B
Belomar
Guest
[This is my chronicle of the Albion strength relic raid into Midgard that took place on November 19th last year. Yes, it has been a long time in coming (due to RL concerns), so many of the details might be wrong (especially concerning who was present at the relic keep and who were not). Please have patience with this. 
]
Snow. Pure and dark, cold and hot, muffling and chilling, innocent and concealing, all at the same time. Covering everything like a treacherously white blanket, howling as tiny particles on the chill wind, ruthlessly stinging and biting any unprotected skin. Snow, the icy component of a grim landscape torn by the bitter rages of the weather gods.
Thoughtfully tapping out a soothing rhythm to said winter gods on my leather-bound drum, your chronicler anxiously scanned the steel-grey canopy of the boundless sky above, at the same time keeping a vigilant eye to the wind-torn gravel road winding below my vantage point. Interventions from both divine and mortal powers were unwelcome this day, and could well be enough to foil the mission the Shadowlords had been given. Shrugging off this unpleasant thought, I continued my surveillance with renewed enthusiasm. My breath stood as a cloud around my mouth, and I quickly adjusted the hood of my thick cloak to prevent this from giving away my position to any enemy scouts in the vicinity. Eagle-eyed Nibor Hood, Earl of the Shadowlords, was concealed further up the road close to the Albion milegate and should have been able to spot any enemy movement, but I refused to take chances on a night like this.
A night like this, indeed. All across distant Albion, forces were mobilizing, armies were amassing, heroes were purposefully completing the final preparations for the coming veil of darkness that already was descending over the grim landscape of Odin's Gate. A night of danger and risk, but also a night of bravery and glory. The Albion army was preparing to strike deep into the snow-shrouded Uppland, to penetrate to the Midgard strength relic keep to once and for all reclaim the Horn of Valhalla to the bowels of Castle Excalibur. And once again, this bold assault was masterminded by the audacious wizard Wildfire Darkspirit of the First Cohort guild of Albion. Once again, the forces of light and freedom would strike at the heart of the darkness, the very heart of winter. A night to remember for those fortunate enough to survive it, regardless of the outcome.
And the Shadowlords would be at the forefront of battle, once again.
A whisper of snow, the minute change of temperature as another person, as yet unseen, suddenly inhabited the space just beside me. Sensing the identity of this intruder and without flinching nor releasing the still landscape in front of me with my gaze, I shifted to the side and spoke out of the corner of my mouth: "All appears clear up until the mile gate. Nibor thinks we can move out."
"Good," replied Swifteagle, master scout and vice guildmaster of the Society. "I shall notify Arindra of this."
And with the suggestion of a whisper, he was gone again, stalking back through the rising darkness towards the Albion portal keep like a ghost in the night.
Within minutes, the crunching of steel-shod boots on frozen snow approached from the behind, and as the column of yellow-cloaked Shadowlords materialized out of the darkness, I left the shadows of my bush and fell in line, next to the cleric Arindra Ramas, guildmaster of the Society. Several of my Shadowlord comrades cheered at my sudden appearance, clapping my mailed shoulder heartily, their friendliness a welcome ward against the chill of the night around us.
"Nibor reports that the mile gate is guarded by a small Midgard force," I breathed, unconsciously easing my jambiya in its scabbard. "They don't seem to be likely to move anytime soon. We may have to fight, even if it will give away our presence."
"Agreed," Arindra said, her golden chainmail adorned with frost. "Time is of the essence," she added, glancing at the paladin Justinian, who nodded in reply. Justinian was, through magical means, in touch with the raid commanders, all who were anxiously following the progress of the Shadowlords. Having been charged with being the vanguard of the relic army along with the Flemish Lions, it was imperative that our force would reach its objective before the army itself could deploy.
It was with no small sense of pride I watched my comrades' behavior as we approached the Albion milegate, looming like a horned beast of stone in the distance. Spreading out and drawing weapons with no order necessary, the Shadowlords trodded towards the fortification like wraiths in the night, preparing for a swift and decisive strike. A Dwarf runemaster, leaning on the battlements above with boredom written plainly across his bearded face, was the first to spot our force, his red, bulbous nose paling and his eyes becoming round in surprise. Before he was able to raise the alarm, however, a wickedly sharp arrow sang through the night, originating from the northern slope by the mile gate, catching the Dwarf in his back and strangling a cry of warning in his throat. Trying to find the source of the amazing shot, I was gratified to see black-hooded Nibor Hood draw and release yet another arrow in one fluid motion, catching a Norseman archer, dumbly staring down at the dying Dwarf at his feet, in the throat. Beside me, Swifteagle emerged from the shadows as he released an arrow of his own, speeding swiftly and truly like the finger of God to catch a Kobold spiritmaster in mid-flight.
"Charge!" came the order, and with a unison battle-cry, we advanced. Led by the battle-scarred armsman Caranthir Tanreall, the Shadowlords charged through the double doors of the mile gate, and a few vicious seconds later, it was all over. Wiping our blades clean on the cloaks of the fallen Midgard warriors, we all briefly rested and collected our forces. Within minutes, the Midgard warriors had released their lifeless corpses unto death, beaked and cackling Valkyries descending like ghostly apparitions to bring their fallen warriors to pagan Valhalla. Seymour and Arindra, both anointed clerics of the God of Albion, swiftly exorcised these foul demi-gods, and we formed up yet again on our guildmaster for the continued journey deep into Midgard.
Having left the toothed mile gate behind us, the cleric Arindra set an easterly course, cutting through the snow-laden forest instead of following the road leading north. Above us, the moon's pale disc had risen, its ghostly light draining all color and lending the pure snow around us an eerie sheen. As the column of Shadowlords moved east under silence, many of its warriors eyed the dappled surroundings warily, giving a start as a lone wolf beast howled desolately at the moon in the distance. This was a foreboding night, and evil seemed but a hand's length away.
Your chronicler, a veteran of these parts, was anxiously monitoring the progress of Arindra in the front, but my fears were unnecessary. The fair cleric, a fount of knowledge and experience, was guiding our force through the perils of Odin's Gate as if she had done it all her life. Within minutes, we had passed the mound of frosted stones standing a silent vigil at the border to Jamtland Mountains, and descended into the relative safety of the deep forest blanketing most of this region. We were approaching the ancient keep of Nottmoor Faste as the paladin Justinian raised a mailed fist, halting the procession.
"Hold here," he rasped, a cloud of vapor standing around his breath. "We need to hide, and await the order to attack."
I quickly located a suitable place of concealment in a shallow hollow surrounded by dense firs to the south, and guided my Shadowlord brethren there. Deploying our scouts to watch for approaching foes to the north and south, we set down to hide, and to wait.
[Continued in reply.]
]Snow. Pure and dark, cold and hot, muffling and chilling, innocent and concealing, all at the same time. Covering everything like a treacherously white blanket, howling as tiny particles on the chill wind, ruthlessly stinging and biting any unprotected skin. Snow, the icy component of a grim landscape torn by the bitter rages of the weather gods.
Thoughtfully tapping out a soothing rhythm to said winter gods on my leather-bound drum, your chronicler anxiously scanned the steel-grey canopy of the boundless sky above, at the same time keeping a vigilant eye to the wind-torn gravel road winding below my vantage point. Interventions from both divine and mortal powers were unwelcome this day, and could well be enough to foil the mission the Shadowlords had been given. Shrugging off this unpleasant thought, I continued my surveillance with renewed enthusiasm. My breath stood as a cloud around my mouth, and I quickly adjusted the hood of my thick cloak to prevent this from giving away my position to any enemy scouts in the vicinity. Eagle-eyed Nibor Hood, Earl of the Shadowlords, was concealed further up the road close to the Albion milegate and should have been able to spot any enemy movement, but I refused to take chances on a night like this.
A night like this, indeed. All across distant Albion, forces were mobilizing, armies were amassing, heroes were purposefully completing the final preparations for the coming veil of darkness that already was descending over the grim landscape of Odin's Gate. A night of danger and risk, but also a night of bravery and glory. The Albion army was preparing to strike deep into the snow-shrouded Uppland, to penetrate to the Midgard strength relic keep to once and for all reclaim the Horn of Valhalla to the bowels of Castle Excalibur. And once again, this bold assault was masterminded by the audacious wizard Wildfire Darkspirit of the First Cohort guild of Albion. Once again, the forces of light and freedom would strike at the heart of the darkness, the very heart of winter. A night to remember for those fortunate enough to survive it, regardless of the outcome.
And the Shadowlords would be at the forefront of battle, once again.
A whisper of snow, the minute change of temperature as another person, as yet unseen, suddenly inhabited the space just beside me. Sensing the identity of this intruder and without flinching nor releasing the still landscape in front of me with my gaze, I shifted to the side and spoke out of the corner of my mouth: "All appears clear up until the mile gate. Nibor thinks we can move out."
"Good," replied Swifteagle, master scout and vice guildmaster of the Society. "I shall notify Arindra of this."
And with the suggestion of a whisper, he was gone again, stalking back through the rising darkness towards the Albion portal keep like a ghost in the night.
Within minutes, the crunching of steel-shod boots on frozen snow approached from the behind, and as the column of yellow-cloaked Shadowlords materialized out of the darkness, I left the shadows of my bush and fell in line, next to the cleric Arindra Ramas, guildmaster of the Society. Several of my Shadowlord comrades cheered at my sudden appearance, clapping my mailed shoulder heartily, their friendliness a welcome ward against the chill of the night around us.
"Nibor reports that the mile gate is guarded by a small Midgard force," I breathed, unconsciously easing my jambiya in its scabbard. "They don't seem to be likely to move anytime soon. We may have to fight, even if it will give away our presence."
"Agreed," Arindra said, her golden chainmail adorned with frost. "Time is of the essence," she added, glancing at the paladin Justinian, who nodded in reply. Justinian was, through magical means, in touch with the raid commanders, all who were anxiously following the progress of the Shadowlords. Having been charged with being the vanguard of the relic army along with the Flemish Lions, it was imperative that our force would reach its objective before the army itself could deploy.
It was with no small sense of pride I watched my comrades' behavior as we approached the Albion milegate, looming like a horned beast of stone in the distance. Spreading out and drawing weapons with no order necessary, the Shadowlords trodded towards the fortification like wraiths in the night, preparing for a swift and decisive strike. A Dwarf runemaster, leaning on the battlements above with boredom written plainly across his bearded face, was the first to spot our force, his red, bulbous nose paling and his eyes becoming round in surprise. Before he was able to raise the alarm, however, a wickedly sharp arrow sang through the night, originating from the northern slope by the mile gate, catching the Dwarf in his back and strangling a cry of warning in his throat. Trying to find the source of the amazing shot, I was gratified to see black-hooded Nibor Hood draw and release yet another arrow in one fluid motion, catching a Norseman archer, dumbly staring down at the dying Dwarf at his feet, in the throat. Beside me, Swifteagle emerged from the shadows as he released an arrow of his own, speeding swiftly and truly like the finger of God to catch a Kobold spiritmaster in mid-flight.
"Charge!" came the order, and with a unison battle-cry, we advanced. Led by the battle-scarred armsman Caranthir Tanreall, the Shadowlords charged through the double doors of the mile gate, and a few vicious seconds later, it was all over. Wiping our blades clean on the cloaks of the fallen Midgard warriors, we all briefly rested and collected our forces. Within minutes, the Midgard warriors had released their lifeless corpses unto death, beaked and cackling Valkyries descending like ghostly apparitions to bring their fallen warriors to pagan Valhalla. Seymour and Arindra, both anointed clerics of the God of Albion, swiftly exorcised these foul demi-gods, and we formed up yet again on our guildmaster for the continued journey deep into Midgard.
Having left the toothed mile gate behind us, the cleric Arindra set an easterly course, cutting through the snow-laden forest instead of following the road leading north. Above us, the moon's pale disc had risen, its ghostly light draining all color and lending the pure snow around us an eerie sheen. As the column of Shadowlords moved east under silence, many of its warriors eyed the dappled surroundings warily, giving a start as a lone wolf beast howled desolately at the moon in the distance. This was a foreboding night, and evil seemed but a hand's length away.
Your chronicler, a veteran of these parts, was anxiously monitoring the progress of Arindra in the front, but my fears were unnecessary. The fair cleric, a fount of knowledge and experience, was guiding our force through the perils of Odin's Gate as if she had done it all her life. Within minutes, we had passed the mound of frosted stones standing a silent vigil at the border to Jamtland Mountains, and descended into the relative safety of the deep forest blanketing most of this region. We were approaching the ancient keep of Nottmoor Faste as the paladin Justinian raised a mailed fist, halting the procession.
"Hold here," he rasped, a cloud of vapor standing around his breath. "We need to hide, and await the order to attack."
I quickly located a suitable place of concealment in a shallow hollow surrounded by dense firs to the south, and guided my Shadowlord brethren there. Deploying our scouts to watch for approaching foes to the north and south, we set down to hide, and to wait.
[Continued in reply.]
