3. The Eastlander War

The Eastlander War

  • N

    The Death of Scutum

    Shorty Darkfellow was an immoral halfling who would just as soon steal from his own grandmother if she left the cellar unlocked as he would sell her for a slice of Fenberry pie. It was no surprise, as such, that he found himself not on the front lines of the War for the Nars, but rather in the infirmary. Unlike the many priests and priestesses tending the wounded, or the countless wounded themselves, Shorty Darkfellow was not there to help. He was there to lift whatever he could put his sticky fingers upon. Most of these people would likely die, he thought. What would they need with a coin or two in the afterlife?

    Sticking close to the shadows and limping to not draw the attention from those nursing the wounded, he poked around in satchels, crates, barrels, anything that promised a shiny or two. It was then that he came across a cot bearing a sorely wounded elf apparently unconscious from his injuries.

    He looked to the elf on the cot and to the bag next to him, and then back to the elf. Satisfied that the elf was incapacitated, he crept over silently and looked at the bag. It was well worn, torn in some places, and, most importantly to Shorty, bulging greatly. Along the outside of the bag, written in flowing script were the elvish letters - which he could read fluently - “Alvar Blackwood.”

    Unbuckling the flap he reached inside. Some rations, standard supplies, and… Aha! Some parchments! These will sell well to the mages in Peltarch, Shorty thought. No doubt they were scrolls of some sort. He glanced quickly at the one in his hand. Across the seal was a single word: Scutum. Odd name for a spell, he thought, but he didn’t have time to finish the thought.

    Someone had grabbed his arm in the darkness. His grip was tight, yet shaking slightly. He looked up to see the elf had awakened and, although obviously in unbearable pain, was trying to pull him towards the cot.

    “Why you little!…”

    Shorty Darkfellow was not one to stick around to hear the remaining parts of a sentence that began with why you little. With some effort he was able to wrench his arm free, scroll still in hand, and run as fast as his little feet would take him, out of the infirmary and into the darkness, he didn’t stop until he had reached a dark back alley in the city of Peltarch.

    “I’m not buying that trash!” The mage said looking at Shorty Darkfellow in disgust.

    “Why not?” replied the halfling.

    “Because it’s garbage. Sentimental driveling, that’s all. It’s not magical at all. It’s just the meanderings of an elf. I wouldn’t wipe my ass with it.”

    The mage threw the papers across the desk towards the obviously disappointed Shorty. The halfling picked it up, looked at it, and sighed.

    “Isn’t it worth anything?” he asked.

    “Maybe to a desperate bard! Get out of my workshop and don’t bother me again!”

    After spending the better part of a day looking for a desperate looking bard, Shorty Darkfellow felt defeated. He found a bench in the Peltarch commons and produced his pipe from his own bag and lit the remains of the pungent plant inside.

    “Can’t be that bad,” he muttered to himself as he rolled out the pages and began to read aloud.

    “The Death of Scutum…”

    _Fenmarel Mestarine teaches us to be the lone reed standing in a field, bent to the wind. Self-reliance. A lone wolf without a pack must fend for itself. He must become more than a wolf. He must be a pack unto himself.

    In the old world, those of my race would often journey into the forests to practice this self-reliance. We would learn to live, to survive, relying only upon what we ourselves could muster. I, myself, was trained in this way. I learned from the wolf bite how to kill the wolf, and live off its sustenance. Through exposure to nature, the wind and the rain, I learned to shield myself from the elements, to drink the rain. To survive.

    Many years would go by when you wouldn’t see those of my kind. We came together only when there was a common need. Decades of my life that turn into centuries, I never saw another.

    What a strange thing it was, then, to find that I needed others.

    In this world we come together for common needs. To Fenmarel I remain true. I rely upon my own skill to survive. I ask for nothing. I am self-reliant. But in this world, dark forces plot to end everyone in disastrous ways that are complete in their extent. Wisdom dictates that in order for the one to survive, he must be many.

    Sy’wyn was heading to the front lines to determine the status there. We had done well, it was said. We had defeated the enemy on the battlefield and pushed them back to their stronghold. They hid out in caves and like the cat hunting the mouse, we found them, and pushed them back more. They were well supplied and holed up in their village. What remained was to hold the line until engineers from Peltarch could establish our battery on the fields outside their walls.

    It was no easy task by any means. The archers were well placed. The catapults well supplied. Foot soldiers fought us on the field while the Peltarch Defenders tried to entrench themselves to provide our own attacks.

    Sy’wyn, Grag, myself and poor Scutum were to hold the lines. Nothing less. Nothing more. Simply hold the lines.

    Through the smoke we saw them come. We had already dispatched several archers from their walls. Now the foot soldiers were advancing. Armed men, well trained. The battle was bloody as both sides clashed sword and shield, axe and knife, might versus might. In the end we prevailed. All of us badly wounded and bleeding, we held the line.

    And then…

    In sadness I write this. The lone wolf. The self-reliant. In sadness I write the tale of the fallen.

    Seeing our overwhelming superiority in the martial arts, the enemy had no choice but to respond. They were, after all, facing not only the Peltarch Defenders, but also seasoned warriors in the form of General Grag, the High Priest Sy’wyn Blackwood, the Deft and Tenacious Scutum, and myself, trained since childhood, centuries ago, as a soldier.

    We should have expected the retaliation, although I must admit, I was unprepared for the powerful mage they sent to fend us off.

    This was a mage like no other I have ever seen. His skill at weaving was great. It seemed as if he moved across the battlefield like a demon oblivious to the fighting around him, with the singular purpose: death to all of us.

    I drew my sword. I stood across from him as Grag was elsewhere dealing with foes of his own. Sy’wyn too was elsewhere. Scutum always moved too fast for me to see. I was the lone wolf, across from a God in the magical arts. I was the lone wolf, I plunged the sword forward as I had been trained to do, only to find my own flesh tear. I plunged again, another tear. Through the blood I plunged again, only to fall, seeing an uninjured God before me.

    What happened next I was only able to piece together later. I had fallen on the field of battle, confused with the darkness swirling around me. All I remember on my own is that as I was falling, Scutum was engaging the mage.

    When I came to, it was close to the entrance of the cave. Sy’wyn was there, as well as Grag, their backs turned to me, hunched over something that I couldn’t see. They were there though, as was I. Scutum was not.

    I had survived, through some miracle. I had proved myself to Fenmarel in my survival. I moved forward and realized to my horror that it was not a time for celebration. Badly disformed, at the foot of Sy’wyn and Grag, was the lifeless body of Scutum.

    We took him into the cave. His body was like that of a swamp. Upon a closer look I saw acid had eaten through his skin. There was barely anything recognizable. I turned to Sy’wyn without a word, but an imploring look upon my face.

    “His soul will not answer the call,” Sy’wyn said. “There is nothing I can do.”

    Scutum, the brave halfling, was no more. He had died saving me, the lone wolf, the self-reliant.

    I write these words now in a mix of emotion, filled with philosophical questions that will probably haunt me throughout my long life. Fenmarel Mestarine teaches us to be the lone reed standing in a field, bent to the wind. To Fenmarel I remain true. And yet. What is a reed without a field? What is a wolf without a pack? What solace can be found in a victory of the many when the lone reed is crushed beneath a boot of the defeated?

    Out of the one, many. Out of the many, one.

    May you find peace my friend Scutum, the lone reed.

    ~ Alvar Blackwood_

    Shorty Darkfellow choked back tears as he headed towards the infirmary. He knew not what he would do once he got there. He just knew that there was many there that needed help. He knew that he could help. He knew that eventhough he was just one, small halfling, he could do something to help the others. But he also knew that without the others he was nothing on his own. He knew he had a paper to return.

  • S
    Legion

    SQUADRON TWO VIEW OF A GENERAL CONTINUED))

    As they set up the siege units to hopefully finish off rass from far away squadron two fired away at the mighty beast as they fired and a barrage of molten fire and rocks and kegs flied through the air to the location Rass was waiting for "tasty flesssshhh" as it descended rass was heard with a mighty bitch of a roar seen flying off covered in molten fire and pierced. At this very moment they knew that time was of the utmost importance now… as the group of soldiers entered the dark shaded entryway covered in defenders blood and body parts in the horizon they copuld be seen 3 of the leaders of the eastlanders Atol his powerfull mage and the monk. Atol warned them to leave now or al would end up like the fools before them. As the bard sung and casted mighty spells on the General he knew this time.. woud be different...this time he had his family with him. as the mage began casting atol chargee dthe bards but was quickly met by Grags axe both of them doing a dance of blade and axe never seen before hasted with blows and swings mooving faster then the normal eye could see. AS the mage continued to cast on the group they tried to heal the General when they could along with occupying the caster. The monk was seen runnign for the hills shortly after the battle insued. Suddenly Grag landed a mighty blow to Atol and it seemed atol was dead, but then he swallowed a potion and was restored suddenly to full health! With the general badly wounded things did not look well and then as he started attacking the General the mighty mage casted a meteor storm that felled the General to his last breath and with that last breath he ran and drank his own potion of full health! Now both the warriors back to full health and the mage running around from the others the General stood alone against Atol. With a mighty swing the General sliced the legg off of him and preceeded with 2 more final blows one breaking the armour right off of him and the last slicing his head right off. Finally... finally the general had defeated his long known nemisis. Witht he mage still alive and almost out of spells he ran about casting Magic missiles trying to escape but that would not be the case as the troops kept injuring him SIl and Meril grabbed their little daggers and stuck his feet to the ground! with that done the general picked up his massive axe and hurled it from atols body right at him knocking him to the floor for Lyte, Uchi theo and Nicahh to finish him off.... As the General stood over Atrols decapitated body a almost grin of sorts could be seen as he knew it was the end of a era and the beginning of a new age... amungst the land. He was seen carrying Atols head cradled like a baby in one hand speechless as he walked around and took a seat finally relaxing for a moment drinking a fine legion Ale....

  • S
    Legion

    As the lands of Narfell shook, the smoke continued to rise in the pass and the siege battle was coming to an end. He knew this was it the time had come to end the opression of the eastlanders on this land. Captain Johant: "General SQUAD LEADER TWO ARE YOU READY!!" The General looked to his squadron of well prepared troops and nodded checking his vast supplies of potions. He knew that this time would be different taps 2 large viles of heal potion if anything he would be prepared to die 3 times before letting atol defeat him. Captain Johan: Squad TWO ENGAGE! GOGO! with a twirl of the axe he entered the main battle area again "TO ME RALLY OT ME!" They ran into postion waiting for the super seige weapon to lay the final blow on the eastlanders Gates. KABOOOM! the grounds trembled bodies from both sides went flying an eyeball smacking Sargeant Sil in the chest. *Captain Johan: Squad one GO….TWO GO! MAKE HASTE GOGO!"
    General Grag followed closely by his squadron charged the front gates while the other squadrons fired upon the archer towers. Squad two worked like a perfectly trained group taking out one tower at a time then mooving into their position. The eastlanders charged hard killing many in the other squadrons grag continued to shout to his group.." TO ME RALLY TO ME TOGETHER! TYRS WRATH! " As the general and his squadron took down eastlander after eastlander they became overwhelmed. General was seen running after 3 elites and 2 clerics. The elites fell to his axe as did one fanatic then as he ran to his bards aid the fanatic froze him in his path. Stunned and paralyzed the General was surely done the end was surely near as spells rained on him and the eastlanders charged him!
    "the general!! TO HIM GO GO!" His squadron shouted. just as the champion tried to slay the general frozen and unprotected Uchi's mighty blade was seen meeting his. The bards seen singing and casting heals upon the general to keep him alive. Suddenly, squadron two had surrounded thier General laying waist to all that came near as the spell wore another eastlander bard tried to stick him and he flew his axe high above his head and struck a blow so mighty she was sliced in Two.
    WOOHAAA!" The General shouted, "Foward!!" as his group emerged foward through the center of the opposition his squadron worked their way to the back of the village finding the abndoned siege 4 of the machines still operational he ordered his group to set it up and start aiming towards the reamining buildings in the eastlanders village. "AIm it and fire at the buildigns i shall hold them off! " KABOOM.. and another KABOOM!" The first building seen crumbling to the ground under fire screams and yells of death and pain heard throughout the battlegrounds. After another buuilding was layed to waist captain Johan was seen running to the General. "General we have found the leaders location! FOLLOW ME SQUADRON TWO!!" After finding the heavily trapped and barricaded area General saw nicahh with another squadron and grabbed her for the traps at hand. "Nicahh go scout and git rid of those traps please!" As she worked fast she spotted rass defending the path ahead and reported this to squadron two. "SHITE, we cant go that way RASS!" Fark!" As the general heard his troops start to get demoralized he knew time was of importance. Nicahh you got the queardanats.. Troops follow me back to the siege!!" As they fought their way back to the siege they ran into another squadron defending this position. YES!!" the general shouted.. "still enough for one more shot!" ......     ((TO BE CONTINUED))


  • Mariston looked as the great leathery wings beat almost majestically against the flame licked sky.
    “By Torm, damnable thing is back again” he words spoken quietly.

    He shook of the pain and readjusted the plates of his armour; its lacquer blackened and bubbled in places. Flipping his visor closed he continued to watch as Rass began to descend.

    With an earth shaking Thud it landed its great maw open as it spewed flame over the defenders. Mariston felt his skin tighten in the heat of those fires. Gripping his blade he advanced. Rass was harrying a group, her flank exposed. With a cry to Torm he charged blade locked in place point ready to strike and pierce the thick scaly hide. His bade struck true, Rass reared and roared in pain, the smell of iron and sulphur filled his nostrils as her blood flowed. The great beast turned and great yellow eyes regarded the knight.
    “Damn thing” muttered Mariston

    A massive clawed arm sent him arcing through the air, he noted almost dreamlike the calmness of the days sky. His accent quickly turned to descent, his body thrown like a rag doll and with a sickening crunch he hit the compacted earth. Dazed he lay staring at the clear blue sky, wafts of black clouds seems to mar its image.
    “Twill be rain for sure” he heard himself say.
    Blinking he noted that the head the size of a wagon, with cold yellow malevolent eyes regarded him. Casually Rass opened her jaws, realising what was to occur Mariston raised his shield to cover his eyes and knelt. The blast of flames hit him, stripping away his protections in a fraction of a second. The ground around him bubbled and boiled and the sand became as glass. Holding firm, Mariston began to stand the flames engulfing his form. His hand gripped around his swords hilt, then another might swipe flung him to the side. Gasping he lay on the ground, rolling onto his front he pulled himself along using the pommel of his sword to dig into the earth.

    He was gravely injured, but somehow pulled himself to his feet. He faced his foe, raised his sword so the quillions rested beneath his eyes in a final salute. He readied himself for the last exchange. Suddenly Rass roared and turn leaving him standing somewhat bewildered. Volley after volley of arrows struck the beast, with sudden realisation he noted his companions. They stood outlined by the flames of the battlefield “Thank the triad” he said as he look to the heavens. He watched as Rass took to the sky once again. Breathing deeply to steady himself he walked to the group, someone he knew not directed him to the shelter of the cave.


  • Aftermath

    ((Identical story can be found in Anakore's thread in Tales By The Fire. Repost here for warstory continuity.))

    The walls of Peltarch loomed in the distance, the snowy cliffs of the Nars Pass widening, making way for the city's valley on the edge of the Icelace Lake. Despite his many journeys from north to south in his lifetime, Anakore never quite got used to the breathtaking sight that are the city's battlements and towers, and the distinct blue spire that is the Cerulean Tower, with the icy lake glinstering beyond the harbor. However, this day his mind was not set on the sight rather than the feeling of homecoming. An odd sensation quite belying his barbarian blood, but reinforced by the fiery-haired young boy awaiting him eagerly on the battlements.

    As he strode in the shadow of the walls his son laughed down at him, even as he grunted his efforts, his body weary from the long hours of battle. "Father! Wait! I'll come down!" He had supposed underneath the caked dirt, blood and grime his wargear would be barely recogniseable but young Nickolai did not seem to have trouble pinpointing his father. Anakore grinned behind his visor, slightly painfully for the scorchmarks on his face despite the helm. The Eastlanders liked playing with fire.

    The city was a hustle-bustle, commoners, women and children in the streets awaiting the returning warriors. The War was far from over but as battle continued every victory warranted a hero's welcome. More so from Nickolai, who, to Anakore's surprise, had lost nothing of his admiration for his father, even after the long years spent in Cormyr with Skyla curing the Crystal Crisis. He barely managed to wrench off his helmet when the red-haired boy came running up to him, hugging him as if he had just returned from a decade of War. "I'm back, Nick," he heard himself say, his voice gravely from weariness and probably matching his battle-weary appearance. "And I'm alive."

    "And the Marauders?" the boy questioned, high-pitched and eager, the deep tones of manhood not quite having invaded his voice.

    "They put up a good fight." Another grin crossed Anakore's lips as his son looked up at him appraisingly. "But this is a war of vengeance, and they will lose."

    Nickolai laughed at these morbid words, as if war was nothing worse than the games the boy played with the tin figures Anakore made for him. Nick had already seen too much for so young a boy, and Anakore sincerely hoped that some of his father's mirth at life would never fade from him. "How many did you kill? Do you carry any trophies? Did you get hurt?" Nick tugged on his arm frenetically even as the both of them walked to the Tower, a barrage of questions doing nothing to ease Anakore's weary mind, but he could think of few things he would enjoy more now than this moment with his son.

    As they strode through the streets with the victorious warriors, under the cheers of the crowd as women embraced their Defender men and a general air of festivity spread through the city, Anakore told his son of the battle. Nick's eyes glittered as he spoke of his arrival on the battle under the guise of invisibility, the fleeing Defenders and the struggle to keep a foothold near the Eastlander defences, Meril's magic holding the Marauder duelist, the Eastlander's magic scorching the snowy landscape as the sounds of war, pain and death rang through the Nars' cliffs.

    The boy almost giggled in excitement as Anakore spoke of the Eastlander Chanters, their magical songs stripping him of his protections, and the cat-and-mouse duel with the Cleric, his description of the surge of Negative Energy coursing through him as the priest called upon his dark gods eliciting a gasp from his son.

    When they finally reached the tower, the boy's questions never ceased as he aided Anakore in taking off and cleaning his armor and weaponry. To his fatherly pride, he noticed that the boy took meticulous care of Flowing Orchid, his katana. He clearly knew the boy would never be a warrior as his father, or even his mother, were, but he had insisted that Nickolai be trained in the ways of the Eastern Blade. Nick delighted in the weapon's smooth style as taught by his father, and likewise finding such an eager student in his son made pride blossom in Anakore's often-cynical heart.

    When dusk set and the time was come to say goodbye to his son, for now, Nick sat, quietly, for a moment, as if his vigor at questioning his old father was finally spent. Suddenly the boy looked up at his father, his face serious after his afternoon of delight. "Will I ever be like you, father?" The innocence of his eyes belied the seriousness of the question.

    Anakore looked down at his son and smiled slightly. "Through blood and love you'll be like your mother and me, Nickolai. But what man you really will be is a choice you alone can make. Fame and glory mean nothing when you are not proud of yourself. Find who you want to be, and -become- that man, that Nickolai. Then, one day, you might find that your son or daughter looks up to you and asks you the same question."

    Anakore chuckled slightly as the boy struggled to grasp what his father just said. He did not worry much as the words would stick in the boy's head. They always did. By grace of his blood alone was the boy destined to be what he wanted to be. Anakore was already proud. "Good night, son. Tell your mother I made it back safe."

    The simple reassuring words put the boy's mind back on track, and he smiled and tugged at his father's arm. "Good night, father. Show Nicahh and my sis that you're safe as well." At that, the boy released his arm and left Anakore grinning in the Tower's hall.

    "I will, boy, I will." Anakore laid back and closed his eyes for a small nap before he would return to his family.

  • DM

    A very close shave indeed…

    Across the land folk from many towns as well as the city of Peltarch were seen heading to the continuously moving battlefront in the eastlander war. Even the magistrate from Peltarch, Barrim Asbravn was seen to head to the front on a couple of occassions to lend his assistance. One one occasion having to cut down a group of skilled archers who were left behind in the eastlander caves unsucessfully trying to ambush him. On another visit to the front lines amid barrages of catapult fire the legendary Red Dragon Rass landed amid forces in the trenches. Many stories abound of actions against the dragon, largely ineffective by many of the forces present.

    One notable incident occurred though to the magistrate that he will no doubt be talking about for some time. In an instant the wheeling dragon landed square upon him and while trying to flatten him with a claw as large as his entire body the fearsome beast almost tore his arm out with one blow but with the second it missed him by such a wild margin as to be nigh impossible. Barrim was rather reflective of the incident afterward trying to decide if it was the will of the gods, blind luck or whether the dragon wouldn't dare dent the unique livery of his office.

    "I'll be sure to give proper thanks for whoever is responsible for that escape", the magistrate added - leaning hard down and strapping his twisted shoulder up in a dank cave beside the dead and dying outlanders and Defenders.

    As he turned, the blackened armoured figure of Mariston also stumbled through the cave entrance fire licking behind him as the dragon headed off into the night. For a moment Barrim wondered what sort of black armoured warrior had come from the ranks to assault them before he noticed the dented Divine Shield armour beneath the burn marks.
    Turning back to Captain Johan to speak of the power of the dragon, he heard another large report behind him seeing Uchi of the Legion blown through the doorway and coming within an inch of expiring from his wounds - only the fast reflexes of the mage Tolin held him together long enough for the clerics to bring himback to health.

    Noticing finally the body Mariston carried, of the Knight Kara - he shook his head and wondered what folly or sacrifice had brought about her death and with it consideration whether the attacks on Rass had any purpose or whether the military had properly considered the threat from Rass before undertaking their campaign.

    "Now where is that young lad i was talking to, the one who was so excited about the war. Luke i think he was called - a drummerboy in the defenders?" "Dead" was the reply from a depressed looking adventurer.

    The magistrate called to mind the battle verses of the Asbravn Redcloaks again, the four final verses of which he was teaching to the boy before he foolishly charged the dragon to his doom.

    _"In dreary, doubtful, waiting hours,
    Before the brazen frenzy starts,
    The horses show him nobler powers;
    O patient eyes, courageous hearts!"

    "And when the burning moment breaks,
    And all things else are out of mind,
    And only Joy-Of-Battle takes
    Him by the throat, and makes him blind,"

    "Through joy and blindness he shall know,
    Not caring much to know, that still
    Nor bolt nor steel shall reach him, so
    That it be not the Destined Will."

    "The thundering line of battle stands,
    And in the air Death moans and sings:
    But Day shall clasp him with strong hands,
    And Night shall fold him in soft wings."_

  • D

    _The gates slammed shut, leaving the elf alone on one side of the walls.

    On the other side, Meril could hear the rest of the party's screams and shouts, and the sounds of battle. The huge machine's footsteps - metal stomping against rock - and Kara shouting. Demanding herbs. He shuddered, remembering their poisonous breath. It was said without the root of some plant to chew, or magical aid, death followed within minutes if you should breathe it in.

    They had fought their way through the caves, faced some of the Eastlanders finest warriors. He had used hundreds of arrows, and his throat was parched from singing. He had only had enough time to cast a spell of haste upon Kara when they had encountered the iron construct beyond the set of huge gates, and it had thankfully ignored him to attack someone more capable in combat. Somehow, in all the confusion, everyone but him had ended up on the other side of the gates. At least it couldn't reach him here.

    Footsteps made him turn. It was a man. He wore robes, runed and flowing. A staff in a hand. Eastlander colours.

    Meril cursed beneath his breath. The mage would have free reign while everyone fought the machine. It would be a slaughter…

    He loosed an arrow. The mage looked startled as he dodged to one side, but the arrowhead still scraped his hand. He had no protections up, yet, Meril realised. That changed quickly, as his next arrows missed and the mage chanted. There was a crackle in the air as he brought defences up.

    Another arrow found the mage's side, but he held his concentration and completed the spell. For a moment, it seemed to have no effect - and then the bard’s movements slowed. It seemed to take an eternity to set each arrow to his string, to draw it back, to loose it...

    It caught the mage in the foot, mid incantation. It did not help matters, and Meril tried to dodge the fiery arrow that appeared from the mage's outstretched palm, rolling to one side and landing heavily. It caught him and he felt his elemental protections stripped away as the heat enveloped him. He loosed another arrow, movements still magically slowed. The next spell he cast he would have no protections against.

    It caught him in the chest, and the mage's concentration broke. The elf murmured a prayer of thanks as he loosed another arrow. Dimly he was aware of the gates beside him opening.

    The next spell, two arrows of flame appeared from his hands. One struck Meril square in the chest, knocking him to the ground, armour singed and badly injured. He could feel the heat scorching his flesh...

    He scrambled to his feet and loosed another arrow, weakly. It trailed sparks through the air. He couldn't take another spell. It would be all over. It missed, and the mage was chanting. He could see the spell taking form. Any moment now.

    Confusion, then frustrated on the mage's face as the spell faltered. Meril followed the angry gaze to the figure beside him - a small but determined, if slightly singed, green haired elf. Her delicate features were shaped into a look of concentration as she held her hands aloft, ready to counter whatever magic the mage produced. Eowiel had appeared just in time.

    Meril smiled grimly, putting another arrow to his bowstring. The mage was casting again, but Eowiel's counterspelling was too good. Another two arrows from Meril's bow thudded into his chest, these ones shining as icy crystals dropped from their heads as they flew. The mage screamed, which became a gurgling cough as blood filled his lungs, and the magic user collapsed, finally dead.

    "Hey, go team bard!" he heard Eowiel cheerfully remark.

    He looked over at her. They had been friends, then lovers, then...hard to say. But he could never remember being more glad to see her.

    He smiled to her. She smiled back. Glass tinkled on the floor as they dropped empty vials of healing potions to the ground. The screaming was still taking place beyond the gates._

    ((Curious to know if a DM was running this! It was incredibly dramatic, especially when Meril was on his last legs and Eowiel showed up just in time to counterspell! Great stories everyone!))


  • **Philomena’s Journal

    It was a day like many others, I was taking the air in Jiyyd, looking to pick up any useful information concerning threats to Jiyyd and the good-hearted creatures of Narfell. My friend and fellow Wolf Cike was also visiting Jiyyd, with the peculiar priestess of Bast called Lilin and the man Cike called his "brother," Drelan. I watched Drelan as he grew more and more drunk. A shiftless fellow, his slovenly demeanour and the latent aggression in his eyes indicated to me that he is one to watch, not to trust. He was babbling about an unquiet spirit haunting the region, but his ravings were probably the result of his inebriation. Or not. In Narfell, one can never be sure.

    Theaon Thorn, goodly priest of Yondalla and stalwart of the Silver Valley, arrived then with the news. Talk of war was in the air. The Nars bridge had been locked and barricaded, held by a large regiment of Eastlander troops, accompanied by enormous tame battle cats. It looked like finally all-out war had come to Narfell. With the news it became apparent that any travelling the pass were in great danger, and, after a swift consultation, Cike and myself decided to scout the pass – to see if we could locate any friends or comrades who might need assistance.

    Travelling swiftly yet largely unseen, we came to the crossroads, reminding each other to be alert for the presence of the tamed eastlander hawks, whose keen eyes would almost certainly spot us in seconds. And so it was! In a flurry of wings, beaks and claws, a group of the savage predators descended from the darkening skies. Fending them off, it was no surprise to us when we came under attack from an Eastlander mage, hurling corruscating bolts of magical energy from his vantage point high on the cliff-top. We returned fire, but our mundane arrows could not pierce the mage’s magical protections. Cursing under my breath, I decisively reached for the second quiver of rare lightning arrows held at my belt. Within seconds the mage was dead.

    At the sound of crunching footsteps in the snow behind them, we turned to be relieved by the sight of the fair Lyte, at the head of a band of brave Legion heroes. Gathering together we navigated the treacherous traps laid out by the Eastlanders, and skirmished dangerously several times with experienced bandit mages. During one of these skirmishes, I was separated from my fellows, and returned to Jiyyd to find the Legionnaires preparing supplies with which to relieve the Peltarch defenders, who were at open pitched war with the Eastlander troops at the Nars Bridge.

    Heading north we encountered little resistance, the Eastlander forces having clearly withdrawn to their stronghold. Soon, the Legionnaires had completed their mission, the Peltarch forces glad to finally receive the much-needed supplies.

    At the Peltarch camp, Cike and myself were greeted by the welcome sight of our fellow Wolves, Ohtara, Arandor and Nawen. We gathered together in the Peltarch camp, glad of the fellowship and the respite from the battles. It was then that things began to take a turn for the worse. Aghila Thanys, of the Peltarch Far Scouts approached us and beseeched the aid of our bows in assaulting the ballista of the Eastlanders, which were keeping the Peltarch forces so effectively at bay. We looked at our feet then, unsure as to the risks, and indeed as to whether this battle was indeed our own. Nawen was quick to offer our help, but I turned to Ohtara and spoke up, asking him what he, as special counselor to the Wolves and our senior, would have us do. He simply nodded. We set off then, half-blinded by the smoke and explosions, making our way to the ridge that Aghila had spoken of. Alas! The ridge was guarded by what seemed like at least a dozen crack bandit archers, their flaming shafts a deadly peril! We exchanged several rounds of fire before it became clear we were overmatched. I myself took an arrow, my burnt and scalded flesh stinging with every movement.

    Carefully we retreated, making our way back to the Peltarch camp, surrounded once more by smoke and confusion, bodies milling everywhere, the sounds of the groans of the injured mingling with the warcries of the brave and the explosions of the ballista fire. It was then that the bodies of Cike and Ohtara were returned to us. A few had stayed on the ridge, and had been blasted limb from limb when the siege engines turned their fire upon the hapless archers. Both on the edge of death, the most powerful magics were used to bring them back, depleted but alive.

    The tears streaked my face, tears of pain for my own wounds and tears of grief and compassion for my fallen comrades. I tried to help with the injured but I was in a daze and thought it best to return to the Den, my limbs weary with the effort and emotion of the last day – still unsure if this war was truly my own.**

  • G

    This story belongs just about 1 day before the defenders and Legion got the cave and the bridge area.

    Gonnar wanders happily through the nars, nothing like a good evening trip to Peltarch through a calm and pacefull Narspass..so he is whistleling happily

    Gonnar: Oh…what's that? a nice trap set on the ground recovers it and puts it in his bag, then keeps with his whistle

    Gonnar spots at the moment a maraduer infantry and decides to kill him before he scapes

    Gonnar: BOO! cuts his neck
    Bandit: Argh… dies

    Suddenly, apparently from nowhere, some marauders trained hounds (4)and some of their faithfulls(3) and sneakers(4) appear andcharge against the poor happy hin

    Gonnar: Fine, there's a hunting contest and Im the thing to hunt it seems…
    Bandits: KILL HIM! It's DEFENDER!
    Marauder Hounds: ARf!ARf! GRRR

    speaks softly to the first Hound that aproaches and tames it turning it to the other hounds

    Gonnar: TAKE that! while cuting hounds throats
    Marauders Hounds: awww….

    After a long fight Gonnar is able to defeat all the hounds and marauders and sits on the ground to take a sit, he's quite wounded and tired

    Gonnar: stupids marauders…why did you have to attack me, there are more travelers eh? not only me spits blood close to him

    The sun reaches mid-day (12.00a.m) and Gonnar spots a shadow behind him. Quickly rolls to a side trying to evade the blow of a yet unkonwn opponent. When he looks up he sees his aggressor, smiles brightly and chuckles

    Gonnar: Finally, something challenging
    Marauder Officer: You are Gonnar Domne , uhu? The new Far Scout Sergeant
    Gonnar: that would be me bows and you'd be?
    Marauder Officer: your bigger nightmare charges
    Gonnar: WUAAA!!!! runs like hells while beeing shoot by a hidden flameshot I should have stayed home with my puppy grins and turns a corner to canceal the Flameshot view

    Gonnar: now, here, you and me marauder to the Officer
    Bandit Marauder: that's the last thing you'll say hinny

    Gonnar gets really angry since he hates beeing called hinny, and takes out a charm person scroll using it on the marauder

    Gonnar: lick my feets! Marauder licks his feets
    Gonnar: now give me all your weapons and armor so you are as dangerous as a badger Marauder gives him all his equpment and smiles
    Gonnar: now you can die bright smile and charges against him. A good battle, a nacked Officer without weapons against Gonnar. Gonnar beats him quickly and happily continues his trip to Peltach, while he whistles, of course

    (( note: the bandits dialogs could be invented 😛 ))


  • Deacon?! Are you here?

    It sounded across the bandit mine hallways. A female voice, accompanied by a icey cold and large, stomping footsteps.

    _Deacon, dear? Are you fighting here?

    Ah! Shit! 'tis her! .._

    As Deacon said this, a large female frost giant stepped through the hallway, towards the small group still fighting rass and the bandits.

    A soft giggle as the frost giant spotted Deacon.

    _They told me you were down here! Watcha doing here?

    ::Deacon sighed:: I am dying to a oversized dragon, who won't let us leave. What are -you- doing down here?

    ::She giggled again:: Just wanted to see what was going on down here._

    The whole group is dissaray, shouting about giants invading, making themself scarce, Deacon merely stepped up.

    _Thanks for yer concern lass, but I reckon ye ain' at yer place here..

    ::A small cough could be heard, as Gonnar stepped forward::

    Isn't she a -frost- giant, and aren't we fighting a -fire- dragon? Hm? ..

    ::Barrim nodded and stepped in:: She might be of help.

    Wait! ::Deacon said:: .. She won' take her down alone, that be impossible, .. Barrim, cin we talk?_

    After a short discussion, the both of them return.

    _Right, Cereny, hun, love.. is your father still mad at me? ::Deacon asked the Frost Giant Princess::

    'Cause we could use some help here.. ehehe.. ::Nervous grin::

    Oh! I don't know.. I don't think so.. ::She said::

    Can you take me, to your fortress? I need to speak with him then._

    She giggled, nodding, not leaving without remarking that now perhaps she could show Deacon her own room. A soft groan coming from Deacon as he heard this. "What I don' do fer this city."

    As they arrived in the fortress, and the king took notice of Deacon, veins in his head seemingly just popping spontanously.

    _You again! .. You show a lot of nerve, human.. I commanded you to never return! ::He roared, the fortress shaking::

    ::Deacon nervously shuffled his feat:: I know! But.. but your daughter took me here, and I need your almighty help. We all do, the towns!

    ::The giant king merely laughed:: Why should I help you? You have done nothing to me but cause trouble..

    ::Deacon nodded:: But.. I am not alone this time, this goes beyond just you and me, all the towns are involved. Surely they can offer you something for your help?

    ::The king considered these words, nodding:: Perhaps.. what do you offer?

    ::Deacon resumed:: I myself am not authorised to speak on behalf of the towns.. but if you allow, I can return with those who are?

    ::The king sighed, growing impatient already:: You better hurry, human, while you still have my curiousity._

    Back in the mines, Deacon took Uchi, a Major in the Legion and Captain Johan of the Defender force with him, to join him back to the castle. As they arrived there, they saw a bandit standing there. Apparantly someone had told them of this deal, or they had found out through a spy..

    _SPEAK! Before I lose my patience! ::The king roared::

    Uhm.. this is Uchi, King. ::Deacon bowed deeply, followed by Uchi and Johan:: A major, in the legion. And that is Captain Johan, of the Peltarch Defenders. They are here to hear your terms.

    ::The King laughed:: No.. no, you will offer me what you can miss, and I will see if I accept. Consider it a bidding, the bandits, or you, recieve my aid.

    ::Deacon glanced to Uchi, they had not prepared for this:: Well.. uhm.. Uchi?

    ::Uchi nodded:: We will help you in any future disagreements, aswell as ally with your clan..

    ::The King interrupted him, laughing:: And what use is this to me? Elf? ..

    ::Deacon took over quikly:: Aswel as free trade with the town of Jiyyd.. and Peltarch, to bring wealth and power to all our people. No doubt Peltarch will be reasonable after we recieved aid, and return some of your land? .. We have little to offer, but atleast we can offer what we promise. The bandits do not.

    ::The bandit threw him a grin, but this quikly faded as Deacon shown his shield to the bandit, the shield being that of a Champion fighter. He growled, throwing a murderous glance this time.

    The king roared again: No fighting in these halls! .. Deacon merely grinned at this::

    I shall consider both your offers.. begone now, leave me to think! ..::The king said::_

    Uchi and Deacon made their way back, not knowing Johan hadn't joined them yet. As they arrived in the caves, it was under fierce attack of Rass, and Johan was forgotten, untill Uchi remarked he may have been the spy who told the bandits of their plans to ally with the giants.

    Soon Johan returned with a small army of Peltarch defenders, throwing aside most doubts about his person.. although Deacon still wasnt feeling easy about him.

    A few hours later Deacon and crew were seen being escorted out of the caves by a peltarch soldier. Supposedly they had been ordered of the front lines by some officer, despite everything they had done to help.

    Bollocks..

    Was all that Deacon had to say, as he got escorted out.


  • "Hurry home."

    "I will. Keep our girl safe, aye?"

    "I will."

    Her slightly trembling hands lingered in his longer than she had intended to. Standing as tall as she could she stared up into his eyes, them sparkling down at her.

    "You know…it is kind of cute to see you so worried."

    "Shut up."

    "No, it's true. You all gazing at me as if it might be your last chance, those dark blue eyes all filled with emotion, maybe I should leave for battle and leave you at home with the kids more often. Correction, kid, unless you would like to start making some more..." A slow smile creeped upon his face as he spoke, his hand slipping from hers, cradling her face as his thumb lightly stroked her cheek.

    Through gritted teeth, "You're just trying to make me mad."

    "Would I do that?"

    "Yes!"

    "Why?"

    "I don't know, because you're an arse?"

    A soft chuckle escaped him as he leaned down, his lips hoovering above hers. "You may think I'm an arse, but I love you anyways." Pulling her against him, he pressed his lips to hers, kissing her briefly, then stepping away.

    "I'm not the stay-at-home-mom type!" She yelled at him as his shadow began to pass through the door frame of their apartment. "I'll just find a babysitter and see you on the fields!"

    "I'm counting on it." He teased.

    Before she could respond further, he was gone and the closing of the door to their home echoed throughout the room and in her mind. Within a few moments a small hand rested upon hers, the voice soft and sweet.

    "Dad put you in your place, made you stay home for once."

    Piercing blue eyes, first full of shock, turned to the young Sune, it taking nearly a minute to respond.

    "You're so grounded…go to your room." Nicahh said, a faint chuckle escaping her lips as she looked to her precious daughter, grinning. Lifting her onto her hip, they walked over to the window, gazing out as rows and rows of soldiers marched out of Peltarch. Nicahh thought about the status of her life, the path that lead her to standing at the window, watching men march to battle as she clung to her daughter, her and Sune waiting for "Dad" to come home. Sighing again, she could not believe she would be sitting out the first round of attacks and leaving her Sisters to do all the work at the hospital, without her.


  • Day 15, Eleasis
    1464, Year of the six-armed elf.

    _Dear Diary,

    War has come to Narfell finally and now we all struggle for our lives and the lives of those to come in the years after these days. I have fought along side the defenders for what seems like years now and every battle, every push…every inch we take, brings hope. The wars have raged over the years, on and off for various reasons..although this one will decide the fate of many, bandit and common folk alike. It is no surprise that just about everyone who walks in the towns of the Nars have gathered to combat their threat, once and for all.

    The first day went well. While Mariston, Rary and Meril ran skirmish tactics between the two catapults, a group of us were sequestered away by a defender sailor to assist in recovering some stolen supplies from across the Icelace. While the Sailor didn't permit any plate aboard the ship, he did outfit us with defender supplies. Green is not my colour....infact, I'd be better suited to wearing heretic garments...Which needless to say, isn't very suited. Besides one short lasting pirate attack, the trip to our destination was actually surprisingly pleasant and even the chain began to feel comfortable after long enough.

    Pirates they had said. Our group went and fought them regardless. We were here to help and wouldn't turn down any request for aid. The battle was a rather swift one...even if some of us were still in that chain..our forces descended and cut them all down like rats...I will not say it was a glorious battle, although it was nessicary...those supplies will help the war effort a great deal. It will need all the help it can get, to be bluntly honest.

    The next four marks or so were spent returning to Peltarch and then the war camp to prepare for the attacks on the eastlander compound itself.._


  • A blink and there is war. Blink and it's gone. Another war comes rolling around. Now it is my war. Now it is my city. Now I will fight for it.

    People same. Blind to all except the most obvious. Uncaring of Why. Why does Rass fight with Atol. Why does Rass burn the hospital tents? She chooses to. To watch us run like ants to the stream for water. Others will deal with her. The man is easier to kill. We can get inside and then cut their heart out.

    Other plan prevails. Usual catapult bombardment. Plan to secure caves, then bring engineers. Expect traps, heavy resistance. Raryldor is here. It will not be enough for him that I fight for the city. It will never be enough. Sometimes they're not dead when I reach them. Can watch the eyes as they fade. Different every time. Beautiful.

    Found Eastlander. Alive. Surrenders. Her eyes are blue. Calls us murderers. Eowiel wants information, I give it to her. It is never enough for Raryldor or Kara. Must be more careful. More guarded around them. The woman's eye would heal. They are too sensitive to pain. They don't understand what they do when they cut and stab and rip people apart. There is no difference. They should learn committment. The City would watch a thousand Eastlanders slain to prevent this war. Why is the one I hurt unacceptable.

    Maybe she is not strong enough to be Senator. Zyphlin understands. He knows how to use people. He knows that the goal is paramount. If the path leads there. It is a good path.

    Have another prisoner. Garrick. Chief. Important. Call him sir, while watching fingers twist in bonds. Should hurt him. Drag him to jail unconscious. They watch. Care, caution. Ask them to help disable him. They let him go. They still can't see the Truth. They let the murderer, torturer, thief and enemy of Jiyyd, the Legion and Peltarch go because they didn't want to carry his unconscious body.

    Fools. Darkness will take us all.


  • Tala awoke to the sounds of battle in the nars. Creeping from her snug little home like a ghost wolf from its den she headed first to jiyyd. Collecting bandages and balms from vroka she ghosted her way northward passing unseen by the sentries posted. they should have people with keener eyes and ears on these posts she thought. Stopping at the hospital to drop off her supplies she scouted out Dwin, Krig, Rugg and Arandor. Upon hearing the plan for the kegs she again does what she does best and melted into the trees. A long slow walk later she returned with three kegs. From then on it was just running to get more supplies for the hospital.


  • Twenty-Four Years.

    For twenty-four years now, I have served Gond. Taken from my family and my home when I was ten. Introduced into the priesthood, and sent off to strange Order. The Order of the Hammer took me in as Initiate, and when I had come to age, as Acolyte. Finally reaching the rank of Disciple, a full and thought member of the Order, a warrior of Gond, I had set out across many nations and battlefields in His name. To bring the specific teachings of the Order to warzones, and represent the Hammer in those places.
    Twenty-Four Years of battle, fire, death, blood, pain and loss. Too many times I have seen fellow soldiers turned friends fall, and every time again I am reminded of my own mortality. The young drummer was no different. Eager and excited to march off to almost certain death. All for the glory of his city. And here I was, marching alongside him as orders were given.
    For twenty-four years I had fought and suffered and killed for cities that weren't my own, defending people that were not my family. I fought for the glory of the Order and the glory of Gond, yet not for myself. I have no family nor friends to count. Fellow soldiers and travellers at most, I do not wish to lose more friends.

    It would have been a battle as I have seen so many. And with trial and effort, the tide had been turned. The main road of the Pass now almost cleared, we returned to the main forces, hoping to aid them as they held the endless numbers of bandits at bay. Another encounter, another charge. But something went wrong this time.
    I felt myself freezing as I closed with one of the bandits… A holding spell, of course.. how could I have been so careless? I could see the battle raging on around me until a sharp pain entered my back. The spell wore off just that moment, and I could see the tip of a sword coming out the front of my armor. There was no pain. There was only the realisation that this would likely be my moment. That my duty in this world would be concluded, and that I would now join Gond.

    Strength left me, and I collapsed. Darkness set in, and the screams of those around me faded away, finally obscuring everything.
    It would be a good death.

  • N

    She looked over the new arrival’s quickly, assessing as fast as her tired brain could still manage. “That one bed twelve, he’ll be lucky to make it through the night. Those two in beds two and three. THEO CLEAR BED SIX! Put the Captain in bed six once Tiggles has put clean sheets on it and see if Shannon is still around I might need him on the one for bed twelve. Not giving up on him until I must.”

    Grabbing a clean cloth from a stack by the boiling pot she wiped her hands and face clean of blood and headed over to bed twelve. She eyed the mess that used to be a soldier in the Defenders and with a deep inhalation set to work. Was it six or was it seven? Seven she thought.. seven days since she’d slept now. Hard to keep track. Her training at the Temple stood her in good stead, and she rarely slept more than two nights in seven as it was, but no nights in seven and under continual pressure to save lives was beginning to tell even on her stamina. It helped that no more dead had been brought in for a while. Temple? There was something about the Temple she needed to remember.. Oh yes, had to go and destroy it. Not now though lives to save, widows to prevent, orphans to remain parented. She bound off the mans upper arm on the left. All that was left of the arm and the wound mostly cauterised by the flaming pitch the eastlanders were hurling. Then on to the chest wound. Didn’t take much to spread the ribs, Selune’s strength flowed through her veins at the moment, she’d had to. She’d been saving her power for healing but her still moving and healing mundanely was better than her collapsing in a corner and saving no-one.

    Tiggle’s watched her sister and worried. She’d tried already to get her to sleep and a steady supply of candy was keeping Nyda’s sugar levels up at least.

    Shannon arrived just in time. He was almost as skilled at Nyda with his hands and more skilled with his magical healing, without him she’d have lost a lot more than she had. Together they stabilized the man, a miracle in itself but if the region had better trained healers than Nyda and Shannon, she had yet to meet them.

    When would this insanity stop? Not the war, the war made sense. People had been dying before the war started to Eastlander aggression, you answered aggression with violence or the aggressors never stopped. With a roar a catapult volley landed perilously close to the hospital, a piece of hot shrapnel slicing through the makeshift canvas wall they’d set up to try and stop such fragments and cut a slice through Nyda’s forearm as she turned to move on to the next bed. She paused, sleep biting at her mind and vision as she watched the wound knit and close itself to leave flawless skin once more. Shaking her head she turned to the next wounded man, not so.. lucky she supposed.. if you could call her earlier life lucky in any way. He would scar. She hoped his wife, lover, girlfriend or whoever thought it dashing and not marring.
    The insanity was the continued assault on totally defended positions. She hated to think ill of the commanders. Especially Grag, since he was her own commander. But they had to come a point, a number of lost men, wounded and a number of exhausted priests and healers beyond which it became obvious that the Eastlanders were dug in too strongly and a new plan was needed.

    She stumbled to the next bed trying to make sense of what she was seeing. Then she shook her head, finally realizing what she was looking at. Halfway through stripping the bed Nyda had last asked her too the young hin lass had simply fallen asleep half wrapped in sheets too big for her to really easily fold. “Very wise Tiggles. More sense than I have.. but I’ll sleep soon. It can’t be that long until the next lot of dead come in.. and for them I have to.” She fingered the pouch at her waist, her dwindling supply of diamonds. She’d stopped raising everyone she could some days ago. Supplies were stretched thin and she was stretched thinner. Soldiers died in war and she couldn’t bring them all back. A lot didn’t even want to, the glory of a death saving their families and home reason enough to go on to better places with patron gods.
    With a sigh she turned, more injured arriving and with them a women, looking devastated and following Drelan who had Pete’s body in his arms. “Oh hells..” Nyda muttered, her usual aversion to all swearing had slipped greatly in the face of such pointless bloodshed. She’d be her usual prim self eventually, but war changes everyone even the near unchangeable. Sorting the injured quickly she looked to Shannon, Theo and Brom. “Can you manage a few hours?.. this one I have to raise.”
    They nodded and Nyda turned to Lyte “Give me a few hours and I’ll have him up again.. I’m so sorry General”

    She staggered, almost fell as she moved off to the tent the healers were using to sleep in shifts.. well.. the other healers. She didn’t manage to undress, collapsing over the cot and asleep almost before she hit it. With the sound of another keg going off against the eastlander defences a single thought passed through her mind before she past into the darkness of sleep. The first casualty of war isn’t innocence.. it’s sanity.

    ((With special thanks to far too many episodes of ER and one specific episode of MAS*H 🙂 ))

  • Peltarch Far Scouts

    The moon hung high in the sky, and its cold light pierced the damp air only with effort. Such light that remained cast soft shadows whose gentle forms ebbed and flowed in and around each other, rendering forms indistinguishable. In the southern sky, another salvo of artillery fire arced high over the stillness, lingering idly for a moment before gathering their senses and plunging down out of sight.

    Gaius paused and smiled at the flaming sprites that soared this way and that ahead of him. It was, he thought, one of the gods’ great jests that such horror and such beauty could be produced simultaneously – and even more that while mere seconds later those fiery munitions would rain down like Death’s hammer upon his friends and comrades, he could stand here and think them pretty.

    Under the burden of such philosophical ponderings, Gaius sat on the frosted grass, sliding his pack off one shoulder and letting it land with a thump next to him. He quickly regretted doing this, as his pack was worn through in a few spots and the seams were fairly weak, but after inspection it seemed the old thing was still intact. Looking up, Gaius gathered his surroundings.

    He sat about 10 feet from the edge of a dense wood, though just how thick even his Elven eyes couldn’t tell in the dance of shadow and silky moonlight that played ever on around him. In front of him, about 50 yards over a field of tall grass, he knew lay the well-worn road south from Peltarch; at the moment, his only reminder that it even existed was an occasional glint passed on by the road-sign’s metal rivets. For, in this darkness, 50 yards may as well have been 50 miles.

    Gaius, feeling somewhat uncomfortable, dragged his pack closer to the tree-line and began to gather firewood. Wood was to be had in abundance, as a recent storm had lain many assorted branches on the ground, and a few intervening days had dried them.

    The thin layer of frost on each piece melted on contact; the water ran off his hand to freeze again on the unforgiving ground. After delicately arranging a few first twigs, Gaius saved himself the trouble of gathering tinder and extracted a small flask of oil from his pack’s outer pockets. He admitted to himself that he was somewhat thankful his carelessness hadn’t crushed it, but even so applied it liberally to ensure a speedily started blaze. It was, after all, somewhat cold, and the need to pack light had precluded the possibility of taking his heavier fur cloak.

    The fire erupted with all the speed Gaius had hoped for, and, opting not to waste any time that he could spend on the move, he lay his bedroll upon the cold ground not far from the fire, pulled the light blanket over himself, and let sleep come. Come it did.

    To Be Continued…

  • E

    Decoy

    Something hit hard, sending flames everywhere, Drelan diving into the trees as he was finally seperated from the "decoy" group. Yes trees, would burn, but that was fire, having a rock or the actual bucket containing the flamable picture slammed into your head was another story. He stepped out of the small group of trees that were beginning to catch flame and looked to his right to see Dwin shaking his arse in taunt to those enemies on the cliffside. He didn't know where Krig and Shannon were, nor Anakore who was the whole reason for risking the flames, but he saw another fire erupt by the gate not long after, meaning in his mind they were failing their job. Anakore had to be given free access to the catapults. He looked to the nearby cliffside, he could reach it, but there wouldn't be anywhere to run. Drelan remembered seeing Cike and his party standing there. Drelan retreated to the fortifications to recieve his orders, and not long after the bodies from that very group were hauled in. He looked again, hoping the Lady of the Lanceboard would take pity on his wayward ways and provide him the insight needed, nothing came. There was only one thing to do, see if the rest of the decoy party died, him being left to probable certain death as the bandits filled the small valley with fire always following the attacking groups, or attempt to distract. The slight sheen of the black and gold armor was seen later rushing up upon the cliff that had brought death to others. Drelan prayed no one would follow him, he knew if the decoy party lived they'd see him, but there was no need for many upon the cliff, and would only lower the chances of survival. He reached the top and saw the catapult that he could not reach, and many many archers. At first they didn't notice him, but an arrow through one of their necks soon solved that. He only hoped enough would take heed to give Anakore his chance.

    And then he saw it, the gleam of grey and white armor as Krig and Rary ran in his direction.

  • A

    The march through the pass was cold, a sense of foreboding seemed to linger in the air, a relatively small group travelled from the Jewel of the Icelace, their business was death. Along the road there was little resistance, though likely that was due to the company of Defenders who had set out just before hand.. only three Defenders were with them now, Shannon being most notable, a second who's name Lilly hadn't really learned, and the third being an excitable young drummer eager for his first war.

    "We're going to kill Atol!" he cried whenever someone would mention what the plan was, "We're going to kill Rass!" he's say a few moments later, a collective groan escaping the lips of the more seasoned among them.

    Hearing him speak thus, Lilly sighed all the harder, it was for people like him who she was marching off to battle for. Someone in over their heads, perhaps he knew how to swing a sword, perhaps he had even killed.. but had he ever truly seen battle? Thoughts of the Civil War flitted through her head, prepared to fight and die for a cause.. and when the battles in the streets came she did both, nearly wetting herself with fear at each instance.

    The group neared the bridge, Luke the excitably young battledrummer announcing their presence nearly the entire time with his drumming and boastful singing of "Peltarch's marching to war!". A hush again lulled through the group, aside from Luke, as Aghila scouted ahead.

    Quiet minutes passed, the mood seeming almost oppresive as Lilly stood quietly, clad in the armor worn by so many heroes before her. Why she still wore it she didn't know, she'd never be as heroic as those women, it shamed her to even think the armor once worn by Lucia Longtooth, Rith Phoenixfeather, Loreene Wildwater, and finally Reri, was being wasted by someone like her. Her right hand burned as she held the scimitar Sy'wyn had let her borrow, a sword too fine for her and showing a trust she didn't know if she was worthy of. These thoughts didn't matter though, she wasn't going to war for glory or trust, simply for orphans and young people like Luke, who she prayed would live to go home and kiss his mother's cheek, telling her how horrible war truly is.

    "Thoughts, all thoughts," she chided herself, "never enough action to make them come true." the words spoken in her head, no need for the others to tease her. Mirkali stood nearby, he worried enough as it was, his comforting words being, "You know a sniper could kill you in three shots".

    It didn't matter, the future mattered, not hers necessarily, but for those who couldn't fight, or those who shouldn't be fighting. Aghila returned, telling that traps had been lined across the road, but that if the road were avoided then the traps would also be avoided. Archers lined the ridgeline, mages among them.. the fighting would be far from easy.

    They debated amongst themselves about how to go about it, the traps were too entrenched to be disabled, the threat of archers not allowing much time anyways, as well the Eastlanders controlled the high ground. No decision was truly reached, but a few of the most experienced among them, namely Sy'wyn went ahead to get the attention on them, the rest of us supposed to follow.

    Minutes passed, long terrible minutes that each one could have been an hour.. confusion reigned, "were we supposed to follow, or wait for their signal?" someone voiced.. more minutes passed, no signal..

    They returned, bloody and with shafts sticking from their armor.. and the entirety of the group prepared for the engagement, readying bowstrings and tightening armor. The moment came, and we rushed into the canyon, instantly spotting the traps marked by Aghila. A bit of chalk in the muddy patch, a line drawn in the snow, some arrows in a line, stretched across the road; more pressing were the lines of archers now openning fire upon the group.

    Lilly returned as she could, knocking and firing arrows ironically from a bow stolen from eastlanders. Maybe the archers ducked behind cover, or perhaps the ones in direct sight were dead, nonetheless she backed up across the road, careful of the traps, to open fire on more. Unfortunately, all that did was open herself to fire, both magical and arrows, from the opposite side of the canyon, forcing a rush under the first ridge.

    Bleeding and burning from the attacks, Lilly looked for a better position in which to shoot from, the battle too early for her to retreat or fall, too many young soldiers like Luke would die if she did, and then her course was clear before her as she looked deeper into the pass. For there battled Sy'wyn against stronger melee oriented opponents, alone and hard pressed. If he fell, then the group as a whole would suffer, if he fell then the bandits would have struck a mighty blow indeed, and if he fell then she would have betrayed the trust that allowed her to hold the blade in her hands.

    She ran, careful to avoid the traps marked, trusting Aghila's advice and keeping away from the road, thinking herself as using the same route Sy'wyn had.. as the electricity shot through her body, she knew Aghila had missed one, that Sy'wyn had not gone that route, that she had failed him, and that she had failed the soldiers and citizens in Peltarch.. then she knew no more.


  • An attack gone Horribly wrong

    Cike stood with his pack, The Wolves of Narfell; Ohtara, Cotton, and Philomena, as they joined Aghila (sp?) in an attempt to cripple the Eastlanders Catapults. They crept and ran past their flaming attacks hiding by the trees a breath before running up the Cliffside to the East of the flaming ruins of the bridge. The fire and smoke curled about the air as the screams of war encircled them.

    They walked to the edge spotting the opposite Cliffside filled with Eastlander Flameshots. The party loosed their arrows dropping three of them before they had to retreat from their Ballista attacks further south along the Cliffside. Reinforced with twice their number they waited for the foolish adventurers to try again. The pack licked their wounds healing what they could and discussed their options. Cike watched the north warily for any signs of more ballista shots.

    Returning with Belmar Aghila sadly reported he was unable to acquire healing potions for the group. Listing off their armaments and supplied with the magic’s of Belmar, the Adventurers were ready to try again. Cike slipped into the shadows with Ohtara and fell behind him clutching at his choking powder. Their hope was simple; disable the Eastlanders with an assortment of Magic, choking powder and arrows to end their bombardment of the defenders.

    Belmar attacked and then Ohtara struck out with the arrows given to him by Aghila that would burst a layer of grease on the Eastlanders. Hoping the grease would catch on fire they started to run as a hail of arrows fell upon them.

    It was clear they were outnumbered by Flameshots their men feverishly working to turn their catapults and Ballista’s at the small group. The party turned clutching at their wounds ready to retreat. Cike followed after Ohtara already severally wounded his armor riddled with arrow shafts.

    He was blinded as a catapult launched a flaming ball in front of him engulfing Ohtara. He heard his screams and started to run towards him when he heard a dull thud and a burning burst within his chest. The burning intensified and he fell to his knees all too familiar with the burning pain, the magical arrow eating away his lungs and heart.

    He felt the bubbling in his lungs his life blood dripping from the arrow tip. He coughed once spittle and blood mixing to dribble out of his mouth as he fell. His face slammed into the cold snow. He writhed in pain for only a second more, the snow doing nothing to cool the burning in his chest as everything started to go numb and dark. His last thoughts were of Lilin as the darkness took him, he cried out with his mind, “I’m sorry.”

    He woke writhing in pain the burst of fire in his chest a lingering memory but still causing him to claw at his naked chest. He looked around frantically the sounds of battle the cries of wounded and the screams of dieing about him. Bewildered his pack was returned to him as Lilin clutched at him through tear soaked eyes. It immediately came back to him the sounds of war and the chilling numbness in his body save for the burning in his chest. His head spun and before he knew it he was being lead by his Love away from the death, away from the battle, the crunching of snow slowly enveloping and covering the muffled sounds of war. The pain in his chest lingered though his body was fully healed. He coughed hacking and tearing remembering the blazing pain.