The eeriness of the greatly feared dungeon, Darkness Falls grew and grew with word that an evil force had been rising. Many realms had tried to conquer this evil but had failed. The monsters in epic dungeon grew and grew, until a shriek was heard across all the lands.
"HELP! THE LEGION IS FREE! HELP HELP HELP! THERE'S NOTHING WE CAN DO!"
The three realms; Albion, Midgard and Hibernia all knew what they had to do, but they also knew what they had to face once again. The sound of war horns grew and grew as each realm gathered their most fearsome warriors, healers and magical casters. The realm leaders knew that they had to defeat the creature to bring peace to their lands once again, but with their long-lasting history of fighting they couldn't deny the fact that lives would be lost in the great battle.
It begun, each realm marched their forces to the great Darkness Falls in hope that not only would they defeat the epic creature but that none of their troops would be killed by their opposing enemies. Each realm entered their dungeon in hope of killing the creature, fighting their way down past the might Knights of Krothonia, the Drinkers of Konovaria and the evil demonesses, the Cambions, but what each realm didn't realize was; the Legion wasn't the real enemy in the Dungeon - The Legion was just a front for the true evil being, Director Kobil; who was the true ruler of Darkness Falls.
Each realm fought and fought until one 'trigger happy' warrior spotted a member of opposing realm. With the lack of experience of this Warrior he instantly drew out his sword and shield and froze to the ground, one of the opposing realm's magical casters seeing him and casting a magical 'Mesmerisation' which caused not only the Warrior, but several people from Midgard to be stuck in the same place - not being able to move.
"CHARRRRRGGGGGGGEEEEEEEEE" the leaders of both realms yelled, which instantly made each mighty warrior of each realm ignore the Legion Minions and attack each other.
The fight was gruesome; several lives were lost on each side. The magical casters casting mesmerisations, the healers healing their realm mates, and the casters doing the most damage. The battle was long and tiresome, but the forces of Midgard managed to prevail and defeat the two opposing realm, Albion and Hibernia.
They knew this wasn't the end of the battle as the Legion still had to be defeated, which they knew was going to be the biggest battle of their life’s; especially as most of the people who had defeated the Legion the first time had died a tragic death while trying to defeat the King and Queen of Tuscan Glacier.
They rested and rested 'till the strongest of warriors were ready to take on the mighty Legion. After defeating the last of the Legion Minions they entered the Legion's lair. Seeing upon them, the legendary creature Legion.
"So, the mighty realm of Migard has returned once again to try and defeat me. You will all fail; you have no chance of defeating me! I WISH YOU GOOD LUCK IN DEATH!"
Upon saying that, the mighty creature swung his humongous claw and knocked the front line defenses of Midgard to their death, causing the Midgard offense to charge into the warrior.
Warriors guarded each other, protected each other and interrupted some of their realm mates’ attacks, hoping to defeat the magical creature.
What they didn't realize was that the Mighty Legion had learned some new tricks while it was away. The realm of Midgard had taken down half of the Legions life in a maniac fight, when it suddenly swung its claw one more time and grabbed half of the offense, throwing them into the air and draining their life, instantly healing its self.
The realm of Midgard saw this and knew the battle was over, the Legion repeating this attack 'till the mighty realm of Midgard laid dead, in front of him.
"Good luck in Death, Midgard. I said you wouldn't be able to kill me" The Legion laughed, and then vanish. Director Kobil instantly appearing, then instantly vanishing.
Once upon a time there lived in a certain village a little country girl, the prettiest creature who was ever seen. Her mother was excessively fond of her; and her yellow con templar doted on her still more. This good woman had a little red riding hood made for her. It suited the girl so extremely well that everybody called her Saitoh.
One day her mother, having made some cakes, said to her, "Go, my dear, and see how your yellow con templar is doing, for I hear she has been very ill. Take her a cake, and this little pot of butter."
Saitoh set out immediately to go to her yellow con templar, who lived in another village.
As she was going through the portal, she met with a mudman, who had a very great mind to eat her up, but he dared not, because of some large frogs working nearby in the forest. He asked her where she was going. The poor child, who did not know that it was dangerous to stay and talk to a mudman, said to him, "I am going to see my yellow con templar and carry her a cake and a little pot of power from my mother."
"Does she live far off?" said the mudman
"Oh I say," answered Saitoh; "it is beyond that milegate you see there, at the first house in the village."
"Well," said the mudman, "and I'll go and see her too. I'll go this way and go you that, and we shall see who will be there first."
The mudman ran as fast as he could, taking the shortest path, and the little girl took a roundabout way, entertaining herself by gathering nuts, running after butterflies, and gathering bouquets of little flowers. It was not long before the mudman arrived at the yellow con templar’s house. He knocked at the door: tap, tap.
"Who's there?"
"Your charmer, Saitoh," replied the mudman, counterfeiting her voice; "who has brought you a cake and a little pot of power sent to you by mother."
The good yellow con templar, who was in bed, because she was somewhat ill, cried out, "Pull the bobbin, and the latch will go up."
The mudman pulled the bobbin, and the door opened, and then he immediately fell upon the good yellow con templar and ate her up in a moment, for it been more than three days since he had eaten. He then shut the door and got into the yellow con templar’s bed, expecting Saitoh, who came some time afterwards and knocked at the door: tap, tap.
"Who's there?"
Saitoh, hearing the big voice of the mudman, was at first afraid; but believing her yellow con templar had a cold and was hoarse, answered, "It is your charmer Saitoh, who has brought you a cake and a little pot of power mother sends you."
The mudman cried out to her, softening his voice as much as he could, "Pull the bobbin, and the latch will go up."
Saitoh pulled the bobbin, and the door opened.
The mudman, seeing her come in, said to her, hiding himself under the bedclothes, "Put the cake and the little pot of power upon the stool, and come get into bed with me."
Saitoh took off her clothes and got into bed. She was greatly amazed to see how her yellow con templar looked in her nightclothes, and said to her, "Yellow con templar, what big arms you have!"
"All the better to hug you with, my dear."
"Yellow con templar, what big legs you have!"
"All the better to run with, my charmer."
"Yellow con templar, what big ears you have!"
"All the better to hear with, my charmer."
"Yellow con templar, what big eyes you have!"
"All the better to see with, my charmer."
"Yellow con templar, what big teeth you have got!"
"All the better to eat you up with."
And, saying these words, this wicked mudman fell upon Saitoh, and ate her all up. So, she purge+mocced and wtfpwned the mudman back to the bind point.
Sigurd shook his head to clear the blood from his eyes and propped himself up on his elbows so he could look around him. As far as he could see, the snow was littered with bodies and stained red with blood. Corpses of Trolls, Men, Frostalfar, Half-Ogres, Kobolds and Inconnu lay all around him, some still steaming in the autumn chill. Nothing moved in the pale evening light, not even the crows who clustered silently together on the bare trees that overlooked the battlefield as if awed by the scale of the slaughter. Groaning with the pain from the wound in his leg, he managed to struggle to his feet and stood swaying, dizzy for several moments. He bent – making himself dizzy again – and tore strips of fabric off the tunic of an Albion man who had fallen right next to where he had lain, and bandaged his leg as best he could. How long had he been unconscious in the snow? Judging by the lengthening shadows, a good few hours. Surely not everyone could be dead? Where had he dropped his sword? It was nowhere to be seen now. His chainmail was damaged in several places, especially on his chest. Nothing moved on the battlefield in any direction, save a few tattered rags of banners drooping from their poles, thrust into the ground to mark the spot of the last stand of bands of warriors around the snowfield, stirring in the faintest of dying breezes. He started to shiver.
”Charge!” the Jarl screams, drawing his sword and running towards the swirling centre of the battle. The Albion attack has caught the forces around Nottmoor almost unprepared, formations being assembled hurriedly out of whoever is at hand, no semblance of usual battle-order being maintained in the frantic need to get someone – anyone – out to defend. Sigurd had dropped his plate of bread and sausage at the sound of a Wizard’s bolt detonating on a nearby tree and grabbed his shield before rushing to find the guard commander. Now he finds himself in the middle of a hurriedly-assembled phalanx of Norsemen, the Jarl of the keep leading from the front, arrows slicing the air around him as he runs to the defense of the keep. A few paces to his left, a giant Troll roars in pain and fury as a crossbow bolt appeared in his shoulder; ripping the bolt out with one huge hand, the Troll draws a jagged two-handed cleaver that’s almost as big as Sigurd himself from a sling across his back and sprints at the Armsman who fired the bolt.
Ahead of him, the defenders’ charge meets the incoming Albion fighters with a great clash of steel and bodies that can be felt through the ground as clearly as it can be heard. Sigurd glances to his left again to see the Troll who was wounded a moment ago shudder with uncontrollable rage and shapeshift into a massive black bear as Modi’s fierce blessing courses through him, his axe cleaving the Highlander in front of him in two with a single horrific blow. Blood sprays over the newly-transformed Berserker’s fur as he roars with battle-lust and lunges for another target over the still-twitching body of the Highlander, the man of Albion’s own blood dripping over him from the fur as the Berserker steps over him. Another Albion fighter dodges the charging Berserker and runs at Sigurd, swinging a wickedly-curved blade at him as he screams an incomprehensible battlecry…he draws his sword and raises his shield to block the blow…
With some effort he limped across the body-strewn field to where he could see his Jarl’s banner laying in the snow, the dead lying all around it. Jarl Thorsson lay beneath the torn cloth of his own banner, face almost peaceful in death, armour covered in blood. Even in death he still gripped his sword, which was still thrust into the neck of the Half-Ogre who had killed him, whose own broken polearm lay in two pieces to either side of the pair. Sigurd arranged the fallen Norseman’s body as best he could, and began a traditional prayer for the fallen, realising how cold he was as his teeth chattered almost uncontrollably as he recited.
"Sorry, Harald,” he said as he carefully knelt down to the dead warrior’s body, “but I have more need of this than you, now. You’ve earned your place in Valhalla today.”
Standing up, dizziness once again threatening to overcome him, he wrapped Thorsson’s thick Fenrir-fur cloak around him as best he could and turned to face the west, where the sun lay close to the snowy horizon. He waited until the dizziness had faded somewhat and set off slowly to the edge of the battlefield, stepping over piles of corpses when there seemed to be no way around them.
…the blow numbs his shield-arm, but he stands his ground and swings his own sword past the Briton’s guard into the man’s sword-arm, feeling the blade bite through flesh and meet bone, before swinging the pommel of the sword back into the bridge of the man of Albion’s nose. Stunned, his weapon-arm hanging limply by his side, the Briton staggers back a pace as Sigurd brings his sword in a wide sweep around his head and hacks into his foe’s neck. As the man falls to the icy ground Sigurd feels a hand clap him on the shoulder and he turns to see Snorre, his friend and mentor grinning fiercely at him.
“Not bad for your first real combat, little one. We’ll make a warrior of you yet!” Snorre whoops and runs to meet the invaders’ charge. Realising that he has for the first time just taken another man’s life, Sigurd blinks in surprise for a moment then goes to follow Snorre as yet another arrow cuts the air just a few feet away from him. Turning almost involuntarily to follow the arrow’s flight, he sees a Runemaster a few dozen feet behind him chanting an invocation to Odin and starting to conjure great spears of fire that smash into the ranks of the enemy, to his left a great Troll Thane calling down Thor’s lightning to do likewise. Another bolt of fire from the enemy ranks flies past him as he watches and catches the Runemaster full in the chest, leaving him sprawled on the ground gasping with a smoking wound burnt into his torso. Cursing the invaders, Sigurd screams his hatred as he charges…
Was that movement ahead…? Squinting, the sun in his eyes, he realised one of the figures at the edge of the battlefield was moving slowly, though he could not make out who or even what it was at this distance. He had never dreamed that so much carnage could surround him; the bodies seemed endless, and somehow unreal on this same field that had so recently been so full of movement and chaos. A thin plume of smoke rose waveringly from the remains of a burnt-out portable ballista, impossible to tell now which side it had belonged to as the bodies around it were similarly burned. He shuddered to think what fearsome magic could have done this to the bodies of men. Behind him, a crow called mournfully across the snow. As he made his way forward the slowly-moving figure ahead became clearer. It was a Saracen.
…surrounded by screaming, yelling, roaring fighters on all sides…slash at an enemy, block his counter-attack, strike again, parry, riposte, steel ringing on steel, block, cut, parry, weapons locked as he stares into the eyes of the Highlander who is trying to kill him, their sweat mingling despite the snow that has started to fall, shoving, each trying to put their opponent off-balance, surprise in the man’s eyes as the Valkyn next to Sigurd half-punches, half-carves a hideous gash into the side of his head with a jagged hand-to-hand fighting claw, swinging with his sword down into the man’s body, turning to thank the Valkyn only to see an arrow slam into her eye and knock her to the floor, jerking spasmodically. He curses and looks around for Snorre, who is once again in front of him. Snorre has cut down a tall Avalonian mage of some sort and yells in triumph as he thrusts his broad-bladed sword into the downed enemy’s robed body. Running forward, Sigurd sees the air shimmer behind his friend as an assassin uncloaks and stabs deftly through the gaps in Snorre’s chainmail into his body, the vicious blow leaving the tall blond Norseman stunned and bleeding as the Infiltrator prepares to stab at him again. Roaring with fury Sigurd sprints at the enemy and smashes his shield into the olive-skinned man’s head, the iron dome in the centre of the shield connecting with the back of the Infiltrator’s skull and stunning him…he pulls the two-handed great-sword from its sheath on his back and slashes at the enemy assassin once, twice, the thin leather the man wears proving to be of little use against good Midgard steel…almost cut in two, the assassin lies blinking at the snowy heavens as his lifeblood reddens the snow about him. Sigurd runs to Snorre, who has fallen to the ground and is moaning in pain.
“I got the bastard,” he pants as he tries to help Snorre to his feet, “I got him for you!”
“Aye,” Snorre is pale and can hardly stand, “You got him good. I think I need…to sit down though.”
Sigurd puts his friend’s arm over his own shoulder and leads him back to where a healer is waiting towards the rear of the Midgard lines. Just as they are nearing the waiting Seer there is another shimmer in the air and an Inconnu appears, slicing at the unwitting Frostalf girl’s neck with his daggers…
He made his slow, painful way across the corpse-laden ground, limping as best his wounded leg would allow to where the Saracen was crawling away from the battlefield. Intent on her struggle to move, the Saracen didn’t hear Sigurd approach until he prised a hammer from the grip of a fallen Troll a few feet away. At the grating sound of the weapon being drawn across the dead Troll’s chainmail, vivid in the eerie silence of the evening, the Saracen turned and her eyes widened to see a Norseman just a few feet away. Having been crawling on her belly, one of her legs clearly broken, she managed to roll over onto her back, small sounds of pain escaping as she did so, her face contorting. Sigurd advanced on her, face grim, and stood over her. She stopped moving and stared up into his pale grey eyes, propped up on her elbows, her finely enamelled armour a shade of light green to match her eyes. As he looked down at her, the face of the Saracen in front of him changed in his mind’s eye into the face of the pretty young Frostalf healer as she fell to the ground in front of Snorre and Sigurd’s horrified eyes. Something must have shown in his face as the Saracen woman raised her hands in a universal gesture of pleading, saying something in her own tongue. Sigurd raised the fallen Troll’s hammer over his head – though considered one-handed for a Troll, he needed both of his own to lift it – and as the woman’s voice raised high in panic he swung the hammer down with all the force he could muster. And all was quiet again as the sun sank lower still.
…Snorre’s sightless eyes gaze up at the clearing snow-clouds, blood pooling around his sides as he lies where the Mercenary has cut him down. Tears mix with blood and grime on Sigurd’s face as he chases down the fleeing Briton, gripping his great-sword in both hands, his shield having been shattered and discarded what seems like hours ago. The battle has degenerated – as all such affairs do – into many small skirmishes, bands of a few enemies on either side circling the field and killing the unwary or the unlucky. Bodies already litter the fields, broken or abandoned weapons and siege equipment everywhere, the forlorn cries of the wounded mixing with the fierce cries of those still fighting. The last time Sigurd could find Jarl Thorsson on the field, he seemed to think the Albion attack had been repulsed, but in all the chaos it is hard to be sure, so he goes on killing every Albion invader he can whenever he sees them. Mist now begins to drift across the field as the slaughter continues…
He limped through the snow, slowly, his bad leg reducing him to a snail’s pace. The sun cast a rosy glow on the snow around him, the trees on the hillside casting dark shadows behind them. He had been feeling cold, but that seemed to have passed now. His chest felt numb. He had let the Troll’s hammer fall by the dead Saracen woman’s body and now was armed only with his dagger, but that didn’t seem to matter much either any more. He hadn’t seen a living soul for what must have been an hour, so he guessed all the Albion invaders had either fled or been killed. Walking was harder and harder, though, his leg was going to need some serious attention when he got back to Nottmoor itself. The hill became slightly steeper, and even this made it very difficult for him to make it to the top…the urge to sit down and rest for a while was almost overpowering, but he knew from his childhood that sick or injured people who lay down in the snow tended never to get up again. Though the amount of willpower it took to make it to the brow of the small hill seemed entirely out of proportion to the task itself, he eventually staggered to the top and was able to look down across a wide, snow-filled valley, the deeper parts of which were already in shadow as evening advanced. Out of the corner of his eye he caught movement to his left…his hand moving almost unconsciously to his dagger, he peered into the dusk light and was able to make out the figure of a woman, walking towards him.
She was hidden in the half-light at first but as she drew closer he could see long red hair spilling out from the hood of a fur cloak and saw that on her cloak was the distinctive emblem of Odin’s Eye. He relaxed and took his hand off the hilt of his dagger.
“Ho!” she called to him, her voice clear in the cold air, “where are you going? Are you injured?”
“Yes…yes. I was in the fighting at Nottmoor…the Albion forces, I think we fought them off, but so many dead…” It was difficult to speak, he realised, he was so damn tired.
“I heard, yes. You fought valiantly! They’ll think twice before coming back to try the gates of Nottmoor again.”
“So many dead, though…I’ve never been in battle before...”
“The dead will have earned their place in Valhalla, I’ll wager, if the reports of the fighting I heard are anything to go by. You were outnumbered so badly yet still prevailed. You should be proud.”
Sigurd felt numb, not proud. He could see Snorre’s face as he lay in the red-stained snow, so vivid it hurt to think of it. “I’m trying to get back to Nottmoor Faste…I need to report…”
“I’ll help you on your journey. My name is…well, just call me Kara.” And so saying, the tall woman took his arm and draped it over her shoulder – much as he himself had done for Snorre in the battle – and led him off through the snow.
…all that surrounds him now is bodies, friend and foe alike, their blood running together in the snow as if to mock their enmity in life. He is covered in blood, some his, some that of the invaders, chest heaving as he gasps with exhaustion, the blade of his great-sword covered with drying blood and gore. He trips over the twisted bluish corpse of an Inconnu, caught by some Warlock’s spell, burned and distorted, and falls to the ground, breath going out of him and everything going dark as he lands…
It was getting darker, but Kara’s eyes seemed to shine as they walked through the snow in the quiet dusk, the snow crunching underfoot. The pain from his wounds seemed to be gone, now, a sense of calm filling him despite the horrifying things he had seen that day. It seemed to be harder and harder to walk, though, as time went on, because even though his leg was not hurting as much as before it seemed to be harder and harder by the minute to co-ordinate his limbs.
He turned to the woman at his side. “Would you mind if I sat down for a minute? I’m so tired…”
“Of course not. You’ve earned it. Sit down here, I’ll keep an eye on you.”
Gratefully he sank to his knees. There was no pain now, but the weariness was overwhelming. He knew he should move soon, the cold would kill him if he fell asleep out in the open - especially wounded as he was - but a few minutes’ rest would help. Just a few minutes. At least his wounds didn’t hurt any more. He would rest a while. He’d earned it today. The woman stood by his side as he sat motionless in the snow, her hand on his shoulder.
He opened his eyes. He’d fallen asleep after all! He should have known better, but he’d been so tired. He didn’t feel so tired now, though.
“I’m sorry,” he said, getting to his feet, “didn’t mean to fall asleep on you.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said quietly, “don’t worry.”
“It’s almost dark…we should be going.”
“Yes. Yes, Sigurd, we should.”
He thought for a moment…he’d never told her his name.
“How do you know who I am?” he asked her.
“We know who all true warriors are, Sigurd.”
“Who are you?”
She smiled at him, revealing herself as radiantly beautiful even in the fading light of dusk. “You know who I am.”
“I…”
“Look behind you, back the way we came.”
Sigurd felt his mind clearing as his weariness left him, and knew the truth of her words.
“Come with me, warrior. It’s time to be with your friends again. For ever.”
She held out her hand to him, and even as he looked, somehow behind her he could see a great hall full of mighty warriors, some looking at him even now, grinning their approval and raising their flagons in salute. In her other hand she held a mighty spear, and as she cast her cloak aside he saw shining mail armour. At her feet he could see the figure of a man, curled up as if asleep.
He looked back across the snow where he and the woman had walked, and realised there was only one set of footprints.
The sound of hundreds of Vikings roaring hit the gates of Hurbury. With Ardmeth leading they had come to reclaim what was theirs, the Horn of Valhalla.
You could see it in their eyes. This was the moment they had all been waiting for. The forces of King Arthur had left their homeland in flames, killing women and children to get their filthy hands on the one thing they knew Midgard loved so dearly, and this was their chance to get their revenge.
The brave warriors had brought a battle ram with them to hammer down the mighty gate of the fortress. Arthur was a smart man though; he had placed pots of boiling oil as defense against these rams above the gates, which were poured over the rams burning the skin of the intruders. Many Vikings was lost but they didn’t seem to care. Every Viking know that in the afterlife Odin will take good care of them in Valhalla, so as the oil was hitting the rams, a new group of warriors were ready to step up to continue the ramming of the gate.
The archers defending the keep started to disappear realizing that they had failed to push the Viking forces back. With a thundering sound the gate were shattered and the Vikings started to rush in slaying the few archers that didn’t make it to safety. At this point the orders from their leader Ardmeth were ignored. The Vikings had tasted blood and were filled with rage. The gifted shaman’s were chanting curses on their foes and the mighty skalds singing tunes of victory as they all charged the stairs inside the keep.
Upstairs they met a wall of King Arthur’s forces protecting the horn, but their eyes were scared with fear from the shaman’s chants and the fact that two trolls were charging in front of the rest of the Vikings. One of the trolls swung his great hammer towards the front row instantly killing 4 of Arthur’s Highlanders painting blood on the others faces. In a matter of seconds the Vikings had slain most of the defending forces.
In the middle of the room the Horn of Valhalla were placed on a pedestal. It was so beautiful. It filled the room with warmth making the Vikings come to their senses once again. Ardmeth walked up to the relic of power and took a firm grip on the horn, “Lets get this home” he said while he was walking back downstairs. They had a boat waiting at the river close to the fortress with the best sailors waiting to bring the horn back to its home, the stronghold of Mjolner.
The fortress of Hurbury was destroyed as a reminder to King Arthur to think twice before attacking Midgard again although it would happen sooner or later.
As the sun rose in the east drums could be heard playing not far off. Towns and villages were woken all across the land. Vikings, Rogues, Seers and Mystics all grabbed their weapons and raced to Jordheim to see what all the fuss was about.
The town crier gathered everyone around and explained that since we Midgardians had stolen all the Albion relics they sought revenge. An unknown Shadowblade had infiltrated Camelot and heard of their plans. A full scale assault was to be launched later that day on Bledmeer and Nottmoor Faste where the Albions would rally their forces and attack two more keeps simultaneously. We were told we had to act fast, new weapons were to be made, armours were to be bought and spellcrafted and siege equipment to be stocked up. The crier finished his speech, paused for a moment and then yelled at the top of his voice "Soon Eirik Alfevson will arrive! Let his arrival be a pleasant one. TO ARMS!". Everyone scuttled away as quick as possible to prepare themselves. Except a few warriors who were not moved by the speech and sat drinking ale. I approached them and asked "Does the arrival of our new King not inspire you brave warriors?", the response being a bottled narrowly missing my head, but I would not be put off. I sat down and started to have a few drinks and chat to them.
After a few hours, and being slightly drunk, we decided to form a guild. Luckily there were eight of us and we also made a pretty good group set-up. Our objective was not to defend our keeps, but to slay the incoming Albion forces to cut them off. Of course we knew most would use boats, but the real threat was on land.
We headed back to one of the fellows houses and used our skills to fashion new armour for ourselves, to be as well equipped as possible. We looked over some maps and came up with a plan and strategy on how to kill these fierce Albion groups.
Then the time came, it was an hour before the attacks were due so we took everything we needed and ported into the Upplands. We all ready noticed that Nottmoor Watchtower was on fire, but that did not concern us. We ported to Bledmeer and the Shaman and Healers cast magical spells to help us in our fights. Our leader was appointed after much discussion and then we moved out into the treacherous lands of Agramon.
We roamed the lands for at least 30 minutes, not finding a single enemy. As the Watchtower fell into the hands of Albions we thought to ourselves "could the Albions have all used boats?". We quickly enquired about the numbers attacking Nottmoor, some people saying there were over 60 enemies and that...
"INCOMING LEFT SIDE" one of our members cried, we all broke off with our Healers taking cover in the shadows of some trees. The Savage and other so called talks heading straight into the enemy Albion group, as if we had no fear of death. "MY TARGET, KILL THE THEURGIST!" I scream, as i am sure he did also when he saw 4 Troll tanks steaming towards him and then, bam, his corpse lay dead on the ground. Caster after caster we killed but each time they got revived, as if the Clerics had endless power! I changed my target with the other tanks in tow and we demolished their clerics crippling the whole group, then picking the rest off one by one until all lay on the ground dead.
One of these brave Albions had dropped a banner which we picked up to proudly hang in our guild house of our first battle as a team. This had only been one fight we had won, but there were many more to come.
In the years since the death of King Arthur at the battle of Camlan and the breakdown of the true between Ogre's of Krondon and the men of Albion, against the common enemy of Morgan le Fay's Draconian hordes. The increasing hostility of the Ogre's had laid the northern reaches of Avalon the Isle of Apples in a circle of constant strife. Though many attempts had been made to reissue a truce with the ogre's, little headway had been made. The decision had been made, sever the head and the body would crumble. Orylle queen of Krondon the Ogre Citadel and her trusted advisor Orshom Brong were to be removed, in the hope the ogre forces would splinter and a new more "accommodating" steward could be installed.
The old Saracen mercenary let the blade of his Azure Dualists Rapier dance along the cobbled floor behind him, sparks mixing with the magical aura attached to the blade. So this was it, he thought around the corner was the throne room of Orylle and her trusted advisor Orshom Brong. The ogre's were brutish creatures nearly twice the size of a Highlander capable of breaking even a stone skinned troll in half. He was not daunted though, a veteran of many a campaign, from the hellish halls of Darkness Falls to the undead castle of Cear Sidi. This was just another task for the crown of his new homeland. The greater the risk, the greater the reward as he always said.
Their eye's met across the expanse of Orylle's throne room. A puzzed look appeared on the face of the Queen, what were these eight men doing so far into her fortress, were where her guards. The puzzled look soon changed to a smile as she saw the look of awe on the faces of these Albion adventurers. For Orylle would dwarf even a forest Giant. On her back she carried a sword almost as tall as she was, fashioned in the style of a Claymore favoured weapon of the Highlander Lord's, though few in practise existed.
"Tell Me," the Orshom asked wryly "What kind of fool bring's only eight little men to face the might of the ogre's of Krondon "
"One who wishes to kill her" replied the mercenary with a visible lump in his throat.
Orshom roared with laughter
"Imbecile" taunted Orylle "Puny little creatures would need an army to attempted to defeat me"
The expression on the mercenaries faced changed from one of awe to a smirk.
"Well isn't that fortunate"
The thundering of metal footsteps carried down the hallways as the army of Albion was carried down the corridors of Krondon by accompanied by the songs of the minstrels of the realm. In they pored weapons brandished the metal of their weapons glinting in the light of the torches of the throne room.
The plan they had devised was carried out to perfection. The eight men who had first entered the throne room cut the Orylle off from Orshom. The rest of the army of around sixty Albion's swarmed Orshom. A look of rage and disbelief overcame the two ogres. Orshom feverishly casting spells hurling gigantic fireballs into the ranks of the advancing army felling men and women with ease. But the numbers were too much for him blades maces and spells pounding against him he sensed his end was near. In a flick of his wrists he cast one last spell and vanished.
Over the other side of the room the Mercenaries group were nearly finished. The great sweeping strikes of Orylle's giant sword had felled half of the group. She homed in on the lone Saracen with a look of vengeance, her sword whistling towards him. Barely able to evade the incoming attack his foot slipped on the blood soaked stone, sending him crashing to the floor.
"Now!" he screamed at the group at the back of the room.
The Theurgist's began their summoning sending elemental after elemental thundering towards the ogre queen. The first wave made her stumble as she vainly tried to cut them down. They kept on coming wave after wave eventually sending her crashing to the ground under their numbers. The rest over the army having recovered from the disappearance of Orshom sensed that victory was near charged. Stabbing and trusting and swinging their weapons with whatever strength they could still muster. Crimson blood swept across the floor and it was finally over. The Saracen propping him self up on this elbows let out a sigh of relief. Resurrect the fallen he instructed and lets see what this queen has of worth.
Thick rolling fog lay like a shroud across the plain of Emain Macha, its presence a cold, lingering caress such as one might recieve from the spectral hands of a long-dead lover. Despite the eerie chill that played along his arms and legs, the hulking Highlander felt strangely comforted, knowing the dull, grey wall of fog protected his small band of raiders from prying eyes. So dense was it that the sound of his footsteps and those of his companions were quietened, seeming to come from a distance away. His feet were invisible to his eyes in any case, so who knows what strange plains they trod as he waded blindly through the grey world which ended less than an arms-length from his face. No birds sang and the animals, usually abundant in this green land, were strangely absent as if Mother Nature herself were being slowly suffocated by the mists.
Surefooted the young Saracen who led them was, and they moved swiftly across the plains to the steady rythm of his gilded drum. No ordinary drum was this, but one fit for the Chief Minstrel of the Court of King Constantine and his hands moved deftly across it, the sheer power flooding from it girding our loins and quickening our feet. With a nevousness born of a thousand ambushes by the demon hordes of the Lesser Realms, his friends looked from left to right, straining to see amidst the uniform grey a single hint of an approaching enemy. Such were the efforts of the men and women, they almost seemed to sweat not from the speed and tenacity of the chase, but from the combined effort of straining ears and eyes to gain an advantage over their adversaries.
Second in line, standing close behind the leader stood a women tall and elegant, yet strangely stern. Her face would make rock seem soft and iron as malleable as bakers dough. Born of a noble Avalonian house, she carried herself with the rigidity of a blade and her mere presence would cow lesser men and women to impotent speechlessness. A mighty Sorceress was she, and none more skilled were there in all the lands of Albion. The dazzling speed with which she unleashed her wyrd potencies on friends and enemies alike made her a useful ally and a terrible foe. In her lay the power to still the hands, feet and hearts of any who opposed her and threatened the realm which she had sworn her life to protect.
Looking around, the Highlander came face to face with a nightmare and, even blessed with many years of familiarity, recoiled from that terrible sight and, feeling ashamed at how easily he was unmanned, returned his attention to the run. Oblivious to all this, monster lumbered on, leaving elephantine footprints six inches deep in the soil. 30 hundredweight of clay, roughly formed into a huge, craggy effigy, the simulcrum was a fearsome sight. Towering over any man with fists that could demolish a city wall and burning eyes that could quell the bravest warrior. The 'keeper' of this behemoth, an old and wizened Briton with skin like a knarled root, assured me that this was an Amber simulcrum and that, unchecked, its devasting melee could wound, paralyse or even kill an opponent. In other fights, other times, he had demonstrated his art by created simulcrums of Ruby that could summon fire from the skies to attack distant enemies and a huge Emerald simulcrum which surrounded foes with choking vapours and infect them with a terrible weakening disease from which few recovered.
From nowhere, a sound like a thunderclap amplified tenfold rang out. Before the Highlander had a chance to think what could have caused this, a vice-like grip took hold of him and his companions, locking their arms and legs so they stood like statues. From the corner of his mouth, he began to mutter an ancient spell, one which he had learned only through great sacrifice and many battles. Instantly, the strange forces holding his limbs began to lessen and then it was gone. He was free! Running swiftly, he moved slightly away from the fight. From the corner of his eye, he could see his friends begin to move again and engage the enemy. The fierce mercenaries, their chain glinted and reflected the strange lights and shapes that briefly hovered in the air as mighty spells were cast. Soon, their swords found their targets and, as they sliced cloth and bit deep into flesh, the enemy support scattered, howling in pain. Eerie blue glows sprang up around 2 swarthy characters lurking behind the fight. Dwarven Healers most likely, wielding their own magic to stem the bleeding and knit the flesh of their allies. The Highlander was muttering feverishly as his hands reached into the air and...twisted. A stream of power exploded into being, flooding into his allies and replenishing them. This had taken time though and his friends were in dire need. Looking up, he saw a huge Troll crash a heavy, two-handed axe into the shoulder of one of the mercenaries. Then, with a rousing battle roar, he directed his friends, another huge Troll and a strange, feral Valkyn with metal barbs attached to his hands, to charge towards our cloth-wearing support. We seemed doomed.
The Highlander raised his hands and cried out. As he did so, the mercenary who had been knocked to the floor by the blow, jumped to his feet. Soon, his band of paid killers were again dancing amongst the enemy casters. One fell, then another, their spells flying in all directions as they desperately sought an advantage in this fight. To the rear, I could see a dwarf running desperately from the simulcrum, hands raised to fend off the clubbing blows. Blood flowed from dozen wounds and mixed with the rich earth, torn now by desperate footstep and slick as ice. A searing pain gripped the Highlander and he felt his life being torn from him. The strength went from his limbs. Again the pain came, and again. Looking up, a small blue creature, a Kobold, roared defiance and called on his Gods to support him. Even as swords and spells fell on him, his spells came faster, a strangely serene look on his face. The last thing the Highlander saw was the green grass of Emain as he began to fall...
Turning facelong into the southerly winds, I trod softly into the fresh snow, silently moving towards the sound of spell casting, emanating from the woods just out of my line of sight. My ears honed in on the familiar sounds of Hibernian music, brought forth to me by the prevailing icy breeze.
For years I had trained in the arts of stealth and camouflage, a trade passed on through the generations, from father to son and daughter. In the deep frontiers wits alone wouldn’t keep you from harm, only the years of dedication and heeding the voices of the elders. But in the frozen forests of Jamtland.Mountains, even your breath could give you away, leaving behind you a vapour trail visible to man and beast.
Under tender foot, I came within sight of the enemy, and observed them slaughtering the Windswept Wraiths that inhabited the area, then picking their torso’s clean of the precious gems they wore. Three they numbered, one tall, broad and forgive me, but hellishly ugly, even compared to Trolls, this one brought new meaning to hideous. The magician among them was small, his skin tainted blue and his eyes….glistening against the snow sent shivers down my spine.
The last I didn’t spot at first, she…..blended in. What creature this was I didn’t know, but her skin was like the bark of the mighty Cedar, while sitting propped against a tree, even my keenest eye couldn’t distinguish her. But she seemed out of place from the other two, who laughed as they stripped another carcass.
The large one was easily the seer of the clan, healing the smaller one during their battles, and from time to time casting a slow and loud spell on him that seemed to restore his mana. He would be my primary target.
Gently I reached into my quiver, and took out the sharpest of arrows, this one tipped in such to penetrate any magical barrier that may lay unseen around them. Knotching it, I stared hard at him, visualising his heart, deep inside his armour. Gracefully I drew back the string, taking in a long and deep breath, the winds still behind me to help guide the arrow, I released. It cut silently through the air, almost in slow motion as it gained momentum towards its unsuspecting target.
About 4 strides away, it struck the barrier, as I thought it might, piercing its protection and instantly bursting their defence. As it did the small one turned to face it, startled, as he did, the arrow struck home, breaching his chest deeply. For a second, his eyes opened wide, his palms turned upwards and a terrifying shriek echoed around the forest, in his hands an energy grew, brighter and brighter, then vanished along with his lifeforce as his body fell to the ground.
Quickly I knotched another arrow, the air had changed so slightly, pushing on the left side of my face, I drew the string close to my cheek and licked the fletching, moistening it to provide curve to its aim, then relinquished the bows power. Again, taking flight the arrow veered to my left, then was guided by the wind towards its prey. It struck the creatures armour, glancing only a flesh wound upon his shoulder, making him drop the huge shield he carried. Again I fired, as he ran towards me, screaming, his weapon drawn high above him, and with a look of malice on his face.
This time, my arrow struck home, penetrating deeply into his exposed neck, piercing his throat and silencing him instantly. He paused for a few seconds before dropping to his knees, his forearm still outstretched towards me, his last strain of life ebbing away, he still wanted to taste my blood. Gradually, he dropped to his knees, his arm lost its strength and he descended to the floor, burying his body in the snow.
By this time I had one arrow ready to fly, I took aim and the strange wood being, her eyes full of youth, she stood quaking, crying and held her hands to her chest as if praying. A cold shiver came over me as I let loose the dart, her eyes grew wider and wider as it came toward her, then she closed them, and a single tear trickled down her cheek. As it struck, she held her head up, waiting for the pain.
But the pain didn’t come, instead she heard a thump behind her, and felt the powder of the snow hit the back of her legs. For a few seconds she stood, motionless. Slowly she opened her eyes. I stood before, bow across my shoulder, nodded gently and smiled before vanishing into the white background.
Behind her, the Wraith that was about to take my prey, lay dead, she turned to saw where my last arrow had impaled upon the evil beast. Her fate now, alone and a long way from home, was far worse than any arrow. She wept quietly, darkness was drawing in, and she knew alone, she wouldn’t last long.
It all started in Castle Sauvage, back in the days when I was far less experienced. We were brought together and told we had an important mission to take part in, Thidranki Faste had been taken over by an unknown evil force. Our guildmaster gave each of us a special necklace, "Keep this safe" we were told, "You may only enter Thidranki with this special necklace". The task we faced was so dangerous that the Master Elementalists would not teleport anyone other than the chosen few. We sat down and waited for the Elementalists to arrive, looking around me I recognised the familiar faces from another guild - the Lords of England. However it appeared that another couple of guilds were also here to help us on this mission, they came from the unfamiliar realm of Excalibur. The finest warriors in the land were all here, ready to help Albion.
The Master Elementalists came walking down the stairs, followed by Master Visur himself. After forming a circle, the Elementalists started casting spells as part of the porting ceremony, the deep voice of Visur uttered the magical words. Within the blink of an eye we were ported to foreign lands, inside an Albion keep in the lands of Thidranki. A few moments later, we were informed of our important mission. The demons had invaded Thidranki Faste, Albion had lost control of the keep. We always knew that Midgard and Hibernia fought for Thidranki Faste, however the thought of a new enemy started to worry us. Our mission was not to destroy the demons, but to capture them and bring them back to the Albion keep.
We all rushed outside of the keep and marched towards Thidranki Faste. The lands on which many battles had been fought seemed so odd, the enemies which we would normally face were nowhere to be seen, the threat of the demons had scared them away. Eventually we arrived at the bridge before the keep, the Armsman infront of me stopped all of a sudden, something was wrong. The forces of Midgard were already at the front of the keep, trying to slay the demons inside. Our mission was at stake, we had to stop them at once!
A few moments later, our leaders yelled at us to go forward. CHARGE! The army of Dwarves were all caught by surprise, the brave Armsmen and Paladins rushed forward to attack the enemy. They all had no chance, fighting both the demons and the Albion tanks was impossible for the forces of Midgard, eventually they were all slaughtered - we showed the vile enemy no mercy. The demon threat still had to be dealt with, our Sorcerers moved slowly inside the keep and charmed the evil demons into following us. Under the control of the Sorcerers we could bring the demons back towards the Albion keep.
Our guildmaster brought our group together, it was our guild who was going to take the demons back whilst the other Albions stayed at the keep to stop it falling into enemy hands. We slowly moved outside and across the bridge, moving slowly to keep our control on the demons. Eventually the Albion keep was in sight, the familiar sight of the Master Wizards were here to defend us. Our Sorcerers rushed inside the keep, our mission was completed and Thidranki Faste was once again under Albion control.
The threat of the demons was now gone, it was safe for Albions to return to Thidranki.
Judging from the screams and the yells of agonising pain i could hear from north Bledmeer, it was clear that albion wanted something, a treasured relic for all the lands, The Heart of Agromon.
Three weeks to this date, a battle against the Demon Lord Agromon was fought, Three Realms, One meaning, Albion and hibernia fought there way through to fight the abomination, fighting through the mile gates, Yes, i was there, in the frontlines, fighting for my realm, with every last breath and swing. The demons had come back for vengeance rising with the island, scum of the land, the creatures that resided in the darkness falls were always feared upon, and their leaders, the grand Legionaire and the Behomoth caused nightmares that would be in the minds of the front line fighters for the rest of their lives causing trauma to all that had fought.
Albion and Hibernia broke the blockades of the miles gates slaying the creatures as they appeared trying to advance further to fight the Lord Agromon to claim the relic but were not sucessfull, there was the last realm, no one knew what they were up to, it was up to the shadows of Albion and hibernia to find out.
As one of the Albion scouts, my role was to see what the Midgardians were doing, as soon as Albion slayed the creatures at the mile gate, I crept through the milegate, walking forwards, i could smell the heavy stench of burning and brimstone and could hear the cries of pain that the Lord was causing to the fighters. I got closer. I climbed a tree, from this tree i looked forth and saw a Demon, a Demon like no other, It was, collosal. Looking into it's eyes i knew it was slowly fading, it's roars shook the ground and the veins in it's chest were now pulsing and throbbing, it's legs were shaking.
ARGHHHHHHHHH the demon fell on it's knees, a pulsating white light appeared slowly dissolving the monster into ash, but a glowing blue light showed that the Midgards had claimed the heart and would know use it as a relic to aid them in battle, the demon fell that night, i was there, i saw it all.
'DUCk! Ninjitsu quickly!'
"Eh?"
BOOM
'Whoa that was close, watch where you fire that trebuchet next time!'
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