THE YOUNG OAK SPROUTS LIMBS

[herculean_wud 3662]

THE YOUNG OAK SPROUTS LIMBS

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The wind chilled the men outside of Adelburg. Their bones ached and their hearts longed to revel within the taverns and wine sinks of the once great Empire’s capital. Yet, as a consequence of the folly of man, dwarf, ork their great land had been thrust into turmoil, forcing them to the very forefront of battle; forcing swords within their grips.

 

Stefan, a lank serf, and a man grown, stood amongst these men as an archer; the off-spring of proud Raev Knight-Errant who had lost it all in a tourney, and left him the remnants upon his passing. Naturally, he was impoverished: a simple man too, who made what little he had now through hard toil. It was the hard toil that made him favourable to the commandants of the military, not as a man, but as a weapon, for hard toil births strong arms and strong men. Perfect for the wielding of a blade or bow.

 

“NOOOOOCK!” Cried he, a commandant: a man of grizzled disposition and appearance, who evidently took little pride in himself. The same could not be said for the blade that hung from his side, for it was magnificent, something to behold, no less. Its edge was well oiled; its hilt was bound in leather and reminding of regality, with golden embroidery running down its length; and its pommel was of a horse's head, deep set with garnet eyes that glinted furiously in the mad rays of temperate light. Stefan, being a man who had followed and feared men of greater stature resisted none. He nocked an arrow, and half-grimaced. Though, the grimace almost felt insincere, for eagerness clawed it back. In truth, the serf was green- greener than any adolescent who was present -and yet a man grown.

 

“DRAAAAAAAW!” The commandant screamed, his order following down the line from sergeant-to-sergeant in a death-doing clangour. Bow strings creaked as a thousand men drew them back, and poised them to the heavens in a bid to intimidate or impress Those powerful above: to gain their favour, and to ensure that their arrows found their mark.

 

“LOOSE!” The order was sharp. And so was a response. A great volley soared up into the sky, seething out a deathly whistle, and dived down fleetingly, scattering and embedding themselves into the incursion below.

 

“NOCK!” Stefan nocked once more. “DRAW!” He and the men that stood beside him drew back their bows. . .And they waited. But the order to loose never came, drawing Stefan to look over to his commandant to gain some notion as to why. The grizzled disposition of the commander had been over-turned, gone completely from his ash-white face, which was awash now with fear. The commandant glanced back at his men, before tugging free from its scabbard his blade in an almost holy silvery flash. The man let loose a great roar:

 

“AT WILL!”

 

At will? What did he mean?

 

The grass blew in finality in the calm breeze, soaking in its last rays of sunlight, its last moments peace. For as the verdant blades toppled, the sound of thunder rumbled upon the horizon, and the clanking sound of metal soon resounded in the once peaceful landscape. . .and then it struck him. A horde. A horde of men that Stefan, in that instance swore, were the Nethers forces incarnate- men swathed in red, brandishing wroth, maddened liked crazed apes; made their advancement up the field.

 

He dragged his Falchion free like his commandant and poised it forth; and time seemed to slow as norlandic men burst the banks of the first infantry line and trickled into the second!

 

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(SolarSouth - DevianArt)

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Spoiler

 

 

Stefan threw his form forth, his falchion raised firmly overhead; he cleaved it downwards in a shallow, heavy blow, striking the cranium of a rather stout Northman. His body tingled as the wartime sickness, the quivering effects of bloodlust that fighting men adored, set in and drove him forth, to face foes far greater than him. One man in particular: he was large and brutish, a whole foot taller than him, and clad head to toe in heavy plate. Within his grip he hefted a horseman's pick that was slathered in blood and chipped from clashing sword-strikes of prior encounters. This was no green man like Stefan himself was, but a hardened veteran, one whom had seen many battles; one who would make quick work of the lank villein. In a bid to protect his pride and his life, he threw up his arms and charged forth! But the serf’s armoured foe, drew back his heavy weapon and swung it forth like some great pendulum. It struck him- the peasant’s light brigandine doing little to protect him against the hammer, and he was thrown aside in a crinkled heap. Stefan was plunged into blackness. . .and the battle continued.

 

Before long, what was once a verdant region had been trampled and dismayed by the two large armies, that in their presence eroded the lush green with the dullness of iron. Like boats upon a grey sea, the banners of Renatus and Norland sailed above, and men seethed through the mist of bloodlust.
They danced the dance of generations before them, one that would end only when enough blood had been spilled- the price of war. But at the end, the cost had been paid and the victors emerged from within the carved flesh and bone, to look out upon their spoiled landscape.

 

 

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The first cracks of daylight finally forced his eyes asunder. He groaned, and attempted to sit up, but a volt of pain surged through his form, and forced him back to the ground like an invisible hand. To this, all he could offer was a laugh. Even past the desolation before him, he was grateful that the slumber he had mistook for death was but an error of his naive and fearful mind. Though, perhaps he had died. And perhaps GOD had granted him a second chance.

 

Where men, seeing the remnants of war, would turn and flee, and swear never to dabble within it ever again, some find delight in the dance of generations prior. Stefan, though but a fearful serf who had never wielded a blade in his life, shared this same delight. It ran within the blood, it seemed. For his father, and his father before him, and his father before him; they had all revelled in fighting- whether as levymen or guards, or even as a once famed Errant, and Stefan would too join them.

 

He marched the long march back to Babusnica like a soldier would. He took Babushka- his prized pig: a grotesque thing -by the yoke and sold her at the market. He payed the quartermaster at Leeuwenhof to recast his falchion anew. He requested the washerwoman resew his brigandine and upon its chest embroid the Holy Hussarian cross; And he had Baba Ljubica the towns herbalist wrap his chest. For Stefan, much like his sword, his armaments, the cracked bones within his chest, had been reborn.

 

As a fighting man.

 

Spoiler

((credits to @Smaw for writing the paragraph detailing the aftermath of the war))

 

 

[Tide1 4535]

((Very good writing! I sadly dont have any rp input.))

[PraiseTheLord 868]

Friar Tukic nods, "Bless you, child."

[Balthasar 2497]

strong

[Chorale__ 2147]

Moved to The Great Library. It shall be sorted into the appropriate category shortly.

 

If you feel this is a mistake, please contact myself or any FM and we'll restore it.