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Old 08-07-2008
 
#16
United Kingdom Undeath
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Olaf drove the pointed shovel into the ground. The earth was hard, and it took a great deal of effort with each thrust to break its surface. He took brief pauses now and then to whipe the sweat from his forehead, but he noticed that the bulky Heralt continued at a coherent pace. Hacking and slashing and heaving, the old man put the rest of those his age to shame.

As he shovelled out another chunk of earth, Olaf turned his gaze towards the river, where his militia were making their efforts. Stakes could be seen sticking out from the banks like thin prickly hairs for nearly half a mile.

'That will do for the river.' He muttered to himself 'But what about the bridge? And what if the raiders simpley circle around the defenses under the cover of dark, and cross an undefended area of the Tibrus?'

Suddenly he heard a soft gentle sigh by the side of him. He looked, and saw the girl swaying from side to side and clutching her stomach.

'Are you okay milady?' He asked, putting down his shovel.

She murmered something in reply. Her skin was deathly pale, and her eyes appeared suddenly sunken. He walked over to her side, but before he reached her, the shovel dropped from her hand and she bellowed vomit all over the grass to the left of her.

Olaf surged forwards and caught her from falling. 'Milady!?'

Her eyes rolled backwards.

'Heralt, give me a hand here!'

 
 

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Old 08-07-2008
 
#17
United Kingdom Rokdar Ironvain
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Heralt watched the scene unfold.

'Shock.'

Olaf looked at him.

'She just saw her father die, and she's been on the move ever since the smoke rose in the East. Shock and exhaustion.'

Walking over to the sheriff who held the lady firmly in his arms, Heralt knelt down and inspected her. He had seen similar cases a thousand times before, always after or before a great battle took place. After feeling the pulse in her wrist, he concluded a sound course of action.

'I'm certain it is shock, although one can never be sure without a trained physician. I'll take her to Father Edwards, the old preist used to serve as a surgeon, he'll know.' Said Heralt. 'Besides, you're needed with your men.'

Grabbing the girl by the hips, Heralt lifted her over his shoulder with a grunt. Before he made his way to the town however, he used his free hand to pick up her bow, and looked at it curiously.

'A fine bow.' He said to himself quietly, and started to weigh it in his powerful grip. 'I bet two coins of gold this could kill a man twice over.'

Ending his curiosity after some seconds, the aged warrior started down the path towards the town. A few rugged children gathered around him as he carried the girl past the building crowds of refugees at the entrance to the town and began guessing his age.

'40'
'45'
'39'

Heralt just smiled at them and carried on walking. Passing the ques of those waiting to be served at the makeshift cantine, the aged warrior made his way to the church where two men in black cloaks greeted him.

'Exhaustion, and shock.' He said to them 'She needs a rest.'

'We shall take her to Father Edwards ourselves. He is busy, however, and it might be a struggle to find her a bed.'

'Oh.' Said Heralt, pausing. 'Then I shall take her to him myself.'

The preists tried to bar his way, but the bull of a man simpley brushed them to one side with his shoulders. They dared not persue him further. Walking into the church, Heralt looked up. It was a fine structure, as were all churches in this day, with its arched ceiling and several pillars of stone. Stained glass on every window. Benches of fine oak. Although, on this particular day, most of the benches were taken up with sick people, and the marble altar at the front of the church, was being used as an operating table.

Heralt made his way through the sick and injured, and found himself before Father Edwards. Edwards was a short man with a hunched back, and he wore white robes, which were covered in blood. His face was wrinkled and aged but he was five years younger than Heralt. Some said the Father had lived a very bitter life.

'Yes?' Hissed Edwards, looking up from his patient.

'This girl needs a bed. Find one.'

'There arn't any.'

'Then yours will do.'

The Father looked at Heralt in anger. 'A girl cannot sleep in a preist's bed, that is bl-'

'Hold your tongue. You are a good surgeon and a compasionate person, Mister Edwards, but you're also a fool blinded by his love in an idol. To refuse your bed to this injured girl would be wickedness. I do not care what your God, or Gods say.'

The Father closed his eyes, shaking with anger, but after drawing in a lung full of air, he relapsed. 'Very well. My quaters are open.'

'Thankyou, Father.'

Heralt carried the girl through a large oak door by the side of the altar. Inside was a simple room of stone walls, a small oak table, two chairs, and a bed with a straw matress. The grey warrior laid the girl down onto the bed, and took his place at her side on one of the chairs.

'I will wait here, until she awakens.' He said to himself quietly.
 

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Old 08-07-2008
 
#18
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Her dreams were unimaginably horrific, causing her to shake uncontrollably. If only they were truly dreams, and not living memories of the tortures she witnessed in her small village. The rapes. The be-heading's. The sounds of everyone screaming as their houses were set ablaze. She can clearly see the faces of the King's men as they marched through town, firing arrows into the chests of anyone who got in their way. She grabbed her bow, to try to stop them, but was pulled away by her father, just before he grew weak and weary with sharp pains running through his chest. She turned back towards her town, and watched in shock as a soldier on horseback trampled over a young boy in the middle of the pathway. Her eyes grew wider as she watched the life drain from her fathers eyes.

"UGH!" She gasped, as she sat up, cold sweat dripping down her face. It had drained into her eyes, and she wiped them. Something red caught her eye on her arm, and she realized she had wiped her nose with it, and it was bleeding. She looked around, noticing first the older man sitting next to her, and then the large crucifix on the wall.

"What happened?" She asked, looking around some more, holding a hand to her nose to stop the blood flow.
 
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Old 08-07-2008
 
#19
Chile Demon
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Five drinks and light as a feather he ran as free as he had ever done before the events that marked his childhood and turned him into the being that was now on the edge of complete relaxation and freedom, but a thought struck his heart like thunder scaring off the emotions he had missed so dearly for years.., one thought that ruined it all, a thought that boomed in his head for hours..he was still within the kingdom's borders, still within the grasp of his chasers..Paranoia grew in his head, great problems and poor solutions was all that wondered inside of him, fear overwhelmed him, sweat ran through his face. Fear, anger and acceptance passed through his heart, fear of those who chased him, anger for being so naive and the acceptance of being in a horrible position only lead him to confront the problems with nothing but reality itself, if he was to be caught he would be caught fighting for his life.

"Freedom or Death!" he screamed

"Freedom or Death!!!" Several people screamed lifting pitchforks and muddy fists, nodding at him...confused and relieved he walked back to his room to stand for his freedom for once and for all.
 
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Old 08-09-2008
 
#20
United Kingdom Rokdar Ironvain
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'You colapsed. Your ordeal proved too much for your innocent mind to comprehend. I've seen it in many young folk such as yourself in times of war.' Answered Heralt, standing to his feet with a sigh.

He walked over to the simple table, where there sat some neatly folded linen cloths. Picking one up, he cast it to the girl and then took his seat again. He looked at her curiously.

'The bow you brought with you, it is like those borne by the King's archers. Strong and potent, a very fine fibre from which the arrow is launched. I've never seen a young lass carry one of those around unless they were married to an archer, in which case it is seen as their duty to be laden with their husband's tools of war. Was your father in the King's service?'

Whilst the girl whiped her nose with the fine cloth, Heralt reached into his mail vest and pulled forth a goatskin pouch with an ivory muzzle. Eyeing it for a moment, he held it to his lips and drank its harsh contents with a cough.

'Evening brew.' He murmered to himself 'A fine remedy to any soldier showing the signs of battle fatigue.'

He reached over and offered the girl the flask. 'It'll do you a world of good.'
 



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Old 08-09-2008
 
#21
United Kingdom Undeath
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Olaf left the mound, and passed the task of burrying the dead man to two of his militia. They complied with grim faces, and took up the shovels to finish the work.

'Sixty men, young and old, with swords a decade old, and farming equipment. The Lord could have spared me more favour.' He mumbled to himself.

'Sir Olaf, our scouts are coming in from the East.' Called his sergeant, standing at the town's end of the bridge.

He looked Eastwards, and saw two mounted warriors riding on pale steeds. A troubled expression took over him for a second. He had sent out ten, and yet only two had returned. He hastened to meet them on the bridge, taking off his black cap with a white feather, he bowed at their presence.

'What did you see? Where are the rest of your number?' He asked calmly.

Both riders were masked by helmets of iron - something that Olaf had not seen any wearing before they left. They did not answer him, rather, they halted at the start of the bridge.

Trying again, Olaf repeated his words. 'What did you see? Where are the rest of you?'

'Dead.' Said the foremost rider with a tongue of iron. He reached into his saddlebag, and drew out a freshly severed head. It was a grotesque sight - mailed knuckles clinging to blonde hair matted with blood. The eyes of the deceased were white and an expression of terror was left on their face from some terrible end.

Olaf stood back and placed his hand on his sword. 'Who are you?'

'We are the Angels of Death, little sheriff. Sent from the Heavens to purge the kingdom of all things living.' Answered the rider, casting the head into the torrents of the river.

'You are the murderers from the East, you are they who dress as the King's men. That is a grave, dishonourable action, and you will-'

The sheriff's words were cut short as both horsemen released a thunderous laugh.

'Stupid little man. Here are our terms. Turn the town of Hulgrath over to us, or by nightfall, a grand company of armed warriors will take it by force, and slay every last woman and child within its bounds.'

Olaf's blood turned cold. Terror froze his heart.

'What is your answer?' The riders said in unison.

Suddenly, from within the town, cries of men could be heard chanting 'Freedom or death!', and Olaf quickly repeated their words.

'Freedom or death.'

The horsemen snorted, and then rode off the way they came.

Olaf sighed with relief, and then backed away. He set two guards on the bridge, and then left towards the town, from where the peoples had called what Olaf had thought to be their ultimatum to the riders.

'Who were they? What did they want?' Asked Olaf's sergeant, taking to his side.

Olaf shook his head. 'Rather a question of, who are we? And what do we want?'

The sergeant frowned with confusion.

'A pitiful militia, and we want more men and more arms.'

 
 

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Old 08-09-2008
 
#22
United States Meghan
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"No," Kahrah replied, watching as the clean white cloth became stained red with her blood. It was almost a sign of the harsh times coming ahead. "My brother, rest his soul. He was a good man. He was one of the King's main archers, riding side by side with other great men of the Kingdom. Not like these beasts that portray the King's good men." She took a large gulp of the liquid, and swallowed without even a flinch on her face, causing her helper look at her with disbelief.

"And do you know how to use it?" The man asked, taking his flask back.

"My brother taught me well." She replied, looking down at the cloth, making sure her nose had stopped bleeding.

"So, whom do I have the pleasure of thanking for my dramatic rescue?" She asked, extending a hand to the kind stranger.
 
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Old 08-10-2008
 
#23
Chile Demon
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For the first time in a while the smell of smoke invaded him and another bit of reality hit him, beyond the hills the black smoke rose as high as any cloud painting the sky with a depressing grey colour that approached the town menacingly but even though he looked at the horizon he did not bother to think on what was happening kilometers away from his window, what was going thorugh his mind were steps, options and plans of both escaping with his life intact or dying trying to get out of this town and away from this cruel kingdom and its treachedrous rulers.

He looked at his forearm, a skull with angel wings was drawn in it to remind him of his mission in this world, to remind him not to betray the people he could always trust, he covered again with his clothes, took a few steps around his room to look for his backpack, emptied it and armed himself with knives of all sorts.

"Big, long, small, very small and medium sized...ready.." he paused as he listed his tools around his belt thinking if he forgot something...anything..and he did, the most important thing..the one that could not be forgotten and almost was, to open the small vault he had been carrying..
 
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Old 08-10-2008
 
#24
United States Reservoir
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His gray eyes blankly stared at the wall across from him, behind the bar whose engraved scars had become so familiar to him that he could, in a sober mindset, remember the times in which they were made. Much like his own scars. Absentmindedly, he scratched the gray and black week-old stubble on his angular, weary face. He sipped his vineyard ale yet again, noticing the very lack of it in his simple, barrel shaped mug.

Balmond wasn't all too sober today, though he wasn't drunk. Once, he had been a drunkard. Now, he just did it so he could worry less about the mythos and stories that surrounded him. He'd learned to live with them, the outlandish tales of occult dealings, murders, and the idea that he was the leader of a group of witch-men. Of course, it was all tales from the asses mouth - but country folk are just as likely to believe it as educated men about the word of clerics and priests.

He'd learned to live with it, though. The only times the villagers wanted to lash out at him was when their own lives had become so rotten with grief. He was glad, though, that they only chose to avoid him most of the time. It helped him work through the pain of his wife's loss many moons ago...a tale of sadness that many blamed on his "occult dealings". If there was one story that could still hurt him...he again took another sip, draining the last few drops he possibly could from his wooden companion.

Nobody was inside the musty, dark tavern; the raids had scared many into either joining the militia, or simply hiding in fear. Balmond didn't care: if he attempted to hide, the villagers would call him a "coward", "hiding behind evil magicks"; if he attempted to fight, they would beat him themselves, cursing him for trying to act innocent and believing he could stand at their side. Either way, he faced death or severe injury. The thought mildly amused him, in all honesty. He stood up, his ass enjoying the release from the uncomfortable confines of the hard, stone bench. He quietly shuffled over behind the bar, eventually stepping down two flights of stairs before reaching the main cellar.

Inside this cold and dank place, only a single torch was present; it had been neglected over the past several hours, and it's normally-vibrant flame was now nothing but burning cinders and cakes of ash, all piled inside a blackened iron basket. Taking a dirty, wet rag from his pocket, he quickly knocked the ashes off of the cinders, and then proceeded to place a few more chunks of oily, black clumps in the basket. The flame grew, illuminating the impressive cellar.

After all this work was completed, it only took Balmond two minutes to find the already-open bottle of Vineyard Ale, slide it carefully from the wooden rack, and the return to his seat upstairs, the torch now long-forgotten. All that consumed his thoughts now was the sweet, bubbly taste that filled every corner of his mouth.

The town of Hulgrath had forgotten him into the darkest corners of their imagination; and so, he saw it fitting that he would forget them in their darkest hour of need.

 
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Old 08-14-2008
 
#25
Chile Demon
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Darkness surrounded him and nothing could be done but fall as hard as he could, SLAM his body hit the ground as if life itself ran away from his body, but he wasnt dead, it was too much pleasure to be dead and he knew heaven wasnt a place where he would be welcomed, but this felt close enough.

The blackness became thicker and in seconds voices of the past echoed in his mind, creatures of unknown procedence ran wild in his mind and his eyes were witnesses of a collage of images that his conciousness had locked away deep in his mind, beneath sweeter memories, but this time, no cute puppies could keep the blood, the broken limbs, the desperate screams for mercy of the men that acompanied him that night, 4 nights ago. A solid structure erected within dark woods, flesh and cries, ran he ran, sweating, for his life, for the pact, for forgiveness.

Sweat poured from all over his face, he sat on the floor trying to remember why he was sweating so profusely and the nightmare that he had escaped from came back, like a horrible memory, he looked at his hands, his mark, the vault, the dark green, covered in dirt, small vault..
 
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Old 08-17-2008
 
#26
United Kingdom Rokdar Ironvain
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OOC: Appologies, was in Corfu with my girl friend, forgot to tell anyone, my bad. Let's see if we can carry this on?

Heralt took the girl's hand with a gentle clasp, and shook it gently. 'Heralt Strongoxen, former commander of the King's armies.'

Whenever the proud retired warrior said his name, he always mentioned his past career. He boasted it with pride, and flogged it at every face that ever dared to care. The past was an important thing to Heralt, it was the better days, it was a time where he had the power of a lesser God, the noblity of a saint and the fame of an ancient hero.

He grunted to himself, his eyes lost in visions of former days.

'At first.' Heralt said at length. 'I thought these riders were from the neighbouring kingdom of Khrull, for it is a dark place, and shares an eastern border with our own. Many times I had taken armies into that region, and many times did I plunder its resources and destroy its people. If the riders are from Khrull, they have quickly forgotten the lessons of past conflicts.'

Heralt drew his flask and opened the cap. He took a sip. His throat tingled. He coughed.

'I fear these riders are not from abroad, but rather, from within.'
 



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Old 09-03-2008
 
#27
United States Crystalv2
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((I hope it's alright if I just jump in here...))

Jarris Geldorn had always been one given the dirtiest and lowest of tasks in life, so it should have come as no surprise that even in this coming crisis he should be tasked with the most unglorious of jobs. He had joined the Militia to be respected by the other villagers, perhaps something with which to have a sense of pride in, yet here he was digging the grave for another fallen REFUGEE of another village. No matter that the women who had accompanied the body may have been of pleasing figure, the Commander had obviously seen fit to care for her himself. Bitter, he and his companion plowed their way through the hard clay. Every inch as unyielding as the headaches on the morning after a pleasant evening of drinking. When at last a suitable vessel had been crafted from the hard earth the corpse was placed within its confines, then the burying and burial rites commenced. Though frozen by his prayer, his silent rage against the world continued to brood. When at last the ritual had been completed he found himself along the old familiar path to the bar. Oh the memories of that bar, in essence his only true home- for as long as he had some silver that is. Feeling deep within his pockets he dug carefully, searchingly, within the deep folds of cloth until at last he had found the prize he had longed for. A silver coin, marked as good money with the king's seal imprinted upon it. Such a coin, a rarity in these days, ought to fetch him at least another night of pleasantries. He walked down the path to the old bar to soothe his both his aching heart and parched throat...
 
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