Necrotica
Novice
Stare death in the eye and smile
Posts: 716
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Post by Necrotica on Jul 22, 2008 21:10:14 GMT -5
The officer bit into an apple ravenously, watching his men pull women and children from their homes, some burning. He guided his horse to the center of the town with his knees, still eating the apple. All around him, peppered with arrows and throwing axes, the men of the village were dead, some with weapons in hand. For a town as large as this, only three of his soldiers had been killed in the massacre. Dark smoke rose high into the air, and the stagnant breeze carried only the smell of blood and death. The man tossed his apple core aside and reigned in his black steed. He raised his sword into the air, and all around him his men stopped dragging people from their homes to listen. A few had to club their prey into silence. The only sound permeating the crackle of the fire was the whicker of horses, and the screams of the dying. "This is too easy, boys!" he roared, grinning ear to ear, "Maybe we aught to try takin' out that big town, to the east?"
His men cheered and pumped fists, swords, or torches into the air, then went back to their pillaging, raping, and looting. He reached into his saddlebag and pulled out another apple, looted from one of the overturned carts on the way to town. Right as his teeth were about to sink into the crisp, red delicasy, the apple was ripped from his fingers. An arrow with black fletching pinned the apple to the wooden carving in the town center. The officer snarled in annoyance and spun his horse around, looking for who shot at him. He roared, and several of his men dropped loot and children to pull their weapons and rush to his aid. Standing about thirty yards away, against the tavern, were three men. The biggest of the three, with slick, oily black hair to his shoulders, leaned against the wall seeming almost bored. His armor, studded leather, had several jagged spikes along the shoulders, and a leather gorget to protect his throat. Fist-weapons with axe-blades along the wrists and jagged spikes over the knuckles gleamed menacingly in the dim light. The man beside him, no less menacing but not quite the same size, wore strange armor of black leather with bones. A humanoid skull adorns the center of the black leather breastplate, with two small horns jutting from it, as well as crimson eyes. A black cloak shrouds the man's eyes, but white hair flows down over his hardened shoulderplates and lay against the ebon armor lifelessly. Dangling from his belt is a wicked spiked mace, the metal fashioned into a dragon's head and on his back is a round, wooden shield with metal bands. In his hands, knocked and ready, is a bow with an arrow nocked. Flanking this man is the oddest of them all. His armor, leather with metal plates sewn into it, looked battleworn but clean. Over his shoulder jutted the hilt of a strange sword not common in these lands. On both wrists are sheathed knives, as well as in his greaves. A leather belt is also covered in pouches full of poisons and other contraptions. This man's helmet, metal with leather plates to cover all but his eyes, added a touch of menace to his demeanor.
"By the Dreaded One, what fools are you, to attack an agent of the Lord Thurleon?" Demanded the officer, his face turning red in rage.
The man with the white hair smirked, the only visible part of his face beneath the cowl of his cloak. He tosses his hair, and the hood falls against his back, and the assembled raiders hiss. Three scars ravage otherwise attractive features on his face, one going right through his left eye. However, instead of being milky white, and blind... the man's eye is a cloudy grey, almost dark enough to be black.
"Interesting choice of words, Captain." Said the man, still smirking, "The Dreaded One. I like that. Or did you mean the Dreaded One? Careful how you invoke his name..."
The officer, obviously unnerved, swallowed hard. He pointed his sword, and in a hoarse voice, said, "Kill them!"
His men snarled and charged towards the three, who didn't even flinch. Thirty yards became twenty... and an arrow took the throat of one of the raiders. Fifteen yards, and another man died to the cloaked man's bow. At ten yards, the huge man with the black hair pushes himself off of the tavern's wall and smacks his weapons together with a hellish roar. At five yards, the third man unsheathes the sword from his back, and stands with the blade over his head, with his sword hand in front of his other. The first clump of raiders reached the three warriors, and all three sprung into action simultaneously. The man with the white hair slammed an arrow into the eye of a raider mercilessly, tossing his bow into the air. A second raider ignorantly raised his head to watch the bow... and his eyes widened seconds before half of his brains were splattered by the man's mace. A third raider roared in rage and raised his axe... and was lifted off the ground by the man with the black hair. The man had wrapped his hand around the haft and lifted. The raider kicked the man hard, but the only response he recieved was a short laugh, before being punched in the chest by the fist weapon. He flew back and landed hard, not moving. Thinking to catch the white haired man off-guard, the next raider slashed his sword... but only slung blood. His hand lay writhing next to his scimitar, and he screamed in agony before the third of the warriors cut off his head gracefully, using the momentum to catch another raider's sword and deflect it, before spilling the man's guts. The officer watched on in awe as three men demolished a good half of his unit, and he signaled desperately for the crossbowmen to get into position. Three men rushed over and dropped to one knee, pointing their weapons. "Be cautious, friends. There are three archers coming into position. I will dispatch them." Said the man with the strange sword, slipping off behind the tavern.
The other two snorted disdainfully, and the big man grabbed a raider by the head after backhanding him, a mortal blow with his fist weapons. He grinned in satisfaction as he felt the thud of two crossbow bolts tearing into the man's corpse... and the grin became a roar of laughter when the man gurgled a groan, not quite dead yet. He squeezed, and was rewarded by a sickening snap as the man's skull cracked, then he dropped the human shield. He punched his fists together and started running towards the crossbowmen. The man with the white hair twirled, slamming his mace with the entire force of his body into the shield of yet another of the raiders, splintering both wood and bone. The man's howl ended abruptly with a crunch as brain matter splattered his allies. The tables abruptly turned, the seven survivors turned tail and ran towards their officer, one of them being shot by his own allies' bolts. Two more crossbowmen joined the initial three... or tried to, but sprinting around a building was the man with the odd sword. The man ducked low to the ground as a bolt tore through the air over his head, then he rolled, rising up with an upward slash that cut one of the men in half. As he spun around, he swung his sword out beside him, cutting halfway through the other crossbowman's face. He sheathed his sword and let two daggers dance across his fingertips before one slips into the officer's thigh, and the second into the ear of another crossbowman. He crosses his arms across his chest and waits. The warrior with fist weapons was so close, the last two crossbowmen dropped their weapons and ran. He rolled forward, scooping up both of their heavy weapons. He rose to his feet and roared, then shot both of the weapons at the same time with barely a grunt of effort. The first was lifted off his feet before falling over, dead. The second took a shot to the lung and fell over, wheezing. His life was probably going to end within the hour... if not much sooner. The warrior dropped both crossbows and grinned at the officer, who had fallen off his horse and was cursing incoherently. "So, Captain..." began the white haired warrior, idly picking brains and bone off of his mace while pacing towards the downed officer, "Tell me. How is it that your men are so good at killing unarmed villagers, and not so great at killing men they have outnumbered a good three to one?"
The officer panted, still cursing, and looked up at the men angrily. He spit on the boot of the man that was mocking him.
"We are simple soldiers following simple orders. You, you lot... You will all rot in hell."
The other two men looked at the man with the white hair and grinned. The third just chuckled and shook his head, looking down at the officer, obviously amused.
"I fully intend to, brother."
"He is no good, this one." Said the big man, with a strange accent. "No good at all. You should no kill him fast. Look at the dead children."
The man with the strange sword nodded his approval, and walked around, slitting the throats of wounded raiders with emotionless eyes. None of the three seemed at all surprised when a woman in white and silver robes under a breastplate of snowy leather entered the town from the broken gates. A small mace dangled from a strap around her wrist, and clasped tight against her was some sort of religious tome. She started to shake her fist at the men, and then realized she was in the middle of a warzone. Tears filled her eyes when she saw wounded children, and her protests faded away as her sorrow became determination and she set about healing the children and wounded villagers.
"I will speak to the priest, brudre. Finish your work with this one." Said the big man, as he walked away with a wave.
"Distract her for me, will you Israel? I want to enjoy this."
Even though Israel tried his hardest to distract the priestess, the screams of the officer were nearly loud enough to wake the dead.
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Necrotica
Novice
Stare death in the eye and smile
Posts: 716
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Post by Necrotica on Jul 22, 2008 22:25:10 GMT -5
The stench of burning flesh filled the otherwise serene night air. The breeze carried the same odor as a warning for any other raiders in the area. It also gave the villagers a sense of renewed hope, or at least a bit of vindication. Inside the tavern, a group of adventurers were being given a ragged hero's welcome, and a small banquet was being held in their honor. Several young boys, and a few old men congratulated them and asked for tales of heroism from lands far away, but none of their requests were answered. Israel wolfed away his food, occasionally speaking to the sparse crowd, while the priestess lectured the man with the odd sword. The man with the white hair was far away from people... just the way he liked it.
"How dare you let him, that- that goat of a man!" She said, pounding her small fist on the table, "Take my mare! I thought the worst had happened to all of you! You, you ninny!"
"Mayhaps the Lady will someday find it in her glorious self to forgive an assassin for doing his job. Or perhaps she would instead take out her anger on "him."" Said the bemused Assassin.
The priestess' only response was a small humph, which was overtaken by a roar of laughter from Israel as one of the survivors told a story involving a rooster, a doe, and some sort of farming equipment. Israel downed his mug and began telling a war story from his homeland, finally done eating...
+++
"What is your name, noble one?" Asked the man with white hair, crouched low to the ground with his hand extended to a wolf, far from the village and the taint of society.
Around him, the wolves of this one's pack circled, hackles raised and alert... but without bared fangs. This one, they sensed, was like them. The black wolf, the alpha, stepped forward and looked into the man's eyes. The wolf had different eyes as well, one blue, the other green. The man smiled.
"I am called Azarin. I too long for the days when man did not wander these lands. But that is a story for another day, is it not?"
He chuckled and scratched the wolf behind the ears, before standing slowly, to show he was no threat. When he turned away, the black wolf howled... and so did the pack. Azarin grinned and threw back his head, howling as well. He started walking back toward the village.
+++
Not far from Azarin, a pack of true bandits, drawn by the stench of burning flesh, approached the small village. These men, along with several other bands of vermin, had been following Lord Thurleon's raiding parties for months. This one consisted of seven men and a half-elf. The half-elf was missing both of it's ears, and wore no helmet to show that it claimed no part of the elven heritage. A silver scimitar was the only part it seemed to claim, and the blade seemed to gleam in the moonlight. The half-elf crouched low to the ground, looking at the village hungrily.
"There cannot be that many survivors. Captain Brodea usually leaves few survivors and a lot of meat on their corpses." said the half-elf, a malicious smile spread across his face. "Let us get us some food, eh boys?"
The bandits drew their weapons and, crouched low to the ground, started their silent approach. The town had no guards posted, and by their reasoning, none left fit to fight. This would be easier than taking money from a corpse.
+++
"And then, then do you know what happened?" Asked a somewhat drunken Israel, laughing, "Then, I did no believe my own eyes. The wench pulled a dagger from her bodice and gutted the fool, right in front of his new girl!"
Some of the men assembled laughed genuinely, while a few others laughed kindly, afraid to upset the rather violent man. His fist weapons lay against the hearth, along with the mace and shield of Azarin. The priestess still had her mace, and the Assassin his blade. The white mare of the Priestess was tethered behind the tavern, because the stable had been burned down. An older man sat on a barrel beside it, dozing off as he leaned on his cane.
"You people. You people, are no elegant, and you aren't like idiot nobles. I like that." Said Israel. "I will return. I have to go make room for more of your beer, innkeeper."
The big man pushed himself up, and managed to get himself out the back of the inn. He headed out past the horse and the old man into the verge of the forest, and leaned his head back as he relieved himself. He didn't notice six men and a half-elf slip past him, or slit the old man's throat while he slept. However, Israel did notice when the seventh man slammed a piece of wood against the back of his head. He staggered forward... then growled. He spun around with a wicked backhand that unhinged the man's jaw and knocked him off his feet.
"Oi, you idiot. Never hit a man while he-" Israel narrows his eyes, and realizes what is lying at his feet. He growls, and stomps on the bandit's throat, then starts running for the tavern.
"Not so fast, big man." Said the half-elf with a melodious voice.
Mystical energy gathered around the half-elf's fingers, and when he pointed it at Israel, the air around him seemed to thicken, binding him in place. Israel snarled, but was immobile. The half-elf looked down at the dead bandit, and then bared jagged teeth at Israel.
"Captain Brodea can't help you now, you ogre."
+++
The tavern seemed to slowly be coming back to life. The villagers, though traumatized and terrified, seemed to unwind, and many were laughing cautiously, talking about next season's crops and rebuilding. In the kitchen, where the back door was, a cacophony of dishes rang out and one of the men made a joke about the cooks. A muffled scream was the only retort. Some men rose to their feet, terror on their faces.
"By the Grove, what have we done to deserve this?" cried a villager, cowering against the wall.
The Assassin rose to his feet calmly, and picked his helmet up off the table. He traced the symbol engraved on the brow lovingly... then pulled the helmet onto his head. Seconds later, the ring of metal clearing sheathe filled the air and he strode toward the kitchen. As he reached the threshold, two men burst into the room, blades raised menacingly. The Assassin raised an eyebrow as he studied them, then shook his head sadly. One of the men swung at him awkwardly, and he sidestepped the blade, smashing the flat of his own sword against the man's nose. With a crunch, the man's nose broke... and drove into his brain. He fell to the ground, dead.
"Orin!" Cried the second bandit, in despair, "You bastard! You killed my brother!"
The Assassin bowed his head, mocking the man's obvious pain, and then slapped aside the second bandit's thrust. He grabbed the man's wrist and broke it, then leaned forward, so he could look into the man's eyes.
"You have crossed blades with one far greater than you will ever be, and when you get to hell..." The Assassin smiles, then slides his sword into the man's chest, "Put in a good word for me."
Assassin gently guided the man to the ground, then closed his eyes with two of his fingers. He rose gracefully as the next two men charged him, a third nocking an arrow to his bow. The Assassin let out an exasperated sigh, then closes the door with his foot. The arrow thuds into it with a dull thump, then he lets the bandits kick the door open. One charges right into the Assassin's blade, impaling himself. He catches the man's axe as it flies from dead fingers, and slams the spike into the joint of the next man's throat and shoulder. The archer drops his bow and turns to run back out of the inn, followed by a fourth man waiting with daggers. The Assassin shrugs, and pulls his sword from the dying bandit's stomach.
+++
Israel growled and struggled with all of his might, muscles and veins bulging in futility. The half-elf laughed at him and dragged a dagger along his neck, drawing a thin line of red. The half-elf had been taunting him ever since he caught Israel, and the elfling stepped back, eying Israel hungrily.
"There is a lot of you to eat-" The man's threat was interrupted by his wailing comrades, running from the tavern in terror. He turned to wave his weapons at them angrily.
"What are you idiots doing? I have this one. How dangerous can a few old men be?" Snarled the half-elf.
An arrow thudded into the throat of the fleeing archer, and he went down gurgling blood. The second man, with the daggers, dropped his weapons and fell to his knees, sobbing for mercy. A shadow manifested from the forest and stepped into the moonlight. Azarin pointed his bow at the half-elf, whom was now holding a knife to Israel's throat.
"An interesting predicament, wouldn't you say Assassin?" asked Azarin, obviously amused.
The confused half-elf snarled, pushing the dagger closer to Israel's throat. The scimitar in his other hand wove patterns in the air as the half-elf grew more nervous by the second.
"These things happen, Azarin." Said Assassin, stepping around the Priestess' mare. A knife flew faster than his words, taking the half-elf in the back of the skull. As Israel suddenly regained control of his body, he grabbed the elfing by his arm and slung him a good couple of yards away from him... the half-elf's body, anyway.
"Azarin, I was... I was... Bah. Damn you both to the Dreaded One." Israel snarled, stomping off to finish relieving himself, this time on the corpse of the man that first hit him in the head.
Azarin and the Assassin eyed one another for a moment, then both shook their heads as the Priestess stormed out, dragging Azarin's mace and shield behind her. A young boy carefully placed Israel's fist weapons on the ground... and the door slammed behind them.
"Apparently, we're bad luck, or bad omens, or something equally silly." Said the Priestess, pouting. "We are to be gone by morning."
"Dai'hain. Why do you insist on doing things I tell you not to do?" Said Azarin, in mock annoyance as he walked to her, reclaiming his shield and mace. "Someday, I might have to club you unconscious and take you upstairs with me."
The Priestess turned red, and her mouth opened as if she had some retort, then she instead growled, climbed onto her mare, and kicked her mare east. The Assassin merely laughed at their antics, and started walking. Israel finished his piss and gathered his weapons, grumpily trotting along after Azarin and Assassin.
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Post by Achtung Katie™ on Jul 22, 2008 23:43:35 GMT -5
I DON'T GET IT.
yay stories
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Necrotica
Novice
Stare death in the eye and smile
Posts: 716
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Post by Necrotica on Jul 24, 2008 22:21:39 GMT -5
Lightning crackled overhead, and thunder boomed loud enough to rattle the traveller's bones. Azarin drew his cloak about him tighter, and kept trudging through the mud. Ahead, the Priestess on her mare laughed, enjoying the rain and lightning immensely. Beside her, holding the reins of her mount, was Israel, and somewhere overhead, in the trees, was the Assassin. Three days ago, they had saved a village from being wiped off of the map by the soldiers of the tyrannical Lord Thurleon. Since then, two patrols and several groups of bandits had nearly stumbled upon the wary foursome, but none had managed to quite find their prey.
"Assassin. Lend me your eyes, brother. What do you see?" Asked Azarin, leaning his head back to bask in the rain.
Seconds later, with a moist thump, the Assassin landed on one knee beside Azarin, almost splashing him with mud.
"There is a caravan ahead, of what nationality I am unsure." Assassin said, "But there are guards, and many walk with a limp. Arrows stick from the sides of the wagons, so my assumption is that they were recently attacked."
Azarin ran a hand through his hair, then nodded his head. He gestured for Assassin to follow him, and jogged to where the Priestess and Israel had paused, waiting on their allies.
"There is a caravan ahead. Battle-weary. Possibly wounded." he informed them, and then shrugged. "We have two options. Avoid them, which is my suggestion, or-"
The Priestess cut him off. "Or my option, of mercy and kindness, like all good people. We must offer our aid, if we are to call ourselves good, kind people!"
The men chuckled at her remark. Azarin shook his head as Israel just snorted. The Assassin started climbing back into the trees. The companions began walking with purpose, towards the hamstrung caravan. Azarin adjusted his hood, hiding all of his face but his slight smirk, and stepped off to the side of the Priestess and Israel, as to not disturb the guards of the caravan. Moments later, they cleared the woods and stepped onto the main road, a few dozen feet away from the rear guard. Crossbows pointed in their directions, and the mercenary guards hefted their blades, heavy sabers from the far coast of Izkan.
"Hold thy blades, friends!" cried the Priestess, holding out her hands, palms up to show she meant no harm. "I am a travelling healer, and he my companion. One of several, actually."
"Oi. You look like a fine treat to me, eh boys?" Grumbled one of the crossbowmen, a nasty gleam in his eyes. "Why shouldn't we feather you now, and take what we want from your bloody corpses?"
Israel grinned, then cracked his knuckles. He reached towards the saddlebags of the mare, but the Priestess smacked him on his head. He grunted and let her do the negotiating.
"Kind sir, you and yours appear to be exhausted, and I am sure you are fresh from battle. However, I assure you, we are friend, not foe!" she said, then slid from her mare. She lifted the hem of her ivory skirt to keep it from getting stained by the mud, although it already had splatters of blood upon it from the wounded at the village.
"Too many times, we have heard this horse shit." Mumbled another mercenary, looking towards a well-dressed man with an axe on his back. "What say you, Backsplitter?"
The Assassin chose that moment to drop from the tree, landing a few feet from the Priestess. He rose gracefully, and the light from the caravan's lanterns caused his armor to gleam... and the howling wolf sigil on his helmet to flash. Several mercenaries took a step back, recognizing instantly the sigil of the legendary and infamous Assassin. And if that was not enough to give them pause, Azarin's sudden appearance from the gloomy woods was enough to cause the dead to turn in their graves. He smacked his mace against his shield and half of his face rose in a dangerous smile.
"Good sir," began Azarin sarcastically, "Backsplitter, was it? I suggest you tell your men to lower their crossbows, before I take over these... negotiations."
The mercenary growls, and gestures for his men to lower their weapons. He narrows his eyes... then barks a laugh.
"Is that you, Azarin, you white-haired devil?" Backsplitter said, slapping his thigh as he laughed. "What, you don't recognize one of your old war brothers, eh?"
Azarin studied the man for a moment, then threw back his hood. Several mercenaries hissed, recognizing him for who... and what... he was. Backsplitter grinned even wider, and walked forward, hand extended to clasp arms with his old friend.
"By the Dreaded One's fangs, is that you, Ayden?" Said Azarin, grinning less maliciously as he clasped arms with the bear of a man. "What happened to you? You got fat!"
Ayden snorted, then pushed Azarin playfully. "No, I got old. You, however, don't look half a moment older than when we fought in the war. However, you looked as ancient then as you do now." The man finished with a grin.
"Bah. You're still a moron, and your jokes are as stagnant as goat's piss." Said Azarin sourly, gesturing for his companions to approach.
"What are you doing out in these woods, anyway, you old demon?" Asked Ayden, turning around to walk back to the head of his caravan.
Azarin and his companions follow, the Priestess back on her mare. Israel followed dourly, wishing it had come to blows. The Assassin followed, his helmet under his arms. Many of the caravan stared at his face in awe, at either the dozen or so piercings in his flesh, including his eyebrows, nose, lip, and cheeks. Many more stared at the bizarre tattoo's all over his face, especially the reaper on his throat. He met their gazes evenly, and grinned at one women, who chose that exact moment to faint.
"To be honest? We just killed some of the self-imposed Lord Thurleon's raiders in the middle of pillaging and looting." Began Azarin. "We were on the way back from a bizarre religious mission bestowed upon the Lady Priestess we are currently travelling with."
"Where were you at? And how by the Grove did you find the Assassin in flesh?" Asked a bewildered Ayden.
Azarin chuckled before responding. "We found him half-dead at the feet of an angry black dragon. The religious mission I spoke of, you see. The dragon had stolen a sapling from one of the Sacred Groves."
Ayden spit on the ground. "Dragons. The whole lot of them, kill 'em all, I say."
Azarin chuckled again. "Careful what you wish for. If we didn't have the dragons, who would keep the barbarians from Griss from invading our fair kingdom with our wondrous lords and ladies like Thurleon?"
Both men chuckled as they headed to the front of the caravan, where Ayden had a luxurious home on wheels, so to speak. The companions found a dry place to rest, for the time being.
+++
Several hours and a good meal later, Azarin sat on a cliff as the rain dwindled to nothing more than a gentle mist. Standing beside him, with arms crossed over his chest, was the Assassin. Azarin sighed, closing his eyes.
"We're so close to home... I long for it, and yet, I dread it at the same time." said Azarin, taking a deep breath.
"Indeed. I pray that your home is as wondrous as you have told me, for I too long for a place to belong." Said the Assassin, showing a rare glimpse of emotion. "You and I, are much alike. Lost souls, perhaps... or maybe you and I, are fighting daily closer to our purpose?"
Azarin snorts. "You sound more intelligent when you let your sword talk."
The Assassin offers a faint smile to the wind, staring at the caravan far below. He knew he had struck a chord deep within the many layers and facades of Azarin's rough, outer shell...
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Necrotica
Novice
Stare death in the eye and smile
Posts: 716
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Post by Necrotica on Jul 27, 2008 0:44:17 GMT -5
Israel roared, heaving with all his might. His strength, along with that of several of the mercenary guards, was enough to lift the wagon. One of the carpenters slid the new wheel into place, and fell back with a grunt. Israel lowered the wagon and panted, sweat running down his face. Azarin chuckled, leaning against a boulder with a huge lizard on his shoulder. Azarin lifted his hand, and the lizard snatched a bit of meat from his fingertips, then scurried back off onto the rock. Azarin pushed himself off the rock and walked over to Israel, patting him on the shoulder.
"Well done, my large and somewhat sentient companion." Chuckled Azarin, walking past the huge man towards the Priestess on her mare, who was conversing with a few of the displaced villagers in the caravan.
Israel muttered several unkind things about Azarin's mother, then kicked the wheel into place. The man that had made the wheel adjusted it so that it would not come loose, and the caravan started up once again. The arrows that had riddled most of the wagons and carts were gone, and much repair work had been done. The wounded had been healed or helped, and very few men sported bandages, and those that did had clean linen. Even the most surly of the mercenaries now were grudgingly respectful of the newcomers, and shared their fires at night and spirits during the day. The Assassin stood on one of the wagon hitches, meditating while maintaining his balance in full armor.
"How far are we from the Sanctuary, Priestess?" Asked Azarin as he walked towards her and her entourage of displaced villagers.
"A day, if we have no more problems like today," She said, and then shrugged. "But the Goddess knows, problems seem to follow the four of us like moths to a flame."
Azarin chuckled dryly, then shrugged himself as he walked towards the rear of the caravan. The road was starting to raise in elevation, climbing up the foothills of the great mountain ranges of Arador. Every couple of days, they would see birds leaving the trees far behind them, but every time it happened, the birds seemed to be getting closer and closer. Whatever was following them, was catching up. He hefted his dragon-headed flanged mace and pulled off his hood. Azarin hoisted himself up onto the last wagon and sat, two crossbowmen inside with him grumbling about the weather and how poor their pay was. Seconds before Azarin was going to point out the flaw in their discussion, a strange arrow slammed into one of the crossbowmen. He blinked in shock, then slumped over convulsing.
The white haired warrior scowled, then leapt from the wagon. He slammed his mace against his shield and let out a howl. A second bone arrow whistled towards Azarin's chest, but it thudded against his black iron shield and shattered, black ichor oozing from the shards. Azarin laughed wildly and twirled his mace. Several creatures in dark grey robes stepped from the tree cover, many with bows. The rest had huge scimitars with serrated edges on the back, for ripping and tearing apart their victims and horses. The leader of the Vynga's bared rotten fangs and hissed at Azarin. The Vynga, an eccentric race of half-rotted lizardmen from the Dark Bogs, were known for their use of poisons and their berserker combat styles.
"You are a long way from home, lizard." Said Azarin, licking his lips hungrily, "But I must say. I do fancy a bit of Vynga steak."
The Vynga commander snarled, and the spike crest on it's head bristled. It tore aside the black robe and revealed an odd suit of armor, made from hundreds of scale moltings to create armor as sturdy as platemail, but as flexible as skin. A demonic emblem was emblazoned onto the armor, and all sorts of runes were gilded in blood red onto the black and purple armor. It had two scimitars, and a spike-ring on it's long, agile tail. Azarin grinned, and stepped forward.
"So, lizard. It's just you and-" He is cut off by an arrow thudding into his shoulder. Azarin blinked, then staggered back. He dropped his shield as his fingers went numb, and stared hard at the arrow, made from human bones.
"Well. That was uncalled for." He mumbled, then stumbled against the wagon he had just leapt off of.
The Vynga's leader made an expression of mirth, and raised both scimitars high for a killing blow. Azarin looked up at the lizard and narrowed his eyes. He chuckled as the lizardman blinked, and dropped both weapons. The Assassin had cut the creature's head in half. The Assassin leapt from the wagon's roof and twirled his blade, eying the rest of the Vynga. The leader's corpse suddenly stopped writhing, and a rancid odor filled the air as it seemed a pus oozed from the creatures rapidly rotting corpse. The Assassin stepped to the side, blade at the ready.
Backsplitter roared, pumping his axe into the air. A few mercenaries formed a defensive line to either side of him, taking positions near the Assassin. Israel walked slowly towards the battle as well, growling menacingly. Azarin snapped the arrow, leaning forward to let the ichor drain out. The necrotic poison hissed on the dirt of the road, and he grinned as he looked up at the Vynga.
"They fight almost as dirty as I do. Too bad they are..." Azarin chuckles. "A lesser species. Time to die."
Azarin steps forward, taking his part in the formation. Several of the Vynga rush forward, engaging mercenary and the companions alike. One of the archer Vynga nocked an arrow to it's scaled cheek and hissed, letting loose to end a mercenary's life. The man moaned as he dropped to his knees, hands clasped tight around the shaft in his gut. Azarin looked back ahead, and narrowly avoided being impaled. He growled, and clicked the release on his mace... and when the dragon's head impacted the Vynga's chest, the mace burst into flames, searing the creature. It let out a reptillian, raspy scream and staggered back, shielding it's face... but Azarin followed. His mace slammed into the creature's arm, splintering bone, and then into the creature's skull, ending it's life.
Taking his lead, Ayden roared and charged forward. His axe lopped off one Vynga's arm at the shoulder, then the spike on the tip impaled a second in the chest, and before the first could take Ayden's life, the Assassin had cut off it's arm at the elbow and it's head, quickly sidestepping the tail's lethal swipe as the creature writhed out it's death throes. Yet another Vynga screamed something in a raspy tongue, but before it could charge into the fray, Israel slammed his spiked shoulderplate into the creature, shredding it's intestines. As it slammed into a tree, broken and whimpering, he punched another in the head, popping one of it's eyes and splintering the bones of it's face.
The Vynga, the element of surprise gone, were fighting furious, and more poured out of the woods. At least a score of the creatures were scurrying towards the combat to join the dozen still alive. The archers dropped their bows and drew scimitars as well, leaping towards the melee. Azarin slammed his flaming mace into the back of a Vynga, and it howled in agony and dropped to it's knees before a mercenary slit the creature's throat. He nodded his thanks, but Azarin was gone, fighting another Vynga already. The Assassin gracefully danced around a slash of a scimitar, then tapped the Vynga on the side of the head. The dim creature turned it's head towards the tap, and lost the top half of it's skull. He chuckled under his helmet, then hissed in annoyance as a Vynga sunk it's teeth into his forearm. His armor protected him from the punctures, but the pressure was still annoying. Before the Assassin could kill the Vynga, however, Israel pulped the back of the lizardman's skull. The big man grinned at Assassin before spinning around to demolish another Vynga.
A loud crack split the sound of the steel on steel as the Priestess smashed her little mace into one of the Vynga. The creature was thrown violently as if slapped by the tail of a great dragon. She frowned and narrowed her eyes in concentration, fighting to wherever she saw a wounded mercenary, where she would then lay glowing, silver hands upon his injury and he would rise up, fighting once more. A particularly nasty Vynga with an extra pair of arms howled and stepped towards the Priestess warily, hefting a pole axe and two blades adroitly. Azarin snarled, and looked at the Vynga eying him hungrily. He slammed stiffened fingers into the creature's chest, and it blinked, confused... then barked, or coughed, as Azarin's fingers tore through the scale and sinew and bones. They wrapped around the creature's heart, and then he ripped it from the creature's chest. It staggered back, eyes wide and wild... then convulsed. Mid-convulsion, the creature spun, cutting another Vynga in half. Azarin kept walking towards the Priestess, as his newfound heartless companion attacked his one-time allies with gleeful abandon.
Before the four-armed Vynga could attack the Priestess, however, a low, melancholy horn sounded. The surviving Vynga, give or take a score, hissed and slowly disengaged from combat, retreating back into the forests and gloom that had hidden them so well moments before. The Priestess knelt beside a mercenary and put his guts back into him, and healed the man before rising unsteadily. Azarin caught her, the Vynga's heart still clasped, beating, in his off hand. His mace was back on his belt, and he offered her a faint smile. The Vynga he had captured staggered amongst the corpses, missing an arm and half of it's head. The hole in it's chest oozed blood and pus. Azarin met the baleful glare of it's remaining eye with a smile... and popped the creature's heart like a rotten grape. The Vynga dropped abruptly, dead.
"Well. Vynga on the road to Sanctuary." Muttered Ayden in disbelief. "What is this, the War of Shadows all over again?"
Azarin wrapped his arm around the Priestess' shoulder, as she leaned against him. He looked at Ayden and then at Assassin and Israel, both recovering from minor injuries and exhaustion. One of the men stationed in the scouting party sprinted to Ayden, panting. He held up a hand, then finally steadied enough to speak.
"Cap'n," he said, panting, "Smoke on the horizon. Looks like Sanctuary is under siege."
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Post by Blakk on Aug 10, 2008 19:45:43 GMT -5
The mercenaries still able to fight, both those with minor injuries and those without, adjust the straps on their armor and weapons, last minute preparations for what is to come. Two of the men with the blacksmith helped Ayden get into his field-plate armor, tightening the straps accordingly. The blacksmith handed Ayden his massive, double-moon battle axe from the days of the War of Shadows. Israel too was preparing for the siege ahead, pulling on his spiked, razor-edged plate gauntlets. The blacksmith had found him a helmet as well, with grafted horns for him to use, and spikes on the forehead so he could head-butt his enemies. Azarin stood at the edge of the forest, looking ahead to where distant Sanctuary sat, besieged. The outer limits of the city seemed breached, and that was where the smoke seemed to be coming from. Buildings burned, and bodies probably were rotting in the streets. Beside Azarin was the Assassin, who already had unsheathed his blade. Although the two had not spoken verbally, enough had been said for them to both know what was ahead. Dotting the fields around the city were tents and siege equipment, and several banners that were not decipherable at this range. The one banner that could be indentified from where they stood, was perhaps the most disturbing of them all.
"Is that..." the Priestess began, hesitating. "Is that what I think it is, Azarin?"
The white haired warrior sighed, nodding his head. It was a banner of the Dark Paladins. Their kind had not been reported seen since the War of Shadows, and before the war, they had not raided the lands of men for a thousand years. Far north and further east, where the cruel mountain spires of the dragons begin, there was a volcanic rift in which a castle had been built from black iron and obsidian. It was there that the Hellcourt assembled, and the dark paladins were consecrated into their demonic armor for life. During the War of Shadows, the Dark Paladins had served as the vanguard of despair, and as elite bodyguards to the Dread Lord.
"If there is even one of them here, Azarin..." Assassin said, quietly, "The scales are far from tipped in our favor. If it is one of the survivors from the War of Shadow..."
Azarin scowled. He ran his fingertips along the horrific scar on his face, then nodded his head. He walked over to the Priestess's mare, and reached into the saddlebags. He tossed the Assassin a strange weapon, two metal rods connected by about a foot of chains. Israel had already gotten his gloves from the bag. Azarin pulls out his arrows and bow. He puts a string on the yew wood, testing the pull, then nods once more.
"Very well. Priestess, cast your blessings on the mercenaries and Ayden. For myself and for Israel, I have a few ... things ... I'd like to share. Assassin, choose your blessings wisely. The Priestess may grant you courage and strength, but I will give you an edge, and a ferocity that our enemies will fear."
The Assassin chuckles. He looks at his blade, then at Azarin. He shrugs, then walks away from both groups. Israel stands beside Azarin, already breathing heavy, eyes wild with adrenaline and fury. The Priestess walks amongst the mercenaries, placing a hand on each man's shoulder or chest. Strength and courage were granted to each by her Goddess of the Moon. Azarin spit on the ground and held out his hand, palm up.
"Keeper of Souls, Lord of the Damned. I ask you to accept my blood and grant us your favor in the battle ahead, so that we may give you many, many souls to harvest."
Throughout the caravan, the animals become uneasy. Horses whickered and tugged at their reins, while the dogs barked and howled, cowing behind their owners. The skies overhead, already grey from the rain and smoke, seemed to get even darker. Lightning flickered high in the heavens, and Azarin ran his thumbnail over his palm. A crimson line appeared, and several drops of blood dripped to the ground. When the blood touched the soil, it hissed and evaporated. Azarin's eyes flickered, rolling up in the back of his head.
Azarin shivers, and Israel leans his head back, growling as the crimson energy curls around his arms and legs, crawling over his body. Both of the men were panting, and Azarin even dropped to his knees. The energy got more intense, forcing Israel to his knees as well, and the temperature around them increased significantly. Just as abruptly as it began, it ended. Azarin rose to his feet, on shaky knees. Israel stood as well, punching his fists together.
"I think I will no get used to that, ever." boomed Israel, staring longingly towards the enemy far ahead.
"Nor will I." mumbled Azarin, tossing his head as if to clear it of confusion.
The two men started walking towards Sanctuary. Joining them were the mercenaries, Assassin, then the crossbowmen. Behind that was the Priestess and volunteer help for the wounded, as well as the blacksmith and his boys, with their hammers and extra armor. Several men from the wagons also knew how to use bows, and had been hunters before war struck, and also marched with the warriors towards Sanctuary. Azarin handed Israel his shield and put his mace on his belt, nocking an arrow.
+++
The Captain of the Watch growled, looking down from his position on the wall. Six days of siege, and the outskirts of the city were lost. The Wall was damaged in three places, and the main gate was nearly off of its hinges. Things were grim... very grim. The main body of the force were humans, but it was laced with Vynga lizardmen. The worst of all, there was a man on a black stallion in the same armor as one of the Dark Paladins. He hefted his halberd, the blade coated in dried blood and ichor from the Vynga. Corpses littered the ground around the wall, and the smoke from the outer town was making it difficult to breathe as the winds shifted and blew smoke towards the wall.
"Captain, I don't know how much longer the wall can hold," said a veteran of the guard, rubbing the bandage over his eye. "The masons are runnin' out o' stone to fix the wall where it gets damaged, and the gate is abou' to cave in."
The Captain nodded, and sighed. He gestured, and the men of the day watch swapped with the midwatch. The day watch headed down the ramps to get food and water, and find a place to sleep close to the walls in case they were needed. The last two ballistas were near the main gate.
{[ To be continued ]}
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Necrotica
Novice
Stare death in the eye and smile
Posts: 716
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Post by Necrotica on Aug 11, 2008 18:09:15 GMT -5
The hellsteed snorted, and flickers of flame erupted from the beast's flared nostrils. The men around it cowered, terrified of the steed's sharp fangs and fire breath, and all around knew that the steed's master, a cruel creature named Dyska, would let the beast kill as it pleased. The Vynga beside Dyska in their robes hissed and rasped to one another in their foul language, mocking the men that had once been the proud soldiers of one of the local lords. This was the final surge, the attack that would break the backs of these pathetic people of Sanctuary.
"Crush them." Dyska said, in a voice like a landslide.
The Dark Paladin flicked his reins, and his hellsteed reared, roaring. It spewed fire, then started charging forward. Dyska turned the steed, and ran across the front lines, not saying anything... but the men and Vynga roared and cheered. The soldiers started marching. The army was not huge, but for a town the size of Sanctuary, an enemy with nearly five hundred soldiers and a hundred Vynga was quite incredible, as well as a Dark Paladin. Dyska's warriors picked up the battering ram and started walking towards the gate. A few paltry arrows fell short of their targets from the wall, and a ballista bolt tore a Vynga in half. A ragged cheer came from the wall, but it ended when the two catapults let loose jagged chunks of rock and wood from the forest. Men dove for cover, and some fell from the wall screaming.
+++
The mercenaries picked up the pace as Ayden roared. The caravan had hidden in the forest, far from the road since the majority of the guards were now charging with their commander. The Assassin was running about twenty feet away from the mass of warriors, headed towards the catapults. Azarin was at the head of the charge, slightly behind Israel. Israel let out a bloodcurdling roar, and started sprinting towards the rear of the enemy lines. The few guards posted there turned, and then drew their weapons, charging the mercenaries. Sixty or so of the soldiers and a score of Vynga charged behind the rearguard, hearing the battle cries. The archers marching halted, and nocked arrows.
The archers let loose the first volley, and nearly a dozen enemy were hit, some killed. Several Vynga pulled bows as well, preparing to return fire, and one was feathered in the eye by Azarin as he charged. A second and final volley killed half a dozen more enemy, and then the mercenaries slammed into the charging human and Vynga rearguard. Israel wrapped his hand around a Vynga's throat, shredding the scales, then slammed the lizard into one of the humans. When both fell, he dropped down and slammed a knee into the man's chest, before slamming his fists into his head over and over, breaking bone and cartilage. Azarin jumped over his back to slam his mace into one of the enemy humans, breaking the man's shoulder and collarbone. The man fell screaming, and Azarin continued his charge. The companions had one hope--- make enough of a disturbance that the defenders would rally and break the attack, and save the mercenaries. If that didn't work...
"Azarin!", roared Israel, "Let us find the fool Dark Paladin and ruin his day!"
Azarin grinned wickedly and threw back the cowl of his cloak. He slammed his shield into the face of a Vynga, then followed up with the flaming mace, ignoring the creature's begs for mercy. He started walking towards the banner of the Dark Paladin, hell in his eyes. Israel followed closely behind him, his fists imbued by unholy magic as well as his reflexes and agility. Both men prayed tha the blessing would be enough to distract the Dark Paladin long enough to break the creature's forces.
+++
The Assassin dropped low, hidden by the high grass that was miraculously untrodden by the soldiers all around him. He began crawling towards the catapults, left mostly unguarded. The huge men operating the catapults were in dark leather armor, and their helmets hid their features from view. The Assassin crawled even closer, and sheathed his strange sword. He leapt from the grass, smashing his strange metal rods with the chain at one of the men's skull. The man managed to turn before the rod hit, but still lost most of his face. However, much to the Assassin's chagrin, it was not a man's face, but something far more savage. The creature whimpered and snarled as it fell to the ground, dead. The other five of them roared, drawing wicked, serrated blades from sheathes on the catapults. The Assassin sighed, and crouched low. These were savage cannibals from the far north, in the Sands of Despair, beyond the dragon spires and mountains. The fact that they were here, this far south was not good at all.
He ducked under the first cleave, then smashed his unique weapon against the creature's side, cracking several ribs. The cannibal snarled, then staggered towards the Assassin, fangs bared to bite him. The Assassin raked the man's throat with his gloves, and the spikes built into the palm slit his throat. Blood splurted as the man dropped, dead or dying. The four remaining cannibals backed away, talking to each other in a harsh, gutteral language. Two leapt at him, swinging blades mercilessly, as the other two tried to flank him. The Assassin chuckled, then jumped forward, kicking one of the cannibals in the face. The man's nose splattered messily against his face and he howled, dropping his blade. The force propelled the Assassin backwards, and as he flipped in the air to land on his feet, he spun and smashed his metal rod weapon against the skull of a second cannibal. Blood, bone, and brain tissue splattered the Assassin and his armor. He simply sighed as he landed, and drew his blade to finish off the two remaining cannibals.
+++
"What in the seven hells?" muttered the Captain of the Watch, staring at the rear of the enemy formation. They were rushing to engage something coming from the road leading to the town.
"Sir, I do believe that is Ayden's caravan, and his mercenaries do be attacking." Said one of the archers, feathering a Vynga in the throat.
"By the Gods, sound the horns. Prepare the men for anything!"
The horns were blown, but the sound was nearly drowned out by the sound of one of the ballistas exploding. The Dark Paladin stood at the front of his men, and an orb of fire danced over his palm. The debris from the ballista rained down on some of the men and on both sides of the wall, but the fires were put out quickly on the safe side of the wall. The Captain snarled, and ordered his archers to fire upon the Dark Paladin. The arrows seemed to hit an invisible wall and just bounce off of it, some even shattering.
The ballista crew on the remaining ballista were almost ready to flee, but chose instead to turn their huge weapon towards the Dark Paladin. His attention seemed to be on the gate, and he didn't see the crew adjust the weapon so that they could fire it upon him. Before the Dark Paladin could turn to destroy the ballista, they fired the spear-like bolt at him and dove for cover.
+++
Azarin caught an axe on his shield, then smashed the man's face with a growl. Beside him, Israel pulled an arrow out of his bicep, then stuck it in the back of a Vynga's scaled head. The creature thrashed as it died, cutting Israel's side before smashing into the spine of one of it's allies, killing the man. Azarin grinned at Israel, then they both started charging towards the front of the enemy ranks. Behind them came a ragged surge of mercenaries, led by Ayden and his massive axe. Ayden cut a Vynga in half, then roared to invigorate his soldiers. They were about to be in for one hell of a fight.
The companions and Ayden alike were startled by a huge crash, and Azarin was nearly torn apart by a huge slung log. The Assassin stood atop the second catapult, the first torn apart by cut ropes and tension that had thrown logs like projectiles through the enemy ranks. The Assassin had an arrow in his side, but he stood proud atop the catapult. Azarin made the symbol for an untimely death at the Assassin with a chuckle, then stepped over a few broken corpses. He and Israel charged forward, as Ayden led his men to rally around the Assassin. Both paused as they saw the Dark Paladin on its knees, a huge ballista bolt through its black breastplate. As the two companions watched in awe and chagrin, the Dark Paladin rose, and glared balefully at the ballista that just shot at him. He pumped his fist towards the ballista, and a bolt of molten rage and fire blew the ballista and at least one crewman to the seven hells.
"So, Azarin," panted Israel, looking at the Dark Paladin hard, "Whose idea was it to fight this one?"
Azarin's only response was a dark chuckle. Black and blue bolts of electricity danced off of his shoulders.
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