madnorth

yes me agree

knights in combat intended to incapacitate, stun, or disarm their opponent, which in turn was a deathwish for them. by way of removing their main weapon, getting them on the ground, or working around armor gaps. but all knights understood that slaying an opponent was a process and not a one-hit wonder kind of shindig where you just swing very bigly

you can see this very vividly in David Michôd's depiction of shakespeare's Henry V play when prince henry of wales fights against sir henry percy. swordfighting goes out of the choreography, they go straight to grappling, half-swording until "hotspur" percy lets up once and prince henry is able to lethally work a dagger right beneath an armor gap under the helmet

this is not to say sword attacks still don't hurt an opponent in plate, being hit with anything coming in hard and fast bunched up in metal can still be disorienting in the right circumstances so ill say this

this is also fantasy though so honestly as long as someone isn't outlandishly unrealistic it's not necessarily an issue more so a peeve to see but it doesn't necessitate any policing, it's just nice to see people rp these things goodly and as unfun as it sounds it's only as fun as you make it to be

i joined with a far smaller tenure than most people on lotc but i've tried to embody this same mindset and have had very good reception about it regarding my character, so it's one of the benefits of taking a more grounded charge with knight/plate man rp

5 minutes ago, Jentos said:

where gun 

The Physician continues in their volley of the far and near, concoction after another.

She notes the distant aura about The Swordsman, offering a sweet, unconscious call.

"Surtr?" She coos.

A faint response. "She is here." 

The glow of embers grew underneath His armor, and Her face showed nothing but worry.

On 5/22/2024 at 10:07 PM, NLThomas said:

Love the post but I beg of you to make the black text some other color. Those words are impossible to read without selecting. 

was taken into account for most of the next part, was not aware. thank you!

((PAGANS RISE))

previously

bǫlva

where am i? for all i hear is the noise

wishing for solace in the dark that surrounds me

it only seeks to consume me, my blade

for my purpose is now but in the blood i shed

He sits across the field of the dead, a slain Mali'kerr saddled underneath the wrap of a leather home. His destination was not far then, the home to a kind not of his own. All he could think of was the screams of the souls in the place he wished he'd never seen. The ruins of a realm he hoped were not of the one his body resided in.

She was long gone, the princess. A companion that kept him afloat amid the violence. It had been months, years, since he'd heard of her last, after fated incidents caused them to go their separate ways; though truly, it was Him that pushed it to that point. He could no longer see the brightness in a smile, the serenity in the silence, a memory tampered by a curse; of which he was powerless to rebel against.

The wind paced itself, coming to a halt, and yet all He could hear was the noise that embellished in the torment that glued itself to his mind. A damaged soul, he had. Irreparable. The noise became a battle to overcome, lurking in the depths of every step he took, every unsheathing of his blade, and every strike to take a life.

A slow rise. He was weary, and he could no longer carry the corpse with him. He took its head and mummified it with mere cloth, a redness seeping through of how fresh it was.

where was the silence? it no longer helped

to strike, to thrust, it was all i could do

yet it bore no flower to comfort my pain

the space only shared by the stain

"Compensation?" The one of Acalonn asked of him. A nod came next, and her words continued. "Fifty mina. Will that suffice?" Anything would, in his eyes. A second nod. He simply bore the head of the one she asked of; of which she never collected. A bag saddles in his palm and with a quick, careless look, a final nod was given.

"The Monster of the East," she called. "I wish you luck. Until next time."

His steel-toed steps gather before the soulless banker, a small deposit to accompany the rest born of the same essence. Blood money. The rewards he reaped in his occupation; a sellsword, a bounty hunter, yet all too meaningless with what kept him company beneath the visage of a helmet. This was his routine, his healing, however fruitless. Another poster to come again, a face, a name, a number was all it took.

Anything to distract him from what truly disturbed the very essence of the man that once wished of a life so simple as to do as he willed, to survive another Ash day.

where would i go? the sights no longer enticed

it was all the same now, a cruel fate only known by I

soon everything would come to a conclusion

and i would be powerless to stop it

The realm of all Highlanders welcomes him, everyday. Vindicated at every approach, stared at upon a seat taken, a silence atop another. Nothing tranquil ever came of it, but he wished for it to arrive someday, in hopes the silence webbed into his thoughts.

"I am to be the baroness, soon!" The one called. "A-and if that would not suffice, then-" The stammer of an innocence; eyes beading over the presence of a stranger. To her, he was strong. To him, she was weak. In the respite of a hearth bearing a flame that remained alight, his services were insisted.

The middle child of the Moon City came before the armored one of a village long forgotten, basking in the space of his isolation. He wished to will the noise away, her presence to be ill remembered - only for a curiosity to birth, for the first time in the years since.

A girl not older then five-and-ten, gathering the strength to continue their approach. A wavering confidence, determined to see it through.

"I will consider it." He willed to say, nothing more, nothing less.

what do you see in me? a small noble brazen

abashed and yet unbothered by the dark

wishing to see a light beneath the helm

i can only pray she will never see

the embers surrounded me, yet she ushers it all away

móðr

i wonder every day of my life what went through my father's head

all the fortunes gathered and blood spilt underneath ferrum meeting flesh

only to weep for a son who promised him nothing but the same

and nothing left to part with but the battle of trying to be more then

His hand gathers strength at the stepping stones; It had finally caught up to Him and His company. The embodiment of a father's sins passed down to their son, now knelt before the manifestation of Sin that laid a trap for the bounty hunter; corpses of leper-demons and imps scattering along the surfaces of a destroyed Hallowcliffe. It laid claim on such a venerated symbol to its field; to hone it, shape it into a deeper darkness, to accompany the ruin it wished unto the lands, with Him at the helm.

The flame birthed from Its fingertips burned at a constant into His soul, into His chest; oh, so painful, yet no flesh lay scorched of the affliction, not as malflame would, no - this was a different kind of torment. The feeling of a pagan crucified at the stake, burned alive, His soul threatened out of His body, the lingering memory of an agony in a loop.

Horned teeth at the helm, and a virulent gaze lay on His company, who were duly unharmed. "But you were not the objective." Bleeding, empty sockets turn away from the would-be princess, now focused on the one scorned, the sellsword born to a father of malicious renown, the only eye saddled at the center pulsating as if it were beating out of the man's own chest.

i wonder what my mother saw for me when she swept me away

galley ship setting course for lands unknown and a fleeting embrace

only to find tragedy when my life begins and hers meets its end

and nothing shared in our last moments but unspoken regrets

"Neither of you will be able to leave until I have I̷̳̓̓̿̍̽͌̎, or a Ņ̷̢͚͕͈̬͕̰̹̗̞̘͆̉̐̆̐̃̑̈́͆̅̈͛͛̑͝." Its hand stretches out, an offer forced into a choice - His only choice. Words became a blur, and a malleable, damaged soul came under duress from the Black Pontiff. As if organ separated itself from the physical body, only the ghost of these pains lingered from toe to scalp along His figure. Fate stood before them, mocking the deliberation that continued under drowned thoughts.

But the first to act was neither He nor the Pontiff. It was the dame - begging for a mercy, to spare Him the depths of what she knew to be a path one can never turn back from. Her body came between Him, strength asunder, and It, with a newborn desperation. She willed herself to protect him, as He did for her, guilt striking at the tips of her span knowing she caused His pain by bringing him there.

A hand sits firm at the nest of a rip on her tunic, and the princess resigns herself to fatigue, unable to present a defense for the burdened man any longer. Plunging forth before the woman, He stood before the Pontiff with a blank, weary gaze. Eyes dim between palm and the distance between himself and His dagger; though in the end He swallows the weight of what He chose to do next.

i wonder what truly awaited me at shore when the boat struck land

riches beyond even a father's aspirations, a life unknown to a mother

yet here i stand before death itself as if it were all a illusion

in the end, a trap, committed to ensnaring the soul to fate

The visions came; the sight of realms, both land and sea left plundered by a darkness that embraced the chaos, fires born of an otherworldly form unrelenting against the shape of the fields that encompassed. The sun did not belong where He stood, neither the night sky bearing a light to guide the remnants that screamed for liberation in such a wretched world. 

Then came the manifestations. Corruption meeting the very being, soul and its energy to form bestial commonalities of horns, wings, tails of all shape and color. And what was left when these manifestations withered away? A fertile ash to remain astray until a rekindling to lay a different form.

No longer was the Pontiff present, neither the Princess, nor the shape of the space around him. Endless darkness and the incarnations, all lined together with weapons ready to be plunged into Him as a temperament to what would form the man next.

But they were all the same. The same in one aspect of which greeted the horror of the man who accepted the hand: He was staring at himself. Every form He was fated to take, whether by His own volition, or for destiny to choose for Him.

Fated. To die, to be reborn, to take a new form, they were all fated. A decade, a century, a millennium.

They would all be judged the same, sentenced the same, and executed the same.

Except.

a life abundant of death, fated for one to be my own

battlefields notorious of a horror, darkness to covet abominations

the thrill of a victory faded quickly. replacing it, an ugliness

deeply rooted in the very soul of my own being

when fire refused to burn, the darkness took form