Private Tales To Avert Time Honoured Doom

A private roleplay only for those invited by the first writer
Flames of green, strange as dream, withered and waved amidst the downpour. Enemies lay dead afield. Carnage and massacre the likes of which Garrod had never seen.

Knights sundered by horn and hoof, souls tossed and scattered to the Dark. And oh how his demon chittered with delight. Translucent wings athrum about the body of his arm like spiny hornet, come rest from its flight.

"Faeling," he said to the being that willed magicks most natural, "In my wake!" he shout as he hurried down the mound of death that was the desecrated thing that had tried to eat him. What spiny tooth remained burst to muck beneath the heel of his boot, rain soaked as it was.

Upon the stonework floor his boots came flush. Felt the tremors stir underheel as he set to low and wide stance. Heaved his sword up with his changed arm's strenght, and aimed its point at the minotaur's back as it stamped and lowered its horns. The wings of his arm hummed, heavy, from its gills sparked flame, in wicked gouts, tongues of fire that fought back the rain.

Garrod's eye was wide, as it stared down the raised point of his weapon. His frame eased back. Like a tree made to bend by the weight of wind's push. Zephyr gales swirled about him, made clear the air around his arms, for a moment there. The flames spit to gleeful life. Bright flashes of green that plumed from about gills, and were fanned by strange wings.

A jet of demonic propulsion launched him forward. Teeth bared in wild grin as his boots skate across the rainslicked stone. Bones rattling, teeth chattering, he held on to his blade, like a lance couched to thrust.

Across the Minotaur's hocks. A shift of weapon's angle, and a whirl and twist of hips turned the burning dash to brutal slash as he skate by. Arms pulling the weapon through a trail of green fire behind it that whipped at the minotaur's flesh.

Ryiek Vandor Colton Ostrum Brandish
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Chittering jaws roared at the lick of green flame, shaking further the foundation of the now-dilapidated fortress. It rung in the hollows of Ryiek's chest, chipped away at the snarling veneer contorting his mouth. Beat for raucous beat, he met it. Feet skittering through the mud, chasing the supple frame of the daemon bearer's back, he flew on momentum's wing.

"Wake," he crooned, "wake," a vibrato that braided the space between breaths. Something escaped his throat. A chirp that trickled to bellow. A bellow that crept into a roar. A roar that crossed the breadth separating beast from fae.

He swept himself into it. Neck crooked, shoulders hunched, heavy stone accoutrement encrusting his fists. The minotaur bent, reflex tearing it back a fraction from the daemon bearer. And Ryiek followed.

A hard right fist collapsed against the thing's forearm; it crunched, punched back into its hip. Bucked. Again. A left followed: smack of rock that crumbled, impact landing solid on fur, sinking purple to bone. A third.

Ryiek swung wild and narrow, both cestuses clashing into the minotaur's stomach. Again.

Heel found perch, springing him further, faster. Right into horn, left onto chin; right catching eye, left breaking from its chrysalis with sudden speed.

He was not to be deterred. Ryiek lashed forth, chin tucked, crown crashing into the beast's embrace.

Ostrum Brandish Garrod Arlette Vandor Colton
What may stand tall while it falls?
A voice, silent, loud, just then calls.
Blinded. Mindless. In death and blight.
The sword. Unsold. Unbought. A knight.

Oh, he knew the answer. His uncle had taught him thus. While he was a child. When his dreams were pristine, his hopes pure, for a child’s adventures were limited only by imagination, not reality, even in his teens.

He remembered, as the wind rushed in, a gust and a gale, brushing against his face to keep him awake. He recalled that day, when the blade became Vandor Colton’s fate, and the only pain he would treat was that of his enemies.

Not a knight... He thought, as the breath of gods that one called the clouds surrounded him. A far cry… There, in freedom’s ocean, where no ship may float, for no sail was a wing, and gravity meant nothing in the clutches of destiny. Uncle…can you see me…fly..?

He opened his eyes. Feebly. Weak as a daylily. No dandelion. No lion, even. No cat. An animal of a different kind. No knight. A man of war, a man at arms, but never a knight. He had a sword, brandished it, by the likes of Ostrum Brandish, but was dishonest outside of his contract.

If a knight has a code of a chivalry…who is the lion to judge the mercenary for his code of contract!?

Vandor Colton bit his lip, as his vision glimpsed a leaden ocean, endless, stretching deathly in every which direction, as if the grave was on the horizon, lifeless.

Weightless. Empty. Like a clay vessel ready to be filled, or cracked, and broken. His visage was vacant. His armor was heavy. His helmet was bereft. His shield was absent. His sword…somehow…intact… In my hand…

The sellsword spied the skies, that ashen welkin, and gripped his fist. No knight. Never a knight. A spellsword, a warrior of more than most enemies explored, till he killed them as permitted.

The man swallowed, for his maw was raw, and his thirst was vampiric, and his hunger was ravenous, whilst his body was bound by clouds as he hung upside down. In the claw. In the grip. In the talons of a wyvern twice the size of its brethren.

“Ostrum…” Who knew how Vandor Colton had ended up in this position since the explosion?
“Garrod…” His whispers, as bitter as burnt butter, if in fractured memory a man can conjure.
Ryiek…” He wonders what has become of them, his brothers of battle, below and yonder.
“I am coming…” He promised. He delivered. With sword of fury, of fire, burning, not frozen.

He tore forth, he ripped and he rent as blade bit the dragon skin again and again and again.
The beast shrieked, but the mercenary would hear none of it, as he hacked and he slashed.
“I AM COMING!” Vandor Colton roared, for there was no floor, and these skies were his door.
The wyvern defied him, as it bled, in anguished wailing, and it shed, cruel claws pried forth.

And the sellsword fell…
Fly, you fool… From hell.
And he soared. Wingless.
Vengeance within his fist.

Ostrum Brandish Garrod Arlette Ryiek
  • Dwarf
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Ostrum was stunned to see the absolute vitriol on display from his comrades, the fluidity and savagery of the strikes delivered dared a disbelieving smile to creep into his lips.

Those ruby eyes flashed and dimmed, body sagging to the ground as horn was broken and body carved asunder by such well placed motions of the interlopers. With falling crash and sliding cut and tumultous savagery was the coup de grace denied and minotaur death delivered.

Beastly tongue rolled, stunted horned head crashing to the ground at Ostrum's feet as all violent intent turned to collapsed butchered posture.

The skies that pelted the scene with downpour in turn relinquished their assault of water as if in respect for such a heroic display. A chill wind howled, as if in mourning for the Dark.

“Fie,” Ostrum said in response as he rose up with struggling motion. He refused to use the longsword as a crutch, for such was not a knightly motion. He looked to his comrades who had arrived so upon the scene to his aid, standing as tall as he could for such crushed armour.

“Gratitude eternal,” Ostrum said to his comrades gathered.

The clash of the remaining Enshrined steel did their final business.

Wyverns all spent, imps firmly sent back to the realm that summoned them so, minotaurs bested. The foes of the Enshrined Blades lay beaten in almost all capacity now, in number and in spirit. All except the crimson knights, who faltered in their fast paced tread and weave of weapon. The thrumming of the skies did not compel them on. The day that was theirs to cruelly inflict had been turned against them. They took withdrawing steps, hesitating, unsure of their part to play now for virtue of such humblings.

The Enshrined that remained levied shield and blade and with new found triumphs driving bold heart, took to claim the field entire. Not one of the knights of the Dark retreated, instead suffering their end as best they might with curses and reprimands of honour quick cut short by those they insulted.

The rain continued to pour, yet in drizzle it did form in the slowing winds. The skies themselves began to flicker with light, as Dark's purchase upon the field loosened and waned. The gathered Enshrined look to the other, taking off helm and giving rallying cheer for the deliverance they had so pursued for so many years.

It was over.

“It is done,” Ostrum said, “Prithee, be proud. The day is won by virtue of your temerity. Let it be written so.”

The ruins began to flicker, as if being dragged away to the sky itself.

The Knight Commander, broad in smile, serene in face, bloody of steel and joyous in tone, approached the comrades, and gave salute and address.

“You have achieved the impossible, you have delivered us from this fate so vile. We...we can finally be at peace.”

His shoulders shuddered as he laughed, fading away into whatever lurked beyond this mortal coil.

“Our time honoured doom be done, honour be with you, for you have honoured us entire with deliverance to the just,” the words echoing as the ruins collapsed from existence, the skies returned to the realms beyond the Dark's clutches.

The four now stood, in a field no more remarkable than any other, yet discerned in place and time for the actions of them true. The grass did shine in daylight, the rain refreshing and providing light salve to what wounds endured by miracle of fate, as if wishing not for these saviours to succumb to what they had endured.

Ostrum sheathed his weapon and sealed this memory in his mind.

He looked to the sun, and spoke after some moments with a small chuckle.

“Esteemed warriors,” he said, looking to each in turn.

“Shall we discuss your considerable bonus? Mayhap...boons?” He said with a wicked smile of a man who was firmly entrenched in the spirit of victory.

Garrod Arlette Ryiek Vandor Colton
  • Dwarf
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To be so gripped, in the talon of his opponent, caused him some moments, and every second is precious.
To be so fixed in the palm of an adversary, trapped, bound by clouds, a man at the mercy of wyvern's wish.
To be taken, away from his companions, freedom stripped, claws upon ribs, and to be so damnably deprived.
To be given, in the moments next, from skyward ocean, from torrents, by the sword, if not quite ever a knight.

From the sky, into the dying light of the night, the sword strikes the blight, with his thunder thus cast.
Lightning cracks the chasm, as the sellsword of spells lands, there to render just services as a mere man.
He was no immortal, no ghost. He was no champion, no candidate of great deed like Ostrum Brandish.
He was Vandor Colton. Yet no one. Merely a man from a tavern who, amid companions, lives this moment.

It is done. Vandor repeated in his mind after Ostrum. Be proud. Yet pride was better left for the knight.
The mercenary simply wiped the blood from his blade, sheathed it, listened to the wind with gentle bite.
Knight Commander, who with his companions are freed. May they rest in peace. Sarcastic, if yet serious.
They fade away, spirits in the mist, as if the fight was as distant as that tavern, the hills, or even the wind.

“Time honored doom…” Vandor whispered, standing in the midst of his partners. Honor. Is it so unfamiliar?
The mortal witnessed the collapse of the ruins as if they too were a dream sent to sleep, beyond darkness.
Grass of green grace paved the way to a landscape unmarred by scars, daylight’s sunshine, with rain’s kiss.
Not a snake’s hiss, not a wyvern’s whip, only four men, companions. Friends? A wish by one who was no Sir.

Not today… The memory remained.
The Darkness had promised the day.
That they would take it, claim it, again.
Yet even the dead were proven…dead...

From a sellsword and ale galore…to time honored doom...
Vandor Colton affords himself a smile. “Esteemed warrior?”
Perhaps not Vandor, however these others certainly were.
“I’m just a sellsword, Sir…but let’s talk about those boons.”

Ostrum Brandish Garrod Arlette Ryiek
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