Ostrum Brandish
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Shuddering into existence from memories scant remembered, stone work did pull itself from the ether of time into the realm of the living and wilful upon this simple grassland, the ruined stone keep rising from the memory of the soil so blackened with blood ancient years ago. It bore the marks of the vain struggle of knights against the Dark, the burned foundations of palisades that now scorched the earth as if burned recent and new, the bodies that were shimmering greys that lay still. Plate mail adorned with blazing emblems of families long since permutated by the decades between then and now lay still in the ground, submerged in the land as if imprisoned by it, some families stock extinguished by this battlefield ill remembered by scholars few.
The sky did grow mournful pale and grey, soon to press into night's dominion. A light rain did descend upon this place, soaking the soil of memories with fresh water. It would not quench the rage that did build and grow in spirits trapped in place by virtue of the deeds performed so many years ago. That caged emotion was soon to be roused into action. Those imprisoned souls to this place were bound to their duty to defend this place with repurposed frame granted by the inexhaustible conviction of their oaths and vows. Such was the way of the Enshrined Blades to strive to spit out the poison of failure, even beyond death. None might say what gave their spirits form, perhaps their dedications gave them life, or perhaps, did the Dark give them new life to play out their final moments once again.
The keep rose high in the sky, where great gouges from monstrous claw did rend the stonework. It was as if in it's last days, such was the curse of this place to remember it's own misdeeds. And perhaps, to redeem them by fresh blood to ply the battle to come. The spirits would attend their duties, to play out the battle that had occurred before. The Dark, and the valiant bold who stood in desperation against the vermin, against the spirits, against the beast and the trepidation of mortality rendered in sickening short.
This was a former outpost of the once mighty Order of the Enshrined Blade, filled with upstanding warriors who stood against a great scourge that besieged them. The banner of the Enshrined Blade was raised once more in this present era by spectral force, tattered by infernal arrow as it was before they fell in the last day. For this was the last day played out in small measure, a remembrance, a tribute, and a grim reminder of the day the Dark won over the forces of mortal valiant condition. Forty had stood against the Dark, assembled in corpse upon the ground, barricade in crumbling stone and burnt pallisade. Forty souls once again were called by duty to answer this grim task, to play out this drama once again, perhaps with aid from those who might find sympathy to those souls extinguished by the Dark's will to dominate and dash the hopes of the living.
This ruin was lifeless for now, the lingering souls not yet animated. Such would come in time. Only the flag raised to signal this ritual to be performed by long tortured souls and even longer living being of the Dark. Dark forces that would prove their superiority to the failed last stand of these retinue of Enshrined Blades. So it had played out over the years, without attendance of the mortal to renew their efforts, or at least, mortals strong enough to stem the tide of horrors to be released against the defenders.
Even now, tendrils of blackness did coalesce and plot their reliving of their crushing victory against the knights of the Enshrined Blade. The rain fell, and time would tell if the spirits would find their peace by virtue of the newcomers that were but short minutes away from seeing the Keep, cresting over hill from short journey.
******
“We draw near,” Ostrum said he spotted the flag that was in tatters. This much held true to the stories he had been regaled in hushed tone by his comrades at the hearth of his Order's base of operations. He bristled at the sight of it.
He expounded some history of his Order to his company, Garrod and Vandor, two warriors who had adopted the cause as their own for coin, as they watched the Keep shift as if mirage into further convictions of reality.
“The banner of the Enshrined Blade is rarely raised aloft now. We have not the numbers as we used to, all those years ago. We act as single agents in the ocean of fate now, instead of the mighty hosts we once were. Singular, we act as guardians to the Just, solitary, we act for the good of honour. But there, in that Keep, forty of us stood strong. And they died without faltering in faith of their purpose.”
The rain was carried by strong gusts of winds that set cape and hair to flow.
“I know not of what the night will bring in full, comrades. Few have observed what we are about to place ourselves within, let alone ventured to avert. But I know that the Dark will be unrelenting in it's assault. The stories tell us that much. The gates are barred for now, but I know the words to open it so. We have arrived with good time. Upon the pealing of the bells shall the final assault begin, first the Enshrined shall make their final motions and reverence to honour the way of stalwart service, defense and contest, our bywords, even if they must be our dying ones. You will see the spirits of my former kin bear weapon again, a rare honour. Their killing arts passed down to us living shall be a sight to behold, no doubt of that,” Ostrum said, growing more bold for his explanation. He felt his own place in history become assured, his own deeds to be remembered, for if this was a successful venture, he and his comrades would be recalled by his Order as saviours.
Just another failure by the howling winds of time and fate if not.
Garrod Arlette Vandor Colton
The sky did grow mournful pale and grey, soon to press into night's dominion. A light rain did descend upon this place, soaking the soil of memories with fresh water. It would not quench the rage that did build and grow in spirits trapped in place by virtue of the deeds performed so many years ago. That caged emotion was soon to be roused into action. Those imprisoned souls to this place were bound to their duty to defend this place with repurposed frame granted by the inexhaustible conviction of their oaths and vows. Such was the way of the Enshrined Blades to strive to spit out the poison of failure, even beyond death. None might say what gave their spirits form, perhaps their dedications gave them life, or perhaps, did the Dark give them new life to play out their final moments once again.
The keep rose high in the sky, where great gouges from monstrous claw did rend the stonework. It was as if in it's last days, such was the curse of this place to remember it's own misdeeds. And perhaps, to redeem them by fresh blood to ply the battle to come. The spirits would attend their duties, to play out the battle that had occurred before. The Dark, and the valiant bold who stood in desperation against the vermin, against the spirits, against the beast and the trepidation of mortality rendered in sickening short.
This was a former outpost of the once mighty Order of the Enshrined Blade, filled with upstanding warriors who stood against a great scourge that besieged them. The banner of the Enshrined Blade was raised once more in this present era by spectral force, tattered by infernal arrow as it was before they fell in the last day. For this was the last day played out in small measure, a remembrance, a tribute, and a grim reminder of the day the Dark won over the forces of mortal valiant condition. Forty had stood against the Dark, assembled in corpse upon the ground, barricade in crumbling stone and burnt pallisade. Forty souls once again were called by duty to answer this grim task, to play out this drama once again, perhaps with aid from those who might find sympathy to those souls extinguished by the Dark's will to dominate and dash the hopes of the living.
This ruin was lifeless for now, the lingering souls not yet animated. Such would come in time. Only the flag raised to signal this ritual to be performed by long tortured souls and even longer living being of the Dark. Dark forces that would prove their superiority to the failed last stand of these retinue of Enshrined Blades. So it had played out over the years, without attendance of the mortal to renew their efforts, or at least, mortals strong enough to stem the tide of horrors to be released against the defenders.
Even now, tendrils of blackness did coalesce and plot their reliving of their crushing victory against the knights of the Enshrined Blade. The rain fell, and time would tell if the spirits would find their peace by virtue of the newcomers that were but short minutes away from seeing the Keep, cresting over hill from short journey.
******
“We draw near,” Ostrum said he spotted the flag that was in tatters. This much held true to the stories he had been regaled in hushed tone by his comrades at the hearth of his Order's base of operations. He bristled at the sight of it.
He expounded some history of his Order to his company, Garrod and Vandor, two warriors who had adopted the cause as their own for coin, as they watched the Keep shift as if mirage into further convictions of reality.
“The banner of the Enshrined Blade is rarely raised aloft now. We have not the numbers as we used to, all those years ago. We act as single agents in the ocean of fate now, instead of the mighty hosts we once were. Singular, we act as guardians to the Just, solitary, we act for the good of honour. But there, in that Keep, forty of us stood strong. And they died without faltering in faith of their purpose.”
The rain was carried by strong gusts of winds that set cape and hair to flow.
“I know not of what the night will bring in full, comrades. Few have observed what we are about to place ourselves within, let alone ventured to avert. But I know that the Dark will be unrelenting in it's assault. The stories tell us that much. The gates are barred for now, but I know the words to open it so. We have arrived with good time. Upon the pealing of the bells shall the final assault begin, first the Enshrined shall make their final motions and reverence to honour the way of stalwart service, defense and contest, our bywords, even if they must be our dying ones. You will see the spirits of my former kin bear weapon again, a rare honour. Their killing arts passed down to us living shall be a sight to behold, no doubt of that,” Ostrum said, growing more bold for his explanation. He felt his own place in history become assured, his own deeds to be remembered, for if this was a successful venture, he and his comrades would be recalled by his Order as saviours.
Just another failure by the howling winds of time and fate if not.
Garrod Arlette Vandor Colton