Death of an Orderman

[CheekyNolan 5420]

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nLCoJWoplnE

 

 

 

7th of Snow’s Maiden, 1523

 

A substantial Decurion left Peremont, his barbarous countenance showing a particular waspish bearing this day with his broad shoulders casting a daunting shadow in front of him. A gauntlet clad palm finding comfort against the cool of his sword’s pommel at his side, a metallic tang escaping in a rhythmic tap with every absent minded action. His dark brows drawing together into a knitted, deep frown as the warm air hit his pale skin, already glistening with a light bead of sweat. “******* veather.” The brute of a man cursed, a disdainful glower spreading across his face as he trudged on. “Not like zhe North.” He uttered to no one but the air again. His gaze travelled over to a passing figure, bearing a luteous crow on his chest piece as he blurred past. He followed after whilst shouting out “Halt!” The crow stopped in his tracks, pivoting to see the fellow Northerner as well as the approaching lowly brigand from his other side. The bandit reaching him first and hauling him off towards one of the battlefields that was just outside of what use to be Brelus.

 

After a fair chunk of a walk, the skepticism of the event began to grow within the ill-favoured orderman. He arched a thick brow as the two stopped, the surrendering crow staring at the festering, still lit pile of his old allies from the first war claim. The behemoth of a man approaching swiftly as they came into hearing range. “Look at ‘im you fowkin’ cun’!” The peevish marauder spat out, a slither of spit spraying out over the crow. With this the brooding figure of an Amyas man appeared, sending a plated hand for the crow’s back and pushing him into the flames with a sizzling of flesh and a scream of torture and anguish. The brigand taken aback for a brief unseen moment before leveling the loaded cross-bow at Audbjørn, a complacent smirk etched on his face. “Give me a lil’ twirl an’ drop yer fowkin weapons, cun’.” He’d spit out, a lick of saliva running down his plump, weathered lips. Audbjørn turned on a sabaton, an irked expression forming on his marred visage as his hand glided for his long sword, tugging it free from his side as a piercing ringing emits followed by a howl of pain as the sizable figure slumps down to a knee, his gaze travelling to his mutilated knee with bolt stuck in; the bolt having burst through the metal of his poleyn.  He rose to his feet soon after shakily, his sword still in grip as he grinded his teeth together, and the dark liquid began to flow down his greave. He held the blade low, point before him, seemingly in an open position. The confident, young man allowing a callous leer to flash at Audbjørn as he slipped out his cleaver sword, the blade being thrust at the larger man’s mid region. Audbjørn’s blade flicked up in a weak counter, the two swords clanging against one another before the bandits knee came reeling into his side, sending him back in a stumble as the Northerner retracted his sword with him, the point behind him and hands round the grip at his waistline, both on the right side of him. “Don’t fowk with the Hardsworth boys.” The remainder of the Hardsworth family chuntered, slashing out for Audbjørn’s exposed right side while the wounded, lacerated Waldenian forces his blade up in a swift, strong vertical slash for the fiend’s face. Both attacks finding their target as the three keen points of Gondryk’s cleaver biting into the gap of his plackart at the armpit, a splutter of spit coming out along with a cry of anguish from the large, crumpling frame. His own blade slipping along Gondryk’s visage. His sword falling from his grip, hitting against the turf as he slips to his knees; head held low against his chest as a trickle of blood trickles from his lips, dripping down onto his torn, crimson stained tabard.

 

Gondryk sauntered over to the collapsed orderman, a vexedly inhospitable glower plastered on the brigands face next to his newly added scar. He lifts the barbaric blade, stained in a splatter of crimson liquid, before he swings the brutal looking sword round horizontally for his head. His skull caving in with a horrifying splatter of blood and brain over the surrounding area, his face now a mess of cracked bone and bloodied lumps of vital organ. The force exerted on him pushing him over to the ground with a final thump.

 

[lawnmowerman 3040]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GD6gKjtpkFM

Gondryk would've let out a devilish chuckle, slowly retrieving Audbjorn's tattered, blood soaked tabard, and the set of rusty, dented plate, alongside the worn scabbard and crimson hued longsword. A wry leer remains plastered on his rugged, newly scarred visage, before he'd wander off down to Peremont, muttering under his breath.

"Oi'm just startin', mate..."

[Delrof 381]

Ragnar gives a disdained grunt at the knowledge of Audbjorns death, so use to the fact that he had outlasted another of his friends, though this time it was different for Audbjorn was brethren to Ragnar, the only one left who had now fallen to the wills of the Creator.

And so he stood atop the height-most tower of Peremont, leaning upon that Greatsword given to him by Audbjorn upon his day of rejoice. Little did Audbjorns assailant know of the brutal campaign Ragnar would embark upon for the sole sake of avenging his fallen brother-in-arms.

Edited September 3, 2015 by delrof5897

[James 425]

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