Those that know me know I'm not traditionally a RPr. In light of recent shifts of power within the game I thought it would be fun to flush some of it out in traditional storytelling rather than a log. For any characters I used from the game, don't take it personally. There's always two sides to a story, so I'll start with my character's perspective.
Having only recently returned from his journey across the lands to recenter his mind, Rentris Sa’Ran sat in his favorite wooden chair in the Manor’s bar. He spoke with Vodan in passing while sipping his morning ale. His eyes occasionally drifting to the trophies and relics of his fallen brothers that adorned the walls and bar, symbols of respect and heritage. Names carved into the wooden counter brought on memories of his comrades…so many now gone. There was much history in this home. Much pride. He sat content; reminiscing upon the past accomplishments and what this great nation had achieved.
Over the quiet jokes and crackle of the hearth came distant voices. Rentris and Vodan stopped their chatter to listen carefully. The sounds came from the east. Sharing a fleeting glance, Vodan closed up the bar as Rentris ran to his storage chest and grabbed his cleaver-bladed broadsword. Slamming it into his sheath he untethered one of the horses from the foyer and set out with haste.
Riding at full speed down the Quarry Road, the yelling seemed to go quiet. On his approach to the only bridge in the village, he caught glimpses of white figures standing at ease.
Rentris slowed his horse down to a canter as he approached the group. The morning sun gleamed from their finely polished armor. The drab grey-brown of the country only intensified the contrast of the clean white cloaks that adorned their shoulder. He had always been impressed with the uniformity and cleanliness of the welcomed visitors. The Children of Light had stood alongside him on many battlefronts. They aided in the war against Andor and the Tower when so many others thought to keep his brothers leashed. They followed him into the Blight; into the depths of hell itself. The Children of the Light were more than his allies, he considered many of them his friends.
Nearing the fortified village of Emond’s Field, the Children stood beside the open palisade. In washed relief that he had misunderstood the shouting, he dismounted his horse and approached the group in good nature. A smile upon his face he walked up to one of his oldest friends, Lieutenant Daal. “Good morning, fellas!” he called out. He had been gone from home for so long that he was eager to see some familiar faces. The Children chuckled to themselves at an unheard joke and spoke quietly to eachother as he continued his approach. He raised his hand to shake Lieutenant Daal’s in welcome.
As their hands drew near, the wind was unexpectedly driven from his lungs. What first felt like a punch to his lower back suddenly began to grow warm. An ache quickly bloomed into a piercing agony as his shirt started to soak with what felt like sweat. Glancing down, he stood frozen. Three slivers of steel protruded off-center from the front his clean shirt. His mind reeling, he struggled to grasp what was happening…he had been impaled? The slivers vanished as quickly as they appeared, replaced by the quickly spreading course of blood.
Stumbling forward and unable to catch his breath, Rentris was in a state of shock. His pulse was pounding in his ears, muffling any sounds around him. Slightly turning, he caught a glimpse of the man that held the triple-bladed dagger. Child Anor, known as a dishonorable bastard, stood motionless and smirking. The group of Children burst into laughter as Rentris fell forward, the punchline finally executed to their quiet joke. “The time for talking is past!” one yelled out as Rentris crawled through the palisade; his insides torn and the blood continuing to escape. He kicked the gate shut once clear.
On the other side of the palisade was a sight that he was not prepared for: Two other warriors of Manatheren stood on the western side of the Green. Isktamost and Achillies, honored members of his brotherhood, had their weapons drawn. They showed signs of skirmish. They were accompanied by a small contingent of local farmers and loosely trained militia. Isktamost and Achillies dragged Rentris to the side of a nearby building. A glowing bar of steel from Master Luhan’s forge was produced as they attempted to stop the bleeding. Rentris’ world turned white with the pain of cauterizing the wounds.
In the haze of white, Rentris briefly flashed back to the invasion of Manatheren in the time known only as the Trolloc Wars. By the thousands, fists of trollocs and myrddraal flooded his city. The citizens of Manatheren stood alone. Women and children taking up arms, knowing what cards fate had dealt them. Their allies had abandoned them… betrayed them. The hordes over ran the city. His family torn asunder before his eyes. His brother Avail stood at his back as they were overcome.
A jolt of cold washed over him as a bucket of water drenched his clothes. “Get Up! This is no time for a nap!”, his friend Achillies called out merrily. Small rivulets of blood mixed with dust from the fields covered his comrade's face. “Hell of a welcome home, ain’t it!”, Ach said. “Just glad you made it in time.” Achillies always did lust for a good fight.
The palisade had been quickly barricaded after he had slipped through. Councilor Isktamost sat upon a dark horse, calling out commands to the militia as Achillies helped ease Rentris to his feet. They held the palisade against a greater force. The Children laughed from the other side, mocking the defenders and calling out jeers from the other side of the wooden battlements.
Adrenaline began to course through his veins. His wounds barely holding together. The pain became dulled as the sweet drug of rage took over. His friends… another of Manetheren’s allies… another betrayal. It was as if The Wheel had come full circle. Was there any loyalty left in these lands? Were the shared meals, memories and friendship so easily discarded? This was not another Aridhol… this was worse. They had not abandoned him in a time of need; these allies now had his blood on their hands.
Rentris drew his sword and stood beside his remaining friends; the rage in full force, focusing his mind and strengthening his resolve.
Steel hooks grappled the top of the wooden palisade, attached to the horses of the Children as they wished to push the encounter. A low groan sounded as the wood began to give. A large crack sounded across the Green as the palisade began to fall, signaling a sea of white to pour through the opening. The three Red Eagles and militia met the gleaming army in a clash of steel and bone. Rentris slammed the hilt of his sword into the face of the Child that held the triple-bladed dagger. The child sprawled across the ground, receiving several fury-fueled swings from the cleaved sword. Lacking any true armor, gaping wounds marred his body where the blade landed. The Child scrambled to his feet and limped to the back of the onslaught as others came to his aid. Isktamost and Achillies each faced several opponents while the militia attempted to assist. The militia was failing as they were felled one after the other, weakening the resolve of those left. One of those dressed in white fell to his knees, clutching an open gash on his throat. The red crook on the front of his cloak was lost in the outpour of blood; his escaping life hiding his allegiance to the Inquisitors. Achillies kicked the dying Hand of Light over, laughing. He was obviously enjoying himself, but the celebration ended abruptly as Daal cleaved his skull with a halberd. With a sickening squelch, the impact sent the Red Eagle reeling. Achillies lay motionless.
Isktamost and Rentris were on the defense as the army gave a focused push towards the Green. Isktamost, dismounted and struggling, had given up shouting commands as they each fought to simply survive. There were no thoughts of running, the Old Blood was too stubborn to allow such things. Blades met flesh as Rentris’ strength waned. His lungs were burning hotter than the forges of Thakan’dar while his arms felt like lead. He could not react fast enough as he grew weaker from blood loss from the reopened wounds in his side. His muscles felt numbing shocks with each clash of steel. Parry and block. Bash and hack. Retreat. Repeat. He moved as if in a dream state. He stood his ground against three as his defenses began to fail. From what small glimpses he could manage, Isktamost wasn't fairing any better. Rentris was pierced and bludgeoned as his antiquated armor rang with the impacts. A stray swing from a Child’s sword caught his skull with the broadside of the blade. His world went black. The last sounds were those of his former friends, laughing as they truly began their work.
Last edited by Cerys
on Thu Jun 21, 2018 10:11 am, edited 4 times in total.