BLOOD UPON THE STALKS.

[M1919 2298]

Blood Upon The Stalks

[ x ]

 

 

It is a time of legend.

 

 

Or so it will be. It is not yet perceived as this, but it will inevitably become a mythical period for many souls plagued by this broad campaign of war. 

 

In the dim roar of his forge west of Rittersberg, amid the lingering scent of wheatfields, the blacksmith—callused hands scarred by a thousand heats—plied his craft for the Grand Knight. Two hundred and four years before, the smith’s forebears had served on the farmsteads of Acre, in the fields just north of the kingdom’s capital. In time, they journeyed to the mounds of Urguan to learn a new trade, studying under the scrutiny of a gold‑haired halfman until they became skilled artisans. Their legacy included the arming of farmers, mercenaries, lords, and the mustered hosts of Lodenlanders under three dukes and two Captain‑Generals. Four wars would see their craft employed. Now, here was the fifth.

Through the ages, their craft was refined, each generation mastering and passing on the secrets of the last. One such heir worked now, forging for the Dragon Knights so that His Imperial Majesty’s left arm would be well armed and well equipped.

 

He hammered a blade from castle‑forged steel, its edge honed to split silk or sever limbs with equal ease. Yet this was no mere butcher’s tool; gold wire twisted into a hilt shaped like a roaring lion’s maw, its ruby eyes catching the firelight like embers of promised glory. Every part of the fuller and quillon gleamed with the engraved runes taught all those centuries ago, meant to dazzle at courtly feasts as fiercely as they would drink blood on the field.

He gifted it to the old warrior, who tested it with sweeping arcs and thrusts. One downward parry here, another curved riposte against the settling shadows of a life long abandoned, until he finished with a singular, murderous hack and heard the wind shrieking as if wounded by each slice. Satisfied, the Grand Knight nodded, hefting its flawless weight and settling it into the sheath sewn from a Kharajyr’s hide. 

“It will gleam in triumph, or lie bloodied among the wheat,”

 

 

 

 

---

 

 

 

It is not then, it is now.

 

In the golden expanse of wheatfields west of Rittersberg, Gror Ireheart squared his stout frame against the towering squire. Short and barrel-chested, his gray beard braided with iron rings, the dwarf gripped a rune-etched axe that gleamed like molten spite under the high sun. 

"Come on, ye lanky pup!" Gror bellowed, eyes blazing beneath bushy brows, the air thick with the earthy tang of crushed loam and ripe grain swaying heavy-scented in the breeze.

 

Corswain advanced with his trained poise—his plate mail clanking amid the rustle of stalks brushing steel like whispering silk. Fresh from the skirmish which interrupted his Crown Prince’s bachelor party, the bastard attempted to strike, lunging with a thrust meant to skewer. Gror slips aside, his axe rising in a sharp arc, the blade striking the squire’s helm with a scream of metal. Sparks fly. Blood beads along the rim of the gilt-trimmed visor, the scent of iron mixing with crushed wheat and the far-off smell of cattle.

The dwarf pressed his fury, ramming a shoulder into the squire's knee amid furrows soft with fertile mud that sucked at boots like greedy earth spirits, but Corswain—dazed yet unyielding—recovered with desperate grace. As Gror sprang up for another blow, the squire parried wildly, his blade carving air, whining into the grasshoppers' chirr. He moved before he thought, he twisted his bejeweled blade before—

Before the carnivorous thing found its mark. Something caught his eye, and in that instinct, Arn's training had taken over, forcing his hobbling frame to make a trained pivot. Corswain drove the steel through the dwarf's guard, piercing Gror's braided beard and burrowing deep into his chest. The rune-axe clattered free into sun-warmed earth as Gror gasped, amber eyes widening in stunned ire, before he crumpled among the golden stalks, their honeyed rustle a mournful dirge.

 

Corswain wrenched the blade free, planting its point in the soil; dark earth clung to the wolf-marked steel, thirstily swallowing the dwarf's blood. Gror coughed through splitting wounds, fingers clawing dirt toward his fallen axe—a last defiance in his steel-gray, wiry mane wild as mountain frost, amber eyes flickering like trapped sunlight in autumn ale, locking onto the squire's in silent plea. Even a bastard recognized that warrior's reach; though ringing ears caught only a gravelly mumble, the meaning still pierced through.

With solemn grace, Corswain gripped the haft with a bloodied gauntlet, guiding it into the dwarf's grasp. Gror clutched it feebly, lifting the rune-etched head to rest upon his heaving chest. Corswain staggered back, panting, helm scarred and split ajar. He wiped blood from his brow, savoring the taste of victory with that agonizing thunder of his head, before he almost barely missed the time where the dwarf's gray braids stilled forever.

 

It was here that he died. 

 

It was here, amidst the trampled wheat and fading sun, Corswain collapsed to his knees, then slumped into the furrows, consciousness slipping away. His final thoughts that evening drifted to verdant shades shimmering like lost promises and to the warm, delicate scent that haunted his every quiet hour.

 

 

---

 

 

It is a time of loss.

 

In the aftermath, as twilight bled crimson across the wheatfields west of Rittersberg, the warrior-priest felt the weight settle in his lungs, the air heavy with crushed stalks' honeyed dust and the coppery ghost of spilled blood. The chaplain’s blood had coagulated where the flesh and muscle were torn, and his sprains had woken him up into a shivering hurdle. There was a chilled bite of anguish taking hold of him, and for what must have been half of a minute, the aspirant squirmed as the flame of his senses reignited. Almost vomiting out of impulse, Corswain’s scarred helm pressed cold against sweat-slick temples, ash-blonde hair matted beneath, as he stammered awake right next to Gror's shrouded form: earth caking the dwarf's steel-gray braids, golden chaff clinging like mournful laurels. 

His eyes were still angled off at that hill.

 

With a wounded reverence, he oversaw the cart's slow creak southward to Urguan, alone as he pulled the cart along the highway. Crunching stray stalks under hoof, the exhalation of one steed and one man's mumblings brought thin trails of fog into the chill dusk—every yard gained an unspoken longing for verdant warmth.

Through mountain passes where wind howled and stalking vultures lamented, Corswain ferried the corpse on. The guard of the Midden blade at his hip pulsed with captured sunset, her gleam only dulled by kingly vitae, and the hilt's ruby eyes dimmed as if weeping. Regret's bitter gall mingled with grim respect in his blue eyes—Gror's amber gaze had pierced him still, unblinking defiance now stilled. Nights by crackling campfires mirrored the blade's ripple patterns in sap-popped embers; days under slate skies carried the faint aromas from distant pastures.

 

 

At Urguan's iron gates, thunderous forges boomed like ancestral hearts, molten spite thick as grief. Ireheart kin amassed—the brow knit, the beards shifting with each murmur, amber eyes hollowed caverns of loss—clad in soot-black leathers amid hammer-song and coal reek. The chaplain dismounted, knees sinking into chilled stone, and proffered the cart to those who would take it. There, still clutched to Gror's chest, was his rune-axe, its head faintly warm from Gror's death-grip. 

 

Corswain had much time to mull over what words he would say. His brooding offered no answers and gifted him no comfort. He was a bastard, and he was an enemy of this land by the commands given from the Master of Mankind. 

What offerings could he make when he delivered the cold body of an old soul such as this to the hearth of his people?

 

 "He died warrior-king," his lips moved before he realized this, his voice but a hymn frayed by sorrow, "axe clutched, ire unquenched. Bear him to ancestors with pride and honor."

 Extended from him would be the weapon which slew the old king, the Midden steel sheathed in its Kharajyr hide.  A bearded elder clasped it wordlessly, rough hands brushing the squire’s gauntlet; one grave nod sealed blood-debt's fragile truce, leaving the chaplain hollow amid the mountain's roar.

 

He returned to the gates of Rittersberg and fell from his horse.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

---

 

OOC:

Shoutout to @Pancakehz

 

In an era where Minecraft rivalries tend to spew more venom than narrative, he is a good example to follow, and I say this with genuine humility that it is something to appreciate.

Learning about his character's lore only after the fact of our duel probably made me reconsider the exploits that some of my own friends and even I have accomplished.

 

662 years is a long time to live, and Gror Ireheart is undoubtedly up there on a mantle of reverence. We'll see how long Corswain carries this memory on for.

 

Both of our posts are up for interpretation as to what happened for either of our personas, but the body of Gror, his belongings, and the very sword that took his life were delivered to his clan.

 

 

Check out his thread here:

 

 

 

God bless.

 

[TheIchorDruid 1986]

 

 

The office had grown colder that evening, though no wind reached it. Shutters were sealed. The hearth lay dead. Yet warmth thinned all the same. Stone walls leeched heat back from the day. Ink thickened in its well. Glass vials filmed with chill. Brass instruments bit at her fingers as if left beneath open sky. The room no longer obeyed the season.

 

The cause lay upon her desk. A simple correspondence, papyrus creased by her assessment. It rested like a blade laid flat. The details of it vanished from memory at once. One line remained. The terms are death. Then the cold set in. Candles guttered without draft. Her breath misted faintly. The office drew warmth from her in slow measure, draining what little life she had left and holding it in the stone and silence.

 

"Do not weep for me, else you mourn what may not come to pass."

 

The words had been delivered as gospel, yet she could not house them. They rang hollow in the office he had left behind, in the shadow his body once claimed. She stood where he had stood. Then sat, then stood again, occupying the absence for hours as though proximity might conjure him back. The space kept its shape.

 

People came and went. Footsteps crossed the threshold and departed. Voices passed through the hall beyond her door and thinned into nothing. The world continued its small motions without regard.

 

"I know not why you ache so for a man that absconds so easily."

 

She watched from the streets thereafter. Faces streamed past in unbroken current. The city gates became the axis of her vision, iron ribs yawning open and shut as men were swallowed and returned. Every arrival felt like a wager. Every departure a slight.

 

"Have faith, Your Excellency. God shall deliver him to us."

 

Still she watched. Frost crept along the stone beneath her boots. Her breath came reluctantly, while the city roared around her in ceaseless motion. Wagons groaned. Vendors cried out. Hours ground past one another until sound became weight.

 

"You will catch your death, my lady. Await within the warmth of the hospital."

 

She did not. She waited.

 

At last a figure slipped free of the steel teeth, stumbling as though spat out by the gate itself. Relief struck her as sharply as dread. Her lungs burned as she surged forward, hands batting aside those who reached for her. She pressed close enough to steal his breath against her ear.

 

That was enough.

 

[Herrudivah 85]

[Slorbin 2932]

Spoiler

A very thoughtful and well-written post. Thank you for the read.

 

[Werew0lf 24180]

“You have done well, Corswain. There can be no mercy for their people.” The Emperor lounged upon his throne, pointing down towards the imperial squire, soon to be dragon-knight. 

[Two2the 365]

Spoiler

Peak read.
Peak Dwarf RP.
Maybe even Peak Human RP.
Peak.

 

[MonteGiant 891]

Spoiler

Fire

 

[0mnip0tent 338]

Spoiler

ts is TUFF!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! reserved

 

[TaraJess 2848]

 

Everywhere that physician went, did Aurelian follow. The child had become nothing more than a lost pup, attached at the hip, that lived for that woman's happiness and joy. So when it was wailing she walked in on, Aurelian did not leave her side when she ventured towards the woods.

Loyal hound, Greye hound, attached at the hip. Her tears were Aurelian's, her waiting was Aurelian's. One did linger by the gate for hours on end, so did Aurelian. Tucked right in under the gate house with her book of drawings, shivering, did she wait. 

And with a thump onto the ground, was she glad she waited.

[lemonke 6014]

Spoiler

Consumes Hugh's soul

 

[VolcanicGoat 299]

The recruit of the Empire lowered his head in relief with a hint of a smile upon his lips "God is with you, Chaplain.. God is with you"  he uttered beneath his breath

[Luto 439]

Snow pelts the keep’s courtyard for hours, but no sign of Corswain still.

A squire paced around her room. Worry that tomorrow would be one comrade less brought her standing watch by the window, plated claws anchoring on cobbled sill. The wait prolongs to hours well into the nite. This was an anticipated result that even her fatigue was willing to put up with when she knees into the windowed cushion for cheap respite, deep slouch nearing the burgundy cloak to pool 'round her on the floor.

.. when he drags itself home through the courtyard, Noiye ducks out of sight. It's all she needed to know.