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chinaren wrote: |
Send a messenger to both can't he?
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Quote: |
On a large plain, barren and devoid of even the slightest hint of life, was a city. In this war-torn, weary city there was a castle. The castle looked as if it had been at one point magnificent, but, like the village, was an image of faded glory. In this castle, in a large room that was dusty and decrepit, a man sat on a worn and broken throne. This man was of a height slightly taller than average, and had plain brown hair and piercing green eyes. He appeared just as worn as the rest of the city, dark circles betraying the lack of sleep that he had been feeling recently. Another man walked into the room. "King Abram, scouts report a large force approaching from the east." Abram slowly stood, addressing his second in command. "So begins the end. Rally our remaining troops, we make our stand here, my good Jerrin." "A beginning yes, but perhaps not of the end. Your men are valiant, and each of them is worth ten normal soldiers," replied Jerrin. Abram responded with a sarcastic edge, "Good, at least we will take down half of their men before being slaughtered." Jerrin had no reply to this, and left to issue orders to the king's troops. Abram stood at a window, and prepared himself for the fight to come. |
Quote: |
Everyone waited in anticipation as the enemy approached.
Jerrin shouted from the wall, “Archers RELEASE!” The archers let loose a hail of arrows that pierced and punctured the Blades of Terror, causing over one hundred to fall to the deadly rain before they reached the gates. “Archers fall back!”, Jerrin’s voice resounded. “Swordsmen DRAW!”, yelled Abram, as he drew a beautiful, yet practical-looking long sword. The soldiers held their breath as a resounding boom confirmed that the invaders had reached the gates. A whispered word from Abram sent two men off to stand beside the oil-filled cauldrons. As the gates slammed into the ground and the attackers rushed into the city, the first to arrive were greeted by boiling oil raining down from above, which was ignited by an archer with a fire-arrow to cause a furious blaze. Eventually the fire died, and the soldiers continued to flood in to be skewered on the hidden stakes. The horde continued to rush forward, climbing over the bodies of their own dead to reach the stalwart defenders. With a resounding clash of metal on metal, the two sides met, and the battle had begun in full. Hours passed, and even though the professional defenders each had more skill than the best of the invaders, the sheer numbers of the advancing tide of death began to overwhelm the brave soldiers of the city, and they were forced to retreat farther and farther into the city. When it became apparent that the battle could not be won, Jerrin cried to Abram, “You must leave, my king! We cannot hold them off!” “I will never desert my troops in their hour of need, Jerrin.” was Abrams fiercely declared response, as he battled off four different attackers. The two, along with a squad of soldiers, took refuge inside a house and boarded the entrance. “Please, you must leave!” pleaded Jerrin, “Contact our allies, and tell them of our plight!” Abram was stalwart when he said, “I won’t leave my troops to die, you of all people should know that.” Jerrin released a mournful sigh as he said, “I am so sorry...” Abram’s vision blackened as the flat of Jerrin’s blade collided with his skull. >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> When Abram awoke he was in a tent, his wounds bound, and his head pounding. A soldier walked, and Abram inquired as to what happened. “When you refused to leave, Commander Jerrin knocked you unconscious, and ordered me to take you to safety," replied the soldier. "He and the remaining five hundred of our troops have holed up in the castle, and are waiting for you to return with re-enforcements from our allies." As Abram stepped out of the tent and beheld the city, miles away, with smoke rising up as the city continued to burn, he said, “What are our options?” Worry for Jerrin and his troops permeated him like a thousand needles stabbing through his thoughts. “To the south is Syrtam, and although it is closest, The King of Blades is likely to have sent a battalion of troops there too, but maybe not. To the west, we have Dierm, but they are not on the friendliest terms with us.” The king pondered this, and thoughtfully asked, “What is your name, soldier?” “My name is Dartin, Sire.” As the king paced before the tent, a feeling of foreboding fell on him. |
AlphaJackal (Paraphrased) wrote: |
"...and of height slightly taller than average. He hopped of his throne, taking slightly less time than when he had dropped his toothbrush the other day, this being the day that his aunt had..." |
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Should Abram go to the southern kingdom of Syrtam, and risk being there if the King of Blade strikes, or venture west,to Dierm, and hope that he is not rejected, or worse? Or is some other scheme viable? |
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unusual quite |
alphaJackal wrote: |
I am just trying to amass some characters to kill off, so I have a good selection of people to sacrifice to the plot. |
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