3. The Eastlander War

The Eastlander War


  • ((Post your warstories! Stories will be awarded with XP))

  • G

    I will be writing more, I have the outlines for at least two or three more. But I might as well get started posting…

    The below stories are all based directly on IG events. The first one was a player-run plot... I was the only player and yes I had to use the oil hack to climb the mountain. I stood hidden near the river for one hour game-time to account for swimming it. I added in my troops for story and they would've done it if they had been IG. Enjoy.

    The Eastlander War: Assets
    Hjoichi penetrates deeply into Eastlander territory with the expert aid of his troops to rendesvous with his covert operations group.

    The Eastlander War: Jonathan
    Hjoichi gains information on the possibility of fomenting Eastlander civil strife.

  • S

    ((some violence - read or avoid as you like))

    Was hell worse than this?

    The pass was a smoking ruin. The burning remnants of the bridge sizzled as they sank into the icy river and were soon joined by lost weapons, limbs, and corpses. A man in heavy green plate took a ballista bolt in the chest, flew backwards, and was pinned to a tree. He was still trying to swing his sword at his Eastlander opponents as the life slipped out of him. Nearby, an evoker laughed while flames sprang from his hands and cooked several more Defenders in their armor.

    Syne may show up again.

    Further out, an Eastlander girl was dragging herself back to the caves with her hands, having lost her footing when someone had severed her leg just above the knee. She was still holding one of her short swords as she made a trail of blood across the grass. It was not long before a ball of fiery rock descended in one of those deceivingly lazy arcs, ending the red trail with a crater to mark the bandit's grave.

    Elsewhere on the battlefield, people were being killed in less dramatic fashion. Men and women alike were cut down by the sword or brought low by storms of arrows. The whole situation strongly suggested that death was death, regardless of how it happened.

    Perhaps this was how Reshor wanted to die, in some glorious charge for some glorious cause. Doubtless he felt cheated for falling to an assassin's blade, unarmed and half naked. But no one wanted to die, no matter the circumstances. At least Reshor had been fortunate enough to have his bath first; out in the field, many of these soldiers had not washed in some time.

    The fiend wanted to know how it was possible. "Their worst punishment," he called it. How had I survived?

    In the distance, Grag's massive form could still be seen as he cut a swathe through the Eastlander formations with his greataxe, leading his troops in a charge. They all looked like children beside him.

    Sometimes even little girls can kill.

    War was a gamble. It was open to changes that no one could foresee. And with all change in life, the real concern was not what might be gained, but what would be irrevocably lost. What would remain, years from now, after the glorious charges and the glorious deaths and the victories and the defeats and the parades and the funerals?

    "The last years have proven your failure. They have proven your worth. I would offer you the power you need…"

    The war was being won. Narfell would be changed forever. Atol would die, and perhaps the dragon too. But others would leave the land too soon, people who deserved better than to meet their end in this frozen hell.

    On a hill not far away, a mage in glowing purple robes had his spellcasting rudely interrupted by a pair of throwing daggers. They buried themselves in his chest and belly. He should have worn red, not that it would have saved him from the flight of arrows that followed.

    One more for the Scouts. They've been trained well.

    Back in the city, a boy had handed Roland a bill from the Seafarers' Guild. Most people knew he did not do business with them. Whether it was an honest mistake, or a message from Vaster, mattered little. It seemed fitting. Everyone had debts. Some people spent their time running from them, and others became obsessed with them. Some paid early, and some, late. But everyone paid. Yes, one look at the scene in the Nars made that clear. In the end, everyone paid with interest.


  • Left Behind

    The following are excerpts from Maya's journal regarding the war…

    Entry 69

    _Maya sits sprawled on the stones behind one of the parapets facing south into the Nars. Columns of smoke rise from the battle, curling eastward with the gentle breeze. Off and on, there is a bright light, and many seconds later the boom from a fireball reaches her ears. Several guardsmen are around her. All looks south anxiously awaiting news of the war.

    Several of the guards warily look down at Maya, who has been snappish and moody since the start of the war. Most make snide jokes out of earshot regarding the time of the month, but those that know her nature understand, and simply keep quiet.

    She begins by writing –_

    Has been several day since war start, and am stuck here on wall of city, while watch battle from great distance. Was all pack up and ready go with defender, when run into Senator. Was so excite! Then Senator ask where was going.

    I say, “To fight war!”, and pointed south.

    He say, “No…job is here”

    I remember argue some. Tell Senator that was chosen of Tempus. Is here in Nars to fight war and evils for Him. Then he point to all the guards. Say something about soldier be go to war, and is separate from guard. Say that Maya work for Barrim and can arrest like guard. Soldier cannot. Soldiers will fight war. Guards will keep peace, guard gates, and defend city from spy.

    I remember curl fist and think would be easy knock little Senator so far into next week, that would need calendar and seer with crystal ball to find, but not want spend war in jail either.

    If senator ever run for office again, think will spend entire pouch of gold for big campaign say is idiot.

    –

    Entry 70

    We win war. Yay.

    People much celebrate, but I not feel like. Instead, I spend many day inside shrine of Tempus and ask one question.

    Why?


  • Warning - Mature and unsettling content

    Fear and Horror

    _Fear is defined as an unsettling feeling brought about by anticipation of discomfort, pain, or torment. Horror is the result of an unsettling emotion so great, that it shocks the body into discomfort or revulsion. It’s my job in this war to emote fear in our opponents, fear so great that it brings horror so vivid, it kills.

    It my specialty. It is my art. To manipulate the minds of others to my bidding. I make people see what they do not wish to see, and do what they do not wish to do. It is my power over others. It is who I am. I am Yolande.

    Now, I exercise my art freely to protect the great city of Peltarch I call my home. There are those that find my methods unsettling. There are those that call me evil, and abhor what I do. But they are small minded fools who instead, dwell on the glory of piercing flesh with wood and steel. For what controls these weapons? The hand. What controls the hand? The discipline of body and mind. I attack the root of all action. To me, the undisciplined warrior is a man without armor or shield, a man naked before the weapons of my thoughts.

    Now, I find myself in a small dark cave with a squad of others, bent on the Eastlanders destruction. For the Eastlanders, I prepare myself with my own artistic nature, ready to paint horrors upon their consciousness._

    –

    Lienna, Jo, and Sela crouched behind the stones that had been placed as barricades down the hall. They are elements of the second platoon, Zephyr company of the Windshot brigade, and they were here to defend their homes, spouses and children from the Narfell invaders that threatened them. Each was prepared to die. Anything less was to give up their way of life, and their rights as descendants of the people that once dominated these lands. These lands were theirs by right of birth, and they meant to keep them.

    Lienna looked upon her two “sisters” of the platoon and smiled grimly. Jo was the youngest of the three, having been recently promoted from one of the scouting units. She had earned her place here through guile and unrelenting fanaticism. Sela on the other hand was older. She was here to protect her Blacksmith husband and two sons. Her family was everything to her, and Lienna knew that Sela was prepared to die right here, if it meant they would live.

    The invaders were composed of various ragtag groups from the towns of the pass. Many were skilled, but they often behaved as an unruly mob, with little leadership. When the first of several rounded the corner, Lienna and her two squad mates let loose with a volley, the arrows hissing down the hallway, their tips alight with magic. There was a cry of alarm as they retreated around the corner. This was repeated several times, each time the invaders were driven back around the corner. Sela’s arm was creased with an arrow, but she continued lacing arrows down the hall.

    --

    We had rounded a bend in the labyrinth, and immediately came under fire from Eastlander bows. I watched as several attempts to round the corner were made, but the Eastlanders arrow fire was accurate and intense. There was a pause in the action, as several of my companions discussed how to handle the situation. It was at that moment, I felt my services were needed. Caressing the pin I had earned for slaying the Orcus priests, I felt my form encase itself in living stone. Together with a gesture, a well chosen phrase and a touch of the weave, I protected myself from the harshness of the elements. I casually stepped around the corner, and touched the minds of those in front of me.

    –

    Lienna, Jo and Sela watched anxiously down the hallway as an illuminated figure rounded the corner. She was small and slender, and held an alabaster staff that glowed blue at the tip.

    “Mage!” screamed Sela, “Concentrate on the mage!”

    Arrows tipped with magic whined down the hallway. Their magic however, appeared to dissolve before reaching the mage, the arrows sparking and snapping as they impacted the stone casing that enveloped her.

    Suddenly, Lienna felt a tingle at the back of her neck.

    --

    _They were scattered intelligently in staggered formation, each covering the other in overlapping fields of fire. As I reached out, and touched the mind of the nearest, I idly wondered if the people I traveled with would ever be so organized, or if they would even listen to my advice on the art of war. Of course, I could easily make them listen…

    …Lienna…her name sprang to me quickly as I bored through layers of thought, psychosis, and animal instincts. The fear of fire was common, as well as being eaten. I passed through layers of basic fight or flight responses, shame, and ….oh? What was this?

    In the fleetest of moments, I touched upon an incident so buried as to remain forgotten, even by the mind I touched. An incident with her father and two brothers. An incident of great shame to her family, one that filled her with fear, revulsion and loathing. Oh yes, this would do nicely.

    As an artist of thought and suggestion, I released the images to her mind, magnifying them a thousand fold. She would be there helpless again on the floor, with her brothers and father over her. In addition, I added many devilish and demonic forms that shrieked and gibbered.

    … and all of them would be waiting their turn._

    –

    In the darkness of the cave, a thin horrible shriek emanated from Lienna’s lips. Her heart turned cold in her chest and stilled from shock. Blood ran from her nose as vessels burst, and spasmodically her body arched and collapsed to the cave floor.

    As the remaining archers startled in surprise, several of Yolande’s companions rounded the corner charged down the hallway, engaging them in hand-to-hand combat. There were cries of anguish and pain, then all was quiet.

    The remainder of the group continued town the hallway, wary of the next confrontation. Casually, Yolande stepped over the form of Lienna, whose dead eyes now stared at the ceiling, her gaze locked and petrified with fear…

    …and horror.

  • E

    _Victory. The horns blew, the troops rejoiced, Grag gave his speech of how they had defended freedom, people talked of blood avenged and others rejoiced that somehow through it all they had still lived.

    The bandits had fallen, and as much for his dislike of Aarron Ashald, the nobleman, himself, and Rary had performed beautifully. All helped but it had been their job to create teh commodity of time when needed, and in that they had succeeded allowing the rest of the unit to perform their job, only losing one that had wandered away from the group the cat seeing through the shadows and eating the elf alive. The Lady of the Lanceboard would be proud.

    Still as the crowd rejoiced a since of dread came over the stoic fallen knight. The battle had been won, the blood of the death of his brother, and the attempts on the lives of his charges long since paid for. Still it didn't feel like justice. He thought of a certain girl looking amongst the bodies for her brother, the old chieftan who's ploy turned out not to be a ploy at all, he wanted peace. But fate had destroyed any chance he had of brokering it, a hospital bomb sending him to jail before he even arrived. He didn't blame the old man for running, he knew death would probably wait for him. He wondered if death too awaited all the noncombatants, the women and children that surely existed, possibly the few men that ran. He doubted he would ever find out, who would bother to keep records except to brag? Still he couldn't decide if he hated the old man or hated himself for being unable to find him. He had scoured oscura the pass, picking up the search where the scouts had failed hoping in vain insight would find him, bribing the tenders to send the man to him if they found him. All Drelan had achieved was battle. But the destruction, the path of the flame was somehow askew, and the paranoid mind of his suddenly began to feel the sneaking suspicion they had been played. The spirit girl, Syne, though war created odd allies he couldn't help but think of the girl's question, "how will you stop me?" and every time he did he knew they had lost and Lermonian's lectures began flowing back to him.

    The goal of victory could have been achieved, atol still killed, Callendor as well, perhaps let the peaceful half of the bandits avoid annihilation. He hoped he was wrong of the annihilation he felt was true, but he had also counted the bodies he had stepped over. But once the taste of blood floats in the air, few can fight it, to stop it. Talgrath had said the war was too far gone to stop. Perhaps he was right. But so was the girl right when looked in horror at the cave entrance, they were there to kill every last single east lander at the time, not to reset the balance of grievances. Of all the times they pummeled from the trenches getting ready to charge, never once was surrender offered that he could remember. And once the squads marched on the walls, it was to late to try to do so.

    He had no right, he knew he didn't but he'd do it anyways. As Nicahh and riama hugged, and Lilly talked he knelt on the ground, placing the tip of his sword into it as had become familiar to him so long ago and placed his hands upon the sword hilt. What he spoke was gibberish to all he knew, none in this land knew his tongue, and hells probably none in his land anymore either, still it was what he chose.

    ost>"forgivethem for they've done. They were blind, and not enough strength or presence to guide them right. At the very least vengence was served, those that were robbed and killed avenged.

    May the seed of the Eastlander spread from the fire.. be birthed anew if any of it still lives and regrow. Let them be free of the hatred that followed them, and let them be wise from the past actions of their ancestors that caused such.

    So your servant has spoken and watched, and beseaches that your flames watch over the wise now much more so before their years."

    He then arose. His sister still breathed, she was beside him, but he had three more to find._


  • _What had started as viewing the trenches, to make plans, had turned so quickly. He had brought his brother with him, as bodyguard if needed, he was still weak from his near deaths in the Pass to get the Defenders in place. What started as a minor viewing, went downhill so quickly, as the Eastlanders sent sneaks across to set traps….

    Then the cleric came, bouncing from the ranks of other Eastlanders, shoving his way forward as if to prove his faith better then the small elf's own, and they clashed, blade to mace, armor to armor, faith to faith, the frail elf faltering only once as the Eastlander cleric called out one curse that threatened to remove the life from his body, but managed only to weaken him instead... and he laid the final blow into him, sending him back into the mud of the trenches to not rise again..

    And his eyes scanned quickly over what remained of this last push from the bandits, only to see his brother get knocked back and down by a giant green fist as a mage came into view, and he sprinted over to help him, but was beaten by the small slight form of the legend Scutum Hedges, her first few hits sending the mage reeling back, he fury unleashed...

    But he saw what she did not, the fine green mist that surrounded the mage, that wrapped on her skin, melting it before his eyes, and he tried to get to her in time, because she refused to be stopped, and kept swinging, and his lips were moving in the proper prayers, and his hand were flying as quickly as they could, and as the column of light cracked from the sky above over this small slight form of a hin, he knew.... he had been to late...

    He skidded to a slide in the mud, bearing in front of the mage and standing over his brother who was prone and unconcious, screaming his rage and disbelief, swinging his blade at the mage, determined to see him bleed, to see him die, to see him pay for the actions he had taken...

    And yet.. in the back of his mind kept running...

    I was to late._


  • Some course language.

    "Oh fuck, Grag spotted me." Was all she could say. She handed over her last healing potion to Riama and stood there as the massive half orc approached her. "Nicahh, there be traps…ya have ta get em."

    "Grag, there be a god damn dragon near those traps, too." He ignored her. She was not stupid; she had been all over the field under an invisibility potion. She had made notes of where the traps where, and what the traps guarded. She was not here to fight, she had told herself, just to lend aid to those who needed it. That was gone as soon as Grag saw her.

    "This way, this way, quickly!"

    It was too late to protest, he was pushing her along. She looked behind her one last time as she made her way behind the boulders were the traps were. The first trap, no problem. Her eyes quickly scanned the grounds, finding the trigger, her small fingers snapping the trap. It was then that she realized she was all alone, just her and the dragon on the other side of the boulders and a small maze of traps between them.

    "Oh hells." She muttered as she slipped down upon her knees. Crawling along the boulders, hiding in the shadows that they provided the best she could, she quickly worked the remainder of the traps free from the ground and slid them into her pack. It was then that she heard it, the scrapping of scales against scales as the dragon turned around. Rass saw her. Scrambling to get to her feet the dragon let out a massive screech that made every hair on her body stand on end. She was going to eat her, she just knew it. Then she felt the magic of the dragon was over her, the fear-inspiring spell aimed directly at her. "Run, just run." Her mind screamed over and over. And she did. As she took flight she realized her will had been more solid than she had originally thought and that Rass's spell had failed to make her into a sniveling fool. She nearly danced as she made her way back to the group; the dragon had not given chase after one little girl.

    "I did it, I did it!" She pranced around. "Traps are gone, path is clear all the way up to Rass."

    "Good, now stay here."

    "What?"

    And then, Grag was gone. So were most of the soldiers. Looking around she realized it was just her, Uchi and Lyte, and the ever-looming Rass, whose head she could see above the rock wall. Standing along the edge of a building she heard the whistling of the artillery as it flew threw the air. Then, the screaming of Rass was heard again as the massive creature took flight. She felt the wind off the wings pin her to the building as the dragon flew away. Then, -he- was back.

    "Nicahh, scout! Up there is where Atol is!"

    "What?"

    Then again, there was the pushing as his hand moved her forward. Her hand slide to her belt again, the ten invisibility potions she had bought were down to two. Working her way through the tall grass, she popped the cork upon the potion and felt the liquid slide down her throat. She had too much to worry about besides being spotted and this potion served as her safety net. One potion was left if it all went to hell and she had to run. Scanning the ground she found no traps, she saw no archers upon the hills, nothing. But she did find them. Three men paced back and forth, seeming to be waiting to meet their fates. She stood, staring at them momentarily before she turned back and ran to the small group, waiting to face the chiefs.

    "Three men, Atol center, and the ground is clear of traps, as far as I could tell."

    "Forward troops!" _The half orc commanded.

    Nicahh took her position, sliding along the tall grass, approaching the man in the robes, her invisibility potion fading as she moved forward. If she could just get close enough to him, she could maybe catch him off guard and take him down. Then it happened. Atol let out a massive yell as he spotted marching troops and the wizard began to cast. Some creature suddenly appeared before her eyes and decided she would be its first victim. Floating a few feet above the ground it gave chase as the red head dashed away. Atol giving chase right behind it. Then she felt it, the crushing blow to her back as the creature's fists slammed into her spine, knocking her down upon her knees. There was only a split second she had before she turned her head preparing for the next blow, but what she saw was her death approaching. Atol stood over her, his massive sword coming down as everything went black.

    "There is a certain peace in knowing you are about to die." She thought to herself. Then she felt it, the splatter of blood upon her face, the metallic taste of it upon her lips. But there was no pain, and she could still clearly hear the battle. Suddenly it dawned upon her, she was not dead, and the black she saw was Grag's cloak covering her, blinding her vision. He had stood between her and Atol. Scrambling to get back to her feet, the summoned creature still swinging at her, she ran placing enough distance between her and the creature, her hand fumbling to the invisibility potion as she drank the last one down. The creature lost track of her and speed back towards the others then, giving her a second to survey the area.

    Atol was dead. The monk was gone, and the mage was casting spell after spell at the soldiers as they rushed forward to get him. As she ran towards the mage, she felt the pulsing of electricity surge through her body. There was no pain, just a jolt, so she kept running, her hands sliding to the kamas that hang off each off her hips. She was upon him before the others reach him, her potion fading as she made the first swing. Nothing. It did not even tear at his robe. She swung with her left hand, nothing. Then her right again, nothing. No matter how hard she swung her kamas she could not hit him, so she dropped them. Her companions were doing better than she was, and the mage was severely weakened, if she could just get one good strike in on him, she knew he would fall. Her eyes focused in on his neck, her hands covered by a pair of gloves that Arandor had crafted, and given to her as a gift. The weight of the gloves helped moved her hand forward as she closed her eyes. If she hit the right spot it would stun the man and he would stop attacking, yet again her aim was off. Instead of stunning him, she felt as her pointed fingers made contact with his spine, the bones crushing from the force of the blow. The mage instantly fell dead upon the ground. Looking up, taking a deep breath, her eyes finally opening, she realized one thing, the war was over._

  • 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.._