Post by ragnar on Jun 20, 2019 18:41:07 GMT 1
Sigurd finished hammering a nail into the supporting beam that would allow for the next phase of expansion at the Crusaders town. Ragnar, the War Master, had somehow lifted the solid beam of hardwood above his head and held it in place long enough for Sigurd to secure it. The Dwarr nodded to the giant Norsk who lowered his arms, rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck and headed towards the courtyard.
Stagnant summer heat made building an exhausting endeavor. The blisteringly bright day caused Ragnar to squint as he neared the water well in the middle of the courtyard. After winding up a pale of cool water and downing the whole bucket, he headed back across the courtyard. Brushing his hand over the top of a newly planted corridor of Cypress trees Ragnar felt a breeze on the back of his neck. A breeze turned into a gust of wind which swept through the courtyard and the waist high trees began to lean and tremble. Along with dust, the wind swept a vision through the Norsk’s mind; a gift bestowed upon him by the Gods. He found himself on his knees when the wind disappeared and the vision cleared. The sun now at the top of its arc and searing his skin, Ragnar stalked over to the well and doused his head with water.
“You alright?” Sigurd asked while holding copper nails in his mouth.
Ragnar looked up at the Dwarr.
“You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.” Said Sigurd.
A smile slowly crept across face just as the echo of a hunting horn resounded through the valley. Both Crusaders scanned the horizon.
“It’s just Achilles,” Sigurd relayed from atop his ladder.
Achilles raced up to them.
“Did you see it brother?” Achilles addressed Ragnar.
The Norsk nodded in acknowledgement at the already war-geared Mythos, impressed at his preparedness.
“Good. We need to go, now,” Achilles replied.
“Go where?” asked a confused Sigurd.
“To honour the Gods.” Achilles said.
“Right, sounds ah… great.” Sigurd scoffed.
Ragnar returned cladded in a heavy scales armour. He picked up his Broad Axe and turned to Achilles.
“Grab your gear brother and meet me on the Spine.”
“The Spine? Why?” Achilles protested.
Ragnar had already begun running north and shouted back.
“At the top.”
Achilles, the War Master, pulled his Arctodus coat tighter around his shoulders trying to keep warm as he waited for Ragnar’s arrival. Although the torrid summer heat engulfed the plain-lands, the summit of the Spine remained snow capped and frozen all year round. When Ragnar arrived he had with him his trusted companion; a White Wolf.
“I didn’t think about bringing Oorali.. good idea, we could use another weapon.” Achilles grinned.
“He’s not coming with us.” Ragnar replied.
“What? I’m confused. Why did you bring him? And what are we doing all the way up here?” Achilles protested.
“The Gods demand it,” Ragnar stated.
Achilles looked at the Norsk, then looked at the wolf and back at Ragnar.
“Surely not?” The Mythos questioned.
Achilles shook his head, walked over to the artic predator and crouched before it. He tickled its muzzle, ran his hand over its head, through its thick mane and pressed his head against the wolf. Then walked it over to Ragnar and held it still before the Norsk slit its throat with the blade of his axe. They left the body in the traditional arrangement and painted their faces with its blood.
The two War Masters descended the Spine and took up their route eastwards along the river towards Forsaken lands. After some distance, they came across two fellow Lightfoot Crusaders. Asphodel was in the water diving for river gems, and Jandal was sitting on the bank and carving a bone shiv from a Warthog’s tibia.
“Get in here now and help me.” Asphodel shouted at Jandal.
“No. Water sucks the life out of me. Every time I go in I feel drained.” Jandal replied.
“You’re such a wimp.” Asphodel replied.
“Wimp!? Pfft… Most kills belong to the alchemist, not the tailor. Anyway, get out.”
“That’s cause you’re always high and in a frenzy from overdosing on all those potions you make.” Asphodel snapped before diving under again.
When Ragnar and Achilles reached Jandal she was still laughing. After hearing the War Masters’ plan the Lightfoot were desperate to join. Asphodel buried her gems in the riverbank and the four Crusaders continued east. That night, they made camp without a fire so that they would remain undetected by the enemy. Cold stew, wine and beer sustained them for the night.
Before day broke, the Crusaders were up and moving. Now deep in enemy territory they moved quickly and quietly communicating only by hand signals. They hadn’t travelled far before they came across a Nuruk asleep at the base of a hill. They raid party snuck up and took their positions like a well-practiced routine. Achilles secured the legs, Ragnar the arms, Asphodel covered the mouth and Jandal used her polished blade to cut the Nuruks throat. They held position until the body had stopped writhing and twitching. From on top of the hill Achilles could see a few Forsaken milling around in a dusty paddock and large camp on a bridge. He bounded down the hillside dropped his coat and addressed the group.
“There’s the bridge. There are many forsaken as the vision foresaw!”
“Let’s go, leave none alive,” responded the Norsk.
The four Fellowship downed Jandal’s war potion and charged towards the bridge. Through the dry paddock they ran cutting down the loitering folk as they continued their charge toward the bridge. Asphodel arrived first and, without hesitating, leapt forward and buried her dagger into the first body she could. Fear is not an emotion you could ever associate with a Crusader Lightfoot. Heavily outnumbered, she stood little chance of surviving but she fought bravely and died a warrior’s death. The other three arrived just as she fell. Watching a comrade, friend or family member die in the heat of battle triggers something in the mind. The three remaining Crusaders went berserk. Even though they were outnumbered three to one they turned the bridge into an outdoor abattoir. Jandal sliced with wild frenzy while a poised Achilles dismembered limbs with calculated precision. Ragnar halved bodies with a single swing and the river beneath ran crimson with blood. Every enemy body left on the bridge was separated from their head after the fighting was done. Ragnar found the action therapeutic after Asphodel sacrificed herself.
The alarm bell from the east mountain rang which set off bell towers in smaller towns across the valley. The Crusaders knew they didn’t have long before hoards of enemy soldiers were upon them. There was never any discussion of turning back. The War Master’s had their vision, Jandal had her thirst for blood and the three had witnessed their sister die. They paid their respects to her fallen body, said they would join her soon and moved deeper into enemy lands slaughtering any and every soul in their path.
Moving as one the trio of death, saturated in blood, stopped only when they saw a wall of warriors charging towards them. The Gods had blessed them so far in their assault but even the most favoured warriors eventually run out of luck. Achilles turned to Ragnar.
“You should have said some words or a chant.”
“I should have sacrificed another wolf.” Ragnar replied.
“You don’t need words, or a wolf…” Jandal declared “Just some drugs and a knife.”
They all looked at each other, smiled and raced into the wall of Forsaken.
Stagnant summer heat made building an exhausting endeavor. The blisteringly bright day caused Ragnar to squint as he neared the water well in the middle of the courtyard. After winding up a pale of cool water and downing the whole bucket, he headed back across the courtyard. Brushing his hand over the top of a newly planted corridor of Cypress trees Ragnar felt a breeze on the back of his neck. A breeze turned into a gust of wind which swept through the courtyard and the waist high trees began to lean and tremble. Along with dust, the wind swept a vision through the Norsk’s mind; a gift bestowed upon him by the Gods. He found himself on his knees when the wind disappeared and the vision cleared. The sun now at the top of its arc and searing his skin, Ragnar stalked over to the well and doused his head with water.
“You alright?” Sigurd asked while holding copper nails in his mouth.
Ragnar looked up at the Dwarr.
“You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.” Said Sigurd.
A smile slowly crept across face just as the echo of a hunting horn resounded through the valley. Both Crusaders scanned the horizon.
“It’s just Achilles,” Sigurd relayed from atop his ladder.
Achilles raced up to them.
“Did you see it brother?” Achilles addressed Ragnar.
The Norsk nodded in acknowledgement at the already war-geared Mythos, impressed at his preparedness.
“Good. We need to go, now,” Achilles replied.
“Go where?” asked a confused Sigurd.
“To honour the Gods.” Achilles said.
“Right, sounds ah… great.” Sigurd scoffed.
Ragnar returned cladded in a heavy scales armour. He picked up his Broad Axe and turned to Achilles.
“Grab your gear brother and meet me on the Spine.”
“The Spine? Why?” Achilles protested.
Ragnar had already begun running north and shouted back.
“At the top.”
Achilles, the War Master, pulled his Arctodus coat tighter around his shoulders trying to keep warm as he waited for Ragnar’s arrival. Although the torrid summer heat engulfed the plain-lands, the summit of the Spine remained snow capped and frozen all year round. When Ragnar arrived he had with him his trusted companion; a White Wolf.
“I didn’t think about bringing Oorali.. good idea, we could use another weapon.” Achilles grinned.
“He’s not coming with us.” Ragnar replied.
“What? I’m confused. Why did you bring him? And what are we doing all the way up here?” Achilles protested.
“The Gods demand it,” Ragnar stated.
Achilles looked at the Norsk, then looked at the wolf and back at Ragnar.
“Surely not?” The Mythos questioned.
Achilles shook his head, walked over to the artic predator and crouched before it. He tickled its muzzle, ran his hand over its head, through its thick mane and pressed his head against the wolf. Then walked it over to Ragnar and held it still before the Norsk slit its throat with the blade of his axe. They left the body in the traditional arrangement and painted their faces with its blood.
The two War Masters descended the Spine and took up their route eastwards along the river towards Forsaken lands. After some distance, they came across two fellow Lightfoot Crusaders. Asphodel was in the water diving for river gems, and Jandal was sitting on the bank and carving a bone shiv from a Warthog’s tibia.
“Get in here now and help me.” Asphodel shouted at Jandal.
“No. Water sucks the life out of me. Every time I go in I feel drained.” Jandal replied.
“You’re such a wimp.” Asphodel replied.
“Wimp!? Pfft… Most kills belong to the alchemist, not the tailor. Anyway, get out.”
“That’s cause you’re always high and in a frenzy from overdosing on all those potions you make.” Asphodel snapped before diving under again.
When Ragnar and Achilles reached Jandal she was still laughing. After hearing the War Masters’ plan the Lightfoot were desperate to join. Asphodel buried her gems in the riverbank and the four Crusaders continued east. That night, they made camp without a fire so that they would remain undetected by the enemy. Cold stew, wine and beer sustained them for the night.
Before day broke, the Crusaders were up and moving. Now deep in enemy territory they moved quickly and quietly communicating only by hand signals. They hadn’t travelled far before they came across a Nuruk asleep at the base of a hill. They raid party snuck up and took their positions like a well-practiced routine. Achilles secured the legs, Ragnar the arms, Asphodel covered the mouth and Jandal used her polished blade to cut the Nuruks throat. They held position until the body had stopped writhing and twitching. From on top of the hill Achilles could see a few Forsaken milling around in a dusty paddock and large camp on a bridge. He bounded down the hillside dropped his coat and addressed the group.
“There’s the bridge. There are many forsaken as the vision foresaw!”
“Let’s go, leave none alive,” responded the Norsk.
The four Fellowship downed Jandal’s war potion and charged towards the bridge. Through the dry paddock they ran cutting down the loitering folk as they continued their charge toward the bridge. Asphodel arrived first and, without hesitating, leapt forward and buried her dagger into the first body she could. Fear is not an emotion you could ever associate with a Crusader Lightfoot. Heavily outnumbered, she stood little chance of surviving but she fought bravely and died a warrior’s death. The other three arrived just as she fell. Watching a comrade, friend or family member die in the heat of battle triggers something in the mind. The three remaining Crusaders went berserk. Even though they were outnumbered three to one they turned the bridge into an outdoor abattoir. Jandal sliced with wild frenzy while a poised Achilles dismembered limbs with calculated precision. Ragnar halved bodies with a single swing and the river beneath ran crimson with blood. Every enemy body left on the bridge was separated from their head after the fighting was done. Ragnar found the action therapeutic after Asphodel sacrificed herself.
The alarm bell from the east mountain rang which set off bell towers in smaller towns across the valley. The Crusaders knew they didn’t have long before hoards of enemy soldiers were upon them. There was never any discussion of turning back. The War Master’s had their vision, Jandal had her thirst for blood and the three had witnessed their sister die. They paid their respects to her fallen body, said they would join her soon and moved deeper into enemy lands slaughtering any and every soul in their path.
Moving as one the trio of death, saturated in blood, stopped only when they saw a wall of warriors charging towards them. The Gods had blessed them so far in their assault but even the most favoured warriors eventually run out of luck. Achilles turned to Ragnar.
“You should have said some words or a chant.”
“I should have sacrificed another wolf.” Ragnar replied.
“You don’t need words, or a wolf…” Jandal declared “Just some drugs and a knife.”
They all looked at each other, smiled and raced into the wall of Forsaken.