One shot stories Options

[Agent Griff]

I hope no one minds if I resurrect an old thread (but a good one nonetheless) which has been forgotten long enough. There are too many good stories here to overlook and, besides, what better way to get your artistic juices flowing once a certain setting gets dull and you need to try new things? By posting a short story of course! I'll start by posting a story and I hope many of the other writers join in. I hope you enjoy this story.

~~~
It was a cold and damp night in the city of Dragonstar. Rain was falling down with more fury than the arrows of the Redguards. The Nords were all hard-pressed to find shelter in the ruins near the wall to East Dragonstar. The shadows cast by the small company of Nords gave the image of a much larger host moving along the ruins, trying to find shelter. As they moved from building to building in the cover of darkness, the Nords and the odd assortment of mercenaries and blades-for-hire accompanying them tried to find somewhere where they could stop to rest, away from the cold and the rain. As their scout, a Woodelf who went by the name of Aenvir, scurried inside the ruined remains of an old tavern he waved to his comrades, signaling the building was safe. As the rain-drops battered the old cobblestone of the streets the rest of the company hurried inside the ruins. Besides the remains of the common-rooms, Aenvir had also found some stairs leading down to a door.

"Finally, shelter!" one of the Breton mercenaries accompanying the Nords said as he held his blade tight. His cloak was ragged and torn, not to mention very wet and filthy of mud. "Perhaps we can find something to eat as well."

As the Breton descended the stairs, one of the Nords from the company followed, leading the way for the rest. He was a tall man, powerfully built. A tattered tunic covered the mail shirt he wore on his breast and the shield strapped to his forearm was dull with rust. He held his sword tight in his hand, prepared for battle. You never knew what to expect from these Redguards after all. His face was solemn, and his eyes were keen to sight the enemy, wherever he could be hiding.

"How you could think of a matter as trivial as food in a time like this, Breton, is beyond me." He said in a calm, if somewhat annoyed, voice. Seeing his Breton comrade complain about food broke his concentration.

"What is it to you, Ulfgar? All you Nords know is how to wrestle and how to kill. At least the latter you can manage properly." the Breton said in a despising tone. Nobody really liked him, and he was hard to get to know properly. He also didn't seem to have much self-restraint when it came to insulting people and starting fights. That said, it did not make him less of an amazing warrior. The Nord looked back at him with disgust.

"Far better than you Bretons ever could. Shut up and do what you're paid to do." Ulfgar said in an annoyed voice. He almost shouted at the Breton in his anger, yet he managed to calm himself at the last moment. It would be foolish to give away the whole company for something as trivial as this.

"Then you wouldn't be needing me now would you? That said, you wouldn't be needing that Wood Elf fellow would you? Now, get back to what you're good at, and leave me get back at what I know even better." the Breton said with a mocking smile. He had a very odd skill of making people get angry very fast.

With that said, there weren't any more discussions. Silence took over once again. As Aenvir pried open the door the others all followed him inside. They were an odd group. Twelve Nords formed the backbone of the group together with Aenvir the scout and the Breton warrior as support. Their company had been part of a raid on the Redguard side of Dragonstar. The raid went well, yet as they were returning their company was ambushed and cut off by Redguards. After suffering heavy casualties, they were now forced to hide in the ruins by day, and try to maneuver about by night.

Thus far all had been well, and they had avoided detection. A little more advancing, and they would be close to the wall protecting the Skyrim-owned side of Dragonstar, the Eastern side. Dragonstar had been separated into two separate parts ever since the war of the Bend'r-mahk. Neither side was powerful enough to act and conquer the city fully, yet neither side was weak enough to back down. This lead to a stalemate where guerilla warfare took the fore.

As the group entered the basement of the tavern they appeared to have ended up in a wine-cellar of sorts. The room was dark, yet warm oddly enough. After a few moments of jostling about a torch was soon brought forward and lighted. The room was indeed a wine-cellar, racks filled with bottles lining the walls. The company rejoiced because they could finally rest in a more suitable environment. Ulfgar of course maintained his calm. He knew that they could be attacked at any moment so he kept his sword close.

The rest of the company didn't take heed of him and his caution however, and started unpacking their bed-rolls to prepare for a night's rest. Some of them even opened a few of the wine bottles. After gulps and a glare from Ulfgar they soon put the wine bottles back where they belonged. The Breton, of course, didn't listen to Ulfgar and took some food from his pack as well. After a short meal which he was hesitant to share with the others, the Breton went to sleep, holding his blade near. His armour shone in the light of the torch, which was carelessly thrown in the middle of the chamber.

As everyone slowly fell asleep, only Ulfgar remained vigilant, ever watching the entrance to their make-shift hideout. There was an unpleasant smell of dank clothes combined with mud and dirt from the floor which, coupled with the smell of wine, made the whole chamber have a tavern-like feel. In other days, Ulfgar would have enjoyed spending some time in a tavern, yet now the only thing he desired was peace. He had had enough of war. Ever since the day he had been summarily drafted from his village, along with about 100 other young men like him, he thought of war as something courageous, epic and heroic. Over the past few months he had seen the true face of war, which often involved skulking in the mud and watching for the enemy. Not to mention the rotten food and diseased water, poisoned by the Redguards long before.

A few hours later, after almost falling asleep several times, Ulfgar went to Aenvir. The Wood Elf wore a leather vest over a plain shirt and mail greaves over his pants. In his feet he wore a pair of worn traveling shoes, light and good for running. He let his long hair flow freely, only wearing a small band around his head to keep his hair from getting in his eyes when fighting. Helmets brought discomfort to the Elf, and he despised wearing them. Near his hand was his bow, made of fine yew. His quiver was strapped to his back, and was made of tanned leather. Strapped to his side as well was his dirk, a curved dagger good for quickly slitting the throat of any nearby opponent. At first, the Elf had carried wooden arrows given to him by his Nordic comrades, yet as his arrows began to dwindle he eventually started crafting his own arrows from the bones of fallen foes. Aenvir was a highly religious Elf, and he honoured the Green Pact of Jeffre in all his affairs, even in war.

"Wake up Elf!" Ulfgar said as he shook Aenvir gently, trying to wake him up. "Wake up!"

"What?" the Elf asked in a rather annoyed way after a few minutes of repeated shaking. He held his dagger tight.

"Go out and watch for the enemy. We shouldn't lower our guard, lest we want to wake up with a score of angry Redguards breathing down our necks." Ulfgar said in a calm way, almost whispering so that none could hear, despite the roaring rain and thunder outside.

"Oh, alright then." Aenvir said as he started getting up and rubbing his eyes. "Is it day yet?"

"No, all the better for you to sneak about without anyone seeing you. That sullen tower near might be a good place to start." Ulfgar said. With a short nod the Elf was off, running for the door. His stamina amazed Ulfgar, as he himself never was in the mood for so much running, even when he was well rested.

Some time after the departure of Aenvir, the rest of the group started waking up. Some of the Nords, quite customary to their nature, woke up then fell asleep again, only to be woken up by Ulfgar himself. The last one to wake up was, of course, the Breton. With a loud yawn he was up and about, fitting on his armour.

The first piece of armour to fit on was the breastplate, made of steel. After tying the fine strings which connected the two sides of the breastplate, the Breton fitted on his pauldrons. One of the pauldrons, was rather large and circular, with engraved markings of a heraldic dragon coiling around a sword. The other, somewhat smaller when compared to its larger counterpart, was of worn iron and bore no remarkable markings except the various dents made by weapons. The Breton then strapped on his greaves, made of steel, then carefully fitted on his boots so that they wouldn't be a hindrance in combat. All the months of wandering about on the gravel and broken stones spewed about the ruined remains on the edge of Western Dragonstar had severely damaged his boots. Last came the Breton's sword, a fine longsword of good craft, as was traditional with the Breton warriors of High Rock. After he was finished, he could notice Ulfgar looking at him. With a sly smile, he started talking.

"I suppose you are admiring my armour. It was quite a challenge to gather all of the pieces. The left pauldron, as you can see, was taken from the gasping body of a Knight of Daggerfall. He seemed quite surprised to see my blade thrust in-between the joints of his armour. The breastplate as well, was taken from the cold body of a Knight, though of what Order I can't remember. He fought quite well though, but his neck wasn't as resistant to my sword as his breastplate was. You were saying?" the Breton said in quite an arrogant matter. Ulfgar had gotten used to him though. Ever since the former leader of their company died, Ulfgar had taken his place and everyone listened to him. Everyone except the Breton of course. He wasn't one to take Ulfgar's place as a leader, but that didn't stop him from challenging Ulfgar.

"If I wanted to squint at your armour, Breton, and see what dents and marks it had, I would be hacking it off your dead body. Now listen. The Wood Elf left some time ago to scout out the surroundings and keep watch. The only problem is, he hasn't returned. Make yourself useful and find him. Start looking in the ruined tower nearby." Ulfgar said in a bored tone, accentuating the fact that he wasn't one to cope with the Breton's oddities.

"I guess you want me to go skulking through the rubble to find the Elf. What uses you Nords find for us mercenaries is beyond me to comprehend. I should be out fighting and killing Redguards, not being a baby-sitter for some tree-hugger. But it is understandable, I suppose, to remove warriors of much greater skill than yourself, when you want all the glory." the Breton replied, in the same arrogant way. For a mercenary, he had trouble with following orders.

"You are paid to serve the interests of General Duvais, not to question my motives. As a representative of the General, you answer to me. Now, go out there and find that Elf, Breton!" Ulfgar said, raising his tone to show the Breton he meant business.

"Very well then, if that is what I must do to earn my pay. Don't except me to save you if the Redguards attack." the Breton said as he left the chamber they were all resting in. Odd looks and stares followed him as he left.

"After his contract expires you should really put an axe through his skull Ulfgar, it might lessen his attitude." one of the Nords of the company said, chuckling at the Breton's arrogance.

"He will meet his fate one day, rest assured. One day he will loose the favour of the gods and be struck down just like all the poor souls he has killed. If it is by my hand, then so be it. If not, good riddance all the same." Ulfgar said as he finally lied down to get some proper rest of his own.

Dawn had come to Dragonstar, and the rain had finally stopped. The sky was grey and dark, as the Breton set out to find Aenvir the scout. Since Ulfgar had advised him to search in the fallen tower nearby, that was the first place he visited. The climb up the steps leading to the top of the tower was arduous, since some of the steps were decrepit, and easy to shatter. The Breton's fate however, couldn't involve dying because of stepping on a weak stone. The Wood Elf's on the other hand could. As he reached the top of the tower, the Breton could see all of Dragonstar arrayed in front of him and it was truly a sight to bear. As he looked out, the Breton was standing on the circular top of the tower. Near him, on the edge of the tower's roof, was Aenvir, lying down.

"The wretch has probably fallen asleep. Better wake him up." the Breton said out loud as he approached Aenvir.

After two kicks, the Breton was rather surprised by the fact that Aenvir didn't wake up. Leaning down, the Breton turned Aenvir around, discovering why the Elf was so silent. A deep gash ran along his neck. He had died of bleeding some time ago and, by the blood on his clothes and the stone, the killer was near. As he examined the corpse further, the Breton heard a pebble being crushed by a heavy boot. Someone who was wearing armour was apparently trying to sneak up on him. Slowly rising from Aenvir's corpse, the Breton though about what to do. After a short moment of silence, the Breton turned around, quickly drawing his blade as he did so. His move paid off. An unsuspecting Redguard fell to the ground, blood gashing from his neck and gurgling sounds coming from his mouth. He was obviously drowning on his own blood. With a quick thrust of his blade, the Breton killed the Redguard, sparing him of any further suffering.

"Still sharp, eh Roland?" a voice came from down the stairs. Someone was coming up. The Breton however seemed un-alarmed.

"What took you so long to find me? I suppose you slayed the Elf." the Breton said in a calm, if somewhat angered voice.

"Who else? And regarding all the tracking we had to do to find you and your merry band, don't worry about it. Just tell us where your friends are and you'll get your promised gold." a Redguard revealed himself as the source of the voice. He had a calm and laid back demeanour about him.

"I was starting to get tired of all this running. These Nords sure are cowards. It will be good to finally kill them, after all this time of sneaking about. Oh, and I suppose I should be sorry about your man here. The dastard surprised me, and I think you know how much I hate surprises." the Breton replied, smiling in an evil way.

"You should be sorry, but then again a mercenary won't make any money by being polite. Now, lead on if you'll be so kind." the Redguard said as he stepped aside.

"On one condition. The leader of the Nords is mine, understood?" the Breton said, with deadly seriousness. He was reffering to Ulfgar.

"Of course Roland. Anything for you. Lead on." the Redguard said with a smile. He knew how to handle the Breton so that he wouldn't dissobey his orders. Unlike Ulfgar, he knew how to handle mercenaries like Roland.

After descending from the tower, the Breton and the Redguard met up with the rest of the Redguards. All in all, a party of about 80 men had been following them ever since the main Nordic contingent which lead the raid had been ambushed and split up. All of the other remnants of the main group had been found and destroyed, only this party remained. It wouldn't last long however. The Breton led the Redguard war-party with quick steps. He held his sword firmly, ready for the slaughter to come. An ungodly smile was on his face. As they reached the ruins of the tavern in which the company of Nords had camped out, the Breton stepped aside, leaving the Redguards to form the brunt of the attack. Afterwards, he could descend into the wine-cellar and finish off whatever remained.

"As I said, leave the leader to me." the Breton said in a confident way. With a quick nod, a group of about 30 Redguards, all well outfitted and armed, descended into the wine-cellar.

As the Breton stood outside, he could hear a loud shout then the sound of weapons clashing and men cursing and shouting battle-cries. The clamour of the fight was deafening in the still air and it made the whole city seem alive with battle. After a few moments of anxiously waiting on the edge, the Breton himself descended. As he entered the chamber he could see that many of the wine-racks had been upturned and blood had combined with spilled wine to form a slippery liquid. The Nords and the Redguards were locked in deadly combat. A few were wrestling each other on the floor, trying to strangle or to stab their opponents to death, while the rest were fighting for their lives ferociously. The Breton could see Ulfgar grappling with a taller Redguard. After elbowing the man, Ulfgar quickly hit him in the stomach with the pommel of his sword. He then summarily thrust his blade into the Redguard's neck, pulling it out by pushing the dying Redguard away with his leg. Ulfgar then turned his eyes to the Breton.

"You miserable traitor!" Ulfgar roared with rage in his eyes.

After exchanging a few blows with another Redguard then beheading him, Ulfgar charged the Breton, holding his shield forward. The Breton braced himself for impact, seeing he had nowhere to go to evade the incoming Nord. With his utmost force, Ulfgar bashed the Breton, making him stagger back a few steps. The Breton quickly regained his bearings however, parrying two blows Ulfgar quickly threw, trying to finish his opponent. After parrying Ulfgar's second blow, the Breton quickly swung his own sword towards Ulfgar's lightly armoured left arm. Ulfgar however parried the blow with his shield. That was exactly what the Breton had intended however. Even before he landed his strike on Ulfgar's shield, the Breton quickly wheeled around, striking Ulfgar's right arm. With a shout of pain and anger, Ulfgar pushed his opponent with his shield, sending him into a nearby wall. He then quickly checked his wound. It was a pretty deep cut, and blood was flowing freely.

"Can you feel it, Nord? It's death!" the Breton said in a malevolent voice as he approached Ulfgar once more.

"Yours, Breton!" Ulfgar roared as he attacked the Breton once again.

Ulfgar began his attack with a quick vertical chop, succesfully blocked by the Breton however. The Breton then quickly attacked, only to strike Ulfgar's shield. The Breton's next attack came just as fast as his last one, and almost caught Ulfgar unprepared, yet by sheer reflex he managed to parry the incoming blade with his own blade. For a few moments, their blades were locked and the two began a pushing contest. While the Breton pushed his own blade with two hands, Ulfgar could barely manage to hold him back with his own hand he used to hold his blade. Ulfgar however remembered his shield, which he used to bash the Breton. Sending him backwards a few steps, Ulfgar quickly charged to keep his advantage. He charged the Breton head-on, hitting him with his body and pushing him into a wall. Ulfgar however could feel his strength failing and he could sense pain coming from his stomach. As he looked down, he could see that the Breton had held his blade pointed forward, and that he had impaled himself on the Breton's sword. The Breton smiled as he twisted the blade to increase Ulfgar's pain.

"It's seems the best has, once again, triumphed." the Breton whispered in Ulfgar's ear as he slowly twisted the blade to further increase Ulfgar's pain. The Breton then broke out into a low chuckle of victory. Ulfgar, meanwhile looked at him with a stony face.

"Think again." Ulfgar muttered with a deathly voice as he drove his blade in-between the plates connecting the two sides of the Breton's cuirass. He then slowly twisted the blade to make the Breton's pain more excruciating.

"Someone's actually defeated me. What is this world coming to? I guess it's time...to retire." The Breton said as he chuckled. He then fell down together with Ulfgar.

And thus they stood, until the battle of the last Nordic company ended. And the Redguard which had guided the Breton chuckled as he saw him clutched in a deadly struggle with his last opponent, a Nord who wouldn't go down that easily. After plundering the bodies of weapons and armour, the party of Redguards left, leaving the dead where they lay. And there Roland Dubois' body lied, locked in an eternal struggle with the corpse of his supposed comrade, Ulfgar son of Ulric.

~~~
I hope you liked this story and I also hope the moderators won't kill me for reviving a dead thread.

This post has been edited by Agent Griff: Oct 24 2007, 09:27 AM

[minque]

I hope no one minds if I resurrect an old thread (but a good one nonetheless) which has been forgotten long enough. There are too many good stories here to overlook and, besides, what better way to get your artistic juices flowing once a certain setting gets dull and you need to try new things? By posting a short story of course! I'll start by posting a story and I hope many of the other writers join in. I hope you enjoy this story.


~~~
I hope you liked this story and I also hope the moderators won’t kill me for reviving a dead thread.

Oh but Griffie!!!! You know we are blood thirsty bastardes! Of course I´ll kill you....with my bare hands!

No way....I am glad you revived it....you´re perfectly right, there are so many good stories out there worth to be read!

You certainly revived this thread with an excellent piece of work! So hereby I encourage all the Chorrol.com-writers to join in!


Ehhh.....hmm that should include myself I reckon?...

[mplantinga]

A good story. It was satisfying to see the Breton's overconfidence get the better of him.

[Agent Griff]

Well, I've had a fascination with mercenaries lately, and I really wanted to get the feel of a quirky mercenary who is very good at what he does, yet very arrogant at the same time. A type of 'Achilles' character, if you can notice the connection. I'm glad you liked it, and I hope other stories just as good as it will be posted further.

[jack cloudy]

A rather long one-shotter, but a good one none the less.

I really enjoyed the characterplay between Ulfgar and Roland. Boy, those two really hated each other's guts. Though in Roland's case, it was acceptable. He was one mean little creepy fella.

Also interesting was the idea of a swordsman Breton. Bretons are usually seen as mages.

There are only two things I don't like. Well, actually they amuse me so I do like them.
1: You killed a Bosmer! I love the little treehuggers. They're so cute! How could you?!
2: I share the name with the bad guy. Ayehh!

[The Metal Mallet]

Vivid battle scene, great characterizations. What more could I ask for? Glad you resurrected this thread, though I personally use the Temple of the Schola thread to post any short stories I write.

[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

[jack cloudy]

Reminds me of the Illias, with the description of all the heroes and stuff. Good work and I'll be looking forward to the second shot.

[The Metal Mallet]

Very detailed and descriptive. Me likey!

[Olen]

Yup. Its good. I wander if the mages were sufficent...

Only thing I'd say it that, IMO, writing numbers as words improves the flow of a passage but thats just formatting really.
Introducing a character could add drama but you write the omisient persepctive very well so its not nessesary at all (I thought you might just like some crit).

So yup, jolly good.

[Agent Griff]

This is the second and final installment of my little "mini-series" if I can call it such. Enjoy! Oh, and please add feedback about the actual battle. I for one find it mildly confusing in some stages yet I suppose most battles in that age were like that. I based this battle on the type of battles fought in the early medieval period, which were highly unordered and disorganized, or so I hear. And btw, what do you mean by introducing a character, Olen? You mean an actual protagonist for the story? Rest assured that I've handled that with great care to please both fans of my omniscient style of writing and my somewhat more personal style. As I've said before, enjoy!

~~~
The two lines clashed with amazing brutality. The Nords hurled themselves upon the Breton lines with the ecstatic ferocity characteristic of a frenzied warrior. The first lines of each army were massacred almost instantly, the second and third lines joining battle afterwards. The spell-casters now entered their role of heavy infantry, charging into the mass of swinging blades and rent flesh. Right before they made contact they flung spells at whatever foes they could see, killing any soul unlucky enough to be in their path instantly. After leaving behind a few piles of ash or a burnt corpse still shaking from the impact of a lightning bolt, the battlemages started brutishly carving a path through the Nords while the spellswords maneuvered in a somewhat more nimble way around them, flinging spells and swinging swords as they went. The fighting got even more savage as more and more of the ranks joined. The Nord warriors went out of their way to try and break up the formations of the Breton warriors, fighting as savage beasts. Soon enough the Nordic berserkers joined the fray, killing left and right with crazed joy.

From Lord Regnier's position the fighting looked like two disorderly waves pushing each other back and forth, a sprout of colour sometimes appearing from the spell of a battlemage or spellsword. Sometimes a mob would break out from the Nordic "wave" and try to wreak havoc in the Breton "wave" before being ultimately surrounded and hacked to pieces, a burst of flames sometime flashing if a battlemage was involved. As the front lines of both armies decimated each other, the Breton mercenary Roland Dubois stood near the carnage, next to Sir Roderick who was trying to direct his troops. Standing beside Sir Roderick was also his guard formed of twelve veteran knights of the Order of Evermoor. Sir Roderick was mounted atop his horse, a fine stallion of a pure white colour. As he stood about, lusting to join battle, Roland looked at Sir Roderick slightly, admiring his shining armour.

"Dubois, order the mercenaries to join battle!" Roderick said as he looked about at the mercenaries, who seemed to be anxious to enter battle. Roderick however didn't seem as tense as the knights around him. He seemed oddly calm, for a man standing near a battle.

"Right away sir! You heard him lads! Go earn your pay!" Roland shouted as he urged the mercenaries forward. With heart-chilling battle cries, they all joined battle, cleaving and hacking the enemy left and right.

As Roland drew his sword and prepared to enter the battle himself, he was ordered by Roderick to stay behind. With a sigh of frustration Roland stopped in his tracks and returned to the side of his commander. As Roland stood, he noticed that there were no true professional soldiers in either army. They all fought individually, as little more than a disorderly mob. It was no wonder why the Imperial Legions had conquered them all. The mercenaries gathered from almost all the corners of the Empire, the rag-tag militias summoned to fight or the simple Breton clansmen fighting for their homelands had little cohesion, hardly even holding their ranks in battle. Only the battlemages seemed to have some discipline about them, holding their formation even in battle.

As the battle went on, the old Imperial battlemage stood at the forefront of all the fighting, his battlemages holding out around him. Their numbers had fallen however, amounting to only about eighteen remaining battlemages. The spellswords had also sustained heavy casualties, having already retreated from battle.

"Hold! Not one step back!" the Imperial battlemage shouted furiously as he cleaved apart the skull of a Nord warrior with his axe.

After slaying another Nord warrior, he raised his hand and summoned a fireball in his palm, ready to unleash it on touch. A Nord came at him from the left, his axe held high. As he raised his own axe to block, the Imperial punched the Nord in the chest, making him catch fire. With another swing of his axe he pierced another Nord's neck, blood gushing out violently, blinding him temporarily. After quickly scrubbing the blood with his hand, the Imperial saw a Nord coming at him with a sword poised to strike. Before the Nord could deliver his strike however, a lightning bolt threw him on his back in shock. As the Imperial looked back he could see one of his fellow battlemages had saved him. After narrowly dodging a Nord coming down on him with an axe by side-stepping, the Imperial hacked off the arm of a Nord which had stabbed one of his Breton comrades, making the Nord scream in pain. Before the battlemage could slay another Nord however, he felt a strike, yet it was too quick to even feel the pain. Before he could realize it, his head had been severed masterfully. While the Imperial's headless body fell to the ground, Aenar Wolf-Bane admired his feat. The battlemages all ran after Aenar turned his gaze towards them, dismayed by the loss of their leader. After another swing of his pole-axe, the head of a Breton clansman dropped to the ground, followed by the body.

Such was the strength of Aenar that he held his meter long pole-axe in one hand while holding the reins of his horse with the other. After the battlemages retreated, the Nords got the upper hand in the battle with the Bretons, slaying or routing a great many of them. The battle was fast approaching Sir Roderick's position. As Aenar's horse slowly walked towards Roderick, Sigurd passed by with his horse in a quick gallop, lopping the head of another Breton as he rode. As he neared Roderick, he reared his horse then stood still.

"Fight on my brothers, for victory is near! Persevere, and we shall triumph!" Sigurd shouted as he thrust his blade into the neck of a Breton frightened by his horse. He then withdrew to the back lines, close to the combat.

"Coward." Aenar muttered as Sigurd passed by atop his horse.

Aenar's advance had also marked the onslaught of the Nords, which had cut their way right next to Roderick. The Bretons that still fought started losing heart as they felt they were losing the battle. If Roderick was to be slain, they would definitely flee the field. Roland still stood by his commander. From his position he could now see Aenar rising up before them on his horse, the Nords making their way around him like water around a stout rock. The blade of his pole-axe was blood-red by now. The Nords, seeing him around, fought with greater ferocity and courage than usual. The Bretons seemed to be afraid even to stand in the presence of such a warrior. Indeed it was hard even for Roland to stand still in front of such an opponent. He wanted to either charge or flee, but not to stand about waiting for his own demise. Roderick however seemed calm. The visor of his helmet was raised, so his face could be seen. He wore a pig-faced bascinet on his head. The helmet was called pig-faced because it had a sharp snout protruding from the visor.

"Sir, what are your orders?" Roland asked in an anxious way. The Breton was eager to join battle and actually start killing Nords. Perhaps he could even have a swing at that Nord warrior that everyone seemed to fear. His pole-axe could fetch a pretty sum, if Roland could carry it off that is.

"Hold your positions!" Roderick shouted, without even looking at Roland.

After a few moments in which he stood still, watching how the Nords fought with the Bretons standing close to Roderick, Aenar eventually urged his horse forward, his pole-axe held high. As he passed by, the Nords seemed to gain courage and fight with renewed vigour, yet the fact of the matter was that the Nords still fighting were all thoroughly exhausted because they had not been reinforced for some time. The Bretons standing near Roderick however were well rested, not having actually participated in combat. Roderick's knights would also pose a challenge for the Nords.

As Aenar advanced amidst an ever decreasing band of Nord warriors, Sigurd was currently marshalling a new company of soldiers to join the fray under his command. As his horse paced to and fro, he held his horn tightly, preparing to give the signal to begin the charge. Sweat poured on his face, and his breastplate had received several deep dents. The thrust of a Breton spear had managed to even pierce the ring-mail underneath his armour, yet it had only pierced his hand. The wound drew blood nonetheless, and Sigurd would grit his teeth now and then to resist the pain. His horse also had to be replaced, because of several slashes it had received.

"When I blow my horn, we shall advance, and we shall crush all who stand against us. We mustn't leave Aenar by himself. He might be skilled, yet his pride will bring his downfall if we don't save him. Follow me, and we shall cut our way to the Breton general himself! To victory!" Sigurd shouted as he blew his horn with all his strength. He then galloped off on his new horse with his men following closely.

Meanwhile, back at the fore-front of the battle where most of the fighting was taking place, Roland could see Aenar advancing. Bretons and Nords were fighting and killing each other all around him, yet by magic all blows seemed to miss the Nord champion. The thrust of a lance missed him narrowly as he dodged to the side then brought down his pole-axe on the one which had tried to kill him.

"Charge, slay them all!" Roderick shouted as he urged his troops on.

All of the men standing near Roderick then suddenly sprung, overwhelming the few men Aenar had around him by pure weight of numbers. Roland also joined the fray, joyously slitting the throat of a Nord which stood in front of him. None dared to approach Aenar however. One of Roderick's knights tried to fight the Nord champion yet the short battle was decided with a thrust of Aenar's pole-axe, which was aimed for one of the only parts of the knight's armour where it gave way to the mail underneath his cuirass. Before anyone else could challenge Aenar however, the reinforcements led by Sigurd charged into the fray, clashing violently with Roderick's own troops. With a look of pleasure on his face, Roland wrestled a large Nord to the ground then stabbed him several times in his unarmoured throat. Chaos reigned all around him, Bretons and Nords grappling and fighting each other savagely on the bloody grass. By then, they were walking on the bodies of their comrades and their foes alike.

More and more Nordic reinforcements eventually joined the fray, led by another one of the Nord champions. Roderick's secret tactic however paid off. A company of about 100 knights of Evermoor which had been maneuvering around the Breton battle-line, attacked the Nords in the rear for a devastating surprise effect. Were it not for the presence of Sigurd who held his troops together they would have fled. As the troops fought on and on, Roland eventually spotted Sigurd himself, which had advanced together with his guards by carving a bloody path through any Breton troops in their way, had gone past Aenar, which advanced at a slow pace, cutting down any which hindered his path. Sigurd was a mere ten paces away from Roland, holding a mounted Knight of Evermoor armed with a mace at bay. Near Roland was a spear which was thrust firmly in the ground. Grabbing it in a quick motion, Roland wheeled around then threw the spear using his momentum. The spear flew high, and with a speed which would be remembered in the future years to pass. By a large ammount of luck, it hit Sigurd in the neck, throwing him off his horse. As several Breton soldiers stabbed Sigurd to death while he was wounded on the ground, Roland gave a roar of pure ecstasy. He had just slain one of the most famous Nordic champions.

The Nords, despite the recent reinforcements which had been led by Sigurd, started wavering because of his death. Lord Regnier had also sent a company of elite troops from his reserve to turn the tide of the battle. The battle seemed to be over, with the Bretons as the victors. It was not to be so however. With a battle cry that froze the blood of any nearby Breton, Aenar passed through the Breton ranks like lightning, striking down any in his way.

Roland, who was near Sir Roderick, stood and watched as the savage Nord rode towards them, killing left and right without any mercy or remorse. Aenar shouted out challenges as he rode, daring the Breton's best warriors to face him in combat. As he rode ever closer to Sir Roderick, Roland grew edgy. It wasn't a feeling of fear that the Breton felt, but a feeling of anxiousness in not doing anything, a feeling of greater awareness. He could see in detail how, a Breton peasant near him was being brutally stabbed by a larger Nord which had wrestled the smaller Breton to the ground. He could also see how one of the Knights stabbed a Nord wearing a coat of mail right in the chest. Another Knight was courageously fighting three Nords all by himself, their blows bouncing off the Knight's plate armour. Roland could also notice Sir Roderick lowering the visor of his helm and drawing his longsword.

With a gentle flick of his spurs, he rode forward to meet Aenar in battle. The horse walked at a brisk pace, giving Roderick time to think what he should do. Once combat would commence however there was little he could think or plan however. It would all rely on his instincts and luck.

While Roland watched, Aenar approached Roderick until the latter was in the reach of his pole-axe. With a mighty swing, Aenar struck Roderick down, severing his body from the shoulders up. Blood splashed out violently, hitting Aenar straight in the face. As the Nord champion closed his eyes he raised his head and gave a mighty shout:

"Who else seeks death?" he roared with a ferocity unseen before. All Bretons around Aenar abandoned whatever they were doing and ran, many were cut down by any Nords nearby. Aenar's action also had the effect of rallying the retreating Nords.

Roland was amazed to see his commander being struck down so easily by the Nord. In a fit of defiance, he gave his own challenge to Aenar. Roland care little for the troops around him, yet he was insulted to see a warrior of such superior skill.

"Stand and fight ye cowards for there is still one Breton with courage and daring in his veins! Come and fight me, knave!" Roland shouted as he pointed his sword towards Aenar. All of the Bretons which had been running turned around to watch the battle. The Nords also stopped the slaughter to watch.

A circle was slowly formed in the area around the two warriors. Roland stood at a distance of about thirty yards from Aenar, brandishing his blade. He had also quickly gotten a bronze shield from the ground. By the runes on it it had probably been dropped by a Nord warrior. It had a few dents here and there, signs of thorough use in the past. Still, it was better than nothing in battle with such an exceptional warrior. Aenar stood and watched as Roland prepared himself. After a few moments, Aenar charged Roland, still mounted on his horse and pointing his pole-axe towards Roland.

"The dastard wishes to ride me down, eh? Who does he think I am?" Roland muttered to himself as he prepared to face the charge.

As Aenar approached Roland he laughed wildly at the foolishness of his opponent, who stood to meet his charge. When the point of Aenar's pole-axe was within a few feet of Roland's position however, Roland rolled out of the way, slashing the legs of Aenar's horse as he evaded the charge. After grievous injury to one of its legs, the horse collapsed as it ran, throwing Aenar to the ground. Out of pure luck however, he wasn't injured at all. He got up and, after a curse or two, was ready to resume fighting. The duel was now really ready to begin. The Bretons and the Nords all started shouting as the two warriors circled each other.

"This will be easy!" Aenar shouted as he held his pole-axe in one hand.

The blade of the weapon was well-bloodied by the blood of all those it had slain in the hands of Aenar. Roland braced himself as he saw the blood-thirsty Nord approaching him, pole-axe in hand. A walk slowly turned into a sprint as Aenar ran towards Roland, holding his pole-axe high. Before he could enter the reach of Roland's blade, he brought his pole-axe down on the Breton. With some effort, the Breton dodged. Aenar then started swinging his pole-axe in almost all directions, in a bid to slay the Breton. Roland however surprised his foe by skillfully dodging most blows, and blocking the ones he couldn't dodge with his shield. The few strikes he blocked however had done terrible damage to his shield, puncturing it in several places.


Aenar seemed to be tired by his short flurry, which would have slain most opponents. Roland realized that the time to begin an attack of his own had come. He closed the distance with Aenar quickly, deflecting one of his pole-axe blows. Now that he was close to the Nord, he could begin his own assault. With a quick diagonal swing of his blade, he tested the Nord's defenses. Aenar however was quick to respond, parrying the blow with the wooden hilt of his pole-axe, which he now held in a two-handed manner. He then quickly followed by thrusting the blunt edge of the hilt towards Roland. Slightly surprised by the tactic, Roland was slower to block this strike with his shield. This gave Aenar time to thrust the blunt edge of his spear for a couple of more times, one of the blows actually going through one of the holes in the shield. Aenar's pole-axe hilt was now stuck in Roland's shield. Using this to his advantage, Aenar quickly spinned his pole-axe while it was still stuck in the shield, making sure that the blade was pointed towards Roland. Using his utmost strength, Aenar pulled the blunt edge out of Roland's shield then spinned counter-clockwise, giving Roland a potentially devastating blow. If he were to parry it with his sword or block with his shield, either of them would be broken. That only left him the option of dodging the blow, yet that would also leave him open to an attack. The Bretons watched with horror as Aenar's strike was about to connect with Roland.

Roland decided, in the split-second he had to react, that it was best to dodge. That he did, dropping to the ground in a crouched position. Aenar, as soon as he sensed his pole-axe had gone past Roland while touching thin air, immediately stopped and prepared a final blow to slay Roland. Roland, who was crouched, was too far to actually hit Aenar with longsword, so the only thing he could do would be to accept his fate, and the fact that he had lost. Aenar's blow came, yet Roland heard the sound of steel clashing with steel. Another warrior had joined the fight.

Roland looked up to see that the curved blade of the Redguard mercenary Owyn stood between himself and the pole-axe of Aenar. Aenar, with a look of frustration on his face, drew back his pole-axe and looked at his two opponents carefully. In the end, he spoke, while holding his pole-axe next to him.

"You have broken the rules of the duel by joining our battle. Thus I shall hold you responsible and kill you both for your impudence. Prepare to do battle!" Aenar shouted as he raised his pole-axe in preparation for combat.

"And I thought I was going to die on my own." Roland said with a smirk to Owyn, while preparing to do battle with Aenar.

"Your luck didn't hold out that much." Owyn replied in a witty way, yet with an ever serious face as he raised his own blade. "Someone's got to save when you get yourself in trouble, right?"

Aenar charged the two warriors, swinging the blade of his pole-axe towards Owyn, then quickly turning around and thrusting the blunt end towards Roland. They were both quick to parry his blows however. Roland backed off slightly while Owyn closed the distance with Aenar, intent on giving Roland time to rest. He swung his blade in a wild flurry yet Aenar managed to parry and deflect all of his blows succesfully. He then swung his own pole-axe in a wide arc, yet Owyn was quick to crouch and dodge the blow. Before Aenar could strike down Owyn, he had to deal with Roland, which had come behind his back. With a wide slash of his pole-axe Aenar held Roland at bay, while he prepared to deal with Owyn. After slashing at Roland, Aenar quickly raised his pole-axe in one hand to bring it down on Owyn, which was still crouching. Owyn however surprised Aenar by rolling out of the way at the last moment. Roland tried to surprise Aenar as well with a well timed thrust of his sword, yet Aenar dodged at the last moment and was then quick to punch Roland in the face, making him stagger. He would have finished Roland off with his pole-axe were it not for the quick intervention of Owyn, who slashed his blade while aiming for the Nord's head. Aenar however heard the Redguard coming in behind him and put the hilt of his pole-axe between Owyn's blade and his own head.

The duel between the three warriors went on in this way for several minutes. It dazzled the Bretons and the Nords looking on for it looked more as an improvised dance than an actual fight between three warriors aiming to kill each other. Aenar constantly gained the upper hand on one of the two mercenaries, only to be distracted by the other while the one which had just been under pressure rested. Blades flowed in all directions, and the combatants bobbed and weaved to avoid each other's blows. It all went on like this until Aenar made space with his pole-axe then retreated in the gap which had resulted between Roland and Owyn. As Aenar gained more and more distance between himself and the two mercenaries, fighting began in earnest once more between the Nords and the Bretons. Roland was eager to follow Aenar and continue fighting, yet Owyn was quick to stop his overly-daring comrade. Roland was the only Breton on the field that day which had no fear for Aenar Wolf-Bane. Of course, he was thoroughly insane when compared to regular men.

In the end, the battle ended with no definite victor. There were heavy losses and great numbers of wounded on both sides when dusk came and the two hosts retreated to their own camps. The Nords lost a great many fine warriors on the field that day, their casualties amounting to about 3 200 men and countless wounded. Among them was also the greatly-loved champion Sigurd son of Sigmund and two of the other champions. Aenar famously survived the battle unscathed, yet was greatly shamed for running from the duel. The Breton host was also severely drained by the battle, losing almost 3 000 men by the end of the day. Among the many losses was also the leader of the spell-casters, the Imperial battlemage Viator Artorius and the leader of the Knightly Order of Evermoor, Sir Roderick, slain by Aenar son of Alfhedil. The heroes of the battle were, by far, the two mercenaries Roland Dubois and Owyn the Redguard, which would later become Blademaster of the Imperial City Arena. They were held in high regard by both Nords and Bretons alike for having held their ground against Aenar and forcing him to retreat from the battle. Like all battles, and wars, for that matter, all the deaths and savage killings on the field that day would be in vain. Neither side would advance decisively, for the Breton coallition was too fragile to maintain when the enemy was not on their door-step. The Nord king Thorvald on the other hand was advised by his son, Thoralf, not to pursue the campaign further since the price of the battle was too high and the Bretons were a highly independent people and famously hard to conquer.
~~~

I hope you've liked my little story. As I've said before, I hope others like it are posted in the future

[jack cloudy]

Again, I was reminded of the Illias. Only with more action and less talking, which is good. I'm referring to the infamous ten pages of bloody talking which could be summed up as: ,,The Trojans are attacking. Take up arms and fight!"

I also definitely enjoyed the duel. When Owyn cut in, it really got cool. One thing though, I am rather surprised that they could hold that long against Aenar. On the other hand, Aenar didn't feel that skilled till the duel. Before that, he just felt like a Gaenor, with luck coming out of his ears.

[Agent Griff]

I can feel the parasite of "school lecture" in your voice and in your words. Do not let hate take over you! Fight it!

I've had experience with books like that. Well, not in the sense that they are filled with words when they should be filled with action, but in the sense that most school books are about boring things, like the lives of 19-th century Romanian peasants or shepperds.

But yeah, there are some epic poems like the Illiad where, instead of fighting, which is what people usually do in a war, they talk and talk and talk before actually doing something. In an actual combat situation you don't really have time for long statements and poetic verse. You general have time to say a few things to rally the troops then it's off to battle. Nothing more to it. Afterwards, my favourite part begins: COMBAT!!! I'm a fan of mid-realistic combat that doesn't sport long discussions between enemies, and I think that shows. The fact that I have a descriptive way of writing also shows, I suppose. That's for you to decide anyway. I'm glad you liked it Jack. I'm eagerly awaiting your own contribution, whatever the subject may be.

[Olen]

That was a good finish to the battle, I like how you focused in from a wide overview down to just one place.

Only comment would be that this line: "about 3 200 men and countless wounded" jarred when the number of injured must be less than the number of dead given the army size you gave in the first part... But thats not much of a problem really.

[mplantinga]

An interesting story; I think we can forgive the fact that it wasn't actually a one-shot

The battle was intense, with a lot of action and some very compelling individual fights. Aenar's single-strike kill of Sir Roderick did seem a little unrealistic; I would have assumed that a well-trained knight would last at least a couple strikes against almost any enemy. The fight against Roland seemed more realistic to me, although I suppose it was unfortunate that he needed help to repel Aenar. Still, these are minor things, and the story overall was very enjoyable.

[Agent Griff]

Well, if we were to discuss a strictly realistic battle, Roland's battle with Aenar was overly long. In a real battle, the two fighters wouldn't manage more than ten strikes before one of them was killed. When Owyn joined the fight, Aenar should have lost. I tried to show that by having Aenar retreating after a few minutes.

Regarding Aenar's one-hit kill, Aenar's weapon (pole-axe) was a weapon designed to puncture armour like the one Roderick was wearing (plate armour). If Aenar had a weapon like a big sword, he would have needed to carefully aim for the joints at Roderick's armpits or his neck, since that is generally the only place in plate armour that is even mildly vulnerable. Any other type of strike at plate armour is worthless, and more likely to damage your own weapon. Now, since Aenar had a pole-axe (something like this http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Bec_de_Corbin.jpg ) and since he was riding a horse at some speed, that gave his strike momentum. Momentum which was enough to kill Roderick in one blow, severing his head. It was the most realistic option and I went for it. I could have gone for a stylised battle, as most battles in fan-fics are, but I went for one of the most realistic things possible.

Anyway, I'm glad you all liked the story.

[jack cloudy]

That looks like solid reasoning to me, Griff. Now I hope you don't mind, but I'm going to butt in on this thread for a bit. It's not TES though. Heavens forbid, it had better not be. The characters I use here are way over the top.


Unknown location.

Then, in that short moment, it was over. The man who only knew himself as a number, 547, realized he had succeeded in the sole task he had been meant to do. But at a great cost. His armour still smouldered, now little more than a paper-thin shell, cracked and punctured in a myriad of places. Beneath it, his body was slowly losing a second battle, the battle for survival. His lungs were barely functional, everything below his abdomen had been devastated by a humongous lance of destruction and his eyes had been seared into a gory mess. He could no longer feel the familiar thumping of a heart in his chest.

All he could feel was the essence of his power, still blazing with a cold fury, and the passive essence of his opponent, now harmless yet still with staggering potential. A potential that had now been lost. As had his. Yet, despite the knowledge that he was going to die, he was satisfied. Satisfied with the knowledge that a dreadful weapon such as he and his foe would never exist again. The power needed for that was here, beyond the reach of those who knew how to put it to use. The only thing that made him still wonder was just why he had been victorious and managed to survive till this point. Weren’t they both of equal strength, equal essence? Why had he been stronger? It didn’t matter. What had happened, happened, there was nothing more to it. Content, his mind receded into the darkness that loomed, now numb to the pain of his wrecked flesh.

A tingling sensation made him struggle to survive just a bit longer. Had it been an illusion, or was it real? Where was it? He focussed, straining to press the last breath he had to use. There it was, a brightness, touching the fury within him. So powerful, so dreadfully powerful as he’d only felt once before. The new knowledge shook him to his very soul. There had been two of them! Two, essence divided evenly between them. The first had crippled him, now the second one was coming to clean up the remnants. He had to fight, yet he already knew he couldn’t. His injuries were too severe, and his foe was still out of reach. Half an hour, then it would arrive. Half an hour too late. He would already be dead by then. There was only one thing he could do. Warn his people. Give them a chance, however slight, to escape. As his consciousness faded, he hurled his final message into the void. It would never arrive.

Onboard SLS Salvation, command deck.

Grand Chief of Core Operation and Coordination Paul Armand, GC Armand for short, stared at the holographic reports with bloodshot eyes, in exactly the same position he’d maintained for six long hours. Fists resting on the table, feet planted wide. One could have imagined him to be a statue, an incredibly realistic statue. But he wasn’t, as his steady breathing and fluttering eyes showed.
,,Core has reached target location. No hostiles detected.” Armand’s gaze shifted to the source of the report. To him, it was just the backside of the head of an anonymous person, yet he still watched and waited for the remainder of the report.
,,Report of two essences, both inert.”

Armand closed his eyes and let slip some of the tension that had been holding him. So the original plan had succeeded, though it was a pyrrhic victory at best. The civilization he’d left behind was now in ruins as the sole means of interstellar travel and communication had been disbanded in order to create the two living weapons. Now one of those was destroyed, yet the other, the one they couldn’t finish on time, had become operational last week. He could only imagine that his lifetime foe was in ruins as well. But unlike them, he still had a weapon without equal. Oh yes, he had a weapon, but no one to use it against.

,,Recall the Core.” He ordered. It had been an unnecessary order. The communication was one-way only. Only one seer remained to accept the message, only one seer in two galaxies. While capable of transmitting himself, he could never pass on a message across half a light-year, let stand half a million. His order would go unheard, which had been gnawing at him ever since the plan had first been proposed, sixty years ago. He was used to having his weapons operate out of reach, but this time it was different. This time the weapon’s capability for destruction was completely beyond any known scale. The chance of it going berserk was negligible, but it was still there. And if the impossible happened, if it went berserk, there would be no way to stop it.

,,Core detected. Shift in at docking port three. Navigational error of two millimetres.” Another voice reported. Two millimetres off target after traversing half a million lightyears in less than a moment. It was an error, yet so small it was supposed to be impossible. He’d been told this very morning that the absolute minimum would still be on the order of a dozen lightyears.
,,What kind of monster have we created?” Armand asked himself. He then got another thought.
,,I told it to perform multiple shifts and lower the distance gradually with the last shift ending at a lightsecond away. To perform a single shift directly to its destination, we didn’t plan for that kind of independent thought.” He noted and vowed he would keep a closer eye on it from now on. But since it was actually standing on the outside hull of his ship now, he could give orders and expect them to be carried out.
,,Lock all available weapons on it and issue Case Damocless.” He spoke and pulled his eyes back to the board. He did not want to see who would first issue the inevitable complaint.

,,Sir, it’s friendly.” Armand’s eyelids twitched slightly.
,,I know it’s friendly. I watched it’s every living moment! But can you prove it will remain friendly? Think of what we’re telling it to do! It’s hard enough just to order someone else to do it, but to actually have do it yourself, it could drive even the Core crazy! So lock weapons and issue Case Damocless. The moment that thing does as much as bat an eyelid the wrong way, blast it to pieces and hope it doesn’t have a barrier up!” He spoke much sharper.
,,Yes sir…Weapons locked, Case Damocless issued. No negative response. Beginning countdown.”
,,Good lads. They don’t like it, but they would go through hell for me. And they will, we all will.” Armand thought.
,,Good, proceed to the next stage. Mass shift to location and prepare for immediate salvage.”

SLS Salvation, outside.

The Core, standing on the circular platform, watched at the tiny pinpricks around it. Each of them was a collection of countless stars, yet it didn’t realize. Its imagination was sorely lacking for it. Even the galaxy it had come from simply didn’t exist. It only knew that it begun in a room and then wound up in a black void next to the salvation after a single shift. How was it to know that it had passed stars, worlds and collapsing civilizations?
,,Commencing shift.” It intoned passively. The pinpricks leapt to different locations, the only sign of the mind-boggling distance it had just travelled, together with the Salvation.

It looked down at its feet that were planted on the steel hull. The Salvation was huge. Not just as all the people it had seen which were always huge, but this thing was really huge. In the Core’s imagination, it must be as big as a hundred people. It wiggled a toe and watched one of its pitchblack boots slide to the left, till the edge of the tiny platform. No, not as big as a hundred. Twohundred, more likely. The first pang of pain shot through its skull.
,,Thirteen minutes till breakdown.” The seer on Salvation reported. The Core sent a neutral reply and then ascended from the deck, without a single flicker of a thrusters nor a single push of a foot. It simply rose as if the wind had carried it. But there was no wind, not in the vacuum of intergalactic space.

Ahead of it were the two inert Cores it had found, still two dozen lightyears away. The Core jumped ahead and landed less than a metre from one of them. The one that was still…warm? The Core held its head sideways as it pondered this new observation. What was half a people doing there, coated in the shell of an active Core? Or was it…..a Core? Were Cores people? A new thought entered its mind. Doubt. It shook its head violently. No, Cores weren’t people. People were huge, Cores were not. A second pang of pain. There was no report this time, but it didn’t need one. There would be a pang each minute. Then the mental self-destruct would occur, whatever that was supposed to mean. It probably wouldn’t be pleasant, though.

The Core rose its hands and cast a tendril of its essence at each of its two inert siblings. The essence of the dead Cores reacted and gathered around the tendrils which it drew back, inside itself were the new essence mixed with the old. It then wasted no more time and shifted back to Salvation’s platform.
,,Salvage complete.”

SLS Salvation, command deck.

Armand got his latest report and checked the time. Little more than eleven minutes remained.
,,Eleven left? It was supposed to do this in less than a minute. It’s beginning to hesitate and think thoughts it isn’t supposed to think.” He realized with a shock.
,,Change of plan. At this rate, the Core isn’t going to last. Commence final phase of the operation. Tell it to do it snappy and not rest till after it is done after which it should return to Salvation.” He ordered and with creaking joints, he moved. He moved to his seat where he sat down.
,,Now all we can do is wait.”

SLS Salvation, outside.

The Core received its new instructions and went to work. The idea was simple, though they were odd. Why did it have to jump to several preset locations and then fire a maximum-sized lance at one of those little lights? Why? The third pang came. The Core decided to think about it later and pointed a finger at the first light. An invisible wave of pure annihilation burst out of the skintight black shell that served as the Core’s armour, racing out towards its target at lightspeed. It would arrive in little over twohundred years.

Ten more times did it repeat this action. Shift to location, then fire at the light it had been told would be there. Only at the last point did it stop, before firing the twelfth lance. It had noticed that there were a lot more lights around it than there had been at Salvation. Why? Why did the lights gather here? It waited till the next pang came before thinking any further. Nine minutes till breakdown.

What if it tried to get closer to the light and take a look at it? That wouldn’t be bad, would it? It could easily come back here and finish the job in a heartbeat. Yes, there was time enough to look. It felt for where the light really was and shifted.

A raging fireball, as big as a thousand Salvations. It was beyond huge and it was hot, unbelievably hot. So hot, it heated even the Core’s shell to near melting point, something a dozen of Salvation’s lasers couldn’t achieve together. The Core absentmindedly intensified the tendrils of essence that formed the shell and gawked at the sight. It was so….beautiful. And it had been destroying these beautiful lights? It shivered. Impossible! It was a bad Core, a bad destroyer of beauty. Bad, bad, bad! But people told it to do this. So people were bad, bad, bad!

All of a sudden, the Core yawned. It was feeling tired. Another pang. Which one? It didn’t know. Shocked as it was by the nearby light, it had forgotten to count. What should it do? Continue to destroy the pretty lights? Or go back and tell the people they were destroying the lights? It worried about the next pang also. What if it would be the last? There was no time left, it had to go.
,,Bye bye, pretty light.” The Core said and shifted, back to Salvation. At least this light would be spared.

SLS Salvation, command deck.

,,Core detected, off the bow at a distance of fivehundred metres.” Armand nodded to show he had heard the notification.
,,So it has been done. Two galaxies, each now englobed by six blasts of a Core holding the power of these two galaxies. Perhaps there will be a seer we missed, somewhere. Perhaps this seer will pass on its strength. Doesn’t matter. By the time a seer would detect the destruction vectoring in from all directions, it will be too late. There will be no escape. And so the endless war with Cores shall come to an end.” He thought.
,,Tell the Core to wait outside. We’ll let it burn out its brains before putting it into a pod and firing it off, far away from the third galaxy. I will not let our colonists be tempted with such power.” He spoke, looking at the head of the one who maintained contact with their seer who in turn maintained contact with the Core. The man’s head bobbed up and down, then froze.
,,Sir, negative response! It’s negative!” Armand’s eyes flew wide open.
,,Negative?!” He repeated. He then remembered the last report. Off the bow, fivehundred metres. It had not jumped to the platform where the point-defence lasers could shoot at it, as it had done each time before moving to its next firing position. Why? Perhaps because….
,,Lock on with planetbusters and all lasers! Take the damn thing down before it goes insane!” His last thought was one of irony.
,,The most powerful warship ever built, capable of razing planets into smouldering hulks. And it can’t beat a mere child. A child that has inherited the power of two galaxies, and I was the one who made it all happen.”

SLS Salvation, nearby space.

The Core watched with interest as the space surrounding the massive starship was set ablaze with all the fury countless lasers and anti-matter explosions could cause. All of that blaze was focussed on it, into a sphere less than two metres wide. The Core shrugged off the assault with utter nonchalance. It had the power to annihilate entire galaxies from thousands of lightyears distant, in a single shot. Next to that, the firepower of a single warship was absolutely nothing. A billion warships wouldn’t compare. So it merely strengthened its shell with a tiny fraction of its strength as it pointed a finger at the opposing hulk. Again it yawned.

,,People are bad. They tell me to destroy the pretty lights. Therefore, people must leave. People can’t fly, but get thrown out if there are holes from inside to outside. People won’t move if outside. So must make holes.” Tendrils of essence leapt towards Salvation, hungrily carving their path through the fury that still pounded at the Core in an helpless act of defiance. Through the bulkheads they slashed and cut, slicing the ship into tiny ribbons. People came out, but not whole. Parts of people they were, cut into countless pieces by the same tendrils that cut up Salvation. Explosions rippled through those areas were the containment of volatile elements had been breached. In the blink of an eye, the carnage was over and as the Salvation ceased firing, so did the Core. A pang of pain shot through its brain. It had been the last, the one that made it go into a coma from which it would never wake up again.




OOC: Why is it that whenever I imagine ultimate power of destruction gathered into a single being, I see that being in the form of little child? Am I just weird? Or maybe I just like the irony. You've gotta admit, the size difference between a huge warship and a child makes it quite funny if the child swats it out of the void with the ease of cracking a bug beneath its heel.

This post has been edited by jack cloudy: Nov 24 2007, 09:19 PM

[canis216]

Journal of an Imperial "Courier": Morndas, 26th Sun's Dusk, 3E:432

I was riding from Kragenmoor toward the City on my weekly run when I was accosted by a khajiti fellow in glass armor. Hoping against hope that for once this might not be a bandit, I slowed Many-Gallops--my newly purchased chestnut bay--and smiled like I suspected no ill-will.

"How can I help you on this fine day?" I said it as if I meant it, which I suppose I did. It was a fine day. Of course, cynic that I am, I thought that this betmer's idea of "help" would be a large sack of my hard-earned gold and a blade between the ribs.

The khajiit smiled back, and drew an ebony blade. "Fine day indeed, argonian. Fine day. It would be even finer if the argonian gave khajiit his valuables for safe-keeping. Very dangerous, the way to Cheydinhal."

I kept smiling. You might think me odd, but as I get on in years I find myself more and more able to laugh at the inherent corruption of our world. I suppose that might be some person's definition of a cynic--it's as good a one as any. In any case, I kept smiling, and asked the bandit, "How much?"

With that his smile dropped to something like a snarl; he said, "Everything. Your gold. That courier's pouch, with the Imperial seal on it. Your saddle. Your horse. Even that robe of yours. Khajiit wants the black silk."

I must have sighed then; I think I sigh whenever the bandits make their exorbitant demands. "First I'm sure you'll be wanting my weapons."

"Yeah..." his voice trailed off once he discovered my ebony embedded in his chest. He staggered back a few steps, at a loss for words, then looked up just in time for me to dismount and draw Kills-You-Dead, my dagger.

"Wha..."

"You picked the wrong courier to hold up, friend."

-- A.H.L.i.t.S.

This post has been edited by canis216: Nov 26 2007, 10:17 AM

[jack cloudy]

So Al went to Cyrodiil now? And he's gotten older. Older, but no less stylish. Nice one, Canis.

[canis216]

A little older. I set this in 3E:432, so I think that would make him... 38 years old. Older than he probably expected to live, given his profession...

And this is something of a teaser for future work, as soon as I can pull together the monies to get an upgraded PC that will run Oblivion.