Post by Astrid Oathsteel on Nov 15, 2012 19:59:54 GMT -5
“I am the Goddess Zorja!
I am the Fist of War!
I am the Thunderer!
Here in my Northland,
My fastness and fortress,
Reign I forever!”
As soon as the first break of dawn curled it’s wintry fingers across the rugged Knockskull Mountains, the camp was awake. No more then ten well-trained men and women, the elite of Alzorc – the Children of Zorcan – quietly gathered their gear and weapons, strapped on the spikes that had been made especially for climbing these icy, rocky mountains, and removed all sign they’d ever been there. Among these individuals was a tall woman larger than the other two women in the group; Astrid. She was silent, she had her orders and there was no reason for chit-chat, no reason to speak of how one slept or how beautiful the aurora had been the night before. No, it was time to pull the white yeti fur cloaks on their bodies which allowed them to blend into the snow and rock, and begin moving across the craggy ledges and rocky goat paths towards the camp they’d scouted the day before.
Strapped across her back was Astrid’s sword, something she’d earned from her combat instructor; one of the few trusted men in her life. He’d had it made especially for her, a magnificent specimen of weaponsmithing with the runes of her people worked into the cross guard and pommel. It was heavy, a smaller woman would have had to use two hands for the thick, heavy broadsword but for her it was perfect. Perfect weight, perfect balance, not so much a singular weapon as an extension of her self. It was within reach, though for now she used the spikes on her feet and her gloved hands to crawl along the mountain side.
The camp was in a small valley, there was one way to get to it and they had that heavily guarded. The peaks around the back of the camp were so steep, so treacherous – impassable even – that they did not consider that as a danger. So it was the Children of Zorcan, who’d grown up in these mountains, that was working their way towards the camp. Several tents were set up, a few bonfires still glimmered low, it was barely dawn and most still were sleeping. The three guards near the pass into the area were engaged in some sort of dice game to pass the time, the largest bonfire near where they sat on the ground. Astrid’s eyes slid back and forth along the camp as she rested behind an outcropping. Three guards, six sleeping out in the open, and at least three more in tents; that made 12. Sure enough, twelve horses were in a makeshift corral, and from the look of it a few were Rumerian Coursers. There was no doubt this was a Rumerian raiding party. Astrid looked over to the leader of her group, watching his hands for directions.
She gave a solemn nod as she saw the hand motions, and pulled away from the group moving along the right hand side. They had discussed moving down into the group and trying to each take out someone sleeping at the same time but that seemed to dangerous, they were better protected up in the ridges. So, their plan was to pick off as many as they could by crossbow, then finish the rest of them. Astrid’s assignment had her moving towards the only way they’d be able to get away from them, the guards and the pass. The trilling melodic sound of a snowbird echoed from rocky precipice to mountain top, and that was when five crossbow bolts pierced the air, each one finding it’s mark in a sleeping body. It did not kill them all, but two jerked upwards, gurgled with blood, then slumped dead filling their blankets with their own spilled blood. The cry went out from the wounded folk and those not dead already rose, grabbing weapons, trying to pull pieces of armor on in confusion.
More crossbow bolts rang out, striking more of the raiders. There was the sick crunch as one of the heavy bolts went right through a kneecap, crippling that man for life- if he lived. They scattered like roaches when the light hits them, no enemy to fight those that could still walk were running towards their horses, saddling them as quickly as they could and mounting. It was chaos, utter chaos, as the sky burst with colors and the sun rose enough to smile down onto that protected valley. Astrid’s mouth was set in a line, no expression befalling her as she heard the sounds of battle.
She moved around a particularly steep pinnacle of ancient mountain rock, those spikes wrapped around her fur boots helping her along, but as she pressed her back to the rock and crawled around an edge that was no more than a few inches thick, the rocks began to fall. First, they started under her feet as if the whole mountain were giving way, then higher up as if a domino effect, until she was pummeled by pebbles and stones, some as big as a man’s fist. She could do nothing but cling to the cliff face and take the beating, leaving a massive purple bruise beneath her right eye. She let out a softly whispered string of curses in Zorcan, and waited it out. As soon as she could walk again, she crept around the edge to the other side but that rockslide had alerted those guards and two of them were waiting with bows readied and pointing towards her. With a double THWACK those arrows shot off towards her, one sinking through her fur and leather and lodging in her thigh, and the other just missing her head, sending a spray of rocks on her again. She had to get down there! It was a good 20 feet above them, and she could hear the chaos and screams of dying men and women around the pass in that small valley.
Her salvation arrived in the form of a white Rumerian Courser carrying it’s rider as it made it’s way towards the pass, trying to retreat from the carnage. Her eyes narrowed, nostrils flared, as she readied herself for what she knew would either go extremely well, or possibly kill her. She had lost her fear a long time ago, very little frightened her and even the thought of death was not something that would stop her from completing the job. She watched until the horse was almost below her, giving her time for the jump, and then launched herself off the small ledge, feet first. It was as if time stopped, as if she’d become one of the lily-white snowbirds that nested in these mountains. Her arms wide, as if wings; the chill of the arctic air rushing across her face as her hood fell off, causing her cheeks to go cherry red. She remembered as a child, climbing a massive tree beside the lake near her village during the summer and jumping off, the exhilaration and then the cold, icy water of the lake as she splashed into it. It was only moments, but she felt she’d lived a lifetime as she soared downwards. Sword hilt was gripped and unsheathed, her arm brought backwards and the point slammed into the back of the rider causing blood to spurt from the wound in front and back, and bubble from his mouth as he gagged on his own vitae.
The anchor of her blade was the only thing keeping her from falling from the horse and being trampled, so she quickly used her muscular legs and arms to draw herself with a flip sideways using the momentum of her lodged blade, then once she was straddled upon the rump of the beautiful beast, she withdrew her blade and with a sideways shove the rider was dumped, still twitching as he lay there dying. She leaned forward, grasping for the reins which flitted around like tendrils of black smoke, then finally grabbed them and bounced forward, her body fitting into that saddle as if it was made for the large woman. The reins tugged, she circled around, grabbed both reins in one hand and raised her broadsword high above her head as she gave the Zorcan battle cry, “Born to die for Alzorc!”
Her cry bounced back and forth echoing amidst the valley, as she pushed her horse harder, and faster towards the fighting still occurring. She brought that big sword upwards as she passed behind a Rumerian and slashed across his back, slicing right through his furs and leather, snapping his spine causing him to fall. The Children of Zorcan killed them all save for one young man, so youthful he did not even have the scruff of a man, allowing him to escape to bear witness to the Rumerians of what had happened here. The Children began to loot the men, but Astrid did not, she ran her fingers through the white mane of the horse and for the first time that day the briefest of smiles appeared upon the rough woman’s face. She had her share of this battle, a fine Rumerian Courser. And this would be the first of many adventures with Astrid and Furusta.
"Cattle die, kin die,
we ourselves die also.
I know one thing that never dies:
the honors of all the dead."
I am the Fist of War!
I am the Thunderer!
Here in my Northland,
My fastness and fortress,
Reign I forever!”
As soon as the first break of dawn curled it’s wintry fingers across the rugged Knockskull Mountains, the camp was awake. No more then ten well-trained men and women, the elite of Alzorc – the Children of Zorcan – quietly gathered their gear and weapons, strapped on the spikes that had been made especially for climbing these icy, rocky mountains, and removed all sign they’d ever been there. Among these individuals was a tall woman larger than the other two women in the group; Astrid. She was silent, she had her orders and there was no reason for chit-chat, no reason to speak of how one slept or how beautiful the aurora had been the night before. No, it was time to pull the white yeti fur cloaks on their bodies which allowed them to blend into the snow and rock, and begin moving across the craggy ledges and rocky goat paths towards the camp they’d scouted the day before.
Strapped across her back was Astrid’s sword, something she’d earned from her combat instructor; one of the few trusted men in her life. He’d had it made especially for her, a magnificent specimen of weaponsmithing with the runes of her people worked into the cross guard and pommel. It was heavy, a smaller woman would have had to use two hands for the thick, heavy broadsword but for her it was perfect. Perfect weight, perfect balance, not so much a singular weapon as an extension of her self. It was within reach, though for now she used the spikes on her feet and her gloved hands to crawl along the mountain side.
The camp was in a small valley, there was one way to get to it and they had that heavily guarded. The peaks around the back of the camp were so steep, so treacherous – impassable even – that they did not consider that as a danger. So it was the Children of Zorcan, who’d grown up in these mountains, that was working their way towards the camp. Several tents were set up, a few bonfires still glimmered low, it was barely dawn and most still were sleeping. The three guards near the pass into the area were engaged in some sort of dice game to pass the time, the largest bonfire near where they sat on the ground. Astrid’s eyes slid back and forth along the camp as she rested behind an outcropping. Three guards, six sleeping out in the open, and at least three more in tents; that made 12. Sure enough, twelve horses were in a makeshift corral, and from the look of it a few were Rumerian Coursers. There was no doubt this was a Rumerian raiding party. Astrid looked over to the leader of her group, watching his hands for directions.
She gave a solemn nod as she saw the hand motions, and pulled away from the group moving along the right hand side. They had discussed moving down into the group and trying to each take out someone sleeping at the same time but that seemed to dangerous, they were better protected up in the ridges. So, their plan was to pick off as many as they could by crossbow, then finish the rest of them. Astrid’s assignment had her moving towards the only way they’d be able to get away from them, the guards and the pass. The trilling melodic sound of a snowbird echoed from rocky precipice to mountain top, and that was when five crossbow bolts pierced the air, each one finding it’s mark in a sleeping body. It did not kill them all, but two jerked upwards, gurgled with blood, then slumped dead filling their blankets with their own spilled blood. The cry went out from the wounded folk and those not dead already rose, grabbing weapons, trying to pull pieces of armor on in confusion.
More crossbow bolts rang out, striking more of the raiders. There was the sick crunch as one of the heavy bolts went right through a kneecap, crippling that man for life- if he lived. They scattered like roaches when the light hits them, no enemy to fight those that could still walk were running towards their horses, saddling them as quickly as they could and mounting. It was chaos, utter chaos, as the sky burst with colors and the sun rose enough to smile down onto that protected valley. Astrid’s mouth was set in a line, no expression befalling her as she heard the sounds of battle.
She moved around a particularly steep pinnacle of ancient mountain rock, those spikes wrapped around her fur boots helping her along, but as she pressed her back to the rock and crawled around an edge that was no more than a few inches thick, the rocks began to fall. First, they started under her feet as if the whole mountain were giving way, then higher up as if a domino effect, until she was pummeled by pebbles and stones, some as big as a man’s fist. She could do nothing but cling to the cliff face and take the beating, leaving a massive purple bruise beneath her right eye. She let out a softly whispered string of curses in Zorcan, and waited it out. As soon as she could walk again, she crept around the edge to the other side but that rockslide had alerted those guards and two of them were waiting with bows readied and pointing towards her. With a double THWACK those arrows shot off towards her, one sinking through her fur and leather and lodging in her thigh, and the other just missing her head, sending a spray of rocks on her again. She had to get down there! It was a good 20 feet above them, and she could hear the chaos and screams of dying men and women around the pass in that small valley.
Her salvation arrived in the form of a white Rumerian Courser carrying it’s rider as it made it’s way towards the pass, trying to retreat from the carnage. Her eyes narrowed, nostrils flared, as she readied herself for what she knew would either go extremely well, or possibly kill her. She had lost her fear a long time ago, very little frightened her and even the thought of death was not something that would stop her from completing the job. She watched until the horse was almost below her, giving her time for the jump, and then launched herself off the small ledge, feet first. It was as if time stopped, as if she’d become one of the lily-white snowbirds that nested in these mountains. Her arms wide, as if wings; the chill of the arctic air rushing across her face as her hood fell off, causing her cheeks to go cherry red. She remembered as a child, climbing a massive tree beside the lake near her village during the summer and jumping off, the exhilaration and then the cold, icy water of the lake as she splashed into it. It was only moments, but she felt she’d lived a lifetime as she soared downwards. Sword hilt was gripped and unsheathed, her arm brought backwards and the point slammed into the back of the rider causing blood to spurt from the wound in front and back, and bubble from his mouth as he gagged on his own vitae.
The anchor of her blade was the only thing keeping her from falling from the horse and being trampled, so she quickly used her muscular legs and arms to draw herself with a flip sideways using the momentum of her lodged blade, then once she was straddled upon the rump of the beautiful beast, she withdrew her blade and with a sideways shove the rider was dumped, still twitching as he lay there dying. She leaned forward, grasping for the reins which flitted around like tendrils of black smoke, then finally grabbed them and bounced forward, her body fitting into that saddle as if it was made for the large woman. The reins tugged, she circled around, grabbed both reins in one hand and raised her broadsword high above her head as she gave the Zorcan battle cry, “Born to die for Alzorc!”
Her cry bounced back and forth echoing amidst the valley, as she pushed her horse harder, and faster towards the fighting still occurring. She brought that big sword upwards as she passed behind a Rumerian and slashed across his back, slicing right through his furs and leather, snapping his spine causing him to fall. The Children of Zorcan killed them all save for one young man, so youthful he did not even have the scruff of a man, allowing him to escape to bear witness to the Rumerians of what had happened here. The Children began to loot the men, but Astrid did not, she ran her fingers through the white mane of the horse and for the first time that day the briefest of smiles appeared upon the rough woman’s face. She had her share of this battle, a fine Rumerian Courser. And this would be the first of many adventures with Astrid and Furusta.
"Cattle die, kin die,
we ourselves die also.
I know one thing that never dies:
the honors of all the dead."