F
Flimgoblin
Guest
Aye, twas a terrible sight. The wrath of Albion, lashin' out all over, no focus. And to no avail.
But I'm gettin ahead of mesel'. I'll start a bit farther back...
We'd let our guard down we had, by cover of stealth the Norse had came. From our own Caer Renaris they poured out like plague, and came to the gates of Excalibur.
Not enough water in the wine from the celebrations the previous night, the scouts were half asleep on their posts. Nothing could touch us. No-one would dare.
They all died silently, throats slit, not even a gurgle.
A patrol from Sauvage found em - hundreds of them trolls, carryin great big trees, smashin at the gates. Bugles sounded, the alarm was out, but all too late.
The pittance of a force stationed at Sauvage sallied forth, but it was flingin' pebbles at the sea. By the time the army got rallied, Excalibur was empty: the gates torn down and Thor's hammer gone.
That got us angry, we'll show them we thought. Little counsel was held, just an inarticulate roar, vengeance. Vengeance.
Vismer bade us well on our way to Odin's Gate, must have been five score of our finest, sworn to remove the tarnish on our name. The heat of our rage could be felt, I'm surprised the snow didn't melt. Albion's finest burned brightly. Not even the cold wind and snow could temper our wrath.
Onward we went, smashing through the milegate, scattering the piteous defenders to the winds. "To Nottmoor!", was the cry. Glory would be ours, the finest of Albion would scythe through Midgard, slay all in our path, and take the prize. Onward we travelled, none dared to stand in our wake, till we reached those cold stone walls.
Amassed on the plain, a bugle was sounded, the army charged forth, each warrior screaming their battle cry..
the pounding of feet shook the earth as the charge gained momentum then suddenly, instantly, stuttered, and stopped.
Atop the hill, swarming like ants, were six score of them, hideous beasts. Trolls standing twice the size of the tallest highlander, thick as tree trunks. Despicable Kobolds, summoning hideous magic, sapping our will.
I know not what dark magic they brought, but like a storm they poured forth from the gates, Albion's heart had left it. In fear we stood entranced.
I had barely time to lift my sword before I was struck down, slipping in the red albion blood that stained the field outside Nottmoor.
But I'm gettin ahead of mesel'. I'll start a bit farther back...
We'd let our guard down we had, by cover of stealth the Norse had came. From our own Caer Renaris they poured out like plague, and came to the gates of Excalibur.
Not enough water in the wine from the celebrations the previous night, the scouts were half asleep on their posts. Nothing could touch us. No-one would dare.
They all died silently, throats slit, not even a gurgle.
A patrol from Sauvage found em - hundreds of them trolls, carryin great big trees, smashin at the gates. Bugles sounded, the alarm was out, but all too late.
The pittance of a force stationed at Sauvage sallied forth, but it was flingin' pebbles at the sea. By the time the army got rallied, Excalibur was empty: the gates torn down and Thor's hammer gone.
That got us angry, we'll show them we thought. Little counsel was held, just an inarticulate roar, vengeance. Vengeance.
Vismer bade us well on our way to Odin's Gate, must have been five score of our finest, sworn to remove the tarnish on our name. The heat of our rage could be felt, I'm surprised the snow didn't melt. Albion's finest burned brightly. Not even the cold wind and snow could temper our wrath.
Onward we went, smashing through the milegate, scattering the piteous defenders to the winds. "To Nottmoor!", was the cry. Glory would be ours, the finest of Albion would scythe through Midgard, slay all in our path, and take the prize. Onward we travelled, none dared to stand in our wake, till we reached those cold stone walls.
Amassed on the plain, a bugle was sounded, the army charged forth, each warrior screaming their battle cry..
the pounding of feet shook the earth as the charge gained momentum then suddenly, instantly, stuttered, and stopped.
Atop the hill, swarming like ants, were six score of them, hideous beasts. Trolls standing twice the size of the tallest highlander, thick as tree trunks. Despicable Kobolds, summoning hideous magic, sapping our will.
I know not what dark magic they brought, but like a storm they poured forth from the gates, Albion's heart had left it. In fear we stood entranced.
I had barely time to lift my sword before I was struck down, slipping in the red albion blood that stained the field outside Nottmoor.
Belomar inspired me to prose...