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Jack_D.Mented
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 Posted: Thu Dec 06, 2007 4:13 am Post subject: Fraternity of Bastards CH 6 IT'S THE POLL!!! |
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Fraternity of Bastards Synopsis and Cast:
The Players:
Bram Ota: Blackguard. Human. Physically impressive and prone to bouts of uncontrollable rage, Bram towers in at almost seven feet tall. He is white as a sheet and his features are gaunt from his time trapped in the tombs that his previous party left him for dead in.
Salizaar: Dragon Shaman. Dark Elf. He was purchased as a slave by a great black dragon many centuries ago, when he was but a child. The dragon raised him to be its ambassador to the world of men and its assassin in support of its painfully long games as it vies for power.
Reynald Taliesin: Human. Marshal. The brat prince of a powerful king, Reynald was born an orator. His charisma and his skills with a blade gained him the attention of a demon lord that was willing to make a deal for a priceless amulet.
Baron Lothar Corbus: Human. Aristocrat. The power hungry Baron was once a subject of the Taliesin monarchy, but decided to try his hand at kingship after acquiring a mystical amulet. He is a cut throat and a manipulator, but manages to hide it all well beneath a carefully maintained charade.
Martin: Human. Warrior. Martin was once hailed as the greatest tactician of his age, but grew weary of fighting after many years as a mercenary warlord. His skill are rusty, but some say that he may take up the blade yet again after the murder of his younger sister.
Synopsis:
Bram is betrayed and locked inside a tomb with a great horde of undead by his traitorous party. Many months later, he is freed by Salizaar, who is on a quest for his master to find the amulet that Bram's party had already liberated. The two join forces and advance forth.
Reynald leads an army to defend his homeland from the rebellious Baron Lothar Corbus. He is soundly defeated and barely escapes through the intervention of a demon lord.
The demon lord offers him great things in return for a magical amulet in the possession of the Baron. Reynald accepts and awakes at a roadside, where he meets with Bram and Salizaar.
The party travels together for a while, but come to a fork in the road. They split with Reynald and Salizaar taking one way while Bram goes the other to take care of business back home.
When Bram arrives home, he finds that his wife, the great general Martin's sister, remarried not long after his supposed death to none other than the leader of his would be murderers. In a fit of rage, he slaughters her and all in her household before leaving the town.
Salizaar and Reynald rest peacefully in the inn that they arrived at, but are unknowingly spied upon by mysterious assassins.
Martin receives the news of his sister's murder and confirmation that her killer is traveling with Reynald. The courier is wearing the colors of Baron Corbus and offers him a spot in the rebel's high command.
Prologue- A Brotherhood Betrayed...
Bram Ota scrambled down the dark passage, his only light being the foully glowing magical runes carved deep into the sides of the crypt. The putrid greenish glow gave everything a peevish aura, making his companions appear sickly and weak as they fled, leading the way.
His duty was to guard their rear, securing them from behind with his great axe and making good the escape. The man directly in front of him, Pavlo, carried in his knapsack the curious trinket they'd been commissioned to fetch for a noble master.
The thief stumbled but for a second, and the fighter nearly tripped over his flailing form. Glancing quickly over his shoulder, he saw the shrieking undead draw closer, their bloody talon like nails having clawed two party members to death already this day.
He picked the nimble rogue up by his belt and tossed him a good five feet toward the ladder that lead up to the escape, not that the caverns of this subterranean hell offered much in refuge.
The lythe swashbuckler caught his footing and scaled up the ladder post haste, quick as a rat fleeing a sinking ship.
Turning for a second, Bram cleaved a monstrosity cleanly in two, but it continued to groan and climb toward his ankles, seeming almost grateful that he assisted in the dropping of ballast.
He bashed its rotten skull in with the spiked butt cap of his weapon and began to scale the ladder.
Rung by rung, he drew closer to pay off, almost reaching escape...
When a solidly placed boot to the face knocked him backwards. All he heard was the grating of stone on stone as the door to the catacombs sealed shut, the three laughing silhouettes of his partners laughing in his face as a legion of icy hands cold as the grave itself wrapped around him, pulling him eagerly down into the inky darkness.
He roared in fury, rage overtaking his soul as his angry cry reverberated off the chamber walls, bouncing about like an angry poltergeist.
"BASTARDS!"
.........................
Chapter One...
Salizaar clutched his robes tightly as the wind lashed at him like some omnipotent slave driver trying to divert him from his course. But nothing would deter this man, this dark elf, from achieving his goals.
He was his master's servant. And the master was all that mattered.
As he worked his way through the market, he spied a small slave auction block, not much unlike the one he'd been sold upon as a child, torn crying from his mother's arms and delivered to the master.
That was the first of only a handful of times he'd disappointed his lord. He had been beaten immediately in the street, pummeled to almost within an inch of his life for this weakness and made a public spectacle of.
It was a lesson sharply learned, and one he'd never forgotten. The followers of the dark ways never cried, never faltered, never showed remorse, and most importantly, they never failed. There was no room in this new world he'd been reborn unto, the world of the master and his great game.
This night, he was sent to find a mapmaker, but not an ordinary mapmaker. Things with the master were never as they seemed, especially with the form he'd assumed that day in the market, a plump gnomish merchant.
A slight smile cracked his stern features, an unusual expression on his normally stony face, and all the more unsettling for his wicked teeth which had been filed to harsh fangs as a child.
The mapmaker's window creaked slightly as it opened and the elf glanced quickly around the back alley he'd chosen for his approach. No guards hastened their step, no questioning shouts, so he called it good after waiting but a second for his nerves to settle.
He slithered inside the warped frame and shut the tarnished glass behind him. Only a fool would not lock his home in a neighborhood like this.
Salizaar heard a quick footstep and heard a fumbling. He turned, hissing a bit, his eyes glowing a faint shade of green in the dim light, and stared directly into a loaded crossbow.
The cloaked burglar growled a bit, a sound low and menacing, much deeper than anything one should expect would come from any man.
The mapmaker's son...
He should've suspected that the brat would have come for a visit. All the gods could do to hinder his progress, it seemed.
The young man was a good head taller than the elf, and a bit stockier, but he knew than this whelp was not a soldier, a killer, or even a murderer. He was like his father, a mapmaker by trade.
But this one had one substantial, glaring difference from his paterfamilias...
He was expendable.
Pursing his lips as if he was about to speak, Salizaar opened his mouth wide but instead of words, spat forth frothing, scalding acid, which seared the skin from the youth's bones before he had so much as a chance to scream.
Before making his passing to the stairs that led to the elder's chambers, he stooped to inspect the crossbow which had moments before threatened him.
He chuckled. A shoddy piece of work, at best. It probably wouldn't have even killed him at that range, just would've pissed him off severely.
Carefully, the weapon was replaced on the shelf the callow youth had seized it from, once again displayed like the useless trinket it was.
Salizaar slipped up the stairwell, keeping to the shadows with apparent ease, obviously remembering the master's lessons. "Stealth is the assassin's greatest weapon" was a mantra that had been burned into his mind long ago.
The first door he came to was nothing more than storage, dusty old tomes, and dried papyrus scattered about in something meant to resemble a library.
The second contained the son's wife. The disciple entered quietly, did his bloody business, and cleaned his blade. Witnesses were not desired in his line of work.
The third door contained his target. He slithered in through a crack in the open door barely big enough for even his slim frame. The elf approached the bed, placed a hand over the old man's mouth and a dagger at his throat.
Clouded eyes opened in shock and questions may have indeed began if it were not for the firm grip applied to the toothless mouth.
"Shh. Shh. Calm, calm," Purred the hooded assassin.
"I've your family downstairs, tied, bound, and gagged. You will show me a certain map that it is in my understanding that you possess. In return for this, I shall trouble them no more."
The hoary headed mapmaker nodded emphatically. The fool was more than willing to do whatever it took to save his beloved son.
Salizaar was taken to the storage room and he was given the correct map, sure enough.
The old man, for the first time that night, standing in his night attire, shivering, asked frailly, "And my family?"
As the map was folded and tucked away, Salizaar replied, "I couldn't trouble them anymore if I wanted to, you moth eaten coot."
With a quick lunge, he planted his dagger deep in the mapmaker's guts and twisted as he ripped upwards past the rib cage and sawed into a lung, licking his lips and inhaling sharply, relishing the kill, savoring it.
.........................
She heard the rider coming far away. Amma hurriedly straightened her hair in the cracked mirror that hung on the far wall and slipped on shoes.
The floorboards in the single room hovel creaked in protest and she made her way to the door that did little more than keep out the wind, and a poor job at that.
She could tell by the distinct hoofbeat the identity of the rider now that it drew closer. She smiled a bit, wishing that she'd worn a prettier dress.
Peeking out a window, she saw the rider traveled upon a light steed, a chestnut mare. So certain was she of its identity that she'd have wagered a lord's fortune that this animal bore a white star upon its brow.
The rider dismounted and sauntered to the door, entering with a quiet look over his shoulder.
Amma, as a matter of course, reached above the fireplace to turn down a picture but a gloved hand stopped her.
Pavlo whispered gingerly in her ear, "I wouldn't worry about him anymore, my love."
With a tear of joy in her eye, she asked, "So, no more hiding?"
The thief nodded and ran his fingers through her sandy blonde hair. They drew in for a warm kiss as the portrait of Bram looked on with a wide grin as he held the love of his life in his arms, a grin, which given the circumstances, seemed almost idiotic in its pathetic irony.
.........................
Salizaar ran halfway up a wall, twisted, turned, and tumbled, dodging arrows as he splashed into the river that bordered the hamlet. The guards would offer him no chase, given that their armor would weigh them down, dragging them to their deaths in the murky waters.
This was not a worry for the servant, as even if they did try to follow, he could outlast any ordinary man beneath the waves. The master had been generous with the gifts bestowed upon him, one of which was the ability to breath underwater.
He hoped that someday he could be as great as the master. He doubted he'd outlive him, if you could truly refer to the master's kind as something as mundane as human gender.
The elf swam downstream, working his way away from the town and the hostile men at arms. It was unfortunate that that street urchin had felt the inclination to try and pick his pocket. Especially as seeing that that pocket contained the map he master so craved.
The child had to be punished. That much was obvious. With a single flick of his wrist, he'd broken the little bastard's neck, effectively ending his life at a tender age.
The older town scum hadn't taken kindly to this, which resulted in several of them becoming quite intimately acquainted with the unholy, sentient naginata that he wore slung across his back.
He popped his head above the churning foam and glanced about. He was far from the town and ready to secure himself from the waters.
The apprentice shook himself for a bit after the extraction. He flung off his charcoal cloak and wrung it out, exposing his heavily tattooed arms, each mark and symbol a mark of his servitude, a constant reminder that for all his days he was the master's property.
As he was doing this, a peasant girl ran screaming from the wooded area roughly five hundred feet in front of him. Her face was soot covered and her garments torn. Two raiders in horned helmets gave chase, swinging mace and flail.
Their intentions were obvious.
Part of him wanted to kill the pretenders. Not so much for their actions but for the design upon their breastplates. They touted themselves as the followers of chaos, but he could tell they didn't truly serve the darkness.
The rage that broiled just beneath his calm surface threatened to bubble to the surface, but his soliloquy was disturbed as an all too familiar whisper grazed his consciousness.
"You are here to do the master's bidding. This is none of your concern," The naginata chastised.
Salizaar nodded with a grunt, placated.
He simply ignored her weeping cries as he carried on, avoiding their attention as he picked his way through the empty wood, and afterwards, past the burning hamlet.
.........................
Salizaar sat cross legged before the master, the map unfolded before him and his liege towered above.
His great green eyes stared down from above as he licked his lips in contemplation of the atlas. The forked tongue flickered for a second and the master reached down to sketch in the sand pit that the elf used for these conferences as well as for his training.
A gigantic talon drew a compass rose in the deposit, the rough figure taller than his servant.
His voice was bellowing even as a whisper, something truly magnificent to behold, "I take it that this is north and that south. Our goal lay in the caverns below the ancient fortress Arntkael, being that this drawing is correct."
"I believe that it is, my lord," Salizaar responded with a bow of respect.
"Beneath that place is a lich lord by the name of Veremoud. He is... quite greedy. His demands will be difficult for extracting anything from what he terms 'his' realm."
A slight chortle.
"You may fulfill whatever fool's quest he offers you or you may kill him. I don't care either way. I've no use for mortals that refuse to keep both feet in the grave. Ensure, however, that he does not know that it is I that you serve, my child."
"Of course," Was the reply, followed by a quick nod.
"The fewer that know you serve a black dragon, the better, eh?" Asked the towering wyrm with a slightly humorous undertone.
With a deep bow, Salizaar countered, "Anything to give you the advantage in your great game, master."
The great beast turned, his tail lashing about above the elf's head as his thunderous footsteps could be heard retreating into the darkness.
"Rest, my shaman. Be ready within a week's time to undertake your journey," The leviathan called over his shoulder as his leathery wings folded to accommodate his passage deeper into the tunnels.
.........................
The journey to the fortress was long and uneventful, made on the back of a pack horse purchased with coin brought from his master's hoard.
He made his way across the fertile plains, up the hills, and finally climbed the frigid ice capped mountains. High upon one of these peaks was the castle Arntkael, and below it waited a relic from times past, so powerful that his master desired it as he'd seen him desire few things. Truly, it must have a power unimaginable to awaken such lust with such an ancient wyrm.
Arntkael itself was something of a letdown. It was nothing more than a towering heap of stones, all charred black from some battle that Salizaar didn't care to learn about. It didn't involve the master, therefore, it didn't matter.
The catacombs beneath, however, were of a different matter. They required an incantation taken from some dusty tome he hadn't cared to read.
It took three tries before he perfected the pronunciation, but finally, the ancient gates creaked open, moving as slowly as old men shuffling across a cold room.
He didn't have the time for this. The elf impatiently slammed the iron egress open with an audible clang, springing a cleverly hidden trap.
Arrows launched from some hidden burrow within the stone walls and pinged harmlessly from the other side.
His resulting laugh was a harsh bark. For once, his impetuosity had saved his skin.
The dragon shaman worked his way down, picking his way past a handful more traps until he worked his way to the end of the downward sloping passage, the darkness absorbing him the further he traveled.
Finally, at the conclusion of his subterranean trek, he came upon a domed room, the walls ornamented with a mosaic of a magus of great power, a necromancer. This man had apparently summoned legions of the undead and attempted the overthrow of his king, if the elf's guess was correct.
For his disloyalty, he was castrated, disemboweled, and quartered, but he would not die. Finally, his head was cut off, placed in a burlap sack and clubbed with a holy mace until it screamed no more. Here he was entombed.
Salizaar looked down beneath his feet. He stood upon a massive gravestone which read, "Veremoud the Traitor."
He aligned himself properly and pulled. And pulled. He grunted and his face began to turn a shade of purple as he strained, finally exerting enough strength to shift the cobblestone away from the dark opening in the pit.
The retainer coughed a bit, cracked his back, and after regaining his breath, leapt down the hole.
He was surprised to notice that this segment had better lighting than that above, mostly due to the greenish runes which produced an eerie green not dissimilar to that of his own eyes.
Slowly, carefully, he made his way down the labyrinth, ready for the horde of undead he knew would come.
Except that they never did.
As he puzzled over this, he heard a shouting from the hall before him.
"Who enters my lair?" Screamed a loud boisterous voice, dripping with more malice and hate than even he thought possible.
The elf straightened his back a bit and replied. "I am Salizaar. Who are you?"
A figure emerged from the mists, clad in elaborated carved armor of the finest stone mail which seemed to shimmer and shift as if it actively sought the shadows around its wearer. Upon his head was a domed helmet toped with a horsehair topknot, but the disturbing feature was the mask which was secured to the helm in place of a more traditional faceplate.
It was carved from a stone, a gem he didn't recognize and something about it, not the wicked slope of the eyes nor the frowning of the mouth filled him with so much unease but it was more just something indescribable, something hidden and menacing about this guise.
The figure surveyed him, looked him up and down, and finally slung its great axe across its back.
He reached up and flipped the mask up, sliding it beneath the dome of the helm. A man's face peered out at him, the eyes hollow with the exception of a burning blood lust and heavily scarred, but most noticeably, pale as the undriven snow and more surely tinged with darkness than the full moon.
"I am Bram Ota, once a fighter in service of the almighty coin, now a blackguard in service to myself."
The dark elf sniffed the air to confirm what his senses told him. "You are not undead. What became of those who dwelled within this tomb?"
The blackguard laughed, a cold, cruel thing that would create a rock in an ordinary man's stomach and send a chill up his spine. "I ate them."
He laughed again as if he'd just made the funniest jest in the whole world.
For a split second, a wave of disgust washed over Salizaar, but with the prodding of his persistent weapon, he remembered his course.
"I come seeking an amulet..."
Another bellowing guffaw cut him off short. "Oh, that left here quite some time ago."
Incredulous, the elf asked, "What? How long ago?"
Wiping away a tear, the warrior looked at him, his expression now deadly serious. "It was roughly three months past, I think. The same day the cowards abandoned me here."
"Damn," Salizaar whispered beneath his breath.
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Eadgar's Saga Chapter 2 POLL
Abattoir Chapter 2!
Last edited by Jack_D.Mented on Thu Jan 29, 2009 1:50 pm; edited 17 times in total
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Jack_D.Mented
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| Posted: Thu Dec 06, 2007 4:17 am Post subject: |
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Well, guys, this is my newest fantasy outing. I hope you all like it.
Throw out some poll decisions and let's see what happens, shall we?
What now for Salizaar? How will he respond to this news?
Should he report this to his master?
Should he chase the amulet immediately?
Think of some more options. Tell me what you think, and most of all enjoy.
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Eadgar's Saga Chapter 2 POLL
Abattoir Chapter 2!
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Chinaren
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| Posted: Thu Dec 06, 2007 5:19 am Post subject: |
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Mmmm, a new one by JDm!
Nice and dark old JD, as one has come to expect. 
Mmm. Well, one would investigate the man and the place further, try and find out where they went before going off randomly I thinks.
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Crunchyfrog
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| Posted: Fri Dec 07, 2007 11:13 am Post subject: |
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The last thing I read of yours was Revenge across the Stars, I think!
I like the mood of this one, and your style. As for the DP, I would probe more into what happened the day the Amulet was taken.
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The Meaning Of Fear
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| Posted: Fri Dec 07, 2007 12:08 pm Post subject: |
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A very good read... want more now! 
Ending was a bit abrupt (Personally, I think ending a chapter with "Damn" is just slightly overdoing it, but who cares), but all that matters is that it was good.
I would try and enlist the help of the guy who managed to eat zombies (Even one is quite astounding, wouldn't you agree?), and if he succeeds without hindrances like "I am doomed to be here for all eternity" and crap like that, then go after the amulet. Information can be gained at leisure if there was no need to stay at one place to talk!
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Cherish all your memories, even the bad ones, for they are what makes you who you are.
Doors to the truth, an SG where a boy is propelled into worlds he is unfamiliar with. He crosses many worlds, and sees many things that force him to throw away his innocence, once, and for all. Fourth Chapter, out for viewing!
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Jack_D.Mented
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| Posted: Sat Dec 08, 2007 12:02 am Post subject: |
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Well, thank you for the complements. It's good to know that my work is still much beloved.
So...
Currently our poll options are...
Enlist Bram.
Question Bram about the day he was locked inside.
Investigate the tomb, try to find clues.
Any more? I'll give it another day before the poll just in case anyone wants to chime in with anything more.
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Eadgar's Saga Chapter 2 POLL
Abattoir Chapter 2!
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The Dark
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| Posted: Sat Dec 08, 2007 4:55 pm Post subject: |
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The Dark found this story suitably grim. The Dark enjoyed, but cannot add anything new, suggestion wise, so shall merely sit back and wait for the poll.
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The Meaning Of Fear
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| Posted: Sat Dec 08, 2007 5:22 pm Post subject: |
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*Holds breath*
_________________
Cherish all your memories, even the bad ones, for they are what makes you who you are.
Doors to the truth, an SG where a boy is propelled into worlds he is unfamiliar with. He crosses many worlds, and sees many things that force him to throw away his innocence, once, and for all. Fourth Chapter, out for viewing!
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Mephistopheles
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| Posted: Sat Dec 08, 2007 10:32 pm Post subject: |
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yeah, i was thinking get the help of bram, offer to assist in avenging him of his friends deceit in return for info about the amulet. think that option was already proffered though.
Great story Jack. Look forwards to seeing more.
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Cause I am, whatever you say I am
If I wasn't, then why would I say I am?
I don't know, it's just the way I am.
eminem
without the threat of death,
there is no reason to live at all
marilyn manson
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Jack_D.Mented
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| Posted: Sun Dec 09, 2007 1:21 am Post subject: |
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Ok then... Give me about two minutes, the poll will be up and then I'm going to bed, finally. (Damn night shift screwing me up.)
Enjoy your voting. I look forward to entertaining you further with my works.
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Eadgar's Saga Chapter 2 POLL
Abattoir Chapter 2!
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Jack_D.Mented
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| Posted: Tue Dec 11, 2007 8:54 pm Post subject: |
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Chapter 2
Salizaar's brow furrowed and he rubbed his eyes with his hands, an audible groan escaping his mouth.
"Do you know what happened?" He inquired.
"Yes."
He waited a second, but seeing that that was the only response he'd get, he pressed further.
"What happened then? Who took the amulet and where?" He asked in frustration.
"Hmm. I thought you'd never ask."
The master's balls. This is all I need. Sarcasm, Thought the dark elf.
Obviously amused with his ability to fluster his first human contact in quite some time, Bram continued, "We came as a group, a party. I accepted them all as brothers. We were all outcasts, outlaws. Fighters, soldiers, and rogues from the mercenary army of a great man named Martin.
'We were commissioned by the baron of a kingdom to the north and west to retrieve for him this artifact. He'd not tell us what it did nor why he wanted it, but he offered us enough reward and clemency from our prior offenses as well.
'Needless to say, the proposition was accepted and it was voiced by several in the group that this would be the last venture undertaken.
'I said my goodbyes, packed my things, and we came to this place. We had with us a wizard who knew the incantations to unlock this door. Heh.
'We slit his throat as soon as his usefulness had expired, my suggestion, actually. The fewer the ways we had to spilt the loot, eh?
'Ahem. Anyhow. We encountered what seemed to be an endless number of undead upon entry and were forced to battle our way through until we reached where we stand now.
'In this room, sitting upon the throne in the corner, was the traitor Veremoud.
'On a raised dias in the center was the amulet, the secret to his might in life but warded by holy magics so as he could but never again lay hands on it in the afterlife, there not only to protect it from future use, but also to taunt its owner."
Growing impatient, Salizaar interrupted, "And so, obviously, you, or at least, your little troupe slew this monstrous lich, seized the prize, and fled the tomb. But why, might I ask, were you left here to rot?"
"I don't think rotting was a part of their plans. I do believe that it was expected for me to depart from this world in a much bigger hurry."
"Yes, yes. And you would've surprised them with your resilience and combat skill, obviously. Having not only survived, but seeming to have thrived down here," The elf finished for him.
"That is one way to put it," Bram replied, accepting the compliment and puffing out his muscled chest a bit. "This stonemail I wear was not mine when I entered this tomb, nor was this helm and mask. These were the battle armor of Vermoud's greatest general, buried alive with his master so that he may have continued to serve him in death."
"And I bet he did. Probably as his first meal," Salizaar muttered as he gestured for Bram to make haste.
"This mask of dread was the funerary mask of Veremoud himself. It absorbed much of his loathsome character and projects even now his aura.
'But that's all beside the point. I was betrayed by none other than he whom I considered my best friend. The only reasoning that I could discern was perhaps greed in and of itself. He wanted my share, my land, my everything," The blackguard finished, stressing the word everything in such a way as that the shaman couldn't help but bet that it meant something more than the surface value to the warrior.
The disciple pursed his lips and asked, "Well, what do you intend now? Will you show me the way to this baron and his lands? Will you help me to this treasure?"
Bram shifted his weight a bit and replied, "I do say yes, but there will be a cost."
Salizaar, his dark eyes full of suspicion and wary distrust, asked, "And that would be?"
The blackguard reached up to his visor and lowered the dreadful mask, his voice a baleful whisper full of malice and spite that whispered, "I want my vengeance."
.........................
Pavlo gulped deeply as he took in his surrounding from high above the crowd that had gathered before him.
They played and frolicked, happy to be here this day as it broke the monotony of their everyday lives. It was an escape from the filth and the cold and the hunger, if just for a few hours.
Even the overhung sky could not dampen their spirits. Their shoes and clothes perhaps from the drizzle that fell, but never their spirits.
The weather, however, perfectly suited Pavlo's mood. A cold fear sat deep in his gut sinking lower and lower like a heavy stone. He shook, the breeze cutting straight through his clothes like a sharpened blade. His breaths were ragged and uneven and he gnawed at his worn lip until it bled of the abuse.
A royally dressed guard approached him, his pace brisk and professional.
"About ready to get started, sir?"
Pavlo sighed. He'd always hated performing in public. But he might as well just this one last time. "Aye. Let's be done with it then."
Rough hands shoved him forward, almost knocking him down on his face as his own were tied behind his back with rough marlin.
He was positioned so precisely, with such care. The separations in the boards betwixt his sandaled feet were barely perceivable. It all suited to remind him that this was an experienced operation, not some farmers out in a field looking for a sick time. These men were all proficient, qualified, and quite skillful.
The rogue began to open his mouth, almost said a word, but the black hood was yanked over his head far too quickly.
A noose was slipped around his neck and tightened.
There was a grunt as the executioner pulled the lever and then the thief fell, his neck snapping and, reflexively, his bowels releasing.
He still hung there alive for a couple of minutes, not really feeling anything from about the waist down, seeing only the blackness of the sackcloth that covered his face.
But then one of the young attendants jumped upon his legs and yanked down to ensure the job was done.
And with that one final jolt, it was.
.........................
Prince Reynald Taliesin seemed the portrait of the hero, in his gleamingly polished blue steel armor, which reflected the sun's intensity right back at the fiery orb and blinded all who were daft enough to glare at his noble visage long enough.
His personal standard adorned with his family's lineage affixed to his back as it was, trailed him like the ghosts of those great ancestors, fluttering in the wind as he spurred his white gelding across the front of his army.
Every man stood at attention, his pike, sword, or bow held high as the heir apparent to the royal throne rode by. Even the Jurgal mercenaries straightened up a bit, their axes proving a bit cumbersome, but the gesture was noticed nonetheless.
The prince coughed a bit, shuffled some in his saddle and then spoke, "Well, what can I say?
'I look out into this ocean of faces and I find myself at a lack of words. But I shall manage, I do think.
'All that I can truly say is that I expect each of you, each and every one of you to do his best. I can ask no more."
The horse snorted and turned. Reynald pivoted to maintain eye contact with his anxious troops.
"The army we face today is nothing. They are rebels. We do them a great honor to kill them this day, in such an honorable fashion as what they deserve are surely the gallows!"
A cheer rose up from the men as each voiced his agreement.
Although Reynald hid his loathing behind a mask of indifference and chivalry, he sneered inwardly at them.
Fools. Each of them willing to die for his country. Each willing to die for me. Do they realize the only reason they're here today fighting the Baron Lothar Corbus instead of I is that he beat me to the punch? Never the matter. By doing this, I weaken both armies.
He smiled and drew his lance from its socket.
"I'd give you better to kill this day, but that's sadly all I could manage. I hope you'll find it within your hearts to forgive me at some point...
'Perhaps during the feast? When I promise you there shall be women, wine, and gold!"
Yet more excited cheers and laughter.
"And I also promise that I'll be watching you all closely and that the bravest, the strongest, and the most devout of you shall be granted knighthood at the end of this day by my hand!"
He thought for a second that the men would go berserk, screaming until they were hoarse, waving their weapons about and chanting his name.
Taliesin thrust his lance toward the enemy host, which was entrenched on a hill directly opposite them, easily outnumbering them by an a ratio of three to one, if not more.
"Well, then, let's to it! For the maidens, if nothing else!" He cried and goaded his horse forward.
The charge was sounded. The army surged forward to its destiny...
The two masses slammed together, bodies flying and men screaming, some soiling even soiling themselves. Soldiers, men who would've before called themselves countrymen, hacked and slashed each other bloodthirstily.
They had to win this battle now, before reinforcements from the newly seceded northern province could arrive to support the outlaw baron.
Prince Reynald cut a swath through the enemy, heading at the front of his charge as he lead his personal guard to cut off the enemy flank when he saw, to his horror, a rising mass on the ridge above.
Taliesin reigned in his mount and called his men to a stop. He drew back with his knights and fell to the rear of the formation as their northern foes crashed into the prince's unsuspecting army as it waged war against that of the Baron Corbus.
"How the bloody hell did they manage to get here so damned fast?" Muttered Reynald as he retreated from the field, crossing the hill from whence he'd came.
He stopped in his tracks, however, when he saw another portion of the enemy army assembled before him in the valley that had only moments before had been empty.
"No," He whispered in horror as the revelation dawned upon him.
They were surrounded.
He broke into a cold sweat, his hands began to shake. Never before had he known defeat. It was intolerable, impossible.
Reynald Taliesin spurred his mount into a full rush and cried to his guard, "Protect me as all is lost if I cannot make it to my father's citadel!"
The paladins fell in around the marshal and covered him as best they could, the occasional heavily armored body clanking to the ground with an arrow in his eye slot, his armpit, his groin, or some other weak region in the armor's steel hide.
Coming around a bend, they encountered something they'd hoped to the stars that the Baron had not acquired, but which spelled certain doom for the army that even as they fled the field, struggled on in vain, shrieking and dying beneath clouds of arrows that seemed never to pause for more than a few seconds and the never ceasing supply of foes that hacked at their limbs and ripped out their guts.
Formed up in a neat line, the men in front bent on a knee and the men behind standing, were hand gunners. The banner that hung over their helmeted heads was undoubtedly the three tailed sigil of the Northern baron, Dagobert Merovich.
The last sound many of the knights protecting the heir heard, was "Fire!" shouted high above the din of the battle.
A terrible thunder echoed, the land was scoured with a black smoke, and the lead balls flew, many of them tearing through plate and mail and finding a home in soft flesh.
More than a few of the guard slumped and fell, grasping at the cleanly bored holes in their armor that weeped life's blood onto their horse's backs. The animals, frightened by the sudden noise, the smell of blood, and the reek of powder, went into a panic.
Some reared, some ran blindly.
Luckily, Reynald's beast was a runner, but more unfortunate, was its choice of destination.
The animal, shaken Prince upon its back about like a rag doll the whole way, surged directly forward into the thick of the enemy line.
Screaming like a farm girl that just found a snake in her stockings, Taliesin hacked at his foes with his long sword, slaying a few of them, quickly brought down as his horse was impaled on bayonets.
He thudded upon his back and his helmet rolled away as he cracked his head upon a rock. For several seconds, he lay there unable to get up, flailing about like some massive turtle until he was rushed upon.
The blade tipped barrels drew dangerously close to his smooth face, aiming at what was naturally the weakest point of his shell.
However, he was rescued by Abram Electus, one of his father's bravest vassals as the knight leapt the front rank of gunners and landed amongst the middle rank of them, his lance already dripping the blood of at least three of the troopers.
Abram leapt from the back of his steed and made short work of the soldiers surrounding his master's son with his bastard sword.
Without so much, he picked the young man up from the ground and slammed him upon his own horse and slapped the beast across its flank, sending it running at a gallop and allowing Reynald to escape.
Reynald, peeking over his shoulder as the bullets whizzed over his head, saw the scrawny infantrymen leap upon Electus with renewed vigor and eventually overcome his valiant assault with a counterattack of their own.
His eyes beheld the retainer falling with a scream to the ground as he was pierced again and again by bayonets, blood spurting from more wounds than the prince had ever thought possible to withstand for so long.
Taliesin's keen interest in the demise of the loyal knight was rewarded with a sudden jolt that nearly knocked him from this saddle.
In shock, the amateur general looked down to behold his own blood seeping from his shoulder. A clean hole straight through the back of his right pauldron still smoked.
He felt sick; he felt faint...
This wasn't right.
This didn't happen to him.
He was Prince Reynald Taliesin, Son of the fiftieth King of...
The world went black.
.........................
Reynald's eyes fluttered open heavily.
At first, he found himself unable to believe what he saw.
He shut them right back, shook his head a bit and reopened.
Everything was still as the prince first saw it.
He was bound in barbed chains which dug deep within his skin, biting at his flesh as he lurched forward.
Taliesin stood in the center of a great organic room, its walls constructed from what seemed to be patchwork flesh, broken up by the occasional tooth or eye, which followed his movements curiously or mouthed what he could only assume were the foulest of blasphemies, the thousand voices mixing together in a disturbing symphony of madness that made him claw at his ears and pray for blessed silence.
In the center of this chamber was a waterfall of crimson blood, which originated in the ceiling and spread about the floor in sick puddles that oozed back up the wall in defiance of every law of nature he'd ever studied at university, then slithered across the ceiling, and finally returned back to the fall to begin the process anew once again.
Lost, confused, and disgusted, the nobleman turned about, trying to comprehend his surroundings.
It was then that he noticed bubbles trailing toward the cascade, almost as if something swam beneath against the current.
His mouth formed a soundless cry of horror as he attempted to back as far away from whatever horror may emerge from the cataract but his chains wrapped tight around him like pythons, alive and full of malice as they rooted him to the floor and dragged down to his knees.
The bubbles drew ever closer until, when having reached the deluge, they assembled into a form that resembled, at least remotely, a humanoid. As he watched in amazement, they assembled into a solid mass, building first a bone structure, then muscles, and finally flesh, hair, and what appeared to be scales.
The being stepped forth from the cascade, drying almost instantly, the blood evaporating from his embodiment.
This thing was tall, standing at twice a normal man's height. Its head resembled a ram's with great curved horns but in its mouth were jagged fangs that dripped acid, practically tusks that jutted from its face. From its back sprouted leathery wings, brownish with short bristles of black fur. Its fingers were more long hooks of bone, coming to wickedly sharp ends much like an vulture's talons. The rest of its gangly body was covered in scales that ranged from purplish to a vague midnight blue. Cloven hooves topped with shaggy fur clomped upon the floor and a serpent like tail lash this way and that behind the abomination, topped with serrated spikes.
But the most captivating thing about this creature was its burning eyes, which radiated a putrid yellow that burned with what must have been aeons of rage. They drew Reynald in, arresting him initially and then imprisoning him within their gaze even as he felt the panicked need deep within himself to turn away, to run, to flee, even to fall upon his own sword rather than be in the presence of this thing for but one more second.
And then it spoke, it's voice harsh as steel grating on steel and as dreadful as the banshee's cry.
"I come to you with an offer. I understand that you know of the location of something which belongs to me, young one," The demon hissed, placing a particularly demeaning emphasis on the word young.
The monster gestured with its hands and the visage of an amulet flickered into life.
Sure enough, Reynald recognized the trinket, a fine piece carved of the blackest stone, affixed with a pendant in the center of mithril which was inscribed with the figure of a hideously distorted ram's head, which he now understood to be a crude rendition of this creature's face.
Baron Lothar Corbus had worn that very item the day he'd arrived in his father's castle announce his secession from the King's Confederacy.
The brute laughed a bit, and continued, "I take it that you do indeed know where it is. Good.
'I created this thing and I'd have it returned to me."
Stammering a bit, but regaining at least somewhat of a hold on his manhood, Reynald countered, "And why would I do this for you, archfiend?"
It smiled; it actually smiled a bit at this notion, which sent several chills up the nobleman's spine and then leaned inwards, its dread countenance so close that he could taste its hot stinking breath.
"I can see into your heart and I know that it is truly blacker than even the pits I was spawned within.
'Knowing this, I just have to ask you... How badly do you want your father's kingdom?"
Crowned Prince Reynald Taliesin gulped and exhaled shakily.
This terrible, evil, dark thing truly knew his soul, that much was for certain, little as he'd like to admit it...
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Eadgar's Saga Chapter 2 POLL
Abattoir Chapter 2!
Last edited by Jack_D.Mented on Fri Dec 28, 2007 7:38 pm; edited 4 times in total
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Jack_D.Mented
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| Posted: Tue Dec 11, 2007 8:56 pm Post subject: |
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Ok, well, there's the new chapter.
I do indeed hope you all liked it, as I go underway soon, but I'll do my best to get a new one out as soon as possible, hopefully sometime in the next few weeks.
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Eadgar's Saga Chapter 2 POLL
Abattoir Chapter 2!
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Mephistopheles
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| Posted: Wed Dec 12, 2007 3:14 am Post subject: |
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very likeable story. um, the only thing i can think of is offer to tell where the amulet is, in return for freedom. can't truly think of anything else.
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Crunchyfrog
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| Posted: Fri Dec 14, 2007 1:51 am Post subject: |
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Amazing description of the organic room!
I would demand more information about the amulet, before letting on where it is. Bargain!
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Head Eater
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| Posted: Sun Dec 16, 2007 3:59 am Post subject: |
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Thisss Ssssstorygame isss promoted to Fantassssy.
Keep it up, Jack D.
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The Meaning Of Fear
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| Posted: Mon Dec 17, 2007 11:51 pm Post subject: |
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This is reaaally goood. Me want moooore.
This line, however, kind of disturbed me...
| Quote: | | The master's balls. |
Isn't that... Kinda disrespectful? Isn't he supposed to be loyal, or face eternal damnation, or something? 
| Quote: | | But the most captivating thing about this creature was its burning eyes, which radiated a putrid yellow that burned with what must have been aeons of rage. They drew Reynald in, captivating |
You used captivating twice, so it kinda stands out. Maybe you should replace on of them with another word.
If I were that guy, I would be pissing my pants but also trying to scratch something a bit more than a measly kingdom out of it. Ask if you can have some sort of demonic powers, so to avoid the "We found out you made a deal with the devil, now we will burn you" or some other completely predictable scenario that miraculously (and amusingly) always happens to people who take the throne by the so-called unsavory methods.
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Doors to the truth, an SG where a boy is propelled into worlds he is unfamiliar with. He crosses many worlds, and sees many things that force him to throw away his innocence, once, and for all. Fourth Chapter, out for viewing!
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Player of Fates
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| Posted: Tue Dec 18, 2007 1:19 pm Post subject: |
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I'd want power, the kingdom, everything I would get my hands on, or have the balls to anyways. Bargaining seems the best option here, maybe some more elements to add even more interest.
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Jack_D.Mented
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| Posted: Sat Dec 22, 2007 9:19 am Post subject: |
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So...
Then our choices for the poll are...
Attempt to bargain.
Ask for more about the amulet.
Or just take the deal as is.
Any more ideas?
I'll put the poll up tomorrow if there's nothing else. Sorry for the long wait on this response, but I had to go underway for a week.
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Eadgar's Saga Chapter 2 POLL
Abattoir Chapter 2!
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Jack_D.Mented
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| Posted: Sun Dec 23, 2007 12:42 pm Post subject: |
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Well, the poll is up. Enjoy your voting.
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Eadgar's Saga Chapter 2 POLL
Abattoir Chapter 2!
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Jack_D.Mented
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| Posted: Fri Dec 28, 2007 12:20 am Post subject: |
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Chapter 3
Reynald trembled before the fearsome beast, his knees shaking and his teeth clenched tight to hide the apparition of fear that threatened to haunt his handsome features.
"I believe that I must know more of this amulet that you seek, mighty...?" He asked, hoping to secure some name for the abomination which stared deep into his very soul.
"I have no name as humans have names, and if I did, you'd be the last to know," The ram like lips, thick with a frothy saliva spat, drool dripping from the curved tusks and onto the flesh like floor, eliciting a weary groan from the misshapen mouth that made its unfortunate home there.
The thing's tongue rolled about licking its chops, a deformed muscle, black and covered with greenish blisters that burst even as the general observed this simple motion, spewing forth a sizzling white puss that smelt of death and excrement.
Feeling a bit faint, the lancer succumbed to the weight of his barbed chains and took his seat upon the bloodied floor. With a desperate sigh, more a plea for help than he'd ever uttered before within his life, he rubbed his aching brow.
The demon laughed, a hollow, echoing sound that bounced from every corner of his mind and wracked his spirit with the rumblings of a thousand earthquakes and sent rampant aftershocks up his spine.
He looked to the monster and then to his hand. The gauntlet which adorned him was covered in seeping blood, which he felt now trickling down his face, creating a crimson mask.
"Oh, the gods, the gods..." Taliesin muttered, knowing on some primal level that he'd just done something extremely wrong.
"The gods won't help you now, boy!" Screamed the fiend, seizing him by his neck and hoisting him from the floor with one taloned hand.
"You carry my brand upon your soul. Accept it, cherish it..."
The prince was thrown to the floor.
"But most of all, live it..." The abomination whispered within his ear as it tossed him to the floor.
Before he was able to move, to counter, tumble, nor even simply roll aside, the beast was upon him.
Its rough hands tilted his head back, and scooping up a handful of the murky blood and pouring the hot, sticky elixir down his throat.
He'd tasted blood before, mostly his own, but none of that odd sweetness was there, none of the coppery flavor.
Instead, this blood burned his throat as if it were cutting a swath of fire through the dry tinder of his gut as the hellion stepped back and let him free of its grasp.
As he fell to his hands and knees, he looked to the demon, and he said, "For all this, for all these things you do, I deserve more than a kingdom!"
"And what would you have, mortal?"
"Exactly that! I wish to live forever. I want that no blade shall be capable of bringing me harm," He coughed a bit, heaved with agony, but returned to his demands, "And..."
An eyebrow raised and the monster leaned close, expecting a whisper.
Instead, with a defiant roar, Reynald screamed, "I WANT POWER!"
He seizured and collapsed, shaking.
The monster chuckled a bit and replied, "Well, well... we shall see... we shall see..."
.........................
The hooves of the horses sloshed through the thick slush of ice and frost as sleet bounced off their heavy cloaks as Salizaar and Bram made their way down the country road. Trees slumped glumly to the ground, their branches laid low by the malady of the cold and dragged to the dirt by the weight of the snow.
Clouds hung low in the sky, nearly merging with their cousin the fog as it choked the path and robbed the travelers of sight.
Salizaar, hearing something in the brush, pulled his mount back and motioned for his companion to halt as well.
Whispering low, Bram questioned, "What? What is it?"
The elf closed his eyes, focused upon the distant sound he'd heard before, and with some difficulty discerned what he was certain were shuffling footsteps and the utterance of curses.
"A man, me thinks," He related.
With a grunt and heave, the brawny warrior flung himself from the saddle. Water splashed about his heavy boots and he sunk a bit into the ground, yet still we was dauntless.
Ota took the great axe from his back, and with a flourish, brought it to arms.
"Then let this coward show himself and let's be done with him."
Just as he said this, a ragged young man stumbled from the obscuring veil of the brume, his once regal armor tarnished with the stains of blood and his flowing locks a mess.
He jumped a bit as he saw the fearsome companions that awaited him.
His hand flew to the blade at his side as Bram hefted his axe but Salizaar called, "Stay your blades!"
The dark elf nudged his mare over to the bewildered noble and simply stared for a second.
The knight, obviously feeling the need to explain his state and condition, breathed deep and then introduced himself thusly, "I am Reynald Taliesin," as if the four words explained everything.
He was disappointed to note only befuzzled looks from the two dark ones and huffing his chest up a bit, he continued, "Royal Prince of the Crimson Court? Heir to the throne of Nuvok? The champion general and prodigal son?"
Bram Ota merely shrugged. Mercenaries didn't involved themselves in politics, they just went where they were told and killed who they were paid to kill.
Salizaar simply stared blankly at the lad, his expression giving nothing, except the impression of a cold indifference to all these pretentious titles and heraldry. This puny man was but a piss ant to the master, a trembling insect.
"Well," The prince coughed a bit and fired a snotty comet from his nose. "I'm sure quite the handsome reward would be offered upon my return if but only you were to do me the favor of an escort to my father's citadel. The path is dangerous and I've many enemies, more than a few who'd like my head upon a pike."
Bram grunted, "Hrm. I can only wonder why."
The blackguard reshouldered his axe and climbed aboard his horse.
The younger man protested, "The Baron Lothar Corbus isn't one to be taken lightly, jest as you may. The man is cunning as a fox, more ruthless than the darkest demon, and... and..." He struggled for a word...
Salizaar did him the favor of completing his sentence, "More ferocious than the dreaded black dragon?"
"Yes! Precisely!" Reynald assented.
The dark elf smirked a slight bit, the expression seeming to tug heartily upon his normally taut facial muscles as he countered, "Now that I truly doubt."
Salizaar spurred his horse a bit, but stopped as he saw that he was not followed. Bram merely sat upon his saddle, staring down at Taliesin as he slowly lifted the mask that served as his face shield.
Finally, after what seemed an eternity of silence, the blackguard spoke, "What was that name?"
Puzzled, the royal replied, "Lothar Corbus?"
"Yes. That name. I know him," Bram muttered.
"Impossible."
Bringing his horse back to the scene that was unfolding, Salizaar interjected, "No. Merely improbable. Unless..."
His greenish eyes caught the icy blue stare of Bram. A questioning look asked without words, "Is it the baron you've told me of?"
A slow, certain nod from the warrior told him all he needed.
The dragon shaman turned in his saddle and barked to the prince, "You may come and protection we'll provide..."
Interrupting in his gratefulness, Reynald quickly exclaimed, "Excellent!"
Salizaar, displeased with this rudeness, continued, "But you walk."
Bram Ota lowered his mask of dread and spurred his horse, the great beast sludging forward trough the muck.
Salizaar did the same to his, turning a deaf ear to the complaints of their new comrade.
.........................
The camp that night was cold. The meagre fire did little to stay the clutching talons of the frost, but it was some comfort at least. A small grove of evergreen trees blocked most of the biting winds but did nothing to stop the constant rain of snowflakes that floated down from above, alighting upon their foreheads even as they huddled around the flames.
A small rabbit, which Salizaar had killed with an inventive trap he'd devised was to serve as dinner, but at the current moment, it roasted above the blaze, slowly turned about a stick by the grumbling Prince Reynald Taliesin, who for the first time in his overprivileged life, had to prepare his own meal.
Salizaar himself sat quietly to the side, sharpening his twin butterfly swords, his naginata propped against a tree. The flames danced about his narrow face, making his countenance nearly as skull like as that of his master.
Bram, his helmet fully removed for once, made his way over to the dark elf, the snow crunching beneath his armored feet.
The big man hunched down next to the disciple and cleared his throat to get his attention.
Silently, the greenish eyes slid over to him and the subtle scrape of whetstone on steel ceased.
In a low hush, the blackguard spake, "Well, I know not how to breach this subject, so I shall be forthright.
'In the morning, we shall come to a fork in the road. One leads to the west, and the city Wehea beyond. The other goes to the east, and down it, I've some business that longs to be taken care of.
'Tis something that begs to be dealt with by myself alone. But it shan't take long, and you'll not be held up long on my account."
Glancing up to the sky as he took all this in, Salizaar let his gaze fall back to the fighter.
"And what would we do in the mean time?"
"There's an inn, a tavern by the name of the Blind Beggar. In this inn works an older fellow by the name of Bado. Seek him out and tell him that you were sent by Martin's brother in law. You'll find yourself set free of room or board," Ota explained.
"Just one question," Salizaar whispered, leaning in closer to Bram.
"Do you think we can trust him?"
Bram cast a suspicious glance toward Reynald then turned back to face the elf.
"If you have any reason to doubt the integrity of his words, then just kill him."
.........................
At dawn, his horse packed and ready, Bram saddled up and rode out just as the sun was peeking its reddish face about the distant mountains.
The fire from the night before was but barely glowing embers and nothing remained of the hare but bones and guts.
In less than two hours time, he arrived at the fork in the road.
He looked about, glancing over his muscled shoulder as if he expected perhaps a ghost or a specter of his past in some form to haunt him.
To his relief there was nothing but the clear path behind and his own tracks winding into the distance, complemented by the occasional spattering of horse droppings.
The air was brisk and chill, the wind cutting deep and whistling through any crack or crevice it found within his armor and even from beneath the mask which hid his face from the world, his breath was a fine mist, spouting steam like some dwarven war machine.
He sighed deeply and turned his stallion to the left, starting out on a path that he knew far too well for it was the deeply winding path that led its twisted way to his home.
Bram swayed slowly in the saddle, wishing desperately for something to amuse himself, but found entertainment lacking in the still morning air save for the chirping of birds, which now he thought of as more an annoyance after becoming so accustomed to the unending sorrowful groans of the restless undead.
It seemed that to him, at least, that now he had far more in common with them than the living after his time within the catacombs of Veremoud.
His soul was tomb touched, in the truest sense of the phrase.
He felt no urge to sing, nor dance, not to love nor to laugh. He was filled with a bitterness, a hatred for purity and goodness, for the morally upright.
His betrayal and consequent burial had led to a resurrection in that Bram Ota was no longer the same man that entered those forsaken tombs.
He knew now that he could only depend upon, and trust himself.
No one was dying to save him and the only gods that were there were the ones a man made for himself.
There was only one thing left within his past that he had an anchor to at this point.
Other than his revenge and the constant prospect of exacting gruesome punishment upon the traitorous scum who left him to die within that accursed place, there was only one thing that made him pull through that time of troubles.
Bram's inward thoughts were shattered as a child ran to his horse, a filthy little urchin that attempted to cling to his boots.
"Please, sir. But please, a pence for my hunger," It begged.
Looking down to beggar, he saw that the disgusting ankle biter lacked even so much as a shirt and that his or her ribs poked out in grotesque testament to the starvation the youth had surely endured.
So thin was the adolescent that Bram found himself uncertain of the thing's sex, as its hair had been recently shaved, more than likely due to lice. A mouthful of rotten teeth grimaced up at him and one eye socket was merely a hollow cave.
The blackguard growled and kicked the stripling square in its chin, sending it sprawling into a snow bank.
He brought his horse to a halt and waited.
Timidly, the scraggly head peeked out, the lip bloodied, nose broken, and the jaw hanging limp, quite possibly also shattered.
Bram pointed at the youth and barked, "Remember this lesson. Remember it well.
'Never beg. Never borrow. If you can't take it, you don't deserve it.
'The finest rewards in life are those taken by force of arms and if you can't manage to force your way into better circumstances, then you deserve to be nothing more than food for the maggots that surely await you in the grave.
'Take what you want in life, seize it. Spare nothing nor no one, for tomorrow, you may die.
'Waste no more time here, become a bandit or a murderer or a pickpocket, but if I catch you here again, I'll rip out your guts and hang you from yonder tree by them," He finished, gesturing at an oak in the distance.
The child whimpered, and like a scalded dog, began to flee into the distance.
Bram bit his lower lip in thought and shouted once again, "Halt, youth!"
The child reluctantly stopped and turned in its tracks bringing its one good eye to bear upon the big man in the saddle.
Ota pulled a spare dagger from his saddle bag and threw it into a nearby stump. It sank into the rotten wood with a thud, the pommel quivering as the blade bit deep.
"Kill for a man and you spare his life for a day.
'Teach a man to kill and you've spared him for a lifetime."
These words spoken, Bram spurred his horse and rode on into a small hamlet he remembered far too well.
In the chapel down the street, he was married and in a house up the hill, he'd lived with his wife.
Careful to keep his mask drawn over his face, he rode silently through the streets, spotting more than a few familiar faces.
He knew the blacksmith, the porter, the undertaker, and almost all the shopkeeps.
But it was not any of them whom he was here to see. He had come with one specific goal in mind...
Bram intended to check upon his wife.
The warrior leapt from his horse and reigned it to a post outside the small, dingy tavern that sufficed as the town's only amusement.
He walked up the steps from the street, opened the doors and entered the hall.
Smoke filled the room from several pipes, men sat at various tables partaking in multiple games of chance and luck, and at the bar sat the village drunks. The whores tolled the clientele seeking a mark, hoping to ply their trade and earn some pay.
And behind the counter, clad in a simple red plaid dress, washing a well worn tankard was his wife.
She smiled and laughed, seemed completely at ease, not quite the woman in mourning he thought she'd be. This struck him as odd, but then his blood ran cold at the sight of her hand as the wash rag rolled back from her fingers to reveal her wedding band.
The ring there was not his that he'd presented to her, but a much grander one, graced with a large stone, and made of the finest gold.
His heart burned and his muscles tightened. His teeth gnashed and his hands balled up into fists so tight that it felt his fingers would break.
How was he to react to this?
What was a man to do upon such a discovery?
Part wanted to know more, to enquire and learn, but he found it difficult to contain the rage that broiled up within and threatened to consume him...
_________________
Eadgar's Saga Chapter 2 POLL
Abattoir Chapter 2!
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Chinaren
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| Posted: Fri Dec 28, 2007 2:47 am Post subject: |
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Nice writing there Jack. Very nice. Twisted, bitter and harsh. Lovely. LOved the beggar kid scene.
DP:
Mmm. Well, first find out who her new bo is, and then kill them both. Publicly and slowly.
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Mephistopheles
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| Posted: Fri Dec 28, 2007 3:35 am Post subject: |
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Very nicely done, and i must f5 china with the beggar scene, awesome!
I want to agree with china again, but you need options not agree-ances, to make a poll. So, he walks over to her, whispers to her that her true love will never forget her or her betrayal to him, and then leaves. should she follow, knock her unconscious and then abandon the place, carrying more hatred and distrust in humanity out the door with him. perhaps some noble man will challenge to duel him for his discourtesy, allowing him to vent some of his emotions on the poor sap.
_________________
Cause I am, whatever you say I am
If I wasn't, then why would I say I am?
I don't know, it's just the way I am.
eminem
without the threat of death,
there is no reason to live at all
marilyn manson
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Jack_D.Mented
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| Posted: Wed Jan 02, 2008 12:19 pm Post subject: |
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So... here's the poll.
I'll give it about a week and we shall see what happens.
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Eadgar's Saga Chapter 2 POLL
Abattoir Chapter 2!
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Crunchyfrog
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| Posted: Thu Jan 03, 2008 9:43 am Post subject: |
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Good chapter there, Jack D!
Loved this line | Quote: | | The prince coughed a bit and fired a snotty comet from his nose. |
Caught up too late to come up with any suggestions but voted anyway.
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DELETED
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| Posted: Thu Jan 03, 2008 12:36 pm Post subject: |
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Jack_D.Mented
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| Posted: Sat Jan 26, 2008 10:03 pm Post subject: |
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Chapter 4
Bram's soup bone sized fists clenched, and if it wasn't for the mask that hid his face, the grimacing locked jaw, narrowed eyes, and bulging vein in his brow would've been apparent to all who wished to look. But, as things sat, all that the curious beheld was the increase in his respiration as the grunt like breaths that hissed from behind the disguise grew deeper, slower, as a man tried to contain his fury.
He growled a bit, pacing across the sawdust floor like an enraged tiger penned inside a cage. This was not the time, nor place. He would deal with Amma later. For now, he had questions first.
Idling up to a lone shadow in the corner where a haggard man, thin as a wisp and a voice that scraped like gravel sat staring glumly into an empty tankard.
Bram took a seat next to the man, plopping a copper into his empty mug.
Two red, swollen eyes looked up at him and shied away for a second momentarily frightened by the mask, but then returned his gaze.
"Why the mask, stranger?" The unshaven drunk inquired, shuffling about the odor of cheap alcohol and body odor that clung to him with more tenacity than than even the most persistent of leeches.
"I'm sure you'd find what I've inside a good deal more frightening than anything I'm willing to show the various and assorted public," Ota hissed through gritted teeth, thinking more of the scenes that played themselves over inside his mind than his face.
"Well, if there's one thing that I should've done in my life," The drunk scratched his chest and burped loudly, "I would've let the world see me as I really was instead of being the worm they wanted me to be. Look what it does to you.
'Hells, I can't even crawl my way out of the bottle long enough nowadays to bathe, much less make anything of myself."
Bram grunted with a short nod. He then pointed across the tavern at Amma. "Who is she? The fair blonde?"
"Ha. Amma, used to be Ota, I think. But her man up and left and well... She took little time to re-hitch and move on."
Cracking his neck and preparing to rise, Bram asked, "Well, who is this man?"
The stinking man closed his eyelids and rubbed them with his fingers, trying to clear his mind. "I... I cannot remember his name. A thin fellow, dark hair, a beard. Not much more I remember other than that. He left not long ago.
'Guess she has all the bad luck in the world, hm? That or she's just enough of a shrew to run him off..."
Bram stood and whispered, "She's no idea what bad luck is as of yet."
.........................
The blackguard spurred his horse furiously, kicking up mud and slush, spattering a group of children as they scattered to flee the trampling hooves of his steed.
Somewhere, an angry father shouted, but the warrior paid him no heed. His mind was focused all upon one goal, and that one alone.
A knot curled up inside his gut as he drew up outside the house he'd called a home for so very long. The dim light of a fire glowed from within, weak and faint, but there nonetheless.
As he dismounted, he saw a sight that set him reeling and actually set him to raise his mask to gain a better look at what he saw.
Someone had been using his father's finely crafted hand axe for chopping wood. It was sunken deep into a half rotten stump where he remembered a tree that he'd played on as a child and had hoped would grow to see another generation of the Ota clan.
Bram flexed his shoulders, shook his head and plucked the masterwork weapon from the soaked lumber.
Red rust had crept up the fine edge and it'd been made dull by the menial tasking that some fool had put the fine weapon to.
No to worry though, Bram thought. It'd be covered in the proper red stuff anytime now.
.........................
He planted a boot through the door with a scream, roaring at the top of his lungs. The two men crowded around the meagre flames leapt to the their feet, but the one to the right and closer to the door was beheaded almost instantly, blood jetting from his stump of a neck.
Bram scooped the cranium up by its scraggly locks and tossed it at the stammering imbecile in the corner, who caught it and stumbled backwards and, catching on his own foot, tumbled to the floor.
"Who's her husband? You?" Bram shouted, but then thrust at the twitching corpse in the corner.
"Him, perhaps? TELL ME!"
"Who? What?"
At that point, Bram lost control. "Amma! My wife! Who has she married?" He howled.
"I... I..." The man's confusion was obvious.
Bram found it most frustrating. He tore his helm and mask off and kicked it across the room, the headgear rattling across the empty floor and bouncing off the wall.
That's when he noticed it...
The room was empty. These were squatters, insects before his wrath.
He chuckled, then laughed. He clutched his midsection and bent over, besieged by a laughing fit so intense that it turned his pale face a deep purple and left him wheezing for breath.
Bewildered, the freeloader shuffled from foot to foot and scratched his head.
"Well, the lady that did own this place just up and moved one day, sure enough she did so. Got 'erself a new hubby, packered her things and hauled up to a fancy to do manor in the northerly hills just above town..." He spake after some decent amount of thought.
Glaring up at him with a piercing gaze that cut deep into his very soul, Bram asked, "And the husband? This wealthy benefactor?"
"Well, this lil' man, name of P... P... Pavlo, methinks, swooped her away 'afore the food upon her last husband's funeral feast table was even but cold.
'Hell, ta think o' it, she didn't even so much as give him that..." The man continued, finally trailing off as he noticed that the color and expression was sapped from Bram's face, which began to contort and twist into a wicked sneer.
"Hand me my helmet," The fighter ordered and the peasant complied.
"Burn this place and never come back. Never. If I see you, I'll do things to you so horrible that they'd make the gods turn away in shame and make all the devils in all the hells shiver in fear."
He got up, turned and left, leaving the door wide open behind him as the wind whispered into the hollow cabin.
.........................
Bram's approach to the couple's new home was not any more subtle, in fact, it was all the more dramatic for it wasn't often that a wailing madman burst through a stained glass window on horseback swinging an axe as he cried out the homeowner's name.
Three cooks in the dining room moved not three steps before they were cut down as Bram cut a swath through the household staff. His grief was boundless and his bloodlust endless.
Within a little under an hour, there were no more screams to be heard, blood was pooled upon the floor in ever widening puddles, splattered on the walls in various arches of arterial spray, resembling crimson rainbows, and in more than a few places the ceiling as well was drenched, oozing minuscule rivulets of gore.
No one had been spared and none were to be saved.
Not the cooks, the cleaners, the maids, the doorman, the stable boys, the household guard, nor even Pavlo's prized hounds that had bayed howled the whole time, the scent of the blood misleading them up until the final moment when, finally they realized that they were the prey this time around.
Bram had constructed himself a gruesome display in the foyer and was quite proud of his effort as he took a step back to observe his work.
In the center of the room, directly in front of the doors, was a pile of human heads, each painstakingly severed and stacked to form a roughly four foot tall pyramid of skulls and each with the eyes wide open, staring endlessly at the entrance.
Behind them, on the wall, he had sprawled in blood, "And feast upon what your lust has reaped..."
Ota grunted in satisfaction and, sure to leave the doors wide open, stood behind one.
Now all that was left was the most painful part of all, the waiting...
.........................
To his surprise, she paid almost no heed to the grim monument until, bustling up to the door, she realized that it was opened already for her.
Bram had hoped for the new husband, the treacherous snake, but this in itself would be a treat.
Amma peeked into the room, then, shaking her head, certain that it was all some terrible dream, she stepped into the room, visibly pinching her arm in a feeble attempt to wake up.
Stepping out from his concealment, Bram slammed the door behind him.
She jumped, screaming, failed to regain her footing upon the slick floor and fell.
Climbing up, she fled in the only direction that she could... up the stairs.
Bram chortled. She could run all she wished but he knew that he was the faster of the two and easily the more sure footed.
The blackguard bounded up the stairs two at a time after her and at the top, seized her by a gauntlet full of her golden locks and twisted.
She struggled, resisting, and he decided to teach her an abstract lesson in obedience.
Amma wanted let go, so he released her with a toss down the stairs.
The woman flailed about, plummeting to the next floor and snapping a leg at the halt of her inelegant descent.
She cried, crawling along the floor as she attempted once again to flee.
Bram ran back down the stairs, and without slowing, planted a boot in her ribs with yet another satisfying crunch.
His wife doubled over, gasping in sheer agony as she wrapped into a fetal position.
"Why don't you learn?" He pondered as he hovered over her fragile form, a hand reaching for his father's hand axe which had found a makeshift home tucked inside his belt.
But then as he inhaled slowly, savoring this sweet revenge, he took notice of something in the corner which inspired him, compelled him, nearly drove him to a different course.
"No, no... I've a better idea..." He muttered as he scooped her up gently in his massive arms and carried her carefully to the threshold much as he'd done on their wedding night.
This trip, however, ended with him tossing her out into the street, where she tumbled once again, her dress nearly flying over her head and one of her shoes removing itself in the mud.
A herd of neighbors, little more than cattle, gathered around the scene, gawking in awe at the sheer brutality, but not a single soul moved to collect her.
Bram emerged from within the estate and a collective gasp issued from his audience as they noticed the searing red hot poker in clutched in his gauntlet.
Amma screamed, shaking her head although she knew she was powerless. Feeble fists pounded against the stone breastplate, having no effect upon the merciless grip that choked the breath from her throat.
The red iron drew closer, hissing as it grazed against the sweat that trickled down her brown. She began to weep, the tears evaporating almost as soon as they materialized.
Then, the blinding pain overwhelmed her, making her swoon and nearly faint as her flesh was seared and her flesh broiled.
Ota, never flenching, never faltering, carved in his once lover's face the symbol of shame, the adulterer's mark, a bubbling, blistering A.
And then, there was a noise behind him. A young nobleman, his glove held within his left hand.
Bram let the limp form of his beloved slump to the ground and he turned just as the pompous ass raised the glove in challenge.
Obviously, he intended a duel, but Bram had no interest in the subject.
With no words, no formality, and no warning, he simply ran the lad through with the iron with a wet hiss as the pointed end protruded from his spine. He spat crimson and fell to his knees.
Bram took the young man's head between his hands and snapped his neck.
Then, slowly, as if the world itself had stalled in its rotations, the big man in the stone armor turned, approached his wife and lifted his mask. He crouched there for a second, staring into her eyes.
His voice breaking a bit almost as if he were on the edge of tears, he asked, "Do you see what you've done? Do you?"
Amma, recognizing him now, began to weep, her salty tears stinging as they ran into the charred sigil on her cheek. Her harsh sobs were the only noise in the stunned circle of humanity as all watched in silent amazement.
"My gods... I've... I have created a monster," She whispered, reaching out with her shaking hand to grasp his, but he abruptly recoiled as if a snake had slithered up his arm rather than his wife had attempted to lend him affection.
The hand she had tried her best to hold the second before snapped back, cracking her across the jaw with a vicious backhand that echoed with an audible pop.
Grabbing her by the nap of the neck like a mother bitch does a disobedient pup, hefted her up to a nearby trough and dunked her head in. Bubbles churned and her hands flailed, but he kept a boot planted upon her back until she went limp, finally succumbing to the water that filled her lungs.
Bram spat, "Drink of your sin as you drank of your wine, harlot."
.........................
Salizaar drew his horse to a halt, Reynald coming up to his side, appearing quite weary with the day's walk.
The normally clean shaven knight was haggard and grimy, covered in filth and he smelt of his own sweat, an odor that he was certain would stick to his clothes even as they clung to his back.
The dark elf leapt from his mount, and light on his feet, advanced out of the stable he'd rented for the night and around the corner into the street.
Reynald, dragging his feet and bemoaning his ill fortune, struggled to keep at his energetic pace. They took multiple small turns, winding down several alleys heaped high with filth and excrement where rats dashed about in play as openly as children in any other street and whores too old, too decrepit, or just too diseased for any decent brothel attempt to peddle their wares.
The warrior kept a keen hold on his coin purse and watched in fascination as Salizaar picked his way through the throng of humanity, eliciting almost no notice as he slithered amongst the herd, almost like a wolf in sheep's clothing.
As long as he kept his head ducked in prayer and his hood kept its place upon his brow, the shadows hid his complexion and his robes misled those who were looking into thinking he was perhaps a holy man or a scholar.
This was hardly the case for Taliesin, who seemed to bounce off every hard headed jagger in the row and heard more than a few angry shouts directed his way.
These alleys were clearly not his element, being a far shade from the pomp and circumstance of the courts he'd been raised and tutored in.
Finally, after nearly a dozen narrowly averted tussles, the mismatched duo arrived at a building that looked quite out of sorts in the downtown slums of Wehea.
They had to look for a second, observing every detail with discerning eye before the conclusion that the sign spelled out for them could be reached.
This building, brick on the bottom and a fine oaken second story, wrapped around with a richly detailed palisade and balcony and topped with a massive chimney that belched deep black smoke into the pale sky was not what they'd pictured for the Blind Beggar.
The two scoundrels cast a wary eye upon one another, and then Salizaar, shrugging, made his way across the street and entered the structure.
Reynald sighed, and taking a second glance at the richly engraved sign featuring an ancient man leaning upon his cane, scratching his head in befuzzlement next to the tavern's name in letters that measured at least a foot high, shook the droplets of water from his head and followed.
As soon as he'd entered, the prince saw that the shaman had already taken up conversation with the barkeep. The elf gestured at him and he quickened his pace to meet up with the cloaked man as the disciple hopped over the bar, passed through the doors behind the host and bounded up the stairs.
Once again, he followed.
Halfway up the stairwell, he met with his companion and they entered the hall at the apex of the climb together. Several doors branched to the right and left, but at the center of the passage, beckoning, were a set of double doors, a lifelike battle scene etched into their surface.
Reynald gained speed and opened the doors, careful not to slam and thereby offend their host.
A spry man, stocky in build, but every ounce of him radiating a nearly electric energy turned from the window from which he'd been gazing to greet his guests.
He made his way across the room, a smile stretching across his broad features, which, although not so much as his height, attested to the fact that if he was not Dwarven himself, then he was at least of Dwarven blood, and of that, not more than two generations removed. His head was bald and he was decorated in the fashions of the town, his shirt resplendent with ruffles and his every finger adorned with at least one ring.
The man took Reynald's hand and shook it vigorously, bright white teeth glimmering from beneath his salt and pepper beard.
"Ah, lads. I'm Bado, owner of this fine house. I welcome you here, but I must be askin'..."
The grin suddenly vanished as his features hardened. This man was no fool.
"What brings you to my place of business? And in such a manner as you would ask for me by name?"
Reynald began to open his mouth, but the sly elf had his words at the ready.
"We come as friends, seeking aid and succor. We are the friends of Martin's brother in law, the man Bram," Salizaar spake crisply, making it clear in his tone that no refusal would be brokered.
Bado nodded his head and replied rather simply, "Ah. Well, then, I guess I'll be makin' you at home then. I can't have friend's of the general's brother in law freezin' in the streets when his favored quartermaster's here and ready to help."
The bulky man tilted a bit and bowed, "At yer service, lads."
.........................
Soon they were guided to a plush room, outfitted with two beds on either side, a wardrobe along the opposite wall, and in the corner, a bookshelf stocked with various works of academia and fiction that many of the passing guests would find suitable enjoyment.
As Bado showed them into their chamber, Reynald, overcome by curiosity, inquired, "Well, forgive my asking, but, whatever became of Martin? All that is seen of his mercenary army is but a few scattered bands in the present day."
Bado sighed and hung his head. For the first time, his age began to show, the wrinkles casting sharp shadows across his weathered brow.When his head raised once again, he had a wistful look in his eyes, almost as if he were a thousand miles away.
"One day, on the eve of a great battle, as the men were drawn up and the horses looked after, the general emerged from his tent after having had slept late.
'Twas not his habit and caused a wee bit of worry, you see?
'But that was not all. He proceeded to don his finest armor, mount his favorite horse and then he rode out in from of the assembled masses.
'He then said something I'll never forget..."
For several seconds that pause hung in the air, even Salizaar caught in the spell of the moment, wondering what came next and driving Reynald nearly to the point of asking, when, suddenly, almost with tears in his eyes, the aging man drew a breath and made to continue.
"He said... 'This fight is not worth fighting. You're all young, get on with living. We don't have time to be losing. Shine your boots and carry on, I'm done with this war.'
Bado shrugged as he tried to brush the impact of the memory off. "And then he just rode off. We never saw him again. Never heard from him, nothing."
The prince, confused by this lack of bloodshed in any story that opened with any mention of warfare asked, "But then what happened in the clash of arms that surely followed?"
The older man chuckled darkly and shook his head. "We were broken. We fled. We were butchered almost to the last man.'
'But on that note, I bid you a good night. Fare thee well, good sirs," Bado finished, returning abruptly to his jovial self as he shut the door and his heavy footsteps could be heard pounding down the hall.
.........................
That night, as the two figures in their beds slept silently, exhausted from their travels, the dresser doors creaked open with only the slightest noise and unseen eyes peered from within a hidden passage.
The assassin leader let his hand fall across the top of his kukri, the blade screaming for murder as he licked his lips.
Was now the time? He wondered.
Should he cut the head off the serpent now and let it flop about harmlessly or let it longer, so that it may strike at another foe first, but knowing the risks involved, not only to himself but to the interests he represented?
_________________
Eadgar's Saga Chapter 2 POLL
Abattoir Chapter 2!
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The Meaning Of Fear
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| Posted: Tue Jan 29, 2008 5:50 pm Post subject: |
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Awesome chappy Jack!
I don't got nothing on the DP though. I'm feeling slightly stupid at the mo.
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Cherish all your memories, even the bad ones, for they are what makes you who you are.
Doors to the truth, an SG where a boy is propelled into worlds he is unfamiliar with. He crosses many worlds, and sees many things that force him to throw away his innocence, once, and for all. Fourth Chapter, out for viewing!
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Jack_D.Mented
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| Posted: Tue Jan 29, 2008 5:56 pm Post subject: |
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Do the assassins attack now or do they wait?
That is the question. Hmm...
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Eadgar's Saga Chapter 2 POLL
Abattoir Chapter 2!
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| Posted: Tue Jan 29, 2008 10:47 pm Post subject: |
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Mephistopheles
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| Posted: Wed Jan 30, 2008 3:41 am Post subject: |
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Attempt to kill now. Why tempt fate into screwing you over?
Good chapter Jack, really good. one question: is Bram going to destroy the entire village? Madness knows now reason to abate the already initiated actions. Excellent work!
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Cause I am, whatever you say I am
If I wasn't, then why would I say I am?
I don't know, it's just the way I am.
eminem
without the threat of death,
there is no reason to live at all
marilyn manson
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Crunchyfrog
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| Posted: Wed Jan 30, 2008 11:44 am Post subject: |
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I would say kill now.
I got a little lost with the various different characters, and had to back track a bit to previous chapters.
Still, an enjoyable and vivid tale.
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Syranore
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| Posted: Wed Jan 30, 2008 7:03 pm Post subject: |
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Good things come to those who wait. Life could be easier if he did not have to do everything himself. I say let him live for now. Favorited.
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Directive Chapter 2 -Complete
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Jack_D.Mented
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| Posted: Wed Feb 13, 2008 6:15 pm Post subject: |
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The Poll is up. I was computer-less for a while, so I apologize for the delay.
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Eadgar's Saga Chapter 2 POLL
Abattoir Chapter 2!
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NeverNeverGirl
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| Posted: Wed Mar 12, 2008 2:03 am Post subject: |
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i say wait.. theres lots of saying to do with waiting...
good things come to those who wait..
okay i can only think of one thats okay though... you know I'm right.
I f5 zephyr - hes great with feedback!
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Jack_D.Mented
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| Posted: Sun Apr 13, 2008 6:56 pm Post subject: |
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Well, I now have a computer and I just got back from underway. I plan on doing something with this soon.
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Abattoir Chapter 2!
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| Posted: Sat Apr 19, 2008 10:42 pm Post subject: |
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Dean
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| Posted: Tue Jul 22, 2008 8:45 am Post subject: |
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I voted "wait", because it seemed the more interesting of the two options. Any old story can have a fight scene. But interesting waiting scenes are often what give the plot hooks to drive a story forward. However, I have tied the poll. Oops.
Interesting story so far, keep it up.
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Jack_D.Mented
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| Posted: Sat Jan 03, 2009 3:11 pm Post subject: |
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Chapter 5
Now would not be a good time, he decided after a moment's thought on the issue.
His men were good, but they were not the masters that the dark elf was with a blade. The way that the fair one moved with a sword was graceful, truly transforming murder into an art form.
It was as if his weapon were but an extension of himself, a brush, and instead of striking, he made brilliant, broad strokes, and his paint was the brilliant blood of his enemies.
The knight was an unknown factor. Either he was a bumbling, incompetent ass like ninety percent of those who claimed his profession or he was an efficient killing machine that would mow through the assassin's men like a scythe.
When faced by a lack of knowledge and an inability to assess the enemy, it was better to assume the worst and imagine their strength greatly outweighed your own.
For now, it would be better to wait until these men were wounded or already beaten.
Or when they had all turned upon each other, which, given their cold hearted natures, could only be a matter of time.
The assassins faded silently into the shadows of their unseen lair and sealed the door behind them. Now, to all the world, it would be just an empty dresser.
.........................
Bram shifted slightly as he pulled his horse up to a felled tree that blocked the road. The rain and hale stones pinged off his helmet and ricocheted off his grim mask.
He began to dismount in order to remove the obstacle himself, but then his eyes glanced upon the crude axe marks that marred the bottom of the log.
All was not as it appeared.
The blackguard grabbed his father's hand axe and turned his mount around. The bushes to his left and right quivered suspiciously against the wind.
Wordlessly, he lead the animal further away from the log. He then turned it around, spurred the animal hard and sent it into a run toward the hurdle.
Two orcs leapt from the bushes, screaming as he sped by.
One swung a great iron headed mace and caught his horse squarely in the chest, sending the beast tumbling.
Ota was torn from the saddle, skidding through the mud and slosh and landing on his face.
His father's axe had flown from his fingers and now lay about five to six yards away.
The warrior climbed to his knees and, his helmet, knocked off kilter by the fall shifted forward. The dread mask fell over his face.
He roared, sounding more like a beast than a man. One orc was already upon him, squealing hoggishly in delight.
In its hands it held a sword chiseled from bone, a crude but effective weapon if wielded with enough strength. It raised the weapon high, coming up in an arc, intending to decapitate the fighter so Bram leapt back and the blade whizzed by his skull and clinked harmlessly off his pauldron.
Bram took a step back, looked at the newly chipped armor and grunted.
"Do you realize how old this is?" He gestured at the damage. Raising his hand to the mask, he screamed, "DO YOU REALIZE THE HELL I HAD TO GO THROUGH TO EARN THIS?"
The blackguard shrieked and cast off his humanity entirely. For the first time, he succumbed entirely to the beast within and fell upon the hapless orc in flurry of savage blows.
It was not a slaying. It was not even a murder. His anger was far too great for that. A smiting would have been more a fitting term if he were but a god.
He continued hacking at the corpse until nothing but what appeared to be unrecognizable hunks of bloody orc sausage littered the ground.
When he finally looked up, he saw the other orc standing slack jawed, staring at him.
He raised his face mask and taking a couple of steps forward, hawked and spat in the green skin's tusked face. It shook its head as if just awakening from a deep trance, dropped its mace, and ran toward the treeline.
Bram retrieved his father's hand axe. This one had killed his horse.
He flung the weapon with all his prodigious strength and the head of the axe buried itself in the orc's back. The humanoid warrior faltered, carried on one more step, and then fell with a splash into a puddle.
Ota cracked his neck and lifted the visor of his helmet. Cool rain drops fell on his face.
He stared up into the dark heavens and inhaled deeply. The coppery smell of blood was bitter on his tongue.
What kind of monster had he become when even orcs fled his wrath?
He fingered the recently carved chip on the shoulder of his stone crafted armor.
Then, almost reflexively, he reached up and pulled the mask back down over his face.
As it locked into place, his fears and worries evaporated, replaced once again only by the constantly simmering fires of his wrath that even as he stood alone on that dark highway, worked to forge a new destiny.
.........................
The messenger ran his horse into the ground. The beast was panting and dying.
He leapt from its quivering back and ran the last hundred yards to the manor's gate. The guards nearly stopped him, but they noticed the colors of the Baron Corbus upon his back and the sealed dispatch clutched in his hands and quickly stepped aside.
A slide in the doors to the manor proper slid open and after a quietly whispered question was answered correctly, the messenger was rushed within.
He was lead promptly to the dining room.
At the end of a long table, eating alone, was a man. Even seated, he was tall. His features were fine and cat like. Years of hard living had etched themselves into his troubled face. Grey eyes reflected the fireplace which roared and that was all the warmth they held.
In his thin hands, he toyed with a goblet of wine, sloshing it about absent mindedly.
When he finally noticed the man at the far end of the table, he sat the cup down, ran his fingers through his shoulder length blonde hair as if he was expecting bad news of some sort. As if bad news was all he had received in quite some time.
He cleared his throat and motioned the man forward.
The messenger stammered and sputtered, but before he could offer his greetings, the man snatched the message from his hand.
The diner then produced a razor sharp dirk so quickly that the messenger missed its point of origin and split the seal with no ceremony.
The paper crinkled as he read the message and his brow furrowed.
The man's voice cracked for a second as he struggled to formulate his sentence. "My sister... is dead?"
The messenger bowed his head low. "Yes, Lord Martin. Baron Corbus is loathe to intrude upon your retirement, but he felt you should know this.
'And also that the man who perpetrated this foul crime is in the service of the Outlaw Reynald Taliesin, formerly prince of the Crimson Court, son of the Tyrant King.
'The Baron asks that you join him in his province and lend your hand in quelling these upstarts."
Martin bit his lip, and mulled over the thought as his war weary eyes drifted about the dust covered halls of his empty home.
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Eadgar's Saga Chapter 2 POLL
Abattoir Chapter 2!
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DeadManWalking
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| Posted: Wed Jan 07, 2009 6:18 pm Post subject: |
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nice
Just read the story so far in one go, have to say i LOVE it.
although, i have to ask. Can bone really chip stone? Wouldn't the bone break?
anyways.
I don't see much of a DP here; Martin really has no choice but to avenge his sister.
Or, you could say, he has the choice to leave her death unavenged, but that just wouldn't be interesting.
OOOH!
or he could decide that he doesn't want to fight another war, gather up a few trusted followers, and hunt specifically for the murderer instead of aiding the baron.
That could have an interesting confrontation scene.
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Jack_D.Mented
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| Posted: Wed Jan 07, 2009 10:13 pm Post subject: |
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Well, that's a few great options there.
I'm glad to see you like the story so much. It was great to come back to this one after so long.
I missed Bram and Salizaar and Reynald.
But especially Bram.
Next to Larson, he's my favorite "child."
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Jack_D.Mented
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| Posted: Fri Jan 09, 2009 11:45 pm Post subject: |
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Well, thanks for the great suggestions, Deadite.
I'll be working on this one more as soon as the results to this poll come out.
I'm looking forward to see where this pilgrimage into the depths of madness will lead me. 
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Abattoir Chapter 2!
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Crunchyfrog
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| Posted: Sun Jan 11, 2009 11:33 am Post subject: |
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Missed the suggestion phase... 
It may be a good idea to post a synopsis with your next chapter, to refresh the memories of those of us who've played. I'm finding it a bit difficult to remember some of the details now, as the chapter before this was some months back.
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Jack_D.Mented
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| Posted: Wed Jan 21, 2009 10:10 pm Post subject: |
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Chapter 6
The tactician swirled the wine in his goblet and clicked his tongue. That he had lost his taste for the fine vintage was apparent.
The tension in the air was oppressive. It had an actual maleable presence and it permeated all things. The courier couldn't but feel that it would cling to his clothes even as he left the manor.
At a hush tone that barely could be heard over the crackling fire, Martin spoke. His words were slow and deliberate, but the most troubling thing about them was not the anger that he expected, but the complete lack of emotion that encompassed the man.
"This is something of a matter of honor. It should be dealt with by a man."
He exhaled.
"On a man to man basis. This is something that your master could never understand."
The tall man rose from the table, climbing to his feet as if it were a chore.
Suddenly, his eyes flared and he screamed, "And I shall deal with this MYSELF!"
On the last word, he hurled the half empty glass across the room and it shattered on the stone wall.
The messenger cringed.
Martin struggled to control his erratic breathing.
After a few seconds that seemed longer than an eternity, the older man adjusted his tunic, straightening out some of the wrinkles it had acquired from sitting for so long. He combed his fingers through his hair and let the hand fall limply to his side.
He turned around and waved absent mindedly to the messenger, signaling his dismissal.
The stunned soldier could not help but glance at the rich red wine the spilled across the floor stones and gathered in small puddles in the cracks.
More than anything else, it looked all the world like blood.
.........................
Bram trudged slowly along the muddy path toward the city of Wehea.
He was up to his ankles in muck and the road wound off into the woods many times, leading him to wonder if he'd perhaps taken a wrong turn.
As the blackguard came around a sharp corner, he saw a whimpering man slumped in the dirt, his back reclined against a tree trunk off to the side of the highway.
Ota had never been one to trust strangers and the long months he'd spent inside a tomb had done nothing to soften his disposition. He drew the hand axe.
The warrior made his way off to the side of the road and worked his way through the brush and growth. He kept to the shadows as best he could, but it was something of a chore in his armor.
Now that he was closer, he could see the man more clearly.
The man was old and shriveled, his skin wrinkled and covered with scattered liver spots. His head hung low and he sobbed deeply to himself. His leg was twisted at an odd angle and white bone protruded from the delicate flesh. He shivered and quaked as he'd done his best to bind his wounds with the sack cloth rags that he'd previously worn as clothes.
It was pitiful.
Bram was disgusted.
He emerged from the darkness and flipped the visor of his helmet up.
The sudden motion made the elder jump and stutter. He placed a trembling hand over his weathered chest and motioned to his heart.
"Damned be, boy. You nearly scared but what lil' life I've got outta me."
The fighter grunted and hunched down to be at eye level.
The old man wheezed and blinked slowly. He was tired. "Now, I know you didn't come a down this road just to be helpin' folks, but I'd be grateful if you would."
Ota cocked his head. The motion bore an uncanny resemblance to a curious hound.
Bone thin fingers reached into a pouch slung around his waist and the fellow removed a handful of golden coins. He held them out toward Bram and began coughing.
Each bark painfully racked his broken body and he wiped the spittle from his chin with his free hand before speaking again.
"I scrounged these from slave masters that took me and my daughters. I am not long left, but if you could save them, I'd be grateful to you, kind sir."
He coughed again.
Bram took the coins and placed them within a coin purse of his own. He'd need money for a new horse.
The blackguard took a knee and leaned in close. For the first time, he spoke to the wounded man.
"You are right on but one part of this," He whispered as he drew the mask back down across his face.
He reached out and wrapped one gigantic hand around the old man's throat and crushed his fragile neck with a simple flick of the wrist.
Bram Ota stood up and knocked the mud from his knees.
"You aren't long left in this life."
Thunder rumbled low in the distance and a single blue bolt of lightning cracked the dark sky.
A storm was coming.
.........................
High above, the thunderbolts squirming like live snakes in his massive fist, a lone god looked down in disapproval.
He ran the fingers of his free hand through his beard and decided that something must be done.
Such evil could not be allowed to go unchecked.
.........................
Salizaar quietly used his fork to shovel some grains of rice down his throat in the darkness of his room. He was accustomed to taking his meals alone and he was wont to continue this habit, even if Reynald warned that such action could be considered an affront to inn keeper.
From outside his door, light crept in as did the voices of the two humans that supped together.
The dark elf focused his mind and paid close attention to what they said.
.........................
Reynald turned back his tankard and inhaled his beer.
It was a local brewmeister's concoction and it was quite delicious.
He raised his other hand and bit into a turkey leg. Hot juices squirted out where his teeth sank in and the prince squinted a fraction of an inch as he burned his tongue.
Bado had not ceased speaking from the start. His plate remained almost untouched and the most part, he simply prodded his peas around with a spoon as he asked questions.
The prince was more than happy to answer them all.
Of course he embellished on certain elements. It was expected and he knew they'd only grow greater with every retelling.
"So... then. How do you know Bram?" The merchant asked as he leaned forward.
Taliesin burped loudly, wiped his forearm across his mouth and replied, "Well, my friend in there knows more on that one."
He burped again, plucked a dagger from his belt and began to pick at his teeth.
"He's one scary bastard. That I know."
Bado chuckled a bit and shook his head. "Some things never change," He whispered.
Reynald held up his cup and a wench came to pour more beer.
"Normally, I wouldn't lower myself to such a peasantly drink, but you, my friend..." The prince shook his finger accusingly, "Have found something truly special."
As soon as the cup was full, he gulped half of it down.
Bado put the spoon down and cracked his knuckles. "But I thought he had retired. What did you gents offer him that he was willing to leave that pretty lil' wife of his to go questing again for?"
"Well..."
Reynald was cut off by a gloved hand on his shoulder. His gaze followed the arm up all the way up and met with the cloaked eyes. They sparked bits of crimson in the pale candle light. A snarl was etched across the thin lips.
Salizaar did not so much as look past him as through him, right at Bado. His stare was pure ice.
His voice was barely more than a whisper, but it left no room for negotiation.
"My companion has drank too much for the evening. Excuse him."
Bado didn't so much as flinch, but clapped and servants came to clear the table.
Reynald sat his beer down and did his best to swallow his pride and bite his tongue.
.........................
Bado punched his desk and cursed the man in black that traveled with the brat prince.
The assassin leader slipped out from the shadows and Bado waved him away.
"No. Not now.
'We should instead find out what the good baron advises."
The assassin nodded and retreated back into the darkness as Bado grabbed a quill and paper.
The former mercenary ripped a thin strip of the parchment and scrawled a simple but to the point message to Lothar Corbus.
He reached toward the cage of pigeons that cooed incessantly to his right.
.........................
Little he know that the Baron and his armies were less than two days' march from the gates of Wehea.
The grey haired warlord sat upon his horse, swaying only a little in the saddle. He sported a more practical chain mail shirt and a leather breastplate.
Behind him a squire carried his banner on foot, the fabric snapping in the cold wind.
Clear blue skies stretched out above and gently rolling hills were his only obstacle on this stretch on his drive to the capital thus far.
He absent mindedly toyed with the ram's head amulet around his neck. He could feel its arcane energies pulsing throughout his body and extending out with his will.
If it wasn't for this trinket, he would never have been able to make his bid for conquest but no one would know it. He would not have his name sullied in the history books by allegations of sorcery, no matter the cost.
His green eyes caught sight of a sudden shadow in the sky as it came lower.
Lothar extended his arm and the bird perched upon his wrist. He delicately untied the message from its tiny foot and cast the pigeon back into the sky.
He drew his mount to a halt as he read the dispatch. His features contorted with rage, his brows arching and his nostrils flaring. His thick lips curled into an unpleasant snarl as he crumpled the paper into a wad and crammed it into his mouth.
Corbus chewed twice and swallowing hard, consumed the evidence.
His son, Jerek, pulled up beside him on his own painted mare. The younger man was nothing so much as a younger version of his father. He had the same thick skull, wide nose, thick lips, and green, catlike eyes.
"Father, what is wrong?" He asked.
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Eadgar's Saga Chapter 2 POLL
Abattoir Chapter 2!
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Jack_D.Mented
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| Posted: Wed Jan 21, 2009 10:14 pm Post subject: |
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Ok. So the DP is to decide what the Baron does...
Should he continue his drive to the capital and deal with it later?
Should be bring the full force of his army to bear upon Wehea?
Should he split his forces and attempt to do both?
Hope you guys enjoyed this latest chapter. It took a bit longer to write, but that's mainly because I had to sort everything out. There's a lot happening and I can only promise that things are about to pick up.
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Abattoir Chapter 2!
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DeadManWalking
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| Posted: Thu Jan 22, 2009 3:01 pm Post subject: |
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Splitting up your forces is usually just asking for disaster, especially when going against walled cities.
Unless you split them up wisely.
What seems to me to be the best idea (only if you have enough men, though), send enough men to one city to keep it from sending help to the other city while you bring your men around at it in a surprise assault. It would help if you had some way of getting into the city quickly, vs. and extended siege, since you would want to capture the city and occupy it as fast as possible to bring your other forces around to finish the first city.
Enough is subjective, depending on the proximity of other cities to the two. If there isn't anything around for a long travel, then you can send less men, since you don't need to stop messengers (because the only city they could ask for help would have enough trouble of its own). But if there are other cities, you may have to split up more, because then you can't afford to let other cities send reinforcements.
I believe that the right ratio for an assault on a castle is four or five to one, so if you don't have anyone who could use subterfuge to unlock the gate or something (the unknown amulet might help with that) and you don't have enough troops left after the split, its kinda not a good idea to split your forces.
If you don't have enough men, i'd just try and storm one before it can get help. But that's a bit risky, since the other one might mobilize its forces.
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Jack_D.Mented
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| Posted: Tue Jan 27, 2009 1:08 pm Post subject: |
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Alrighty then...
The poll is up and I look forward to seeing the votes cast.
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Eadgar's Saga Chapter 2 POLL
Abattoir Chapter 2!
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Crunchyfrog
Honorable IFian
Joined: 12 Dec 2006
Posts: 3998
Items
Legends
Fables
Strata-gems
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| Posted: Tue Jan 27, 2009 1:17 pm Post subject: |
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I just seen the pics you've been putting up on the first page of this SG. Good stuff! 
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| What strategy shall the Baron persue? |
| Divide his forces evenly. |
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0% |
[ 0 ] |
| Ignore Wehea entirely and drive on. |
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0% |
[ 0 ] |
| Divert his course and lay waste to Wehea. |
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50% |
[ 1 ] |
| Send in just enough troops to pin down Wehea and continue. |
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50% |
[ 1 ] |
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| Total Votes : 2 |
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