An Ominous Warning

Thunder rumbles from a distant point, but no rain clouds show in the sky. Blinking against the blinding glare of the sun, a young guard shakes his head ponderously in confusion before realizing that something else was making that noise. Turning to peer up the road, he takes a few moments to confirm that he is hearing hoof beats approaching at a very furious pace. Bewildered, he mutters to himself “The Squire and the Baronet’s people are all at the Baronet’s manor... Who else rides a horse around here?” and then decides it would behoove himself to actually do the duty that got him assigned to this gate.

Stepping out in front of the gate, he swings the heavy wooden planks closed and signals to his companion to actually climb up and man the watchtower in case it is an enemy making all of that racket. Shifting a bit to settle his clothes, the young man squares his shoulders and attempts to appear fierce as the first glimpse of the approaching animal and rider appears around the curving path. Dirt erupts in a rolling wake of splatters as the heavy horse careens dangerously along the narrow path and heads directly towards the nervous guard.

Summoning every last bit of courage he can find in his skinny frame, the young man licks his lips and calls out a challenge. Stammering, he attempts again while trying to figure out if he should draw his sword or just run. Luckily he is not alone and the guard now atop the watch tower fires a warning arrow into the dirt alongside the rider’s trajectory. Taking a timid step back, the gate guard feels a great sense of relief as the rider rears back on the reins and the horse begins to slow. In what seems like an eternity in the widened eyes of the guard, the horse slowly pulls up and slows the galloping approach to end with a snort close enough to lick the sweat off the man’s brow.

With a quick flourish, the rider drops from the horse and sneers at the presence of the guard. “Messenger Dispatch, you fool” he exclaims as he spits on the ground in disgust. “Have you lost your wits?” The guard stiffens at the insult and imperiously demands to know “Messenger from whom?” as sternly as he can manage. For all of his bravado, he receives a scornful look and a vicious retort “Are you daft? It doesn’t matter from whom, I come here just to warn this town of major events. And if you want to be the reason that your town is not ready for the King, then so be it.” And with that, the messenger turns and acts as if he is about to mount his horse and depart.

“Wait, wait, wait.” The guard hastily exclaims as he realizes just how important this visitor could be. “Uh, you have any papers to show who you are?” he asks and sheepishly explains “We have a lot of anxious people in the town since we keep being attacked, they want to make sure we aren’t be tricked”. A massive sigh erupts of the erstwhile messenger as he pulls back his cloak to reveal the markings of a Hythe City courier. “Listen,” he grumbles “I don’t have time for all of this nonsense. I don’t really care about your little Podunk town nor all of its nervous citizens and scared farmers. I am just coming to let everyone on the way to Stoneden know that the King is coming.”

Stopping to take a breath, he first demands some water for his horse and then continues as the guard scurries to obey. “Apparently the King is tired of this talk about bandits and about all of the different Houses fighting and bickering, so he is sending out a major complement of the King’s army to march through the land and put down any problems that arise.” Taking the proffered bucket, the weary man holds it in front of his horse and speaks loudly to be heard over the sound of the guzzling equine.  “Hythe was taken by surprise, and it’s not good because there was a lot of fighting going on. I was just sent to get here as quickly as possible and let everyone know so that they can get their affairs in order before someone questions things too closely and bad things happen. I have heard rumors that the Army is just putting on a show and laying down the law without really caring who is at fault or what the real story is.” 

Handing back the bucket, he grips the pommel of his saddle and swings effortlessly into place. “I must go, but warn your leaders to get ready. I feel some big changes are coming this way, at least for those involved in politics.” Turning his horse to head back down the path, the messenger offers a wry smile to the nonplussed guard “Though I fear not much will change for the common man, life just is not fair that way”.

Silence descends over the clearing where the path and gate intersect, both guards stand slack jawed and watch as the messenger rides off around the bend. A few moments pass without any movement before the gate guard suddenly gulps loudly and turns to stare at his fellow in the watchtower. Confused eyes meet and betray mutual worried expressions, then the gate guard suddenly yelps and races into the town looking for the nobles to pass along this most important message.

A Setting Sun

As the sun slowly fades below the horizon, the air is filled with the terrible sounds of death. A black shroud slowly descends to cloak the blood soaked meadow where thousands of bodies lie in a chaotic tangle. Moans and groans are the only sounds audible from these bodies, though the myriad birds feasting upon still warm flesh assault the ears with a cacophony of raucous calls.

Staring blankly at the carnage from the edge of a once peaceful meadow, a haggard survivor struggles to keep his composure as his mind fails to process such horrible devastation. Slowly turning a slim profile to view the warriors resting behind him, he utters soft orders. “Teratha, let’s get the wounded moving and give Last Peace to those who can’t survive the trip.” Turning from the black haired priestess, he then addresses a wounded soldier resolutely standing at his side. “Lyet, we have to get back and tell the Emperor. He needs to know that all is lost and we must sound a retreat”. The soldier’s eyes widen at hearing that; he is not surprised by the fact as it a truth that they have all come to recognize, but he is more surprised at hearing his superior actually admit it out loud.

As the small band of wound soldiers slowly gathers themselves and prepares for an arduous trek, the leader turns one last look at the ghastly battlefield. “To think, the entire might of the Arkhold people will soon be spread amongst the carrion birds. May history never know the truth of this defeat.” With that he reaches down to pick up his equipment, a battered shield and a well-used battle-axe. A moment of reflection is spent gazing at these few pieces of metal that have so defined his entire adult life. No longer is his visage keenly reflected on the polished edges of the shield, nor does his axe bear the shimmering marks of the marvelous Adante metalworking. Instead they appear worn and torn, almost as if some ancient tribe had buried and lost these artifacts several centuries in the past. Realizing that his life now would be very different than it has been in the past, he actually drops the shield in the dirt and almost drops his axe before Lyet reaches over to stop him. “Hold, my lord Baratel,” mutters the young brunette, “We still have need of your strength in arms should we meet more barbarians on our trip to the Emperor.”

Baratel hearkens to the words of his junior officer, though he nearly demands to know what point there is in fighting the barbarians. Grudgingly, the small group forges onward through the branches of the forest and sets their sights to a distant point in the east. Hours blend into days and then weeks as they journey south, each day appearing to rise only to give them less reason to carry on. The air hangs heavy with smoke, laden with the horrifying stench of burnt flesh. Countless villages appear on the edge of the path they travel, but all are ransacked and destroyed; little remains of the vast Empire which once gracefully spread across the plains and mountains. Instead they face only reminders of their great failure, evidence that the time of the Arkhold Empire has come to a close. 

Gripping his battle-axe with bitter fierceness, Baratel mentally swears to protect the last remnant of his people until they can recover from this travesty and once again fill this world with true civilization. Gentle golden rays of sunlight caress his face for a last brief moment before the sun sets, almost as if abandoning the Arkholdian people entirely. As gloom settles, it matches the feeling in the heart of all civilization, and the question is left hanging against the flickering glower of the moon. “What will become of the Arkhold Empire and its people? Will history ever know that they existed?”

A Vanished Memory

An Achaean post. Most of the activities here are descriptions of actions and attacks that happen in the game of Achaea. 


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Gales of icy rain pelt the landscape with fury, while magic lightning arcs down to draw screams of pain. Flickering flames linger to trace the arc of fiery meteors, as terrible destruction falls upon the city like rain.

The steady thrum of arrow flights fill the background noise, as fear begins a radiance within the mind. Massive maws suddenly open to swallow men whole, as demons devour souls and leave the bodies behind.

Steely gray eyes sternly pierce the darkness like rapiers, as the captain of the guard steadfastly stands his ground. Strictly barking orders as he marshals fearful troops, the captain still prays for the solution not yet found.

Gathering his remaining courage and his men, the captain sets forth to join in the heightening fray. Rallying every soul that can hear his shouted call, the captain leads the last fateful charge to seize the day.

The clatter of moving armor mingles with coarse yells, as excited and anxious feet pound hard upon the road. Strangled men fall while others are ripped away with laughter, still the captain charges towards the path destiny showed.

A large stone wall suddenly rises up from the ground, breaking the charge as bodies collide in disgrace. Furiously the captain begins to scream new commands, which fade to silence as he succumbs to Death's embrace.

With a valiant shout, one knight continues ever onward, pushing his mount forward just enough to leap the wall. Blades scything downwards shredding enemies to either side , the knight struggles just to stay astride and to not fall.

Summoning all of his fury and silent prayers, desperate inspiration from on high fills this knight. Divine strength and stamina ripples through his muscles, as his God heeds his prayers and responds to his plight.

Gathering his weapons the knight gallops through the streets, hastily dodging traps and shrugging off many attacks. Clashing metal blades echo eerily in the night, as the enemy's once hardened resolve quietly cracks.

Bleeding profusely from every small cut and deep wound, the valiant knight staggers forward and refuses to fail. Exhaustion and utter pain seeping from his pores, he barely dodges the wildly slashing dragon tail.

Eyes locked together in the deadliest of struggles, single knight circles gleaming dragon with a weary pace. Frightening flames burst around his shield's hard edges, and a ferocious jaw closes just before his face.

The avatar of Death looms close with mocking laughter, as puny limbs shatter uselessly between gnawing teeth. A solitary prayer slips out in desperation, heeded with a startling reflection off the knight's sheath.

As scaled fury is briefly paused in blind confusion, a trumpet sounds in the distance to call a quick retreat. Hissing fills the air as the dragon lifts off in flight, responding to the pull of the commanding beat.

Tears of useless rage stream down the weathered face, as the knight surveys the heavily torn and damaged city. Wondering just what purpose could this destruction have, as whatever is left is now filled with only pity.

Grimly gathering his reigns gently with a now broken hand, the knight lingers one last time to gather goods and feed. Sorrow bends his back as he ventures into the mountains

That was the last that was seen of my hero and his steed.