- Posting Speed
- 1-3 posts per week
- One post per week
- Online Availability
- 16:00-20:00 US Central
- Writing Levels
- Adept
- Advanced
- Prestige
- Preferred Character Gender
- No Preferences
- Genres
- Cyberpunk, Sci-fi, Fantasy, and other low-tech/fantasy.
[fieldbox= Gilliam Harper, blue, solid]
Gilliam Harper had been on the hunt when the fog had first come, lost in the thickets of Broybrook's outer reaches, trailing a herd of deer through one of the forest's lesser-known paths. Whatever game he had managed to bag until that point had served only to sustain himself as one day turned into two, two into three. Frustration had settled in at dawn when the fog had, once again, returned to the world and he was forced to reach into the Else to waft the fog around him away, giving himself a field of view of only three paces.
As Gilliam continued across a well-worn and half-paved road to Broybrook, he hoped in the proper direction, he began to hear the steady tramp tramp tramp of boots upon hard-packed dirt. Not a procession of merchants, hunters, or travelers. No, the footfalls were too synchronized. Too practiced. Rather than meet the column of men head-on, Gilliam dove onto the side of the road and took cover behind a patch of shrubs. When at last the soldiers, for soldiers they were, approached, Gilliam noted that the fog did not surround them as it did everything else.
Magi.
The men stood a good head taller than most with broad shoulders and massive chests, each clad in mottled grey-green cloth beneath gleaming plate mail. Their helms resembled skulls and each was marked by two red stripes running down the center. Upon their backs hung massive packs loaded, the weight seemingly nothing to them. Each held in his hand an unsheathed, curving blade accompanied by a plain, unadorned round shield of polished steel. Gilliam counted twenty of the larger brutes, behind them about fifty men-at-arms, and further still two lightly-armormed men on horses, seemingly each in a trance.
Gilliam allowed the column to pass before he began to run as swiftly and quietly as he could through the undergrowth of the forest, making for the direction the men were headed. There was hardly a chance they were headed to Broybrook, though the alternative was that the village had already been razed. Though while the men had the advantage of steady ground, they were still marching in tandem - in the woods, Gilliam was swifter. He was, no doubt, a day's journey from Broybrook - if the road was leading him there - and the soldiers were still at least two days, if not three, away from their destination.
The race is on... Gilliam thought with a smile born of grim humor, beginning to march along the now-clear road.
---
Over the next day and a half, Gilliam continued his tiring pace along the road, stopping only to eat and sleep in hour-intervals. At last, well into the afternoon of the fourth day out of Broybrook, he arrived at the village's outskirts, exhausted and famished. His tug on the Else had been fading ever since that morning and he had been forced to resort to navigating the mist without its power, and now he hardly retained the energy to enter his own tavern - the Wench and Tankard. He was met by a surprising number of villagers who had taken refuge in the bar, a few of which greeted him with a raised glass or a spoken word or two.
"Men are approaching," Gilliam blurted once inside the inn, door shut behind him, "armed men, there are magi with them - they're a day's march at least away from Broybrook..."
In the ensuing storm of questions, Gilliam chuckled, sat down upon the nearest chair, and promptly fell into well-needed sleep...
[/fieldbox]
[fieldbox= Joane Hancey, blue, solid]
Joane's waraxes had been replaced with those intended to chop wood and do the type of work that didn't involve hacking limbs, cleaving open chests, or cracking skulls. The steady rhythm of her axe had become clockwork since dawn - raise, aim, swing...raise, aim, swing...raise, aim, swing... Each haphazardly cut plank of wood was dedicated to the gaps in the village's meager stone wall, the village's entrance, and doorways of various houses. Everyone knew they lacked the men to defend the entire village's perimeter, and a force of even thirty trained men could overrun the cowardly lot of men and women Broybrook called defenders.
"Any tidings from the scouts?" Joane called when Arund came into view, the broad-chested man a welcome sight, "Or are we content to play at making castle while they veer away from our piss-poor village with nothing to offer?"
"We could no reason 'to distrust Gilliam," Arund spat out; a mailed fist to his face had knocked out a good portion of the man's teeth and had left his jaw disfigured, "But I don't enjoy hackin' at wood an'more 'en you do, Joane."
Joane rested the axe against the stump she had been using to place the logs upon and braced her elbow against it, mismatched gaze meeting Arund's own. "Don't mean the man knows a thing 'bout war and why it's fought, don't it?"
At this, Arund chuckled. "Neither do you, sweetling. Now get choppin' or I'll have you try your hand at nursin'."
Joane's good eye flickered with amusement and she resumed her work as Arund sauntered off to check the status of other workers around the village. Raise, aim, swing...Raise, aim, swing...Raise, aim, swing...
[/fieldbox]
F
og had enveloped the river valley, a thick shroud no eye could pierce through. Though common in the latter half of the year when winter began and the sun roused the damp sky, such an occurance was not natural in the height of summer. The fog had come nearly two days previous without warning, leaving many lost in the mist without direction. Fires were lit and bells were rung, though few found their way back into Broybrook.Gilliam Harper had been on the hunt when the fog had first come, lost in the thickets of Broybrook's outer reaches, trailing a herd of deer through one of the forest's lesser-known paths. Whatever game he had managed to bag until that point had served only to sustain himself as one day turned into two, two into three. Frustration had settled in at dawn when the fog had, once again, returned to the world and he was forced to reach into the Else to waft the fog around him away, giving himself a field of view of only three paces.
As Gilliam continued across a well-worn and half-paved road to Broybrook, he hoped in the proper direction, he began to hear the steady tramp tramp tramp of boots upon hard-packed dirt. Not a procession of merchants, hunters, or travelers. No, the footfalls were too synchronized. Too practiced. Rather than meet the column of men head-on, Gilliam dove onto the side of the road and took cover behind a patch of shrubs. When at last the soldiers, for soldiers they were, approached, Gilliam noted that the fog did not surround them as it did everything else.
Magi.
The men stood a good head taller than most with broad shoulders and massive chests, each clad in mottled grey-green cloth beneath gleaming plate mail. Their helms resembled skulls and each was marked by two red stripes running down the center. Upon their backs hung massive packs loaded, the weight seemingly nothing to them. Each held in his hand an unsheathed, curving blade accompanied by a plain, unadorned round shield of polished steel. Gilliam counted twenty of the larger brutes, behind them about fifty men-at-arms, and further still two lightly-armormed men on horses, seemingly each in a trance.
Gilliam allowed the column to pass before he began to run as swiftly and quietly as he could through the undergrowth of the forest, making for the direction the men were headed. There was hardly a chance they were headed to Broybrook, though the alternative was that the village had already been razed. Though while the men had the advantage of steady ground, they were still marching in tandem - in the woods, Gilliam was swifter. He was, no doubt, a day's journey from Broybrook - if the road was leading him there - and the soldiers were still at least two days, if not three, away from their destination.
The race is on... Gilliam thought with a smile born of grim humor, beginning to march along the now-clear road.
---
Over the next day and a half, Gilliam continued his tiring pace along the road, stopping only to eat and sleep in hour-intervals. At last, well into the afternoon of the fourth day out of Broybrook, he arrived at the village's outskirts, exhausted and famished. His tug on the Else had been fading ever since that morning and he had been forced to resort to navigating the mist without its power, and now he hardly retained the energy to enter his own tavern - the Wench and Tankard. He was met by a surprising number of villagers who had taken refuge in the bar, a few of which greeted him with a raised glass or a spoken word or two.
"Men are approaching," Gilliam blurted once inside the inn, door shut behind him, "armed men, there are magi with them - they're a day's march at least away from Broybrook..."
In the ensuing storm of questions, Gilliam chuckled, sat down upon the nearest chair, and promptly fell into well-needed sleep...
[/fieldbox]
[fieldbox= Joane Hancey, blue, solid]
O
ne day after Gilliam's announcement, the village's hired swords, men-at-arms, and other able-bodied individuals had been assembled into a rag-tag band of fighters. Their work had consisted of erecting scrap-built barricades, honing weapons, and treating armor long left to age. Scouts had been sent to the fringes of the village, guided by the worn and battered Gilliam's magic.Joane's waraxes had been replaced with those intended to chop wood and do the type of work that didn't involve hacking limbs, cleaving open chests, or cracking skulls. The steady rhythm of her axe had become clockwork since dawn - raise, aim, swing...raise, aim, swing...raise, aim, swing... Each haphazardly cut plank of wood was dedicated to the gaps in the village's meager stone wall, the village's entrance, and doorways of various houses. Everyone knew they lacked the men to defend the entire village's perimeter, and a force of even thirty trained men could overrun the cowardly lot of men and women Broybrook called defenders.
"Any tidings from the scouts?" Joane called when Arund came into view, the broad-chested man a welcome sight, "Or are we content to play at making castle while they veer away from our piss-poor village with nothing to offer?"
"We could no reason 'to distrust Gilliam," Arund spat out; a mailed fist to his face had knocked out a good portion of the man's teeth and had left his jaw disfigured, "But I don't enjoy hackin' at wood an'more 'en you do, Joane."
Joane rested the axe against the stump she had been using to place the logs upon and braced her elbow against it, mismatched gaze meeting Arund's own. "Don't mean the man knows a thing 'bout war and why it's fought, don't it?"
At this, Arund chuckled. "Neither do you, sweetling. Now get choppin' or I'll have you try your hand at nursin'."
Joane's good eye flickered with amusement and she resumed her work as Arund sauntered off to check the status of other workers around the village. Raise, aim, swing...Raise, aim, swing...Raise, aim, swing...
[/fieldbox]
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