Picture Challenge: Medieval 1

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Childish Grumpino

all things are nothing to me
Original poster
NOTE: Feel free to respond to this challenge at any time; new additions are always welcome. Should you use some of the concepts and ideas posted in this challenge, please give some credit to whoever came up with the original idea. For more information, CLICK HERE.

CATEGORY: This week, the category is MEDIEVAL.

And so without further interruptions...


Next week's category will be MODERN FANTASY.

Warenai hana

Posting Speed
  1. 1-3 posts per day
  2. One post per day
  3. 1-3 posts per week
  4. One post per week
Writing Levels
  1. Intermediate
  2. Adept
  3. Adaptable
Preferred Character Gender
  1. Primarily Prefer Female
After a staggering defeat, losing all of his men to the wizard tyrant that terrorized the land, the king set out himself to avenge those who had fallen and free his land from the wrath of the warlock. Quickly he rushed to the castle feeling the anger flowing threw his veins and his head cloudy with revenge. The only sound now was the rhythmic sound of the horses hooves on the ground and the constant squawking of the crows, said to be doom warmers by legend, but the king would head no warning. This was a mission too great for him to turn down. He would free the kingdom or die trying. Slowly he vanished in the apparitional fog that seemed to be built by spirits, most said he would never be seen again.


Lost Child
Invitation Status
Posting Speed
  1. Speed of Light
  2. Multiple posts per day
  3. 1-3 posts per day
  4. One post per day
  5. 1-3 posts per week
Writing Levels
  1. Elementary
  2. Intermediate
  3. Adept
Preferred Character Gender
  1. Male
  2. Female
  3. Transgender
  4. No Preferences
with this sord nothing will stand in my way" He cryid out as his hoser rode him to the caslt with his man behind him "Tonig we die in hell" he cryed and everyslouder creed as they go to the kingdom. many have fallen but he did not. "i will revanger you my conradeds." he saidh he was near the castil and he was about to opend the door when an dragon attacked him. she won that batile but lose an eye to it. now he was climbing the tower of the kinddom to see her....


Arthus, the one man who stood against many challenged the king atop horse back as he road to the tower of Batterhorn. His horse wounded, walking dumb footed to the side he had to dismount and brave the rest of the task on foot. His horse collapsed as soon as he got off, sealing it's fate. "May the fates shine upon you, trusty stead." A utterance, a prayer and then he gently knelt down to touch the horse's eyelids, closing them forevermore. Arthus put his hand on the horse head and let out a sorrowful yell of anger and rage. "Arrrr! I'll get thee Rythas of Batterhorn."

He eventually forced himself up and many times he felt as if the the creature still followed him, much like a severed limb in a way that people call phantom limbs. "Preposterous, a phantom horse. I haveth no such belief in silly child stories." He said to himself, crossing the witch's bog not too far off in the distance. Sword's of slain men lay down on the ground everywhere and there was worse, so much worse. The contorted faces of the dead were sunk into the tree's and their some heads were on pikes. Arthus grasped his claymore with both hands and took a swing at a tree, chopping some firewood. The trees here were dry and old, dead if you will. They would make good firewood if he didn't burn down the whole brush and tree area. He tore off the bottom part of his loinclothe up to the top and tied it around the firewood he gathered.

Arthus wasn't about to stop until he got somewhere a bit more homely. He held the loincloth over his shoulder and suddenly saw a witch walk by, he assumed it was a witch, well he decked her pretty good using the the firewood as a weapon. It made a crack and split all over the place as the witch screamed and hit the ground like cinder blocks. "H-hold on, S'stranga. don't gut me like a fish, I know ye be planin. I can get ye to the king, fasta then walken." Arthus looked at her, he pulled at his chin stubble while thinking. "Ye get a deal. " He offered her his hand and then she put something in it, suddenly he felt a flying sensation.

It seemed as if he had went unconscious for a moment but woke up on the roof of Batterhorn tower. The fierce winds were blowing him around and he saw that soon it was to rain. Using his sword like his best friend before he lost his footing he stabbed it into the the keep of Batterhorn tower. His feet flew out from under him and like being on a fierce titan the sky roared and howled at him with thunder and wind. He manage to break into the area under the roof of the tower by using his claymore to stab at weak stone. The area gave way and suddenly he was in Rythas' room, a sudden shake startled Rythas from his slumber from the roof caving in. Rythas got up from his bed quickly with a blade of an opposite house to Arthus', the thieving wolf that stole his homeland from him was evident in both Rythas and the wolf on his sword.

Arthas' blade however had the pride of a lion and to show off the pride and his own personal fury from his vendetta Arthas let out a roar, then he ran forward. Rythas slashed for his enemy's face, but Arthas slashed his sword towards the other. As they locked swords the Arthas slammed his head against Rythas' un-armored head. He stepped back and Arthas got him under his foot as Rythas began to fall. "Give up, there is no honor in dyeing this way, brother." Rythas slashed Arthas' leg and Arthas dove his sword down, blood splashed his face.

The tyrant king was no more. Now was a new age of prosperity in all of Eldarhum, as the rightful ruler took the throne.

Old Sport

Blood. All around him, blood, and carnage, and the ragged, quarrelsome shrieks of the carrion crows. The smell of smoke is on the air, and the red stink of death, and the destrier beneath him paws anxiously at the ground, snorting billowing plumes of steam into the still morning air.

The battle is lost.

So much death...

The heavy iron taste of defeat is in his mouth, and from the fort, he feels eyes watching him, the flat mirror-eyes of the Usurper. How he despises those eyes, the way they so perfectly reflect parts of his own personality, the way they whisper ghostlike in his the back of his head, 'My, how alike we are, you and I...', and give away nothing of their owner's true nature.

A shudder goes through him like an electrical current, galvanising him to action; he will not sit idly by and let the Usurper sit the throne unchallenged.

He wheels his horse about and rides hard for the castle that was once his home, twisted beyond recognition in the dim, smoky light. Where it once seemed warm and welcoming, it reminds him now of a hand, a charred, skeletal hand reaching up out from the blood-soaked earth, clawing blindly at the sky in search of reprieve.

The sight ought to chill him, but he thinks that it will be good to die here. It's fitting that he should leave the world in the same place and manner he entered it, screaming and bloody. Most men are not so lucky.

Sora Blade

A wolf howls because it longs for the light
Invitation Status
Preferred Character Gender
Horror, romance, sacrifice, fantasy
He rode forward, towards the fallen kingdom of Crystalia, his bloody blade held high. This night he had taken the head of the tyrant of the land, no longer would they suffer in slavery. He watched as the crows flew away, fleeing at the very presence of one as good as he. "Open the gates, the red knight has returned!" Calls could be heard from within the crumbling walls of there once great city. "I come with evil blood staining my blade, move aside for I must be off to the king." The people parted, cheating his name as he rode toward the castle. He lay his blade at the foot of the thrown and kneeled. "We are free, and soon we shall be stronger than ever thanks to you brave knight." The king said before laying a hand on his shoulder. The kingdom grew and prospered, yet still, outside the city walls, lay a graveyard of the fallen, there body's marked by a cross but oath wise forgotten, at least forgotten by all but himself.