The Screams Of Fiandria

[Praetor 1550]

 

 

((DRAMATISED  STORY ABOUT THE LATEST WARCLAIM))

 

 

 

 

The Screams of Fiandria

-

Battle of Weeping Trees

 

 

 

 

 

The bloodshed came too soon for some.  For those who quaked in their armor, gripping swords with sweaty hands and praying to the Creator that they would be spared in the great butchery called war, it came upon aengul’s wings and for many, snuffed out their false hopes of survival.

 

For others the battle had been too long in coming, it had hesitated like a lonely wolf, darting in and out of the shadows for too long. Until finally it had shown its teeth and struck forth. Those were the true warriors, the men who polished their blades every day praying that it would spill new blood before the sun set. They got their fill of lifetaking that day, long before the sun had even thought of settling down for a long night.

 

“They will not last till sunset.” said Deithwen Addanir, a grim smile twisting his lips from their usually slim line.

 

“That is to be seen, despite their inferior intellect they are resilient. Even tough.” replied Talos with a frown. He clicked an armored fist against the gleaming ramparts of Haelun’or and shook his head dismissively. “But they shall fall.”

 

Deithwen nodded slowly and turned towards the city, with its gleaming spires like needles sticking out of the earth and piercing the stars themselves. His city, their future. Letting the banner fall and victory slip through their grasp that day was not even remotely possible. Not with this at stake. “Maehr’sae Hiylun’ehya.” he muttered. And far away the muster horn sounded, echoing through the city, as much a call to battle as a death gong for many brave soldiers. Yes, many would sacrifice their hundreds of years of life to ensure High Elven continuity that day.

 

It was a worthy sacrifice.

 

--------------------------

 

A boulder slammed into the entrance and an explosion of shrapnel erupted from the debris field, bouncing off armor like a deadly rain. The tunnel heaved and shuddered like a dying serpent as it caved in, crushing the dwarven avant-garde like so many insects. 

 

With a nod to himself a signals-man lifted his horn to his lips and blew a clear note, far to the east it reached the second half of their forced and with exchanged nods and yelled encouragements the brave men of Oren locked shields and draw their sharp steel. It shone bright in the dawns light, as bright as the fire burning within their hearts at the approach of battle.

 

Beside and behind them High Elves readied bow and spear as a fire grew in the depths of the bortu fortress. Soon they would be smoked out along with their mali’ame allies, from the frying pan into the claws of a ravenous predator.

 

 

Deithwen stood beside Talos. In front of them, the leader of the High Elven armies Saeros with his gleaming armor and spear held proudly aloft. Upon its tip fluttered a banner with high elven script. Their banner. It would not fall that day.

 

They heard them before they saw them, the thunder of a hundred iron-shod boots storming upwards as the inhabitants of the bunker fled the noxious fumes within the lower levels. The clatter of shield on sword and coarse war cries of dwarves interspersed by the clear voices of elves. The ground itself trembled at the storm of their voices and the crash of their feet. 

 

But the allies stood firm and waited, surrounding the second tunnel like a deadly vice. “Stand firm!” roared Deithwen to his division, smashing his short spear against his shield. “Stand for your people and your way of life! Maehr’sae Hiylun’ehya!” The cries of his men echoed his own, flying high into the heavens.

 

 

On the other side of the field the human generals screamed encouragement to their men and chanted the name of their god and leader. Their red banner flickered within the light breeze, as red as the blood that would soon rain onto the open grasslands around Haelun’or, forever staining it with the memory of agonizing deaths and last screams of despair.

 

“Here they come!” yelled a human. Sure enough, like the tide of a furious sea the dwarves and wood elves poured through the gateway to their fortress in a wave of steel and death. For a moment, they seemed to falter at the sight of the surrounding force, then with a renewed scream of fury they leapt forward and smashed into the High Elven ranks before them. They might like two titans, rage reflected in every face as the madness of war took them over and a haze of blood fell onto the once pristine fields of Laureh'lin.

 

Deithwen saw his demise fly by him as a war axe spun past his head, whispering soft words of death until it slammed into a mali’aheral’s skull, splitting bone and helmet in half in an explosion of gore. The elf fell to the ground without a sound. “Fire!” shouted a distant voice, barely heard above the increasing din of battle.

 

“Fire!” echoed a dozen voices and it was as if a horde of bees had erupted from the void itself. Within moments, a hundred arrows landed within the surging ranks of dwarf and elf with angry buzzes. They found flesh and shield, tearing a dozen cries of pain from their enemies as they fell to the ground, victims of deadly elven accuracy.

 

 

Then, the human banners advanced. Where the dwarves were the tide, the humans were the wind, guiding them into the High Elven cliff. They smashed into the ranks of stunted men with the fury of the Creator himself, chanting his name with a burning fervor in their eyes. Steel rose and fell as the butchery commenced and the foe found themselves between the rock and angry lion. Blood rose in great gouts as the humans carved their way through the ranks, chanting all along. At their head, Saint Amyas, followed closely by Olivier de Savoie himself! Like true sons of Horen these men feared naught but dishonoring the Creator and flew sword first into dwarven ranks, cleaving left and right in glorious carnage.

 

The Dwarves and wood elves turned to escape such a furious blight, only to find themselves going from steel to silver. They now faced the burning eyes of the mali’aheral and their wicked spears. Ahead of them all stood Talos, wielding a spear like no elf before, he disarmed one dwarf and another and in one slash dispatched them both. They fell to the ground clutching their sliced stomachs and their guts poured out onto the open field.

 

Deithwen lifted his sword and let the wood elves sword slide harmlessly off the tempered steel. With a flick of his hand he tossed the unfortunate soul’s sword out of his weak hand and slashed his throat. His enemies blood coated his helm, but it did naught to slow him down as the two sides of the alliance fought to meet in the middle.

 

“Push, push them back into their caves and into the holes! Let them choke on their own poisons!” roared Deithwen as he smacked a wavering elf across the head with his gauntlet. The elf cried out in pain but lifted his sword once more, dropping his bloodied arm to the side and charging forward with defiant cries on his lips.

 

 

“Ave Imperium! Ave Creator!” yelled a human as he leapt into a twisting horde of dwarves, disappearing into the first level of the fortress with a defiant cry. With a great shout another man leapt after him, sword blood red and still taking lives. Another followed, then a High Elf. Without warning, the alliance surged forward and smashed into the enemy ranks, annihilating any last semblance of resistance.

 

Far above them a murder of crows squawked in delight as the fight turned into a butchery and the dwarven will shattered. They turned and fled back into their dark caverns, the few surviving wood elves at their heels. “Oren Victa!” roared Saint Amyas at the top of his lung, grabbing a nearby bannerman's tattered flag and slamming it into a pile of dwarven corpses. Beside him, Saeros planted a Haelun’or banner and a great cheer erupted through the battlefield as a battalion of specialized infantry flowed after the enemy, intent on annihilating every last scrap of resistance within the filthy tunnels.

 

 

Olivier de Savoie took a deep breath and planted his longsword into the ground, leaning against it and closing his eyes. He had seen more than one good soldier die today, soldiers he had known for years, men he had drunk with before and after so many a battle. He saw him again, one of the first men to fall to a dwarven axe. He had been to brave, inspired by the Creator he had leapt forth and slashed a dwarven chest open, only to have his knees cut from beneath him. Olivier had seen him with a girl once, in Petrus. It would be his duty to tell her of his death.

 

Deithwen looked around the field of battle, his features twisted into a grimace. The groans of the dying intermingled to create a great orchestra of pain and suffering above the field. Many were interrupted mid-scream as human and elf patrolled the field, ending the lives of those too far gone to even hope of surviving the hour.

 

It was a victory, as he stood there, the bravest of them all ventured through dark halls as they hunted down the final enemies. It would not take long for them to return. The battle was over, but as he looked at the dead, their empty eyes gazing back at him in a terrible parody of life, he could only see the next battle. And the next, the one after that.

 

Blood would flow, it would always flow and the land would drink it up like the cruel beast that it was.

 

 

(+1 i do this fur rep pls)

[Roggvir 315]

octavius horen sheds a tear for humanity

 

 

o7 o7

[Fireheart 2777]

"Quite the story to be told there." remarks Franz

[Imam Faiz Kharadeen 3167]

(this is sooooooooooooo late, smh)

[Pureimp10 5691]

This is actually really good! Maybe you could do some for any future battles you take part in?

[craotor 617]

((THis is exactly how it happened.))

[Praetor 1550]

This is actually really good! Maybe you could do some for any future battles you take part in?

 

Sure

 

(this is sooooooooooooo late, smh)

 

[Knox213 10]

Moved to the Archive. It shall be sorted into the appropriate category shortly.