DolmanIcewolf1 posted:
Ok all, here are our 5 entries for the "Tales From The Shadows" Contest. Please read all of them and cast your vote. Voting will end 10/13/11 @ 8:00pm CST. Thank you.
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Cloudy Skies By Reveilen
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Rain was a constant factor at Crauchon, being so near to the Irish Sea. At least once every two days there would be a brief period when the heavens would open and unleash a torrential outpouring on the fields of green. Some of it would fall back into the sea from which it came, some would fall on the bridges and towers. Today, small pellets of water fell thousands of feet from the sky, landing on the hood of a man who hadn’t moved a muscle in over twenty minutes. He stood just behind the archway of the bridge, the archway closest to the keep. The rain softly splattered against the hood of his cloak, making the cloth stick to his skull. He had long ago learned how to negate such a sound, and in fact, even the visage of the water striking him. To those he watched, should they even look directly at him, they would only see the stones of the bridge behind him. He was in a half crouch, his hands resting near the pommels of two identical blades, burnished to not produce a metallic sheen. Another blade lay across his back. Leather covered his form, intricately tooled, dyed to aid him blend in and become one with his surroundings. The belt around his waist held a small pouch, which carried five different vials. As far as he knew, he was completely alone, and that was how he preferred it. No distractions, no false sense of security, and no one to watch after. It has been said many times before that knowledge is power, but there was an addition to that statement that was not equally known, and that addition states that to be unknown is to be invincible.
The infiltrator known as Raven was now invincible. Rainwater slowly slid down his back, his cheek, his arms, but he paid it no mind. All that mattered was patience, and he had it in abundance. As far as the ones who currently had his attention, there were four of them, Hibernians. His dark eyes, peering through the rain, observed calmly, making mental notes about the attire and stances of each. Two celts, men, one was a druid he could ascertain easily by the markings on his armor. The second carried a spear, hero, too easy to tell. Both of them wore identically dyed armors and cloaks, so he could ascertain that they had been together for awhile and would be able to react to each other’s needs in combat. Slowly his eyes drifted to the lurikeen, another male, who’s clothes were dyed just as the celts. The staff in the lurikeen’s hands denoted that he was some sort of magic user, but the cold calculating logic disqualified him as well. He knew better than to underestimate the reaction time of a well seasoned hero, and Raven was no suicide seeker as many before him had been. As he looked towards the elf, a male, bow in hand, brightly dressed. To see Raven’s face, if one could, there would have been only a placid expression, but inside there was a brief moment of anticipation. No sooner had he considered the order of the vials to be used did they hold up their hands in parting. They all seemed to be parting ways, the trio of the celts and the lurikeen heading for the bridge, the elf turning for the door. The trio passed underneath the archway. For a moment he felt a sudden sense of disappointment, then, even as the loud and cumbersome footfalls of the hero and his friends sounded on the rocks of the bridge so very close to him, a new figure stepped through the door. He took the figure’s form in, even as the three passed within mere feet of him, never knowing that in the shadows he lurked. His senses took in the evidence of their passing over the bridge, their footfalls as loud as churchbells to his trained hearing even as they faded away. Slowly though, his hand began to move towards his pouch, his first real movements in the better part of a half hour.
She was an elf, tall, regal, and even in the rain she was ethereal. In her hands she carried a long staff, her body was adorned with markings that signified her as a particular kind of magic user. Her beauty, as striking as it was, did not deter him from the facts of her existence. The soft cloth that surrounded her curved frame signified that she was an eldritch, and a powerful one. Even hard hearts, upon peering upon her form draped in the light blue cloth that she wore, slowly darkening with the rain, might soften, for even though she was one of the greatest symbols of Hibernia’s magical prowess, she carried the fey look of the elves. She had the power to kill quickly, but she looked as innocent as a lamb. Raven’s eyes did not soften, nor did his heart waver. One of the first things he had learned through hard experience is that the first thing you must kill is your own heart, or else the way of the assassin does not suit you. Compassion and empathy are for the weak and the whimpering. In practiced fashion he uncorked two vials, pouring their contents down into the scabbards of each of the blades at his side. The first, a toxin that would make her muscles sear with agony, making it hard for her to move. The second was much more straightforward. It was a venom that ran it’s course in less than a minute, but the damage it could inflict was horrid. There was a reason they called it lifebane. Slowly he slid the empty vials back into their places, and he became motionless once more. If the elf knew anything was amiss it didn’t show. She even seemed to laugh at herself as she looked down at her clothes, now soaked with the steady rain. Slowly she turned towards the bridge and began to walk down the slope of the hill. In truth, Raven hated her, he hated her people, he hated them all. He had his reasons, as all did. As he carefully moved his body into a ready position he watched as she began to pick up her pace. Her face was not beautiful to him, it was hideous, and as she walked willingly into the hands of death he still became motionless once more. Her voice began to sing, perhaps a traveling song, high and happy, melodic and pure. Her right foot touched the bridge, her weight coming down on it, then her left. Rain trickled down her cheeks, framing her azure eyes like a quicksilver waterfall, her lips and gaze briefly turning up to look towards the heavens in content just before she would pass into the shadow of the bridge’s arch. Raven’s face didn’t even change expression, so deep was his focus in the moment. A moment of sudden and violent reckoning, a moment that, as her voice reached a crescendo, had come. A raindrop slowly began to fall from her cheek, and for Raven, time slowed down.
Even as his right hand gripped the pommel of his blade his body had completely snapped into motion. The blade cleared the scabbard without a sound, his form spinning in a three hundred sixty degree circle to give his strike momentum. The blade parted the cloth and her chest beneath, and the only sound that was produced was a heavy thud as the pommel , driven with the force of his strike, rammed into her torso. Her eyes snapped down, the note having died off in her mouth as her azure gaze became a horrified gawk. The drop of water that had fallen from her face was not even at the same height as his strike before the blade was violently ripped away, her forward momentum the only thing keeping her moving as his second blade joined his first. Her primary instinct to scream was found useless, the stab had been to her lung, driven to silence her from making a sound. There was no help for her as she staggered forward. The drop of water fell past her waist as Raven’s body tucked into a roll, following her motion. As his feet came under him again he used the momentum to drvie his entire form up, his blades leading the way. Her back arched as the twins found their place, one to her kidney, the other to her spine, her body lifting off the ground from the power of the strike. The poisons taking hold on her form as she crashed to the ground, the drop of water hitting the bridge a second before she did. She landed on her stomach and instantly started convulsing, her eyes looking up, fixing on what, for her, had become Death. Raven looked down at her form as the cloth became dark velvet from the combination of the colors of blood and blue. She was dying fast, her body twitching, unable to move now. His blades had already been returned to their scabbard, a knife in his hand now. He grabbed her hood and yanked it back, hearing a shout in the distance. He looked up as he grabbed her ear, a brief sound of complaint and denial echoing even as he focused on the one who approached. It was the brightly dressed elf, throwing aside his bow as he sprinted towards the bridge. Raven’s face slowly etched in a look of satisfaction as he made a quick cut, the dying elf maiden beneath him making a final sound of muffled pain as she expired. The male elf drew two blades, screaming in rage as Raven slowly stood, holding the elf maiden’s ear in his hand, dangling it, showing it off. “You want to kill me… Don’t you…†He whispered, his eyes focused on the elf that approached even as the blood from his victim stained the ground red. “Let’s see if you can.â€
A minute later, a second ear had joined the first in a pouch on Raven’s side. The rain was washing the evidence of his killings away, and the bodies of the two floated down into the Irish Sea.
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Legend By Noogin
No, no, no! This wasn’t how it was supposed to go!
Erlendr moved as fast as he dared, concentrating on not breaking his camouflage. Easier said than done with his mind racing even faster than his feet. Sweat poured under his studded jerkin, despite the coolness of the night. He looked around anxiously. They could be anywhere. With his heartbeat thumping in his ears, he doubted he’d even hear the enemy until they were already on him. In the dark of night west of Caer Benowyc, the lone Hunter jumped at every creeping shadow, at every rustle of the leaves.
All he’d wanted to do was emulate the great Hunters of old, the ones who the elders spoke of so reverently in the inns of Jordheim. Men and women who loosed a thousand arrows without a single miss, so many masterful lone enforcers whose names would live forever. Was it too much to ask to join those ranks? Erlendr hadn’t thought so, but now knew the truth.
The legends of his profession had never run from a fight in their lives, slaying Hibs and Albs without a tinge of fear. At the docks near Benowyc, Erlendr had found his first opportunity to write his own name amongst the greats, to earn his place in Valhalla. Instead, he’d fled as if his life depended on it.
Because it did.
The stealthers of Albion would certainly be stalking him now. Fear now competed with panic. One side couldn’t even bear the thought of unstealthing just to cast his fading enhancement spells, but the other side fought frantically to convince him to break stealth and race into the forest, a flitting phantom in the dark. Caught between the two options, he struggled on, every sinew pulled taut by abject terror.
A tower came into view as he crested a small hill. Wary of additional enemies emerging from the tower, Erlendr kept to the trees on the left, maintaining a safe distance from the stone structure. Just past the tower, he found a pair of trees that would suffice as cover while he made himself visible to cast a spell that would bolster his deftness. Bright moonlight cast a deep shadow from the trees. Relieved, Erlendr allowed himself to breathe a little easier, to step a little heavier.
A twig snapped behind him. Before the inexperienced Hunter could even twist his head in response, twin points of savage pain pierced through his back. Held in place by blades, Erlendr was helpless to defend himself. He couldn’t move! Oh, but could he feel. As the weapons withdrew from his back, powerful poisons ravaged his entire being. Agony bound every muscle, leaving Erlendr too scared to even twitch.
Then the unseen assailant forced a sword through the back of Erlendr’s thigh, severing his hamstring. Through the amazing pain, endless hours of training finally bore fruit. With a single word, a hound materialized and grappled with the enemy, snarling and snapping. Erlendr hobbled away, hopping mostly on his good leg as debilitating poison coursed through his veins.
Ignoring his discomfort, he stopped after ten paces and produced his astral bow. The heirloom from his father felt light as a feather, yet strong as a vendo as Erlendr carefully nocked an arrow. Even in the moonlight, he could make out the crimson stain lying in a wide trail from his feet back to where the Infiltrator wrestled with Erlendr’s protector.
Feeling like he had the upper hand, the Hunter drew his bowstring and aimed at the Infiltrator. Trembling as he held the bow tense, Erlendr barked a single-worded command. His dog leapt out of the way, anticipating the Hunter’s arrow. As his fingers loosened, he felt as if a frost stallion had just kicked him in the chest. His arrow sailed high and wide. Erlendr looked down and saw an arm’s length of an arrow shaft protruding from his own chest. Confused, the young Norseman silently observed the field before him. A Scout casually left the cover of a nearby tree. Erlendr hadn’t even seen him.
The Infiltrator cut open Erlendr’s dog’s throat as the canine lunged furiously. The man’s hands glimmered with blood as he and the Scout both turned to Erlendr. Peeling away from the pair, the Hunter staggered drunkenly away, no longer hurting physically, but feeling as if he was trudging through thick quicksand. He fumbled at his belt, trying to free his one healing potion. The vial made no noise as it landed in the grass.
Erlendr glanced over his shoulder again. The stealthers were closing in slowly, probably wary that the Hunter could rapidly fire off another arrow, perhaps with more luck this time. Little did they know that Erlendr couldn’t even lift his bow. The weapon just dangled idly in his hand.
Why didn’t the Scout just shoot him and get it over with, end his life with some small semblance of dignity?
Looking ahead now, Erlendr saw a shadow shimmer briefly. His already slow pace ground to a halt in the face of yet another Infiltrator. This one wore an evil grin and didn’t care that Erlendr could see him. With no recourse, the Hunter stood helpless as the Saracen darted forward with lightning speed and drove a poisoned dirk into his good leg. With the moan of a dying animal, Erlendr toppled backwards to the soft grass.
Staring up at the stars, the Hunter watched as one, two, and then three dark forms peered down at him. He didn’t care anymore. He was no Viking. There would be no Valkyrie coming to usher him on to the gods he so fervently served. It was over.
Or it should’ve been. Why wouldn’t they just finish him off?
The poisons did incredible damage over time, destroying his organs and opening weeping wounds all over his skin. The sadistic trio just wanted to watch him bleed out. What a sad way to die.
Desiring to pass on with stars before him, Erlendr opened his eyelids for what he thought could be the final time. Peacefully slipping towards his fate, the Norseman didn’t even react when an enormous, bright red blade shot through the chest of one of the Infiltrators. Erlendr casually observed his other two assailants stand motionless, as if asleep, while their compatriot suffered three quick flashes from the great red sword. The man collapsed silently, dead before he struck the ground.
Now a blur of movement rippled across Erlendr’s view. A pair of red axes sliced through the night, and the chest of the impotent Scout. His shield fell from his grasp as he let loose a terrible shriek. Erlendr lazily rolled his head to the side and saw both of the Scout’s hands lying on the grass. The rest of the archer’s body quickly followed suit.
By now the third defender of Albion had started to run away, probably desperately trying to slink away into the shadows. Instead, he crashed to the ground after Erlendr’s savior launched a pair of throwing knives into his back. The dying Hunter watched impassively as the Shadowblade sauntered over to his prey and removed the Infiltrator’s head with one deft swing of his axes.
A Shadowblade who wielded both a sword and axes equally well. Erlendr would never have guessed he’d have witnessed such a sight. This must truly be one of the great legends of Midgard, one whom Erlendr could tell his grandchildren stories of. He waited for his rescuer to come to his aid, to cure his poison, but the short Norseman just turned and started walking into the night.
“Come back,†Erlendr cried, his voice ragged.
The Shadowblade turned his head slowly and glared at the downed Hunter, before continuing on his way.
“Don’t leave me here,†Erlendr pleaded. “You can’t leave me here.â€
He can’t just leave me here.
The Hunter rested his head back in the grass. Staring up once more at the night sky over Albion, stars filling his sight, Erlendr gasped his last.
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~ A Tale Of Revenge ~
by Donnyboy
Pressing his tired body to the limit and beyond Heckler continued on with his steady run. His mind lost in thought, filled with the faces of his friends.
Just two weeks before Heckler had been the lead scout of a free company. The company had been sent to Snowdonia by order of the King to reinforce the Albion outposts there, as the warriors of Midgard had been raiding the frontiers with a growing savagery of late, leaving the outposts there undermanned and the Albion outpost commanders in a panic! Each had sent messages to the Knight Commander begging for help and so it was that Hecklers company had been dispatched. The company had rode out under the proud banners of Albion, the cheering crowd of well wishers waving and throwing flowers had urged them onward to glory.
The first few days of the journey had begun pleasant enough with a clear sky and a warm sun on their backs, brightened even more by the smiling faces of his friends in the company. Raymond his best friend since he had begun his scout training five years before, had bragged about the great deeds he would do, of the bravery he would show and in truth we had all boasted of our soon to be heroic deeds. The Norse raiders would soon fear the frontier! But the closer they drew to the frontier the worse the weather became. The bright sun soon changed to clouds and then to a steady rain. The rain turned the road they traveled to a ever deepening mud slowing their progress, days passed and the rain continued it's steady pace. Although the weather was poor, it had also been expected and did little to dampen the spirits of his companions.
The rain continued to fall as it had for the more then a week, it fell softly but steadily and it made tracking his prey easy, not that tracking a raiding party of eight Norse men on horseback was by any means difficult, thought Heckler not for a scout. It was six days ago that Heckler had begun the hunt and just another few hours would finally bring it to an end, pressing his tired limbs to the limit Heckler continued on, each step gaining ground on those who had destroyed his company. Still fresh in his mind was the scene of slaughter..... "His company! His friends!" Lay scattered about the ruins of their camp, hacked and cleaved, their bodies stripped of their armor and weapons, they had been left to lay naked and bloody in the mud where they had fallen. The camp too had been sacked, the Norsemen had taken the horses and all else that was of value. Had he not been away, detailed to find game in the forest, he too would have been among the dead, and in truth... a part of him wished he was.
He had buried his friends as best he could, scrapping shallow holes in to the ground and covered his friends with dirt and mud, marking each grave with a small pile of stones and saying a pray for their souls.
He would have given up then and returned home to report the loss of the company. But his duty to his company, to his friends, was to avenge them and the fires of vengeance burned furiously in him, keeping the chill of the rain from his bones and the hunger from his belly. The need for vengeance driving him ever onward, he had hardly eaten or slept since the day of the attack, but none of that mattered now! Not now! Not as revenge was so close at hand. More long hours of pursuit had passed as the sun, long hidden behind the clouds was beginning to set when Heckler first smelled the smoke of the fire. In the ever growing darkness and with a stealth as silent as the grave, a skill he had practiced over many years did Heckler approach the Norse camp. There! There they were! All eight of them arranged in a rough circle around the campfire sitting on logs and rocks, roasting meat speaking a loud Norse tongue, they were laughing and joking as they passing a large skin of wine amongst themselves. Heckler in his hiding spot just beyond the edge of the camp and it's fire light, kneeled crouching next to a large oak, waiting arrow notched at a quarter draw and just watched them. A joy began to build in him! A joy he had not felt in a long time, he yearned to let fly his arrows! But he knew all too well that eight against one even with surprise would leave him dead and many of those he needed to kill still alive, so it would not do to let his arrows fly, not just yet. As the night grew darker the Norsemen continued to fill their bellies with roasted meat and wine and still Heckler waited and watched.
Heckler smiled to himself, soon they'd fall asleep and he'd take his revenge.....
As he watched the camp of Norsemen he began to name them. Bigboy the largest of them he also seemed to be their leader and stood just under seven feet tall, Scruffy beard had a fire scarred face and half his beard would never grow again. Filthy was just that filthy caked in mud and grime from his head to toes. Skinny was tall and lean. Fatty was huge in girth weighing near to three hundred pounds he guessed, amazed that any armor would even fit him. The names he had assigned the others were Pointy horns, Shorty and an old Mid he nicknamed Grandpa who sported a grey wispy beard that hung to his belt.
Hecklers mind began to drift as he watched the Norsemen, the fatigue of the long pursuit settled into his aching muscles and still the rain fell, indifferent to the blood that would soon be spilled.
It was late into the night before the wine skin was finally emptied, four of the Norsemen Grandpa, Fatty, Scruffy beard and Filthy began to slowly cover themselves with rain and mud soaked blankets and cloaks to help set them against the chill of the night and began to drift off to sleep, their weapons and shields lay close by their sides. The Norseman he had nicknamed Skinny was armed with a long bladed spear and had been posted to watch sentry he began to pace about the camps borders while two others he had named Pointy horns and Shorty tended to the horses on the far side of the camp, the largest Mid he had nicknamed Bigboy was sitting on a rock and busied himself with running a wet stone across the huge blade of a great two handed sword with a rhythmic ssswwwick.... ssswwwick... ssswwwick... ssswwwick.
With a start Heckler was jolted by a hot stream of liquid! So distracted had he become with fatigue and watching the Norseman he had named Bigboy sharpening his great blade, that he hadn't seen Skinny walk up to his hiding spot lean his spear against the tree where he was hiding and begin to urinate. It was at that moment that the Norseman looked down and although Heckler was startled, Skinny was in complete shock! Without conscious thought and with almost unnatural speed Heckler his bow still in hand finished his draw and let fly with his arrow almost straight up, piercing Skinny under his gaping jaws and through into his brain before he could make a sound. The Norseman's body jerked up and fell back rigid as his life faded out through his still shocked eyes, in the few moments it took his dieing body to fall backwards. Heckler reloaded his bow and stepped forward into the camp!
Bigboy who had been sharpening his great sword had seen the movement of the falling sentry and while still sitting had turned to face the movement, in that instant an arrow struck a glancing blow off of the flat of his great blade with a loud clang of steel on steel the arrow skipped and buried itself deep in the right side of his chest, with a grunt of pain Bigboy fell backwards over the rock he had been sitting on. As Heckler stepped into the camp and loosed an arrow into the Mid he called Bigboy. His mind was screaming "NO!!!!! How could I have let this happen!! It was too soon!! Too soon!!And now I've hit his sword with enough noise to wake them all!!" Scruffy beard having sat bolt upright at the loud noise was rewarded with a pointblank arrow through his left eye as Heckler continued to push deeper into the enemy camp. Trying to control his rising panic Heckler saw that Pointy horns and Shorty who had been tending to the horses were now rushing forward to claim their weapons that they had left by the fire all the while yelling warnings to their fellows. Firing quickly he buried an arrow dead center into each of their chests not waiting to watch them fall. Heckler turned to Grandpa and Fatty who were quickly rising to their feet but hampered by their water soaked blankets entangled in their armor and twisting about their leg's. Only Filthy having had just his filthy cloak wrapped around him had gained his feet and was now within swinging range of his hammer by the time Heckler turned his full attention to the mids who were by the fire. Filthy stepping into range screaming a Norse curse took a wide two handed swing with is hammer aimed to drive Hecklers head from his body, Heckler on reflex dropped his bow to the ground and ducked under the blow, in a practiced move he then side stepped and drove his shoulder into Filthy's midsection not surprised by the foul odor as his shoulder crashed into Filthy knocking the wind from him, still holding the arrow he had been trying to notch Heckler drove it deep into Filthy's foot. Filthy having had the wind knocked from him could only make a weak grunt of pain as he lost his footing twisting and fell forward face down into the mud. Heckler scrambling to maintain his balance quickly drew his dagger and pinning the struggling Filthy to the ground with his knee drove his dagger deeply into the back of Filthys skull ceasing his struggles to rise forever. Using Filthy's prone but still twitching body to regain his footing, he was able to stand and face his remaining two foes Grandpa and Fatty, just as they too had freed themselves from their blankets. Now they too moved towards him cautiously their swords drawn and their shields at the ready.
Heckler drew his sword and freed his buckler from the clip on his belt, he stood facing down his remaining foes, his weapons set at a defensive stance. "Six, he thought to himself!! I got six!! just two more left! I have to be careful" he thought to himself "pick my moment to strike". Grandpa and Fatty advanced on him spreading out as they did trying to force him to choose one while the other attacked his unprotected rear or flank, Heckler backed up slowly giving up ground for time. Keeping Grandpa in front of him he allowed Fatty to continue to flank him on his right side. Heckler rushed Grandpa who was ready for the attacked they traded a quick series of blows as Fatty moved in on the right side for the kill, again Heckler attacked Grandpa but this time catching Grandpa's sword on his he reached for Grandpa's mail tunic with his shield hand pulling himself tightly to Grandpa's armored chest they both struggled to keep their feet in the mud. Heckler could hear Fatty's loud footfalls in the mud closing on him, but he could not see him as he closed to finish him, so Heckler craned his neck to see Fatty and the coming deathblow he was sure to deliver. Fatty charged in with all the speed his massive bulk and the muddy ground would allow "he'd skewer this Albion coward, he'd make him pay!" bringing his sword over his head he brought it down with all the strength he had. "he'd cleave this pig from his head to groin!" As Fatty's powerful blow began to fall, Heckler still gripping tightly to Grandpa, gave up his struggles to push Grandpa back and to stay standing, he kicked out with his feet and fell backwards the sudden shift of weight pulling Grandpa down with him. Fatty's mighty blow struck Grandpa full in his back splitting his ribs from his spine and laying his insides open to the rain.
Fatty howled in pain and disbelief as he looked down at the ruin he had cause to his friend. Naked anger burned in his eye's, hate burned in his heart as he looked down at the Albion scum who lay trapped and struggling beneath the dead weight of the friend he had just killed. Screaming Nordic curses and with tears streaming from his eye's he lifted his sword with both hands and brought it down again and again and again with all his might. A blood rage had taken him.
Heckler lay pinned beneath the old Norseman he had named Grandpa, only his sword arm lay free of the old man. Staring up at Fatty who was bellowing in rage, foam frothing from his lips raised his sword and brought it down. Heckler tried to block the blow with his own sword, but could not hold back all of the force of Fatty's cleaving blow. Fire hot pain lanced from Hecklers left shoulder where Fatty's blade had struck. Kicking and struggling desperately to free himself from the dead Norseman, he managed to free his buckler hand from the tangle in time to meet Fatty's next blow, the light shield no match for the fury of Fatty's attack, the buckler cracked and more pain flared as the bones in Hecklers shield hand broke under it's fury. Finally managing to kick the dead weight of Grandpa from him. Then again did Fatty's sword fall upon him, using his own sword to block the blow Heckler began to pray "Please my Lord, give me my vengeance, give me the strength!". It seemed the Lord had answered his prayers for though Fatty's savage blow had broken and drove Hecklers sword back, it did not bite into his flesh. Quickly changing his grip on his sword, Fatty's blade came down yet again, this time angled to skewer him, in horror Heckler tried to block the blow with his mangled buckler, but his broken shield and crippled hand no match for the furious blow.
Fatty's blade passed easily through the cracked shield and the hand beneath, with only a moments hesitation it passed through his foe's studded armor and soft flesh beneath. Throwing his massive weight on to the sword, he drove the blade fully through Hecklers chest and into the ground beneath only stopping when the hilt of his sword was pressed hard against Hecklers chest. Howling in victory Fatty held his face close to his fallen foes, looking down at him with crazed eye's, a grim satisfaction burning in them at having avenged the deaths of his comrades, he cursed him to the darkest pit of hell then spat in his face.
Blinding pain burst through his already mangled hand and then again in his chest, a cry of agony escaped his lips as Fatty's sword passed through his body, the huge Norseman's body pressing close to his as the swords hilt pressed hard against his chest. Blinded by pain and gasping for air Heckler met his foes crazed stare with his own of defiance. The huge Norseman leaned his face close to his own, the Norseman speaking in words he could not understand leaned even closer and spat upon him. Heckler still grasping his shattered blade summoned all of his remaining strength as he drove his ruined blade deep into Fatty's throat, a smile played upon his lips as he watched the fat man, blood pouring from mouth his hands clutching at the blade piercing his throat as he staggered back to collapsed into the mud.
Heckler lay dieing, pinned to the ground by the Norseman's sword, each ragged breathe harder to draw then the last. The blackness closing on him. "he had done it he thought, he had put payed to the Norsemen who had killed those he cared most about." It had cost him his life, but what did that matter?.... Smiling brightly the darkness finally closed upon him.
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Untitled By CarlSpacklerGalunga
He prepared his gear for battle as he had many times before, sharpening blades, ensuring the poisons, potions, and armor that he relied upon were all in working order. He packed the saddle bags on the horse with even more weapons and poisons, hoping he would exhaust his supply. This routine he knew was the easy part of his journey, one he wasn’t sure he would return from. He looked around at the people he loved, the ones he had lost in battle before, and thought of the freedom he fought for future generations of Hibernians. She kissed him only once, he embraced it knowing it might be his last taste of love and freedom. She started to say goodbye he wouldn’t allow it but grabbed the last of his gear and left. His dog walked him to the edge of the trail there he forced the animal to go home he knew that his loyal pet would fight to the death for him, he also knew it was a wolf eat dog world in the frost lands he would be fighting in. He climbed aboard the horse urged it onward, it merely needed to get him to the ferry from there he would take the fight up alone. He watched as group after group boarded boats and left for Odin’s homeland. He shifted his mind into one of high alert he was even suspicious of the dock master. Spies were rampant in all three realms as anyone and everyone was aware. The next group was running to the dock mistress when sounds of combat filled the air. The Hibernians were not as vigilant as he and were taken unaware, this was not his fight and he felt exceptionally cold towards warriors that didn’t enter the arena with awareness. Suddenly the Hibernians started turning the tide it appears that a few of the archers of Hibernia had decided to join in the fun. He started to notice one of the Albion scum abandon his team, he was familiar with this person who bore the Wilson family crest. The only thing he hated worse than Hibs with lack of awareness was Alb cowards. He began shifting his position slowly to the left to avoid detection into the path of the fleeing weakling. He pulled two of his favorite weapons, one he earned defeating dragons that had shown arrogance in trying to expand their dominion in his land the other forged by Corfel the master Weapon smith of the land with magical powers to damage the armor type of his opponent. The time lined up although everything in his body began to run quicker, his blood, his breath, the image of the man running seemed to be slowing down. The time came from the shadows he appeared both daggers went straight to the neck of Lord Wilson. The Arterial spray filled the air, a scream came from the victim, and this was no time for mercy. He followed this with a savage strike that rendered the dog motionless, He stepped to the side, pulled more weapons with even more poisons, these were intended to prevent this cleric from healing himself, and jammed them hard into the side. Now was the time for him to begin using some of the tricks he had learned from the Magi of his realm he cast two quick powerful spells and finished the target. Like second nature he dove into the water and swam down putting weapons away and using his cloak disappearing into the water. While there he reapplied the poisons to their places and put them back in order. This bloody journey had started on a very positive note. The ride to the snow was long it gave him time again to begin using magical spells on items that he had earned in his adventures in the realm and prepare again into the breach. There would be no archers on the hill turning the tide for him in this strange land. He slipped from the boat quite early from the end of its journey knowing that many were waiting for just such fools as he. He walked onto the bridge known as Agramon the second and begin looking for a place to begin his killing spree. The wind blew, the sounds he heard were as loud as party before battle in Valhalla, and he knew he would hear the archers long before he saw them, so he trusted this sense more than his eyes. Slowly inching forward he decided this bridge was in the clear. He began the journey to the bridge nearer enemies. This Bled Bridge was known as a popular route for the massive armies of Mid to leave as one and travel over. The bridge relic was well defended and since the Agramon Bridge had been clear he decided it was time to do what he was born to do assassinate. He then decided that the daring would be the ones that turned the tide of this war for Hibernia. He scaled the keep wall with almost no effort as if a ladder were there. Once inside he knew he would be wise to dispatch a guard or two first, and did just that. He re-applied poisons and decided that perhaps his poison that had mesmerizing magic would be of certain use here. He waited as two large groups left knowing he could do little but report the activities of these groups he did so hoping that warriors of Hibernia could battle these numbers in a way he could not. Then it happened a smaller group of three emerged from the keep yet they did not leave for war. Two of them decided to stand together and take a break while the third decided to help his realm defend the bridge relic. He watched until the right amount of distance was between himself and the one who decided to leave the safety of the keep. He dropped down in flash he quickly dispatched the first with no resistance, the second only noticed his friend dying when it was too late he begin trying to run to get back into the keep. He snared the targeted and began using poisons like a musician hitting notes in song. Just then the third of this trio charged in the door to save his friend…now now is the time for the mez poison. This halted the thirds progress in battle allowing the second to die. The third enemy became active again and begins casting his spells damaging him greatly. He charges for the wall to jump from this keep as he makes it over the side with almost no life to spare a smile begins to spread on his face knowing he had done well. Perhaps this smile is ill advised he turns to the sound of a knocked bow…nay bows the arrows fly straight and true…his last thoughts are of that kiss. He hopes when his son carries on the banner that he will recognize the need for help in this war against so many.
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Adventures in Emain by UncleWalty-G
The breeze rustled the tall untamed grasses of the frontier. The birds sang songs in the trees. The sky opened up to a gorgeous hue of blue scarcely attained by nature; all seemed to be at peace with the world, if it weren’t for Listerfiend’s purpose for being there. He was here on a task from the Albion Commander to bring back the ears of 15 of Hibernia’s fallen heroes. It was a grisly business but Listerfiend himself was no stranger to this sort of thing. He had fought for the realm at Cathal Valley, and Leirvik before that, and at the battle for Molvik even before then. He had become increasingly skilled in the arts of deception and stealth and had felled so many foes that he had been raised to the rank of Eagle Knight in the name of Arthur, the one and true king. For a moment he forgot the laevus blade and long sword of fine steel at his sides, and breathed in the heavy Hibernian air. The wilds of this land were almost… beautiful. But in an instant he was back again-- here in Emain he was to do his duty-- and that was to slay those who called Lamfhota their king. He had decided to patrol the edge of the woods just in sight of the Leasg Pass East bridge, so that he may prey upon stragglers and feed valuable information to the larger Alb battle groups across the Frontier. Off to the south, the armies of Albion wreaked havoc on Dun Bolg, a stronghold of the tree-loving folk. Listerfiend could spot black wisps of smoke curling into the clear azure skies, like a warning to all who would oppose the enforcers of Arthur.
There was a snap of twigs eerily close to Listerfiend’s right, and he instinctively placed his hands on the hilts of his steel, ever so gently. Calmly, Listerfiend stalked the ground in a wide arc – if there were another silent hunter here, he would have the element of surprise. “Always be the hunter. “ Master Edric had taught him. There was someone else here – he could sense it. A shadow seemed to pass in direct sunlight, but in a blink it was gone. Could it have been…? Listerfiend had been out here so long that he may have been losing focus from fatigue. He had spent an entire night and a day in Emain, and still had no ears to return to the Albion Commander. A bead of sweat dripped down his right temple as Listerfiend drew close to where he thought he heard the noise – behind that tree trunk there. His fingers stretched in anticipation, eagerly awaiting their chance to bring a flurry of lethal and blindingly fast strikes. He crept closer to the spot –I am as a shadow. Every breath remained hushed and shallow; his heart all ahammer as he slunk noiselessly towards the tree. Perforate the artery. His world became that ten-meter stretch of sparse grove. Creeping death. Smooth and silent, he brought his blades to bear. Stunning stabs. Heart resounding in his chest. Sweat on his brow. Not far now. Listerfiend, catlike, flexed to pounce. This is it. The moment to strike was here. Gripping the weapons and gritting his teeth Listerfiend made to break cover with a guttural growl, when suddenly, a granny stepped harmlessly out from behind the tree. Listerfiend’s shoulders slumped in disappointment. Damn it all! He could not hide his frustration and let out a sigh.
He would never meet his quota at this rate! Regretfully, he resheathed his swords and turned from the wandering old wench, thoroughly irked. He was halfway through the turn when he first glimpsed it in his peripherals. It started as a shadow, and then grew to a ghost, and as Listerfiend turned toward the incorporeal form it manifested itself into a vicious-looking two-handed sword. There was no time to think. Already in motion, Listerfiend deftly dodged the blow as his assailant abandoned all stealth. You’ll regret approaching me. The tall, bearded Norseman had overcommitted on his initial strike, lunging nearly past Listerfiend and leaving his ribbed leather armor exposed from nave to chops. Listerfiend’s work was quick. As the attacker fumbled to recover his botched assault, the fine steel and laevus blade dipped deep, just below each of his collar bones. With a gasp of surprise, the Norse’s breath escaped him. The swords came out almost as soon as they went in, bringing bright gouts of blood tinged with the dark, brackish hues of Listerfiend’s toxic poisons – the hallmark of all assassins. The Norseman clumsily took a sidelong slash that Listerfiend evaded easily by stepping back onto his right foot, and then rolled forth again with all his force. This time, the fine steel long sword penetrated deep into the thigh of the Midgardian. With a howl of pain, the Norseman seemed to go berserk. In one swift jerk of the wounded leg he made Listerfiend lose his grip on his weapon. They backed off each other for a moment, Listerfiend with his laevus blade, and his long sword lodged in the quadricep of his foe. The Norse dropped his heavy two-handed blade and grabbed a pair of shining silver axes from his belt. Listerfiend procured his Malice’s Axe from his baldric, eyes fixed on the tenacious bearded man. The blood was flowing in two thick rivulets down his chest and his leg looked horribly rended. However maimed, the man growled and half-ran, half-hobbled to where Listerfiend stand. Unbelievable! Listerfiend thought to himself. The wounded man was upon him faster than he anticipated, whirling wildly, turning into a bleeding silver blur. An axe slash slid down the laevus blade and caught Listerfiend in the elbow, ripping it open. The next blow came across his rawhide helm, fraying it and knocking him sideways. Enough! Listerfiend spun from his assailant, and spun back with weapons in full swing. There was a momentary flash as the bright Hibernian sunlight caught the edge of the Axe of Malice, and the blood-smeared blade of laevus; but it was gone as the axe tore open the abdomen of the Nordic man, and as the laevus blade disappeared up to the hilt inside the gaping wound.
The Norse shadowblade dropped to a knee, gurgling softly. Although he no longer roared with the fervor of battle, his eyes shouted as loud as any battle cry. He had a sword lodged in his thigh, and another lodged in his stomach. Blood, among other things, slopped out of his savaged body. Breathing heavy, Listerfiend regained his grip on his Malice’s Axe. He gave a salute to his fallen foe, and brought the axe down in a heavy overhand swing.
contest over
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Once a Marine, Always a Marine! SEMPER FI!!
They call me Dolman, but you can call me daddy
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