Captain Lenar glanced around the crowded camp. His men were clearly nervous but they were also bloodthirsty ,so the inevitable attack would be welcome.
"Captain" a young private had just ran up to Lenar
"Whats the problem private Sanner?" Lenar asked gritting his teeth "this is the 5th time you have came to me in 3 hours, it isnt about the bloody horses again is it?"
The young private was clearly uncomfortable "Well yes sir... theyre awfully hungry"
"My men are hungry Sanner!" the captain shouted in disgust "Take your sorry behind back to your campfire!"
October 3rd, 2005, 02:17 PM
That, Lenar thought as he watched Sanner scurry off, is what I get for putting a Tenari horseman in charge of the mounts. He'd probably give his horse the last drop from his own waterskin, content to die of thirst. Those Tenari worship their mounts like gods.
Lenar shook himself out of his reverie, and looked over his men once again. They were adjusting the straps on their leather armour, sharpening axes, or smearing muddy paint on their faces. Last minute preparations. In spite of himself, Lenar smiled. His men were the best, the most battle hardened company in the kingdom, and this was just one more in a long line of battles against the barbarian tribes.
This is what my men live for. This is what they do.
His confident train of thought was shattered when he heard sudden screams arising from somewhere behind him. From the general area of the Tenari cavalry. Gods, what now? I told the king these Tenari were a mistake. They're still mostly barbarian; they have no place among my men, among the Company of the Damned.
October 15th, 2005, 03:07 AM
Lenar frowned, and cursed under his breath. I've got no patience for these Barbarians and their ilk. They're big, but they smell of stale ale and horse droppings, and you never know which side they'll end up fighting for during the battle.
Lenar frowned and then bellowed "Private Sanner! It's time for you to make yourself useful."
Private Sanner, startled at hearing Captain Lenar's bellow, seemed even more uncomfortable as he hurridly snapped to attention and said "Sir, yes sir!"
"Get a detachment together and find out what those bloody barbarians are up to. We can't have them messing up our plans."
As Private Sanner scurried off, Lenar sighed at what he had to put up with. Why couldn't we have dwarves? They are slow, and stubborn yes, but extremely honorable. If you had the word of a Stone Lord, you didn't have to spend half your time looking over your shoulder for treachery. As the Captain of the Damned, he'd fought with several of the Stone Lord companies. Each had been stalwart and proffesional.
Oh the barbarians made sense on paper to be sure. Each tribe hated all the other tribes, and would agree to fight with little provocation, but they were notoriously fickle when befuddled with ale. Hah, they were usually more likely to begin fighting amongst themselves, which is surely what that clatter was... Still, Captain Lenar couldn't shake his nagging sense of impending doom.
October 26th, 2005, 10:25 AM
Amongst the barbarians - hidden beneath a shaggy Whalwart skin cloak, an oversized Tulrach helm - Dowre Tunne smiled. He wandered through the broiling mesh of muscle and thuggery as though born to it, and indeed he might as well have been as his life had ever been harsh. Yet, though the barbarians had readily accepted him as one of their own, his history was of an entirely other mould. Dyes hid the stark whiteness of his hair. The startling red tattoos that ringed his arms and blazed across his back were constantly under cover. They would have turned on him in an instant had they known his true heritage, torn him appart with bare hands and flung the scraps of his flesh to the wolves - his own spiritual kindred. His was a race more ancient than the ice-mountains, more feared than the Pantathian hordes that had swept across the mainland two centuries ago leaving nothing but death and fire in their wake.
He was Wolfbane. The old enemy.
The savage northerners revelled in their war-play, enjoyed disruption and mayhem. Dowre Tunne enjoyed their ignorance. But it was a fragile thing, he knew. And he needed them. He needed to win their trust. Soon he needed them to listen.
Captain Lenar's men were milling amongst the shaggy warmen, barking orders and ducking blows. The scuffle was breaking up. Angry shouts were turning to boisterous laughter, blows to embraces. They liked to keep the commanders busy, off balance. It amused them.
Dowre Tunne perched himself on a jut of rock covered in faint spirals. More attuned to the earth than 'later-men', the younger races, he could feel lambent energies, the throb of Wurldblud, oozing up through it, seeping and discipating in the cool air. He removed a leather glove and brushed his finger-tips over the patterns - enjoying the faint emanations that snagged at and wispered to them.
It would soon be time. There was no other option open to him. The Wolfbane were not a long-lived people - the "later-men" seemed sluggish by comparison. Dim-witted, slow to act and learn - and Dowre Tunne was almost twenty seven. Crippling old age, swift, merciless and utterly ravaging, would take him in the next year or two. If he was lucky he could live maybe another decade, but the Wolfbane did not seek long life. It was not how they measured their worth. His vigour would hold out one more season, he was certain, but that was all the time he had.
There had to be a truce - no matter the history and generational hatred, the prejudice and contempt.
Captain Lenar, he believed, had the vision to understand this, and the diplomatic skills to drag such an alien concept into being. But Lenar was in the thick of war. How could he reach the man? How could the Wolfbane warrior make himself heard without getting killed trying to do it?
Power to the J
April 26th, 2007, 03:23 PM
The answers to those questions would apparently come later on. The young boy Sanner who loved his horses more than his country fell to the ground with a piercing scream. He fell to the grass half-way between the two camps and revealed five black arrows sticking out of his bloody back.
Up ahead about two or three hundred feet was a region of hills. If not for his cover Dowre would have immediately pointed out the countless disadvantages that staying in that area presented. Since he could not, he made sure that he was extra careful when in the area, and made sure that Zentrox-his sword- stayed by his side at all times. That knowledge was coming to his advantage now.
All heads in the camp-Company of the Damned and Barbarian-snapped towards the sounds of hooves rapidly approaching from the hills. The first of the horses were already in view, and although the were nothing more than silhouette, everyone knew who they were: Otteymin.
Otteymin were quite possibly the most feared tribe in all of the land, and the Company of the Damned had been sent out here in the first place to fight them. They were large in both height and weight: each at about double Dowre in both category, and fought like savages. An untrained eye would say that they were savages, but that was far from the truth; the Otteymin were one of the most organized and powerful forces in all of the land, and they and everyone around them knew it, and knew it well. But they were no match for Dowre.
More black arrows came from twisted, sloppily made yet effective bows, and they hit many of the Damned as they scurried for weapons. The full force of them was now riding down, letting out fierce battle cries. The Barbarians did the same, and Dowre unsheathed Zentrox.
Never forget your past...he recited easily with a slight pause to remember Master Trainer, which he subconsciously took as a sign of weakness. He truly was starting to get old. Never forget your present... Dowre looked at the Otteymin, who were now splitting into two groups; one that battled the Damned, and another that charged towards Dowre and the Barbarians. "Come then," he whispered weakly, not even realizing that he was. "I am ready."
He was not the only one. The Barbarians had all rose, and were growling and yelling in response to the battle calls of the Otteymin, ready for the first wave of attackers-in fact, a few had thrown small axes at the Otteymin, hitting them with mild success- but none was more ready than Dowre.
Dowre took a huge risk and looked across the land to the Damned. It looked as if some sort of a response to the attack was occurring. That much was good.
Never get caught off guard...
Gripping Zentrox like he never had before, he whispered again: "I will not," the enemy was closer. "Not on this day!" he swung Zentrox as if it were an extension of his own body as the front line of Otteymin were within arm's reach.
July 26th, 2007, 08:27 AM
Dowre dropped to his knee as the first horsemen swept in. Taking his blade double handed he swept the front legs from the first horse. The beats yelped in pain and toppled to the ground, spilling its rider. He leapt over the flailing stallion and landed on the fallen Otteymin’s chest, a sweep of his weapon ended the man’s life.
Another Otteymin reared up behind him, galloping full pelt though the mass of struggling barbarians, a spear point leveled for the Wolfbane’s chest. Dowre sidestepped the slashing spear point and grabbed the shaft halfway. The sudden halting of the weapon drove the butt into the rider’s ribs and catapulted him out the saddle. The fallen man rose swiftly to his feet, a cavalry scimitar sliding from its scabbard. The Otteymin lent down and scooped a dagger from his boot. They circled one another as horses stampeded back and forth, riderless and forgotten.
The cavalryman dashed in, blade slashing for Dowre’s ribs. Zentrox licked out catching the outstretched sword against the flat of its blade and parrying it aside. He danced in between the man’s outstretched arms and carved a bloody X on his chest. Gurgling moistly in his throat and writhing in pain his opponent fell to be trampled by the churning mass of men.
His keen eyes flicked up, viewing the battlefield. Barbarians fought hand to hand with the cavalry men, their sheer strength and size allowing them to comfortably lock swords with the riders. His eyes fell upon the Company of the Damned. The camp was filled with close quarter fighting as the men tried to form some sense of order. A block of soldiers had formed a ramshackle phalanx and were marching forward, driving the Otteymin before them. He noticed the captain. A swear word slid from between his lips, dismounted and alone he fought, surrounded by cavalrymen.
Realising his plan could never come to pass if the man died he sped off through the mêlée towards the beleaguered officer.
Power to the J
August 20th, 2007, 01:11 PM
"Work, you motherless sons of goats, work!" Lenar was screaming, on the front line of the phalanx which was not only out of order and had lots of holes in it, but as also not nearly large enough to work completely.
Lenar knew that this would be his final battle.
Sadly, there were no spears, spikes, or any weapons similar; all the Company had were swords, and they weren't holding up well at all. Lenar slashed forward, hitting an Otteymin, but the beast remained motionless--just wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Finally, it fell, and Lenar had to work to heave his blade from the other's insides.
I'm getting too old for this, he though vaguely before turning to Naren, the man next to him. The boy couldn't have been over fifteen, and he was scared stiff, his eyes wide and darting all across the battlefield. "You fool! Push on! The enemy is here! Work you--"
An arrow hit the boy just above his right eye, and he fell. No time to fret over him now. "Get up here somebody!" he yelled, his voice going hoarse.
They kept going, trying to move forward, but more and more members of the Company began dropping to the ground, and more Otteymin joined the fray, looking for easy kills.
When an Otteymin tripped into Lenar, the commander launched his knee upwards into the Otteymin's stomach, and then swung his sword horizontally. The blade went into the neck, and after a bit of a struggle, in which all of Lenar's arm muscles had to be exercised, the sword went clear through the neck and launched the heard upwards. Lenar's clothes became blood-soaked, and some of the foul-smelling blood made its way to his neck, arms and face. He wiped his eyes, ready to vomit on the spot, but was cut short by a battle cry from in front of him.
One Otteymin stood with his hands held high, and a huge sword over his head. His lips were curled into a snarl, revealing that the few teeth he had were brown and decaying. Drool trickled from its lips and landed on Lenar's forehead, just as the Otteymin began its downward strike.
Lenar raised his sword to try and block the attack, but there was no hope; the Otteymin was too strong. It was over.
He tried fitting in a fraction of a prayer but was cut off.
A man lunged forth, letting out a call of physical strain and heaving his sword forward. The blade hit the Otteymin's with perfect accuracy, knocking the enemy's away.
The man--No, wait, it's a Barbarian!--quickly recovered, turning back and slicing the Otteymin across the chest and watching it fall.
"Are you alright?" the Barbarian asked. Lenar couldn't believe it; he didn't know Barbarian’s spoke in any sort of tongue, and this one was speaking in perfect Teyvern.
"Sure," Lenar said, looking around at the battlefield which had turned into pure chaos, with no remaining traces of the forgotten Phalanx, and then up at the Barbarian, who was scanning the field as well, but with a fire in his eyes unmatched by anything Lenar had ever seen.
A Barbarian had rescued him.
It was a day to remember.
April 1st, 2008, 06:31 PM
"Holy crap", he blurted, as his left eye socket suddenly sprouted another arrow. Darkness grew as he slipped into unconscienceness and then into death...