SUMMER

Angkar: Wet season. Precipitation is common during the late afternoon and evening hours. Vegetation grows significantly during the summer, but flooding is a danger due to the monsoons that ravage the country. The rainforest sees evenly distributed rainfall throughout the season.

Ashoka: Desert: Extremely hot and dry. Violent, heavy downpours following long dryspells. Jungle: Hot and humid with frequent, violent rainstorms.

Morrim: Relatively hot and dry, but with a chance of thunderstorms from time to time. The heat may cause forest fires.

Soto: Hot and humid, tree cover is dense while ground growth is restricted. Thunderstorms see the most amount of rainfall during the season, and it can be very windy. On occasion, there are flash floods that can destroy homes and farms built on flood plains.

ANNOUNCEMENTS

March 30th, 2018 As you might have noticed, Elenlond has changed hands and is now under new management! If you have any questions, please direct them to DaringRaven! As for the rest of the announcements, including a season change, you can find them over here at the following link!

January 16, 2018 As you might have noticed, Elenlond has a new skin, all thanks to Mel! Don't forget to check out the new OTMs as well!

December 2, 2017 Winter has settled on Elenlond, bringing sleep for some and new life for others.

September 26, 2017 With the belated arrival of autumn come some interesting developments: new OTMs, a Town Crier and the release of the Elly Awards winners!

July 14, 2017 After a bit of forum clean-up, Elly Awards season has arrived! Head on over to make your nominations!

May 31, 2017 Summer has arrived and so has activity check! That's not all though – we also have some new OTMs for you and some staff changes!


WHAT IS ELENLOND?

Elenlond is an original free-form medieval fantasy RPG set on the continent of Soare and the Scattered Isles, which are located to the south in the Sea of Diverging Waters. The four chief nations of the western side of the world—Ashoka in northern Soare, Soto in western Soare, Morrim in eastern Soare, and Angkar, the largest of the Scattered Isles—continue to experience growth and prosperity since the fall of the Mianorite gods, although power struggles within the countries—or outside of them—continue to ensue.


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    The Hue and Cry; Act II, Scene II - The Peasant's Revolt
    Topic Started: Sep 30 2014, 09:07 AM (645 Views)
    Juul Shaepah
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    |Spring, 8AR


    The plains were dark, the moon new, giving no light to the proceedings. Clouds carpeted the night sky, pregnant with potential rain, and the wind was lazy, blowing through clothes and armour to cut through to the bone. The high grasses of the plains shifted somewhat, giving an ethereal voice to it. Joining it was the nickering of horses and ponies, the grunts of men and women, the rattle of armour and weapons. Juul shifted in the saddle and spat heavily, eyes fixed on the orange glow at the bottom of the slight slope the mounted group had stopped on.

    The scouts had come back two days ago, with tales of a rough camp to the north, full of wagons and tents and warriors. They had not seen much past the rough palisade, wisely preferring to remain out of sight and unmolested - but the instincts of the soldier told her that this was the property of the upstart King of the West, a supply camp in preparation to march to Vespasian knew where. An army marched on its stomach; where better to provision themselves than from the pocket of their enemy? She also hoped, vainly, to plunder some more armour and weapons - the embryonic peasant regiment had heart, and the pikes they had crafted were more than serviceable, but against the combined arms of trained infantry and the shock of mounted knights it needed an extra edge.

    A light rain began to fall, rustling the grass and plinking off the helmets and armour of the gathered riders. She had chosen those most skilled in horesemanship for this daring raid, equipping them from the pool of weaponary accumulated back in Skepia and the horses they had taken from the brigands. Her own mount, a dun mare, was a spirited beast, and she hoped that it proved a true steed in the heat of battle.

    A few of the new recruits - primarily those with horses, or those skilled otherwise - had joined them, providing, in her mind, some much needed muscle. She had drilled the peasants on how to ride in formation, and had harangued them again and again on the objectives of the mission - set fires, cause chaos, steal the wagons. Most importantly, keep moving. If they got locked in a protracted combat, all would be lost, and it would be a significant blow to morale back in the village.

    She narrowed her eyes at the distant camp, spotting at least five cookfires - that meant that there were at least sixty soldiers facing them. She hoped that surprise and daring would play to their advantage, and she breathlessly mouthed a small prayer to Vespasian, before she cast her eyes around the assembled group. Their eyes were set in a grim determination, though she could perceive a skittishness to a few of them. The newer recruits, the odd sellswords and adventurers that had joined the revolt, seemed a bit more indomitable, more used to the rigours of war, the rage of battle. She took a breath, holding it in her lungs before she spoke.

    "Alright soldiers. Ready yerselves, for we charge on my order. Remember, stick to th'plan, no heroics. Beat their ears with din, sear 'em with flames, starve 'em with theft."

    She glanced around, waiting for their assent, licking her top teeth in anticipation.
    Edited by Juul Shaepah, Sep 30 2014, 01:51 PM.
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    Etherone
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    Amidst the row of frowns, a neverending smile remained, so wide it was almost glowing in the dark. Was the face of Etherone Frej holding such an expression, the structure having taken his features captive the moment he had realized an enemy camp drawing nigh. This was it, the goal and reason of joining the comical company in the first place. A fight, splayed to the valley below, the little fires marking hot spots for some good old destruction.

    Had been a long wait for nightfall, ever since the announciation of a raid to take place at the Darkest dark, but it was nothing compared to the mere moments that the whole collective had now stood atop the tiny hill. He corrected his grip on Oska's reins for the hundreth time in anticipation, letting his gaze wander at the other participants in attempt of occupying his thought. It was not working really.
    Without glancing around too much, for he might have been taken for some murderous savage -or worse, nervous- if he displayed too much of his restlessness, his look returned forward. Also, should he have been browsing along the lines for another moment, he might have stumbled across Sinadryn. And meeting their stare was one of those he was happy to pass on, as of late. For in utmost and honest truth, he had not been scouting for the past few weeks before two days ago. Or, well, he had for a couple of days. Sort of.

    In his mind the chronological order of the events since leaving camp was somewhat blurry due to a certain substance, but the bottom line still remained the same. He had indeed split - might have been the third or fourth night-, leaving the Arsydian to carry out the assignment alone, if not ordering Moln to watch over the man that sported flashy white garments. What he had done after his forthnim was horribly uncertain, his memory wavering and giving out only a few details, like those of a bonfire and a travelsized distillery. For all he knew, he had been having a blast.

    He suspected he might also have been quite lost, ending up as such right after he had separated from his journey mate. It was no secret he had the built-in compass of a blind-deaf goose. So... after -probably- camping here and there for what seemed like a year -except that the season seemed to stay surprisingly same- he finally woke up one day to the passing of another. And whom else could it have been, but Mister Birthmark from twelve months ago, mounted on their steed in formation of a knightly entirety. At that particular moment of spotting them, he had not known for sure what he was doing in the small patch of woods amidst the plains -or even more importantly, what THEY were doing there-, but as he harnessed his rogueish skills and followed the man in both silence and curiousity, it had slowly returned to him. Definitively so when he had spotted the red headed lady yelling orders at the strangely familiar camp.

    Having recalled at least his ultimate purpose of being in the backwoods of Morrim, he had returned far off in Sinadryn's wake, staying to himself for the next day and not speaking of the journey he could remember. Which, to be frank, wasn't an awful lot.

    As the rainfall begun, a rather gentle shower to that, he could hear the adjustement of hoods and helmets around, the blip blop of droplets above all that adorned the sinister, grim scene. A stronger gust of wind swept by shortly after the drizzle had begun, humming in his ears and flapping through the cloaks and home-made banners of the crowd. He wasn't one to mind the cold of Morrimian Spring, nor the rain, thus why he kept smiling. The young man next to him let out a grunt of dismay, cursing the weather under their breath. His grin widened and he punched them lightly on their shivering, armoured shoulder.

    " Man up! This is nothin' compared to the storms at Svalaberg, where I come from! " He begun, gesturing at the Sky as he spoke. " Is a good omen, the Powers of Nature had come to witness and aid our Battle. " They stared at him for a moment in confusion, until falling back to their apathy, not blessing him with a response. Well, at least no one could say he hadn't tried.

    To a great surprise, mainly his own, he was able to stay silent then, staring to the dark akin to the rest of the group. Wonder if it calmed them to glower upon that which was to come, for the case surely wasn't the same with him. He got rather... talkative. Good thing the torture of sustained quiet wasn't to last for long.

    - ... Beat their ears with din, sear 'em with flames, starve 'em with theft.

    The determinate voice reached from the stricking ladyperson before the troops, their vocals just as impressing as their mounted stature. He grinned, a short and informative Aye! escaping him in response. Wasn't that he meant every bit of it, but at least it was to give some sense of collaboration to the Leader. They were a tough one to say No to, in all honesty.
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    Sinadryn Arsydian
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    Knight Errant

    Cyclone’s tail flicked. The air felt thick with anticipation and Sinadryn could feel his fingers tighten and loosen around his horse’s reins. The last time he could remember feeling like this, his country had been at war and he had been called to the battlefield, the King’s son, but not the King’s heir. Not the Crown prince, but the one who was allowed freedoms. The last time he had felt this kind of anticipation, he had been surrounded by his fellow knights. The people around him now were nothing of the sort.

    The scouting had been left up to him lately, which he didn’t mind. Etherone seemed... unreliable. That was being nice. And while Sin didn’t necessarily glower at the man for shirking his duty, he did have something of a disapproving stare, a frown, as it were. Because he had come from a legion of knights who were given strict orders and were expected to follow through on those orders. Etherone was an example of someone who either would have been removed from knighthood training or else given the worst tasks to complete as punishment for his ineptitude.

    Sin didn’t even want to know how they’d managed to lose the man at one point.

    He watched the fires in the distance, his expression becoming vacant as his vision blurred and he lost himself for a moment. Acting in darkness was probably for the best, but with so many untrained peasants, he couldn’t imagine what that would look like in the end. Sure, they wanted to rid themselves of their tormentors, but how many of them would end up dead before the night was through? He would have guessed the vast majority of them. Sinadryn decided that he’d bring home as many alive as he could. For what it was worth.

    Juul’s voice called out in the darkness as the rain started to fall. Reverie broken by her verbal intrusion, Sin glanced at her and gripped Cyclone’s reins firmly. Tempest was to stay back with the rest of the group. She would prove to be a hindrance, assuming she didn’t get trampled by one by one of the peasants’ horses.

    He reached down and unsheathed one of his short swords. Every muscle tensed, waiting on her next breath, her next order.
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    Deleted User
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    The camp was quiet.

    She did not know why she was here, nor did she even register that she was. She walked slowly past the fires, drawing glances and some bitter narrowed eyes: Ohtessa was like a finely tuned machine, but it came with the price of her humanity and while the rest of the men and women here were not working for good causes, at least they had that much. She had lit these fires, with wet kindling and blazing hands, without a word, without a question, without a single second thought. With no thought.

    With nothing.

    The light glinted off of her armor, about as useful as thin steel and coloured gold for gods-knew-what reason. Aesthetic? Intimidation? They meant nothing to Ohtessa, and only registered with those surrounding her.

    Her dainty boots squelched in the muddy grass, then stopped. Some peered sidelong at her. Some went on with their hushed and cold conversations. She stared straight ahead, and it wasn't sure if her hazel eyes were even seeing anything, but for some reason she had stopped. Her dead mind asked vaguely why, but there wasn't any answer and there was nothing to look at, nothing to investigate. There was something...

    Silently once more she knelt, not caring about getting wet knees, and held her hands before her.

    Do you know something we don't?

    The words in her head were her own, and in spite of her state she shuddered. It was cold. Her hands ignited, flickering like peaceful five-fingered candles.

    Why are you here?

    She stood and her hands dropped, though not lighting her clothes. That voice again....

    There was something in the hills.

    Like hell she was going to tell them.

    It wasn't what she had been told to do.
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    Juul Shaepah
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    A dark, doe-eyed gaze raked the assembled coterie, lids narrowed as she took in the constitution of the assembly. She spied Etherone's wide smile, though his words to a comrade were obscured to her by the tinkling rain. Though a wild card, he was powerful - she could not trust him to march in formation, or lead a drill, but by Vespasian the man could fight. The initial encounter had proved that. Further on, she saw Sinadryn, still clad in suspiciously clean white. She was glad for his presence also, he had an excellent head for combat, cool as springwater. His tendency for moral quandries in the heat of battle aside, she knew he was reliable.

    Her hand clutched the rough leather wrapping of her cudgel, made of stout oak and studded with bulbously-headed nails. A leather thong extended from its handle, wrapping around her gauntleted wrist, and her other hand clutched the rudimentary reigns extending from her mounts halter. She breathed again, her lips parting on the exhale, revealing her teeth in a devilish grin. Her guts were seized as if by a scribbling hand, toing and froing in an undulation that veered between anticipation and tredipation. She could feel the eyes of all on her, as she wheeled her mount, facing directly the target of their bloody intent.

    The cudgel was raised above her hed, the wood steadily becoming slick with the drizzling rain. There it remained, for five heartbeats, before it swept down savagely, the soldier kicking her mount into a gallop in the same motion.

    Down, down the slope she charged, the horse picking up speed. The grasses whirled under her in a blur, the chopping hooves of her steed sending shimmering droplets flying in her wake. Her eyes were fixed dead ahead - the fires grew closer, the blurred shapes around them becoming more distinct. She began to see the rough palisade, the shallow ditch, the horses tethered to wagons. She hit the flatland, and braced herself in the saddle, cudgel raised over her head. She had her first target.

    A lookout, huddled under a slick leather cloak, began a panicked run into the camp, his voice full of panicked warning. In two strokes she was upon, him, her cudgel sweeping down and braining him brutally. He hit the ground with a dull thud, the back of his head sagging like an overripe fruit. And then she was within the camp, her horse carrying her into the milling figures at watch, or sneaking a late meal. Right and left she swung, knocking men down with powerful strokes, the wood and iron rising and falling with a horrid regularity. Whether they were running, or unaware, of half braced, they fell. There was no distinction to her.

    The wagons were to her right, but the tents and fires were to her left. Swiftly, she swung her leg over her saddle and dismounted - the beast would prove a distraction to those still looking for a mounted figure. She heard the thundering hooves of her comrades, and stole backward glance as they rode in, the latter men dismounting and going for the still-yoked horses at the wagons. Satisfied that the plan was working, she stole into the camp, amongst the tents and fire, drawing her short sword and holding it in her left hand. Now the chaos would begin.

    Men were becoming aware of the threat now, half asleep or exhausted they stumbled towards the din of battle - thundering hooves, clashing steal, cries of the dying and the crazed. Her sword licked out, cutting guyropes and causing tents to collapse on the inhabitants. A shocked figure emerged before her, and she sent him to the ground with a backhanded blow across the face, giving a crying yelp as she felt his jaw collapse under the wood and iron. With no time to gloat, thje soldier paced toward the nearest fire.

    Here, men were milling in a panic, and didn't notice as she moved amongst them with a stinging blade, drawing steel on one another. In the confusion, she dropped her club, hanging now from her wrist, and picked up a lantern. She threw it venomously at a fallen tent, and it shattered, covering the shifting shapes of those trapped within in a thin oil. She then grabbed a burning brand, the heat from the wood searing her hand, and threw it at the diabolical concoction. It took flame almost immediately, the roar of the fire and the screams of the burned mixing together in a hellish chorus. As it rose, it spread, the flame licking the splayed material of the other collapsed quarters.

    She looked back, to see one of the wagons beating a hasty retreat, a peasant raider at the reins. she smiled, and began to cackle, the sound jarring against the awful din. Through the running figures, she saw one standing serenely, her clothing red, her pale hair lit by the destruction of the inferno she had created. Such passivity suggested calm, suggested an officer. She took up her club once more with the snap of a wrist, and pushed past a panicked, half-dressed soldier, seeking to despatch the woman, or better - capture her for the information she held.
    Edited by Juul Shaepah, Dec 1 2014, 09:12 PM.
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    Deleted User
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    The roar of fire and heavy strong voices swirled around her in a maelstrom, tossing her hair, though the flames didn't harm her. Almost dully Ohtessa looked around, eyes half-lidded and expressionless as she took it all in. A vague sense of confusion niggled in her inner mind: what was she supposed to do? Which ones were enemies?

    Whatever programming had been set into her overrode this confusion when a head of fiery hair stood out among the others on horseback. Up and up Ohtessa gazed, to see the very flames she herself had set reflected in those dark eyes.

    For a moment they only locked gazes, and as Juul made for her the young pyromancer drew her blade, tiny bright flames licking the darkened steel. Her other hand out-stretched, hooking and drawing up more fire from the chaos around her. Her face as deadpan as ever, as though she were drugged or reading a very boring book, Ohtessa waited to be approached, ducking the rushing cudgel at the last moment. The soggy trampled earth squealed beneath her booted feet when she whirled, still in a crouching position, using the inertia to fling a fist-sized ball of flame at her attacker, who seemed to be turning once more. Firebrand snarled through the air as another attacker -- or was it an ally? -- came from her left, cutting a bright smouldering swath in their armor. Her eyes turned once more to Juul, waiting again to be attacked first. Even in this state, Ohtessa was neither aggressive nor proactive.
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    Sinadryn Arsydian
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    Knight Errant

    As any good leader would, Juul led the charge. Sin held Cyclone’s reins tightly as he spurred his horse on. Hooves thundered across the plains as the group charged towards the fires. The wind made the cold seep through his garments into his very bones. He let go of the reins with one hand so he could draw his cloak tighter around his body, flashes of white from the rest of his clothing visible from time to time when parts of the fabric flipped out. The fires came up quickly. Juul charged straight into the camp, picked her targets one after the other, executed them with precise brutality. Sin felt his stomach churn as he came up behind her with the other peasants, watched as she threw oil and set fire to a collapsed tent. He focused on anything other than the screams of the dying.

    These people are not innocent. It’s kill or be killed.

    But burning to death…?


    Sin dismounted. A panic-stricken soldier charged at him wielding a rusted sword. Sin unsheathed his short sword and parried the maneuver, backing into Cyclone’s flank as the soldier slashed at him again in desperation. But this was the price the camp would pay for being unprepared, for letting themselves be ambushed. Anyone who wasn’t on their side was an enemy. That was how war worked. The knight dodged again and drove the weapon through the man’s gut, twisting it and withdrawing; his opponent fell like a stone, panic replaced by pain and then emptiness. Sin turned away.

    There is no dignity in this.

    Another charged him with a spear. The tip caught the knight’s thigh, slicing through cloak and pant leg to inflict a small gash. He flinched as he shifted to the side, felt the blood run down his leg. His new adversary drew back, smirking, made another attempt at a stab. Sin avoided it, tossed his weapon to the side and grabbed the weapon’s shaft. He yanked as hard as he could and forced the soldier to lurch forward as his opponent cried out in surprise. The knight managed to wrench the weapon out of the other’s grasp and used the butt end to wind the man. The soldier gasped and doubled over. Sin used that moment of weakness to lunge. The two of them tumbled to the ground and as Sin pressed his knee into the man’s chest, he drew his other short sword and plunged it through the man’s neck. He wiped the blade on the soldier’s clothes, sheathed it, and retrieved the one he’d thrown to the ground.

    Kill or be killed.

    A nearby peasant struggled with an attacker. Sinadryn stepped in, helped fend off the enemy soldier. The peasant ran in and stabbed the woman in the kidney with his knife. She cried out. The peasant jumped on her like a rabid animal.

    Nearby fire caught his eye. He turned to see Juul fighting a woman—a pyromancer. Someone else appeared on scene, but in the darkness and the rain—and despite the fires—he couldn’t make out who it was. “Juul!” Sin’s body tensed to run towards her.

    Someone slammed into his back.

    He hit the ground hard, narrowly avoided slicing himself on his own weapon. The knight tried to push himself up onto his knees, slid in the mud as the weight of a body pushed him back down. Feet pounded in front of his face. With some difficulty, he managed to roll out from beneath the body. He pulled his sword out and staggered to his feet. The commotion only seemed to build around him.
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    Kelvin Friedhelm
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    Salted meat, unleavened bread, and more alcohol than he had seen since his last contract with a Sotoan Councillor, he rode his own steed ahead of the three wagons in the small train he and five other guardsmen where assigned to. Another rode at the rear and the other four spaced themselves about the group. Kelvin signaled to the guards closest to them and they copied the motion, every man in the group rotating positions, so Kelvin was now riding forward right. Each then made a brief scan on their surroundings and went back to plodding forward. It wasn’t such a risky journey, which was one of the reasons he had taken on the job. A smart guardsman didn't throw himself into danger- he would be paid the same either way. Still, Kelvin looked forward to morning. His contract binding him to this warband would end tomorrow, and tomorrow he would ride back towards the larger cities, where the larger jobs were always advertising.

    They were still two miles off from the camp when the signs started to appear, trampled and broken grass from large numbers of horses and the repeated paths of wagons, smaller scorched portions of earth marking fires from cold sentries. It became slightly more common until the camp came into sight, a nostalgic sight to his eyes, even if the soldiers were not. Camps were places of comfort and comradery. Just before sunset they arrived, saddle sore and hungry. The sentry at one of the breaks in the palisade surrounding the camp halted them for half an hour while another wagon train that had arrived earlier slowly maneuvered into an orderly line. The most important thought that passed through his head during this was a concern for the weather, A racing sunset later all the wagons were lined up and ready for quick departure in the morning, the darkening sky giving little chance to unhook the beasts from their wagonloads. Instead, the heavier pieces of harness were loosened for comfort and feed arrived in buckets identical to the ones containing water.

    It wasn’t the best solution, the animals could put up with it, if Kelvin was capable of putting up with sleeping under the wagon. No unruly soldier was going to sneak off with a barrel of beer on his watch. A few other guards were doing similarly, some pitching small tents, but most were simply bedding down under the dozen or so wagons, the lucky ones taking a space inside the half emptied covered wagons. Early tomorrow they would unload the wagons and head back before another train arrived at the camp to fill their place. Kelvin was grateful for the lush grass in this area- not yet ground to dust by soldier boots because of the constant traffic wagons parked here. He stretched and grabbed his canvas bag from within the wagon, tossing it underneath- the three foot clearance was barely and obstacle as the tired man swung himself under the bed, rolling in a traveling cloak. Next to him was his blade and armor, wrapped to protect them from the morning wet- under his head the majority of his other possessions. It wasn’t long before sleep claimed him.

    ---

    A gentle rain broke his sleep around too-damn-soon O’clock, and the Kelvin almost had returned back to his previous state of bliss when the yelling started, specifically to a group of men awaking the large horses that had bore this wagon to camp, the group hastily harnessing the horses while another clambered up. Groggily, he could see flames bursting behind them and screams, the shadows of rushing men. Five hours. JUST GIVE ME FIVE HOURS.

    No doubt the group was surprised when a crossbow bolt embedded itself into the lower thigh of one of their companions, or the mans scream as he was dragged under the wagon and silenced. But most certainly shocking must have been the man clad in metal plated leather who appeared from the side of the wagon, wielding a sword the length of a longsword despite its curve and size. Kelvin batted aside a spear and closed, grasping the false side of his blade with one hand and half-swording within the closed group, where spears and longer weapons were made useless by proximity. The scruffy men weren't experienced enough to understand what to do so close, the dumbest attempting to strike him with the hafts of their spears and the more intelligent dropping their weapons and going for their belt knives. Fortunately for them, or unfortunately, Kelvin went straight for debilitation rather than death. He struck out using his elbows, the pommel of his blade, and upper half of it, most blows aiming for the head or throat. Others trying to replicate his tactics found his armor more than willing to take a beating. The short skirmish ended with only one dead, one on the way, and another that either couldn't move, or had lost his will. The later easily relieved of his conflict with a swift kick.

    One of the other wagons had already made its towards the gate, and a few others were only delayed by virtue of the few other guards who had slept among their charges. Those who had taken their leave in tents were less fortunate than those under the wagons- who for the most part seemed to go unnoticed long enough to collect themselves; the assailants were handy enough with their spears and polearms when it came to butchering tents. Their inexperience was clearer in actual combat, but one by one solitary guards were overwhelmed, the longer reach of their attackers weapons easily outdoing swords. Clearly, if these men had not many combative experiences, they had certainly had some disciplinary training. Deadly so long as they could keep in groups, and a good spear-length a from their targets.

    Others moved towards his wagon, many coming on horses, and so Kelvin took the easy route, quickly raising his sword overhand and hacking at the tethers and harnesses with the razor sharp blade until scraps were left. With a slap on the rears of the wagon horses he broke away from his own wagon and dashed the short distance to cut through the harnesses on the wagon next to him.

    ”Cut ‘em free!” Kelvin roared as loud as he could towards the other guards. ”These en’t going anywhere with no way to pull ‘em!” The vibration in the ground felt more audible than the sound of the hooves as he ducked and scrambled to the side as a horse pounded past and a blade passed through the air he had recently vacated- for preference in personal space, as few minds appreciate sharing their skull-space with pieces of metal. Kelvin to the first wagon and sheathed his blade, picking up a cast off spear. It was a better weapon for facing horsemen. That thought held in mind, Kelvin somehow convinced himself to leap back into the conflict, using the spear to fend off others and shove those he could from their saddles- if not puncture something important.

    In the madness of pouring blood and water, a horse rammed into him with its shoulder, knocking him back into another fighting on the ground whose stance saved Kelvin, if not he himself, from a potentially fatal fall. He stabbed up swiftly, bracing his feet on either side of the fallen man for just a moment- long enough to impale his attacker- who slumped off of his mount and fell- atop the poor man on the ground, having the audacity to yank Kelvin’s spear out of hands as he did so. Inconveniencing two fighters, in death.

    A grimace was etched into his face when he drew his sword dashed away from the fallen man. Kelvin wasn’t a soldier anymore, and this wasn’t really his fight to be involved in. He had killed three men now, and wounded a few more besides, yet who were these people? His stomach roiled. It wasn't the first time he had killed without knowing who he was fighting. It hopefully wouldn't be the last time he regretted it either.
    Edited by Kelvin Friedhelm, Dec 8 2014, 09:08 PM.
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    Etherone
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    The Shaepah let their minions wait a little longer, both anticipation and tension rising each passing second, their authoritan gaze upon the troops as if measuring. Etherone's grin deepened knowingly, his look bouncing between the target and the leading soldier for a bit, monitoring the authoritan Lady's gestures. Since it was a surprise attack -or at least was supposed to be- he didn't exactly expect a victorious 'Charge!' from them, thus the signal would only be by mute order. Like a true commander, they had claimed a spot at the front line, meaning to spearhead the rest. A good thing really, he was darn sick of those highborn generals that tend to hide behind their horde of soldiers. From someone as the Shaepah Lady though, he wouldn't have expected anything of the sort.

    There was a fragment of a glimpse in between the first and the second acceleration, the company jumping to gallop as soon as it reacted to the leader's move. The plip of rain was strangled by the pounding of hooves and panting neighs as the mounted collective rolled down the hill, wet grass sprinkling and slapping against the speeding feet. The eyes wandered no more, locked dead ahead.

    As he had known, Oska wasn't an actual racehorse. Its form was bulky and that of a working beast of burden, talents of strength and endurance rather than nimble speed. Needless to say, he fell behind some, not really even bothering to tug its sides for he had known it all long before. Calculating, staring at the arses of his comrades as they flapped past, he pulled the reins and steered off the group, gently to the right. He directed Oska through the gates of the installation and went through the fighting crowd like a ram, approaching through the swirling smoke like an oversized thief, circling in the wake of devastation that had been pretty much the whole of his allied troupe before him. On his dignified way, he gave his axe a few trying swings.

    He took aim at the lone wagon in the very end of the scattered row, spotting someone trying to cut the harness off its horsepower as he drew nigh. Can't have that now, can we? Despite Oska's heavy gallop, the guardman didn't notice the threat until it was too late, their head turning to face him at the exact moment he jumped off his mount in a flash of a blade. He landed on them unceremoniously, yelling 'Surprise!' and blessing them with a concussive anesthesia by a wooden hilt. Nodding to himself, he glanced at the source of screams and greater clinks, seeing the heat of the settlement behind growing greater as Juul set a couple bedrolls on fire. The raid had officially begun.

    Seeing as he had gone somewhat unnoticed -most likely by the fact that everyone was busied by a more intimate attacker, rather than by his roguish approach and witty tricks- Etherone slipped behind the newly captured wagon, kicking in the door like the master lockpick he was. Inspector Frej, moving in! In the darkness it was first hard to tell what exactly was within, but as his eyes adjusted - and since someone set a nearby wagon ablaze, thus providing light - his already quite hideous grin grew into an apocalyptic extent.

    Alcohol. The finest even, all in neat rows, vintage and sealed in clear glass and crystal, for him to take exclusively. It was like a dream.

    Man had to have priorities.

    He looped the axe to his belt and swung himself back outside, hurrying to the front of the cart whilst summoning Oska in a half a whistle. First things first, he picked up his Battleaxe from behind its saddle. He wasn't going to get too far with the smaller blade around here. Determinate and self-assured, he tied the two equines together by their reins, then giving a sturdy slap in suggestion upon the flank of his personal steed. It would know where to go. The two stormed off, the ruined door releasing a couple of precious bottles as the wagon drove out, wheels bouncing. Without staring at the glorious claim for too long in wrong satisfaction, he spun on his heel and took to join the actual battle.

    The air was heavy with smoke from smoldering corpses and tents, details blurred and under a flickering veil of orange and yellow hues. Made it terribly troublesome to tell the difference between a friend and a foe and generally he just knocked at anyone that came swinging at him. This included one archer, who he took out calmly -in restrained aggression- after they had tried to shoot him with a shaky aim for a good minute, shoving their face into the fire they hadn't managed to cower behind at. Beside their sizzling skull, there was also someone's dinner.

    Hmh, roast.
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    Juul Shaepah
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    She surged forward, a strong current in an eddying whirlpool of chaos and violence. The stout wood in her hand swept towards the figure clad in scarlet, its arc murderous. Her lips curled back as she gave a cry of exertion, but her swing whipped over the woman's head, bludgeoning nothing but air. Juul's feet carried her another two steps, such was the force of her swing, but she recovered quickly, whipping around and lunging once more at her quarry, deftly dodging past the hurried figure of two soldiers, utterly confused by the shock of the melee.

    The cudgel was raised again, brought past her shoulder in what would be a devastating overhand smash. Her prey cut a burning arc through another soldier - whether friend or foe Juul could not say - and whirled, a gout of searing flame vomiting forth from her hand. Wide eyed, the soldier took it on the left shoulder, a hot punch of force that sent embers across her vision. Aching and burning bloomed underneath her now-smouldering gambeson, and a shout of pain and rage burst from her lips. Down came the club, smashing viciously on the crown of her opponent, and sending her sprawling. Continuing her momentum, she ducked and scooped the falling woman onto her shoulder, hoisting her limp form across them and pushing on, back towards the wagons. Her head scanned the maelstrom of fire and steel as well as it was able, and she cursed softly.

    The hue and cry had been raised.

    The initial shock of the charge had done well, killing many of the enemy and scattering more. Fires raged in the sleeping quarter, panicked men beating at them with rain-sodden cloaks and pails of water, and at least two wagons had been driven free of the rough palisade. The raiders, however, had lost their momentum - the enemy were beginning to concentrate their superior numbers. At least three horses were down, thrashing wildly, spattering the corpses of both friend and foe with flinged muck. She saw Sin on foot, hard pressed by two foes, but could do nothing for him now. She pushed on, into the frenzied chaos of the central track of the camp. She saw a caravan guard shouting orders, fighting with a practised efficiency, and cutting Daffyd down with a single stroke before moving to cut the reins of the tethered horses. She scanned for Eth, as she pressed on, but found no sign of him. Where could he be...?

    A dull thump, and towering pillar of flame leaping into the sky ahead of her answered her question. The explosion illuminated the scene of struggle, turned the drizzling droplets of rain to shining sparks, and caused a wave of shocked cries across the havoc in the camp. Both horses and men shrieked in terror, mingling with roar of flames and the clash of steel. Juul, straining under her limp load, pressed on to a wagon with horses still tethered. Her thighs bunched, and she leapt into the open back, dumping the body of the woman unceremoniously onto the crates stacked within. She jumped back out, boots squelching in the churned ground, and grabbed at a man standing mouth agape at the flaming inferno.

    "Get'n tha' one an' drive, or Vespasian help me I'll feed ye yer guts!"

    She didn't know if the stocky man was her's or her foe's, but he followed her command after another forceful tug and a snarl from her. Her attention turned back to maelstrom of violence that surrounded her. She took a deep breath, lungs filling almost to bursting point, and bellowed, spittle flying from her mouth.

    "FALL BACK! RETREAT! RETREEAAAAT!"

    It was lost in the song of copper blood and steel.
    Edited by Juul Shaepah, Dec 29 2014, 07:35 AM.
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    Kelvin Friedhelm
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    ”Move yer legs!” Kelvin screamed in a soldiers face and shoved him away from the burning tent, towards the fighting. He moved to two others fighting the fire and kicked the buckets from their hands viciously, turning to punt them with a spray back towards the fighting. ”Leave it! The next man I see pick up a bucket wears it into the maelstrom!” Cowards, the lot of them. ”Get those two over there and form a squad, go save the rest of the wagons!” The soldiers looked at him, probably still new to this whole business, with the glaze of shock in their eyes. Kelvin drawing his sword again was enough to get them moving. Saving tents was important, but people were dying.

    He turned, glad to be out of the fighting himself for a moment- before cursing himself for hypocrisy. Fire fighting would be a lot more pleasant than combat. He moved in to close with the outter edges of combat, nearer to the cookfires. It was all good to just jump back in, but where would he be the mo- A blast rocked his eardrums, and hot air rushed past. People stumbled back in all directions and general panic ensued on all sides, Kelvin covering his eyes for protection from sparks. And people wonder why I dislike fighting around mages. Always blowing up allies along with their enemies.

    He cracked his fingers and took a step back, just twenty feet away a man stood straight. The figure wasn’t much taller than Kelvin, but he was built like a monster. And had a fairly large ax. The man had to be related to some kind of seafaring northern kingdom. And that ax. Northerner’s love axes.

    He is going to get jumped by soldiers any moment now... Kelvin started forward, reaching down to scoop up a discarded helmet and fasten it over his face singlehanded. Reinforcements, any moment now. None? Screw it. ”Oi! You with the beard!” Kelvin yelled, pointing his blade. No point in charging in and getting swatted aside by accident. If he was going to die, his opponent was going notice him, damn it! He burst into a sprint, sword held close right. The moment he was in range Kelvin flicked the blade into close left and swung horizontally, the blade instantly gaining extra weight and trailed an afterimage as it cut through the air- striking nothing. With practiced technique- but not without difficulty, his body reacted, yanking backwards into inside left while watching the wave of force from the blade fly off and awkwardly strike both an attacker and defender across the face, knocking them over. Well damn, sorry mate.

    The distraction almost cost him his life- the long handled ax came about in an arch- predictable, but that didn’t change the fact that it was a massive piece of metal coming for his soul, or even worse, his sense of humor. Kelvin swore and stepped into the blow, grabbing his blade in one hand, hilt in the other, and attempted to smash the pummel into his opponents face, foiled by the haft slamming into his side, possibly bending a few plates by the feeling of it. Which was pain, in case anyone cared to ask. The blow knocked Kelvin to the side, and he rushed to close, still halfswording and trying to stab the other man with an overhead thrust. He really didn’t want to be far enough away for the other guy to take another swing.
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    Etherone
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    It had become a steakout.

    He withdrew from the corpse and surveyed the mayhem around him, swinging the battle axe to his shoulder like a lumberjack, with the fraction of a deserted roast in other hand. Wasn't that bad, he figured, maybe a bit burnt, but taking the heated environment of battle and destruction such a taste was only fitting.

    Before he had time to properly note his next victim, some of the said prey had located him and another series of arrows begun flying at his dignified direction. One went humming dangerously close by his head even. Damn these archers to hell! Newly aggravated, he shouted.

    " Jävla bågskyttar! I'll get the lot of ya! "

    The Hunter spun on his heel, picking out a lantern from the small campsite and propelling it at the target that stood on top of a distant supply carriage,having supposed themselves safe on a high spot. Hitting the roof of it, the lantern shattered into fragments of glass and flaming oil, setting most of the wooden structure ablaze. A most satisfying sight. Screaming, the archer jumped off upon the impact, toppling over to the ground next to their recent haunt. He growled and closed up the distance in a determinate set of heavy steps, axe leaping from over his shoulder to bless their face with the cold of steel. It went through and all the way to the grass, which resulted with him having to use a little bit of extra force of detaching it from the ground.

    In a frown he kicked the longbow that laid next to them, as if in further punishment, and turned his back dismissively. Next?

    During his relief and contemplation that followed, Etherone also had time to resurrect his calm and become familiar with the exceedingly painstaking fact that he had been hit. Once again. Grunting, he tried the horizontal scrape on his arm that sat between ends of severed fabric. Whether it was by the most recent opponent or the one before, he wasn't sure. Taking the size of the damage, he didn't really wonder why he had been able to miss it being inflicted alltogether. As long as it was not in the face though, he would take such fleshwounds like a man. If anything, it made him a bit more motivated to brutally tear apart any person that was to challenge him, akin to an irritated beast.

    Then, something detonated in a loud blast, right behind him. The searing gust almost sent him scattering to the dirt, grasping at his clothes and hair, spitting out flame and remnants of a wagon. The whole scene was swirling for a good moment, aflicker with running silhouettes that made no sound, despite the faces that seemed to be yelling in terror. Ears ringing, he shot a disoriented look over his shoulder briefly, snarling at the intense luminosity of the destroyed scape. And the realization that the back of his shirt had caught fire. Guess this is what they meant with Hell on Earth.

    He stood there unable of most function for a pressuring moment, or so it felt, until a shout reached over the silenced din. Gathering his thought, Etherone snapped his attention to them. He had not exactly heard what their business was, but taking how they advanced at him it must've been along the lines of 'let us duel'. Conjuring a smirk, he rid his form of the still smouldering tunic and slung it unceremoniously over his shoulder. Keeping stationary, he braced for offence by adjusting his posture and bettering his grip upon the axe. Come on, helmet man.

    They sprinted and released a strike, which he addressed by a hasty duck and sidestep. Responding in a Raaaaaaaah, he swung the axe in a wide arch, projecting most of his still remaining strenght into it. Strangely enough, the man didn't evade, rather embraced the blow by stepping into it. The way their armour murmured and bent under the force it must've felt unpleasant to the bone. What felt further as that personally though, was the pommel of their sword across his face.

    Not the face.

    " Fan ta dig! " He roared, stumbling a step or two backwards, only to be followed by the attacker who drew nigh fast as a lightning, having quickly sorted themselves out from the last blow. The blade was pointed at him in an angle from above this time. Unable to react in a counter strike, not to mention his weapon hardly allowed for such at this range, he detached one hand from the hilt of his axe and swung his forearm to meet the other's blade from below.

    The steel sunk into the hardened leather like a hot knife into butter and he cast it aside in a sling of his arm, whilst simultaneously reaching for the back of the opponent's leg with the blunt inner curve of his own blade. He tugged as forcefully as he could, his goal to disrupt the other's balance. Amidst all else he furthered a yet another attack, by the noble craft of headbutting, which he had always figured a good last resort.

    One could always use their head, should all else fail.
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    Kelvin Friedhelm
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    What kind of language is that? Ice Bear? The other man’s roar at being struck sounded like it. Kelvin pressed close, close enough to be brushing torso’s with the other occasionally, trying to keep a closer distance, which seemed to be inversely proportional to the deadliness of an ax. It was wonderful when math worked itself out, seeing as he had no formal education to back it up. ”Nothing personal mate.” Kelvin jabbed down, trying to bury the blade in the base of the other man’s neck from his vantage- only to be surprised when the monster blocked the blade with his arm of all things. Well damn. Watch out, we got a viking on our hands. Which, unfortunately, was his last thought before three things happened, in rapid succession.

    His blade was almost ripped out of his hands, as the man ripped it aside while it was embedded in his leather gauntlet. Which was rather unpleasant. With this, he was little expecting the sudden yanking on his leg with the ax, which pretty much pulled his leg up to the other man’s waist- and then there was an awkward concussive explosion. Kelvin reeled back, almost falling over, due to the pull on his leg, even so, his hands let the precious blade drop, one grabbing the ax just below the head and pulling hard. Kelvin’s body seemed almost ready to fall, going limp for a second and almost falling to the ground, before the hand on the ax strained, slingshotting his body back upward. Closely following was his other fist aimed roughly where he had last sensed the other man’s face. This of course being before some kind of battering ram had struck his helmet like a rock from a sling. Kelvin could vaguely feel blood flowing down his face from his nose. It was time to repay in kind. Kelvin grimaced and shook his head a bit, wincing as the helmet resettled properly and allowed him to see. ”So yeh like t’e box eh? I don’t mind it myself!”
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    Etherone
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    Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand SCORE!

    In a hollow klang, and the subtlest of crunches alongside it, the opponent was sent reeling. He couldn't help feeling good about the successful headshot, seeing how the helmet spun twice in its place, scattered hands loosing their armaments that flew in a most satisfying arch. A grin rose to adorn his features, even though the man's foot rose simultaneously to a dangerous height at a velocity that made him extremely thankful for wearing tassets. The uncouth kick could've sent him to a half-arsed backflip then, but a forceful and hasty yank at the end of his axe held him in his place, if a bit unstably. At first he was relieved, for not falling over like some idiot, but this feeling came soon enough conflicted by what faced him from below.

    The leather coated knuckles contacted his visage in an angle, almost dead center, as the challenger launched themselves at him in a most ballistic manner. The strike rocked his world, literally, turning it black for a good few seconds. What was more, he felt himself connecting with the ground back first shortly after, the cold and disturbed grass shivering under his figure that produced a grunt. He had fallen, in a loud thump accompanied by the lifeless creak of leather armour. As of the pain that washed over him, and the location it waved from, he became quite certain of his nose being broken.

    It was official. They had pissed him off.

    And the comment from behind the cloak of stars sure didn't make it any better. A man of comebacks and witty sentences, eh? He gazed up murdeously, leaning against his elbows, and dismissed the river of red from under his nostrils with a sluggish sweep. The immense fire from behind lit the wavering figure of the aggressor, their helmet reflecting the flame and gleaming most menacingly in hues of red. Much akin to the way he saw them in general at that moment, rising rage in his glare. Not wasting too much time on the ground, he hoisted his beaten and wounded being to confront them once more.

    Then, in regards to what they had said, he burst into belated rumble of a laughter.

    " Hah! Fine, enfaldig hjälmjävel... " He started in a mocking tone, adjusting the damaged vambrace that sprouted a sliver of crimson from the slit along it. " Hope ya don't mind... If I use my bear hands. " Narrating his means further, he cast a marking look from under a determinate and knowing frown.

    Showtime.

    The shift was like a detonation, starting from the tips of his fingers that stemmed a set of blackened claws and continuing in a tidal wave that expanded his overall mass dramaticly, by enveloping him fully into the skin of a furious ursine. Releasing a thunderous bellow as his opening sentence he concluded to all fours in an earthquakeish landing, blackened look locked on the target. Now, let us brawl.

    Without further introduction or catchfrace he leaped, with predatorial and most aggravated vigor. He went fangs first for helmet removal, claws coming in a strong second on that, the piercing entirety followed by his enormous stature that aimed to bump the man like a speeding stagecoach.

    Take that.
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    Kelvin Friedhelm
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    Even behind his gloves, Kelvin felt the pain in his knuckles from the impact that knocked both of the men apart. He shook his hand, trying to check for broken fingers. Was this... man knocked out? The other man had hit the ground hard, Kelvin stumbled back a bit, wincing at the pain in his side. Even if the ax blade hadn’t hit him. That handle packed a wallop. Oh no. He was standing. Well that was a blasted misfortune. The mountainman. Or sea man? These northerners looked to swing either way. Heck, they probably lived in frozen mountains sprouting out of the middle of the coldest water in the sea. As it was, the other man spoke a strange tongue before attempting a verbal riposte. Nonsensical as it was, anyway. “What else would you-?”

    A wave seemed to pass over the man, and his gloves almost seemed to explode in size, becoming much larger, hairier, and sharper. The transformation raced over the Nord’s body, seeming to race across, muscles rippling, expanding, and growing. Kelvin’s jaw dropped, tilting up to look at the towering animal. The hell was this? ”Wait, bear hands. I get it.” His fist pounded his palm in understanding between the brief instant he had for watching the beginning transformation, and the completion. Then the beast made entirely out of muscle, fury, and likely more than a bit of teeth rushed him like a train. What even the hell was a train? Why the hell did it matter what a train was?

    The massive took a massive jump, seeming to hang in the air an instant over the slightly crouched, helmeted man, both of them framed in the fire, before it hit with a crash. Even Kelvin was surprised when instead of giving out and and getting smashed into the ground, his legs held, literally scrapping up the ground for a few feet as he was forced backwards as the several hundred pounds of flesh impacted him, the strangely good smelling breath of this animal oozing into the helmet as it’s mouth tried to wrap about the helmet. His instincts lead him to attempt to duck, but the helmet stayed, held in place by paws and fangs. His mind screamed instructions that had been drilled into him since childhood. The ultimate culmination of all his knowledge into a skill that could save one from even the raging inferno that was hell.

    STOP DROP, AND ROLL!
    Kelvin scrambled away on all fours, looking for his sword, only to see it behind the bear, next to that massive ax. As for the bear itself, it seemed to be satisfied with crushing the helmet like tinfoil, turning and bellowing at him. Then of course, it was turned, fixing him with a look of murder. It opened it’s mouth and spat something out between them. Kelvin slowly looked down. It was the visor, or what used to be a visor.

    He glanced back up. ”We could j-just call it a truce you know. I ruin your face, you ruin that-t helmet.. Ya know?” The bear just growled and reared up, slamming back down before charging. Kelvin could have sworn he felt the vibration in the ground. Ah hell, there was no outrunning a bear. He had had a good run in life anyways. Kelvin squeezed his eyes shut and then open, took off his gloves and dropped them to the ground. ”Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to play with your food?” He thought he might wet himself, but Kelvin still dug in and then charged right back, winding up a fist, intending to aim right at the beasts nose.
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    Juul Shaepah
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    Bellows came forth again and again, the lungs of the soldier inflating to their limit, before bursting forth with aural violence. The breaths gave an odd metronome to the frequency of the outbursts, which would have otherwise been a torrent of harsh words and pealing commands. In the raging currents of battle, among the singing steel and screaming men, her efforts slowly began to be heard; spittle-laden waves that crashed against the cacophony of combat, wetting few but wetting nonetheless. Her sword and cudgel gripped tight, knuckles white under her gauntlets, her eyes surveyed the melee, her chest heaving with ragged breaths.

    It was utter chaos, so much so that even her well-trained eyes could discern little of the tide of battle. Fire bathed the scene, and many figures moved wildly - stumbling in confusion, locked in deadly struggles with foes or fire, or fleeing in manners most haphazard - it became a challenge for her to discern friend from foe. Nevertheless, the tide was against the punitive mounted force. Those still mounted were struggling to extricate themselves from the combat - enemies pressed close, grabbing bridles and saddles, though many paid dearly for their efforts. When one of her comrades managed to get away, two foes filled their place. She estimated they had lost over half of their force - of Etherone and Sinadryn there was no sign. There were too many of the enemy for them to escape cleanly, and the soldier screamed a curse into the din.

    Fleeing figures interrupted her vision with every breath she took - some were caravan drivers, others guards, still more soldiers running hither and thither to guard their belongings, or put out fires, or save their wheeled livelihoods from the chaos. Wild-eyed men brandishing shining steel, given a hellish aspect by the roaring flames, moved to slay her - one she brained with a short, chopping blow from her cudgel, and the other would have had her but for a fleeing horse that knocked him to the ground. Her steel found purchase in his unguarded neck.

    She raised her head from the kill, and spied two figures engaging in a fist fight to her right - silhouetted by the inferno caused by the explosion. Amidst the debris and the flames, they traded heavy blows, neither one shying from the combat - a strange honour between combatants. It was not until the larger of the two rippled, and grew, and shifted, did their identity hit her - Etherone! Admiration and appreciation swiftly turned to iron discipline and hot anger. She bolted to them, her voice haranguing relentlessly as she dodged another fleeing horse and despatched another hapless foe.

    "Boxin' are ye?! Boxin'?! By all tha's holy, Etherone, you've a mind to waste time when yer comrades are dyin'!" she yelled, as she bounded towards them, eyes squinted against the ash and heat that emanated from the fiery scene beyond them "I'll show ye boxin' back at Skepia, ye great eejit! I tol' ye to retreat, damn yer eyes, an' I'll bust yer lip when I've the time!"
    Edited by Juul Shaepah, Feb 22 2015, 07:47 AM.
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    Etherone
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    Well, at least they had gotten the Pun.

    Too bad such concussive realization was not thick enough to shield them from his nose-broken wrath, the exact one that now wrapped its fangs around their helmet in a lovely tonk. He nearly didn't even feel colliding with the cricket of a man, all his thought and force concentrated on the head that he was about to process to canned brains. His jaws bit together in an utmost fury, only the echo of his own predatorial breath drumming in his ears, canines first to pierce the sides of the helmet before it creaked together some as a whole. Was only then, at the missing sound of a fracturing skull, that he noticed his prey having slinked off like a thief.

    His dark eyes bounced around, spotting the distancing rump of his hastily trotting opponent, their form scattering off as if in search of something. He glanced at the collection of dropped weapons inspectorially, then back at the challenger in confusion. And some pity and maybe a bit of amusement. Taking how they had liked to comment on things, he had gained a sudden need to point out how terrible their sense of direction was. Must've been the helmet's fault, halfly or so. One more reason why he would never personally get one.

    Newly aggravated, mainly by the fact that the hjälmjävel still lived, he spun in his place with the grace of a wounded rhinoceros, facing the man anew. Now becoming exceedingly aware of their amount of beaten hideousness, he chewed the remnants of their late headwear like a piece of tough meat, then launcing some resilient fragment of the entity to their feet in a taunt. In the meant purpose, that of rallying the enemy, such a gesture seemed to be unsuccessful however, for all he heard was a mutter over a foreign concept. At that moment anyway.

    Truce? TRUCE!? I'll show ya... A spruce. In yer arse.

    Sideways.


    " Håll käften, gräshoppen. " He growled, in such a depth that mere remains of his message actually reached the open air, words flooded by the overpouring beast that rumbled within. What he disagreed more with than this strange truce though, was their statement that his face was ruined. For it most definitely wasn't. Theirs was to be, if any, once he was done with them.

    He leaped, once more, at the figure that now stood strangely still as if awaiting for a saviour from above to just bless them away or some other miracle. For all he knew, such things didn't exist. Was mid-lunge that he became reminded of a certain continued existence, a way less godly and heavenly to that, but no less intimidating or powerful. The reinforced introduction shrieked from over the battle, not as far off as he would've hoped, in a whole set of words that all stained to the back of his perception. Probably for the rest of his miserable life.

    - Ye great eejit!

    Before he had time to even begin fabricating a careless -and suicidal- response to such accusations, another took the shot. At his broad snout, this time around. If he hadn't already been aching all over and inside out, he might have protested, but as of the surrounding circumstances and the spawn of a red head, the punch was only forceful enough to stop his advance. And throw his head to the side, if just some.

    " Jungfru Ledare...? "

    For a moment he believed that Shaepah had themselves single-handedly punched him for his crime against authority and comradeship. He made fast to prove himself wrong in that, glancing to the supposed source that once again had slung their fist at him, coming familiar with the tiering face of his latest opposition. Oh, Ya again, thought ya crawled away, should've known better... The ursine inhaled, deeply, only to erupt an unceremonious roar that could've sent saliva to an honest radius of a kilometer, should his mouth had not been so dry. Darn, he needed a sturdy drink. As of the former, solid fact, he had one more reason to finish them quick.

    Despite his approaching doom and scolding, he collected his bearhood and swung up to hindlegs for a tiny second, sprouting a hearty snarl to the prolonged contender. Right before launcing himself down akin to a collapsing tower, with a minor surgemotion towards the now-pretty-much-helmetless man, the maw in the end of a strong neck going for a strike.

    Fuck retreat, this cricket goes first.
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    Kelvin Friedhelm
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    The viking-bear paused its advance at the shout of a woman. Meanwhile, Kelvin shook out his fingers and very discreetly edged away from the beast, wondering if he had broken one of his fingers. Her voice, coming from somewhere behind him, was somewhat similar to that of a cross barmaid mixed with two parts sergeant, slow simmered on medium heat between hell and highwater. She spoke as one from the attackers, but he did agree with some of her words. The bear roared, a great shout that could possibly cripple even a dragon- and Kelvin afforded a step back. He absentmindedly wished he had a bigger ‘flee for your life’ budget in this situation.

    “Oi, she is right you know! Where do a get off turning intah a bear and in all... This...” His opponent lumbered forward just a bit and raised up on it’s hind legs. Kelvin’s words, first confidently uttered, rapidly petered out. “Ain’t fair is all I was sayin’...” The bear growled and came crashing down like an avalanche, seeming intent on biting his head off. Either that or it was one of those weird snake-bears that could unhinge their jaw and- Probably best not to end up like that helmet.

    His adrenaline blessed Kelvin with the odd clarity of mind one often has in near death situations. Two questions arose, both very important. The most important one was, ‘Did I just wet myself?’ which fortunately had an immediate answer; just a tiny bit. The second was a bit harder. ‘I wonder what he uses to keep his teeth so white...’ Kelvin ducked and kicked, his legs sending him in a sprawling backward dive that would have been impressive and worthy of stories... Had it sent him more than three feet away and not ended him up on his back. Kelvin scrambled through the mud backwards as the great jaws snapped shut where he had been, not far from his bleeding nose. Frantically, his right hand clawed for something to defend himself with, and came up with something hard, wet, and -thankfully- not warm, which quickly became a projectile launched towards the bears face. The remnants of the helmet.

    Kelvin paused, partially in shock at his own audacity, and partially to exchange a glance with the bear. Despite how long it seemed, it must have been only momentary, as neither of those stopped him from beginning a bombardment with a maelstrom of mud, garbage, and even a bucket, all seeming - to him - as if they had reached the air before the second handful had hit home. He continued his backward scramble for a few feet until his head struck something solid. Tent pole? It was something, at least. Kelvin reached to grab it and tugged, but it was locked in place. And not extremely round. A slow glance up revealed the woman. And from the look of her, he considered scrambling back towards the bear.
    Edited by Kelvin Friedhelm, Mar 2 2015, 01:51 PM.
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    Mordecai
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    What is to give light must endure burning.

    [boooooo sorry this is super late. ;c apologies if it interrupts anything. i haven't had a chance to thoroughly read all of the posts.]

    Vespasian. Let it not rain.

    That had been her prayer for the march, and only devils answered. A fine drizzle ran down the darkness of her helm and pooled in her greaves, dampening the spirit of her men only further. Her heart gave a painful skip, faltering at the odds.

    From the number of tents and billows of smoke, she guessed seventy, perhaps eighty men waited for them downfield—far more than any of them had anticipated. A dozen more minds calculated the same. A dozen gauntlets shivered. A dozen men palmed their hilts and licked their lips, praying silently for Vespasian.

    The faces that stared back at her looked grim, pale even under the grit of riding. Some were wide with fear of her, she reflected, drawing her borrowed horse around in a half-circle.

    “Men.” Her voice rang like a struck gong. “We wait until they engage the raid. Then we surround them and strike.” Her knuckles popped on the reins, helm slashing her face into hard edges. Her gaze swept them, settling heavily on each. Some looked dreadfully young, plucked fresh from the soils of their training yards— and indeed? Why would the Duke waste hardened men on the affairs of peasants? This was a test of her command.

    Her rapier ripped from its sheath with the rasp of steel, pointing downwind at the far-off camp.

    “Each of you are worth ten of those rapers and thieves. Once blood whets their appetite, only more can follow, and their boldness has led them too close to Hollemark lands for the Duke’s liking. Vespasian has not forgotten the burned villages and dead sons—then we, as his servants, must not.” Something horrible and sonorous entered her tone. Quicksilver burned in her eyes, ran in her veins and pulsed in the mud-and-flesh of her servants. Were these attacks so surprising? The court was in a torpor… the Empress guzzled money on frivolous balls, dithering on her throne… the crows saw a broken land, fit for picking. Conquerers were like roaches—crushing them only released their brood.

    “Let us crush them here. Capture who you can. I want them well enough for interrogation." The leather of her gauntlet creaked as it tightened around her reins. Nobody moved. Again she found herself at an unbridgeable distance from them, rigid as a shrouded corpse. Inhuman eyes glowed behind her, set deep into swollen, mottled faces, slack and glistening. Her golems waited like sentries, rain shivering down the boulders of their chests.

    One of the Duke’s men looked away, pointed.

    Smoke trailed from the camp. Then the shouting began.

    They didn’t have to wait long.

    ***


    Hold.

    Her heart skipped a beat, steadied. Calm washed her, horrible, inhuman calm. Her gauntlet stole into the pouch strapped against her side and drew out a fistful of ash, whispering a prayer into her closed fingers. One, two…

    Up went her arm. A swirl of ash escaped, became a burning maelstrom. Wings erupted from it as it hurtled, streaking towards the clash like a comet.

    It plummeted.

    Screams erupted as it exploded, engulfing brigands in fire — ash choked the air, flying into helms, lining shrieking throats. Mechanically, Mordecai reached into her pouch again, head throbbing, blood pulsing in a fever. Her mouth was dry, neck flushed under her gorget. Still her fingers clenched, brought up another handful.

    Vespasian, forgive me.

    A second behemoth surged through the sky, bathing the battlefield in a hellish glow. For a moment the struggle became a frieze, lit harsh white and black as it fell to the earth. This time it caught a wagon, surging in a pillar of flame — human torches streamed from it, howling; ash and steam boiled after it in a surging wave, cooking men in their armor.

    Her breath was heavy, animal in her throat.

    Reth, reth, reth, reth….

    “Block their escape,” she ordered, voice a pitch below human. “Round them until the rest of the men arrive.” No one dared challenge that the misshapen constructs might be otherwise—she heard the scrape of metal behind her, the frightened nicker of horses. Up struck her blade, caught the light of hell.

    Charge!

    From behind, twenty fleshless mouths opened, gurgling. They swelled to an inhuman cry, a drone that rolled over the plains and chilled the blood.

    ***

    A roar tore from her throat.

    A brigand gurgled on the end of her blade, vomiting blood as she drew it out of his neck. Another slipped, fell in a mess of mud and blood. His scream died in a crunch, head bursting under her steed’s hooves. Behind her, blades clashed, their song interrupting the grunts and cries of men — she could smell blood, taste it in the grit in her mouth, blood pulsing hot in her veins. Movement—her arm lashed like a viper, a blind animal, parried a blade. Behind it scowled a hideous face, full of broken teeth and old scars. Her lips moved in a bloodless circle, and suddenly her blade erupted into a blast of light, blinding the man. He gasped, stumbled, hand slacking on his blade. Too late.

    His head hit the ground a heartbeat after his sword.

    Mordecai raised her rapier, eyes burning silver from the slats of her helm. The man behind him lost nerve, turning with a wordless gasp—one of the Duke’s men plowed through him, bellowing from atop his horse.

    From over the plains, another inhuman drone rose, like wind howling through the mouth of a cave. Panic spread, broke out in sweat and the whites of eyes — the enemy looked over their shoulder, tried to pierce through the veil of smoke and fire. Hoofs churned the earth, blocked their way with a dozen quivering swords.

    Another cry blasted across the plains.

    Louder. Closer.

    Her children would arrive soon.
    Edited by Mordecai, Mar 17 2015, 02:03 PM.
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    Juul Shaepah
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    She barked, and snarled, and harangued, the words spilling forth like flame on spilled oil - a creeping ignition. All around them the din raged - flames roared from fallen tents, the screams of the dying and the frenzied, the terrified whinnying of horses as the raiders haphazardly tried to make their escape. Her eyes blazed, sizing up the bestial Etherone, who had pinned prey and was poised to strike what would undoubtedly be the final blow. Those jaws slavered, the fearsome points within glinting in the firelight.. His eyes, though, seemed to take heed of her approach, and he slowed, as the man beneath him cried his protests.

    Ye damn right t'be scared, I'll tackle a bear well as any man.

    Suddenly, the man below him had twisted beneath his grip and kicked away, landing sprawled on his back mere feet from the bear-man. Away he scrambled, almost comically, fistfuls of debris and mud being hurled at Etherone. His head cannoned into her striding boot, and she looked down at him - her eyes ablaze, her mouth a grim line. His hand wrapped itself about her ankle, and he looked up, their eyes meeting for a precious second. She snarled in response, almost as bestially as her comrade.

    The cudgel swept down.

    It struck him upon the crown of his head, good enough to kill a weaker man. She looked up at Eth from her bloody work, before her eyes raked the surrounding chaos - some twenty feet away, she saw a wagon not yet kissed by the flames, with a whickering horse still tethered to it. Soldier's luck she mused but only if we can get to't and away in time. Her eyes fell back t Eth, who seemed to be grinning, despite his ursine features.

    "Help me to th'wagon o'er yonder, I'll take yer prize" she shouted as she stooped and scooped up the falling man, her prior aggression seeming to have dissipated "We've a need t'get away, an' we've no' a horse between us. 'Mon! Away wi' ye an' follow!"

    The chaos seemed to be converging upon them as they ran, and fearful images of being slashed from behind leapt to her mind. She hoped Eth was near her - tackling a bear on the run was no easy feat . The wagon got closer, closer, until it was illuminated in an eldritch fire. She stopped, seeing an explosion appear through the drizzle and smoke, cracking almightily like some godlike whip. More men shrieked, and new hoofbeats clattered through the din. Had the others come back? No, the sound was too dense - bigger horses, more men. There was another flash that half blinded her, urging her onwards to flee, to get away.

    She lurched to the wagon, dumping her charge in the back, and then clambered aboard, standing on the seat. Her eyes could discern nothing through the gloam, the fire and the smoke, but the screams of her enemies had more of a shrill edge to them - this was panic, or terror. There were more cracks, more death and chaos and killing. They needed to get away. Her eyes searched for her ursine companion.

    "Eth, slash the tethers an' I'll drive us! Get yerself i'th'back, and by Vespasian if ye jump out while we're moving I'll leave ye to the crows!" she yelled, her eyes still scanning the roaring flames and darkness "Whate'er's there's got 'em half scared t'death, an' I've no mind to find out wha' 'tis!"
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