3. War Stories

War Stories


  • In his Rightful Place by the Tower…

    The unique armour of the Magistrate had not been repaired or serviced since his leaving the senate building under attack with two senators by his side. Not once was it penetrated by the now dead traitorous black dragon knight, two disloyal defenders and a handful of Mercenaries that had fallen by his hand on the journey from the site of Koreth's final mistake, his disgrace and the start of his inevitable end.

    Days later he reflected on his situation, standing as he had done many times in his youth before the guard outpost but not the guard healer standing at the lonely outpost with the windblown and stoic guardsmen at his side but High Priestess Daisy, behind him streaked with the blood of the wounded and surrounding with the moans and screams of the injured, dying and those whose wounds were being cauterised by fire.

    "Strange it is, how those of Tyr are so different", as he wondered again about the difference between Koreth and Daisy… "one a a crusader, a tyrant - another a compassionate member of the city with no political ambition". His attention turned from the priestess, who was almost in tears as she tended the fallen back to the sea of tents in front of him. Many times before he has stood with many of the brave of peltarch holding back a sea of Eastlanders as they greedily tried to take the city for their own and yet now… the city was taken by those who were considered its defenders and its servants.

    The basis of the Magistrates role, his satisfaction and his purpose and influence had been taken from him. His city. For a moment he wondered what role was left for him out of his usual civilised company and legal staff. Then he cast his mind back wistfully back to a campaign his unit once fought and he remembered what it was like to be on campaign and he smiled - his life here wasn't like a real-campaign, apprehending cutpurses, fighting in caves and in strange lands against magical creatures.... this wasn't who he was... although it had made him who he was today. This would be a real battle, a real war - against enemies equipped much like himself not against the pathetic kobold race or the brutish lumbering hulks of the ogre species. This would be a fight against those who were the worst kind of scum, traitors and those who turn against their homes and their leaders. There would be honour in this war. He smiled and to those that saw him, the often serious and strict magistrate seeming truly happy since he arrived in the city.

    He stepped from the upper levels and went about the men of the defenders and the civilians folk from other lands approaching him, as a member of the interim city council. He realised his position made him approachable by all, those of the highest divinity and those of the most hated by the majority. He treated them all the same - and many reports soon came in from the legion, the cerulean knights and the defender officers. His long efforts over the years to make himself approachable and able to advise on a number of matters and concerns had paid off. He was valued, but how long would this war continue. "Some wars are without end"… he mused "but this one will end soon", even the high priestess of tempus had faith in him - she knew of his respect for the dead and fallen in battle. "Koreth will fall, one way or another before the blade of a single-minded defender officer, by the blades of his own men or..", he smiled with the thought. "In court, by the will of the city and the magistrates so the city will all learn of this mans treachery and the penalty for his final mistakes".

    "Soon military justice will come to all who betrayed the city, either face to face - or by the hand of the justice of the city of Peltarch. The Jewel of the Icelace will see all who fail her meet their deserved fate."


  • War doesn't determine who is right, only who is left.

    Keira walked near silently about the camp, watching the dirty and miserable refugees huddled near the tents. Most of them frail, weak or wounded. As time wears on, the Defenders ideas of who is fit to raise a sword to retake the city grows lax. She sees the pale drawn faces of men and women, bound by their indecision, scared of the fight to come, yet too scared to leave. Her touch was everywhere, her Truth, like needles under the skin in the quiet times between attacks. This camp wasn't a place of death, yet. That would come later. Now it was a place of false hope, fear, doubt. For all the bravado and the cheers as an attack is repulsed, the Truth creeps up into their minds in the quiet times.

    They see the faces of friends cut down, burning. They remember that the City they fight for is ruined and sacked. Even if they take it, the baker from Silver street is dead, his body contorted in silent agony in the hospital on the hill. One of the traders from the market, executed for food hoarding. A conversation overheard, a merchant counting his gold hidden in the bloodied sling he wears to avoid conscription. He'll leave by nightfall. It is beautiful. There is no need to spread suffering, to cause pain to these people. They do that perfectly well themselves. Even as they delude themselves, blaming the others, blaming the traitors, angry at their past.

    Keira smiles up at the Hospital, a gloriously cruel situation. The commanders know it couldn't be defended. That's why the wounded are gathered there. If the hill looks to fall, the army will leave. Do the healers know? Will they let themselves believe that? Keira smiles again. This is wonderful to see, for her. She watches Magistrate Zyphlin run past, hears him yelling an order to a group of soldiers. All for nothing.

    From the top of the hill (the indefensible hill) the men ebb and flow in the plains before the wall. Like the waters of the Icelace, like drifting snows swirled by the wind. The men attacking look unfamiliar. The defenders and conscripts arrayed to meet them look unfamiliar. Occasionally some armour, or an upturned face, is recognisable. She draws her pale bow easily and looses an arrow into an attacking mercenary. He knows he's dying, she's seen that look in eyes before. He knows he's taken another with him. If we are driven by our fear, we would never fight. Sometimes , she thinks, they're so close to understanding. Then they cast it away, repulsed. Some things are easier to deny than accept. She looses another arrow, wiser now. She watches the man fall, not by her arrow, but the blades of the soldiers. This is not her place. These people will stand or fall. She is irrelevant to their struggle.

    Keira steps back from the line of archers on the hill, ignoring the few questions raised as they continue to loft arrows over the walls into the City. She walks southwards through the tents, chanting one of the Litanies of the faithful quietly. She sees Jerr, the Skald singing his songs to sunset. It's foolish to hope the Sun will return. It's foolish to hope that rain will not fall. She smiles, thinking of the strife to come as she leaves for Norwick. No-one wins. Everybody leaves. Everybody dies. It's only a matter of time.


  • **_The Stand for the Jewel: Part 4

    The Gamble Lost_**


  • **_The Stand for the Jewel: Part 3

    The Decade Long Coup

    ((using linking system cause well, i don't want to flood the forum doubly and the TBTF posts don't get archieved while the town ones do in time 😉 ))_**


  • "Bane?" the inquisitive young child asked. The dark cleric needed only grin and nod.
    "But don't tell mommy or daddy – they won't understand. Just listen child; hearken, and I will teach you..."

    It was a day as any other – more or less. The city had been taken by Koreth's thugs; battle had been waged against them. The priest sat on a broken chair between two tents on a muddy turf of grass. The exiled government organized assaults tirelessly, each ending in retreat. War was about him, the smell of death filled the air. Some, Zanetar knew, would speculate that it was the stench of death that had him so intoxicated... They were wrong, though.

    It was the fear. It was everywhere. Defenders feared for their lives; peasants feared for their families; women feared for their husbands, their children; the children feared as much as any of them, but they were not even certain of what they were in of. Through the wanton chaos of this civil war, Bane had come to bless Zanetar with a sensationally rousing circumstance. Horror and dread were everywhere.

    And there was hatred, too! It cast its shadow in every glance towards the burning city. It rose up over the camp, a black web of distrust and misanthropy in the people. It surrounded Zanetar, too, and his knowledge of this made him all the more giddy. The Legionnaires all glared at him with scarcely contained fury. The bards did not sing songs of encouragement and hope when he passed; they simply looked on, defeated, cursing him silently. Tyrists, Tormites, Kelemvorites, Mystrans, and men and women of countless other faiths – priests, warriors, wizards -- turned their heads to watch him march by, their contempt spilling out of their hearts and feeding his lust for loathing. Even the noble and valiant paladins could not be immune to the despising that coarsed through nearly every breathing thing in the refugee camp.

    There were some, though, who did not hate him. There were the Banites that answered to him, but there were others... There were children. Many fled from him as soon as he approached, startled by the tall apparition of black and green spiked plate and mail. Some didn't, though.

    The Imperceptor sat on the grass, draped in emerald and obsidian holy vestments, watching a dark haired child stand in the middle of a circle of his peers. They spoke to each other, but they all seemed to turn back to the youth in the middle, eventually.

    Zanetar chuckled; this child was the popular one. With the mumbling of a few words and a wave of his hand, the child was overcome with a uninterrupted desire to approach him. The ebon-headed youngster's friends looked hesitantly between each other as their ring-leader left without a word, eventually deciding through unspoken unanimity to scurry off.

    When the effects of the Command spell wore off, the child did not flee. Rather, he cocked his head at Zanetar. He was intrigued by the mysterious stranger.

    And thus a child found the path to power; a child found The Black Lord.


  • _Sitting on the hill overlooking the city he wonders to himself what has brought him here to fight for the people who had turned him away and banished him from his home. He shakes the thoughts from his head as he knows his duty is to fight for all places in this region, this is his home now and he will not let it fall to anyone. He cracks his neck and checks his armor, looking about at all the other soldiers who were about to charge the walls of Peltarch and probably die in the process. He wondered what went through their minds as they prepared to fight this battle that seemed hopeless. There were so many in the city and so little of them, how could they ever retake the city from such a strong force? He really didnt care, he was a soldier, born and breed for war and this would be his time to either prove himself the warrior he thought he was or to die amongst the crowded streets of the city.

    As the order was given he moved his position to the front of the line and waited for the signal to charge. Looking straight ahead he heard prayers go out to all gods of the people who would fight at his side. Strange how these people who would just as soon kill him for his worship stood at his side now to fight for the same cause. He said a quiet prayer to Bane to give him the strength to win over his enemies and looked back at Nicahh and sideways to Allanon, his two only real friends in life and wondered if he would ever see them again. He pushed that thought from his head and needed to concentrate on the battle about to begin, telling himself that this is war and some will die.

    The signal was finally given and all the soldiers cries filled the air, they charged the gates of Peltarch. The sounds of arrows hitting armor and flesh alike could be heard all over as the mercenaries tried to fell all they could before they even had a chance to make it to the gate. A sudden scream filled his ears and as he turned he saw Nicahh, pierced by several arrows laying dead on the ground. Blood lust filled him at seeing her and as the gates opened he saw the mercenaries burst forth he charged screaming and met them head on along with the others. If he could not save her at least he would avenge her death. Spells struck all over and the sounds of battle and the smell of blood filled the air but they did not relent. Pushing their way throught the gates they headed up stairs that led to the walls to finish off any archers that remained.

    Several more groups of mercenaries came out from the city and many met their ends on the tip of his sword. He had to yet watch his other friend die at the hands of these scum, Allanon, always so confident charged into the heat of the battle, after being hit by spells and swords he had finally fallen to the ground dead. He could not let that worry him right now, at least he did not go easy. After what seemed like an eternity to him they were finally forced to retreat out of the city. Screams of "death magic" filled the air as several people fell quickly. They had taken the outer walls but they could not hold against such a force and so gathered their dead and headed back to the camp. The dead did not lay long before being tended to by the clerics of the city. Anger clouded his mind as he sat looking at his friends bodies laying in the temple. He thought he had failed them, yet he hoped what he had done in the battle would give their deaths some meaning.

    His mind cooled as he saw Nicahh and Allanon walk from the temple. He grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around Nicahh and led her off to sit under the cliff. Sadness filled him in seeing her like this but he needed to be strong. He sat beside her for the night and watched her sleep, he was determined not to fail her again. He would make all those fools pay for what they had done. He could be seen on the hill over-looking the city everyday waiting for the next order to charge and walking around and talking with all the soldiers to keep up their morale. He would see this city back in the hands of the senate even if he wasnt allowed back in. To him this is a personal quest of vengeance now. One he intended to see finished_

  • S

    _Roland watched as distant flames licked the skies above his home. On the battlements and in the streets, the wind drove away black smoke to reveal purple standards, set here and there by loyal soldiers. They were a sign of hope; surrounded, outnumbered, but not yet beaten. The traitors had underestimated the determination of a people fighting for hearth and home. He doubted they would ever truly understand, being mercenaries.

    The whole war had taken on a sort of dreamlike quality. Nothing seemed to make much sense any more. The day before, he had seen the ruins of the commerce district near the main gate. Bodies littered the grand boulevard, the blood of traitors and patriots all flowing together into the choking gutters. They fought over every house, every shop, and each step forward was a small victory in itself. Lives were lost over cobblestones. Invariably, the fighting would rage from door to door until one side was finally reinforced and the other had no choice but to retreat. It was the same all over the city. Organized insanity.

    Of course, everything made perfect sense on paper. Many cities had succumbed to infighting and factional conflict. Indeed, Damara had been fighting a disastrous civil war for years. Still, it was difficult to believe it had happened in Peltarch. One day the historians would try to explain how things had gone awry, but the reasons were almost always the same: greed, pride, ambition. Indifference - how many had known of the gathering storm and failed to act? How many had remained silent at the cost of countless lives?

    Roland concluded that victory would not necessarily bring with it many answers, but victory would have to suffice. He spotted a few stragglers, beaten and bloody, following the assorted group of adventurers that was on its way back to the camp. Night fell on the living and the dead, the heroes and the scoundrels, and it deserved a quiet prayer in thanks.

    "Helm has been kind to us this day…"_


  • A young knight sits in a tent a look of concentration on his face as he carefully writes in a battered journal. He pauses every now and then to think and then adds more words to the page.

    Day One

    _Well twould seem the worst fears wert realised. Whence the meeting hadst begun all seemed well. However twould seem that all was not so after a few short minutes a figure I am told is Koreth entered. He was indeed very rude, he complained of the presence of certain people. He then claimed that the senate hadst no validity and began an attack. He was pushed back. We then made our way to the temple, the streets were aflame as an obviously pre-planned attack was begun. Thankfully due to a prior warning, I with Lady Daisy’s aid had set up a refugee camp. I am so very thankful to the Temple of Lathander and of Helm for their kind aid in this. And I certainly didst not expect to see Lady Rith make the journey, twas very trusting of her to aid so much with so little information I couldst furnish her with. Truly she is one of the best of people. I fret for the fate of the boats I tried to hire to aid in the evacuation and hope that they and their crews and passengers made it safely away before the docks became engulfed in flames. There art many dead and wounded…..so many. Lady Daisy is working all the hours Tyr sends her to aid, others aid as and when they can. Tis said we go to counter attack, I am hopeful that we may yet cut this short.

    That didst not go well…many fell and the defender mercenary’s art well skilled.
    The initial charge was not good, we were hit by many arrows from the walls the the doors burst open and we wert charged. Thanks to Sy’wyn I canst write these words for I was struck repeatedly by arrows….causing me to reel back. His timely healing saved mine life. We then breached the gate and made for the walls. All seemed to be going well. However we hadst not counted upon the numbers of our foes and soon the commons filled with them. We fought on our blade red as the cobbles, wave after wave broke upon us and like the sea the wave began to wear away at the rock. Such acts of bravery and skill from those loyal to Peltarch. Then came a lull, we sought the walls for refuge and the barracks for resting and healing. Our foe came again this time it imployed powerful magics of death…many fell. At this point the order to retreat was given, our troops wert bloodies and bruised many carrying the bodies of fallen comrades.
    Maychance we shouldst seek better understanding of our foe. I am most joyful to see Lady Anna well after the battle twas a worrisome time._

    Day Two

    The camp hath entered a certain routine, the hospital is still sorely tested…poor Daisy. There is talk of a meeting this night to decide our way forward. I am much heartened by the aid that hath come to us from all across the lands. So many brave souls and kind acts. I hath tried to keep the spirits of the refugees from flagging, though twould seem others art not so thoughtful. Damnable Banites. The attacks upon the camp seem to hath stopped there hath been none this day, this is good indeed for the folk here need a chance to rest.
    In fact in some of the quieter moments Sir Sy’wyn didst try and teach me some of the Elvin language.

    The knight pauses saying a phrase in his head….bites the end of the quill and writes again

    Which is beyond mine means to write. Ah here comes Sir Roland…..


  • http://www.narfell.com/modules.php?name=Forums&file=viewtopic&p=215113#215113

    In the interest of space (and so I don't post it twice) I posted this war story in my already started "Tales of a Warrior of Tyr" thread.

  • Peltarch Far Scouts

    _Sitting by one of the many campfires that popped up around the refugee camp, Sierra sat next to one particularly removed from the rest of the camp.

    She didn’t want to think anymore about what had happened. Maybe the vampire witch was right. It was all her fault.

    She had tried to change the world as Finder had bid her too with song, with words and poetry.

    And then the world bit her right in the arse.

    Rolling onto her side, Sierra tried as she might to force herself into a deep sleep, which did nothing but elude her, no matter what she tried. Liquor didn’t help, nor did trying to talk to anyone. Everyone had their own troubles to worry about.

    Little by little, she could feel her faith in her god, her lover, her friends, her new home slipping away, and herself, slipping away. She would probably lose it all anyways in this stupid war. A war which she probably had a hand in creating.

    ‘Just let me sleep’ she thought. ‘Let me stop thinking.’

    But sleep continued to evade her as though she had been removed that privilege.

    Having nothing else left to do, she did the only thing she could.

    She wrote another song._

    ((Set to the tune of “The Beverly Hillbillies” TV Theme))

    Come and listen to a story ‘bout the Pel-tarch civil war
    When one mornin’ a Senator named Koreth decided he wanted more
    That fateful day he was in such a foul and plottin’ mood,
    He staged a coup and kicked out the citizens which was mighty rude

    Treason that is, Takin’ over, People runnin’ for their lives.

    Well the next thing you know half of Pel-tarch is in a camp takin’ refuge,
    Everyone still fightin’ and the loss of life is mighty huge
    But they won’t give up their brave fight for Peltarch, their fair Ice Lace city
    So they’ll battle to the end in the pursuit of freedom and liberty.

    Victory, that is. Kickin’ Arse, Takin’ names.

    Well now its time to say good-bye to Koreth and all his kin.
    And we’d like to thank them to drop dead ‘cause they’re guiltier than sin.
    They won’t be invited back again to this locality
    Unless they want to have a heapin' helpin' of brutality

    Exile that is. Not welcome. Take ya’ll selves off.

    And don’t come back now, y’hear?


  • _"I should not be here…" the one thought running through his head over and over as he kneeled in the grass, in the mud, the blood soaked ground seeking guidance from Fenmarel. "I should not be here..." But he was, and others were lined near, the shields were out, the blades held ready, as each waited, as each paused... holding for the signal... He eyes Arandor in front of him, his oath was to him, the last two Gali Elders fighting far from home, to take back a town in flames. He could hear the chanting of the clerics, the calls of the battle ready as each waited.. yearned... "I should not be here...".... Silence...

    A single lit arrow floating above the walls....

    The rush... The screams of those calling out... the shouts of "for Peltarch!" "For Glory!" "For... " the deafening sound of metal... metal shod feet pounding cobblestones.... deafening, until finally he could only hear "I should not be here..." still echoing in his head.

    You think of odd things, single things in a fight like this...

    Archers, there were archers on the walls... but the gates, the gates just opened... we smile, we cheer... the other group had succeeded!! A group pours out of the gates... it is not our friends...

    The first sword hits shield, hits flesh, you can't hear, your breath burns in your throat, his breath was burning in his lungs... The first scream for help... He turns shield high to hold back the arrows from the wall.. He sees Nicahh fall... the sky cracks open, light falling into those who are streaming from the gates.... stunning them, not enough time... just not enough time... sheathing the sword in his hand, praying to Fenmarel, one time.... she is gone... arrows still hitting her body... turning, grabbing at the sword on his back, but Mariston has fallen back, bleeding heavily... and he finishes his prayer, closing his wounds, and then anothers, and anothers....

    I lost Arandor... though somewhere i hear him calling... there is a push forward, the heroes of the refugees are through the gates... Turn.. there has to be a door... there has to be a way up... Single thoughts... so tired... i have not rested in three days now... I should have told Darry where i was... my family... they will worry...

    HAH!! stairs there are stairs.. past these beds, he rushes up the stairs, cloak streaming behind him, dark plate clanking loudly as he tries to get up, to clear the archers from the wall.... Others have beaten him here.. Grag, his large axe flinging blood, and the Golden Haired Girl shouting to Tempus, her life almost gone, his blade stays sheathed, as he chants softly to Grag before helping the girl... she was to young to be here... too young, or perhaps this elf was too old.....

    Tala will not be happy... i have lost Elrin somewhere in the press, but the archers are gone now, and we flood back into the courtyard, shouts for help coming more often now, a louder prayer, and the sky cracks for me, dropping a few more of the soldiers... I cry out and the stones rise into a giant running forward to help others, while i press back against the wall.. fighting as i must, the sword back in hand.... "I should not be here..."

    We pushed back... bit by bit... stronger and better trained soldiers coming in platoons... i duck into an open door, taking the opportunity during a lull to pray, before others come rushing through... and i hear shouts of death magic... and again i call out, and again the stones rise to my command...

    And it stops...

    We limp our way out.. carrying the bodies of the brave, the young, the foolish... and i lived.. somehow.. i lived... in that press of flesh where you strike out not knowing if you are hitting friend or foe... knowing in the back of your mind you have not pressed in farther then 100 paces.. knowing...

    Soon... you will have to do it all again...._


  • _Sitting only a few feet from where the children laughed and played while Lilly and Ocean entertained the them, Nicahh sat watching one little boy in particular. He seemed rather large and adult like for his age. His hair was as black as the night, his eyes dark as well. He rarely spoke to the other children, rather he watched the adults passing, often times sneaking behind senators and such listening in on their conversations. She admired his inquisitive nature. When he did speak, he was direct and to the point. When the bards would tell a joke, or make up a stupid story, he would roll his eyes and sigh, as if he was wasting his time being a child. He slightly scared her with his bluntness at such a young age. Opening her robe, to look at a wound on her shoulder, from the battle just days before, the boy had come up to her, just staring at the puncture hole left by an arrow.

    “That looks deep.” He said flatly. She nodded, looking up, smiling at the child for a moment. He did not smile back. Rather, he just stood there, as if waiting for her to respond. Nicahh could not help but stare at the child. My god he reminded her of Zanetar. So rigid and stubborn; like a little soldier. She wondered if this was what her and Zanetar’s son was like. In that moment, she thanked Bane that her son had been pulled away from her and taken to the Zhentil Keep. It had only been a week or so before the siege that she had asked Zanetar to request that their son be returned to them. Now she felt foolish. How had she not noticed the storm brewing that had nearly destroyed all of Peltarch? Had she gotten her son back, only to watch him die at the hands of mercenaries, she surely would have lost her mind.

    Slowly drifting back to the reality that surrounded her, her eyes focused again on the boy that stood waiting for her to explain what had happened to her shoulder. When Nicahh did not respond, the boy spoke again. “I saw you dead.”

    “And your point is?” she snapped back at the child. He did not flinch. Rather, he stood still as stone, his gaze attempting to pierce her. The only thing she could think, as the boy stood in front of her, was this had to be Zanetar’s illegitimate son. He did not look like the other children, and she did not believe him to be a commoner. He seemed too intense. His eyes focused, his dress clean and untattered. She made a mental note to try and find a sensitive way to ask Zanetar if he had ever had relations with a Peltarch woman.

    “Aren’t you sick of war stories by now?” she said, motioning her head towards the bards that were telling an outrageous story about courage and good moral judgement.

    “Yes, I am sick of stories. So tell me just what happened. Facts only.”

    She could not help but smile at the child again, as he stood his face emotionless. “Well here are my war facts.” She said, her tone low. “I stood waiting for a signal to rush the gates. We received the signal and as I crossed the cobblestone path that surrounds the city, hiding in the shadows of Grag and Anna, I shot a few well placed arrows into the sides of men that were pounding their swords against my lover’s shield. Four archers spotted me and promptly decided to take me down. In a matter of moments, my armor was pierced with arrows and I felt them lodged deep within me. Then things went black and I came to in the tower on the hill. Those are my facts.”

    Reaching into his pocket, the child pulls out a silver coin tossing it to Nicahh. She held the coin in her hand, looking at it for a moment. “You little bastard.” Was all she could say. Something had snapped in her mind and she realized how soft she had grown lately. Five minutes before her story had someone attacked her and the boy that had stood listening to her, she would have given her life to save him. However, a child was tipping her for facts. The thought infuriated her. Her heroic ideas of going back into the city, doing her part to save Peltarch went up in flames at that moment. “Fark them.” She said to herself. Lying down on a feathery blanket Rolan had brought her, to comfort her while her wounds healed, she looked around the camp. Maybe if enough senators and magistrates died, Zanetar could get a position within the city once it was re-acquired and the destruction was cleared from the streets. Yeah, that sounded good, wife of a city offical. It would be extremely hard to accomplish, but not impossible. God she hoped a bunch of them died._


  • I am Nathen Wingates,

    _The wind chills the front of me as I arch my back, making my way out of my tent. I havent gotten a wink of sleep, but it's alright. I'm used to it. I rub my face and take a look around. Captain Lavindo's talking with Magistrate Barrim, as usual. The kids Maya, Meril and I entertained yesterday left the circle they had sat around. Hopefully they're back together with their families. I don't see any signs of Zyphlin, Demi or Oreth. They had left for scouting a while back. I hope for the best, because that's all I really can do at this point.

    I shift and adjust my belt, roll a shoulder and start my way towards the guard tower. A routine stroll I've been doing every day for what seems like forever. My greaves step heavily into the grass, still wet with morning dew, I look upward. The sky's empty. Not a spec of light, just a big giant mass of dull grey. Fitting.

    I finally find my way up the cliff and to the tower, rubbing away at the sleep still present on my face. Moans and groans make me pause as I pass the entrance, peering inside. I see Daisy, tending to the injured. Using whatever Divinity she can to ease their pain. Some are tossing and turning in awkward positions, a grim look spreads it's way across my face. No matter how many times I pass by, no matter how many times I find myself looking inside, it's still as miserable as the first. My lip curls into a determined sneer, and for a moment I feel like ignoring the orders my captain gave me and charge into the city, charge into the rat-bastards who caused this. But that only lasts for a moment, I get pulled back down to reality and shake it off. I can't just disobey my superiors and besides, that would only get me killed.

    Daisy notices me watching, she gives a small distant smile. She had told me before all of this not to worry. I was with Clandra and Daisy, before the catastrophe, before the fateful senate meeting. She had told me not to worry. I wonder if she's right as I manage to return her smile with a small, troubled one of my own. Despite the fact that neither of us really have anything to smile about.

    I succeed in pulling myself away from the suffering citizens inside the stone walls of the tower. I start walking towards the edge of the cliff, rubbing my forhead as I try to forget the pained faces past the column beside me. I approach the edge where I see Kia standing there, gazing out towards Peltarch, in all it's broken and debris-riddled glory.

    Kia's a good knight, one of the best I'd ever seen. I think I know now what the captain sees in her. She's only a recruit but I know she's got a future with Anakore's knights. She's got heart. She turns around to face me, hearing the pounding of my metal greaves as I advance towards her. She speaks my name and I speak hers. We converse, both of us trying hard to hide our exhaustion and fatigue.

    I turn and glance to the city for a brief moment, only to have my attention shifted back behind me. I hear a dwarf's hollering voice in the distance over Kia's. I can hardly make it out, I assume it's Rolert's. Figure the dwarf is exclaiming something about women and children, and how Peltarch's finest should of done something to better protect the one's that might of not made it. The morning star on my belt grows heavy because I know he's right.

    His voice finally dims and fades, and Kia's once again finds it's way into my ears. I face her and smile the same tired smile I've been smiling for the longest time. We say our goodbyes and I head back towards the tents and fires, back to the civilians to see if any need some help.

    The weariness eventually withers away and I somehow find the energy to go about my business at a decent pace. As I unwrap a ration and take a bite, I notice Mariston and Anna distributing torches, food and clothes. It only makes me think higher of them both, seeing the look on the refugee's faces as they hand them the supplies. The faint smiles, the small glitters of hope in there eyes. Mariston and Anna are genuine, there's no doubt about that in my mind. Not that there ever was.

    I watch them both for a moment, chewing on my ration still. As I scan the camp, my eyes eventually find there way towards Maya. She's surrounded by children, just like yesterday she's telling stories about her tribe. She's got true pride. The children must know it too because there eyes are locked on her just like there ears. Better off listening to stories then worrying about parents that may or may not already be dead. Better then facing the truth, no matter how macabre it might be. Maya was taking there minds off the worst of things, at least for now. I figure it's a good thing.

    I finish the ration with a hard gulp and shove the leaf-wrappings in my side-bag. As heavy as the morning star attached at the left of my belt is, the birdpipes to the right are what I need to be using.

    Most refugees are worried sick and with good reason. I unbuckle the pipes and make my way over to a gathered, uncheery bunch of folks, nibbling away grimly at some food. Brooding and distressed thoughts of the war beyond the walls still itching at the back of my mind as I treat them to a song._

  • A

    "When's the food going to be ready?" a little girl asked, all the while tugging on Lilly's sleeve, "We're hungry".

    "Just a few minutes more little one," Lilly answered,"Ocean's fixing some more honeyed porridge." sending the child back to her friends giggling with a playful swat on the rump. Looking over the giggling children playing, it was hard to imagine them as anything but kids who'd wanted to have an elaborate camp out, though that was partly due to Lilly and Ocean and all the other's who would stop by for a few moments to help.

    They did their best to help the children ignore the conditions of war, and to ignore the armored men walking around talking of tactics, horns being blown, and women crying. Oh it was still there, but stories and songs, and silly little games with the two women and a couple of the more playful bards and dwarves helped to ease their spirits. The children realy seemed to like the dwarves, especially Foilir who always brought a smile to their dirty faces.

    It almost brought a tear to her eye, it would have but Lilly was determined not to cry in front of the children. No, she was working too hard to mother some of the newly orphaned children to allow them to feel sad. So she's keep singing songs, and telling stories of pretty princesses and dimwitted knights, wiping their noses, and cleaning their faces, making sure they ate enough, and being sure they were warm and slept every now and then. It was a good feeling, like being a mother.. the one thing Lilly had always wanted. Still, she'd trade the whole experience for these children to be spared this ordeal.

    It had been a nice day actually, a day after Lilly and Ocean had gotten back from their Dajemma, expecting all to be overjoyed and for Lilly to settle down with Mirkali and hopefully get the scruffy bard to propose. What they found had surprised them greatly, the whole city was edgy as if something was happening, though no one knew what it was. It hadn't mattered though, Lilly still saw her friends and sisters and most importantly Mirkali. God but she'd missed him.

    Hours later, Mirkali slipping away from the his room for business, and Lilly finally dressing to go find her friends some more, the catalyst was drawing closer. She met up with Ocean, and a new bard apprentice by the name of Richal, who had had a bad run with the kobolds. Seeing as how she had just finished a training mission, Lilly offered to take him out and protect him while he looked around. She'd even bought him armor.

    They were supposed to go to a Senate meeting, but shrugging it off as boring, none of them wanted to go, instead excited by spending time joking in the kobold hills they skipped it. As they exitted the armor shop though, the battle from the Senate was spilling into the streets, thoroughly confusing the three of them. Seeing Oreth and someone she didn't know very well, the three dove into battle with the mercenaries and guards attacking the other guards. The battle was too rough for them though, and they were forced to flee from the gates of the Civic district. They would later learn the scene was uniform throughout the city, the smoke rising from the battlefield of a city would attest to that.

    They tried to regroup outside the gates, though that was proved pointless as a group of ,mercenaries chased after a man and attacked. That man proved to be Deacon Sterr, Ocean's father, and though they won the skirmish, Deacon fell and with him went both Lilly and Ocean's desire to reenter the city.

    He'd been raised, and now sat very agitated in the refugee camp, though Lilly still worried. She had yet to see Mirkali since the attack, though Zyphlin assured her that he lived, as well Ocean had yet to Drelan, and the two women used each other for support as best they could, though neither were truly stable.

    "Foo's redi!" Ocean shouted, the children rushing and laughing to get some of the sweet, honeyed porridge that Ocean had been making for them recently. Lilly hoped she wouldn't have to fight, but she kept her scimitar close just in case.. if any tried to harm the children, then there'd have to be one very dead pink-haired berserker bard first.


  • ((War stories will be awarded with XP))


  • (If Demi'd find out you called her magic longsword a rapier… Tsk tsk 😉 )


  • _The green haired bard walked softly through the Refugee camp, listening to all the cries, the screams from the field hospital and coughing at the constant billowing of smoke from the burning city to the North. She was still happy with what she saw, for everywhere those able to help were doing their best. A gnome taught lost, orphaned and miserable children songs, volunteers tackles the numberless masses of wounded in the field hospital and the more brave actually prepared to volunteer to serve at the front lines, or in dangerous strikes into the ravaged City itself. The beleaguered commanders in the De Facto Government stood outside the Tower, huddled together with their faces blackened from the constant ash blown south.

    She began to get worried; there was no word of the two groups, which had headed into the City earlier. Her sister was with one of them. She made up her mind and stalked forward through the valley overlooked by the now teeming tower. Things began to get a lot more hectic as she reached the frontlines, Lavindo and Varid’s men running around stoicly, readying for any movements from within the havoc of the city.

    With a flick of her hand and humming a few short bars, she vanished from sight, slipping past the milling defenders and volunteers towards the pandemonium of the Commerce District. She reached the gates and slipped cautiously through them, her heart pounding as she realised just what she was walking into. The city had been transformed utterly from when she first fled it, rubble and debris littered the streets and fires burned randomly all around. Thunderous reports of siege weapons echoed across the city, their blasts shaking the ground causing more scree to fall from the already damaged structures. There were groups of traitors everywhere, though it was impossible to tell who they were and she certainly wasn’t sticking around to give them a full inspection…they might hear her.

    She had to stop at the commons though. The wreckage here was more poignant, the place where so much simple time she had spent, a large part of two decades she had lounged against that sundial, which was now nowhere to be seen, doubtless destroyed in the rampage. She shook her head violently and hurried on towards Bard Street, ducking and weaving through the ranks of enemies along the way, not a friendly face to be seen.

    As she approached the Bardic College her heart fell. She was too late. The main doors were thrown open, vigorously forced down. She crept inside, and long the silent corridors. The theatre seemed empty, but she noted the door into the college proper had also been forced open. She moved forward into the Apprentice Wing, and looked over the destruction. Their rooms has been literally torn apart, looted and wrecked.

    Sheets of parchment and scraps of paper or works the Apprentices had been working on littered the floor, and even the Apprentice Task Board had been cast down from the wall it occupied. Unable to look any longer at the Wing in which she had lived for over ten years she moved deeper into her wounded home.

    As she advanced she could hear footsteps and the metal grating of armour. She made sure she was still invisible and edged further towards the main atrium. She saw one man, in Defender Armour, striding heavily towards the Library. He tried the door, and finding it locked he rose his blade and struck it a heavy blow, the old wood creaking in protest briefly before blowing back open. The soldier clanked into the Library and the elf’s green eyes widened in outrage as she heard the telltale sounds of destruction coming from within. The Library. Where she had often spent days at a time simply reading. Where she had often come with friends to research problems for them. Where Apprentices often worked on Tasks assigned to them.

    Her gloved fingers slipped around the hilt of her rapier and she took a firm step towards the library. Then she spotted her. Demi Arkania Rei Can’dii. The girl was hiding almost entirely out of sight behind a pillar near the stairs down to the Master’s Quarters. The sight of her sister alive threw the elf’s outrage aside and she ran to her.

    As the pair of bards whispered urgently to one another, the Defender’s comrades marched into the area, as the first one emerged from the Library, idly casting a tome aside. The Master Bards quickly slipped down the stairs together and locked the door behind them.

    Below the Blue Bard chanted softly to himself, holding a scrap of paper aloft. Another man the elf did not recognise told her not to disturb her blue friend; he was scrying. She took a seat instead, wearied from the frantic trip through the city and disheartened by the destruction above her. The Master’s Quarter was as it always was. Cozy and warm, the fire flickering to itself in the hearth. Demi looked about to say something before there was a resounding thud. Everyone looked up, save the scrying bard. The Master’s door shook again as another great blow was levied against it.

    The elf shot to her feet, drawing her glittering magical rapier and hefting her elven shield, her sister had already knocked an arrow at the doorway. Another thud and a crack split through the stout wooden door. They glanced at the scryer furtively, hoping he would finish, but too soon the door was slammed inwards, soldiers marching down the stairs with their weapons drawn.

    The first arrow glanced off a soldier’s armour, the second hit one of them in the shoulder, but they poured down, too many, too many. The Elf began chanting aloud, a battle hymn as she stabbed her rapier through a chink in one of the soldier’s armour, blocking another soldier’s blow with her shield. More arrows sliced through the air at the soldiers she fought, the man whose name she knew not aiding them too. The Blue Bard had begun to move now, and bellowed for them to retreat through the emergency Sewer exit.

    The Elf backed towards it, looking to be the first to reach it. As she did, the soldiers followed and she cried out as she felt a hot pain slice across her back, through her armour. She winced, expecting more blows, but turned in surprise as none came; the soldiers had been drawn away by her Sister, who was now sorely beset by them. They surrounded the lone Bard girl, and she blocked desperately with her own rapier, dodging many blows, but there were too many. Blood stained the floor underneath them as more and more blades found their mark on the pink haired Master.

    The Blue Bard had reached the sewer door and called desperately for them to join him, but at that moment, one of the soldier’s blades pierced the human girl’s stomach and her eyes widened in shock before fluttering closed as she dropped to the floor. With a scream of rage and despair the Elven Bard gripped her rapier and charged towards her fallen sister, her rapier was knocked from her hand by a powerful blow and she reached for a small brown vial. She got it to her lips just as her side was pierced by a fierce thrust; she choked on the potion in horror, her form flickering momentarily from sight, before simply hitting the ground with a dull thud. The last thing she heard was Zephlin Re’cual cursing bitterly as the sewer door clanged closed. Then all was dark._