducked, slid, and danced around their opponents. Not a single hair on them could be touched. Yet for every opening left wide by the Axurians, for every stab, strike, and assailment from the Etonians each and every one of those bounced off. The invaders, though lumbering monstrosities, just could not be harmed. Short sword and spear-point cried out for blood, only to be pushed aside by the thick shells of armor. Each attempt to strike at the invaders only clanged back in response. Only the accursed arrows from above gave them caution. The dagger and sword cut down yet another would be assailant. Eramas peered through the chaos and spied the enemies’ Captain still near the rear, barking some sort of orders. He turned and found two armored warriors being harassed behind him. With quick slash to the backside, the troublesome archers were gone. A swift bang with the dagger’s pommel caught the attention of his two comrades. He jerked his head in a nod towards the enemy leader. The two soldiers nodded in reply and began shoving through the mobs towards him. Eramas flipped his sword sideways and thrust back an onrushing Etonian. With the brief peace allotted to think, he scanned the scaffolds for the origin of those arrows. He bounded up to a stairwell and tromped up to the ramps, the wood shaking with every step. An arrow fleeted by him. He ducked, and the point of another just grazed the top of his hat. Eramas continued his ascent, this time swinging shoulders widely. The crimson cape flew back and forth wildly, and sure enough a single arrow pierced through it as it swung rigorously to the right. It missed the general’s back completely, as was planned. Any possible aiming was immediately ruined without knowing just where his backside was. Upon reaching the top, he spared one fleeting look at the outside. Bodies of beast and men still lay covered in arrows across the landscape. Another shaft appeared at his feet, just narrowly missing his toes. The commander’s eyes quickly snapped back to the plight before him. The loud and sharp resonance of a bowstring betrayed the sniper’s position to the right of the commander. He dashed towards the sound. From behind a crate a young Etonian suddenly rose up and crashed into him, sending the crimson-clad leader backwards against the wall. Eramas, surprised from the attack, shakily drew himself up. White eyebrows furrowed low and pupils became slits. He charged the young archer and swung widely. His wiry opponent ducked to the side, but left his flank wide open. The slash tilted down and across the strap holding the precious quiver. Heshvan gasped, agape, as it tumbled down below into the pandemonium taking place at the ground level. “Something wrong? Not quite the fighter without your precious arrows now, are you?” Eramas mocked. He gave a scornful laugh, and lunged, saber outstretched. Pure, unadulterated, fury clouded the young Etonian’s eyes. Red seemed to fog over everything. Heshvan released his rage into one piercing cry and ducked down onto one knee as his attacker flew forward. Eramas’s eyes went wide, and the young archer could just barely make out what looked like a gaping, open mouth beneath the red collar. Heshvan’s face stood inches away from black platemail. He thrust upwards with all his might one end of his bow into the crimson-clad throat. The two fighters collided and rolled into the wall. The Etonian pushed himself away from his attacker and hurried to his feet. On the floor, Eramas gasped and wheezed, his entire body twitching from the near-fatal blow. Heshvan, still breathing heavily from the sortie, swung the wooden bow back around his head. One strike down upon the skull beneath that red hat, and the invaders’ general would be dead. His head high, eyes gazing down in damnation, the archer prepared to end this once and for all. A crimson-clothed arm shot up and clutched the archer’s tunic. With a swift tug Heshvan was hauled down to the floor. The fallen general stood up and clasped the archer by his lapels and shoved him up against the wall. Pinned, the young Etonian just stared at Eramas’s face. It contoured in lines of rage, wild white eyebrows touching as his brow furrowed. There was, however, something wet against the collar. Something a shade of red, just barely discernable from the garments themselves. But it was a darker shade of crimson nonetheless, and the runny stain continued to grow. Heshvan allowed a small smirk to beam across his face. “You. Insolent. Brat!” Eramas thrust his dagger straight into Heshvan’s right shoulder. He cried out in torment, but the general only drove it deeper into the hollow between the arm and shoulder. The left arm fell limp to the Etonian’s side, and blood flowed freely down it, dripping quickly onto a growing puddle on the floor. “My…brother…will…avenge me…avenge…all of us!” forced out archer between clenched teeth. “Then,” spoke the crimson general, “Eramas Cervantes shall be waiting.” And with that he ran his saber right through his opponent’s left shoulder and drove the tip down towards the dagger’s. Heshvan yelled out in agony once more; his eyes clamped shut and face ridged. Blood spouted from the other shoulder and dripped off his fingers, forming another puddle at his feet. The archer cracked one fraught eye open, and smacked his forehead against Eramas’s. Stunned, the red figure staggered backwards, allowing the young warrior to slip away from the wall. Heshvan struggled to raise his bloodied arms, yet they stood limp. The blood was flowing more fervently with all the movement. His impaled form reeled towards the edge of the scaffold. He fell to his knees, barely conscious. Eramas shook his head once, and sauntered towards his fallen foe. The blood had completely encircled his knelt form. Heshvan didn’t even, couldn’t even, look up to the glaring eyes of his enemy. The caped commander reached out for his saber with his right hand, and his dagger with his left. His arms crossed across the Etonian’s chest. Eramas pushed the saber and dagger slightly deeper into the prone archer. With a final sneer, he wrenched the blades out across Heshvan’s chest; crushing the archer’s collarbone and slashing open his body. The eviscerated corpse fell down below. As it tumbled to the ground almost all the combatants gazed upward. Eramas glared back down at them, his arms outstretched, holding his weapons in each hand. The two armored soldiers broke their way through to the Etonian Captain of the Guard as everyone gawked upwards. The bodyguards rushed in to stop them, but their weapons simply clanged off invaders’ armor. The Axurian warriors shoved them aside like rag-dolls. As they finally pushed their way up to the enemy commander, he only stared defiantly at them. “You bastar—” The two armored fiends cut the Captain down right where he stood with two mighty swings. *************************************** The wind howled again, blowing Eramas’s cape back and forth across the macabre aftermath of war. The stench of death, confined by the walls of the fortress, was only more poignant. Blood-soaked earth made a copper-smelling mud that coated all the combatants and wafted to every nook and cranny. The piles of bodies from both sides alike were to one corner, destined to be cremated. Lines of Etonian prisoners marched off towards the barracks, escorted by his fully armored Axurians. All the prisoners’ weapons and armor was strewn across the middle of the bastion. An armored figure ran over to him, helm in the crook of his arm. A large banner hung off a pole in his grip. “Sir, about half a dozen of them escaped. We don’t think they could have gotten far though. Even without the horses, we should be able to catch up with them.” Eramas stood there a moment, and then gestured to the flag. The banner-holder gave a confused look, but dipped the cloth down to the general. The general casually took the fabric and wiped off both sides of his swords, sheathed them, and then dabbed the blood off his chest-plate. “Sir! I…you shouldn’t…our banner…” started the alarmed soldier. A red-clad arm tapped it aside, “I need to make myself look presentable.” “But, sir, the escaped prisoners?” Eramas nudged past the confused fighter and simply muttered, “Leave them be.” He made his way to one of the lieutenants directing the troops. The officer was shouting orders and waving his arms about, telling soldiers to secure the fortress and to get the prisoners locked away. The crimson general laid his hand on the soldier and pulled him aside. Eramas stood close to the startled deputy and asked, “Where is the chapel? I know there’s one here.” “There appears to be a small one in the eastern half of the fortress, but our troops haven’t cleared that area out yet, sir.” The red-clothed commander abruptly turned on a heel and began east. “Get back to your duties soldier.” “Aye sir…” *************************************** The tattered cape barely brushed off the stairs as Eramas climbed up them, and at the top awaited two, large, wooden doors. He only sneered, and flung both of them open with his arms and marched inside. The inside of the chapel was dimly lit; benches stood along the walls with a simple, drab alter at the front. A dank, musty odor permeated the air. The prize however, was well bathed by the stained glass window’s light. The crimson figure approached it slowly. A much worn leather gauntlet reached out for it. “Barbarian! Unhand the scroll!” an elderly man, swathed in robes and hidden behind a mane of white hair stepped out of the shadows holding up a staff. The robes could not hide the frail form underneath, nor could the tufts of hair mask the deeply wrinkled skin. However, despite the time-eroded visage fierce, green eyes stared back across a sharply wizened nose. Sheer determination was the only strength left to him. “Release it! It means nothing to the likes of you scum!” the old cleric swung wide at Eramas. The crimson-clad left arm snapped behind the right, and the dagger slipped out just under the onrushing staff, holding it back from the general’s forehead. The cleric gritted his teeth, and feebly pushed forward. The aged man gave the dagger a quick glance, and immediately saw its pommel. The priest gave a startled gasp and dropped the staff, sending it clattering to the floor. Eramas flipped the dagger point down with his fingers and slipped it back into its bracer sheath. He turned away from the astonished elder and calmly reached over and retrieved the scroll. “Does, does this mean—” stammered the cleric. He flanked the red commander as he walked out to the open doors. “We have need of it once more,” was the only reply. The priest stopped in his tracks. He reached back and sat down on a bench. His eyes were wide with shock, and blinked. “What shall I do, then?” Eramas paused mid-stride and turned his head around slightly to look back at the cleric. “Leave this region. Leave the entire South.” “I, have an apprentice. He’s still outback guarding against those monsters of yours,” stammered the cleric. “If he’s not already dead, take him with you. But leave this place. The north is your only haven now.” And with that, Eramas stepped back out into what little daylight remained outside and disappeared from view as he descended the stairs. *************************************** A newly repaired cape swung back and forth across the palace floor as Eramas stepped towards the Duke’s chambers. Two ornately armored versions of Eramas’s legionnaires nodded, and turned the latches, opening the way into the inner chambers. As he stepped inside, he caught glance of the bright sun shining through the open balcony. The light shone across tables littered with maps, figurines, and letters. The near wall was lined with tome upon tome, most of which whose pages had never seen the light of day in ages. A small stand next to the door offered a pitcher and goblets of some hard drink, knowing the Duke, most likely ale. At the very back the sunlight glanced off of a huge world map painted on the rear wall. The figure standing before it, though, stood at the one corner where sunlight did not show. The crimson-soldier approached the man studying the immense map. The shadowed figure continued gazing at the plot paying him no heed. Eramas cleared his throat with a gruff cough. “Oh, so you’ve finally returned,” the figure turned around and faced the general, “So the southern campaign was a complete success, yes?” Eramas’s crooked his left arm behind his back, and bowed slightly at the waist while his right hand pulled off his hat and swept it across before him, “Duke Methos…” “Now, now, Cervantes. At this rate I’ll soon be an emperor!” The duke returned his attention to his map, and raised his arms high, “The southern lands are now mine, and now all I wait for is the return of my other generals from the east!” Methos craned his head around and gave Eramas a cold stare, “You did take Etone, correct?” “Yes, though it was costly—” “No matter. The southern states were all at war with one another, but with Etone gone the strongest opposition there is no more! The others will surrender rather than taste my legions’ fury themselves!” The duke gave his complete attention back to his war-map. He took a small cutlery knife and jammed it deep within the spot that represented his latest conquest. “I find it the most amazing thing,” stated Methos offhandedly as he looked about his map, “Just how you just showed up some day, or so they say, at our city’s gates. And lo and behold, you ascend the military ladder as if it was a mere anthill and here you are; one of my precious generals ready to lead my legions to victory after stunning victory!” “I just do what must be done.” “Ah yes, and quite good it is. You’re free to enjoy yourself now. I’ll arrange to contact you once the other generals return from their respective campaigns. I want my armies in full force for my final conquest.” The crimson swordsman raised an eyebrow, “And what would that be?” “Why, the western lands, of course. It remains the only one left that is not under my control,” the duke chuckled, “And it contains certain artifacts that I require for my dominion.” The red general said nothing, but simply returned his hat to its proper place atop his head. “You are dismissed.” Eramas ambled back out the chamber doors, past the shining, gem-laid walls and ornate fixtures. Rows of artwork and tapestries hung from every wall, lanterns adorned in every which way as to give the best illumination. He strode past row after row of staunch Imperial Guard posted at each doorway. After finally making it outside the Palace doors he approached the barracks. In the near distance, a company of new recruits rode atop new horses, both getting used to the other. Across from them soldiers wearing full armor sparred. He beckoned for one of the stable-keepers and asked, “Where is my horse, and the supplies I sent for to be packed?” “It’s outside, sir. Everything from your quarters is loaded and ready as per your command.” The stable-keeper escorted the general to a horse readily strapped with packs and satchels. Eramas moved up to one that appeared to be holding some square box. He opened the baggage, and peered inside. Taking out the box, he opened it slightly and looked to see if its cargo was still here. The Etonian scroll greeted his eyes from inside the container. He snapped it shut and repacked the package into its bag. Sticking one foot into the stirrups, he leaped up and swung his other leg around the horse. After firmly setting his other foot into its stirrup, he tapped the steed to face the front gates. “Good luck on whatever quest you’re apparently on, sir” Eramas nodded to the stable-keeper and kicked his mount into a full gallop, northward. To the ruins… |
Peasant
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| Post #5 Oct 26 2007, 08:57 PM | Idyllwyld |
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Many days later, after the journey... Flanked by six armored warriors the general rode into the empire's core, its capital city. As far as the eye could see, there lay row upon row of barracks, training grounds, and stables. To the corner stood the entrance to an entire block's worth of industry: blacksmithing, metallurgy, and even technological research into siege weaponry. Rows of low-level braziers stood on either side of the road, illuminating it this dusk and providing some warmth on the usually chill nights on this side of the world. The guards at the palace door nodded their heads in respect to the caped commander; their steel visors making them look more like living statues than mere men. Flared spaulders made them appear more broad-shouldered than they actually were, not that they weren't already mighty individuals. The honor guard for the general was clad in plate too. However, their design was much too different. Emblazoned on their chest-plates was a distinctive symbol... Inside were additional sentries. All stood aside. One remarked, "It is good to see your return, sir." The others nodded in agreement. He who was spoken too nodded, but made no reply. Those following him remained silent as well. The inner Keep, where the ruler of this now vast empire plotted and schemed, was structurally separate from the rest of the castle. In the middle of the palace was a large, almost cavernous clearing, and inside was the inner sanctum. A precautionary measure, in the unlikely, but still possible, event of invasion. Where the palace superstructure ended, on the upper level was a balcony of sorts, allowing one to look down. The gap itself opened itself up to the sky allowing the sun's twilight rays to alight the procession as the general proceeded to the Keep itself. Cape flowing, he marched upright, unwavering. His troops following in square formation, pole-arms drawn diagonally over their chest, and shields crossed slightly over. A perfect military movement. A lone pair of guardsmen flanked the great chamber doors. These would be the most loyal of them all, unswerving from their leader. The general never stopped, not even as his own following troop came to a complete halt. The twin sentinels moved to stop him. "Sir, you're not expected; the Emperor will summon you when he hears that you have returned." "Please, return to your quarters for now." Behind the caped general two of his troop motioned with their hands. A fleeting, fading glow followed the swift movements. Not a word was muttered, all the spell required was the necessary glyphs. The two guards collapsed in a heap to the floor. The caped figure stepped up into the doorway and laid a hand on both of the chamber doors. With a heave, the two wooden doors moved inward, revealing the room itself. A long, wide table occupied the center, littered with maps, diagrams, and drawings. The wall visible to the entrance-way was adorned with the crossed weapons of every region of the empire, from sword to spear to bow. He stepped inside, and beheld the rest of the newly-crowned emperor's war-room. On the other wall was an all-encompassing painting, depicting glorious battle. Mighty white steeds bore armored hulks charging directly into the hapless foot soldiers, scattering them and crushing many beneath their iron-horseshoes. The far wall was another giant canvas, this one displaying a map of the world. It was pin-cushioned with daggers, each one of them representing the city, state, or entire region now under the Principality of Axur's iron heel. The map was filled with gleaming metal and wooden hilt, all save the western portions of the map, and the area where the northern ruins lay. Still abandoned. Before the daunting world map stood a man, shorter than the general. Before, he was merely a duke, but now a circlet of gold surrounded the sides of his head. He stood facing the map, and surveying all that was now his. In his left hand, dangled between his fingers, was the cup of a great goblet, most likely filled with wine. The ruler never turned as he spoke. "General Cervantes, you've returned? Ah, before you feel the need to speak, I've long known of your arrival. My scouts caught sight of you long before you reached the gates, actually." He turned around to see his crimson dressed commander. "You see, now with the world mine, nothing is beyond my sight." Cervantes spoke, though his mouth lay hidden behind his high, buttoned collar, his words were clear and loud. "Duke Methos..." "Please, call me Emperor." "You have indeed set out to accomplish as you said you would. All but the west is yours." "Indeed," Methos smiled and raised his goblet, "Some fools dare to say that the supernatural haunts the west. But as far as I am concerned," he paused to turn and look out the window, "Even so-called Demons fall before swords and steel." The emperor glanced back to his commander. "Wouldn't you say, Eramas?" "You have united a warring world under one banner, and brought peace to this planet. At least from the conflicts of men. But this is all only a precursor to the ominous flame that lies to the west." Methos strolled over to the table and set down his cup. "I am not worried of fairy-tales. I had thought neither were you..." One hand, at first at the caped general's side, soon began to rise slowly towards the saber hilt that resided alongside his leg. "The situation is direr than originally thought. There is an unforeseen threat. But as you yourself have stated, that is no longer of your concern," replied Eramas. With swift movement the hand freed the sword from its sheath; the long, slightly curved blade before Cervantes. He stared plainly at Methos. "Your part is complete. You are no longer needed anymore." The self-proclaimed emperor's face suddenly grew dour. "You speak to me as if I were nothing more than a pawn. That is not how the ruler of the planet should be addressed," he hissed. "Your role was merely to put an end to the bitter rivalries dividing humanity, and bring them under one head once more. Through force and conquest, that has been achieved. From here, the Council can more than easily take command." Methos sneered. "I am the only authority to be spoken of, and to be obeyed. By you, or anyone!" He snorted, but regained his previous composure. "I had not expected a coup to come from you. I had thought it more from my other two commanders." He shook his head sadly. "Even though you were the outsider, the foreigner, your military skills--and what I thought was loyalty--were far more dedicated than even my own men." He walked towards the world map. "My actions are, and always have been, to the Order of the Emerald Star, and its ruling Council of Magi. You are merely a means to an end." "So you say. I assumed something of some sort the minute you caused that ruckus outside." Eramas moved forward, "Abdicate peacefully, and the Council will see to it you are treated well--" "To hell with your Council!" Methos lunged at the campaign map and pulled out two of the place-mark daggers, one now in each hand. He whirled around, and threw them directly at Eramas. The crimson swordsman deftly moved to the side, dodging one of the thrown projectiles aimed for his chest, and then ducked to avoid the one targeting his head. The infuriated ruler wretched out another pair of daggers, and hurtled them again at the caped warrior. This time, Cervantes swung out with his sword, intercepting the onrushing blade and knocking it aside. He narrowly dodged the second one, which had caught the top of his red hat and pinned itself and the hat to the other far wall. As Methos reached for another pair of throwing daggers, Eramas scraped his sword across the surface of the table, throwing up a storm of papers and maps. The emperor turned, only for his eyes to be greeted by a flurry of documents fluttering everywhere. He roared in frustration, and instead of throwing the daggers blindly, rushed forward to the flash of red he spied jumping atop the table and leaping down to the other side. The swordsman raised his forearm as the former-Duke slashed at him with one of the daggers, its blade causing sparks to rain as it struck his blackened metal arm bracer instead of cloth and flesh. Eramas rushed forward, closing the meager distance between the assailants and brought up his knee into Methos' chest. The ruler staggered back, gasping for breath. "You....miserable...." Methos twirled the dagger in his hand so the point faced the floor, cried out, and raised his arm high. The razor-sharp edged rocketed towards the red swordsman's neck. Eramas brought the saber up and slashed it across the other man's arm. The emperor screamed in pain and fury and punched with his other hand at Cervantes' chest, only for the blow to resound off the blackened chest-plate. The crimson general shot out and grabbed Methos' face, and rushing forward, shoved him off his feet and carried the ruler with sheer momentum to slam him hard against a window plane. The stark-white tressed warrior brought his face up close to the Axurian lord, amber eyes reflecting the still fading sunlight. Methos roared one final curse as outside, the narrow, gleaming edge of a saber suddenly erupted from out the window, bloodied glass falling to the grass below. |
Peasant
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| Post #6 Oct 27 2007, 06:37 PM | ZachCraft |
| Holy hell, that was great! |
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Slop Drudge
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Heroes always pay in their blood. ------------------------------------------------------------------- Fighting is for the weak, compromising is for the strong. ------------------------------------------------------------------- A friend walks in when everyone else walks out. ------------------------------------------------------------------- No one reaches a high position without daring. ------------------------------------------------------------------- | |
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| Post #7 Oct 27 2007, 06:38 PM | ZachCraft |
| But me screwing up the Bold Text and Underline Text thing wasn't >_< |
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Slop Drudge
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Heroes always pay in their blood. ------------------------------------------------------------------- Fighting is for the weak, compromising is for the strong. ------------------------------------------------------------------- A friend walks in when everyone else walks out. ------------------------------------------------------------------- No one reaches a high position without daring. ------------------------------------------------------------------- | |
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| Post #8 Oct 29 2007, 01:43 AM | Idyllwyld |
| Thank ye. |
Peasant
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