Reputation changes
Posted by Apostate on 03/25/17
Tales of Valor VII
I promised I would not get into the big picture. I know I know. No. Stop throwing fruit at me. At least throw ale. But sometimes... one has to pull back from the battlefield. To realize the battle would have never happened and never had been a victory if it was not for a select few. I imagine High Lord Victus Thrax would rather have been at the front, his axe soaked in Bringer blood. But the man wanted his realm. He wanted Thrax. And now he has it, and all the many duties that come with it. Victus Thrax and Jasher Thrax find themselves making sure the Thrax vassals are kept in line, as no Thrax sea captain worth his salt would find leaving the salt filled sea for the saltless rivers of the Gray Forest a enjoyable prospect.
The ring of a hammer was clear in the air before the battle was truly started. The crash and clang of hard metal upon hard metal as smith known as Waldemai Isenhu worked for hours on end to work the the Compact's arms and armor into, what he declared, "A damn proper shape." When that smith first touched foot at Giant's Fall his scowl was more palpable then rotted Giant's visage or Bringer cry. There is one thing Waldemai Isenhu knows... and that is armor. And if these warriors of the Compact wanted to live another day, a few dents, rents and rusted slabs of armor would have to be replaced. For hours on end before the battle truly began, his hammer rang and rang, repairing armor and shields, helmets and greaves. Tireless and unrelenting the stoic armorer would not stop until there was no more time.
Elvesbane, the legendary blade of Grayson, has seen many battlefields. Do elves flinch at its mention? Do they flee from its sight? Those wars are long past, and new ones arrayed before us. On the battlefield Prince Barric Grayson, the Sword of Bastion, found himself facing before two of the hulking Bringers. Their visages twisted in family likeness, these Brother Bringers sneered at the Grayson as they finished ripping in half a dozen knights of the Compact. They berated him, hissing words of mockery as they tossed the freshly slaughtered corpses of his own men at him. The Sword of Bastion waited for the perfect moment, ducking under the shattered corpse of a Compact Knight tossed at him like a boulder, flashing forward to cleave the leg out from one of the Bringers, dropping him to proper height so he could remove his abyssal corrupted head and dodging behind the brother to open him from navel to throat with a deep slash of alaricite.
I weep when I hear the history of Sir Holden Morgan. Dedicated of the Oathlands. Loyal of the Valadrin. A knight of no equal. How can a man suffer such loss? Such devastation? How can he continue on when the world gives him all the reason to give up? He never faltered. Never took a single step back. When Alis Valadrin led her charge into the boiling horde of mindless Shavs he and his knights were there, cutting down Bringers and shavs with practiced precision and an unfaltering dedication to life unfair and unforgiving.
The Duke Valkieri Rubino could be said to only manage his flawless stoicism with the soldier Gian Fuller watching his back. As it is hard to look stoic when there is a shav axe in your throat, or a Bringer is trying his hardest to rearrange your spine into a new hat. Valkieri's forces cut hard and deep into the Bringer horde, their flanks constantly threatened, constantly open to being rolled and crushed by the unending tide of Shav bodies. Yet every time the lines shuddered, shifted, threatened to envelope them, Gian Fuller was there and the black and white wings of the Rubino-Zaffira infantry kept their duke safe as the soldier Gian worked as a constant and inviolable shield.
From the highest high to the lowest low. From Princess and Princes to Prodigals and those of the Lower Boroughs. A veteran of the Valorous Few it is mercenaries like Garza that make the Few more than just a gang of cutthroats and thugs. Not through any sense of valor or honor of course, but through the application of sound military tactics, honed by years of experience. Stepping off the line he drew the laugh of more noble knights and levied soldiers, wondering if he was running off and away. Returning to the lines of the Valorous Few, with crossbows and bows in tow he grinned to his brothers and sisters of the coin. "Thin horde now if you want to live and spend that coin." And thin the horde they did, until the mindless mob was upon them and their bows and crossbows were tossed away to earn their coin the old fashion way.
But that is all the tales I have for now. Less you have more coin. And if you say I exaggerated even one story... well... I know an Inquisitor or two.
((Virtually all written OOCly by player of Alistair, give him a shoutout))
I promised I would not get into the big picture. I know I know. No. Stop throwing fruit at me. At least throw ale. But sometimes... one has to pull back from the battlefield. To realize the battle would have never happened and never had been a victory if it was not for a select few. I imagine High Lord Victus Thrax would rather have been at the front, his axe soaked in Bringer blood. But the man wanted his realm. He wanted Thrax. And now he has it, and all the many duties that come with it. Victus Thrax and Jasher Thrax find themselves making sure the Thrax vassals are kept in line, as no Thrax sea captain worth his salt would find leaving the salt filled sea for the saltless rivers of the Gray Forest a enjoyable prospect.
The ring of a hammer was clear in the air before the battle was truly started. The crash and clang of hard metal upon hard metal as smith known as Waldemai Isenhu worked for hours on end to work the the Compact's arms and armor into, what he declared, "A damn proper shape." When that smith first touched foot at Giant's Fall his scowl was more palpable then rotted Giant's visage or Bringer cry. There is one thing Waldemai Isenhu knows... and that is armor. And if these warriors of the Compact wanted to live another day, a few dents, rents and rusted slabs of armor would have to be replaced. For hours on end before the battle truly began, his hammer rang and rang, repairing armor and shields, helmets and greaves. Tireless and unrelenting the stoic armorer would not stop until there was no more time.
Elvesbane, the legendary blade of Grayson, has seen many battlefields. Do elves flinch at its mention? Do they flee from its sight? Those wars are long past, and new ones arrayed before us. On the battlefield Prince Barric Grayson, the Sword of Bastion, found himself facing before two of the hulking Bringers. Their visages twisted in family likeness, these Brother Bringers sneered at the Grayson as they finished ripping in half a dozen knights of the Compact. They berated him, hissing words of mockery as they tossed the freshly slaughtered corpses of his own men at him. The Sword of Bastion waited for the perfect moment, ducking under the shattered corpse of a Compact Knight tossed at him like a boulder, flashing forward to cleave the leg out from one of the Bringers, dropping him to proper height so he could remove his abyssal corrupted head and dodging behind the brother to open him from navel to throat with a deep slash of alaricite.
I weep when I hear the history of Sir Holden Morgan. Dedicated of the Oathlands. Loyal of the Valadrin. A knight of no equal. How can a man suffer such loss? Such devastation? How can he continue on when the world gives him all the reason to give up? He never faltered. Never took a single step back. When Alis Valadrin led her charge into the boiling horde of mindless Shavs he and his knights were there, cutting down Bringers and shavs with practiced precision and an unfaltering dedication to life unfair and unforgiving.
The Duke Valkieri Rubino could be said to only manage his flawless stoicism with the soldier Gian Fuller watching his back. As it is hard to look stoic when there is a shav axe in your throat, or a Bringer is trying his hardest to rearrange your spine into a new hat. Valkieri's forces cut hard and deep into the Bringer horde, their flanks constantly threatened, constantly open to being rolled and crushed by the unending tide of Shav bodies. Yet every time the lines shuddered, shifted, threatened to envelope them, Gian Fuller was there and the black and white wings of the Rubino-Zaffira infantry kept their duke safe as the soldier Gian worked as a constant and inviolable shield.
From the highest high to the lowest low. From Princess and Princes to Prodigals and those of the Lower Boroughs. A veteran of the Valorous Few it is mercenaries like Garza that make the Few more than just a gang of cutthroats and thugs. Not through any sense of valor or honor of course, but through the application of sound military tactics, honed by years of experience. Stepping off the line he drew the laugh of more noble knights and levied soldiers, wondering if he was running off and away. Returning to the lines of the Valorous Few, with crossbows and bows in tow he grinned to his brothers and sisters of the coin. "Thin horde now if you want to live and spend that coin." And thin the horde they did, until the mindless mob was upon them and their bows and crossbows were tossed away to earn their coin the old fashion way.
But that is all the tales I have for now. Less you have more coin. And if you say I exaggerated even one story... well... I know an Inquisitor or two.
((Virtually all written OOCly by player of Alistair, give him a shoutout))