Open Chronicles Kuroimono - The Black One

[Ragna]

A thunderclap sounded, its sound deafening. Ragna roared at the sky in defiance as the storm built in strength. The wind was picking up now, swirling sand around them and forcing orcs to grit their teeth and narrow their eyes. Her senses could feel the wind shifting and then it came. Another thunderclap sounded, a gale hitting a crude phalanx to the right. It knocked orcs over like ninepins, sending them sprawling and stumbling over the sand.

The ships out to sea were no concern. Her fight was here. Ragna forced her way into the wind, breaking into a run. Screaming a war cry, her first swing with the maul sent a broken corpse flying several feet through the air. A spear stabbed into her side, the sudden pain making her snarl. Ragna lashed out with her foot, shattering the warrior's ribcage.

She'd never liked edged weapons. They tended to get stuck. Or chipped the blade on armour. Much better to break your opponents with bone shattering swings. The killing rage was on Ragna now. An orc got too close while fighting, one swing from the maul took out him and his opponent.

The beleaguered orcs were charging and stumbling into the defenders all along the strand. A messy brawl on the outskirts of the fishing village while the storm raged above them.

 

[Brandar the Burned]

"STOUTHAMMER!" Brandar had to yell to be heard over the growing storm. Everyone had to yell.

"CAPTAIN?"

"RAISE THE SIGNALS."

At the bow of the ship, the men hurriedly raised the needed signal flags into place, communicating with Gal's ship in the agreed upon fashion. Consort ships always did this; an agreed upon, private code, documenting all the many signals they would need in their travels at sea.

"Sir! What's she doing?!" Brandar shook his head, fighting at the helm with Hastings. They were being thrown about, with water slashing at his face and eyes, and waves crashing against the hull to send water across the deck in shallow tides. They'd double the crew on the rigging, needing it just to control the sails.

But while they had to sail into the wind before, now they could sail with. "Bring us around her stern! We'll run her into Gal's artillery!"

Ponderously, with the deceitful speed of a giant, In Irons swung around, chasing down the scout ship. He'd wait a few moments longer, needing to get it perfect. "Wait for the approach, Ship's Master!" The dwarf nodded, shouting commands to the men. With Brandar and Hastings fighting the helm, and Stouthammer working the sails, they'd catch plenty of speed.

And then, the signals flashed again. This time, the message was even more clear.

Prepare your broadside.

Kaelen Silverblood

 

[Morcant]

Morcant landed nimbly in the landing craft after Gareth, narrowly avoiding crushing his blind and temporarily-useless associate underfoot. The oarsman was a tough looking fellow - bare-chested with a beard past his neck. Probably from Amol-Kalit given his complexion. He looked to be strong enough. Good thing too, given that a storm had suddenly opened up on top of them.

Typical. Why should things go right before going horribly wrong? Got to get the worst of it out of the way first, apparently. "What are you waiting for? Let's get underway here, time is money!"

The oarsman grimaced, and they were off. The waves fought back every step of the way, and Morcant found himself struggling to stay upright. The constant ruckus of thunder did little to soothe his nerves, and the battle on the beach did not look terribly appealing either.

"Why don't we try landing further up the beach?" Morcant called, "Surely that would be easier?"

For all the trouble of asking, all Morcant got was another grimace. Pirates. Terrible conversationalists all around.

 

[Amalric Urahil]

Gareth groaned. The boat bucked even worse than the ship, rising with every swell. The acrid taste of last eve's supper rose in the blind scholar's throat as well, keeping time with the waves. He had been in worse situations before, he tried to reassure himself. The thought afforded poor comfort and did nothing to perish the image of the boat capsizing, leaving him to sink to the bottom of the ocean. What an ignominious death, worse than being gutted and left for dead on the side of the road by highwaymen. At least in that death he would have a gravemarker, even if 'twas only a flock of carrion birds come to pick at his corpse. Delightful thoughts, soothing for the belly.

He retched wretchedly, but had nothing in his stomach left to give up. Shivering in the bottom of the boat, Gareth shut his eyes tight and begged for it all to end.

At last there came the sound of wood keel grinding against sand. The boat stopped moving and for a moment, that seemed worse. It took him several moments to rise from where he lay, swaying unsteadily, before he fell out of the boat and into the sand. His palms fell into the wet earth and he felt a sudden sense of giddiness rifle through him. Laughter fluted from his throats, clear as a bell. Alive. Alive and on solid ground.

He heard a whistling sound, then something sharp cut across his cheek, drawing forth a stinging line of blood.

"Archers!" roared the pirate oarman, accent thick as the current of the Baal-Asha river.

Morcant

 

[Morcant]

"Ah, here we go." Morcant deftly gripped the edge of the landing craft and vaulted out of it.

He landed on his feet and took in the surroundings. A large, sandy beach, but the waves behind them were becoming more and more wild. The wind buffeted him - an annoyance, but not a deterrent. Not yet. Far ahead of them were some cliffs, at the top of which were the shuffling figures of the island's inhabitants. Five or six. Must have been a small patrol. The bulk of the forces would be landing to combat the landing Blight Orcs.

Without regular feedback from the rest of the island's defenders, it seemed the Blight Orcs were making plenty of headway. Soon enough they would make their way inland, looting and torching and kidnapping as they usually did. Blight Orcs might have been simple, but they were certainly reliable. Moreso than the bulk of their wild kin, Morcant often found.

Well, enough of that. Morcant He glanced behind him to see Gareth face-first in the sand, rooting about and squealing like a boar.

"Oh, don't be such a drama queen."

Morcant barely heard the oarsman screech over the waves, but later he would realize he must have been trying to warn them about the archers. The first arrows landed in the sand around him. One struck true, but impacted the ward Morcant had cast on himself hours earlier. A sickly green, transparent sphere appeared around him momentarily - just long enough for the arrow to bounce away harmlessly.

Protection from Arrows. Basic magic. But apparently beyond Gareth's grasp, seeing as he was now both wallowing in the dirt and bleeding. Whatever. It wouldn't last forever and Morcant needed to get closer if he was going to return fire on those archers. "Come on, you," He grunted, grabbing Gareth by the scruff of his collar and dragging him onward.

 

[Amalric Urahil]

Gareth felt himself hoisted to his feet by hands firm and fine. The druid of bogs and boils came to his aid once again and Gareth tallied the thanks he owed. Owed to a man such as Morcant. No time to wonder what the druid would request as recompense, for more arrows, tipped with iron tincture, bewitched the air with their buzzing, like lone hornets, angry that they be so far from hive.

Together, the pair moved forward, their oarman venturing ahead, sword unsheathed.

The mortal peril pushed Gareth to action, for here he might pursue some purpose. The sand felt familiar to his feet, no longer the rocking of fathomless deeps, but steadfast and sure. The many grains together felt the way a mother's fresh baked loaf tasted after being far from her hearth and home. Though he never once knew such taste himself, yet still did he take heart and hold within him that kindling spark that takes stand against the eternal night of death.

The magics of the earth rose restless within his mortal coil, slithering out as he spoke dream into deed, a spell in preparation, as yet unslung.

 

[Ragna]

Ragna strode from the melee, the ashigaru choosing to run rather than face her. They left several broken corpses behind them, the giant's rage having torn through them like kindling. She laughed in triumph, walking after them. Bleeding from a dozen small wounds, she didn't appear to care. Gripping her maul with both hands, she gave a contemptuous swing, smashing another small fishing boat that had been left on the beach.

She focused on the buildings now. They were weak structures of wood and she roared with laughter as the first house was broken apart. An arrow glanced off her shoulder and her head jerked to the side. The archer ran, dodging between the buildings but the giant's strides were worth any two or three of his. She broke his back with one swing before stamping down hard on his skull.