Jump to content

dream of the endless steppe


Knight of Elken
 Share

Recommended Posts

 

Spoiler

 
"You are already de- holy moly that boy's fat" - Kenshiro Weiss, upon seeing Milonir atop Stargazer, 3rd of Grand Harvest, 116th Year of the Second Age

 

THE DREAM OF THE ENDLESS STEPPE


5th of Grand Harvest, 116th Year of the Second Age
 

8y0xc6Q.jpg
 

Sir Milonir of Whitehall leads a Raevir warband of Weiss House Guards to hunt the Harbingers.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

“PRO MARIAAAAA! Dnes dosáhneš svého konce, ďáble! POMSTA ZA MARII!

The clattering of a warhammer, slamming into steel. The whinny of a steed. A clattering of blades. The muffled sound of a tackle to the ground. Steel clatters, and two warriors make ragged grunts. Groans of pure exasperation. Howls of pain.


Slit.
 

The setting of the mellow sun cast a rosy hue in those golden southern waves of Almaris, serving to illuminate the triumph in the gigantic northern warrior’s fat, beady brown eyes. Sir Milonir of Whitehall, the colossal beer-bellied Northman, arose from his kill. Below him lay the body of the the Harbinger of Fear, who was responsible for many heinous acts across the lands of Almaris alongside the other Harbingers. One such act was the foolish decision to take the arm of his Liege Lady Maria Weiss in the Red City of Karosgrad. House Weiss does not receive wounds unanswered. And now, that Harbinger knew this. The others would soon know, too. 

 

Valkskej i Ghaestenwald, the amber jeweled, black longsword burrowed its way out of the mess that remained of that Harbinger’s skull, and back to the gloves of that valiant Knight. Yet... The reward of triumph fled, as quickly as it set in.

 

 

A throbbing, all-encompassing pain. Panic, terror replaced triumph.

 

 

Crimson ichor oozed down his ginormous, mud-caked figure – painting his neck in a deep crimson. Adrenaline coursed through his veins no more. Reality set in. There was a hole in the side of his neck that would not stop flowing. The cost of his vengeance. It was to be determined he must pay this blood price - fluid he had never seen flowing so dramatically as it did now. Desperate, hysteric pants escaped hoggish lips, masked only by the sound of crashing waves. 

 

The abyss reached for Milonir. Bells tolled. He was cold. Pale as a ghost; pallid. Crows circled; they found their next feast. The night was coming. The Bogatyrs of Old called for another to fill their Great Hall in the Skies. His soul would soon be theirs. What a fitting end, it would be. Rewarded with the unending throng of battle with heroes of legend for all of time. And he saw them. Beckoning. Despite this warrior’s end, for the first time in years, he understood true fear. He was afraid. Afraid of what truly awaited him in death. Doubt cast through his mind of the abyss that surely awaited him. The Harbinger of Fear had succeeded, inducing fear, and terror which gripped the very fiber of his soul even in its death. 

 

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

He was spiraling. Spinning, growing dizzy. Milonir needed to find a way to clog this hole. Fast. Make it stop, he panicked. You're going to die!

 

Mind racing a million miles a minute, his consciousness was polluted with waves of terror and hysteria which washed over him like the sea. He was losing a lot of blood. Milonir desperately spun, searching for any end to the pain. He had to think – and fast, before shock set in. Deep in the recesses of his mind he remembered the words of that medical prodigy, Haus Weiss – stuff it, apply pressure. Yes. This might just work. It is my only option. Vibrating, shaking hands gripped that ornate longsword Valkskej i Ghaestenwald, cutting a selection of cloth from his undershirt. And so entered that grubby cloth sleeve to the oozing hole in his neck. It was thick. Thick enough to absorb the blood like a sponge. The agonizing, hysteric cry of pain was heard for miles - like a dying animal's screech. In an act that saved his life, he applied pressure to his gaping wound, locking an x with his arms around his neck to prevent that wound from flowing. And so, with an oozing hole now plugged, and tremendous pressure applied, that river of blood turned to a dribble. 

 

Whether it was GODAN, the Spirits, the Father, the Bogatyrs of Old, or perhaps simply luck, none could say. But powers beyond the mortal realms saw it fit to keep this young Knight alive long enough to receive aid.  Whoever it was sought more valorous deeds from this wretch of a Knight. They were not satisfied with his accomplishments yet. There was still work to be done before he was permitted entry to the Great Halls in the Skies. This would not be the end of the glorious song of that Champion of Whitehall. Those Skies would be left without Sir Milonir – for now.

 

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

BDLlOf8.jpg
 

The way to Talon’s Port.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

There was only one town close by: Talon's Port. The forested town of shamans who had healed his Liege not one day before. It was not far now. Under cover of moonlight did dogged, crimson painted warrior be pulled towards that mystic town of Talon’s Port atop a horse black as night called Stargazer, the Wonder-Steed.  Rider and steed shared a bond that surpassed words, and that steed galloped as fast as her legs would take her. 

 

It was a miracle he hadn’t fallen off of that midnight steed on the thickly wooded path there. He fought the haze of unconsciousness long enough to make it to that town of farseers. Milonir was now with the dark elf shamans in that opulent, mystic town of brick. The shamans were met with a rider who appeared on the verge of sliding right off of that steed, crumpled against her mane. He successfully clung to the little life he had left. 

 

A truly mysterious elfess of ebony named Lenora flanked by another named Gusiam were unflinching in their duty. Lenora the guide did not hesitate to lead the Northman and steed through those streets of Talon's Port. Gusiam retrieved an offering to the Spirit of Akezo. A ritual to save his life was to take place. Through delusion, and near unconsciousness, Milonir mistook Lenora as his mother. With breath practically a whisper, he asked, 

 

 

“mamej... did ea... become...”

 “...Bogatyr... mamej?”

 

 

 

“...Yes, my son, resounded within his head. His life was now in the hands of those shamans.

 

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

360 pounds of highlander and steel collapsed to that poor white medical cot that dutifully supported his tremendous weight. No hesitation was made, as that hideous wretch Milonir became surrounded by the mystical silver and peach mists of the farseers Lenora and Gusiam, engulfed in their ritual. Chanting surrounded him, in a language he was not conscious to listen to. The duo invoked the Spirit of Akezo, who deemed fit to bestow upon to Milonir the gift of life. Blood flowed from him no more. He was truly safe now. Sealed. Whole. Stable. Delirious days of healing, Blood Lotus soup and broth awaited him. 


He was unconscious for an entire week.
And in that time, he was in the land of dreams. 

 

 

Dreams.

 

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

c615fd036c70252443c5d16d9e96a5a8.jpeg 

 

The holy, endless steppe of dreams.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Milonir was lost in the endless steppe. He wandered for days. He saw Bodbmakos, Koeng Georg. Lord Felix, Audo, Haus, Sir Onon, Sangilak, Ikumak, Veronica, Via, Sierra. All joined him on this journey. After what felt to be years of wandering, he saw the Bogatyrs of Old. They were in two columns, stretched to the horizon over endless hills. Thousands of blades were raised, forming a tunnel endlessly long to a destination unknown. Friends, Lieges, and Bogatyr alike welcomed him to traverse the tunnel of swords. For the path of blades led to an ocean of golden grass. It was familiar. He knew this place. Somewhere he had not seen in many, many years. It was the grass of his homeland. His home was right over the horizon: Whitehall.

He knew what awaited him in Whitehall; his mother. Milonir, atop that steed of midnight, galloped with might towards Whitehall, towards mother. Blades retreated with thundering hooves, as he cantered past those Heroes of Old. They who roared, relishing his name endlessly: Milonir, Champion of Whitehall. 

 

The road home was not to be made without a fight. For past the hills of heroes swarmed an army of one million enemies as black as death. Banners as black as their armor were raised, and in unison, chanted a dark, evil language. Sir Milonir faced the army utterly alone. Or so he thought. On his sides an army of one million did appear, all atop horseback. All manner of warriors from his homeland were present. Glorious Haeseni Hussars, their armor gleaming like gold. Grim, unflinching Raevir knights remained true, composed. Men and women adorned in the colors of the Brotherhood of Saint Karl and even Czevuskoving warriors and shieldmaidens of Whitehall joined the army, with shields as wide and thick as oak. And his Friends, Lieges, and Bogatyr alike did accompany him. Warriors unflinching prepared to charge, atop eager steeds. In his quiver lay a million arrows. In his hands a lance made of unbreakable gold. And under him, that horse as black as night; StargazerThe golden sun of the endless steppe penetrated the eyes of the enemy, dousing the glorious army led by Sir Milonir in divine rays. Days of battle ensued. The battle of Whitehall. The battle of dreams. Sir Milonir was invincible, indomitable. 

 

Victorious in endless battle, a reward was due. Entry to that nostalgic village of Whitehall. Yet, in dreams, victory in battle was to be the only reward. For he was not met with Whitehall, nor his mother he so desperately wished to see. He was met with a smoldering ruin. And silence. Heroes and his immortal army vanished to dust. His friends and followers were gone. He was alone. And he looked to his hands. He was a kid once again. Stood before him was his father. He was flanked by two Harbingers on each side. Father’s face, as still as death, donned a mask as black as night and took lead of the Harbingers. All charged with blade in hand. Milonir, no longer Sir, was defenseless. Those blades of both his father and the Harbingers plunged into the chest of that screaming, fat kid.

 

The child was dead. 

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

He awoke screaming cries of agony, tears streaming down his portly cheeks. Milonir was covered in beads of salty sweat as the pale, crescent moonlight shone like a silvery claw through silk purple curtains. He was alone. Just like in his dream. Brown orbs gazed to his shaking hands. It was just a dream. A nightmare. The Harbinger of Fear’s reach gripped his psyche. 

 

With the guidance of the farseers, many offerings to Akezo were made by Milonir in the following weeks. The Spirits had won a new follower. After weeks of ritualistic healing chants, visits from his friends of House Weiss and his personal Raevir guard, as well as many discussions on how best to venerate the SpiritsSir Milonir found himself atop Stargazer, the Wonder-Steed. He bid farewell to those dark elven shamans who had saved his life. This debt would never be forgotten, and he would find a way to repay their kindness and venerate Akezo and the Spirits. He was a new man, who possessed new convictions and beliefs. For now he too counted himself amongst the believers of those Spirits. Gone was that stupid, oafish kid. Killed in dreams. Yet gloom followed him like the plague. Fear cast through his mind. Where there was unending confidence before, doubt, weakness rooted themselves in his being.

He could be killed. 

 

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Yet, he remembered why he had started this path. His love for House Weiss. The defense of his friends. His conviction. His pride. The unending, soul-burning desire for vengeance against the careless enemies of House Weiss. This all-encompassing vortex of emotion controlled every part of him.

 

Suffer not the Unworthy.

Stand against the Long Dark.

Venerate the Spirits.

Hold GODAN above all else.

 

 

These tenets gripped every fiber of his being. Sir Milonir was not allowed to fail. He must be unflinching. He was on a righteous path toward becoming a true Bogatyr and he knew it. Conviction restored; every wound received to Lady Maria and House Weiss would be returned with limitless fury. There would be more blood spilled. Sir Milonir, Hero of Whitehall was prepared to lose every drop of blood in his body to this end. But it was time to return to Zvaervauld. North.

 

Northman and steed began the long path home. Yet, reaching jungle's end, they paused. They observed endless golden grass beyond the cover of that humid forest. This land was known. Milonir and Stargazer were in the endless steppe from dreams.

 

The Stargazer and Knight stared skyward at the blanket of stars that stretched to infinity for hours.
 

He knew peace unending. 

 

_________________________________________________________________________________________________


doS9jpa.jpg

 

The infinity of stars.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

 

 

The Harbingers thought it would be they to assume the role of hunter.
Not so. They would soon learn they were the prey.

 

 

 

Woe unto them.

 

 

And woe to the enemies of House Weiss.

 

 

 

There would be

Vengeance for Maria.

 

Link to post
Share on other sites

Spoiler

Kinda dope ngl

 

Link to post
Share on other sites

857482994_ravenborder.png.963ea755928b29ba27ff599df4e444db.png

 

And so, the Raven began carving the name of Sir Milonir of Whitehall in to the annals of history, croaking what was only the first of songs in his name.

 

841062350_ravenborder3.png.7dccaf6e7b051542621ff5a78a14ede3.png

"'pon the path of bravery, as Sir Milonir had oathed,
to face foes unsavory, and to reap what they had sowed.
They would not know victory, fiends who spoil liege's lass.
Triumph passed with injury, clutching 'pon his bleeding mass.
Warm embrace from the heavens, the soldier felt death so near,
soon he stirred from the lessons, facing what provoked him fear.
The hero rose from the grave, it was not his time to pass,
for he knew he could not waive, the name Whitehall had to last."

361397880_ravenborder4.png.e537ba0d8e8db538c592cd8e5c900b99.png

Link to post
Share on other sites

 Share

  • Recently Browsing   0 members

    No registered users viewing this page.



×
×
  • Create New...