Selibas
Hero
The Little Wolf
My Word is Iron.
Posts: 455
Etruria Fame: -1
Bern Fame: 4
Illia Fame: -3
Profession: Khan
Guild: Tribe of Sacae
Affinity: Ice
OoC Alias: Selibas
|
Post by Selibas on Oct 14, 2015 19:30:25 GMT -6
The short Sacaen barely avoided the crashing jaws of Fafnir, the White Scaled Wyvern. The leap that had brought the swordsman away from the clamping teeth twisted his body away from the beast's neck, so that the only way he could have hit it would be to swing his sword with only his right hand. He could manage it certainly, but Epeeciel was heavy enough that the swing would drain him of his strength all the quicker, and leave him open for an attack from the rider. Instead of swinging, Selibas shifted his weight and backed up. When the wyrmslayer cut the dragon's scales, it needed to be a true strike.
The khan looked the beast in the eye as its long, thin, scaly neck rose, turning its head to look at the short man with green hair. It could smell many things on him. He smelled like the master, somehow eating him would be like biting the masters own flesh. Fafnir did not want to eat the master, it only wanted to kill the little two legs that tried to stand in his two legs' way. This felt like both, and Fafnir was not sure how to feel. The boy also had an odd scent coming from him. It was not the smell Fafnir was used to when some two legs stood in front of him. Ever since one day, when both the master and he had been younger, high in the mountains, every two leg he looked at smelled of fear. This boy did not smell of fear, or at least what fear he did feel was not showing. It was overpowered by another scent. Anger reeked from the green haired two legs. With every moment, rage slipped into the wyvern's nostrils. It was an animalistic rage, that once more reminded Fafnir of the master.
Selibas was absolutely horrified every time the beast tried to grab him in those massive teeth. It was quick, for being so giant and so old. It would bring its head far back, and then without warning, in an instant, it would snap forward, nearly clipping Selibas every time it struck. The khan was getting tired, very tired, more tired than he would have been had he struck at the wyverns neck when he had the opportunity. He decided to create another one. He gripped Epeeciel in both hands, and stopped moving. Fafnir made another lunge at the khan, and the short swordsman skipped to the side, but then immediately jumped back toward the beast, swinging the sword in a broad arc at his neck.
A loud shriek broke the air as the sword bit into the scales along the creatures neck. Then the beast twisted off the blade, blood pouring from its neck, and dripping off the Sacaen's massive sword. The beast swung its neck from side to side, screeching. The rider tried to calm the beast, but it did not work. Selibas sprinted forward, and drove the sword into the wyrm's chest. It's cry did not last long, as it fell to the ground, with its rider slipping out of the saddle. Selibas stood still as his father rose and pulled his weapons from the saddle, and spat, "Useless beast."
|
|
|
Post by Ilheod on Oct 26, 2015 9:02:44 GMT -6
As the lurching motion of Astraeus climbing into the air before another dive swirled within the pit of Ilheod's abdominal, he gazed over the landscape with a brief hanging moment of timelessness. Perhaps one of the greatest assets to the ability to ride a wyvern in combat was the clarity gained when seeing a battle through that perspective. Above. Both sides seen through an unbiased reality. The soldiers of Larguz, like a funnel of ants pouring through a hole at the bottom of an ant nest to defend their hive. The Rebels. Surrounding a portion of the city and clashing into the loyalist faction like the tide breaking to the surface of a rock. Knowing however, both the ideals they represented..it seemed only fitting. The loyalists. Men content to just live the everymans life without a thought towards the future, taking each day an hour at a time. Living in the moment. They simply fought to maintain their existence. It suited the scrambling frenzy as they tried to maintain their chaos.
Then, the more dangerous of the two. The rebellion. A usually poor siege style deployment launched with overwhelming numbers battering endlessly against the fortified city while they fought to change their home for a better future. Placing every life on the line. Every existence. To them, a life under Ilian rule was no life at all. That being the case...it was clear the rebellion was the more ferocious of the two. After all..there was no greater an enemy than one with nothing to lose. They were already condemned, simply for being rebels. Their lives couldn't get worse than they had, and they accepted a possibility of death. They would not follow blindly, as loyalists would. However, not only were the rebels willing to die for their beliefs..they were wiling to live with the results of that belief, for better or worse.
Then it ended. That moment where he reached a height from the final wing-beat and gazed over the field came to a close and gravity sent him racing back down in a hurry as Astraeus tucked his wings inwards to increase descending velocity. Ilheod hoisted, and gripped at his silver spear firmly, quietly breathing to center himself. The black gargoyle bone armor made it difficult to actually discern rider from wyvern, save for the ashen shade of the silver infused weapon he wielded. The wyvern lord and his riders crashed once more into the left flank of the loyalist ground forces with immense pressure, an aerial cavalry charge that lasted for brief moments before they took to the skies again. He'd felt the grating resistance as his spear punched into a footmen brandishing a spear and shield. His weapon had found a gracious gap under his spear arm and through the side of his chest from his armpit, skewering the man before his wyvern passed by and forced him to withdraw his spear. Even if the soldier didn't perish immediately, he wouldn't be able to fight with such a wound. In all likelyhood, he'd be trampled to death by one of the two combative forces. As Ilheod ascended, he caught a glimpse of their target zone. The hole they had briefly made in formation filled up almost instantly as more soldiers used the available space to pour back in. The rebels front line had perhaps gained two steps on that side before they met resistance again. The strength of a bottle-necked defense...as it was.
Turning around for another pass, Ilheod noticed, almost too-late, that the loyalist soldiers had caught on. As he descended he was able to briefly make out in the haze of soldiers, shields, spears, and swords, a small gathering of uplifted bows. The initial streak of fear rushed through the wyvern lord that instinctively followed such sights. The greatest counter to any aerial force, was ranged offense. Especially bows which could puncture a wyverns wings and render them flightless. He couldn't shout to his men to pull up. His voice would've never carried over the sound of air rushing past their heads mid dive. He couldn't signal with his spear either, by the time he did they'd be riddled full of arrows. Weapon based signals were best for formations or orders mid flight when in a hurry. In that case...
Ilheod pressed to Astraeus and forced the wyvern into a lower dive, tapping his heels to the creatures sides to give it the subtle command that they always used in such situations. When Ilheod could not communicate with his unit. The wyverns jaws parted, and its chest briefly expanded as if to inhale before letting out an ear splitting shriek. To the men directly below, it was likely to distract or daze. Its true intent however fulfilled a moment later, when Ilheod's entire unit plunged straight down instead of the gradually arced dive. The wyverns plummet saved them as a hail of arrows zipped through the air; unfortunately some finding marks in the ground forces of the distance. A few hit unlucky riders that had not followed the order, likely those not of the nightwings.
Astraeus landed on the ground, (and on an unfortunate loyalist ax toting fighter) with a thunderous crash that kicked up plumes of dust and lightly shook the ground. The rest of the wyvern unit landed similarly. To prevent that from happening again..Ilheod sent Astraeus forwards suddenly. The colossal wyvern rushed into the side of the loyalist formation as the devil slayer swept his spear in a lethal arcing path to his right. A small trail of darkened crimson clung to the spear tip by the time he'd completed the swing. With an iron vice-grip on his weapon Ilheod began to savagely thrust it into the nearest enemies, while Astraeus struck with feral brutality at unfortunate nearby foes in a whirlwind of claw swipes and snapping jaws. The sight of the large midnight blue, black armored wyvern and its rider adorned in armor of gargoyle bone was likely a unique one to the men around him. The riders behind him followed suit, fulfilling the role(though less effective, and temporarily) similar to heavy land cavalry. Their path of death intent to destroy the archer unit. The jostling of blades clashing with the armored wyverns plating and scaled hide occasionally prompted Ilheod's attention before stabbing the assaulting loyalist.
War was certainly grim work.
|
|
Zacharia
Shaman
Kingmaker
"You fight for the promise of a better tomorrow for this country."
Posts: 172
Bern Fame: 3
Illia Fame: -2
Profession: Advisor
Affiliation: Bernese Senate
Affinity: Thunder
Profile: Link
OoC Alias: Zach
|
Post by Zacharia on Oct 26, 2015 16:22:44 GMT -6
He was on his own again; the old man had already left to seek out the wounded. It was a side Zacharia had never seen of Boryn before. He seemed more vibrant, more... life-like, on the fields on war. Maybe that was how he convinced an entire convent's worth of Bernese scholars to lend their powers? The commander would've thought on it more, but the arrow nailing his cloak to the ground was a pretty solid indicator that now was probably not the time for deep thoughts.
All around him, men and wyverns of both camps fell from the sky like siege weapons were launching them. More than once the mage had to duck and roll out of the way of a shrieking tangle of wings and claws, and more than once he saw grounded warriors unlucky enough to be caught under one of those beasts. It wasn't pretty, and it definitely wasn't a glorious way to die, but Zach was thankful that it was them instead of him that were being crushed. It was a... cowardly way to think, admittedly, but he wasn't allowed to go until his mission was complete.
Fate decided that now was a good time to remind him of that.
Something hard and hand-shaped hook around from behind and tossed him aside. "Zacharia! MOVE!!" Mortell shouted, shoving him to the ground. Over the din of the war, a dizzied Zach could hear steel clash against steel, and the shuffle of hooves. He was laid out on the grass, but miraculously still had his tome in hand. In retaliation, he pried the spellbook open and fired off a hiss of magic. It didn't hit whatever was hunting him by a mile. "Mortell? That was you? Wh-what happened?! Who was that?" "Stand back up!" Mortell roared again. "You would've been cleaved in two by that woman's sword if I hadn't nudged you, and you'll be trampled underfoot if you don't stand back up."
"'Nudge?'"
The world was currently dancing around in his head, but Zach picked the shattered remains of his dignity from the ground and wobbled to his feet. The portly man grunted, cueing Zach to look up anOHGEEZ THAT'S A SWORD
The mage made a motion to duck, but Mortell saved his butt for the second time time in a minute by catching the blade on his shield arm. The soldier spat at him from behind her helmet, and the horse she rode upon danced away before the portly man could react. By the time his axe swung, she had already galloped away. "Ugh, damn that rider..." he panted as he wiped the spittle away. "She's been following me... too fast... on that horse, and you're the closest... man I have. I need you to strike... when she comes 'round again." Zach shook his head, trying to re-adjust his vision. Was he really the only one left? Looking around, it seemed like the Rebels had decided to give the General and the Cavalier some breathing room. How noble.
"I-I'll do my best." The mage took an open stance behind Mortell's shield and tried to clear his thoughts - to focus his mind on the target. "I will advance slowly, just be mindful of your surroundings. I'll handle the rest." "R-Right." The mage willed the Eclipse spell to come to life in his hands. He knew his limits; if he walked too fast, he wasn't strong enough to control the Nether from spewing off in some crazy angle. If he wasn't quick enough, the cavalier would evade them again. On top of that, he needed to be focused enough to charge the spell and mindful of his surroundings.
The magic started to intensify, and swell within his palm. Specks of Nether whirled around like a mini storm. No pressure.
|
|
Selibas
Hero
The Little Wolf
My Word is Iron.
Posts: 455
Etruria Fame: -1
Bern Fame: 4
Illia Fame: -3
Profession: Khan
Guild: Tribe of Sacae
Affinity: Ice
OoC Alias: Selibas
|
Post by Selibas on Oct 27, 2015 12:12:36 GMT -6
Staring his son in the face, Yerna Cinderfelt ripped a sword from his dead Wyvern’s saddle, and attached its sheath to his belt. He slid Nothung into its sheath on his other hip, then picked up his Spear. With a grim snarl, he turned his back on the beast he’d shared the sky with for so long, and made his way toward the filthy Sacaen brat in front of him. He was a commander of Bern’s sky, and if the winds blew Ilian flags atop castle Bern, he’d put down any enemy that tried to take it down. These rebels hadn’t convinced him they would win the war. If they had, maybe things would be different, but this boy could not hope to tear the Ilians away from the throne. Yerna would kill the little wolf before he got the chance, and if his lands were expanded for it? So be it.
He considered throwing the spear, but did not. He was a head and a half taller than the whelp, already giving him more range than the boy’s puny arms could hope to reach. However, with the Spear, he could make short work of him, keeping the Sacaen on the run. Without warning, he broke into a run, and stabbed the spear toward the boy’s chest once he was close. He was the Death Flash, and the boy would not live to forget it.
Selibas batted the attack away with his massive wyrmslayer. It was the largest of his swords, designed for fighting on the back of wyverns against men with spears and lances. The khan was shocked at how fast the old man was, his strike had come almost from nowhere. He would need to be more careful, the man wore heavier armor than his son, but was far quicker than the green haired swordsman had anticipated. Selibas turned and rushed into his father’s range, barreling toward him shoulder first. He swung his massive blade so that the middle of the long edge would cut into his father’s stomach.
However, his father slid to the side of the blade with two quick steps, then immediately lunged at Selibas’ now exposed right side. The Khan lifted his sword arm, so that the spear head glanced off of the thick pauldron. Then he stopped his forward drive, and spun at his hips so that the large blade once again hurtled toward the Wyvern General’s midsection. The white haired loyalist put both hands on his spear, and shoved the massive weapon away. He saw a flash of sudden doubt as the weapons made contact, a flicker in his father’s face of fear. Not at the blade cutting him, but in the Spear breaking if Selibas had to guess. The short Sacaen leapt back away from his father, and readied his weapon for another strike.
“You cannot hope to beat me boy. I’ve been fighting long before your b***h mother pushed you screaming into the world. You’ve got too much Sacaen in you, you’re too weak. There’s no way you could beat me if you were a grown man, and you, you’re just a pup.” Selibas gritted his teeth.
“And you’re a monster.”
----------
Eleven years before his duel with his father, a small boy tried to duel with his cousin on the plains of Sacae. It was more of a punishment than a fair fight. The smaller boy had taken the wooden training sword his cousin used the night before, and tried to copy some of the steps the older boy had been learning. His cousin, Farus, had discovered him, and along with his other cousin, Dale, they had forced him to find a stick near the size of the training sword. They gathered many of the other boys in the tribe, and began to ‘instruct’ their young cousin.
Farus was quick, a prodigy with the Sumis tribe’s style. He danced around the younger boy like it was nothing, rapping the boy on his head, shoulders, and stomach with quick hard blows. The little boy struggled to hold to his feet after a particularly harsh crack to his head set the ground to spinning. He lashed out with the stick at nothing, and all the boys of the tribe laughed. Faru’s laugh was the loudest of all. He stopped his dancing and said, ”Come on Selibas. You know you’re not supposed to touch any weapons! If you were willing to take the risk and try and play at swordsman you gotta be able to at least land a hit on me.”
”I don’t think he can. I think he’s too slow,” another boy cut in. He added, “There’s too much Bern in him.” Selibas had been fighting back tears from the pain, but now his eyes cleared as they widened. His voice came out weak, “Whu-what?” Farus laughed once more.
”You mean you don’t know? No one’s told you?” Selibas swallowed, then shook his head. “Well, you know your mom was my aunt before she was exhiled, but your dad wasn’t Sacaen at all. Your dad was this Wyvern Rider from Bern, and my dad said he killed at least a hundred innocent people, and that he would have tried to kill everyone in our tribe just for fun if he thought he could do it.”
The short boy shook his head, and shouted, his voice high pitched, “You’re lying, my dad was…” Farus’ face grew very serious. ”Did you just call me a liar? I’m not some little half breed like you! I’m Sacaen, and I don’t lie!” He pushed Selibas onto the ground and started kicking him, then after a few kicks he started to hit him with the training sword again. A few boys cheered, but Selibas’ other cousin Dale tried to stop Farus. Farus shoved his little brother off, and returned to beating the small boy.
”When I’m Khan you better run away, do you hear me? My dad said he won’t kill you because you have eyes like his sisters, but I’ll kill you! Now you know why you can’t be trusted with a weapon. A demon stole a girl from our tribe, and when she came back she had you.”
”And you’re a monster.”
----------
Selibas growled as he dove towards Yerna, swinging his blade with savage speed. His father narrowly avoided the strike, and stepped to his side, lunging with the spear so that it cut the Khan under the arm at an exposed point in his armor. Selibas yelped, and cursed himself for doing so as a momentary grin split his opponent’s wicked face. He turned and backpedaled away from the downed rider.
“That’s first blood to me boy. Come, you can’t even hit me with that massive thing. Now, be a good son and kneel to your father. Maybe I could even let you live if you promise to be a good boy. Hell, I need a new heir now that Gregor’s dead.” Selibas growled, baring his teeth as the man laughed.
The khan shouted over the roar of battle, “How can you care so little about your own son? Was he not why you wouldn’t take me? Was your son at home not so important that you shunned your second child? Why would his death mean so little to you if you raised him? Are you truly so sick that his death is just something you don’t think about?”
Yerna spat and his face became wicked once more, ”Don’t give me that wolf. Don’t try and take any sort of high ground with me, my eyes are much higher than yours, and they’ve seen more of life. You bloody f*****g killed your own brother. Don’t pretend you feel something for him now. You’ve been waiting your whole life to kill me. You want to crush the life out of me, and that’s not something little heroes do. I am a killer, always have been. You’re a killer, it’s what you are. I’ve moved past the idea that life is some sacred thing. Maybe if you did the same thing, you’d stand a chance at beating me.” Yerna ran at Selibas then, his Spear in both hands.
Selibas widened his stance, and let a strike come for him without moving. The stab was made with his head as the target, and Selibas dipped to his right side, his head and helmet untouched by the spear head. His father planted his own feet squarely, and brought his spear back. At full tilt, Yerna thrust his spear towards Selibas’ stomach. The Little Wolf brought his right foot back as he spun away from the blow, weight on his left leg. The spear head glanced off of the rounded bit of Selibas’ chestplate as it went by, and for a split second, Yerna was exposed.
The son had to stand on the very tips of his toes in order to connect his elbow to the snow haired spearman’s nose. Cinderfelt was sent reeling back, a thin trail of blood draining from his nose as he took a few steps backwards. Had Selibas not been forced to contort his body away from the thrust of his father’s spear, he could have finished the battle there with a quick blow from his colossal sword. Instead his father was able to regain his balance, and slowly raised his arm, and with a concentrated effort wiped the blood from his face. He snarled and called over the tumultuous ding of death that surrounded father and son, “What is it you want boy? Do you wholly expect me to believe that you come here to kill me for justice?”
Selibas smiled. That is what he had said, wasn’t it? He’d spent many late nights thinking on that. Thinking about what kept him going, why he pushed himself to eventually overtake Yerna Cinderfelt. Thinking on his answer, he wrapped both his hands around his great hilt, and charged at the baleful man before him.
He sidestepped another thrust of his father’s weapon. He rushed toward the reprobate man with his hips low, and dorve his shoulder into the man’s stomach. It staggered the more versed warrior, and Selibas swung his sword at the man’s stomach. Yerna twisted away from the strike, and tried to push Selibas away with his spear butt. The short khan batted the blow away with his shimmering gauntlet, and came on still at his father. For an eternity they moved almost in unison, taking each step together, Selibas aiming a blow at his father’s ribs or shoulder only to have his prodigious sword hit only air or be turned away, while his father made every attempt to strike his son down with his spear, only to have his son twist his body and take the blow where his armor was too thick to be pierced by a blow with limited momentum. Still, of the two of them, the young swordsman was in far worse shape. Knicks and bruises sprouted up all over any area of his body with exposed skin, and a few harsh blows from his father to his stomach made him short of breath.
Yerna began to take broader steps, trying to create distance between the two combatants. At close range, the length of his spear was a hindrance. When there were a few solid feet between the two, He made a fierce lunge at his son, and Selibas answered it. Growling, he made a vicious circle with his long blade, and severed the spearhead from the rest of the spear. The loyalist’s eyes widened, and he sped his feet back in a retreat, throwing the useless spear shaft at Selibas, who easily dodged the weightless stick. His father drew the sword he’d not yet used, which glistened like silver.
Selibas sheathed Epeeciel, his arms thanking him for putting its weight back on his back. Then he drew Caladbolg, his humble iron sword, from his hip. He smiled, and finally gave Cinderfelt the answer to his question, “Justice? No, this is vengeance. Only vengeance.”
|
|
|
Post by Ilheod on Nov 2, 2015 12:53:00 GMT -6
It wasn't the first time he, or his lads had taken to terrestrial war fair. Wyverns were not as fast on land as normal cavalry forces were, but he'd sooner be attacked on foot by a horse than a wyvern any day. The scaled monsters fangs and claws sweeping around wildly like typhoon of death was enough incentive, but the swipes from the lance wielding riders mounted above gave another danger and added a threat of extended reach. They were better suited for their current task. Pressing hard into the side of an enemy formation where they had not to worry about injuring allies. The group of wyvern riders crashed once more into the flanking line of the loyalist formations. Ilheod shouted over the din of combat as he and a handful of his units began to carve further towards the archer unit near the center of the formation. His voice partially echoed within the gargoyle mask he wore over his lower jawline. "Immen, Brom, Horst, Seth! Muscle up!"
As more and more loyalists rushed through the gates of Larguz to halt the rebels advance, the wyvern lord found their progress slowed. Astraeus could only shriek and snap and bite, and he stab and impale, at a set speed. As the wyvern lord fought harder, he felt the slight ebb of fatigue magically inching further and further into his body. Armored enemies tended to make it worse, so there was little room for surprise when the middle-aged male saw the lines of knights there accompanied by the metallic clinking of shoulder plates on plate and chainmail approach. Ilheod grunted as he felt the familiar resistance of armor grating against his silver spear while he plunged it into a knights chestplate. Here they had to be more careful. Enemies that would die slower. Take more hits. Meant more time for retaliation. The group of armored wyvern riders pressed harder despite this, displaying their own tenacity as the battle became that more akin to a grueling foot-slog than anything else. The orange haired males knuckles turned white beneath their gloves as he yanked his spear backwards, only to slam it back into his foes chest with a sickening gurgle and wet crunching sound. Silver infused metal shattered bone and sundered muscle beneath the armor as he killed the man where he stood. An arrow rushed past his cheek, the faintest intense thunk sound followed briefly by a jarring force tugging at his chin as the projectile barely missed what could've been a horrible pain. The tips of the arrow head left small cut like swipes along the commanders gargoyle bone mask, glancing his protected cheek but otherwise leaving him unahrmed. Ilheod darted in the direction of the bolt, to see a grey haired male holding a colossal bow. With his gaze narrowing, Ilheod leaned down and pressed his chest flat to his wyverns neck before spurning him onwards. The creature snarled and shrieked loudly before suddenly rushing over the half-dead body of an injured fighter.
Muscled limbs moved in repetition, claws sinking into and tearing up the ground slightly as the colossal wyvern rushed directly for the bow wielding male. With Astreus tucking his vulnerable wings in along either side of the wyvern lord, it made it far less of an easy target. Ilheod saw him line up the shot. It would be close..but he had enough experience fighting marksman that he knew what to do next. He saw the arrow knocked. He could practically hear the slight hiss as the drawstring was tugged to it's maximum. Suddenly, he sank his heels into Astraeus's sides and tugged to guide the wyvern right. Huge wings beat once and sent the wyvern into the air just as the arrow sped through the space Ilheod's left shoulder would've been a moment sooner. However instead of taking to the skies, the wyvern beat its wings once more and lunged downwards directly atop the sniper. Ilheod's spear lifted high, as the wyvern lord spun it once before slamming it down into the mans chest, or aimed to. With a slight shift the man made to avoid it, getting impaled through the upper shoulder as the ball socket was destroyed.
The other wyvern riders came bursting through the line of fighters a moment later, following Ilheod's trail and they found themselves pressing into t he small unit of archers. They put up far less of a fight than knights would've. After all, they weren't being given the time to knock their arrows so they were simply defenseless.
|
|
|
Post by Euphemious on Nov 8, 2015 22:33:58 GMT -6
So this was a true battle, thought Euphemious as he pressed forward beside other heavily armored knights. It was the first time Euphemious had been in a real battle and by real he meant of gigantic size. He had been in plenty of small squad on squad fights and the siege of the fort they now hold, but nothing like this. This was the stuff he read about when he was a lad and the things he old man told him of. There where enemies and allies on all sides. People fought died and bleed all over the field. It was almost like a image of hell itself. The General however did not have time to space out and look at the battlefield. He had to make a name for himself in all of this chaos. Back home his cousins depended on his skill in order to claim there noble title and Euphemious himself needed to prove that he was capable of fighting on this scale.
"Die traitor", shouted a soldier as he swung his axe toward one of Euphemious comrades in arms. The man had blocked a blow before and the force from the attack had knocked him to the ground. Seeing a opening Euphemious stepped up and raised his shield taking the flail blow himself. The man was not surprised when the general stepped forward, but he was surprised on how tough the shield was. Most people had there shields made out of wood. It was lighter and cheaper. Plus it could do the job. However it broke easier than solid metal. Euphemious however was a general and he could care less about the weight. The flail slammed into the shield and a few of the spikes on it broke off to the man's great surprise.
"Get back up soldier", shouted Euphemious as he brought his axe over his shoulder and smashed down upon his enemies defending buckler. The dragon axe was not a small weapon and the massive weapon knocked the man's defense out the way. Ready to strike again Euphemious swung his axe ready to finish the man. However one of his allies stood up and blocked the blow. The quick exchange between the four soldiers showed a lot. The puppets of Ilia where just as tough and willing to fight as the true soldiers of Bern. Euphemious had to put all notions of a easy victory or glorious march out of his mind. This was going to be a tough and long battle.
"Not good enough", shouted Euphemious as he took a step forward and slammed his shield into the man. The blow knocked him on his back, but another soldier rushed forward to take his place. The general however was not going to have it. Swinging his dragon axe again Euphemious cleaved through the man's wooden shield and delivered a blow to the man's helmet. The force from the attack did not split it into two, or leave a great gash, but the dent in the steel told Euphemious enough. The man feel like a rock and Eupemious was able to gain some ground in the battle. "Push forward men", shouted the General as he lead his small squad of knights forward into the battlefield.
|
|
Selibas
Hero
The Little Wolf
My Word is Iron.
Posts: 455
Etruria Fame: -1
Bern Fame: 4
Illia Fame: -3
Profession: Khan
Guild: Tribe of Sacae
Affinity: Ice
OoC Alias: Selibas
|
Post by Selibas on Dec 8, 2015 17:28:55 GMT -6
Rarely was the little wolf presented with the chance to fight a downhill battle. His height had always forced his chin up, and his shoulders to, always forced to rise to the level of taller opponents. The short khan had never truly felt too handicapped by his proximity to the ground, but he was feeling it now. As he and his father danced and stepped their way across the bloody earth his swordarm truly felt the strain each time he had to lift his sword, always higher in comparison to his body than his father. The Loyalist commander hammered the rebel, faster than his snowy hair would suggest he could, and stronger than his frame would have implied even on a younger man. As their swords clashed both men gritted their teeth, neither of them willing to give ground. They were only pressing each other for a moment before they each leapt back, out of the other's range. Yerna's face twisted into a wicked smile once more, but as he opened his mouth to speak again his son did not let him. Selibas bolted back towards the older man, he in green armor, his father in orange. Like flashes of color they danced and twirled on the battlefield, twisting out of the way of a thrust or a slash, each step as deliberate as could be as neither gave the other an edge.
Selibas barely turned in time to send one of his father's spear like thrusts glancing off the lower portion of his chest plate. He turned, placing his upper weight onto his right leg, and aimed a feirce underhand cut across his father's torso. The man took a quick step back with his left foot and then brought his own sword back, readying it for another strike at the young man's shoulder. Selibas anticipated, and bent away from his father, continuing to place his weight onto that right leg. The silver sword sailed over his head, the slash cutting only air where Selibas had been moments prior. The wolf straightened with astounding speed and aimed a horizontal slash across his father's arm. The humble iron of his blade was turned back with a parry that came on like lightning from the flying plague's own silver sword. As his arm quaked at the resistance, Selibas allowed a bit of a groan to escape his lungs for a moment. His father didn't lose and time, and a quick move akin to a repost left a gash on the young man's under arm. Instead of a groan, the green haired man grunted now, and twisted his nose up at the pain, creating the affect of a snarl on his lips.
In that brief flash of pain, hard won skills with the sword obtained through years of practice and sweat and blood all went out the window. Selibas was again a thirteen year old with an anger problem, facing opponents far stronger and faster than himself. He didn't beat them all with swordplay, not all of them. The little wolf had a sharp blade, but he also carried a mean right cross. His father reeled back and took a few very quick steps, putting some distance between the two. Selibas came on hard, his sword held at the ready. His charge was met with a defensive stance by his father, who neatly parried the Sacaen's first strike of the new engagement. However, with his feet firmly planted, Selibas had an advantage, mobility. He kept his boots churning against the dirt beneath them, so that Selibas could stand on the other side of his father. As the Wyvern Commander whirled about, only seconds behind his son, the young Khan delivered a crushing blow to the man's right pauldron. Crush the armour it did not do, but it bent the metal to the point the it hung lose. The orange armored man let out a low growl, and before Selibas could see it, the silver blade drew a thin line of blood upon his outer right thigh. Cursing, Selibas now gave ground to his father.
The man was called flash for a reason, even without his mount he was far faster than he had any right to be. There was a horizontal slash at the Sacaen's neck that the boy managed to throw his face away from, a downward strike that narrowly missed the old wound on Selibas' left side as he darted away from it. The next strike was a backhanded diagonal strike back up that Selibas managed to block with Caladbolg. How long had they been fighting? Never before had Selibas engaged one enemy for so long, and his endurance ran thin. As he continued to pedal backwards, his chest heaved and his lungs were in cinders, yet his father appeared to be fighting without strain. Selibas dug his heels in, and instead of giving a hard block to an overhand diagonal strike, he merely guided the blade away from his flesh, then quickly slid his sword away, and gave his father a deep wound just under the now useless pauldron on his shoulder. Cursing again, his father swiped at him, and nearly took off his left hand, but the Sacaen was just quick enough.
They engaged once more, blow for blow, blocking, parrying, and dodging each other's strikes. His father must have had an excellent teacher in the blade, not to mention the years he'd been a player on the killing field. However, Selibas' teacher had been a master, and he was young, more athletic than Cinderfelt. Pound for pound he was probably as strong, and maybe a little faster every other strike. One over extension was all he needed, and after what felt like an eternity locked in close combat, his father's silver sword shot just a bit too far past Selibas' left shoulder, and the wolf locked the blade in a crosshilt disarm, and sent the sword sailing off behind him.
His father was immediately a distance away, and produced once more his vile blade, Nothung. Without a word, he launched a stream of dark tendrils from its edge again, and spinning in a grotesque mass the horror overcame Selibas and pierced his skin. Drained, Selibas could barely hold himself erect. His father smiled, seeing the strain in his sons eyes. The young man willed himself to go on, wishing against all logic that the pain could subside, and his wounds could heal if only for a moment. He watched as shock spread into his father's face. Looking down, he saw a faint green glow along the gash on his arm, and the pain stopped. The pain everywhere else remained, but it lessened. It was, horrifying, but Selibas would thank his every ancestor after the battle for sparing him.
Filled with a new found confidence, Selibas sheathed Caladbolg. It was time to end things. He wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his saber, Zulfiqar, but thought better of it. It was time to do something else he had not done in a long time. He set his legs shoulder length apart, and then brought his right leg up and back, kicking the point of Zulfiqar's sheath, and as the sword's hilt jumped up from the scabbard, Selibas shot his right hand across his body to grab it. He pulled it clean of its case, and set himself on guard. "Do you feel it father? The eyes of every life you've taken burning at your back? They know that you're coming."
|
|
Selibas
Hero
The Little Wolf
My Word is Iron.
Posts: 455
Etruria Fame: -1
Bern Fame: 4
Illia Fame: -3
Profession: Khan
Guild: Tribe of Sacae
Affinity: Ice
OoC Alias: Selibas
|
Post by Selibas on Jan 8, 2016 0:16:52 GMT -6
Roughly four years before the clash of swords on the smoldering field, another pair of swords clashed above Bern soil. Not swords to be exact, but a pair of dueling batons. A broad shouldered Ilian with dark brown hair that may have begun to show a bit of gray creeping in instructed his final pupil. The boy was clumsy, over emotional, and slow. He was also cunning, over emotional and strong. He reminded him of himself at that age, and his son. After easily sidestepping a downward vertical strike from the short Sacaen he called out, "Stop." The fourteen year old was at a rough age. His eyes seemed far too raw to the old swordsman, it showed whatever the boy was thinking, whatever the boy was about to do was telegraphed in his giant gray eyes. They were eyes Chlane, the old mercenary knew from a long time ago. Now those eyes showed worry, worry over being in the wrong.
"Your fine Selibas, don't look at me like I'm about to kick you in the ribs." The boy raised his eyebrow and said, "Are you saying you've never kicked me in the ribs?" The tall swordsman stifled a laugh, but his mouth curled just a bit. Most of the boy's smarts were wasted on his mouth, but it was entertaining, to have a person a foot shorter than you mouth off to you. "I'm not going to now. Your form is good, but not right." The Sacaen brat lowered his brow, his sarcastic face hardening. That was always the way, the easiest way to get hims serious was in actually teaching him something. It was a good quality in a student.
"Your form is good for battle, you're loose, you're flowing well. Nothing you're doing is too deliberate. But you're not in a battle right now, you're in a duel. In a duel your movements have to be specific, you need to be taking every step against your opponent, every single strike is moving you closer to killing him. You can't leave yourself open, and you have to open them up. You have to harass them, be like a gnat, annoy them into fighting stupid. You're not bad at being annoying." Even though the little Sacaen smiled, Chlane could still see the fire that always burned in his eyes.
He'd never really understood his anger. He was a little ball of insecurities and rage that hurled himself at enemies like a rabid wolf. Why he was like that Chlane had never understood. "Selibas... What drives you? Why do you want to learn the blade? What's your goal?" The wolf looked at his feet for a moment once more, then his head rose, and Chlane once more saw the gray inferno circling his pupils.
"If I can't fight, no one will follow me. When I was little, people always told me I was weak. I have to prove them wrong. If I can get strong enough, Sacae can come together." What? Where did that come from? Why was a little mongrel dreaming of uniting a country. However, the boy wasn't done. "Sacae is... like me. Weaker than everyone else. If I'm strong, Sacae can be strong, and when it's strong it can drive the prophet out. So I have to be strong enough to prove to them that I can lead them." Looking at him, the tall Ilian could tell that the boy was holding something back. "And?"
"And I need to be strong enough to kill my father." For a time, neither said a word, but the Sacaen broke the silence. "He killed the first person who ever cared about me, and, and he's killed a bunch of innocent people too. He's a legendary fighter, and I have to be strong enough to kill him, I have to be perfect. I have to be a hero." Then they were silent again. This time the quiet hung low just longer. Chlane smiled, "Alright, well, tomorrow I'll teach you some better moves for fighting old men, but for now get some sleep," then for the first time, someone used Selibas' nickname out of affection, "Little Wolf."
On the field of Larguz, the clash continued. As Nothung exerted its power, Yerna's arm seemed to become more grotesque. Selibas' nostrils filled with the smell of charred meat, and the arm which held the sword appeared to sprout large tumor like growths and turn red. Still, Zulfiqar the slim saber held up against the barrage of blackened blows that hammered against it as Selibas was put on his defense.
The short Sacaen may as well have been trying to swat a fly with a log, any attack he shifted into was dodged easily, and he gathered many a knick and bruise as he only barely managed to avoid what could have been fatal blows. All the time that the father and son stood locked in combat both attempted to find an opening in the others form, and could barely make any out. Slibas fought like a rabid wolf, and Yerna moved like a flash. And in his movement's Selibas saw a flash of weakness, an opening. Zulfiqar sung a low hum as he tore it through the air. Yerna was too quick yet again, and a blow that could have taken off the man's head did something far less damaging. Selibas' sword cut the strap which held Yerna's helm tight to his chin, and the orange armor flew away from his head along with the leather guard under it exposing his snow white hair.
With a growl, the older man tried to respond with a savage cleaving blow aimed for Selibas' neck, but the short Sacaen managed to block the wicked blade with his own slim saber. For a moment he was afraid the fragile weapon would snap in half, but instead it held. Good, it was the blade which would finish this. His father aimed a thrust at his ribs, and Selibas managed to dance away from it. He was blocked when he made one more swing, this time at his father's collarbone. With the backhand, his father produced a yell that was as piercing as any wyvern's shriek as his blade flew again toward the little wolf, Nothung creating a trail of black tendrils as it came on. Selibas placed both hands against his sword's hilt as he raised the slim thing to block the blow. With a clash, Zulfiqar was shattered.
The finishing blade was done. It was now simply a hilt with a bit of jagged iron sticking out from it. In a split second a thousand thoughts flashed into every nook of the Little Wolf's mind. He had lost, he was unarmed. However, he wasn't about to give up. He was the fury, he was the rage. He was the Little Wolf.
No sooner than the blade was broken was he moving. He was on his father's right side quick as a flash, and he dug the bit of blade left into his father's sword hand three times. The first time unleashed a vicious cry, the second made his father fling the sword away as he yelped, and the third was the first move in a quick assault that ended with Selibas ripping the piece of iron through the rest of the man's arm. Then, pulling the hilt away, Selibas grabbed a fistful of his father's hair and delivered a savage kick to his knee, forcing his father to kneel so that Selibas now stood behind him. The Sacaen placed what remained of his saber to his father's throat. For a brief time, neither heard the raging battle.
|
|
Selibas
Hero
The Little Wolf
My Word is Iron.
Posts: 455
Etruria Fame: -1
Bern Fame: 4
Illia Fame: -3
Profession: Khan
Guild: Tribe of Sacae
Affinity: Ice
OoC Alias: Selibas
|
Post by Selibas on Jan 10, 2016 13:04:53 GMT -6
Both father and son were in a daze then, the father on his knee and the son standing behind him. "Well son-" Selibas pressed the blade fragment to his father's neck with enough pressure to draw a bead of blood, and shouted loutd enough to overcome the sounds around them, "YOU'LL SPEAK WHEN I ASK YOU A QUESTION!" His father was silent again. "Good." They stood in silence again, one of them was trembling, and it wasn't the man with the blade at his throat.
"How many?" His father was silent. "How many people have you killed?" Yerna laughed and spit a red glob out onto the ground, then he spoke, his wraith like voice somehow quiet as it reached Selibas' ears, "I lost count a little past your age my boy." Selibas' face twisted in disgust for a number of reasons. He didn't like being called his father's boy, it was too late and they were far too different. The disgust that boiled in his stomach also came from the fact that Selibas didn't know his exact count either, whether it was too high, or because he chose not to remember to keep his sanity. The Little Wolf tightened his grip on the white hair in his left hand.
"My mother, what's her name?" His father laughed hard at that, it was a laugh like the sound of a dying horse, vile and wrenching. When he spoke his voice was as grating as ever, "You mean you don't know boy? All your wolves never told you?" Selibas wanted to slit his throat right there, but he didn't. He needed to know. "Why don't I tell you where she is? That way you can find her for yourself?" The khan gritted his teeth and spoke through them, "Go on."
"She's hiding out in southern Ilia last I heard. Her head's worth a pretty penny." His mother? What would his mother have done to have a bounty out for her? It was a lie, it must have been. "You're lying." The man in front of him shifted his weight, and called back to his son, "What reason would I have to lie to you? I just lost my last fight my boy, not a time to be dishonest. On death's door my word is all I have left." Selibas had to fight the urge to plunge his iron into the man's throat, he said once more through gritted teeth, "Don't call me your boy."
"And why shouldn't I? You're my son, like it or not. Matter of fact, I could almost be proud of you my boy! You are, by what I've heard as good a warrior as I am, and here today you've proven it." Then the snowy haired rider did something between coughing and cackling, and continued, "It's funny isn't it son, that you're the one who brought me down? So many years in the sky, and the only one who can clip my wings is a boy who I f****d into the world." He laughed again, and Selibas took the blade away from his throat just a few inches to prevent the laugh from drawing the man's throat too close to his throat. "You have her eyes you know, your wolf mother, but you have my face. Bet that made growing up with all those wolf's hard, huh boy? The face of a Bernese killer. A reminder everyday of the evil man who stole their little girl away."
His father was exactly right. As a child, he hadn't understood but over the last few years he began to understand the mindset of fear that had gripped his tribe. It didn't make the sting of his early years lessen, but it made caring for his people easier. "Do you believe in evil boy?" Selibas looked down and said, "I'm looking at you, aren't I?" His father didn't go into a disgusting fit of laughter this time, instead he gave only a small chuckle. "I believed in it too when I was young. Evil I mean. It's something you believe in when you still believe in things like god, or the importance of life. In my experience they all go away around the same time." Selibas' father shifted his weight nonce more, "They gave me my first command at twenty, lord's eldest son, needed someone of prestige for a little job. I led half a battalion of Wyverns into the mountains to hunt a group of bandits. After we took out the brigands, we stayed to recuperate in the village they'd been terrorizing."
"I thought it was sad then. The village was in horrible shape. The bandits had taken so much of their food, they had nothing left to eat, and had taken to eating the rats that scuttled through their latrines. While we stayed their, a sickness spread through them then came to all my men, but not me. For some reason, I was immune, lucky I guess. When I flew back and gave my report of this plague, the sickness took two of my commanders, one of them died and the other was never able to fight again. I was quarantined in a chamber at castle Bern until they were certain no one else would catch what I had. Over the years, the story warped, and the sickness was forgotten. I had killed the villagers, and my own men so they said. A flying plague, on White Wings."
"By the point I heard the story I didn't really care, because they may as well have been true. Hell, they were only told because of who I'd become. See, I realized something, in my isolation waiting to p**s out the last of whatever illness I was carrying. I was alive, for no reason. My men were mostly from other noble families, and were good solid soldiers, yet they had died as easily as the peasants. Me surviving was utterly meaningless, it just happened boy, it wasn't because I'd done something differently, or because I was more virtuous than the others. I was simply the only one to survive. I realized right then, that death, evil, fate, they all mean nothing. Life is something we have by accident, and death is just another thing. I stopped feeling anything when I killed, because I realized the chest my spear or sword punctured was in front of me for no real reason. Life became an excuse for pleasure, and killing was a way to get rewards that made me forget how meaningless this all is. That was your mother, a distraction." The blade was back against his throat.
"Now though, I'm like every man I've ever killed, looking death in the face, the idea of it all ending, I don't want to die. Truth be told son, I'd do anything to have you let me crawl away alive." Selibas looked away, at the carnage that swirled around the two commanders. "Her name, give me her name and I'll let you live." He felt his father try to shift enough to look at him, "Why would I believe you boy? If I keep it from you, at least I'll die with a laugh in my throat." "I'm of the plains, you can trust my word." If he let his father go, he knew he'd be the same man going out and killing because it all felt meaningless to him. By letting him do that, Selibas would be as bad as he is, still, he needed to know.
For the last time the two stood in silence with each other. His father sighed in front of him. "Soelun. Her name was Soelun, and she sometimes goes by Selena. But when I met her she was Soelun." With that, Selibas raised his blade as if to drive it down into the man's throat. With a voice like a plea and a spit of disdain his father shouted, "Wait! You said you wouldn't kill me, and you're Sacaen, you can't break your word now boy!" Selibas tightened his hands on the saber's hilt.
"I'm only half Sacaen."
As the body of Yerna Cinderfelt slowly slipped to the ground, blood draining from his throat, a man walked away from him. Not a boy, not his father's son. He was a Sacaen, a wolf, a man. A Hero.
|
|
|
Post by Ilheod on Jan 11, 2016 10:57:32 GMT -6
There was a hanging silence through the Devilslayer's mind as he felt the rough resistance only bone could provide; his spear crashing through and into the chest of another archer. The tip of the weapon punched a hole straight through his chest and into the precious organs within. Small splotches of red accumulated within the man's mouth and a trail was forced down the corner of his lips from the internal buildup of blood. It hadn't been the first time he'd seen a man die. Let alone upon that particular siege. It wasn't the first time he'd stared them in the eyes either. It did however serve as a bitter reminder. Seeing a man's eyes unfocus. Seeing them glaze over, and knowing that any aspirations he had, you'd robbed at the tip of a spear. It would keep within him that bitter focus to simply end war. For no man, who had seen the glazed dying eyes of another, could live their life hoping for war.
Ilheod retracted his spear with a rough jerk, leaving the spasming corpse as he spurred Astraeus into the fray. The colossal wyvern knocked aside bodies and lunged into the air at the sudden inwards press from either side of it's body with his riders knees. The Wyvern Lord swayed in the saddle as they took once more to the skies, the rising and dipping from each wing-beat both severe and swift as they quickly climbed. With his mask still firmly on, his breathing reverberated within to cause slight vibrations that made him aware of his own panting. The orange haired male gripped at the reigns firmly, trying to retain a focus upon the field of battle. The ground forces were advancing adequately. His wyvern riders, and the rest, were fully pushing ahead. This was just the start of the siege though. They weren't even inside the city.
His chain of thought broke as an arrow rushed past him, once more catching the rough plating of his mask and barely grating against it before darting by; roughly jerking his head to the side. Ilheod swiftly snapped his gaze around as he saw the marksmen along the walls beginning to knock arrows into the sea of wyverns and the defenders below alike. Hissing under his breath, Ilheod lifted and steadied his spear as he brought Astraeus about. That needs to be brought to an end. With a nudge of his left knee, Astraeus let out a piercing shriek before diving into a swooping descent towards the wall. More terrifyingly for the archers upon the wall however, was not the singular large black shadow cast upon them moments later; but the seventy following as the entire host of nightwings formed into a descent behind their commander.
Like the waves of the ocean crashing with thunderous breaks upon the sandy beaches they descended unto the bowmen. Shrieking wyverns, shouting riders, and screaming archers filled the upper skies as the wyvern unit took advantage of the battles chaos. Ilheod himself came down upon a bowmen with Astraeus actually crushing him, the man's muffled scream replaced by a wet crunching sound he heard just barely; the din of combat prevailing in drowning out the rest. To his right a marksmen attempted to knock an arrow, only to be knocked from the wall by another wyvern.
Gripping his spear tightly, Ilheod swept it to his left as he attempted to kill the archer to his other side; weapon barely missing as the man hopped backwards. Had he been closer, Ilheod might've managed to actually kill him. The man nimbly took to one knee, simultaneously knocking his arrow as he lined up his shot. Ilheod snarled once more and rushed forwards, thrusting his spear to plunge within the males throat; a second to late however as he felt the force of the arrow burying itself within his left shoulder. The burning pain of the wound distracted him from the horrific wet tearing as his spear killed the man...though his body soon suffered the mauling of the large wyvern the wounded rider rode upon.
Luckily, the arrow had met some of the toughest segments of his armor; where gargoyle bone wove through hardened leather nicely. His shoulder was wounded none the less, and the moist slickness of blood was all too familiar to him as he attempted to move it. It hadn't gone so deep however as to damage bone or permanently hinder him, and he was lucky for that. Swearing under his breath, Ilheod lowered his spear for a moment and gripped at the arrow. Instead of pulling it out entirely though and leaving himself to bleed out, he wrapped his left hand around the shaft which connected his shoulder to the wound. Growling in pain and gritting his teeth beneath ashen bone mask, he snapped the arrow so that far less stuck out.
Astraeus had continued the maul the corpse of the archer while Ilheod shook his head to clear himself of the momentary agony. The enemies wyvern riders now at a serious disadvantage with the top two commanding riders gone; were left to the mercy of the rebels riders and marksmen. Not all of them were content to let the nightwings cleanse Larguz's walls however. No sooner had Ilheod regained his senses, the deadly sight of a charging rider trying to catch him at the flank came into view. Astraeus acted as the rider leaned forwards, lunging to the side so that the rider darted past. As they themselves became exposed, Astraeus lunged at the exposed wyvern and caught it by it's wing as it lowered the appendage to attempt an ascent. The violent shriek of the other wyvern in agony matched it's rider as Ilheod stabbed at the exposed Bernese soldier with vicious efficiency. The man wailed in pain before attempting to break away. A pair of descending nightwings fell upon him and executed both rider and wyvern as they were caught unable to defend. With but a nod towards two of the lads, Ilheod swept his spear and continued down the war torn wall while the battle violently raged on.
|
|
Zacharia
Shaman
Kingmaker
"You fight for the promise of a better tomorrow for this country."
Posts: 172
Bern Fame: 3
Illia Fame: -2
Profession: Advisor
Affiliation: Bernese Senate
Affinity: Thunder
Profile: Link
OoC Alias: Zach
|
Post by Zacharia on Jan 25, 2016 21:13:51 GMT -6
Several things happened simultaneously in the span of a few seconds. To Zach they felt like scenes happening lifetimes apart, all smooshed together into one big old jumble of colors and feelings.
A wyvern and its rider plummeted from the sky, flattening the spot where Mortell and his companion had been moments before. The horseman charging the pair reared up and charged, killing intent clear. Every little sound, every little echo intensified in his mind until they were deafening. If he didn't know any better, it was like he could hear the surly General breathing right into his ear. The boy's hand quivered under the immense mental strain.
Zach's concentration faltered, in that way that falling down a flight of stairs could be considered a graceful descent. The spell he'd once controlled gripped his hand from every which way and yanked. Tears started to well in his eyes and he bit his tongue. The mage didn't know how to right what he did wrong. This wasn't like his Flux tome - he'd had over ten years of pouring through its pages and knowing its every little nook and cranny under his belt. He was working with a new technique; a new mindset. A new thousand more ways to make mistakes. He couldn't do it. He just couldn't - No, he couldn't, but he would have to. A tiny voice boomed in the mage's head, clearing away all the thoughts flooding in:
FOCUS.
Zacharia looked up from his thousand yard stare. There was Mortell, there was the horseman, nothing else there. And then there was him, watching from beyond, with his magic, and his spasming arm. His Swarm spell wasn't like his Flux; the caster couldn't twist around their obligation to the magic as its conduit and fire it willy nilly. It had to be rooted. Controlled. Zach stopped shaking. He reeled back, took a step forward, and... tripped over his own two feet. His teary eyes shut tight in resignation. That was it, that was where he literally died of embarrassment. As he fell, the Nether wrapped itself around his hand in a tight coil, before vanishing. The tiny voice too, seemed to fade into his subconscious.
Mortell turned, if for only a moment. A moment the rider seized, spurring her mount onwards and swinging her cavalry sword in an arcing overhead. The man caught it off the rod of his axe with a grunt. "ZAAAACH!"
He bellowed powerfully for an out of breath fat man. "Damn your incompete-"
A flash of blue cut across his vision, and a harsh buzz overcame the attacking mount. All it could muster was a weak cry as the horse fell and crumpled over top of its rider. "No; bless your lucky stars, boy." His axe rose up. "I'd see you prance away from this one."
The axe fell. The cavalier was no more.
|
|
Selibas
Hero
The Little Wolf
My Word is Iron.
Posts: 455
Etruria Fame: -1
Bern Fame: 4
Illia Fame: -3
Profession: Khan
Guild: Tribe of Sacae
Affinity: Ice
OoC Alias: Selibas
|
Post by Selibas on Feb 2, 2016 16:03:24 GMT -6
From the swirl of chaos came a howl. A howl that carried itself to the ears of a number of rebel soldiers in green cloaks. As their heads turned, they saw a man who stood on the heaped body of a massive dead wyvern. Holding a sword coated in light in his hand, a man with hair of green threw his head back and howled like a wolf calling his pack to rally. It sounded only barely over the din of battle that racked the field. As those close enough to hear began to fight their way to the pair of cavalry boots that stood against the scaly hide of the felled beast, they took up the howl themselves calling those who did not hear the source. It was not long before the whole of the Wolfpack was gathered around the corpse of the enemy general's mount, and once more they took up a howl, this time as one. The cry of the pack was louder than the shriek of any Wyvern. The man atop the scaled beast leapt down. The Wolf was once more in the fray.
Brandishing Curtana, Selibas crashed into the loyalists like a wave. His blade was an eruption of light across the battlefield, and as it cut the hearts of his enemies or parried their thrusts it shone as a star in the night sky. The short Sacaen weaved close and far from his enemies, but fought like a madman, tearing into the enemy with the full might of his men behind his sword arm. He felt as if he'd just spent a lifetime with the weight of a mountain above his head, and now he held a pebble. No rider and Wyvern he came across was fierce or fast as Cinderfelt. No rider and Wyvern could hope to bring down Selibas of Sacae.
The tide of battle was shifting, and Armus could tell from high on the wall. He called an attendant over to him, "Ready the rest of the men, they'll be joining the fray, and tell the sellsword Knight that he's to charge the enemy as soon as he's prepared." The aide said something in confirmation, then sprinted off. Armus placed a hand to his face, cursing fate under his breath. One of the most powerful commanders under the Ilian occupation left, and he'd lost him and his second in command to a rabble of farmers and mercenaries.
|
|
|
Post by Ulric on Feb 22, 2016 16:37:32 GMT -6
That...was... it !
He'd had enough. Far be it for him to wait any longer, he'd already given the farmers and fools upon flying lizards enough time. What had his patience wrought him? <b> Not a damn thing. The light blue haired Ilian mercenary commander snarled in disgust as one of his bowmen came vaulting from atop the wall down to inform him of the commander, Yerna. Ulric sat some several yards back atop Phalanx. The colossal black Bernese charger stomped its hoof at the ground with tempered impatience as the sound of fighting continued to pour from the city. By the time he'd gathered the mercenaries around, things had escalated so swiftly that the Bernese were already blocking the gate and fighting with the loyalists. The original plan had been for Ulric to advance and the rebel forces get pushed back out of the gate to free him the room. That however, was simply not happening. Quite the opposite now, as the rebels rallied behind the slaying of the enemy commander.
Surrounding the armored great knight were several units of heavily armored knights, the core formation lined at the sides with lesser armored spearmen. Other sellswords that were simply scrambling to make glory and fame and riches fall into their lap composed the inner part of those units. A small ways behind them was a squad of armored cavaliers who were usually led by one other than Ulric. Today, that simply had to be the case because of a portion of his unit lingering in northern Bern still. The mages and bowmen were off to the sides and safely behind. They were however, supposed to keep tabs on the wall. It wasn't until Ulric saw the groups of wyverns starting to attack those upon it that he realized they weren't doing that, and were instead trying to assist the bernese soldiers near the gate. To hells with it.
His voice roared out over the din of combat as he spurred his horse forwards and drew closer to the ranged units.
"Conner, Get those bloody lizards, OFF THE DAMN WALLS !"
The crimson robed male turned with a start as his commander snarled at him and his men, though quickly readjusted his focus and began to fire relentless spells to the walls. In the distance he could see his other commanders, and nodded at them quietly before turning about.
When he turned abruptly, he gripped at the spear he'd recently received from the smith. The weight had been distributed in a way that let him have far more maneuverability with it. As he moved, a volley of magical blasts began hitting the walls while the wyvern riders attempted to remove the defenders. Bolts of lighting fired into riders, or over the wall into arcing bursts of arcane horror; plumes of fire bursting into small explosions as more attacks peppered it. It had yet to taste combat. It was a glorious time to break it in. Ulric saw the faces of countless mercenaries turn to him. Some under his command, others under contract to his unit. Lifting his spear the man shouted out in a graveled tone.
"SOLDIERS OF FORTUNE, EARN YOUR LIVING. SEIZE YOUR GLORY, AND YOUR LEGACY!"
To mercenaries, there were few reasons to fight. Fame. A famous mercenary was often known from one corner of Elibe to another. Deeds told through history as examples to further generations. Money. Most had few other choices, if they had started a sellsword. However anyone, if completing the right contract, could live a life far beyond their social standing. The rallying call behind most of Ilia's mercenary forces.
As the man turned his horse to the gate, He leveled his spear and lifted his left hand to press the ebony horn to his lips. Blowing roughly, a bellowing tone burst forth that signaled for the cavalry unit behind him. As his monstrous horse began to charge forwards, the unit formed around him and began to press outwards with a spear charge. The horn had also been a warning to urge the defending soldiers to move, lest they be trampled alive. His unit advanced in full, charging from the gates while the infantry behind him moved in to further the momentum. This battle had not been lost yet.
|
|
Zacharia
Shaman
Kingmaker
"You fight for the promise of a better tomorrow for this country."
Posts: 172
Bern Fame: 3
Illia Fame: -2
Profession: Advisor
Affiliation: Bernese Senate
Affinity: Thunder
Profile: Link
OoC Alias: Zach
|
Post by Zacharia on Feb 25, 2016 23:25:04 GMT -6
Mortell looked up from his victim of war, grim as ever. The man grimaced. For a brief moment the general gripped his knees and puffed deeply. Zach joined him, allowing the adrenaline to slow. The battle's tide seemed to have shifted away from them in the aftermath, giving them a moment's rest. But the pair knew they couldn't waste time lollygagging about in the middle of battle. Over as suddenly as it started, both men were back on feet and went their separate ways. From behind him, Zach heard the crack of axe ripping into armor immediately proceeded by the cry of a younger man. "...U-um."
Mortell would be just fine.
The mage looked calm on the outside, striding through a field where guts literally rained down from the sky. His mind, on the other hand was just as much of a literal torrent of thoughts. It was the first time he'd successfully hit a real life moving target with Eclipse! Granted, he kind of missed, but it was the thought that counted. Wouldn't master be so happy to see him now? "Oh, right," the realization hit him harder than any wound had hit him so far. "She's not my master. She's just m-m-...Khayri. Right." He sharply exhaled, side-stepping a corpse whose hand thwacked his shoulder on the way down. Of all the times for distracting thoughts, "right now" was pretty low on the list of times where they were acceptable. "Remember what that little voice in your head said?" The boy grumbled to himself as he jumped into the middle of a fight.
"'Focus!!'" He pronounced the words like a whisper, but it came out like a yell, stunning both him and the equally surprised knight he crept up on. The armored titan didn't turn around, but it did flinch, which proved to be a fatal mistake as they grew a sharp looking protrusion in their back before clanking to the ground. In front of the now-deceased stood a head of long red hair, backed by the familiar blue-hued armor of Commander Daye. "Ho, Zacharia!"
"You lot are just full of surprises, ain'tcha?" Dredna chuckled, drawing a fighting stance. "First you draw out a plan, then you just -- hRAA!" An exchange of swords, then a horse's head came tumbling to the ground, followed by its rider leaping off. "You just brute FORCE your way through 'n entire city's worth of men. Hahaha!" The mage watched in awe as she caught her blade on the rider's cavalry sword. She pushed him backwards, swinging open-handed with her two-hander. The man struck a clean blow but off his horse he was good as dead. Naturally, it was only fitting that Dredna shoved him backwards, and he tripped over the splayed hooves of his horse. The warrior swung in a carving horizontal arc, and though it wasn't a killing blow, the slash across the man's chestplate and into his flesh.
In the moment of silence they had together, the three's eyes locked in a meaningful stare. Daye had taken quite a beating, and he was missing a pauldron, but he shot the kid a thumbs-up. His partner was another story; she'd taken like a fish to water in the heat of the battle. Even though she meant no harm, her determined eyes bored holes straight through Zach's head. The mage was never so thankful that there was no one like her on the enemy's side. He didn't have the will to fight someone like that.
"But we're not out of the woods yet. Still a ways to go before we win." From afar, something shrill blared. A horn coming from Larguz. "Keep yer wits about you, reinforcements are comin'!!" Sonny roared back, but to the Rebel troops. "Feels like they're getting impatient."
|
|
|
Post by Ilheod on Mar 9, 2016 15:59:33 GMT -6
Things seemed to be going well. They'd started further progressing along the wall while sweeping along; but as one might imagine in a siege, that wasn't to last after such short conflict. Ilheod couldn't help but notice the sudden flash of light, a burst of fire racing past him and hissing through the air. The blast had flown so close that in that brief moment, He had genuinely felt the burst of heat turn the chilled atmosphere of Bernese skies into what would've been comparable to a hot summer day. Even the dryness in the air. No sooner had he turned to look back, he saw another burst of fire rushing right for him. With every ounce of effort, he tugged on Astraeus' reigns and pulled the wyvern back. The loud wailing shriek as the wyvern began to propel itself backwards off the wall was like a signal to other nearby riders that it was unsafe, and a moment later the spot atop the wall where they'd been went up in flames as a plume of explosive magic detonated. Ilheod felt the intense light force him to close his eye for a moment as the dizzying sensation of vertigo threatened to over-take him from sudden loss of his dominant senses.
His trust in his wyvern was perhaps the only thing that kept him from scrambling for a more secure hold once he felt his body starting to slip from his saddle. The straps and his grip on the reigns held true though, and the roaring of more magical bursts along the walls forced the wyvern forces away from it. Ilheod snarled and opened his eye as he adjusted to the light and began to blink rapidly. He brought Astraeus about and climbed a bit higher, as the series of booming horns began to call out.
What was the best option? They could likely take the walls again, and over-take them into the next force trying to push the invading rebels back out. That would cause far more causalities however. At certain spots he could already see more bowmen lining the newly re-defended walls. Unless...
Guiding Astraeus downwards, Ilheod tucked his knees and tapped inwards twice. Astraeus let out a higher pitched shriek as he raced downwards to just barely skim above lance tip range from the ground forces. Most of the wyverns in Ilheod's unit had been trained to respond to shrieks from his own mount, for times when words would be lost above flight and other sounds. It was only moments later that they began to form up behind him while he passed about and turned. They couldn't fly over the walls without opening up entirely..but the city gates and the wall to the sides and above would offer some semblance of cover for the mages. The first pass would likely be safe..maybe the second one before they would predict where to aim. This would likely be a fools task, but if they didn't, the wyvern forces were going to be far less useful to the rebels while they became locked in a struggle against one another within that damned choke-point.
|
|