B
Belomar
Guest
[The second part of my chronicle on the events of Wednesday's RvR in Odin's Gate. Enjoy!]
The savage wind speeding south from the frosty steppes of the north tore viciously at the armor of the swordsmen and whipped the runed robes of the casters with furious frenzy as the Albion war party silently trodded eastwards under the cover of the deep forests of Odin's Gate. Silence reigned save for the tortured wailing of the wind and the labored breathing of adventurers straining their considerable stamina to its fullest under forced march. Evil was afoot in the treacherously pure snows of Odin's Gate, and evil has to be fought wherever evil appears.
Aye, your chronicler was part of that weary war party, determinedly maintaining an easterly course through the majestic forest beyond the distant Albion Mile Gate, a party whose bloodied and scarred members still refused to give in, carried forth by an iron will to preservere. Somewhere ahead, just over the next ridge, was Bledmeer Faste, a major Midgard keep commanding an excellent strategic position in the Gate, and key to the Albion campaign in the Midgard frontier. Inside, the valiant Dragon Knights, determined to hold the keep at all costs, and outside, the swarming hordes of the Midgard pestilence, viciously banging on the keep's mighty gates. Having successfully run the Midgard blockade at the Albion wall, our group of Shadowlords Society members were rushing to reinforce the beleaguered Dragon Knights and to help them hold the keep.
Cresting the final ridge and descending once again into the comforting cover of the woods, we slowed our pace as we neared the final barren hill leading up to the mighty Midgard keep. Gesturing for silence to the other members of the group, the minstrel Mazsola and me carefully unsheathed our blades, frosty yet glinting with magic power, and took to the shadows to scout the situation at the keep. However, we had scarcely made it ten feet before a black-armored Dwarf appeared on the ridgeline above us, followed seconds later by a second. Both me and Mazsola acted immediately, rushing forward to cut down the bumbling Midgard attackers, but in vain. The nearest Dwarf cried out in surprise on seeing the group of Shadowlords waiting in the woods beneath him, his cry quickly turning to a gurgle on connecting with an Albion blade wielded with expert skill, while his companion was faster and instantly turned and fled uphill.
"To Bledmeer!" I cried, sheathing my bloodied blade and wielding my drum for my Motivational Anthem, "To Bledmeer, or we die to the Midgard scum!"
And to Bledmeer we went. Charging uphill under the motivational tunes of me and my fellow minstrel's song, we flew across the thin crust on the snow, quickly overtaking the fleeing Norseman who was yelling for help at the top of his lungs. Ignoring the Midgard scout, we instead made for the huge looming shape of the keep itself, its age-old doors, and the Midgard assault army beneath them. Neither me nor Mazsola had our Speed of Sound spells available, so we had to trust to our skill and luck to get through to the gatekeeper and into the keep. For the second time that day, the Shadowlords stormed overwhelming Midgard odds, hoping to break through the enemy lines.
Your chronicler made it reasonably unscathed to the gates, and into the keep, followed by the wizard Ziro, the cleric Roland, and stalwart Mazsola (always trust a minstrel take care of himself!). However, brave Pazuzu, trusty Arindra, and the insidious Osrim all fell prey to the savage horde, taking horrible wounds at the hands of the Midgard host. Yet, on entering the keep, I was amazed to see the weary Dragon Knight defenders lined up on the courtyard of the keep, ranged for battle, and the ragged cheer that spontaneously went up among them on seeing reinforcements arrive. Morale was high, despite the hounding screams of the horde literally pounding on the door to the keep.
There was no time to waste. While Roland busied himself with the dangerous task of trying to revive the fallen party members outside the keep (in the end, he was able to revive only Osrim), the rest of us took station inside the courtyard. Commanding the defense was the cleric Celt and the flamboyant Finandpet, a cabalist from the North with a quick yet often unintelligible tongue. Numbering among the ranks of the defenders was also the grungy scout Odysseus, a veteran of many battles whose amount of gray hairs rivalled even Ziro's, and who was busily trying to repair the last of the gates while the Midgard force was pounding on it. Despite Mazsola joining in to assist him, it quickly became clear that the situation was desperate and that no amount of repairs would keep the door from falling imminently.
"To the lord's room!" the call went out among the defenders, sparking a flurry of activity in the courtyard. "Rally at Lord Vaebryn!"
And to Lord Vaebryn we went, ascending the winding staircase in the tower of the keep and reaching the top room of the keep lord, finding Vaebryn himself geared out in his replendescent plate armor and wielding his enchanted longbow. We knew that the Midgard army would have to ascend these same stairs to capture the keep, and that any successful defense against those overwhelming odds would only be possible with the assistance of Lord Vaebryn and his troops. Easing our weapons in our scabbards and silently muttering a prayer to the powers above under our breaths, we took station in the cramped confines of the tower and prepared ourselves for the onslaught.
We did not have to wait for long. With a tremendous clash, the keep gates were bashed open and sent reeling on their hinges, and immediately the deafening screaming of the Midgard horde swarming through the gate reached our numb ears. I was hidden in the shadows behind the staircase, feverishly clinging to my shimmering duskwood flute while I waited to mesmerize any foes appearing from below. As the roaring of the Midgard horde below steadily came closer, I had a sinking feeling in my stomach and felt the first twinges of panic seize my shoulders. Would I emerge alive from this day, or die in this icy, God-forsaken place so far from my beloved Albion?
"Fear not," Lord Vaebryn said calmly, hefting his longbow. "King Constantine is our shield. For Arthur Pendragon and Albion!"
And with that, he raised his powerful longbow in a single fluid movement and let loose a shaft straight into the chest of the first roaring Troll that appeared on the top of the staircase, instantly killing it and toppling it over onto its Midgard fellows below. Inspired by the shining example of Vaebryn, the Albion defenders echoed his battlecry and joined battle with the charging Midgard foe.
There are no words to describe the absolute chaos and savagery of that last desperate stand in the room of Lord Vaebryn, no phrase to encompass the glorious valor of the Albion forces defending the keep that day, no description fitting that epic battle save single instants of glory: A bloodied Lord Vaebryn calmly loping the head off a Troll two-score his size. A Briton cleric hurling himself into the second wave of the Midgard assaulters, sacrificing his life to stop the charge in its tracks. A Saracen infiltrator planting his daggers to the hilts in the back of a Midgard healer preparing to fatally stun the Albion front ranks. A Highlander paladin stepping up to shield the frail body of a theurgist attemping to escape a Midgard berserker. An Avalonian wizard calling forth the powers of the elements to bathe the lord room in consuming fire. The tower of Bledmeer Faste holding by sheer strength of will.
Yet in the end, we prevailed, valor and skill triumphing over the sheer numbers of the Midgard attackers. When the call to charge the staircase went out, the Albion defenders in the lord room showed no hesitation to storm down and break through the meager Midgard remnants desperately trying to escape the deathtrap of the keep tower. While Lord Vaebryn commanded his men-at-arms to attack, the Albion force was quick to reach the keep courtyard, the infiltrator Osrim in our group preying mercilessly off stragglers below. When at last the dust settled and the howling of the wind once again replaced the moans of the dying, the battle was won! The cheering that ensued as the last Midgard Troll cleared the broken gates of the keep at a run lifted the spirit of all Albion defenders manning the keep. We had survived, the God of Albion evidently having taken an interest in our pursuit, and the Midgard attackers had been gloriously routed.
As scout reports started streaming in and telling of a second Midgard army amassing south of Bledmeer, we remained undaunted. Our crushing defeat of the first Midgard wave had bought us some precious time to repair the keep gates and prepare the defenses of the keep, so when the next army appeared below the slopes of Bledmeer, four trebuchets were ranged and waiting in the courtyard. The outcome of that second battle was never at a doubt, as the four trebuchets, two of them controlled by the clerics Arindra and Seymour of the Shadowlords Society, opened up and started raining a deadly hail of fire on the marauders. Within minutes, the Midgard army were forced to withdraw again, their numbers grievously diminished by the determined Albion defenders. It was no doubt clear to the Midgard generals that no army of any size would be able to retake Bledmeer as long as the keep remained under the defense of these particular Albion heroes. Bledmeer would hold and the Albion campaign in Midgard was still alive!
The savage wind speeding south from the frosty steppes of the north tore viciously at the armor of the swordsmen and whipped the runed robes of the casters with furious frenzy as the Albion war party silently trodded eastwards under the cover of the deep forests of Odin's Gate. Silence reigned save for the tortured wailing of the wind and the labored breathing of adventurers straining their considerable stamina to its fullest under forced march. Evil was afoot in the treacherously pure snows of Odin's Gate, and evil has to be fought wherever evil appears.
Aye, your chronicler was part of that weary war party, determinedly maintaining an easterly course through the majestic forest beyond the distant Albion Mile Gate, a party whose bloodied and scarred members still refused to give in, carried forth by an iron will to preservere. Somewhere ahead, just over the next ridge, was Bledmeer Faste, a major Midgard keep commanding an excellent strategic position in the Gate, and key to the Albion campaign in the Midgard frontier. Inside, the valiant Dragon Knights, determined to hold the keep at all costs, and outside, the swarming hordes of the Midgard pestilence, viciously banging on the keep's mighty gates. Having successfully run the Midgard blockade at the Albion wall, our group of Shadowlords Society members were rushing to reinforce the beleaguered Dragon Knights and to help them hold the keep.
Cresting the final ridge and descending once again into the comforting cover of the woods, we slowed our pace as we neared the final barren hill leading up to the mighty Midgard keep. Gesturing for silence to the other members of the group, the minstrel Mazsola and me carefully unsheathed our blades, frosty yet glinting with magic power, and took to the shadows to scout the situation at the keep. However, we had scarcely made it ten feet before a black-armored Dwarf appeared on the ridgeline above us, followed seconds later by a second. Both me and Mazsola acted immediately, rushing forward to cut down the bumbling Midgard attackers, but in vain. The nearest Dwarf cried out in surprise on seeing the group of Shadowlords waiting in the woods beneath him, his cry quickly turning to a gurgle on connecting with an Albion blade wielded with expert skill, while his companion was faster and instantly turned and fled uphill.
"To Bledmeer!" I cried, sheathing my bloodied blade and wielding my drum for my Motivational Anthem, "To Bledmeer, or we die to the Midgard scum!"
And to Bledmeer we went. Charging uphill under the motivational tunes of me and my fellow minstrel's song, we flew across the thin crust on the snow, quickly overtaking the fleeing Norseman who was yelling for help at the top of his lungs. Ignoring the Midgard scout, we instead made for the huge looming shape of the keep itself, its age-old doors, and the Midgard assault army beneath them. Neither me nor Mazsola had our Speed of Sound spells available, so we had to trust to our skill and luck to get through to the gatekeeper and into the keep. For the second time that day, the Shadowlords stormed overwhelming Midgard odds, hoping to break through the enemy lines.
Your chronicler made it reasonably unscathed to the gates, and into the keep, followed by the wizard Ziro, the cleric Roland, and stalwart Mazsola (always trust a minstrel take care of himself!). However, brave Pazuzu, trusty Arindra, and the insidious Osrim all fell prey to the savage horde, taking horrible wounds at the hands of the Midgard host. Yet, on entering the keep, I was amazed to see the weary Dragon Knight defenders lined up on the courtyard of the keep, ranged for battle, and the ragged cheer that spontaneously went up among them on seeing reinforcements arrive. Morale was high, despite the hounding screams of the horde literally pounding on the door to the keep.
There was no time to waste. While Roland busied himself with the dangerous task of trying to revive the fallen party members outside the keep (in the end, he was able to revive only Osrim), the rest of us took station inside the courtyard. Commanding the defense was the cleric Celt and the flamboyant Finandpet, a cabalist from the North with a quick yet often unintelligible tongue. Numbering among the ranks of the defenders was also the grungy scout Odysseus, a veteran of many battles whose amount of gray hairs rivalled even Ziro's, and who was busily trying to repair the last of the gates while the Midgard force was pounding on it. Despite Mazsola joining in to assist him, it quickly became clear that the situation was desperate and that no amount of repairs would keep the door from falling imminently.
"To the lord's room!" the call went out among the defenders, sparking a flurry of activity in the courtyard. "Rally at Lord Vaebryn!"
And to Lord Vaebryn we went, ascending the winding staircase in the tower of the keep and reaching the top room of the keep lord, finding Vaebryn himself geared out in his replendescent plate armor and wielding his enchanted longbow. We knew that the Midgard army would have to ascend these same stairs to capture the keep, and that any successful defense against those overwhelming odds would only be possible with the assistance of Lord Vaebryn and his troops. Easing our weapons in our scabbards and silently muttering a prayer to the powers above under our breaths, we took station in the cramped confines of the tower and prepared ourselves for the onslaught.
We did not have to wait for long. With a tremendous clash, the keep gates were bashed open and sent reeling on their hinges, and immediately the deafening screaming of the Midgard horde swarming through the gate reached our numb ears. I was hidden in the shadows behind the staircase, feverishly clinging to my shimmering duskwood flute while I waited to mesmerize any foes appearing from below. As the roaring of the Midgard horde below steadily came closer, I had a sinking feeling in my stomach and felt the first twinges of panic seize my shoulders. Would I emerge alive from this day, or die in this icy, God-forsaken place so far from my beloved Albion?
"Fear not," Lord Vaebryn said calmly, hefting his longbow. "King Constantine is our shield. For Arthur Pendragon and Albion!"
And with that, he raised his powerful longbow in a single fluid movement and let loose a shaft straight into the chest of the first roaring Troll that appeared on the top of the staircase, instantly killing it and toppling it over onto its Midgard fellows below. Inspired by the shining example of Vaebryn, the Albion defenders echoed his battlecry and joined battle with the charging Midgard foe.
There are no words to describe the absolute chaos and savagery of that last desperate stand in the room of Lord Vaebryn, no phrase to encompass the glorious valor of the Albion forces defending the keep that day, no description fitting that epic battle save single instants of glory: A bloodied Lord Vaebryn calmly loping the head off a Troll two-score his size. A Briton cleric hurling himself into the second wave of the Midgard assaulters, sacrificing his life to stop the charge in its tracks. A Saracen infiltrator planting his daggers to the hilts in the back of a Midgard healer preparing to fatally stun the Albion front ranks. A Highlander paladin stepping up to shield the frail body of a theurgist attemping to escape a Midgard berserker. An Avalonian wizard calling forth the powers of the elements to bathe the lord room in consuming fire. The tower of Bledmeer Faste holding by sheer strength of will.
Yet in the end, we prevailed, valor and skill triumphing over the sheer numbers of the Midgard attackers. When the call to charge the staircase went out, the Albion defenders in the lord room showed no hesitation to storm down and break through the meager Midgard remnants desperately trying to escape the deathtrap of the keep tower. While Lord Vaebryn commanded his men-at-arms to attack, the Albion force was quick to reach the keep courtyard, the infiltrator Osrim in our group preying mercilessly off stragglers below. When at last the dust settled and the howling of the wind once again replaced the moans of the dying, the battle was won! The cheering that ensued as the last Midgard Troll cleared the broken gates of the keep at a run lifted the spirit of all Albion defenders manning the keep. We had survived, the God of Albion evidently having taken an interest in our pursuit, and the Midgard attackers had been gloriously routed.
As scout reports started streaming in and telling of a second Midgard army amassing south of Bledmeer, we remained undaunted. Our crushing defeat of the first Midgard wave had bought us some precious time to repair the keep gates and prepare the defenses of the keep, so when the next army appeared below the slopes of Bledmeer, four trebuchets were ranged and waiting in the courtyard. The outcome of that second battle was never at a doubt, as the four trebuchets, two of them controlled by the clerics Arindra and Seymour of the Shadowlords Society, opened up and started raining a deadly hail of fire on the marauders. Within minutes, the Midgard army were forced to withdraw again, their numbers grievously diminished by the determined Albion defenders. It was no doubt clear to the Midgard generals that no army of any size would be able to retake Bledmeer as long as the keep remained under the defense of these particular Albion heroes. Bledmeer would hold and the Albion campaign in Midgard was still alive!
