One shot stories Options

[Kell-Reevor]

Just a short piece I put together out of boredom. Hope you like it.

*************

It is dark. Two figures traverse a well trodden path out of Suran. The first is a swordsman. The second... his would-be killer.

The swordsman knows of his follower's presence. He listens attentively as the assassin follows. He is clearly untrained, and this may be his first mark. There is no rattle of quarrels or arrows. It is likely the swordsman need not fear a ranged attack.

The swordsman has made an enemy in the Nobles of Suran, and was aware that eventually they would seek his life. But he is not afraid. As a swordsman, death has followed him as a companion he has developed a deep respect for.

His trained ears pick up a sound... a soft and smooth "whif" as a dagger is pulled from a belt.

Spotting a shrine by the road, he approaches. He has no love of the Dunmer, nor has he a love for their Temple, but he is a spiritual man and pays his repects nonetheless as his killer moves in.

He moves his thumb for the guard of his sword. Years of oiling grant it silence as he nudges it from his sheath.

In a flash, he grips the weapon. Rips it from its home. Then thrusts it back, cutting into the assassin's belly. Turning, he frees the weapon with a horizontal slice, then brings the weapon up for a finishing downward cut.

The ordeal is over in a mere span of two seconds. The swordsman flips his sword to remove any blood, then returns it to it's home. He kneels in respect to the life he had just ended. If the nobleman had hired a killer even a tad more competant, the outcome would have been drastically different. If his foe had been equipped with a bow, or maybe armor, or perhaps knowledge of magick, HE would have been the one to die tonight.

He closes the dead man's eyes, mutters a short prayer... then is on his way.

This post has been edited by Kell-Reevor: Mar 2 2006, 02:01 PM

[Agent Griff]

Since the political intrigue of my fan fic is getting rather stale, I've decided to write yet another short story which is packed with fighting and other such things. Some of you who cherish Dinasty Warriors may see a slight resemblance. Or you may not, it doesn't really matter, since you can enjoy the story all the same.

~~~
The sky was clear, with only a few restless skies floating about. The sun shone with all its power, casting a clear light upon the fields below. Once in a while a cloud would blot out the sun and only thin rays of light would break through the cloud-cover. These rays of light would resemble the spears and lances borne by the warriors and champions of the battlefield, that unfolded beneath the clear blue skies.

If everything was clear and at peace in the skies, things were anything but peaceful on the once-green fields below. Chaos ruled the field that bloody day. The Nords of Skyrim were clashing with a coallition of Breton clans which were fighting to prevent the encroachment of Nordic marauders into their territory. Small skirmishes had been fought thus far, skirmishes leading to the actual battle fought out between the main hosts of the two factions. The Bretons, somewhat outnumbered by the Nords, used all of their traditional ploys to even the odds. Mercenaries had been hired by the hundreds while militias and war-bands had been mustered and equiped with any weapons availlable, be it swords or spears. It did not matter, since both could kill all the same.

And all had come to this. On one side of the field stood the Nordic host, come to pillage and conquer. The Nordic champions each led a company of brave warriors which were faithful to their leader alone. All of these Nordic champions however were in the service of the overall leader of the Nordic host, King Thorvald, which had come leading the men of his own kingdom. The champions, all seven of them, were all vassals under King Thorvald. Despite their somewhat lesser status however, all of them were warriors of enviable skill. The companies mustered by the seven champions were all made up of seasoned warriors, which were ready to reap glory on the field. Once battle was joined, the Nords would abandon any form of tactical cohesion and individually seek out the most dangerous enemy on the field, in an attempt to duel him and gain glory. This was how Nordic battles were fought, ever since the old days. All in all, a host of about 5 000 warriors had been gathered to defeat what resistance the Bretons posed.

On the opposite side of the field stood the Bretons. Their troops were all colourfully arrayed, not even one of their soldiers being identical to the next, not even the ones recruited from the same clan. They were all equiped in an awkard manner, some wearing cuirasses of fine steel, some wearing iron mail, some even wielding ebony weapons. Some wore only the clothes on their backs and wielded little more than the tools they used to farm: scythes, axes, pitch-forks and the like. Out of all the Breton warriors, those who stood out the most were undoubtedly the seasoned mercenaries and the spell-casters. The mercenaries were a varied bunch, ranging from Orcs to Redguards. All however had deadly skill with almost all weapons. Out of all the mercenaries, the most famous was the Breton mercenary Roland Dubois. He had travelled almost all of Tamriel in his assignments and contracts, and had gained a huge ammount of experience doing so. He had even been offered the position of Blademaster in the Imperial City Arena, yet he refused. The only other mercenary which could compare was the Redguard Owyn, who was just as well-travelled. Besides the mercenaries, there were the spell-casters, made up of an assortment of battlemages and spellswords. Their contribution in battle would be essential, since they served as both archers and heavy infantry, and excelled in both roles. The whole Breton force ammounted to about 4 300 men, with the mercenaries and spell-casters included.

As the two armies lined up and formed a battle-line, one of the seven Nordic champions under the employ of King Thorvald advanced, from the line, along with two of his horsemen. He was a tall man with a beard as red as flame. Sigurd son of Sigmund they called him. He was neither a good planner or tactician yet his men all loved him and were prepared to fight to the death in his name. That was the reason King Thorvald held him in high regard, since most of the warriors were willing to fight to the last gasp if he were to ask it. Sigurd wore a breastplate of Nordic wrought steel, without a backplate to defend his back. Beneath the breastplate he wore a shirt of fine Nordic ring-mail. In his hand he held his longsword, and on his belt he hung his famed dagger, with its handle made from the tooth of a werewolf Sigurd once slew. Soldiers from both sides looked at him with respect, for he was a famed captain and leader of warriors. As he raised his longsword in the air he spoke.

"Before us stands the enemy, the fine men of Bretony. Yet remember that it was a Nord who first discovered this people, and who allowed them to florish. It is now time to do what should have been done many an age ago. Are you with me?" Sigurd shouted. As he did, chills rose up the spines of the Breton soldiers in the front ranks.

"Aye!" the Nords all shouted, while banging their shields and their weapons.

"Then follow me to victory! Fight to the last gasp, but make sure it is theirs! Charge my brethren!" Sigurd shouted as he urged his horse onwards. As he broke off in a gallop, the whole Nordic host followed.

Following Sigurd came the other six Nordic champions, out of which, by far, the most feared was Aenar son of Alfhedil. Aenar was not just as Sigurd was nor loved by his men. He wasn't a skilled tactician or strategist either, blundering when it came to simple matters of planning or logistics. He held little regard for men skilled in these kind of domains. The only thing he held in high regard was battle. That was why he was both respected and feared by most of the army. Out of all the warriors arrayed that day on the field, Aenar was by far the most exceptionally skilled one of them all. Some said he was the avatar of an old Nordic god named Stuhn, which was held to be the god of ransom. True to his fame, Aenar often sought out to humilliate a noble opponent in battle then enslave him and sell him off for rasom. Aenar was also held to have fought in over 25 battles and to have triumphed unscathed in 22 of them.

As Aenar rode on in the wake of Sigurd's charge, all Nordic warriors made way for Aenar's horse, which was followed by Aenar's three thanes which carried his spare weapons and his spare shield. As Aenar rode he held his pole-axe high in the air. It gleamed in the midday sun, blinding any which looked upon the warrior. Much alike his weapon, so did his armour gleam in the sun. Aenar wore an old pelt on his shoulders, both to keep him warm and to serve as a symbol to any who would come upon him on the field of battle. It was said to be the pelt of a great werewolf Aenar once slew in single combat. On his breast he wore an intricate cuirass made of fine Elven steel, with a mithril vest underneath for added protection. Beneath the cuirass, extended faulds of fine steel protected the upper part of his legs and his mid-section, while his legs were protected by fine boots of made of the same Elven steel as his cuirass. The tips of his boots were covered with the pelts from the heads of two wolves, making his boots look as if they were two savage wolves, ready to pounce. All of his equipment also gave Aenar the widely used nickname of "Wolf-Bane".

Besides Aenar and Sigurd, all of the other Nordic champions were all seasoned champions with varied levels of fame. Among them was also King Thorvald's son, Thoralf, finely equiped in the finest Nordic steel money could buy. He was mainly known because of his father, not because of his skill in battle, but those who knew him personally all knew Thoralf had the makings of a fine strategist and tactician. He had personally arranged the logistics for his father's campaign, and thus far it had gone without mistake. Thoralf had also convinced the highly capricious Aenar to participate in the campaign, with promises of loot and glory.

On the other side of the field, the Breton army stood firmly, waiting for the Nordic onslaught to come. The Bretons were lead by Lord Regnier of Evermoor, a well-known noble who was a staunch opposer of Nordic incursions into his territory. Regnier stood at the back of the ranks, leaving the job of actually leading the battle and encouraging the troops to the leader of the Knightly Order of Evermoor, Sir Roderick. Besides the well armed and armoured knights of Evermoor, the rest of the Breton militias gathered from all over the land were rather poorly equiped, with most of them sporting little mail armour and even fewer wearing actual plate armour. The norm for most of them was a padded gambeson or light brigandine armour. The exception were the mercenaries, which were well equiped for battle and disciplined when it came to holding the line. The battlemages and the spellswords were also well equiped with armour and weapons of varying qualities.

As the Nords charged the positions of the Breton army, Sir Roderick ordered the battlemages and spellswords forward in order to bombard the enemy with spells. As he gave the order, the battlemages and spellswords all started advancing as one body. As they reached the front of the ranks, they prepared their spells. The leading battlemage, a grizzled Imperial with a bald head and a short beard, soon spoke.

"Aim!" he shouted. The spell-casters then proceeded to aim their spells. Some of the younger spellswords seemed nervous yet all of the battlemages had a stony aura of calm about them. "Fire!"

As the battlemage shouted, a barrage of spells from fireballs to lightning bolts shot out from the Breton ranks, felling the first two ranks of charging Nords. The spells all missed Sigurd and Aenar however. As the Nords increased their speed, trying to close distance with the Bretons faster, the spell-casters fired a volley once more. Once again, the Nords fell in rows like reeds in a strong wind. Their numbers however didn't seem to falter. As the Nords got within 50 yards of the Breton front ranks, the battlemage gave another shout signalling a renewed volley.

"Give them hell!" the old battlemage shouted as he himself gathered all the strength he could into a mighty fireball.

With this last barrage, spells of an unseen power and magnitude were flung. Fireballs which exploded in a wide radius instantly burning anything they touched, lightning bolts which jumped from foe to foe, frost spells which froze anything within a few metre radius. The Nords were overwhelmed by the combined fire of the battlemages and spellswords, yet the warriors coming from behind were not impressed by the bodies of their comrades which were strewn about their feet. As the Battlemages and Spellswords stood and watched as even more Nords advanced to follow their brethren into the grave, the old Battlemage signalled a retreat.

"That should even the odds." he muttered underneath his voice as he withdrew behind the front ranks. "Withdraw and prepare to join battle!"

The sides were drawn and the battle was about to begin. Now that the sides were even when it came to troop numbers, it was a matter of who had the will to go on, and to fight until the other side gave its last gasp.

TO BE CONTINUED
~~~
This is the first part of this one-shot story. Well, now that you look at it closely, it's actually a two-shot story. Anyway, I hope you enjoy the sequel even more than you enjoyed this prelude.

This post has been edited by Agent Griff: Nov 11 2007, 06:49 PM