3. War Stories

War Stories

  • G

    The popular young Captain of the Troff Legion was on patrol, east of Jiyyd, investigating rumors of strange white skinned creatures that had been harrassing wayfarers, when a young Legion soldier with dispatch rode up, stinking of smoke, and covered in a haze of fine soot.

    It was one of General Grag's personal messengers, dressed in the dark colors of the army, with a fine and colorful Troff Legion standard flying from his saddle. The messenger was in an agitated and worn looking state.

    "Ma'am!", the soldier cried, nearly falling forward off his mount as he reined it in. The young boy saluted, and fell into an endless stream of words, trying to relay the desperate summons as fast as humanly possible.

    "General Grag requires your presence, with all the Legion you can muster at once, in the Refugee Camp, near Peltarch. The city has fallen, and the situation is grim!"

    Captain Lyte Bry'Gaede was used to tautly worded orders and short notice. The Troff Legion prided itself in having instant response times to terrible situations, but this seemed grim and dire, even for the General.

    She raised an eyebrow, not displaying any other signs of emotion.

    "Ride with me to Jiyyd, Dispatcher, and share any more intelligence you have for me on the way. Then, find a change of horse, and head for Norwick to find any other Legion that might be there."

    Together they rode, snow flying before them, to Jiyyd, where Troff Legion Headquarters sat.

    Corporals Elrien and Lilin were readying a patrol with the young hin-Paladin Private Mia as the Captain and the General's now exhausted looking dispatcher galloped into town.

    With a measured, practiced voice, the Captain issued orders to her young but trusted Corporals.

    It mattered to none of them that they did not know the foe they would face, nor the odds. They were practiced soldiers, they had worked as brothers and sisters together in the past, against assorted enemies, usually outnumbered, and always, they had survived because of their discipline, their training and equipment.

    They mounted up together, and set off towards Peltarch at a trot. They could see smoke ahead, a harbinger of the dark days to come.

    Captain Bry'Gaede measured the refugee camp with a practised eye. It was a huge affair, women and children in pitched tents scattered accross the landscape, with the awful glow and smoke of the ruined, burning city much to close behind them. A singular hill, with a Temple atop, dominated the camp.

    She noted the guards mostly standing with their families, probably in shock from the recent horrible loss of the town. Many of the important remaining survivors, the politicians, senators, lawyers, dog catchers, whatever they were, seemed to be wandering about on the hilltop, and the Captain saw little in the way of organized patrols of the completely vulnerable camp. Something had to be done, and now, to secure the camp borders.

    Unless the enemy was composed of complete idiots, skirmishing parties would be soon raiding the camp, killing the wounded, taking the women and livestock.

    More Legion were arriving now. A pair of stout dwarvsh brothers, their axes gleaming, had stomped into camp.

    She could see that it would be up to her small company to hold the perimeter until the battered Peltarch survivors could rally. She called together her two squads, one under Corporal Elrien, the other Corporal Lilin, and gave them their orders.

    The Corporal's departed with what Legioneers as were available, picketing the likely areas of attack in the hopes of striking any force before it reached the wounded and the families within the refugee enclave.

    As the young Captain set up a temporary headquarters in the southern section of the encampment, CO. Maythor of the Legion arrived. Captain Lyte felt heartfelt thanks at his arrival, for in truth, she wondered how their small and largely young force would cope with any serious attack upon the camp. Maythor was highly experianced, and an extremely tough fighter. She began to brief the anxious officer on the state of the camp, when sounds of a battle reached their ears.

    The sounds came from the north, in the direction of her two patrols. The two officers rushed forward to find that the patrols had indeed encountered exactly what Captain Lyte had feared…a party of skirmishers bent of disruption and destruction.

    The patrols, together with a few men of Peltarch, had stopped the rebel soldiers, but it had cost one of her men his life.

    It was apparent now to Captain Bry'Gaede that these were not ruffians or hired part time soldiers they faced, but hardened soldiers from the city.

    She thought that the next hours would be long ones.

    She was right.

    With CO. Maythor at the front beside her, and the Legion archers on the hill, the little force threw together a small barracade of wagons. A few camp defenders joined them , but it was still a tiny force.

    When the rebel soldiers of Peltarch charged the hill, Maythor fought like a mad dwarf, and soldiers were tossed about as the archers peppered them with arrows. The old dwarf's prowess with old enchanted axe forced them back towards the city, and all stood huffing but still alive.

    A message arrived from General Grag, and CO. Maythor looked seriously at his Captain.

    "I must join the General in his skirmish near the city," said Maythor with an unusually grim tone. The old warrior handed the girl some potion bottles. "Hold here and do not die." The two exchanged knowing glances.
    The officer marched off, pausing once to look back, a serious, concerned look on his face.

    With that, suddenly, the defensive force holding the refugee camp was perilously overstretched. Captain Lyte, well aware that she was probably the best remaining shield left to hold the hill, tightened her helm and planted her feet. Behind her two small squads were countless women and children and arguing politicians. The cries of brave wounded men, who fell in the battle within the city, could be heard, as each Legion member silently counted heads.

    The counts took prescious little time, as there were few.

    The rebel force charged again, towards the egress to the hill. Captain Lyte glanced back to Corporal Elrien, who silently mouthed the word "ma'am", his bowstring drawn tightly to his cheek.

    She let fly the blessings she had been hoarding for this moment, and felt her Goddesses power surround her. It would not suffice this time, and she well knew it.

    "Fire!" she yelled, as a squad of soldiers closed on the few defenders standing ready to recieve the shock.

    Arrows flew by near her, impacting loudly on the heavy armor of the plated soldiers. She raised her thin curved blade behind her and dressed her elven shield forward and grit her fine elven teeth to recieve the incoming blow.

    She did not stand there for long, but the enemy soldiers did not advance upon that hill, their blood mingling with hers on the ground.

    The Corporals carried on, piling the fallen dead rebels in a wall of death, to slow the next assault, and then tenderly carrying their Captain back to the temple on the hill themselves, forcing back tears and relying on a discipline that she had taught them; to continue, to fight with steel and arrows, until the last of them had fallen defending it, if it came to that.

    Legion. It was what they were.


  • Morning. It wouldn’t seem so strange normally. She would rise, have her tea, and talk with Mariston before morning vespers. This morning was markedly different. She awoke to the rancid smell of burning bodies, timbers, and just about anything else capable of flame within a city.

    It was still dark out. She sat up in her tent home…it was comfortable for a tent and there was enough room for she and Mariston. Though this morning there was a third little body hugging a raggedy stuffed dog lying between where Anna had been lying and the big lump that is Mariston beneath blankets and cloaks.

    Anna took the canteen from her pack and sipping deeply of the water inside seemed to sigh in the simplicity of the action. She had a thousand things to do. She simply wanted to sit here and watch her two boys sleep. One…an all too cavalier knight…Mariston Thel was a gem of a gentleman. He made her smile inside and out. The very thought of him blushing would send her into fits of giggling. The other boy…an all too sad little tow headed boy…his name…Matee.

    Matee is the son of a dockhand. He snuck out of the city with one of the first groups of refugees after he watched his mother be “touched bad and put big knife in her.” His father apparently tried to help his wife get away from the stalwart pillaging defender and was strung up on a lamppost. Matee ran and followed and group out of the city.

    Anna found the boy walking amongst the tents late the first night of the war. He was dragging a stuffed dog behind him. She approached him slowly.

    “Are you all right little one,” Anna asked?

    The boy pushed by her, half being brave half crying. She followed him from a distance. He finally sat down and started to cry.

    “What wrong sweetheart,” Anna asked sitting down near the boy her armor creaking?

    “I don’t got no where to go,” the boy said simpering.

    “Where are your parents.” Anna asked half expecting the answer?

    The boy proceeded to tell of his parent’s demise and his escape to the refugee camp. Nowhere to go and no one in his family left alive. Anna smiled warmly and wiped a tear away from his eye with a mailed finger.

    “I’m Anna and you can stay with me,” She smiled warmly.

    Anna took the little boy to the tent she was sharing with Mariston. She was very happy…Alice had snuck out of the city and now Matee was safe. Alice slept in the tent beside theirs. Matee was supposed to sleep with Alice, but he always managed to find his way into the tent with Anna and Mariston and slept soundly between them.
    During the long days, Anna would come back and forth to check on him. He would play with the other children and would sit and listen to Alice and try to snatch things from here and they would giggle and roll on the ground.

    She took solace that at least one small boy and one lonely girl…had found their way out of the city…and now she and Mariston…could give them some kind of life even if it was in a camp. The nature of war is unforgiving. Her understanding of her place in war was far beyond that of the common man. She was a Priestess of Red Knight. She should not have led that charge. She will stick to what she’s good at. Make the maps, order the supplies, treat the wounded, make the plans.

    The day will move on…and the Priestess of Red Knight will do what is needed.


  • As the sun goes down, and night comes over the refugee camp, a small hin flits in between the tents. Any valuables left unguarded dissapear into nothing, and people find drinks they did not keep an eye on to taste foul, as if somebody dropped a bit of skunk secretion in them. Eventually, the hin sneaks up on a bard dressed in blue, looking towards the city. Just when a tiny hand touches the bard's purse, and a finger sneaks inside, a branch cracks underfoot, and the bard spins around, grasping the thief, and suspending her in the air.
    "Oopsies…wassie accident, me stumbles into you, me no steal from you, no?", it said, in a childish voice
    "Dirty thief..."
    The hin wriggles, trying in vain to escape.
    "If I catch you again, you'll taste steel.", the bard points to another man, "You, escort this hin out of the camp."
    "Sir, yes, sir!"
    "Or wait a breath..."
    The bard then reached down, and pulled the hin's hood down, revealing the pale face of a small girl, with raven black hair and large, black eyes. Having inspected her face, he pulls the hood back up, and shoves her towards the man.
    While the hin is taken away, her eyes glance all over the place, looking for a possible route of escape...just when they reach the central fire, her guardian is distracted for a breath, and she slips away into the shadows. A few moments later, a scream is heard across the camp, coming from the pass east of the mountain. For some reason, the hin rushes north, towards the downed man, and stops the worst bleeding, saving him from death. Moments later, a crowd gathers around, and even though she just saved a man, she is still kicked out, hissing at them as she scampers past. Moments later, she dissapears into the shadows once more...but that might not be the last that those living in the camp have seen of her.


  • It wasn't much, the pack full of food. But they brought it from the camp, leaving the babe in Baba Katyas care and tried to feed the commoners in the refugee camp.

    The children were the worst, Jerr thought. They looked . . . lost. Oh they knew where they were but they had been tossed out of their homes and some of them were smart enough to realize the smoke, that smoke that stung the eyes and made them cough, was that of ther former lives burning.

    He watched the 'heroes' fight about this and that, often right in front of the children. The worst were the more cynical of the warriors. Dwarves who ridiculed the efforts, Banites who fought with Bards, and some who just would wander around in a dark cloud deriding the entire effort as useless. Jerr watched people struggle to bring Call back from the dead only to have her wander off and thank not a one of them.

    Talgrath had the patience of a saint, trying to organize commoners and people from other towns into some semblence of order. But trying to teach adventurers to work in an army was like trying to herd cats. Adventurers were, for the most part, individualists. Putting them into random assortments only made for more friction.

    The last of the food went on the tables up in the temple, which now served as a field hospital for Daisy. He looked at the wounded and sighed. The sun was almost up again and the heroes were off to 'probe the defences'. He moved back down to talk to Zyph and they had barely started when a scream cut through the air.

    Running, he realized, this is what makes the difference. While the commoners stood and waited for the worst the heroes ran, towards the danger. "fools fools fools" he chanted as he tried to pass Sierra and Zyph. "We are all fools"

    But that didn't slow his pace, or change his direction.

    MND/Vortext
    Nars Skald


  • Somewhere in the city..

    "You need rest" A defender trusted a thin cup of rations toward her and she held the heated metal between frozen fingertips, allowing it to warm her skin. Grey steam wafting up between her blackened nose, and she breathed in the scent. "The screaming has stopped" she noted "mmm.. he finally died" she gave a soft nod at his words, and dug two fingers in to the meat and potato stew, scooping it up as a make-do spoon and sucking it off her nails. "And the children?"

    "Safe.. but frighten" she took in an exhausted breath "Tell them their parents await them at the camp" she replied, leaning back against the cement wall trying to get comfortable while tucking the cloak tighter about her rusty armor. "Heh.. isn't that a lie? I thought Tyr was the deity of.. "

    "..hope" She interrupted, fixing him with a cold blue stair that left no room for religious debate. He nodded twice, and reached over pulling a blanket off a man curled up in a fetal position. "Don't do that.. he.." the defender forcefully wrapping it around her body by pushing both his hands against the wall on both side of her ".. he passed away two hours ago.. warmth if for the living" he said in a matter of fact tone, getting up and leaving her to it.

    She licked the remaining stew off her fingers and curled in to the comfort of the blanket, trembling slightly at the cold.


  • http://www.narfell.com/modules.php?name=Forums&file=viewtopic&p=215259#215259

    ///cross-linked for the same reason as Zyph's


  • War & Trade

    Another volley of burning rocks made its way towards the city walls. Another charge of the enemy at the hill, cut down by the defenders. The ramp was just too small. Their large numbers meant nothing, as they tried to get trough the bottleneck and up the hill, cut down by the few defending soldiers and volunteers as they did.

    Devath stood with the frontline, swinging his sword and blocking with his shield as he had learned. Not from training with the tribe's warriors, but trough trial. Why was he here? He was a Shaman of Trade, not a warrior. He was supposed to represent the Heyokarr in this camp. He was supposed to ensure goods arrived properly from the south. But now he was fighting at the front, rushing back now and then to heal the wounded defenders. Heal them, so they could go back and get themselves killed. Such a waste.
    But he had every reason of fighting. Those bastards had killed their Skald, his brother, on sight. Those bastards had started a war which crippled trade in the North. And this angers Her.
    He had vowed to become her Golden Blade, and he would hold up to it.

    The twenty-something year old Narsman shoved his sword into a small slit, a small weakness in the mercenaries armor. Piercing it's heart, the mercenary fell and died instantly, hitting the grass with a soft thud. Devath looked around, as the remaining attackers were defeated. Another wave driven off.

    A few hours later, Dev arrived back at the refugee camp with pack mules, loaded with much-need food, blankets and weapons. He spoke to a few people, most of them children, about his people, and why they fought for them. Why a tribe of savages cares. Why a tribe of horsemen fights for a walled city.

  • DM

    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._