ayresalex

"The Gryphon Bannermen could always use a local doctor in Pruvia. You'd do well with us, no? The name's Mikhael Torrson, I serve the house Horen-Gryphon. Won't get more of a cause than our house. Protect the innocent and poor, whilst doing the Emperors duty. Send me a note in Pruvia, eh?"

Mikhael spits at the Kha's feet.

"Oren has no need for dirt Kha'. Get lost and go back to your wretched homeland."

Mikhael nods, listening to the mans words,

"Ignore the other twit. You'll do us well with the Gryphon Bannermen."

Mikhael hands a flier to the man, and walks off

http://www.lordofthecraft.net/forum/index.php?/topic/72848-gryphon-bannermen/page__p__594357__fromsearch__1#entry594357

"Aye... Joining the Gryphon Bannermen will greatly benefit you, and Oren overall. The leaders are fair and just, and you're never without minas or an empty stomach."

Mikhael passes through the gates into Mireton, he breathes in the fresh mountain air, and grins, Just like home... he thought. He was just recently outfitted with his new Gryphon tabard, and felt quite spiffing in it. Better than that damned Elendil gave me. Nothing. he mused. Mikhael felt quite at home with his new position. He was serving a house that was close knit with the Emperors own house. He gloated this to his friends a few to many times at the Therving Tavern, and set on an air of importance and sometimes- arrogance.

Mikhael stops at the crossroads, spotting Kazrek. Mikhael wondered if this was the new recruit that Alexander had told him about. Nonetheless, using his gruff northern accent he yelled,

"'ey! Yew dat new man his lordship was talkin' about?"

He starting trotting over to Kazrek, waiting for a response.

"Very well then, m'lord."

Mikhael grins,

"Where can I place my bags then?"

Forum Name: ayresalex

MC Name: Mikhael Torsson

Skills: I've grew up as a blacksmiths son. Makin' weapons never suited me, but I always tend to pick one up and spar my brothers. I also know my way around a bow as well.

Are you willing to move to a permanent residence?: Seeing as I have no home.. Yes. I am.

What previous experience have you had? (RP on the LotC server): I served with Elendil for sometime, but left as I recieved no pay or board. (I've been with you since like, Galahar dude.)

Why should I take you?: You won't find a more disciplined soldier as myself, m'lord.

"I, Mikhael Torsson, swear my blade and life to the house Horen-Gryphon.

To protect the Duchy of Pruvia, and the Holy Oren Empire, in times of peace and war

To be Its shield under siege, and blade in times of war

I swear to be truthful and pure, doing what is right

To be loyal to Gryphon-Horen and it's leader over all other

To follow orders and direction with full effort until my lord release me."

Die Willingly or With Sword in Hand!

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.

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.

"But what of all those children whose parents were killed by the ravaging orcs!?!"

'm a guard! Heibe 'ired me!

-Durlan Salex

Tryggvi Hackonsson walks through the streets adourned in a ragged cloak. He stops by a post, and tears it down, scanning over it,

"M'father was at the old Purge.. but now 'dey seem tu' haff' a just cause."

He simply lets the poster fall to the ground, and carries on.