A Death of Another...

[ayresalex 517]

The air was still among Arethor, like any other night, cold, wet, but with a fool moon, Tryggvi lay silent, waiting for the call to arms for his brothers in arms, a few former Tarus bannermen, and a few mercenaries that had been recruited along their path. Tryggvi slowly rubbed the nub of his ring finger, taken by Ser Uthor, for, in Tryggvi's view, unjust cause. He only threw two heads down at the feet of Godfrey. The heads were of his own men, killed by Flay men, and piked up in Mireton. Tryggvi wanted justice.

He and a fellow northerner were stationed along the river that runs into the Arethor sewers, watching the occasional archer glide up and down the low walls of this capital. Their plan, in short, was to burn down, (or at least attempt too) the church of Oren, where he lost his finger, and where his grudge against the Holy Oren Empire found its roots.

Tryggvi turned to his archer, Richard, and with a gleam in his eye, said

"Yew readeh'?"

Richard huffed out air, "As always, Cap'n"

Tryggvi grinned to himself, they still referred to him as "captain" although his position was long gone. His thoughts were interuppted by Richard notching his bow, taking aim for the gate guard.

"'lright, Ri'chird, yew take 'im out, and the res' ov' us will run in, and set their damned "religion" on fire, yeh?"

"Right."

"On me mark..

Go."

The arrow whistled through the air as it found its place in the guards ribcage, and with a groan, the guard fell off the wall, onto the streets in Arethor. The guards plate smashed against the stone below, making a resounding crash.

Richard flinched, whilst Tryggvi groaned, got up with his axe, and shouted,

"Now!"

A dozen men emerged from their positions, and rushed the Arethor gates, where they were met with patrolling guards by coincidence, and locked into combat with them.

"Take those bastards out, we need tu' get to the church!"

The City Watch was on the alert now, and were rousing themselves to meet Tryggvi's group on the streets of Arethor. With clash and clatter, the northern rabble fell, one by one, until all was left was Tryggvi, axe bloodied, and encompassed by three dead City Watchmen. Tryggvi, after unburying his axe from the neck of his former opponent, looked up to see his men dead, with spears and swords menacingly pointing at him. The expression that spread across his face when he realized his 'plan' had failed, was somewhat of pity and sadness. Tryggvi realized it was only death that could await him, and with the last of his words, he muttered,

"Die willingly or with sword in hand."

Tryggvi then charged into the mob of Watchmen, being riddled with arrows before he could even reach his first opponent, and fell dead, his northern blood staining the cold streets or Arethor.

[Swgrclan 2682]

[[A lovely post, well done.]]

[NiC201 (Aeries) 76]

(Sorry this is not a RP comment but I must agree, very well done on your post!)

[KidKrinkles 2044]

Wakes up in his bed chamber, shaken awake by a young servant boy, "Master Tarus. Master Tarus."

"What is it boy?" Eze'kiel groaned, bringing his arms from under the blanket over his eyes, he rubs them for a bit before he looks around the incredibly dark bedroom.

"I hope dis'd be somethin' urgent. As en, somebody died important."

"... Yes sir Master Tarus. An old friends of yours."

Eze'kiel rubbed his face. He growled, "Bring meh a bowl o' water." The young man ran from the room as Eze'kiel got up. He walked over to his wardrobe and pulled a set of furs over his body, a long robe, which seemed to be made from bear. He pulled them over his chest, hiding his exposed body, and turned to the boy who kneeled with the water. He put his hands into the bowl and heated it to a warm temperature in a few seconds, splashing his face first, letting the water flow and fall, then drinking down some of the water.

"Which friend was it? My old friends er' few n' far between."

"Tryggvi, Master Tarus."

Eze'kiel blinked a few times... Trygvvi... that was an old name indeed...

He walked over to the window of his room, it faced east. To Arethor. There was a long stretch of land, mountains, some rivers and lakes and streams and hills and trees... but he could almost see it, with his mind, standing tall over a proud northerner's corpse. He rubbed his long beard thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing and looking down at the water. He could only imagine the lakes as the pools of blood Arethor has built and sustained itself over. Its an empire fueled by blood... "Aye, ye' belonged by my side Trygvvi, back in the frosts n' swamps n' back roads where te' bandits wouldn't dare tread n' ye'd do yer' father proud. Die willin' er' with sword n' hand I always said..."

He turned to the young boy. "Leave meh' be. Tell no one te' bother me."

When the boy ran off, he walked over to the end of his bed and sat, he laid back in the furs and stretched out his body, just thinking of better days and better times and the friends buried under the kingdom he spawned out of a volatile cocktail of selfish desire and a noble desire to serve...

"Trygvvi. Norsem. Hayden. Cataris. Atriana. Gabriel..."

He uttered the names, in no particular order, of his dearest friends and family to himself in the dark before he slipped into his sleep once more.

[Kickstarted and Running 965]

Magnus sat in the corner of the city, watching the fight.

He thought about helping and had to stop himself from engaging in the furry and glorious spill of blood

"Rest in peace my former enemy...

And deceased friend..."

Magnus waited and retrieved Tryggvi's axe and walked out of city quickly, pretending not to hear the city watch shouting and disappearing into the dark, heading to Ezekiel Tarus

[ayresalex 517]

Richard Olyvarsson buried his head in the ground, breathing thorugh the dirt. He could smell life down here, the deep, dark scent of the soil filled his nostrils, envigorating him. He had killed a man, it did not matter, he was used to death. Richard had no love for Oren either, particularly the Silverblades. He had recruited seven men for the Riven guardsmen, and they made some idiot elf that HE recruited his commander. Richard smiled at the thought of him filching a few quivers out of the armoury before he ran off to find his great uncle, and looked to him for work. Smiling, he counts to thirty, and looks up, completely unaware of the situation that he was brought along with, he blinks, unsure as of what he had seen.

He witnesses Tryggvi fall on both knees, multiple arrows jutting out of him as if he were a porcupine, and the loud clatter as his axe dropped to the ground. Richard gasped in disbelief,

"Can't be.."

Some of the Watchmen laugh, and begin to loot the bodies of the northeron warband until a seemingly authorative figure shouted to for his men to spread out and look for others. Richard, striken with fear, buried his face into the ground, deciding he will remain still and hide. \

For five minutes, he remained this way, until a guardsman neared him. Richard panicked, and tried to flee, but was caught by the edge of his cloak, and arrested.

Dawn broke, beginning a new day and ending a new life. Richard stood on the stool, his head downcast as the noose was tied around his neck. The executioner grunted to him,

"An'eh last words?"

Richard remained silent, and the stool was kicked from beneath him.

Richard died, twisting and jerking, without a word. He accepted his death willingly, as every northerner should do.

[ski_king3 0]

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