The YoungWorld

Doramicus · Posted: Fri Aug 26, 2011 8:08 am Post subject: Shades of Darkness -- IC

As the sun rose over the landscape, glimmering light onto the fresh dew of the farmlands like gemstones over the beautiful land, the small town of Grandale had just begun to rise for the morning work. Having spent every summer keeping with the simple life of rising early to farm and raise the cattle that the rich so fiercely demanded for their lavish lifestyles, the people of the town had grown accustomed to the quiet and the calm. Most were families of a half dozen or more, growing with land and love among themselves for many years. Very few visitors ever travelled into this land that lay far west in the known world.

Most of the known map was under the control of the Rydian Empire, a nation created many years ago that united the largely communal towns that scattered the earth. To the north, in the frozen tundra, remained the Barbarian tribes and various other almost animalistic cultures, untouched by the Rydian, but not for lack of trying. While intelligent in their own right, they were not known to be as “civilized” as those among the Rydian Empire. The Barbarians remained civil, so long as the Rydian did not attempt to conquer them again, as they had tried so many years ago, which was the last war that most could remember. But, it had been long since the need for an armed force had been necessary, and so the Rydian maintained a small army near the capital along the eastern coast, but the cities maintained their own militias, staying under the Rydian flag simply because they knew no other way. The mountain ranges to the west provided a natural barrier that none in recent memory had crossed. There had not been a reason to fight the Rydian, as they were largely left alone and taxes were low for those out in the farmlands. Plus, the Rydian provided them trade and connection with outside societies, something intriguing to many of the lands that they called part of their empire.

In the capital, life was much more hectic. The endless sea of allegiances brought on by the nobles and their petty squabbles kept the rich entertained. Being able to buy everything they needed kept them bored, and their ownership and taxation of large portions of the countryside kept them rich. While they did not tax unfairly, they were well taken care of for the massive land was divided in few parts. Only a half dozen families shared them. However their “social clubs” which were little more than alliances for their bickering matches kept the capital, Ryswick, rather rich.

But life outside the large city in the east was not so confusing. It was simple, controlled, and happy. Some may have called it boring, but it seemed that the Rydian enjoyed their peace. They enjoyed their hard work and their love of life and land, cultivating their families as they did their crops, with care and dedicated effort.

The town of Grandale was up and moving for the morning, as the harvest had finished recently. The crops had grown higher than most of the citizens, many of which being rather short compared to the rest of the Rydian, hardly above 5’6’’. They had been harvested and sent to the east with the caravan. The cattle were being used, many of the townsfolk being so eager to taste the succulent flavor of beef once again that they couldn’t wait for their kinsman to return with the caravan. But they knew he would arrive soon. It always took a few weeks, but the man seemed to always be able to get more out of the oxen than anyone ever thought possible. He made the trip in half the time of any other, and the townsfolk appreciated him for it.

“He’s back! There he is!” A small child ran out from one of the cabins built of the native maple trees, running toward the approaching caravan which brought back supplies that the townsfolk needed for their next wave of farming. But, the man leading the Caravan also brought back much more than just supplies. He always brought back candy from the capital, sweets that the local children cherished. Each return from the harvest brought them sweets that they savored until the next time he set off again. His return signified one other thing: the festival.

“Hah! He’s back, Mirriam.” A man emerged from the home, watching his son run along the small dusty dirt road to the approaching caravan.

“Wonderful! I assume Sam has run off to meet him, Grant?” The woman responded, a glowing smile on her face.

“Indeed he has! That Mammoth, always bringing gifts…”

The caravan driver was not a native of Grandale, that much was clear by looking at him, but he was as much family to the people as their own. He lived among them, worked among them, and loved them like they were his own family. A towering man of 6’3’’, Mammoth was a northern Barbarian. He left the north years before, and arrived in Grandale after a long time of travel. Nobody in the town pressed him for information about his past. They knew where he was from, and small bits of his history, but they never pressed for information that was not necessary. Perhaps that was why Mammoth enjoyed them so much, and had decided to stay there.

“Sam, I told ya to stop runnin’ up to the Caravan! Ya get the same share everyone else does!” Mammoth laughed out as the young boy jumped up onto the wagon leading the various carts pulled behind them. Mammoth was a kind man, who looked nothing like how he acted. Bald with a full blonde beard, the man was just over 300 pounds and built like a mountain. He looked like a warrior, and had the scars of a warrior, but he fit in among the families and farmers as if he belonged there. Perhaps he did.

“I know… I just got excited.” Sam said, looking down and slightly ashamed for the slight scolding.

“It’s alright, kiddo. I know ya just excited.” Mammoth said, smiling as he patted the child on the head.

When he arrived in the town, dozens of children gathered around his caravan grabbing the goodies he brought as the adults started unloading supplies from the cart. Everyone seemed excited to see the massive man that brought what led to their town’s prosperity. Their prosperity was not in money, but in happiness, fun, and hard work.

“Grant, good to see ya!” Mammoth said, shaking the man’s hand as he greeted his friend.

“Aye. Been a while, Mammoth. The kids missed you…”

The conversation carried on as the two headed in for a drink after the long ride, as well as to discuss the news that Mammoth had missed, and prepare for the festival. Nothing major had been missed while Mammoth was gone, but one particular piece of information Grant divulged last drew a response from Mammoth the man had never seen.

“… And oddly enough, a horse from Tybiat came into town without a rider. It looked like it had run ragged. Had the brand and everything, but no saddle—“ Sam said, pausing as he saw the reaction on his friend’s face, “What’s wrong?”

Mammoth’s eyes had narrowed, a scowl had crossed his face for a moment before his visage returned to something more regular. Whatever has crossed his mind made him show a stern strength that one would expect from a man who obviously used to be a warrior, but something that the townsfolk had never seen from him.

“Huh? Oh.” Mammoth said, snapping out of his small trance of thought. He paused for a moment as he furrowed his brow. “I saw one on the way back, dead without a saddle on the side of the road. It had been wounded, but there wasn’t much of a trace as to what had done it. I assumed someone lost a horse, but a second one?”

Grant showed the same level of concern, agreeing that something was not right. “That’s definitely odd…”

“Is the horse alright?”

“Yeah, we gave it some water, it’s been resting for a day.”

“I’ll take it back. Maybe that had problems with wolves or somethin’.”

Grant and Mammoth parted ways again, Mammoth heading to the stable where the horse awaited him. Riding the Tybiat horse and grabbing the reins of his own horse, he headed out. The ride was only an hour or two of hard riding to the north and across the raging Tripona river. It was hard to cross if one didn’t know where to go, but Mammoth knew it well after spending the past few years among those at Grandale.

---

It was a little past midday when he had crossed the river, knowing that he should see the town on the horizon soon. His cotton garments were soaked with the sweat of the noon heat as he expected to see the stables where he had been a few times before up ahead. But something troubling loomed in the sky. He could see vultures, lots of them, and the smell of burnt wood soon followed. The troubling signs caused Mammoth to kick the horse to speed.

On the horizon was the burnt remains of a town, scorched to the earth like the fires of God himself had purged them from the land. Mammoth’s eyes surveyed the wreckage as he rode up to the burned stable, the southmost building in the town. Jumping from the horses, he ran into the town, which was only slightly larger than Grandale.

The horses were slaughtered and burned. They had been picked at by the vultures and the smell of rotting flesh was already ripe throughout the air. Mammoth quickly moved from each shell of each building hunting for any signs of life. Whatever had done this, it was meticulous, and it was not an accident.

It wasn’t long before Mammoth found what he was hoping he would not find. He walked slowly toward the recently plowed cornfields, shaking his head and lowering it as the sight he wished not to behold stared him in the face. Under a dozen vultures stood a pile of bodies, the townsfolk of Tybiat.

As Mammoth neared, he could see their tortured expressions that were grafted onto their faces. Some had been dismembered, but most had signs of torture. He knelt down to the ground and gathered himself. He had not seen something like this in a long time. Bandits and otherwise had hit towns before, but the militias were usually prepared for handling it. Mammoth had seen slaughters before, and had killed and seen death, but nothing quite like this. He could hear nothing but his own breath and the beating of his heart. Sadness welled up inside him as he gathered himself. Gritting his teeth he stood up and felt something he had not felt in a very long time: Rage.

Walking forward toward the pile of bodies, he searched for any signs of life. There was none to be found. They didn’t even spare the children. Piled among the bodies were children, tortured as with the others. The thought of it made Mammoth sick. He gritted his teeth in a rage, thinking of the bastards who could have done this. But, his anger clouded his judgment. It took him longer than it should have to notice that there were people missing. Some of the women were not here. He couldn’t remember their names, but he knew their faces. There were children and a few men missing as well. He scanned the faces again, and quickly returned to the burned houses to search for survivors.

Unfortunately, it was not to be. There were no signs of anyone. Mammoth was about to leave when he heard a whimper come from behind him. Crawling out from under the fallen chimney of a nearby home was a young girl, obviously wounded. Mammoth quickly rushed to her side, noticing a sword stab wound through her right abdomen.

“Hang on!” He said, whistling loudly. His horse ran up alongside him and he ripped a satchel off the horse’s back, “Stay with me, girl. Don’t ya dare die.”

The girl was fading quickly as Mammoth applied pressure to the wound. He was trying to scramble for his sutures as well as other supplies to try and save the girl’s life.

“They came… at night… Like those things from the… stories…” She said, weakly.

“Don’t talk, girl. Just hang on.”

“The monsters… The shades…” The girl said, her eyes closing as her life started fading away. Mammoth hurried quietly, trying to do what he could, but it was too late. She had survived for a long time with that wound. It was too late.

Mammoth laid the girl on the ground and stood up, covered in a good deal of her blood. He shook his head and decided that there was nothing to be salvaged from this. He had to warn Grandale. He had to mobilize the militia. If these monsters did this in one night, they were near, and Grandale was probably the next target…
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I am the Lord of Beer

Fort Europe · Posted: Tue Aug 30, 2011 12:13 pm Post subject:

Dhenova lay in ruins, burnt and pillaged. The village was situated close to the border, far to the northern most edge of the Rydian Empire. Beyond it, only miles of hilly shrubland and frozen mountain wilderness stretched away into the barren barbarian territories. Smoke now billowed from where homes and farms once stood, hidden in a picturesque river valley, many of their occupants still inside. Women and children had been piled in the street, men cut down where they had been standing. A thick stench of charred flesh and burning wood filled the air as a light drizzle settled over the landscape.

"There!" A man called out, one of several on horse back who had come across the scene. They were a traveling band, magistrates men, hired law enforcers and guards protecting the local magistrate himself. The man called again, and the rest moved to see. Standing tall over a pile of bodies was a tall man, a warrior by his looks, for there were two long swords sheathed on his back. He turned as the men rode closer.

"You!" The magistrate exclaimed, recognising the other. "You done this, you monster, you will pay for this barbarism." His men took their cue and surrounded their accused, weapons drawn. The warrior, Fawkes by name, Gnias Forkes could only shake his head slowly. Grief had expelled all words from his mind, his expressionless face unable to show his disbelief. He had not done this, he had not even been there when it had happened and yet he was the only one left. He couldn't have killed all these people, not by himself, he couldn't. He wouldn't. Fawkes had been the leader of the small militia of volunteers in Dhenova. They had fought of barbarian attacks before, he had defended these people on many occasions. But he had been hunting in the next valley, and this was no simple attack.

"No." Fawkes managed to say, but the magistrate had made the decision already, the first of his hired men lunged at Fawkes who ducked, the second swung a sword and the third came at him from an axe. Fawkes rolled out the way and parried the next attempted blow before his own swords appeared in his grasp. The blades flashed through the air, horse and man fell one after the other, blood and rain merging on the sharp edges of the swords. His left hand plowed through one, leaving the sword as the other silenced the horse below. He pulled a dagger from the falling body, and lobbed it fast at the next approaching, both hit the ground at the same moment. Fawkes reached the magistrate in a single bound, taking him bodily from the sadle to the sodden ground.

"I did not do this." He said, pinning the law man to the ground, "They killed my boy and raped my wife. I was not there." Fawkes stood, took the magistrates horse, recovered his swords and rode fast into the distance, leaving the magistrate alone amongst his dead and dying men, the piles of the slaughtered and the destroyed village far behind.
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Doramicus · Posted: Tue Apr 24, 2012 2:09 pm Post subject:

Rushing to his horse, Mammoth bound up into the saddle and rode harder than he could have imagined he could ride. He only hoped that Edgar could keep up the pace. The aging beast was in no condition for this ride, having spent most of his adult life pulling a cart at a light trot. He was no warhorse, and he rarely spent time carrying Mammoth's bulk atop him. These were the thoughts racing through Mammoth's mind as he pushed his faithful steed. The powerful horse rode hard for nearly an hour before it finally buckled under the pressure. He had lived a full life, but to die in such a way... Mammoth regretted that it had to happen.

He had no time to waste, however, as he was near Grandale. Grabbing the gear from the horse that had run itself to death, Mammoth charged at a full sprint toward the town. As he neared, he could smell burning wood, and he feared for the worst as he finally reached the fields near the town. The billowing smoke could be seen from here. The town was on fire.

Mammoth was not geared for a fight, something that he had regretted almost immediately. He set out without much thought, despite thinking it could have been bandits or worse causing this problem. He had grown lax in his comfortable life in Grandale. He cursed at himself as he gasped for air, slowing to a jog for a moment in the cornfields.

You've gotten fat and lazy. Forgetting things you'd never forget in the north. Your ancestors would be ashamed. He thought to himself, cursing his lack of preparation. Catching his wind for a moment, he picked the pace back up as he exited the cornfields. Snatching up a spade from the ground as he ran. His short blade would be useless in a large fight, the blade itself a mere foot in length, primarily used for whatever small duties it needed on the road, and more than reasonable to dispatch bandits, who were never that well versed in combat.

But Mammoth riding as hard as he could seemed not to be nearly hard enough as the farming town came into view. It was burning to the ground. The flames were oppressive even from a distance. Mammoth gasped for air as he reached the edge of town. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. The entire town was up in flames. He feared the worst, thinking of what had happened in the fields in Tybiat. He had to know, he couldn't bear the thought of standing here on the edge of town while some may live.

Casting aside his own safety, Mammoth rushed into the burning village. The buildings being closely placed made for a hotbox in the streets. The flames licked his clothing as he ran to the door of the nearest home, one of three children and their mother. Recoiling for a moment from the intense heat, Mammoth prepared to smash through the door when the house came crumbling down, its wood structure no match for the almost impossibly powerful fire. He backed away and retreated to the edge of town again.

He was too late. The town had been enveloped in flames so quickly that he couldn't believe it. It was as if the fire had been fueled by oil. Mammoth fell to his knees on the edge of town, tears in his eyes as he thought of the townsfolk he had grown to care for. His clothes were singed and ragged, caked in sweat and soot. He touched his head to the ground in emotional agony. His carelessness had condemned them to death...
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I am the Lord of Beer

Fort Europe · Posted: Wed Apr 25, 2012 9:12 am Post subject:

From Dhenova Gnias Fawkes rode south across the countryside. He avoided the road where possible, tracking accross the hill paths and open fields. Fawkes was an accused man, and word from the magistrate would not take long to catch up with him. Gnias was a good man, a family man, earning his way in the world by his sword and bow. Like his father and grandfather before him, Gnias was a hunter, and skilled in his trade. He had led others from his village, a kind of voluntry defense force, protecting the people and the outlying farms from any dangers. The position had made him a popular figure in the village. He had even taken the Mayor's daughter as his wife. Now all of that was gone.

Fawkes grieved for his wife and son. Roselyna had been a truly magnificent woman, beautiful beyond comparison with long black hair and soft pale skin, compassionate and caring, yet strong in her mind as well. She had carried his son without complaint not a year past. A part of his soul wished he had been there, if only to die by their side. That he had lived when they were gone was torment beyond compare.

He rode on, uncaring of his destination, following some subconsious desire to head south as far as the path would take him. There was no plan, no definite location he meant to go. He simply followed his internal compass, trusting it's judgement without question, like a loyal dog following his master. At a babbling valley stream Fawkes stopped to rest and take on water. A deer close by paid him no heed, even as Gnias watched it pass. He was hungry, and the youthful deer would have made a good meal, but on reflection he considered there had been too much blood shed for one day. His mind simply wasn't in it. At the icy waters edge, Gnias knelt and prayed to the Goddess, begging for the souls of those he had loved.

After a while, once he had consumed his fill of water and wild bramble berrys, Gnias mounted his recently aquired horse once more, and resumed his southernly path. The track climbed, leading out of the valley along a route that seemed to have been well trodden at one time, but now lay disguarded and overgrown. The path led upwards, towards the top of a hill, it's summit wide and relitively flat. Even from a distance Gnias could spot the tell tale signs of an ancient settlement, no longer used and left in ruin centuaries past. He climbed up to it, more because that path lead that way, the rounded barrow mounds showing their age from years of windswept erosion. There was still plenty snow upon the higher peaks, where winter in the valleys had almost completely melted away.

Fawkes continued into the centre of the long forgotten settlement, its fortress walls and internal buildings no longer standing. Only their foundations, scattered rocks and bolders marking where people had once lived. From the top, he looked out over the lands that lay before him, a valley, followed by more hills and smoke. In the distance, far to the south, a black plume rose into the dull overcast sky. Showers of rain obscured patches of the landscape, but the smoke continued to rise, not just in one spot, but several, spread accross the horizon. Farms and villages, twenty or thirty miles away, as far as the eye could see, their burnt remains casting a dark morbid shadow across the landscape. Gnias felt his heart sink further into the pit of his stomach. Something dreadful was cutting a wide path of destruction right accross Rydia.
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Doramicus · Posted: Wed Apr 25, 2012 3:11 pm Post subject:

Mammoth's ride and despair had led him to a level of exhaustion he had not felt in many years. He had fallen asleep mourning the people that he had grown to love. A savage from the Barbarian tribes of the north, accepted into this town as one of them. Five years. Five years his heart had beaten as one with these people. Five years he had finally felt at home. Five years he had not had to feel the rush of battle daily to survive. Five years too long...

Mammoth arose from his slumber with a broiling rage deep within him. The ferocity of the hordes in the Northlands was well known throughout legend. So long ago that none remembered the wars, but the Rydian knew well they could not conquer the north. A beast that had been slumbering for years had awoken.

Rising to his feet, his clothing was not but rags. He tossed his shirt, tattered and useless, off of his body, throwing it on the ground beside the now smoldering ruin that once was Grandale. His scarred body had grown slightly flabby from years of ease, but the signs of a warrior still remained. His musculature was impressive, even five years after not using it. The claws of a Snow Tiger left a distinctive scar along his right side of his chest. The legends told of the trials of the types of warriors of the north. Their final test was always a snow tiger, as the fierce creatures speed and strength tested a man's limits. If he survived, the man returned a Blooded Warrior, the elite caste of the Barbarian tribal warriors. Mammoth wore the scar, but kept it hidden in most times to avoid frightening the children. That concern was gone...

Walking through the ruins of Grandale, it seemed that the fire was so intense that it had burned the corpses to nothing. The occasional bone could be found, but most of the townsfolk had been reduced to ash. The stench of the dead was overpowering. One never forgets the stench of a burning corpse. Mammoth had seen enough of the town after mere moments of walking through it. He turned and headed for where his home used to be. The small wooden shack on the northern-most outskirts of the small town. Fitting.

The building was no different, burnt to the ground. Mammoth walked into his old home, searching along the ground. Using the spade, he cleared away some of the rubble until the charred remains of a trap door could be seen. Prying it open with the spade as the handle had melted off in the intense flames, Mammoth peered into his stash. Below the door was a deep hole he had dug to store things that he knew he may once again need.

Reaching down, he pulled out a massive Axe, the ornate runes emitted a faint glow and ran along the blade all the way down the handle. A Blooded Warrior's blade always had these special runes. It signified that their life was one with their weapon. So long as their life remained, their weapon would remain as well. Mammoth rested the weapon's blades on the ground, looking at it for a moment and reminiscing. The weapon was double bladed, larger than what any normal human could be expected to wield, and made of a special steel that few smiths knew how to handle in current times. Ancient methods that the Barbarians had never forgotten allowed them to work with Cold Steel, aptly named for its rarity anywhere but the far Northlands. The handle was wrapped in leather, the pommel end being spiked for backhanded swings. The blades were massive single arcs, much like a halberd blade.

Mammoth closed the hatch on his stash and peered at the ground where what remained of his armor lay. He had always displayed it upon his wall as it reminded him of his roots. The Cold Steel had been melted by the flames. His armor had been destroyed.

"Careless." Mammoth said to himself, staring at his armor that was beyond repair. His tribe would be furious. That armor was made especially for him. Made to fit his body like a glove and be unburdening in battle. The Blooded Warriors all had something similar. Mammoth having been skilled with a hammer, had improved upon his own from the simple breastplate. It would take years to make another set of his armor and he would have to return to the north where the forges were made to handle Cold Steel.

"Not until this is over." He spoke to himself, sadness and rage welling up inside him once again.

So, having said goodbye to his families, Mammoth set out toward the east. This had to be reported to Ryswick, if it had not been already. Something was wiping out the border towns. If the nobles refused to help, Mammoth intended to make them... reconsider.,,
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I am the Lord of Beer

Fort Europe · Posted: Fri Apr 27, 2012 8:44 am Post subject:

In the next valley, Gnias took shelter within a small wooded copse as darkness fell. A fallen tree provided a sturdy frame from which he had built a shelter of sticks and moss. A small fire flickered in the twilight, a rodent cooking upon a spit above. He sat listening to the world around him, considering the path ahead. Rydia was a vast land, spreading from the mountainous wilderness in the north, to the marshy lowlands and the far southern ocean. Its capital, Ryswick, was a coastal city surrounded with high walls on all sides like a massive fortress standing watch over the world. Travellers would speak of it, telling tales of its greatness, the power of its people, grand architecture and renown philosiphers and politicians.

Gnias had never seen Ryswick, he had not ventured far from Dhenova, there had been no need. However, this attack was not like anything he had seen before either. He knew nothing of their invader's strength, and he stood alone. Gnias had seen for himself, nothing was left of his village, nor any other that had stood on the northern rim for as far as he could see. But if anywhere could withstand such a forcefull invasion, it was the Ryswick he had heard all those stories of. Tomorrow's path would take him to Grandale, and from there he would pick up the southern path to the coast. There was no longer a fear of being arrested, the Magistrate would have far more to deal with now, and only a couple of men to assist him. All he cared about now was finding any remaining remnents of civilisation.
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Doramicus · Posted: Sat Apr 28, 2012 9:37 am Post subject:

Mammoth had traversed the rolling hills for only a few hours, the sun slowly lowering below the bends on the horizon behind him, when he came upon another town. The smell long preceded the sight that he knew would not be welcome. The town, hardly large enough to have a spot on a map, had been wiped out much like Grandale had. The bodies littered the streets of what remained of the city.

Each town has a different sign of what attacked it. Grandale: Nobody left. Tybiat: Piles of bodies. Shale: Scattered about.... Who in the hell is doing this? Mammoth thought to himself, pausing as he turned around to face the sun, it's glow leaving to enshroud a world in a darkness fitting of its current plight. He knew he would need to camp soon. Traveling at night was nothing any Blooded Warrior feared, but he did not want to walk unknowing into trouble, seeing as he was unarmored and unprepared. There was no reason to rush. Everything he had known for five years was lost--lost to the flames like the shell of the town before him.

Mammoth searched Shale for a few minutes before he had set out again. He needed clothing and perhaps supplies, as his supply pouch he took from his horse was not going to last long. But, nothing could be salvaged from the wreckage of the once proud town. Like Grandale, it had been reduced to ash, leaving little beyond bodies and a rank stench behind.

Continuing walking with his axe resting on his shoulder, Mammoth decided to travel upwind from the burned city before making camp for the night.

The open plains of the western expanse made for poor camping grounds. The western expanse being where most of the farmland for the Rydian Empire could be found, it was not much but open fields. Any fire could be seen for miles in any direction, giving away his position and attracting whatever trouble may be roaming the roads, or worse, whatever burned the towns. As he didn't know what to expect from the burned towns, he decided it was safest not to build a fire. Mammoth set his axe on the dirt and sat down in the darkness. The cold night was nothing compared to the north, a fact that Mammoth had consistently reminded the people of Grandale. His people were hard and used to the cold, and it seemed to bother them far less than the small people in the south.

Mammoth sat for a moment, staring off into the darkness, his eyes affixed on nothing, before laying down and falling asleep.

---

When the morning had come, Mammoth had been lying awake for a few hours staring at the stars. They calmed him. He had been told that they were the souls of his ancestors, raised up for their deeds to watch over all. His comfort was not based on something so fantastic. Mammoth had never believed such interaction from the Gods ever occurred. They dared not be so direct and wish people to still believe in them as they did in almost every city, even if each God worshiped seemed to be different based upon where one traveled. Mammoth believed that whatever Gods may exist, their interest in the plight of man was amount to the interest man showed to any lesser creature. They were interesting to watch when you had nothing better to do.

Mammoth rose not long after the sun had risen. He had much land to cover before he was even close to Ryswick and with each day there were bound to be more towns disappearing into clouds of smoke. His night among the stars had refocused his purpose in his own mind. He set out in anger, confusion, and seeking an enemy to which he could bury his axe, but now he knew that he was much better served in preventing the fate that befell those he had grown fond of. With renewed purpose, he dusted himself off and began walking toward the east again.

The journey to Ryswick was not going to be a simple one, as most of Rydia stood between him and the towering fortress known as the Jewel of the Sea. First, he had to cross what remained of the Western Expanse. Then, he would be forced to cross the wetlands, and finally, the foothills of Ashtarin, rugged land that led up to the capital and made it much harder to be reached by any army that dared attack. The tribes knew well of the Ashtarin Foothills in legend. They had exhausted the Great Warband thousands of years ago, preventing them from taking Ryswick as the moved southeast across the land. It took the Rydian many years to push them back to the north, but Mammoth's people were eventually pushed back to where they came from. Few but the most learned scholars remembered that they were indeed the aggressors after first contact. Few but the Tribes of the North.

----

A week had passed until Mammoth found the first town that had not been decimated by this mysterious fire. A seemingly untouched city along the road that bordered the edge of the Western Expanse and the entrance to the wetlands. Mammoth wondered if it was its close proximity to travel and trade that kept it safe. Grandale, as with the other towns he had passed, were not along the road and were rather isolated. The first thought that crossed his mind was that if an army could not reach Ryswick, then the best method of attack was to burn that which fed it.

Exhausted from lack of food and having run out of water since the last stream over 50 miles back, Mammoth welcomed the sight of the town. He had hoped to be able to hunt for something along the plains, but it seemed that almost everything was making itself scarce in the fields. Mammoth couldn't help but thank that he had gained a little weight in the comfort of Grandale. He knew the path to Rando as this was where he came to trade every time he took the caravan from Grandale. The people here would be willing to help him, he hoped.

Coming up the gates, he was stopped by a man in armor holding a spear.

"Hold there, Barbarian! This town is under the protection of King Brian Cambell of Rydia! We shall have no intruders upon its doors and we're full up on Refugees from the bandit raids out west!" The man spoke, his uptight voice a shrill, high pitched hiss that sounded more of a noble than of a soldier. Mammoth paused for a moment as he realized how he must look: Filthy, shirtless, and carrying a massive axe. Not to mention the scar that would give away what exactly he was to any learned man.

"Look. I ain't lookin' for trouble--" Mammoth said, trying to petition the man to let him in when the soldier cut him off again.

"Then you will turn back and return to your heathen lands. This town is under--"

"Yeah yeah... the protection of King Fatass the lazy. Got it."

The man stepped forward and brandished his spear at Mammoth, who was roughly twice the man's size, "You dare mock the King in my presence?!"

"Ya dare threaten a man who just lost his entire town and traveled 100 miles to try 'n' find some answers?" Mammoth spat back, lifting his axe from his shoulder, "I ain't eaten in a week. Ain't had a drink in two days. If ya think a narrow, bigoted pipsqueak like you is gonna stop me from comin' in, you'll be in for a rude awakenin'."

"We have no more room for refugees! I cannot allow you inside."

Mammoth stepped forward and the soldier stepped back, preparing his spear. Mammoth reached into his pouch on his left hip and grabbed a few coins that he had gained from trading not long ago, money he had never had the chance to disperse among the residents of Grandale.

"Do I look like a damn refugee?"
_________________
I am the Lord of Beer

Fort Europe · Posted: Mon Apr 30, 2012 10:34 am Post subject:

Gnias was woken by the sound of rainfall upon the roof of his improvised shelter. It was not yet light, but dawn was breaking gradually over the horizon. He rose from within the moss covered den, disturbing a rabbit that had joined him during the night. Soon enough he was packed up and guiding his horse out of the copse. Onward they went, passing through fields and crossing icy streams until they came at last to Grandale.

The town of Grandale looked much the same as his own village, burnt and ravaged beyond recognition. Gnias had been there before, once, several years ago. He remembered the statue in the centre, now laying broken on the muddy ground. The smoke here had died away, the rain smothering the smoldering buildings and creating a fine mist over the devistated landscape. There was something missing though. Grandale had been home to over a hundred people, but not a body was left. The town was more than deserted, it was like a ghost town, no sign of any person living or otherwise.

He rode through the town slowly, looking out for any clues to its demise. On the southern edge, as the road led away from the town, Gnias stopped and jumped to the ground. In the soft mud he found footprints. Large, deeply impacted footprints belonging to a man of some considerable size and girth. They were too big for any local man, for this was quite clearly the footprint of a barbarian. Fawkes had seen such footprints before, seen their owners before, killed a number of them himself. Of course they were killed from range, you could not go hand to hand alone with a barbarian and live to tell the tale. Their armour, and their huge weapons made the mountain dwelling beasts a frightful sight to behold.

From Grandale he continued along the road south, following in the tracks of the massive barbarian. At Tybiat a day later, Gnias found bodies stacked like Jenga blocks, piled along the sides of the road in an absurdly ordered pattern. He had expected to see footprints he was following diverge, showing signs of bruitality in the township of Tybiat, but they simply marched through the town and south in the direction Fawkes was travelling himself. The evidence clearly determined that the barbarian he was following had not been involved in this attack. It did not mean the barbarian in question was innocent of all attacks, but clearly it was not acting alone. The problem that bothered Gnias most from this evidence, was that this single set of footprints was the only tracks he had seen. If this was a large and overwhelming force, as he had long expected it to be, where was the evidence?

Fawkes moved on, trusting his horse, whom he had named Nykie, to carry him safely through the countryside as they headed ever closer to the capital city far to the southern shore. They rested often, for there seemed no rush, his thick winter coat protecting him from the driving rain that never ceased until they came upon the town of Shale. Here the rain moved off to the west, bringing friendlier skies and a brighter path to the East. The footprints that he had been following for days had been washed away by the time Gnias reached the centre of Shale, where the path divided. The choice was not an easy one, go right across the Western Expanse, or journey east through the great forests of Scalazin. Either way, he was sure would bring him eventually to Ryswick, through the infamous foothills of Ashtarin.

Taking hope from the brightening Eastern skies, Gnias turned left, and by the following day he had reached the village of Grombyard. The village stood on the edge of the great forest, bordered by a tall, spiked wooden fense. The ground surounding the village was still sodden from days of rain, but he was encoraged to see the log walls were still standing and unharmed. It had been over a week now since Gnias had left his home behind, and a week since he had last seen another living soul. The roads that were normally well trodden, the towns and villages that were richly populated, all were gone. Grombyard seemed different.

Gnias approached the gate, but there was no response. He knocked twice, and then for a third time before forcing his way inside. He had hoped to find the villagers safe within, for there had been no sign of attack from the exterior. His heart sank. Nothing was left, but piles of ash, everywhere just ash. Homes, walls, people, nothing. The outer wall was charred on the inside, their high sides had kept the inferno contained. The heat, Gnias imagined, must have been impossible to escape, engulphing everything and everyone that once stood, protected inside from any conventional attack. But in that there was the most confusing thing. The attack had never even touched the outside, no breach, no forced entry, no evidence at all. The gate had been closed. The attack had started from within, and no one had left after it had started. It was impossible.
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Doramicus · Posted: Mon Apr 30, 2012 8:35 pm Post subject:

Of course when Mammoth had appeared with shiny baubles and signs of gold the sniveling fool guard had stepped aside to point his spear elsewhere. If nothing else it meant Mammoth didn't have to kill an innocent man. As he entered the town, the eyes of the refugees and townsfolk alike locked on him as if a fire demon was marching down the streets of Bastoin. The wide-eyed folk of the south always found the sheer size of the barbarians intimidating, but to see one casually walking through a trade city this far away from their homeland always made them fearful.

Bigoted fools.

Mammoth needed water, food, and clothing. His journey to avoid the main road until this point had left him with precious little water and food. He had run out of stale bread that he packed in his pack soon after the journey started and a man his size needed food to keep his muscles operating as best they could. Nonetheless, the extra weight he had put on over the years had quickly fallen off during that week of hard work and no eating. He still carried a little flab, but he looked much more the part of the warrior he actually was when he didn't have a stomach hanging out over the string that held his pants up.

Mammoth made his way to the local tavern, where inside he knew he would be able to get the sustenance he so desperately needed. He never stayed the night in Bastoin, so the innkeeper did not know him. That could have eased the tension in the room when he entered, shirtless and filthy. He tossed a few coins on the counter and asked for the beef loin. He was glad he never handed over the coin to Grandale now. He could afford to buy supplies for his journey, and this meal, which was a little extravagant even for a man who hadn't eaten in a week.

When he had finished his meal and drank three pitchers worth of water, he rose and headed back toward the winding streets of the cobbled town. He knew of a tailor on the east edge of the city that would have clothing that would fit him. So that was the direction he headed, axe resting on his shoulder, and eyes of the townsfolk locked to his frame in horror.

Mammoth had been used to the dirty looks and suspicion of the Rydian folk. They were a surprisingly racist bunch for a land that had forgotten the wars that led to their bigotry. Mammoth had often found himself unwelcome among the places he visited, but few dared challenge him to stop him, and most realized he was actually quite kind.

Nonetheless, what he was not used to was armed Rydian Imperial Knights. As he walked the streets he was surrounded by ten Imperial Knights in full plate. What the Rydian lacked in stature, they made up for in tactics and weaponry. Mammoth always gave them that. He hadn't even heard them coming.

"Drop the axe or we spear you like a pig, Heathen." Barked the soldier with the gold-plate shoulder, a sign of a Captain.

Mammoth paused and looked around, kneeling down and setting setting his axe down, but he didn't remove his hand from it.

"Let. It. Go." The soldier barked out again. This man was a true soldier. He had seen battle. Mammoth could hear it in his voice and see it in his eyes.

"Ya know I can't just let this axe go. It's a part of me. I surrender, but I'm takin' my axe with me." Mammoth said plainly, looking up from the ground at the Captain, "or I can just kill all ten o' ya. It's ya decision to make." Mammoth said, grinning as the soldier nodded to him. If he had intended to fight, no barbarian warrior would ever admit surrender. They'd die before they turned themselves in.

"Very well. Bring him to the barracks." The captain said, his voice lacking the urgency it once had. His nine men walked Mammoth like a prisoner back to the west of the city where the Barracks resided. Usually it was occupied by militia and a couple Imperial Soldiers to keep command, but now it was swarming with soldiers. Looks like Ryswick already knew something big was happening out west.

---

Mammoth sat in a cell for almost an hour before a short, aged man with a wispy little beard came rushing into the barracks. His high pitched voice displayed a man that was old enough to start screeching like a crow when he talked.

"You arrogant sons of bitches just come in here taking people hostage with no regard for your own d-damn l-laws!" The old man's stutter was getting better, "I'm sorry, Mammy. D-Damn fools d-don't know what the h-h-hell they're doing. Let this man out of this cell!"

"I expect nothin' less, anymore, Driscoll." Mammoth stated with a laugh and a smile, "Good to see you, old man."

The guard were confused, but Driscoll was Magistrate of Bastoin. They had to heed his words. However, they did not do so without question. The first soldier to refuse was told how quickly he would be strung up on the gallows if he didn't do as he was told.

"Still treatin' warriors like frightened children, I see." Mammoth laughed as the soldier unlocked the cell.

"Soldiers! S-soldiers! If you're g-going to live in these lands you might as well learn to t-t-talk like one of us." Driscoll scolded with a laugh.

"Maybe I should stutter?" Mammoth quipped.

They were told he lived in Grandale, that he was a trader, and that he was no threat to the town. If Driscoll was wrong, Driscoll could be executed for failure in his duties endangering his charges, but a Magistrate of his age didn't fail. Mammoth was no threat, that much was clear, but the Imperials didn't appreciate being told what to do. They couldn't turn on the Magistrate without order from the King, however, so they let him go.

Mammoth spared little time to speak to Driscoll, short of thanking him for letting him out of jail. He explained that the danger to the west was not bandits as the Imperials had stated. Driscoll seemed to know better, even if he didn't respond as such. Refugees of this extent didn't stroll into town for bandit raids. Nonetheless, Mammoth had no proof to counter that they were bandit raids short of how raging the fire was. The word of a barbarian wouldn't sway a slave, let alone the Imperial Guard. No doubt the people would be saying similar things, but the effect they would have in these outlying countries would be limited. People had to make the trek to Ryswick, and they had to make a point.

Driscoll told Mammoth that the Imperial Guard had no intention of moving west past Bastoin. They were simply protecting the trade route, which meant that the local militias were being left to fight this on their own. An enemy that laid waste to as many towns as Mammoth came upon without leaving a trace was being left up to the militia and the ragtag band of fighters at Fort Kath.

What a disgrace...

Mammoth wasted no time going about his business in the city after thanking his friend. He bought two sets of clothing to replace his own. Dried meat would be good on the trail for food, and he bought a rather large canteen meant for horses. These purchases would gear him up for his travel across the short southern portion of the wetlands. He would hopefully have better luck with food in the wetlands as lots of local foliage was edible, but the dried meat would be essential for crossing the Foothills of Ashtarin. Unfortunately, no armorer outside of Ryswick would have any armor that would nearly fit Mammoth. He would have to make it to Ryswick to find any suitable armor. He hated the craftsmanship of Rydian armor, but he had little options unless he wanted to be fighting in his farming clothes for the rest of this journey.

---

Mammoth set out soon afterwards on the east road through the wetlands, but he would soon have to stay off the road once he got some distance away from Bastoin. The Imperials on the road would not take kindly to his presence. Once he was through the wetlands, the road did him little good anyway. The Imperial purposefully made the road hard to cross for foreigners due to low-lying hedge bushes and an almost labyrinth like set of turns as it moved through the hills. He would have to cut through the rugged hills on foot and brave the wilderness.

First however, lay the Marshlands, known for many perils of its own...
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I am the Lord of Beer

Fort Europe · Posted: Wed May 02, 2012 1:06 pm Post subject:

It was not the fact so much as the method of Grombyard's destruction that most disturbed Gnias. The fire had clearly begun inside the walls, but this was definately not accidental. The gates had not even been unlocked and no one had escaped, he doubted that there had been time to even raise the alarm, for the bell in the village square had melted into the scorched mud. It was as though the Goddess herself has wiped out the town with a click of her fingers. What better explanation was there, this could not have been done by any man or beast Gnias had ever seen with his own two eyes.

As dusk fell over the landscape, marking the end of another day, Fawkes filled his canteen from the village well, which fortunately stood outside the protective walls, then set his camp between two trees nearby. His proximity to such an unnatural disaster haunted him, but it was still preferable to entering the forest of Scalazin after dark. There was no telling what fearful terrors lay within. Not even the brave Nykie, Gnias's horse whom he had named after the legendary Highland hero, looked enthused by the sight of the deep dark forest lurking in the distance.

As Fawkes settled down, and built a small fire to heat his broth, he laughed slightly at the thought of that Highland legend's tale. Dav of Hamble was a millers son who had earnt the tite 'The Nykie' for his heroism in defeating a vast army in the enemy village of Nykia in the Western Mountains. Dav had infiltrated the village, disguised as an enemy soldier, worked his way up through the ranks by shuffling off the superior officers, then when he was placed in charge, Dav ordered the enemy forces to retreat. Ingeneous no?

Soon Gnias had drifted off to sleep.
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Doramicus · Posted: Wed May 02, 2012 5:53 pm Post subject:

The Rydian marshlands were no trifle to be taken lightly. Their long stretches of low water and sinking sod underfoot meant that travel was no simple matter. Worse, there were the creatures of the marsh--bugs as big as a man's fist, Marsh Striders, and worse. The Marsh Striders were wiry, tall humanoid troll-like beasts that could run along the surface of the water. Their length allows them to strike at their prey from great distances without endangering themselves and their rather weak frames. Green as the marshland foliage, they often could blend in until it was far too late to know they were coming. Concealed by the mists of the marshland, they were a deadly predator. They could close distances quickly and leave no trace of a corpse when they were finished, using that hunting ground hundreds of time over if they desired.

Mammoth slowly made his way through the marshes, taking slow trudging steps that required him to almost shake himself from the wetlands ground with every step. His weight made him sink deep into the mud with every step, making him a little glad that he was not able to find armor, as that would make this exhausting journey even harder. Using trees and nearby vines, he latched on with his axe or hands and pulled himself free when he was slowing down due to the sticky, sinking mud. It kept his pace up. The trek through the wetlands would take a week at best at this rate, and finding places to rest would be difficult as land that wasn't covered in low water was rare in the wetlands.

---

Mammoth had been marching through the filth for a couple hours when he heard it. A loud cry that echoed through the empty mists of the marsh. It sounded like a child, but far to powerful and carrying to be one. Mammoth stopped and stood still for a moment, feeling the muck make its way above up his legs as he stopped. He freed himself every few moments so as to not sink too deep, but the cry didn't stop. The wail was indeed not human, listening intently could give that away. What exactly it was coming from, however, was another story entirely.

Mammoth continued forward, toward the noise. He realized how hard it was to direct himself in the marsh as the mist covered the landscape. Once the sun went down, its outline would not give him the direction he needed and the stars would surely not pierce the veil of the marsh mist. As the noise grew louder, Mammoth paid closer attention to his surroundings. Keeping a lookout for any of the dangers that might come his way. One of the massive marsh mosquitoes came near him, but lasted only a few moments before Mammoth had cut it from the air with a one armed swing of his axe. The whip of his weapon had attracted whatever had been making the sound, as the cry stopped suddenly mid-wail.

Mammoth pulled himself up and notched his foot in a nearby broken tree's roots. This way we wouldn't sink into the marsh as he defended himself from whatever was coming his way. Focusing intently on the mist, he heard nothing but the crickets and the occasional toad. The stillness of the marsh was eerie, but downright terrifying for a normal man. The still air broke when the green arm flashed through the mist at Mammoth. It's fingers were like knives, nearly 10 inches long each, and the arm extended all the way through the mist. It was a Marsh Strider, and Mammoth had fallen into its trap. Mammoth hardly had time to react before he flashed the hand into the tree with the side of his axe's blade. The quick deflection caused the hand to retract quickly into the mist as the other came bursting out from a different direction. To his right, the left hand flew high, coming in from above. Seeing this one coming, Mammoth waited until the last moment for the hand to reach him, hooking the wrist in the arc of his axe and twisting. The hand was within reach, and Mammoth grabbed the wrist of the creature and yanked on it with all his might.

The screech that followed was so sharp that it could have deafened him. The echo through the marshland was equally as loud as Mammoth shook his head trying not to lose focus. The monsterous Strider came into view as it splashed into the water in front of him. It was towering. Mammoth did not expect the creature to be nearly 20 feet tall and as thin as it was, but that explained the distance that its arms could reach. Bringing down his axe with a swift swing, Mammoth cleaved the arm he had caught clean off, causing the monster to scream out again, this time in agony, not fear.

The resulting attack from the right hand had such force that it knocked Mammoth from the tree he had rooted himself into. It thrust him into the marsh, burying him below the waters. Holding his breath and unable to see, Mammoth felt the knive-like hands of the Strider digging into his chest as it held him against the sinking floor of the marsh. The force of the blow had knocked his weapon from his hand. Grabbing at his right leg, he pulled out his short blade and dug it into the creature's forearm, clasping the wrist with his left hand as it recoiled. It pulled him from the marsh and tossed him toward it. Mammoth landed knee deep in muck, not a half a food from the massive wood-like head of the Strider. It recoiled in shock before Mammoth slammed his short blade in the creature's face.

It died with but a yelp, like a dog who had been kicked. Falling forward, the lightweight creature was easily tossed aside as it fell into the marsh. Mammoth pried his shortblade free from the creature and looked down at his chest. The long fingers had cut him on his chest under each arm. It was not serious, but it was annoying to have been injured so quickly. Mammoth tried to move from the muck, but being stuck to the knees proved too deep for him to pull himself out. He could see his axe-hilt sticking out of the water by the tree he had defended himself from, but he couldn't reach it from here. Looking around, he saw no way to pry himself free from the marsh. Having been stupid enough to not reroute and subsequently get himself into a fight with a Marsh Strider, he was not going to be stupid enough to struggle and sink himself deeper into the marsh.

Think, there has to be a way to get out of this...

Looking around, Mammoth saw little nearby that could help him. The vines were near the trees and the marsh was rather open in the spot he was stuck. Suddenly, he sunk about a foot into the muck.

"Oh ya gotta be kiddin' me!" he yelled out, as the suction of a bottom feeder pulled him deeper. The creatures were known for waiting on prey to get stuck in the mud and then sucking them down to suffocate. Afterwards, they slowly digested them and fed off the nutrients that seeped into the mud. Mammoth had no time to lose, holding his shortblade tight, Mammoth thrust it deep into the mud beside his legs. Feeling nothing, he pried it free and tried again. This time, he felt a push on his legs.

"Got ya."

Pulling back again, Mammoth raised up as high as he could and thrust himself under the mud with as much force as he could muster, stabbing downward into the much and feeling the hard pause of blade meeting with bone. What felt like a cough pushed him up to the surface and free from the muck. Mammoth quickly trudged over to his axe and sheathed his short blade.

Covered in mud, blood, and sweat, Mammoth waited by the tree for a moment as he caught his breath. The bottom feeders were timid hunters, and once threatened it would flee from the fight. Mammoth took a moment to gather himself and get his bearings on the sun that was just past the peak in the sky.

After catching his breath, he continued marching southeast. He found that the mud was rather effective at protecting him from the bugs, so he hadn't bothered to try and remove it from himself. After some time, he paused to take a drink from his canteen. He could see what looked like higher ground in front of him, and he readily moved toward it. The dirt was soft, but still not the seeping mess that he had been marching through since morning. He took a moment to gather himself now that he was on solid ground, and that's when he noticed a small hut through the mist.

Coming up to it, he noticed it was rather dilapidated. There were men that lived in these marshes, as well as less-hospitable folk and the town of Farsal. This seemed far too remote to be any of those, and far too damaged to be currently inhabited. Mammoth grabbed the rusted door handle and turned it. The door swung open and the musky smell of rotting wood greeted him. As he entered, the light from the window showed him a bed, a fireplace, and various furs lying about. This place was not abandoned...
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I am the Lord of Beer

Fort Europe · Posted: Thu May 03, 2012 10:13 am Post subject:

The forest dwelling of Elmire was well known. Tales of it's magnificent beauty had reached far and wide. Fawkes had heard the stories from various travellers since he was a boy, and although he had never been there himself, he had a vividly imagined picture of the forest paradise in his mind. When he was younger, Gnias had always wanted to go there and see it for himself, but over the years he had left those desires behind. Now it was only a two day ride away, and lay along the road he meant to take, his excitement for the place was rekindled.

Gnias woke from his dream of Elmire, as he believed it to be, and before he got to his feet he prayed to the Goddess that the village had not been attacked. If there was to be one place left unharmed, he wanted it to be Elmire. From those travellers tales he had heard of grand houses built in the trees, walkways and rope bridges linking them together above the forest floor. All of which was centered around a hot spring where the water bubbled up from deep underground caves and beautiful girls bathed naked, the most beautiful girls that could ever be imagined.

Packed up for another day of hard travelling, Fawkes mounted his horse and set off, keeping to the wide dirt track that led in to the forest of Scalazin and leaving the destroyed village of Grombyard behind him. His spirits had been lifted considerably by the thoughts and dreams of Elmire, and he vowed to reach the village as quickly as he could. Gnias was at least grateful that he was on horseback. The path would have taken a week at least on foot, and with the unnatural lack of people on the road, and the destruction of so many towns and villages, Nykie's company was invaluable.

Gnias talked to his horse while they cantered along, a habbit he had started not long after leaving Grandale. At that moment he hoped it would calm the beast, for they were about to enter the dark and dangerous forest of Scalazin. The outer most trees loomed large before him, creepers and roots stretching out into the open plain, wild and untamed. Ferns, bracken, lichens and all manner of other plant life knotted together on the forest floor and grew almost twice as high as any man. The trees themsleves stood out from the undergrowth, rising hundreds of feet into the air and knitting together to block out the sunlight completely in places.

The path leading into the forest was narrow, overgrown but well travelled by traders and the like. It was just wide enough for a horse drawn carriage to be driven down it, or for two horses to stand side by side without brushing against the foliage or bumping into trees. Even so, Gnias kept Nykie right in the centre of the path for fear that something might jump out at them. Despite the clear, fairly overcast day outside, under the canopy of leaves there was a perpetual twilight, too dark to make out more than the outline of shapes until they were really up close.

By what he considered must have been the early part of the afternoon, for it was difficult to tell, he had trekked deep into the forest, making good time by his estimates. At this point a stream created a narrow ford accross the path. It was just a small subsiduary of a much bigger river, which he could hear in the distance, a hushed roar of a waterfall filling the air and drowning out the monotonous bird song from the canopy above. It wasn't long before he came accross the river its self. A wide body of water, flowing rapidly towards the waterfall. The falls were not particularly high, only dropping about ten feet into a pool below, but the volume of water was enough to make it sound like one of the mountainous great waterfalls did during the winter melt.

On the far side of the river, there was a bridge house. A small outpost built by travellers for other travellers. Somewhere to rest and relax on the road. However, like any other sign of civilization Gnias had come accross since he had left Dhenova, the bridge house had been burnt to the ground. Only it's frame and the doorway were left standing. More to the point though, the bridge that usually crossed the river was gone as well. Marked only by the wooden posts on either side which had once held it above the rushing water.

Gnias dismounted and took Nykie by his reigns, leading the way into the torrents of water. To his surprise, the water was warmer than he would have expected, and he fought against the current as he waded accross. It wasn't all that deep at this point, but the recent rainfall had swollen the river enough to make the crossing difficult. Even so, he had a firm footing on the rocky bottom, and aimed each movement upstream against the current and testing each foothold before committing to it. Nykie was doing better. His four long legs providing a stronger base upon which to stay upright. Even so, it was Nykie that went down first. The horse lost it's footing as they reached the last third, and was carried off by the water. Gnias, still holding the reigns was pulled along two, and both of them disappeared over the edge of the waterfall together.
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Doramicus · Posted: Thu May 03, 2012 8:13 pm Post subject:

Walking into someone else's home was something that was not acceptable in the south, Mammoth knew as much. In the northern lands, most everyone in your tribe was practically family. You could get away with walking directly into their hut without fear, so long as you didn't walk in on them having sex. Mammoth looked around the room that he had just entered. There were plenty of furs of varying ages. The bed was covered in what seemingly was bear hide. The fireplace had been lit recently, the smoldering embers of a fire dying down.

There was food stored in jars that looked pickled, which was likely considering how far he was from any civilization. This was seemingly a normal hut far out in the middle of nowhere. It wasn't until he stepped into the building that he knew something was wrong.

When he had moved inside, Mammoth checked the fire and noticed it had not been used to cook, it had been used to burn clothing. He got up and walked over toward the corner of the room where a small table with carvings on it caught his attention. A circular patter lay carved into the counter, and beside it were two gemstones of a rather brilliant cut. Such baubles could hardly be simple gems, especially in a place this far out of the way. He was about to check the closet next to the table when a voice shot through the silence.

"Well now, it's been a while since I've had such a... handsome visitor." The seductive female voice caused Mammoth to pause for a moment. He had intruded into this person's home, but his instincts told him that he had stumbled into a witch's den. Those who practiced magic almost always decided to run out into the wilderness as the Rydian felt spellcasting was stealing from the Gods. The secondary problem was that most dabblers of spellcasting were dangerous.

Mammoth slowly turned around and was greeted by a gorgeous woman. He was set aback by her striking beauty. Clothed in nothing more than rags, her long black hair and sharp green eyes cut him to the bone. Her long legs were exposed and Mammoth felt his heart beat hard in his chest.

"So, tell me. Why are you in my home?" She said, her voice a troubling type of welcoming for an intruder.

Mammoth breathed in before he responded and smelled an attractive perfume. He often smelled it among the nobles that wandered into trade towns. Shaking his head, he responded quickly, "Sorry, I'll head out."

As he quickly stepped toward the door, she stood in his way shutting the door, "Come now, you're wounded," She said, pointing to his cuts around his chest and running her fingers across his chest, "and I've been so lonely out here."

It's a goddamn spell, Mammoth! Get the hell out of here! his mind screamed at him, seemingly separate from his body at this point. She stepped toward him and smiled, exposing her chest and pressing up against him. The smell was intoxicating, and her eyes locked on his were hard to break from.

"You're mine now..." She whispered in his ear, taking his hand.

"No!" Mammoth yelled, wrenching free his hand and coming to his senses. He stepped back and raised his axe. She let out a lighthearted laugh.

"Oh the Barbarians. Your endurance second only to your strength of will. I forgot that I have to try a little harder to overcome your inhibitions. I really want to see just how long you can go..." She said, grinning again as her rags dropped to the floor and the overpowering scent filled the room. Mammoth could hardly keep his vision straight as she walked toward him. He dropped his axe as he fell to one knee, shaking his head as he tried to gather himself.

If she gets you into that bed, your clothes are the next ones on the fire and your body will be fed to the damn swamp! GET YOUR HEAD TOGETHER! He screamed at himself in his mind. He couldn't hardly think straight, her beauty and the scent in the room overpowering him. She had reached him as he fought with himself. She put her bare midsection right next to his face and smiled down at him.

"You know you can't resist me..." Her seductive taunt continued. Mammoth was running out of time, he couldn't give in, but he could hardly think with her scent.

That's it!

Throwing his left hand up over his mouth and nose, he backed away one final time as the naked witch rushed toward him. His right hand shot up and caught her by the throat. She gagged for a moment as he lifted her into the air, walking her out of the hut and into the open. The air cleared, as did his head once he was in the fresh air. She struggled, hands locked on Mammoth's wrist as he choked the life out of her. In a last ditch effort, a purple aura emanated from her and Mammoth felt the temptation from the hut hitting him again, but far less powerful now. He grinned at the witch who was fading.

"Wrong prey, bitch." Mammoth said as he choked the last bit of life out of her. When she stopped struggling he dropped her on the ground, then returned to the hut to grab his axe. When he returned outside, he severed her head from her shoulders to ensure the job was done. The gorgeous witch had nearly done him in, but he was thankful that he had kept his wits about him. Had not not had time to survey the room, he may not have been so lucky.

With the threat gone, the hut was safe to sleep in for the night, as the sun would be going down within the hour. Losing the little travel time he would lose would be far less detrimental than a good night's sleep in a dry place. When he entered, the unnatural scent was gone, its origin obviously having been the witch's spell. He headed to the cupboard that he was going to check before the confrontation and was greeted by the head of twelve men when he opened it. They were pickled similar to her food. Their eyes and ears were gone.

"Cannibal..." Mammoth said to himself, closing the cupboard. He turned around and inspected the "food jars" closer, and realized that it was indeed human flesh. The furs lying around the room were seemingly conjured, as they had disappeared with the witch. Mammoth realized now that he had walked right into her trap, and luckily survived it. Twelve men had not been so lucky. He wondered what purpose the heads had to be pickled and what the carvings on the table had meant, surely the witch had kept notes. He searched around the cabin for a bit before he found a small bound leather notebook. Inside detailed the witch's experiment.

She had been gathering the souls of her seduced into the gemstones on the corner table. When she was 'finished' with them, they were drained and exhausted and she could easily cast her spells to steal their life force. She ate the bodies as it was an easy food source, but she kept the heads for the final ritual. She had intended to become a demon. There were various types, most of which had been undiscovered. Of the known demons were Hunters and Fire demons, but this one was one Mammoth had not heard of: A soul devourer. She intended to steal their souls by sleeping with them, and thus become immortal.

Mammoth was the last soul she needed.

"Well, this is gonna have to be burned." Mammoth continued speaking to himself as he walked over to the stove and tossed it in. He lit a fire in the stove and watched the journal burn before he decided he would rather not sleep in this place tonight. He opened the door and pulled out some burning embers of the book, throwing it on the bed. He exited as the fire engulfed the building, taking its dark secrets with it.

He stopped to look down at the corpse of the witch, which was covering the wetland ground with blood, and he smirked as much of her beauty was indeed the spell itself. She was not ugly, but she had certainly grown skilled at deceiving men's carnal desires. Mammoth tossed the corpse into the water before he headed out, the sun waning through the mist. The ground was high here and dry for a good distance in front of him. He would camp further up, away from his near demise...
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I am the Lord of Beer

Fort Europe · Posted: Mon May 07, 2012 11:56 am Post subject:

The fall was further than Fawkes had anticipated, he was pushed deep under the water, but it was a soft landing and he soon came up, choughing and spluttering. To his surprise, an outstretched hand was waiting as he reached the pool's edge. Gnias took it and was helped out onto the bank.

"What brings you to Scalazin Bridge boy?" The other asked, handing Gnias a dry blanket, noting the swords still attached to his back.

"The outlying villages were attacked by barbarians, there was nothing left. I am going to the capital, to warn them, and to get help." Gnias said.

"There were attacks here too." The other frowned. "Many on the road were killed, three days ago." Gnias felt his heart sink. He had hoped that the Barbarians would not enter the forest. His assumption had been wrong. If the invaders were three days ahead, Ryswick may already be in danger. He said as much.

"Come. I will guide you to the road." The stranger continued. "I am headed North, but I will show you a safe path to Elmire."

"Elmire survived?" Gnias asked sceptically.

"The locals believe they are protected by some kind of magical spirits. Somehow I doubt it. But the village was not attacked. Come, I will show you the way."
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Doramicus · Posted: Mon May 14, 2012 4:22 am Post subject:

At dawn, Mammoth arose from sleeping amidst the mist of the wetlands, which had seemingly thickened overnight. The temperature had gone up and the humidity in the air made the air feel almost thick to breathe. Having been of the north, Mammoth was especially susceptible to the heat. He was already dripping in sweat in the early morn as he took a swig of water from his flask.

Gathering his bearings, he continued through the mist for a moment until he found an area where the mist was clear enough to see where the sun was rising and give him direction. With that, he continued south. He knew before long that he should reach Lake Farsal and find his way into the remote village where he could restock. They were a hardy people that lived out in these swamps, provided that Farsal hadn't been burned to the ground.

----

Hours later, Mammoth had reached the shores of the lake. The wetlands just sort of dropped off into the depths. Many an unwary traveler found himself swimming before he knew where he was. Mammoth knelt down by the water and watched it for a moment. It was completely still. There was no wind, no movement of the air, and no ripples in the water because of it. He peered over the lake for a moment like he would see something, and then started walking around the Lake.

Within a few minutes, he had reached Farsal. It was calm, peaceful, and completely empty. The calm in the water had troubled him, and when he entered the town, there was not a person to be seen. As he walked through the empty street that was little more than a dirt path, he saw that the mill had long been standing still. There was moss growing on the top of it.

No word of Farsal being abandoned ever reached us... Why would they leave it behind?

Mammoth moved through the streets slowly, readying his axe in distrust of the eerily silent town. The sign of the bakery was lying on the ground as the metal rings had long rusted due to the moisture in the air. When he entered the small building, the smell of bread that had been freshly baked greeted his nostrils, as if someone had just recently been here. But, when he moved toward the back room, the stores of foodstuffs had long rotted, even if the smell was completely missing.

"The hell?" Mammoth said to himself under his breath.

Leaving quickly, Mammoth moved toward the door to find it shut behind him. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing on edge now as his eyes surveyed the room. Nothing moved. He kicked the door off its hinges and moved into the open, swinging around and hacking behind him. The blade met nothing but air.

Mammoth settled himself as he watched his surroundings very carefully. Someone had taken great care to ensure that Farsal looked abandoned, but his instincts were telling him that that was far from the truth.
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I am the Lord of Beer