This is on page 2 why?

Very entertaining, Masnark. Please continue.

 

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Very nice Massy, can't wait to hear more!

 

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The guards stormed us. Luckily, we were prepared and the guards seemed to be neglected. The last supply caravan must have not passed here for ages. Some of their armors seemed torn, and some of them seemed hungered, their eyes deep in their sockets. They fought like wolves inflicted by the Demon Sickness, tearing with nails, teeth and feet when their swords broke. Two minutes into the fight, wordless shouts filled the air. On the walls of the keep, our shades were relentless. They moved like shadows from one guard to another, appearing before them and cutting them down before they were even able to do anything. Once the guards standing outside the keep were taken down, rams were built, starting to tear through the doors. The armies of Midgard failed to even upgrade the doors – the first door was going down quickly.


Suddenly, from the eastern side of the keep, a bellow rose. It was Shelter shouting. "Dolour! Messenger west!" Standing near the bard, I saw his head whipping west, his eyes focusing. I followed his stare. From the keep walls, a guard jumped to the ground, rolling on the gravel below as he hit it. He stood up immediately and looked at us. I drew power from the sun to blind him and hinder him, but alas, he was too far. Dolour already had his Lute in hand, his fingers playing lightly on it, like an arrow he started running towards the messenger. Panic filled the messengers eyes. Like from a dream, the guard opened his mouth and started singing! Such an awful song it was for my elven ears. I could understand not a word, but one name he kept saying over and over again. Bragi. He called to his broken god Bragi. Before the bard could get to him, the skald messenger darted away south from the keep. Towards Svasud or Hlidskialf. The bard Dolour gave chase, strumming furiously at his lute, playing his drum with hands too fast to follow. Seconds later they both disappeared in the forest south of the keep. More guards appeared, hurling spears at us, attacking us. But it was all for naught. Minutes later the bard was back, he looked at Shelter and shaked his head.


"Be ready for incoming! Put the guards down Shades. Chanters, Eldritches – be ready at the gate keeper. I want not one to go inside!" Shelter shouted.


We braced ourselves.

Aorana had been working diligently at the forge, crafting yet another pair of gauntlets. It was useful and important work, but at times it could get rather dull, particularly when there were not many other crafters about. Suddenly, a cold wind, cold even for her Midgard, swept through town. There was a flash of light and the dwarven healer felt as though she'd been roughly pulled by her midsection.


After her sight recovered from the bright flash and she regained her sense of balance, Aorana looked around in wonder and confusion. She was in an oddly bright and green land, that smelled of mushrooms and growing things, not her native land of stone and snow. Her pulse quickened as she noticed she was in some type of building that was inhabited by elves, keens, and bolgs! Fortunately, she'd appeared at a table in a darkened corner, and the occupants of the building seemed to all be focused intently on a particular elf. Aorana quickly pulled her cloak about herself, hoping that they would not notice a small dwarf if she tried to remain unobtrusive.


As she tried to figure out what fell magic had brought her to Hibernia and how she might escape with her life, Aorana was shocked to discover that she could understand the tree-huggers! True, they did all speak with a lisp and sound like they'd indulged in a bit too much wine, but she could understand their speech if she concentrated. Clearly, whatever magic had brought her here was strong -- she'd never understood the language of her enemies when she'd met them on the field of battle.


After listening for awhile, Aorana learned that the elf who had so captured everyone's attention was telling a story of a past battle. She had to admit, he was a talented story teller, though she was confused -- she did not think an elf could be a bard. He was detailing an assault against one of the keeps in her own homeland, and she was curious to hear how it turned out. Perhaps she might even learn a thing or two about how these tree-huggers fought, which might prove useful if she ever made it home. So, deciding she'd need to wait until the tale finished and the crowd dispersed before attempting to sneak out, she sat back and listened.


<OOC: Nice story, Masnark! You've even got us dorfs listening! >

 

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continue!

*taps her foot*


we're waiting

 

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Eep, you're making me nostalgic Masnark. Awesome job so far

The gate was almost down. The ram already ineffectual. Grunwave, pushing the ram away from the door all by himself motioned Shelter to the right side of the gate. He himself took the left side. The gargantuan bolgs, almost as high as the gate itself put their shoulder against the sides of the door and heaved. Once, twice. The doors fell down with much clutter. Again, the ram was moved and another one built to start taking down the secondary door. The guards inside the keep started to sound frantic. Some jumping off the side, trying to get away, only to be entranced by the bards and taken down by the Hibernian force. At this point many bodies were littering the ground, blood everywhere. Still, not one of us lost their life.


From behind me I heard a sound much like stone grating against stone. Turning, I saw Zlara, an arrow sticking from her shoulder, gritting her teeth, trying to get the arrow out. When the arrow was out, blood started spilling from her shoulder. Concentrating, she placed her hand on her ruined shoulder and mumbled something under her breath. As she took away her hand, the wound was simply gone, just blood on her torn armor to show that an arrow was once there. Her hand didn’t even drop to her side, and another arrow "thunked", tearing through her scale pants, hitting her thigh. Angry, I started looking at the walls, to see what fiend was targeting her. On the wall, a dwarf was standing, his great bow taut with another arrow. It was the Lord of Nottmoore, coming to help his soldiers. Saorise at my side flexed her fingers, blasting him with a burst of energy. Losing the grip on his bow, he dropped it, not expecting anyone to hit him on the walls. I went into a trance, drawing power from all around me, manipulating and focusing the rays of the sun, I started throwing more and more destructive energy at him. As I was doing that, one of the shades came and tried slicing the Lord's throat. As he uncovered himself from the shadows, his blade shot towards the Lord's throat. But he was not quick enough. The lord simply grabbed the hand holding the dagger, twisted it and slapped the shade so hard, he fell from the walls. Running towards him, Zlara held his head in her hands. His body was broken from the fall, his jaw unhinged in a grotesque manner from the Lords slap. Placing her thumb on his forehead, some eerie light spread from where she lightly touched him. In seconds, all his wounds and broken jaw were healed. He opened his eyes and smiled. In his hand, he was holding the Lords recurved bow. A thing of beauty. Lord Nottmoore, from the walls, seeing that his loved bow was gone gave out a shout of frustration and ran back up to his tower.


From the south, a shrill came. A keen shouting at the top of his or her lungs. "Incoming! Trolls incoming!" From the door came the shout "Casters, not one goes inside! Guardians, protect your casters! Rams stay on door. Show them the color of their own cold blood!" More took up that shout. "Show them the color of their own blood!".


The Midgardian detachment came from the south, sixteen or so strong. The songs of their Skalds carrying on the air, singing the might of their false god Bragi. As they started going up the hill, the two bards took position from both sides. Waving their hands in complex motions while singing a song so complex it sounded like it came from the throats of a dozen people rather than just two. From the sixteen that attacked, more than 8 suddenly stopped, some toppling to the ground from their own forward motion.

Sitting in the corner of the pub, Bethoc watches the faces of the young ones as Masnark begins to speak. With a smile, she settles in to hear the old elf's tale, sipping her honey mead as her fingers absentmindedly stroke her well worn lute.