A Warrior's Battlefield

[Seuss 1056]

 

A Warrior’s Battlefield

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The dim light of a campfire illuminates the face of a man sitting in deep thought. The reflection of the flames dance in his eyes as he mutters prayers to himself in a Scyfen tongue. Although silence occupied his mind, around him a symphony of sound ushered in with the distant firing of cannons, the unending whipping of the wind against the tent, and the glorious calls of man ringing out near and far.

 

The entrance flapped open excessively, and the man was soon carried back to reality. He tightened the knots in his braid, strapped his round shield to his forearm, and checked thoroughly all the weapons that decorated his body. He stepped forward towards the exit, taking up his helmet and securing it atop his head along the way.

 

When he exited the tent, he was met with an all too familiar display of war spanning across an entire valley. Large blotches of black and silver separated the forces of good and evil, while the large imposing castle crafted of black stone stood as a monument of the enemy before them. Banners of his nation were held high in the wind, contrasting with the muddied, stomped and desecrated banners of allies and enemies alike that littered the valley. The eyes of the man scanned from left to right, taking in the painting before him with careful scrutiny. Swords being raised, shields clattering to the ground, spears piercing through flesh. All familiar motions he has practiced himself. Heralds on chest plates covered in blood, bodies littering the floor like pamphlets in the streets of a busy city, cries of the dying and silence from the dead. All familiar sights he has witnessed himself.

 

Though in the brief moment it took this man to survey the scenery, he has likewise steeled his heart once more, and brought up his mace from his belt. The enemy before him was uncommon to most, but he has lived a dedicated life to the elimination of any and all like them. One boot at a time does this man move forward, passing through the lines of reinforcements that arrived to aid the cause. 

 

Some of these men were terrified, and it showed. Others puffed their chests and gripped their weapons, but they could not sell a lie on their faces. Death awaited the other end of the valley, whether successful or not, many of these soldiers knew where they would lie when the sun finally settled. The collection wore armors of different ranks, different retinues, and different nations. At the front of the line were men clad in black, each with a platoon lined behind them. The man soon passed by them as well and stood at the forefront of it all.

 

 

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With a raise of his mace did the hands of many behind him tense. Last second resolves occurred in silence between the banners, the soldiers, and their destiny. The man ushered his tool forward with a battlecry, soon repeated by the reinforcements behind him. As the man left the tent behind him to do battle, so too did he bring with him the fury and might of man. An otherwise indecisive war soon changed tides with the extra forces. Shields, polearms, and armor clashed against their likeness, and a new choir of screams and agony joined the symphony of war. The man led by example, cleaving through foes with excessive force and reveling in the aftermath. The man felt at peace with himself as the count in his head increased one digit at a time the longer the fight continued.

 

As ground was made, and the ever growing force of good encroached on the territory of evil,  there stood in the burning center of war was that man clad in silver unrelenting in his pursuit. The world grew silent around him despite the unending firing of cannons, screaming winds through hollow armor, and the terrifying screams of man near and far. The man’s focus laid before him, where the enemies were either dead, or upright for only mere moments left.

 

The man was unstoppable in his conquest, and it no longer became a matter of good versus evil, but that man against the odds in front of him. Would his body falter in the midst of battle, or will it wait until he is safe and home to give in? The man pushed the thought from his mind. Would the enemies realize the folly of the man and quickly turn his weakness into their hope? The man pushed the thought from his mind. As his breath drew longer, and his weapon swung with greater weight, the man found himself atop mounds of enemy corpses. No medal given could renew this feeling the man had. No number of ceremonies could match the surge of adrenaline that ran through the man’s heart. 

On the battlefield is where the man felt peace. 

On the battlefield is where the man felt at home 

On the battlefield is where the man knows he will die.

 

The dark clouds lingered overhead as the sun gave what little light it had left to offer from over the horizon. A painting of cold greys and warm orange washed over the sky, illuminating the fields of war. However, this field was not one for producing goods, but instead deciding destiny. The lives of the few to protect the many. The lives of the dead gave up for the lives of the plenty.

 

The man stood with his thoughts atop the bodies of enemies under him. His gaze lingered on the blackened castle walls that loomed in the distance. He turned himself away from the sight, and as he now faced the men he fought with, the counter in his mind began to fall. A soldier he led into battle laid dead on the ground - the number lowers. The armor of an officer, but no head to accompany it - the number lowers. A child forced into war by his nation laid motionless - the number lowers. With each body he passed did the grandeur of slaying the villains behind him dwindle away. Many of the bodies were being laid side by side, organized by rank and affiliation. But soon did the man stop in his tracts, seeing before him a trio of bodies laid out side by side. 

 

One of them wore silver armor with a golden tree decorating the face of his plate. A familiar white streak in the corpse’ hair sent shivers down the man’s spine.

One of them wore the squire armor of a knight retinue. A whip, cut away at the handle laid in the corpse’ hand, unrelenting to let go.

One of them wore armor befitting a beginner. A white streak as well, but the face of a young girl too inexperienced for war.

 

The counter did not drop by an integer for these three. The man’s breath hitched and his throat swelled up as the numeral in his mind dropped several digits for each of those soldiers in front of him. The intrusive thoughts seeped out of the recesses of the man’s mind, agitating him for allowing such a failure to occur. The thoughts poked at his pride and denied him his glory as he looked down on those he could not protect. His heart did not crumble; no, it remained whole as what felt like a hand gripped it tight and refused to let it fall. The man fell to his knee in front of the trio, his gauntlet unable to grip past the blood soaked chest plate he dawned. His breath became heavier, and his vision faltered temporarily.

 

 

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The man felt at fault, and his emotions fired off like cannons inside his mind. As he attempted to force himself back in order, his gaze could not help but find itself gravitating towards another body laying in the field. The man’s eyes widened in horror, and he felt the hand around his heart slowly balling into a fist. Pain shot through his body as he struggled off his knee, making way towards that lone corpse in the valley.

 

His vision blurred more, and it became harder to breathe. The armor of the figure was certainly that of a page in a knight retinue. But the most unmistakable trait was the blonde hair the young woman had. The man’s feet became too heavy to walk another step. His muscles turned to mush as he fell to both his knees this time in front of the page. His head pulsed in unending pain as the counter did not fall a digit at a time, nor did it fall a few handful of digits. The counter slowly disappeared, making any numerical value useless. The dirt and dried blood on the man’s face were renewed with tears that were quick to soak his skin. His mind, plagued by thoughts of failure, became a reality. He reached a hand out, taking the cold digits of the blonde girl and hoping to feel any sign of life. His voice strained through unequivocal agony as he begged for a response. His tears ushered out like the first break of a river after a forty day storm as he prayed for a sign of life.

 

Darkness faded in around the man and the blonde girl. The painting-esque skies were no longer visible. The muddied fields disappeared into the void. And one by one did the corpses of good and evil around him cease to be, leaving only the man and the blonde girl. His grip over his chest began to grow weak, and his heart could no longer bear to exist after everything he had lost. The man did not fight to his feet after this battle. The man did not yell out in victory for this war. But the silent whimpering of the man was the only comfort he had to offer himself.

 

The man’s head hung down as his grip on the blonde girl’s hand fell.

The man’s heart was soon released from its unending suffering.

The empty void soon accepted two more inhabitants as the man’s body faded away.

 

And then he woke up.

 

Spoiler

This RP narrative is a nightmare had by Ser Joakim Colborn. It is only known to him, so unfortunately no metagaming it. But do please feel free to reply recent interactions or emotions towards Joakim in the comments.

 

 

[Frawlic 1602]

When it came to her father, metaphorical in nature, Dima knew she needed no shield, for that was his duty in every manner of speaking, body, and mind. So it came as an unsobered shock when ammunition she had tucked away into his person, thoughts that greeted her mind and only slipped from her lips in his presence were turned and wielded against her. In her recent drunken stupors, there was a lack of determination. Was he her father or mentor? As through his method of teaching the fragile-minded lady, he could not be both.

Her thoughts did not succeed her for long, as two bony fingers caught a worm slipping from the innards of a glass bottle. The once-alcoholic contents having kept it pristine for the most part. It was laid in line with the many others, deceased without a knowing for its reason of death. She could only assume it writhed until the last moment. A slow, burning agony.