A Confident Captain...

Broken rays of light struggle to fight through wafting clouds of smoke, as a soft roll of thunder seems to echo from every side of a massive battlefield. Tense exclamations are quickly muted as nearly a hundred soldiers crouch close to the earth and frantically peer around to try to make sense of the blurred images contorting in the smoke. Thousands of acres of burnt grasslands spread out all around the soldiers and the smoke seems intent on blotting out the very sun in the sky. Hasty signals are passed from soldier to soldier as they can’t see more than 3 feet ahead of them. A brown garbed sergeant desperately tries to form a defensive formation against the foe he knows must surround them by now.

Barely over a hundred feet away, steely gray eyes remain locked on the urgent motions of the sergeant and his company. Unfazed by the smoke and acrid burning smell, Captain Maulkin studies his target with serious contemplation. So still is the Captain that even the great destrier beneath him refuses to move, allowing the carrion flies buzzing in clouds to land on its body without complaint. After a few minutes of study, the Captain moves his large gauntleted hand in a small circle and from his right comes a soft trill, nearly birdlike in its quality. As that call elongates and drifts upon the wind something stirs across the field, suddenly forming itself into a crashing and twisting shadow army racing through the smoke. Hoarse calls and yells ring upon the air and all of the brown clad soldiers tense into a sudden formation and attempt to form a shield wall. The thunder of hooves echo prominently in the ears of all around, the dense clouds of smoke making it sound as if it was coming from right on top of any person that could hear it.

With elegant grace the Captain swings down from his mount to close his eyes and lean his head back to the sky. Soot drifts down from above to smear his beard gray, but still he waits and listens to the chaos erupting around him. Ahead of him the unaware soldiers react to the crashing sound of a Calvary charge nearly upon them; some break and run to disappear into the haze, others are more disciplined and follow the sergeant’s bellows to form tight ranks and present weapons front, others seem immobilized by fear which directly counters those blood thirsty few who can’t bear the wait for combat and scream their challenges into the smoky blanket. At what seems the very last moment on this earth, the charging hooves carve a beat directly into the veins of every soldier present and then suddenly the sound is gone. A hesitant pause silences nearly every noise from the company of men, as they gape in surprise at the sudden reprieve. One heartbeat lingers, then two, and with that the Captain snaps his arms up into a commanding gesture.

The puzzled soldiers have just begun to relax, most standing and staring around in bewilderment as they try to discover what happened and if they were actually under attack or just hearing echoes from much further away. The sergeant is just about to bark an order to present an orderly front and stay alert when he happens to see just a glint of light flashing off the helmet of one of his men. Turning to face behind him, he is shocked to his core at the sight presented before him. Striding confidently towards him comes a ghostly apparition, heavy boots crunching down into still smoldering grass and empty arms stretched outwards towards the sky. Smoke drifts up from the scorched earth and gently embraces the ornate green armor in a fitting caress as the world around the sergeant explodes into fury and death.

No emotion mars the pristine visage of the Captain as he glides forward towards his dying enemies. Thick wooden shafts whistle down from the sky to embed themselves in relaxing soldiers, one man manages to lift his shield in time to catch an arrow right in front of his face but the very next moment he is skewered from behind as a fellow soldier reacts poorly to a shaft buried in his throat. With two more strides, the Captain has nearly reached the enemy forces and he once against closes his eyes to savor the moment as his troops continue to rain destruction down in front of him.

Frantically shouting orders, the horrified sergeant tries to protect his men. It seems to be working for a brief instant, as order is returned and shields begin stopping the onslaught of arrows. Turning to face the warrior striding confidently into his midst, the sergeant begins to think they might have a chance. With a terrible rending sound, a massive boulder erases hope as it collides into the tightly packed formation and smashes armor, bones, blood, and tissue into a solid meaty paste.  Another boulder thuds in with a sickly crunching sound, and then the sky is filled with them. Dazed and bloodied, the soldiers try to find shelter or escape reality but there is no relenting from the arrows carving lines of pain and death complimented by the totality of a thudding boulder.

Sinking to his knees, the sergeant is aghast at the loss of his entire company so quickly. Just a year ago, nobody would have thought of challenging the Dalison House. Respected for being the first Royal House, their reputation had slipped a bit but enough people still feared them that they went basically unchallenged. Now they were dying, and too fast to count. Who did this to them, to him? Almost as if taunting the sergeant, the barrage of boulders and the hail of arrows peters out to leave a field empty except for smoke and blood. Twisting slowly from his kneeling position to gaze around him, tears freely fall as the sergeant realizes that not a single man was left alive. Despair rips all reasoning or action from his grasp and he dumbly watches thick metal boots stride through the remains of his men until they stop right in front of him. “No more will you disgrace this world, you have proven yourself weak and unworthy of life” comes a gravelly pronouncement out of the haze and then light ripples along a blade and the sergeant cares no more.

A few moments pass, with just the Captain standing near the headless body and gazing upon the ruined remains of the Dalison soldiers. Then other figures begin to materialize from the smoky surroundings and approach the silent captain. The first to arrive reaches out a gloved hand to give the Captain a small cloth which he uses to clean his blade silently. “Captain, we still have reports of three other bands of soldiers still nearby. Two from House Rodhale and it looks like one from House Obelyn.” Looking at the speaker, one of his closest aides, the Captain responds “Are we sure they are two different Houses? House Rodhale and Obelyn both wear blue that can be confused in this environment and lack of visibility.” Nodding his assurance, the aide continues “Aye, Captain. The scout actually heard one of the troop ask where Lady Obelyn was supposed to meet them. He was promptly cussed out by a fellow in the troop, but that makes the scout confident they are actually from House Obelyn.”

Pondering his next move, Captain Maulkin signals into the smoke and a few flashes of light wink back at him. Turning to the rest of his aides as they gather around him, he takes a look at the map attached to the back of one of his men. “Okay, the Dalisons are pretty much broken. They still fight and think they hold this ground, but we have holes and entry points everywhere. We know this ground much better than they do, which makes me think they didn’t plan this massive fire which gave us such great opportunity.” A snort interrupts him briefly, causing a pursing of his lips to which his men suddenly straighten and become deadly serious and intent upon his words. “We don’t have much to fear from the Rodhale troops, while the House has a reputation for being all about combat they are really just glory hounds and better suited to the tournaments. In a real fight, they are clueless babes. Plus most of their best men are still in Corvale toadying up to the useless King.”

As various heads nod in agreement with this assessment, the Captain gives his orders “We must teach the Obelyn House that they are no longer the second most important House in the Kingdom. They already have plans upon the throne, and think they will take advantage of this chaos to position themselves and take what they already believe is theirs. I can see their thought, since they have so carefully positioned themselves over the past two decades. But our Lords have different plans, and this is our first time to show them a glimpse of the new order.” Looking around at his aides, the Captain waits until each of his dusty and tired men make eye contact. “We must do this subtly and completely. We are not yet ready to show our true plans or goals. Most of the Houses think we just want this country side, and do not realize the strength of our ambition. With our brethren in House Seymore, we will show them the errors of their ways but not just yet.” A pause here, for effect. “We will wipe this Obelyn company off our God’s earth, and then plant the bodies of the Dalisons at the scene so that when the Duchess finally does arrive to meet her troops she will have to take action against someone other than ourselves.”

As his men break apart to start giving orders and signals to the massed troops hiding in strategic places across the ruined battlefield, the Captain gives himself a small brief moment of emotion. A twisted smile pulls at his downturned lips for the briefest moments as he contemplates the future. “This is OUR Kingdom, they just don’t know it yet.”

A Fallen Knight...

Fog curls out from beneath the gnarled tree roots and gently caresses the ground as it spreads forward to embrace the earth. Broken rays of sunlight trickle down through the cluttered branches to sparkle delicately in the gray cloud covering the ground. For a brief moment it seems as if all of the world has fallen into an enchanted slumber.  Then hoarse shout rises distantly from within the thicket of trees and is soon joined by a great number of screams. Birds burst dramatically into the air to blend their shrieking calls with the deathly din they are eagerly escaping. Wearily, a battered face turns towards the outburst with calculating eyes; wiping glistening beads of sweat from his face, Sir Leon motions to a waiting squire who refills his water-skin as the Knight strains to make out the sounds of battle.

“It’s the Seymour’s yellow coated brigands again, I reckon” a nearby soldier helpfully interjects to break the quiet reflection. The Knight nods as he returns “But whose men are they butchering now?” which causes everyone to fall silent again. The sounds of battle drift from the distant conflict for a few more minutes before slowly fading away into an eerie calm. Tilting his head back, Sir Leon looks up at the makeshift watch tower his men had completed just the previous night. A slight movement on the wooden construction and then a head peers over and makes eye contact with the Knight. “Can’t see diddly, Sir. No idea where they are, or how many there are.”

A muffled groan might have been heard as the Knight looks around at his remaining men. Keeping an outward appearance of calm, he nods solidly to those who manage to meet his eyes though he is inwardly raging. Curse whatever bloody fools light the entire grasslands on fire, he mentally shouts to himself. A pox and a curse and all of the boils of Satan’s torment burn their souls for eternity! We might have stood a chance until a prairie fire sets a beacon out to the whole world and conveniently blocks any line of sight or ability to watch or scout for movement. 17 ambushes in just two weeks, who ever heard of a Knight being caught unaware that often? A few nervous glances from his squires makes Sir Leon realize that his face was betraying his inner turmoil again, which he resolves by stiffly turning and making another round of their precarious encampment. Occupying himself by taking a quick internal roll call, the Knight is almost crushed by the realization he has only twelve men left. Twelve men out of a fierce seventy man regiment so widely respected that many fights stopped simply because they arrived.

The moment the fire became apparent, every House around rushed to wipe the other off the planet under the cover of the ash darkened skies. Finding soldiers in yellow and green was not surprising, as the Seymour and Gainesford Houses had already been encroaching on Dalison land. But mixed in with those bodies, not only had he found the reddish brown of his own Dalison House but also the light cyan of the Rodhale, and also the deeper red of House Andrews. Probably all Houses have a quick tongued gent on hand with the King to explain the “mistaken identity” or “accidental death” for any conflict that could actually be witnessed and proven in the King’s court. And nobody had heard word of that minor House that was poking around before the fire started. So much for their vaunted help that they offered, he snorts to himself, some rumors even have them as the reason that the fire started. I wish I knew what they really wanted and why they decided to wipe the Dalison House off the world.

Sudden alarm breaks into his thought process and he stiffens in shock as his mind frantically does a double take. “Alarm!” he barely manages to get out before the trees around him erupt into a flurry of weapons swinging at his face. I walked right past that guy and never realized he was just standing there in the shadows. Time has frozen for the briefest of moments as he rebels against accepting the sight in front of him. Not the Black! They never surround or take prisoners, just kill us all with no warning or reasoning. They aren’t from here, some say they are from Hell. Why must it be them, why can’t it be a House?

All these thoughts flit through Leon’s brain in a lightning fast moment before combat shuts down any further extraneous thoughts. Quickly twisting with the grace of years of practice, Leon flips his shield sideways and manages a quick bump against an incoming sword. Rotating his head in an awkward angle, he is barely able to catch a second thrust against the strong crest of his helm. Using the momentum of his twist, his right arm strains muscles in a painful movement but succeeds in clearing his sword from his scabbard and sending a darting thrust towards the black armored opponent.  Screams and shouts fill the air but sound seems compressed to the Knight as he focuses on pure survival.

A single lasting second hangs in time before the two blackened blades flicker frighteningly quick towards Leon. An efficient sidestep puts his shield once more right in the perfect path to blunt a sword strike, but this time his attempt to dodge is not quick enough and the second sword catches on his shoulder plates. Metal shrieks as a few chains snap beneath the weight of the blow and blood vessels burst in protest, however his skin does not break and the fight must continue. Moving into his blow, the Knight flings a quick side-hand slash that is easily dodged by his nimble opponent. Hard earned experience has prepared Leon for his tactic however and he manages to shuffle forward just a bit during the exchange.

The roar of blood pounds a drastic beat in his ears, drowning out the sounds of his men behind him. Knowing that they fought the black devils, Leon lets slip a brief snarl of despair and grief for his loyal men dying at this moment. Even a brief slip is too much against such spirited foes and a dark blade connects solidly against the side of his helmet and forces his eyes shut against the ringing. Dalison Knights are respected throughout the entire Kingdom for their training and old legends, and this one refuses to go down so easily. Gritting against the pain, the blind man relies entirely on instinct born of training and experience. Unconventionally swinging his sword low towards the dirt, he waits a heady and full microsecond before flicking his wrist upward with all of the strength that he has left in his battered body.

Bitter raging lust courses through his veins as the impact of steel upon heavy flash ripples through his muscles. A killing blow, he knows even though his eyes refuse to open. Elation and horror melt together inside his emotions as sweet droplets of blood course down his face. In his enlightened sense, Leon feels the presence of several bodies closing on his position. A snarl of pure determination rips through clenched teeth as he whirls and spins into the mass of bodies approaching him. Laughing the last laugh of a doomed man, he revels in the screams and grunts as his shield and blade clash and smash into his enemies. Unfeeling, unaware, he ignores everything around him and surrounds to the rage and anger and bliss of knowing there are no more cares.

A bright light seems to dance in his mind, guiding him through each step of this delicate and maddening dance. Oh Lord of Creation, I entrust myself to You. Take my last confession, feel my sins and absolve me. Let me dance with You this night and sup from Your cup. I dedicate this glorious moment to You, let my name live on in glory forever. And as this last prayer bubbles out of lips brimming with blood, his body finally loses its battle. With a slow and sweeping spin, he slowly buckles to his knees and then begins a glacial fall to the ground. One last breath breaks free of collapsing lungs and his eyes finally work again, giving him one last glance of his final battlefield.

As the world spins in on itself, his mind is already fleeing but has time to mark the positions of two black suits of armor crumpled at one corner of the field and another one a few feet down. From those bodies lead a set of bloody footprints in an erratic pattern through a broken pile of brown armored bodies. The last sight seared into the Knight’s eyes are the footprints ending directly beneath him.

A thrice bitten Kingdom

The Kingdom of Corvali is a Kingdom of Three.

By that, I mean that the number 3 appears so many times in Corvali society that it is almost seems like destiny. 

The Kingdom is one of three Kingdoms on the known continent. It has three separate major Factions, who vie for political power while headquartered in one of the 3 major Cities in the Kingdom. In fact, the synergy with the number three extends even to the Royal Family due to the King having 3 sons vying to be his Heir.

The Kingdom is like any other, with its own ups and downs, strategies, politics, struggles, desires and goals. Its people are a complete mix, with the landed Noble Houses lording over their serfs and passing their superior airs over the merchants and guildsmen. The peasants work and toil and grumble and occasionally better their lifestyle but generally live and die in obscurity. Peace has reigned in Corvali for nearly 50 years, and everyone has settled into the way that life is and forgotten some of the aspects of fear and lost the will to stay alert. The rich get richer, the poor get poorer, the Church laments all things that lower profits and encourages piety by allowing coin to gain grace in Heaven.

It is into this docile yet frustrating world that our intrepid heroes are born. And it is this elaborate and scheming world which I open up to your perusal.

Consider this world in its medieval age, though there will be some differences from our own history and the way that things work. I will try to address the setup of the Kingdom and how society and the nobles work. As this story is still in the beginning stages, I am open to all suggestions on how things are progressing. 

The Story is only focusing on a single Kingdom at the moment - the other 2 are dark and mysterious and even those who inhabit our favored Kingdom do not know much about their neighbors.

Corvali is the small Kingdom on the bottom right, it is the one with the Dark pencil marks to show the King's Highway, the major road which connects the 3 major Cities.

The circle with the Star in it is the Capital City of Corvale, the S stands for Stoneden which is the major industrial and manufactoring hub and the one far down on the bottom along the coast is the port city of Hythe which rules the seas and is the home of the merchants.

What the heck is Corvali?

Recently I posted a few short little posts about some characters and events that are unconnected to anything else I have posted on this blog. My apologies for not explaining first.

Let me introduce you to Corvali - my current love afair with a new fantasy world that I am creating. This world is serving multiple purposes, currently I am working on writing a series of Novels based on this characters and also running a roleplaying game based on these concepts. I have some family and friends assisting me by playing the roleplaying game to help me flesh out the characters and the world. It is amazing how many new concepts you can come up with when you are staring at people who are demanding answers to why they can't do this or that. I have found that doing this simultaneous is both awesome and terrifying.

By having a weekly deadline (we play the game at least once a week), I HAVE to push myself. No laziness or stepping away from the creativity board, instead I must think and come up with ideas and advance the plotline. Otherwise, there are people who could actually beat me up! No author has faced that threat in quite some time, ha.

Plus having real live people react to a plot development can really help you see just how silly it is that your main character has a talking sword that likes pizza. So scratch that idea. It really does help sometimes to let someone else do the talking and thinking, allowing the players to try to solve a riddle sometimes gives me a new avenue for the novel characters to use -- and allows the evil villains more ways to spite our intrepid heros.

Corvali is my imagination running wild into an area I always wished someone else had already delved and provided to me. It is a fantasy medieval timeframe world... but things just work slightly different than our own history. I use the term medieval to help place our modern minds in the right demeanor and technological reference. But not to actually use the real history or way the world works, not every maiden is blushing or easy to be taken by the first Knight in shining armor.. etc.

There is no magic in Corvali, so don't expect monsters and wizards and fantastical creatures. Instead the world lives and breathes, the people react and move and have thoughts and feelings and desires just like you and I. There is a big difference though, the world of Corvali is much more dangerous than ours, with the average lifespan barely crossing the 40 year threshhold. So expect plenty of danger and death to be available to characters hated and beloved alike.

Stay tuned for further updates and I will try to explain the situation and the world in more detail soon

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?”

The Ending. Perhaps a beginning?

For all those who have asked, encouraged, prayed for, or otherwise supported my battle in the previous tale of the Paladin and Angel..(http://dwarventhoughts.blogspot.com/2012/05/beginning-is-it-also-ending.html)

Here is the next stage in the story, who can say if it is the last?

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The skies fade to black, night beckons into a sweet embrace. A single figure stands defiant against the cold wind sweeping down into the valley. Weariness causes strong shoulders to sag, and a ragged cough erupts from his throat. Huddling closer into his armor, the Paladin moves towards the warmth of the small campfire set before him.

His companion shuffles slightly in impatience, the tall and lanky youth has not yet learned the graceful and sure movement that his master desires to teach him. Time passes without communication as the wind howls in breathy rage and the cold seeps into the every bone. Hooded eyes peer out from under the cowl of the Paladin and search the darkness, but they appear dead to this world.

As the silence wears on, the impatience of youth defeats the fear of reprisals and soon the Squire clears his throat and breaks into the Paladins fierce contemplation. The same tired question floats in the night air, though this time the Paladin shivers against the chill of reality and decides to answer. Turning towards the Squire, the old Knight is illuminated by the flickering flames as he begins to recount an old tale of heartbreak and sorrow.

The gruff voice slowly and painstakingly describes the night that the Paladin met an Angel.  With stammering lips and forced explanations, he slowly describes the wild beating of his heart with her every kiss. Losing himself into memory, the Paladin recalls the brush of her fingers down his chest and how she gently kissed his ear to tease an excited groan from him. Remembering the rushed breathing as hands caressed, lips closed upon each other, as passion light the night sky with flames.

The crackle of the campfire lends a melody to the low tenor tones as the tale of the Angel continues on into the night. The Squire listens in rapt attention as a door opens in the heart of his master and new revelations pour forth.  Surprise shows on his face, as the story reveals emotions that the guarded knight has never before let be seen.  Yearning crosses the worn face of the Paladin as he tells his protégé about the laughter and joy he felt every single moment spent in the arms of the Angel; how resting with her cuddled tight in his arms made the world stand still and every worry vanish.

Such deep and powerful feelings stir within the breast of the youth that he nearly asks for the story to stop so that he can process what is happening. But he is entranced now and dare not break the spell that this recounting seems to have placed upon his master. Even as each description of the Angel and her beauty or love is graced upon the Squire, the Paladin seems to grow younger and the light in his eyes almost outshines the very stars themselves.

Then suddenly there is a hitch in the Paladin’s voice and it grows even gruffer. Now he tells the young companion that the Angel lived in two worlds. He tells of the nights laying on his back and watching the skies, forlornly hoping to see her grace his world and float down to join him. Softly now, the knight recounts searching for the Angel everywhere and finding a mystical portal that let him see into the other world. There he saw the Angel frolicking with another man who appeared only as a vague shape in the murky depths. He heard the twinkling of laughter in her voice and saw the radiance of her smile as she responded to a joke.

The wind no longer rages against the camp but instead slows to a quiet whisper, as if straining to hear the next words from the Paladin. Coarsely, he continues with the tale and explains how the Angel returned again in a few days and acted like nothing was different. Conversations from that fateful day seem to linger in the air; the melodic tones of the Angel as she admits to loving two worlds and not knowing what to do mingle with the broken queries of the armored knight trying to find his place in the universe. Confusion, anger, heartbreak, and sadness linger in the air as the two struggle to understand the twisting of Fate and decipher all possible futures.

A gentle whisper escapes the lips of the knight as he closes his eyes and empties out his heart in the telling of this story and recalls that fateful conversation. Passion still lights the very air between the Paladin and the Angel, as they mournfully gaze into each other’s eyes. Desire and longing make speaking difficult, and for a time they just meld together and try to forget what decisions must be faced in the morning.

A single tear tracks down the face of the Paladin as he reaches this part of his story; the Squire feels an answering tear begin to form in his own eye. Pushing himself forward, the Paladin stirs the campfire in silence for a while before again resuming his tale. Speaking of the last time that he saw the Angel, he calls to mind the memory of her radiant beauty. The luscious face now pale and hidden in shadow, streaked with the broken paths of tears that have cascaded down once rosy cheeks. The sparkle in her eyes has faded now, replaced only with a sad resolve. And thus the Paladin knows her decision before she even opens her mouth. Steeling his face to be as stiff and solid as he can be, the knight turns towards his forbidden Angel and gently traces a strong hand down her side while he looks straight into her shimmering eyes.  Only one question is asked, just to make sure that he was not misreading the situation. But she answers in the positive, giving a small nod of her head before turning away in tears once more. And then she was gone. 

Silence stretches out as time passes by with neither knight nor protégé noticing any change. Not even the impatience of youth can prompt the Squire to interrupt his master at this point, and so they both stare into the flickering light of the dying campfire. Shock still reverberates within the heart of the young man, as he could sense the depth of the love that the Paladin had felt and then lost. A low cough gets his attention and he turns back to his master and listens as the elderly knight tells him of the things that were attempted to capture the attention of the Angel again. The stories of the lonely nights staring into the sky and the words that alternated by softly whispered and fiercely screamed into the air. And while the Angel sometimes answered with words of sadness and understanding, they still echoed from another world and never from the world of the Paladin.

Dawn begins to break, as the sun slowly peeks over the horizon. Still the two companions sat besides the ashen remains of the campfire and stare into the distance, each one contemplating the matters of the heart. Slowly the Squire turns towards the older knight and forlornly asks just how the Paladin could handle such loss, and what he would do now. The Paladin lets loose a wry chuckle, tilting his head back to gaze up at the vanishing stars as he ponders how to respond. Then he lays a heavy hand upon the back of his young charge and gives him the lesson of life.

Cherish each moment, treasure every heartbeat. Bask in every bit of love you find, store it against the winter of desolation. Live life, enjoy life.  If the fear of pain stops you from looking, then you will never find peace or joy.

(Perhaps there is more than one Angel in this universe).

The Decision: To be a Squire or a Knight

This is for H.A.

He requested a story and some advice that deals with how to approach the realization that you made a mistake and turned away someone for whom you had real feelings. I hope you enjoy and feel free to comment.

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The squire stares into space, eyes open but unseeing.

The gentle cry of a hawk sounds in the distance, but even that majestic sound fails to leave an impression. The world spins upon its axis, and yet still the squire stares. Searching forward in time, seeking answers to questions he is not even able to properly form. In all of his musing, no escape from the past presents itself and now the present demands attention. Closing his eyes tight, he remembers the infamous words that he can never seem to retract. He really did tell her that "I don't really love you like that".

A frustrated huff escapes the lips of the brooding squire, as he leans back against the tree he has taken refuge in. At one point, he was the epitome of confidence. Always knew what he wanted and where he was going, strode briskly forward and took life by the horns. Smooth and assured, it seems like nothing would ever go wrong. But now, now how can he go on? How can he face tomorrow when the memory of yesterday flashes before his eyes seemingly every second. He was sure he knew what he wanted, that he was never meant to settle down or tie himself to just one place. He was going to be a Knight! A champion whom all would admire, surely he would be sought after and never have to worry about companionship.

Dark furrows creased the brow of the squire, in complete contrast to the peaceful stillness of the meadow around him. Within his mind, a mental storm raged with utmost ferocity. Questions forming and dashed aside, emotions roiling but not addressed. How had things gotten this way, what had so complicated his life now? It was one simple sight, and yet he can never forget it or block it out. How dare he be so upset, so torn and lovesick, when he was the one who told her to move on. And yet nothing else matters but the repeating image of her full lips firmly locked upon those of another man.

One thought beats a tune in his mind until finally he can focus upon it. Does he really care that deeply for her, or is it just the fact that she has found comfort in the arms of another that has so upset him? A discomforting thought for sure, he slowly muses while clenching his armored fists against each other. His training has taught him to be calm and slow in his reactions, to judge the situation and determine outcomes before moving. And yet every time that he comes back to considering this problem before him, it is as if nothing else matters. The simple fact that he wants to see her, hold her, kiss her again has completely distracted him from all other worries. Even his weapons lie beside him in disarray, no longer able to keep his mind away from these pestering questions.

As a lonely cloud drifts across the pale blue sky, the squire feels a determination building up within him. These feelings can not be false, how deep they are and how much they have affected him. Something must surely be true here. Slowly his internal storm resides and he grows steadier, his eyes beginning to glow again as he realizes that he again has confidence. Now instead of regretting what is lost, he ponders how to address his errors and regain the rhythm to his heartbeat. How do you take back words that can never be retracted, how do you heal a pain that one should experience in the first place. No wizard stood before the squire with an easy answer or a magical wand to wave. His mentors and Knights taught him the art of battle and combat, not of navigating the powerful currents known as love.

Pulling himself onto one knee, the squire plants his sword into the dirt and leans upon the hilt. Surely there must be an answer, a recourse to address this terrible tragedy. Chivalry would not allow for the most direct means of simply marching into her presence, grabbing her close, and telling her that he was wrong. Besides, how could she possibly believe or listen to him if he did that? It would look like the arrogant action of one who is jealous and believes he has a claim. No, this path must be slowly trod and carefully measured. If the feelings beating within his chest were true and as deep as he considered them, then they would be his guidance. He must harken back to the times of yore, realized what she cared for and prove that he truly listened and cared about the things that she cares about. To prove that he truly cares about her.

Muscles rippling beneath him, the squire steadily rises and strides forward. No true answer has yet presented itself, but he is determined that he will not give up without a fight. A Knight shall not be known for moping around wondering what might have been, and so this squire has decided to act like a Knight even before receiving his spurs. He must tell her of his feelings, this is obvious. But only if he truly cares and has paid attention to the beat of her heart does he have a chance. If he cared only for her attention and not truly for her, then it would be best to turn away now and mold himself to be the Knight of the future. In his heart beats the truth, the truth of his decision.

As the squire disappears into the gathering dusk, a question lingers. How does someone prove that their love is true, that the words of the past where a mistake, that there is a future together? The soft twitter of birds as they come to rest in the tree branches illuminate an answer. Slow down and stick to the true beat of the heart, take the time to show a true interest, communicate, be open and honest. No excuses uttered to hide painful admissions, but only words of truth backed by honest actions of caring. And then the strength to accept the response and bear it like a true Knight.

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.

Heelllpp! An opportunity!

Several of my friends and colleagues have been pressing me to get into actually writing on a more common and consistent basis. And with enough pressure, compliments and ego stroking, I might just be ready to do that.

The last few days have been eye opening, in terms of emotional expanses and also insight into the human mindset. Now I would like to turn to writing something a little less personal life orientated and use it as a way to clear my head and give my friends and fans something to read that does not come across as a love torn bard. Haha.

So now I will very subtly disguise a plea for assistance and make it look like an opportunity for personal glory!

Anyone who becomes (or remains) a follower of the blog may make a comment on this post with their suggestion/request for a certain storyline or idea and I will personally dedicate a short story to you with that particular topic. Intrigued?

Some rules first! You must be a follower and make a non-anonymous comment. That way I can identify with you, focus the story on your request, and brag about what a cool follower you are. Also, I will hold the right to creative liberty as the story develops. Say that you want a story of a little man over coming a bully- that's perfectly fine, but the story might not be about the traditional physical bully! The magic of the literary world is the endless possibilities, so be ready to be surprised.

I have very few subjects that I will not explore and write about, though I have mentioned in this blog before that I will not write from the perspective of one who has passed on from this life.

If you want the story to be about you, provide some details and make it a bit of an alternative life. Sometimes the way a character moves might not reflect your own thoughts, so allow fantasy instead of reality!

All in all, I am excited to be challenged. To actually have expectations and ideas to meet that are not generated within my own mere mortal brain.

Are you up for it? Who dares comment first?

The Battle of Oldstone Pass

Warning. Achaea related. A story by Goryllin.


The Battle of Oldstone Pass.

A gentle breeze drifted down the mountain slope, wafting slowly through
the valley, leaving soft caresses on all it touched in the settlement.
In one of the largest sleeping chambers, strong brown eyes snapped
alert. To this bearded and grizzled dwarf, the breeze held no comfort.
It held only mystery and warning.

Dropping stumpy legs over the edge of the bed, Dolon went through the
morning routine of stretching and yawning all while his senses strained
to find what woke him. Stumbling forth to open land, he gazed forth at
the beautiful scenery before him. As the rays of the sun slowly
straggled forth to light the horizon, those brown eyes drank deeply of
the natural beauty of the valley. "Such grace", this dwarf did think
with equal parts amazement and awe, "for the Lord Smith to guide us
here- to perfection". As if in response, another breeze took hold just
then and rippled the leaves of the graceful trees. On cue, the woods
came alive with the noise of various animals awakening and taking on the
day. The entire earth seemed to beam peaceful joy, as the dwarf took in
the well built and successful settlement that rose up around him. Almost
forgetting his alarm, Dolon took a moment to stretch again while letting
the sun warm the paving stones and alight upon the flowers carefully
cultured along the paths.

All seemed well, and Dolon turned towards the sound of his rousing wife
just inside. But amongst the clamor of pots and pans preparing the
morning meal, Dolon still felt that something was off. As his
grandfather once told him, a Chieftain just learns to know these things.
And so with a muffled grunt, he sadly walked away from his hearth and
all of the delights that it offered and strode to the quarters of his
second in command. A few muttered words, an exasperated shrug, and
patronizing nod later: and a scout was heading out to the borders to
investigate some mysterious inkling that raised the hairs on the back of
the Chief's neck.

Breakfast never really registered to Dolon that day, his mind kept
returning to his odd awakening and the pressure in his chest. Reminding
himself that Chieftain's did not show fear, he calmly went about the
day's routine and began discussing the weather patterns and the upcoming
harvest all while struggling to ignore the sense of unease that had
settled over his soul.


Having known Dolon for over two decades, Drognar the second in command
decided to broach the subject. As he opened his mouth to question just
what troubled the Chief, he noticed that where his friend's eyes were
gazing. "Oh do not be silly", he quipped, "the orcs have been burning
and pillaging for many moons now." "Aye." Answered Dolon, "but something
is different today, I just know it!". Trying to inject some reason into
what seemed like panic in such a normally calm man, Drognar tried again.
"Chief, the orcs have never made it through the mountains. They have
never found the way." After a pregnant pause he added "They do not care
enough to even look for the way!" and then snorted with great humour.

With little else to do besides worry, Dolon smoothed his face and
quieted his inner doubts. Trying hard to simulate cheerfulness, Dolon
passed through the settlement doling out wisdom and answering
complaints, administering to his people as if nothing had woken up him
that morning besides the normal need to be productive.

Suddenly the calm of that peaceful setting was broken by the mad clatter
of a dashing dwarf, earnestly racing to the settlement with all that he
had. Strident alarms rose within the hearts of all present as they
recognized the scout sent out earlier that day. "Orcs! Orcs! Or.." The
fellow yelled, or at least attempted to yell. A very large hubbub broke
out then, as most crowded around the exhausted and wheezing dwarf and
demanded answers or explanations. But Dolon knew better and Dolon knew
he had been a cautious fool. With a bellow that would outdo even the
fiercest mountain bear on the continent, he brought his people to
attention and to arms. Frenetic activity overcame the settlement as
dwarves bounded from one end to the next, weapons being passed,
provisions packed, wives and children kissed.

Dolon ran to oversee equipping the men, pointedly exchanging looks with
Drognar and indicating to handle the women and children. Drognar snapped
into action, following the old and now rarely used guidelines and
rounding up the women and children and heading for a secret cave
entrance. Families acted as a whole, elder children marshaling the
younger ones. Wives stealing kisses around the armor of their hastily
equipping husbands and then sneaking a last personal item before they
were marched away to safety. At the other end of the village, the
outlook was not so bright or sure. Dolon swore as he realized just how
much the decades of peace had harmed the warrior mentality of his
people. There was no lack of courage, he was sure of that as he watched
ancient Frelug struggle to clasp the straps of a light breastplate that
had not seen light in over thirty years. But combat readiness was
something else, again an example appeared before his eyes as eager Jadin
nearly lopped his own ear off hastily grasping a pike.

Licking his lips in sudden anticipation and perhaps a twinge of fear
(but we will never tell!), Dolon surveyed his men. Muttering under his
breath, he counted only twenty-five dwarves that he could really call
combat able. A dozen that stand in a line, but were too ill or infirm to
do any noticeable damage to a turtledove much less a trained and
bloodthirsty orc. Even as he made that assessment, the scout had caught
his breath and was able to alert the entire Clan to the fact that over a
thousand Orcs were heading for the entrance through the mountains to the
valley in which the village was hidden.

Just as Dolon lifted the battlehorn to his lips and prepared to blow
quite possibly the last call to march that he would ever know, he heard
the crunch of angry footsteps behind him. Whirling in surprise, he
yanked his sword free only to hastily drop it a moment later. Even more
surprised than before, he stared at the glowering face of his beloved
wife. In a voice that only an enraged dwarven wife could muster, she
berated him. "Dolon, you thick-skulled excuse for a dwarf, what do you
think you're doing this time? Do you think you're going to hold that
pass with nothing but twenty-five men? And look at us, we women are just
as strong as you are from wrestling the children and working in the
fields. We'll fight and die right alongside our husbands, and may the
Smith be ashamed of us if we won't!"

It is not certain that Dolon was ever able to retrieve his jaw from the
ground after it dropped so far and fast. What is certain is that not
even a chieftain can stand up to a determined dwarven wife. And so as
the ravening Orcs came charging through the gap, bloodthirst gleaming in
their eyes, they met a fortified band of sixty something dwarves of Clan
Orcsplitter. Male and female alike wielded weapons, determination written
across each feature of every brow. As the Orcs paused for a moment,
either in confusion to meet any resistance, or to laugh at such a small
and pitiful band thinking of resistance, the dwarves made one last move.
Working quickly as a team, as a family, they gathered enough rocks to
build a small cairn and then stuck a blacksmith's hammer in it. And then
they turned and beseeched their beloved God, Lord Phaestus, to guide
their battleaxes and lead them through the battle. Being stout Clan
Orcsplitter dwarves, they did not pray for a way to avoid battle, or
that someone else fight it, or even that the Lord make it go away.
Instead they request that He guide their blades and show them where to
strike.


When the Orcs finally made up their minds that this sham had gone on
long enough and began to charge, Dolon felt a sudden peace come over his
soul. Every worry, every tension, everything that was distracting or
bothering him suddenly melted away. He turned to his right side, where
Drognar might normally stand, and met the warm and understanding eyes of
his beloved. Serenity filled her features as they exchanged vows of
everlasting love, knowing that they were in the arms of their God. And
then just as the crest of the Orc charge came barreling into their
perimeter, Dolon and his wife shouted out each other's names and lept
into the battle. Tearing through the enemy, the became dual wielded
weapons. One striking while the other parried, one going low as the
other went high, one to the left if the other went right. As Dolon
danced his deadly dance, he felt the blood streaming down his body. As
his leg landed on raw bone instead of his foot, he knew that this pace
could not last. But even as he began to stumble, even as an arrow carved
its way through his body, his eyes were locked on those of his wife. And
so Dolon danced even harder, swung his blades ever more. No fear, no
worry, no distractions entered his mind. Just dancing to the love
mirrored in those eyes.

The children here huddled deep in some secret caverns, as the horrific
sounds of battle played out above them. Screams of dying or wounded men
were pitched so that the whole valley trembled in sympathy. The clang of
clashing weapons and sound of ripping sinews could not be mistaken or
explained away. And yet, after a horrible and seemingly endless period
of time, the sounds slowly begin to fade. Still the children waited with
bated breath, fearful yet a trap was laid. Only when the air was filled
with the croaking calls of the craven feathered residents of all
battlefields did the children dare to peek outside of those cave walls.

Shouts of joy and relief rang out as they saw a good forty dwarves
making their labored way back to the village. The dwarves had shields
carried between them, upon which lay the bodies of Dolon and his wife
and eighteen of their brethren. As gasps of joy quietly turned to sobs;
rays of light reached down to reflect from the shields, seeming to
caress the fallen warriors and tend to passing.

A gentle breeze drifted down the mountain slope, wafting slowly through
the valley, gently driving away the smoke from the funeral pyres. As it
carried away the smoke, so went the worst of the mourning. And that is
when the clan was able to see just what their sacrifice had gained. In
their wake all they left behind was a mountain of orcs almost as tall as
the pass itself, and a rabble of terrified orcs that stretched from the
mountains to the sea, and ever after the orcs told tales of that pass to
their spawn as bedtime stories."

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Though that valley has been lost to the twisting tides of time, its
memory remains strong in the mind of the Orcsplitter Dwarves. Forever
shall the Clan draw strength from those before it, and forever shall
they oppose the bloodthirsty Orcs- no matter where they might be found.