Zzang said:Kagato (name suggestions?) Leader of the heavy cavalry division.
Sounds like it'll be fun, I look forward to seeing it progress.Zzang said:Mid army heroes.
(some of each kind?)
(Call me roleplayer all u want, but u know who spanks who's asses around here)
bult said:Ironheart - King of Barrows
Kerith said:imo give a story about the rise of the warlocks, and combined plight of albion and hibernia to vanquish the new dreaded foe !!!
I really need to post this whole thing in the Creative Section some time.Belomar Fleetfoot said:My name is Belomar Fleetfoot, wandering minstrel, warrior poet, and general scoundrel in the fair realm of Albion. Our world is part of the Excalibur universe, and this is the place I was born, grew up, and rose to power in. Brought up from humble beginnings in the bustling and then sparkling city of Camelot, I was but a child when King Arthur Uther Pendragon died, thus ending the glorious rule of Camelot of the civilized world, plunging it into a Dark Age unbeknowst both before and after. This was also the time when the encroachments of our vile neighbors, enchanting Hibernia and dread Midgard, began, and all of Albion had to muster its forces to fight off their dark legions.
My older brother numbered in that first army, commanded by Sir Lancelot of the Round Table, that strode north to battle the immense Norse host that had appeared in the craggy Pennine Mountains. My father, once a proud scout in King Arthur’s army, had received a near-mortal injury during that ill fated battle against Mordred years past, and our family was thus poor, supported by his meager soldier’s pension and my mother’s skill at sewing. Highlanders originally hailing from far-flung Ludlow, we now lived in a humble house in the southeast part of the capital city. Therefore, my brother was not the noble paladin I had hoped he would be when he joined Sir Lancelot’s defenders, but instead looked young and afraid with his footsoldier’s pike and worn leather armor. Still, I was very proud and very envious of him, standing that day in the cheering crowd that lined the streets of Camelot with my father’s secure hand on my shoulder, watching my brother wave happily as he took his station in the marching ranks of armsmen, a forest of pikes disappearing out through the north gates towards the frontiers of Snowdonia.
I vowed to join him as soon as I was able. Never mind that my affinity, unlike my brother’s, lay towards music and not warfare; I wanted to become an armsman too. I was fifteen at the time, just one year from being accounted a man and able to join the army.