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Resident Freddy
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- Apr 7, 2004
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The sound of splintering wood echoed harshly off the ancient stone walls; the whispers of impending doom cackling madly in the ears of Castle Excalibur’s defenders. The ram crashed against the wood again; the door creaked in pain, almost buckling under the pressure.
Fedaykin, Sorcerer Primus of Albion, stroked his short white beard forlornly. He crouched low as he edged along the battlements. As an Avalonian he had to stay low, the natural height of his race was not always an advantage. Peering carefully over the edge he caught a short glimpse of the assailants.
Rock-skinned trolls bellowed mightily as they hurled the wooden ram into the door, incessantly pounding with all their strength. Reinforcements had to arrive soon.
Uttering the words of an ancient tongue, Fedaykin felt the power grow within him. Swirls of colour flowed in the air, enveloping the sorcerer within a rainbow of magic. Calmly, he motioned his hands towards the host of enemies; and the field of battle embraced the call of the sandman, falling deep into slumber. He had bought the realm of Albion time; at least until reinforcements could arrive.
Yet, there were those who resisted the enticing sleep, they had magic of their own. Fedaykin started to utter another incantation; they all had to sleep – they all had to die.
A razor sharp arrow sliced through the air, screeching as it raced towards the avalonian defender. Fedaykin fell backwards in shock as the arrow exploded against his blade-turning magic. Hastily he threw himself to the ground, narrowly avoiding a second arrow as it screeched past. A furtive glance revealed a fatbellied kobold, menacingly notching another arrow.
“I’ll deal with him”
Fedaykin looked around, startled by the voice. He was alone on this section of the castle wall.
“Identify yourself!” He called, as he recast his shielding magic, looking around with his staff raised high. “Who goes there?”
The answer was resolute as Jimmythepost stepped into view, lowering the cloak which had covered his glittering plate armour. Inimitably he withdrew his crossbow, firing bolt after bolt towards the fatbellied kobold, who fell limply towards the ground.
“I will defend this section, Fedaykin. You must use your magic and bring us help; my crossbow will hold them off – at least while they sleep.”
Fedaykin nodded affirmation, throwing a cloak over his shoulder. “I will bring us help, hold the gates as long as you can.” Hurriedly the sorcerer spoke the words of power and his feet hastened, carrying his body lightly on the wind, racing like an arrow towards the border keep of Albion; and the help he would find within.
Trees flew by as the mage maintained his speed, passing between the legs of idle forest giants and ignoring serpents which strayed into his path. His heart beat relentleesly as he approached the keep. Stumbling past guards he passed through the palisade, bursting into the portal room of Castle Sauvage.
“Master Visur!” He screamed loudly.
Visur was upon the magic portal; a gateway to lands far away, where the soldiers of Albion could fight for justice. He turned to face the sorcerer, feeling the anguish embedded in the cry. “What is it Fedaykin?” He snapped angrily, “If we do not complete the portal then our soldiers will have to wait till another window opens!
“Castle Excalibur is under siege! I feel it is the work of that cowardly kobold.”
“Ardamel?” Master Visur asked.
“Indeed… and he has brought the whole Fellowship of Midgard as his standard bearers.”
Visur glanced towards the Sauvage guards, who covered their ears in anticipation.”
Speaking words of incomprehensible power, Visur released a mighty bellow – a call to arms which stretched even to the farthest quarries of Dartmoor.
“Midgard comes for the Scabbard of Excalibur! To Arms soldiers of Albion! Steel yourselves, for now is the time to defend your realm!”
Around the fair lands of Albion the sounds of galloping horses filled the paths and roads, a swirl of portals opened at the gates of Sauvage, and the heroes of Albion began to muster: the call to arms had been answered.
Yet amongst the gathering soldiers there was chaos, men and women raced to defend the keep, unawares of the dangers which adorned the road. The warriors of Midgard had prepared for this eventuality and had summoned their most feared mercenaries; the Nolby Pride.
Upon the road they were wreaking havoc, preying upon the thinly spread defenders of Albion. The songs of the skalds filled the air, accentuated by the fearsome roars of the Bezerkers. Steel clashed against steel; yet the organised ranks of the Nolby Pride turned the Sauvage road into a crimson river, filled with the blood and bodies of noble defenders.
Lord Maramar, Paladin of Albion, was a man of both integrity and wisdom yet he felt dismay at the fallen ranks of his comrades. Looking round at the disorganised fray, he knew that he would have to remove the threat of Nolby Pride – for the sake of all Albion.
“Fedaykin!” He bellowed in his rough Scottish accent, attracting the attention of the tall Avalonian. “I need a sorcerer to join my sortie; we must clear the road to Castle Excalibur. The New Order will move with you.”
Fedaykin nodded as usual as flung his cloak around his shoulders, uttering the words which lightened his feet. Yet his magic was overwhelmed by the beat of a minstrels drum – a rhythm of magic coursed through the air, the notes brimming with the speed of the wind. The minstrel Sunwolf, sped the group onwards towards the road, singing the deeds of battles long since passed.
Fedaykin, Sorcerer Primus of Albion, stroked his short white beard forlornly. He crouched low as he edged along the battlements. As an Avalonian he had to stay low, the natural height of his race was not always an advantage. Peering carefully over the edge he caught a short glimpse of the assailants.
Rock-skinned trolls bellowed mightily as they hurled the wooden ram into the door, incessantly pounding with all their strength. Reinforcements had to arrive soon.
Uttering the words of an ancient tongue, Fedaykin felt the power grow within him. Swirls of colour flowed in the air, enveloping the sorcerer within a rainbow of magic. Calmly, he motioned his hands towards the host of enemies; and the field of battle embraced the call of the sandman, falling deep into slumber. He had bought the realm of Albion time; at least until reinforcements could arrive.
Yet, there were those who resisted the enticing sleep, they had magic of their own. Fedaykin started to utter another incantation; they all had to sleep – they all had to die.
A razor sharp arrow sliced through the air, screeching as it raced towards the avalonian defender. Fedaykin fell backwards in shock as the arrow exploded against his blade-turning magic. Hastily he threw himself to the ground, narrowly avoiding a second arrow as it screeched past. A furtive glance revealed a fatbellied kobold, menacingly notching another arrow.
“I’ll deal with him”
Fedaykin looked around, startled by the voice. He was alone on this section of the castle wall.
“Identify yourself!” He called, as he recast his shielding magic, looking around with his staff raised high. “Who goes there?”
The answer was resolute as Jimmythepost stepped into view, lowering the cloak which had covered his glittering plate armour. Inimitably he withdrew his crossbow, firing bolt after bolt towards the fatbellied kobold, who fell limply towards the ground.
“I will defend this section, Fedaykin. You must use your magic and bring us help; my crossbow will hold them off – at least while they sleep.”
Fedaykin nodded affirmation, throwing a cloak over his shoulder. “I will bring us help, hold the gates as long as you can.” Hurriedly the sorcerer spoke the words of power and his feet hastened, carrying his body lightly on the wind, racing like an arrow towards the border keep of Albion; and the help he would find within.
Trees flew by as the mage maintained his speed, passing between the legs of idle forest giants and ignoring serpents which strayed into his path. His heart beat relentleesly as he approached the keep. Stumbling past guards he passed through the palisade, bursting into the portal room of Castle Sauvage.
“Master Visur!” He screamed loudly.
Visur was upon the magic portal; a gateway to lands far away, where the soldiers of Albion could fight for justice. He turned to face the sorcerer, feeling the anguish embedded in the cry. “What is it Fedaykin?” He snapped angrily, “If we do not complete the portal then our soldiers will have to wait till another window opens!
“Castle Excalibur is under siege! I feel it is the work of that cowardly kobold.”
“Ardamel?” Master Visur asked.
“Indeed… and he has brought the whole Fellowship of Midgard as his standard bearers.”
Visur glanced towards the Sauvage guards, who covered their ears in anticipation.”
Speaking words of incomprehensible power, Visur released a mighty bellow – a call to arms which stretched even to the farthest quarries of Dartmoor.
“Midgard comes for the Scabbard of Excalibur! To Arms soldiers of Albion! Steel yourselves, for now is the time to defend your realm!”
Around the fair lands of Albion the sounds of galloping horses filled the paths and roads, a swirl of portals opened at the gates of Sauvage, and the heroes of Albion began to muster: the call to arms had been answered.
Yet amongst the gathering soldiers there was chaos, men and women raced to defend the keep, unawares of the dangers which adorned the road. The warriors of Midgard had prepared for this eventuality and had summoned their most feared mercenaries; the Nolby Pride.
Upon the road they were wreaking havoc, preying upon the thinly spread defenders of Albion. The songs of the skalds filled the air, accentuated by the fearsome roars of the Bezerkers. Steel clashed against steel; yet the organised ranks of the Nolby Pride turned the Sauvage road into a crimson river, filled with the blood and bodies of noble defenders.
Lord Maramar, Paladin of Albion, was a man of both integrity and wisdom yet he felt dismay at the fallen ranks of his comrades. Looking round at the disorganised fray, he knew that he would have to remove the threat of Nolby Pride – for the sake of all Albion.
“Fedaykin!” He bellowed in his rough Scottish accent, attracting the attention of the tall Avalonian. “I need a sorcerer to join my sortie; we must clear the road to Castle Excalibur. The New Order will move with you.”
Fedaykin nodded as usual as flung his cloak around his shoulders, uttering the words which lightened his feet. Yet his magic was overwhelmed by the beat of a minstrels drum – a rhythm of magic coursed through the air, the notes brimming with the speed of the wind. The minstrel Sunwolf, sped the group onwards towards the road, singing the deeds of battles long since passed.