((Yes, it's my first time roleplaying here. If there's something wrong with the board, just please lock and erase it before I embarrass myself further. I may have forgotten or overlooked something, so now would be the time for me to learn.
Also, please tell me if my posts start getting long or drawling. I tend to dwell.
Any advice is welcome.))
Snow descended gently from the heavens, spiraling to the earth to pile up in a century-old stack--it descended nearly fifty feet off the ground, glaciers of never-melting ice jutting up from between the soft piles of snow.
Here, an ancient legend had worked its way into every set of ears and eyes of the Old Villages. From every elder's mouth came the same tale, weaving into a great legend, an epic of idols, worries, and prophecies to rest forever within the minds of the children and the adults of the Old Tribes--a tale woven from the finest tongues into the choppy, hard Common Tongue, simply so those of the New Villages could understand them.
"Once, there was a land of peace, bravery, and morals. It had no name, but they began to call it the World, simply out of reverence and common sense. Because it was their world, and the world that they had come to know as the World," they would say. They would tell of heroes, and their words would sink as those who graced the world simply by having been--and they did, in the hearts and minds of the Old Tribes. "Then, a darkness descended across the land--but a hero saved it." The classic line.
This "darkness," however, was not darkness at all. And the legends have not ended.
Indeed, to the legends, it stops there. The darkness descended, but the words of the heroes stayed--and many died, emulating their only hopes, emulating the creatures they saw as gods among the commoners; and they died, the emulators died, dust in the wind like their idols. For the darkness was revolution, and the Old Tribes were the shadow of a revolution.
The revolution was spreading like a virus, but who was to say that they didn't need to be wiped off the face of their World. Who was to say that it wasn't theirs first, though? The New Villages.
The fighting not only broke up the helpless Old Tribes, but the new as well. People began to fight for both sides, despite the prejudices, and they began to translate the Old Legends, preaching their wisdom to the advanced New Villages.
Then, the slaughter began.
There was chaos, and peace could no longer be kept in the New Tribes. Thus, a leader had to be elected--a bloodthirsty emperor, wielding the most power in the kingdom yet the least wisdom. His guard was composed of torn mercenaries, unable to go anywhere else--and in a darker case, unable to do anything else but kill. Blood was shed, innocents killed; then, the guards began to turn on each other, some tempted by the wisdoms of the teachings and some thirsty for more power.
It became absolute chaos, and there was no good nor evil.
The Old Tribes could only sit aside, waiting for a hero--but there was none.
Then, to some measure the chaos ended and it split.
A group of New Village rebels and Old Village wise men and women, along with young warriors of all homes gathered to end the onslaught--on the other side, however, the emperor was gaining some composure to his troops, and organizing them. Among the chaos there were many sides, and those who simply wanted peace--even some crusading for a new land, away from there. It was unsure which side was necessarily "right"--well, each side believed in what they were doing to some degree, excluding the crazies who just joined up for the slaughter. So who was to judge who was right?
The war broke down into three sides, eventually: the New Village, the Old Village, and the Land-Finders. The former, to wipe all of the old traditions and bring about a new light to the world. The middle wished only to live in peace and celebrate their traditions with little remorse. The Land-Finders were out to seek a new land in which to live.
It was unsure who would come out on top--the battlefield was confused.
~~~~
It is three o'clock in the morning, and more than just the early birds are rising. A small band of New Village soldiers are striding confidently into an Old Village, but little do they know that the trained warriors of their enemies are hiding within the humble houses. The stability is shaky among the soldiers, especially now that some of them are a bit dissuaded by the calm surface of the morning--but the more wild ones seem to be keeping everyone in order. How long will their hold stay firm? And how long will it take for the battle to break out?
The battle plan has been stated: the New Tribe soldiers are meant to stride in, and the old warriors attack from all directions. It's obvious that the New Tribe is outnumbered in the Old Villages, and with low morale, they might as well be gone.
But order is still maintained.
~~~~
"I think we're forgetting the chain of command, Valde," said the thick, richly-accented voice, ringing out among the frightened troops. Their camp was near to the outside of said village, a small fire burning rather brightly and obviously--due to, of course, the speaker. The knight would never understand why his beloved leader had chosen the scoundrel to lead his own troops, and several of them had their eyes on his throat, as well as their hands on their swords.
"Yes, sir, of course. Perhaps, though, you forget that these were my men in the first place, although we are lucky to have you here to lead us," he replied with an edge of sarcasm in his voice, rising to his feet with a clink of his armor just as he had finished tying back a thick of black hair.
"You're getting a bit arrogant for your position, knight. Will we have to fix that?"
"As I said, these were my men. Do what you will with what I spoke before," he snaked back, an even sharper tone to his voice--and more importantly, this time lacking any formality whatsoever. The mercenary wasn't the least bit afraid, and only snorted to himself.
"Why don't you go scout, then, leader?" he asked in a rather mocking, patronizing tone, and before Valde could hiss another reply, he added, "I think it quite the idea, actually. Go on now. See what's out there."
With an insolent snort, he moved less than gracefully out from the campfire, amber eye only looking back once with scorn at his new leader--then, he trudged off into the mist, jerking a rather rusty-looking spear off the rack as he left the camp. A few hushed whispers he could hear behind him, but little more.
He gulped as he realized that he could be venturing to his own death.
"Fine I will do," he reassured himself, nodding and quietly stepping forward to look around. The village was only about ten yards, now--and the humble shacks seemed somewhat run-down for what he'd heard about the village. Why were they preying off poor people, anyway? Thought the motto was something about what was right, the thought, but then stifled it before his mind could taint his allegiance; he owed his loyalty to one and only one.
With a small huff, he trudged forward, nodding and walking a bit further, to the town square; pole arm struck the earth, sliding through a bit, its tip end piercing the soft ground. For a moment, he waited, seemingly unable to move: the mist was frightening, and he had no idea what he was going into.
He gingerly clutched the spear, risking a small ahem before beginning to turn despite his reluctance to return to the camp, and the mercenary.
Also, please tell me if my posts start getting long or drawling. I tend to dwell.
Any advice is welcome.))
Snow descended gently from the heavens, spiraling to the earth to pile up in a century-old stack--it descended nearly fifty feet off the ground, glaciers of never-melting ice jutting up from between the soft piles of snow.
Here, an ancient legend had worked its way into every set of ears and eyes of the Old Villages. From every elder's mouth came the same tale, weaving into a great legend, an epic of idols, worries, and prophecies to rest forever within the minds of the children and the adults of the Old Tribes--a tale woven from the finest tongues into the choppy, hard Common Tongue, simply so those of the New Villages could understand them.
"Once, there was a land of peace, bravery, and morals. It had no name, but they began to call it the World, simply out of reverence and common sense. Because it was their world, and the world that they had come to know as the World," they would say. They would tell of heroes, and their words would sink as those who graced the world simply by having been--and they did, in the hearts and minds of the Old Tribes. "Then, a darkness descended across the land--but a hero saved it." The classic line.
This "darkness," however, was not darkness at all. And the legends have not ended.
Indeed, to the legends, it stops there. The darkness descended, but the words of the heroes stayed--and many died, emulating their only hopes, emulating the creatures they saw as gods among the commoners; and they died, the emulators died, dust in the wind like their idols. For the darkness was revolution, and the Old Tribes were the shadow of a revolution.
The revolution was spreading like a virus, but who was to say that they didn't need to be wiped off the face of their World. Who was to say that it wasn't theirs first, though? The New Villages.
The fighting not only broke up the helpless Old Tribes, but the new as well. People began to fight for both sides, despite the prejudices, and they began to translate the Old Legends, preaching their wisdom to the advanced New Villages.
Then, the slaughter began.
There was chaos, and peace could no longer be kept in the New Tribes. Thus, a leader had to be elected--a bloodthirsty emperor, wielding the most power in the kingdom yet the least wisdom. His guard was composed of torn mercenaries, unable to go anywhere else--and in a darker case, unable to do anything else but kill. Blood was shed, innocents killed; then, the guards began to turn on each other, some tempted by the wisdoms of the teachings and some thirsty for more power.
It became absolute chaos, and there was no good nor evil.
The Old Tribes could only sit aside, waiting for a hero--but there was none.
Then, to some measure the chaos ended and it split.
A group of New Village rebels and Old Village wise men and women, along with young warriors of all homes gathered to end the onslaught--on the other side, however, the emperor was gaining some composure to his troops, and organizing them. Among the chaos there were many sides, and those who simply wanted peace--even some crusading for a new land, away from there. It was unsure which side was necessarily "right"--well, each side believed in what they were doing to some degree, excluding the crazies who just joined up for the slaughter. So who was to judge who was right?
The war broke down into three sides, eventually: the New Village, the Old Village, and the Land-Finders. The former, to wipe all of the old traditions and bring about a new light to the world. The middle wished only to live in peace and celebrate their traditions with little remorse. The Land-Finders were out to seek a new land in which to live.
It was unsure who would come out on top--the battlefield was confused.
~~~~
It is three o'clock in the morning, and more than just the early birds are rising. A small band of New Village soldiers are striding confidently into an Old Village, but little do they know that the trained warriors of their enemies are hiding within the humble houses. The stability is shaky among the soldiers, especially now that some of them are a bit dissuaded by the calm surface of the morning--but the more wild ones seem to be keeping everyone in order. How long will their hold stay firm? And how long will it take for the battle to break out?
The battle plan has been stated: the New Tribe soldiers are meant to stride in, and the old warriors attack from all directions. It's obvious that the New Tribe is outnumbered in the Old Villages, and with low morale, they might as well be gone.
But order is still maintained.
~~~~
"I think we're forgetting the chain of command, Valde," said the thick, richly-accented voice, ringing out among the frightened troops. Their camp was near to the outside of said village, a small fire burning rather brightly and obviously--due to, of course, the speaker. The knight would never understand why his beloved leader had chosen the scoundrel to lead his own troops, and several of them had their eyes on his throat, as well as their hands on their swords.
"Yes, sir, of course. Perhaps, though, you forget that these were my men in the first place, although we are lucky to have you here to lead us," he replied with an edge of sarcasm in his voice, rising to his feet with a clink of his armor just as he had finished tying back a thick of black hair.
"You're getting a bit arrogant for your position, knight. Will we have to fix that?"
"As I said, these were my men. Do what you will with what I spoke before," he snaked back, an even sharper tone to his voice--and more importantly, this time lacking any formality whatsoever. The mercenary wasn't the least bit afraid, and only snorted to himself.
"Why don't you go scout, then, leader?" he asked in a rather mocking, patronizing tone, and before Valde could hiss another reply, he added, "I think it quite the idea, actually. Go on now. See what's out there."
With an insolent snort, he moved less than gracefully out from the campfire, amber eye only looking back once with scorn at his new leader--then, he trudged off into the mist, jerking a rather rusty-looking spear off the rack as he left the camp. A few hushed whispers he could hear behind him, but little more.
He gulped as he realized that he could be venturing to his own death.
"Fine I will do," he reassured himself, nodding and quietly stepping forward to look around. The village was only about ten yards, now--and the humble shacks seemed somewhat run-down for what he'd heard about the village. Why were they preying off poor people, anyway? Thought the motto was something about what was right, the thought, but then stifled it before his mind could taint his allegiance; he owed his loyalty to one and only one.
With a small huff, he trudged forward, nodding and walking a bit further, to the town square; pole arm struck the earth, sliding through a bit, its tip end piercing the soft ground. For a moment, he waited, seemingly unable to move: the mist was frightening, and he had no idea what he was going into.
He gingerly clutched the spear, risking a small ahem before beginning to turn despite his reluctance to return to the camp, and the mercenary.
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