Pureimp10

Username: Pureimp10 Character Name: Ser Otis Affiliation: Empire of Man Desired Rank: Any Which games will you be attending?: Siege of Totenpfalz

Ser Otis had been among the first to climb over the Urguani defenses with Jerry (the Noob) when the Imperial army breached the city. He was damn proud of the work he'd done today.

A GOOD DAY “Good day to die.” The southern wind gently caressed Duncan’s face as he turned to his side. “What?” “Good weather, clear sky, fertile land, this,” the sergeant coolly continued. The man seemed like a veteran; his armor did not appear new and dappled across it were dents where steel had struck it. “If I had to pick a spot, this’d be it. Perhaps a tree would sprout from me.” Duncan could do little more than blink at the man’s words as he reached down to pat and calm his horse beneath him. “Ye should know better than tha’, lad. It’s bad luck to speak o’ death before a battle. Scares the horses, ‘n a scared horse brings death to its rider.” “You northerners and your superstitions,” the man scoffed as he urged his own horse forward. “You could do with a bit of humor, old man. Not every old wives’ tale has a lesson.” The Baruch did not respond, watching silently as the sergeant rode away. He was superstitious - he couldn’t deny that. He’d made sure to pin white heather to his chest for good luck, and whenever he walked past the hospital tent he scratched his jewels to pass a little fortune to those being treated inside. He never taunted Death, remembering well how his friend Dmitry once claimed no “enemy” could kill him, only to be found stabbed in the back by a “friend”. He was old too; there was no hiding the toll time had taken on his body. His once-thick brown hair had grown thin and white, his forehead broader than it had been in his youth. His hearing had dulled, and his fingers ached when he held a sword too long. Sigismund’s mark - crow’s feet as the southerners called it - spread from the corners of his eyes, joining the many other wrinkles that lined his face. Eighty years, he thought to himself as the wind dandled his few remaining hairs. Nearly three times what Karl got. I wonder what he’d have looked like if he got to this age. His thoughts of his old king were quickly cut short as the war horns sounded through the Imperial lines, men shouted orders and boots thundered across the grass below. Darren - his oldest comrade and captain of his guard - pointed with an armored gauntlet out to the golden field before them. “There, yer grace. Th’ dwarves are advancin’. Seems th’ time has come.” Duncan nodded; there was little use for words at this point. He glanced at the faces of his men - cold, unamused, veterans of many battles and sieges - and to his son, Duncan ‘the Younger’. He had not been the father the boy deserved in his youth, yet he quietly hoped the years ahead would grant him a chance for atonement. In silence he slipped his helmet upon his head and brought his visor down. The wind rose suddenly, pushing back against him and through the slit in his helmet as it cut across the field, tugging faintly at his armor. “Best get to it, then.” The battle was quick. An imperial victory was never in doubt - the dwarves had neither the manpower nor the equipment for a winning defense - but the proximity to their capital made them fight all the harder. An unexpected rain had turned the field to mud, softening the imperial charge and drawing out the melee. The mire did little to change the day’s outcome however, and the imperials still took the ground. Engineers set to work near instantly, ordering nearby trees felled for trebuchets and battleworks dug for the cannons. Distants blasts echoed through the camp as Darren guided a limping Duncan back to his tent, but the old man’s thoughts were not on the bombardment. “Ah loved tha’ damn horse, Darren.” Duncan grunted with each word, his boot sloshing with each step in the mud that the pair took. “Sigismund curse the dwarf tha’ killed ‘er.” “They had t’ kill it, yer grace. Bringin’ ye down t’ their height was the only way the bastards could try t’ kill ye.” The old man chuckled softly at that, as much as his aching ribs would allow. A lucky pikeman had stuck his horse in the muddy brawl and brought the Duke low, the weight of his armor and the force of the fall bruising his chest and arms and trapping him in the mud. He shuddered as he remembered how close he’d come to death and tried to push the memory aside. “‘ere we are, yer grace.” Darren lowered his voice as they reached the tent, where a servant stood ready to doff the Baruch’s armor. “Ah’ll go check on the other men, but ah didnae see any o’ them fall.” He lingered near the entrance as the servant struggled with the buckles on Duncan’s armor. “Dinnae be so rough lad, er ye’ll rip the lord’s arm off,” Darren snapped. Startled, the servant jerked his hands away and abruptly removed Duncan’s pauldron from his shoulder. A grunt escaped Duncan’s lips as a small steel-tipped shaft struck the floor with a dull thump. The servant picked up it then - a half-broken quarrel, most of its wooden length snapped off, leaving only the sharp head that had lodged itself in Duncan. Of course the halfmen use half a bolt. There was little time to inspect the projectile. Blood began to flow from the hole in his underarm and stained the grass below. The calm of the tent shattered at once. “Yer grace! Ah’ll fetch a physician, ye run ‘n fetch Lord Duncan - the younger!” Darren and the servant shouted over one another as they rushed out of the tent, nearly slipping in the mud outside in their haste. Duncan, meanwhile, brought his hand against the wound as best he could, though his breastplate made the motion awkward, and he could not remove it alone. He sank slowly onto his straw mattress with quiet acceptance, keeping his hand clamped over the wound in a vain attempt to hold in his life's blood. You old fool. He hadn’t felt the bolt when it struck him, and the pain had now dulled to something distant. Outside, the boom of the cannons rolled across the fields like thunder, reminding him of the rainy hills of his home. His blood quenched the thirst of the grass beneath him, spared the rain until now by the shelter of the tent. His mind wandered, as though it knew the path ahead better than he did. He thought first of his sons, Amos and Hamish, how happy he’d been at their birth. Hamish was the first, with his fiery red hair; then came Amos with his dark spruce-brown locks. Duncan remembered how he held them, one babe in each arm, how he sang to them in their youth when thunder frightened them in the night. He thought of the last time he had seen them before coming south, and how he would not see them again. Next came his namesake and heir, Duncan. He thought of his son’s birth and how near it had come to killing his mother. He thought of the lad’s wedding day, nearly ruined by his arriving drunk. A faint chuckle escaped his pallid lips then, costing him a trickle of blood. He’d seen the boy become a man and, more recently, a father. He thought of his daughter-in-law Constantina, whom he had come to see as his own daughter. The poor woman carried many burdens; he hoped he had done something, at least once, to ease them. His thoughts drifted to his grandchildren - Garen the beast, Henry the gentleman, and Duncan the glutton, third of his name. Then to the youngest, little Brianna, whose golden hair he’d grown to love. With the last of his breath, he whispered a quiet prayer for their wellbeing. His vision dimmed. His breaths grew shallow and close together. His hands and legs felt numb. Somewhere outside the tent, he could faintly hear the sound of a lute being played, and of soldiers laughing and dancing to celebrate their victory. A good day after all. REQUIESCAT IN PACE Duke Duncan Eirik Baruch 1992 - 2072

Duncan the Elder played with his new granddaughter, giving her his finger to hold as he admired the latest addition to his family. "Come on Aileen," he started, choosing to call her by her middle name, "did ye have tae be blonde?"

"Ah won at the last Imperial weddin', perhaps ah'll have similar luck 'ere?" Duncan asked, to no one in particular. The old man was now into his late 70s, and his mind had begun to go.

Duncan Baruch smoked another cigar after finishing his first, laughing out puffs of smoke as he did so.

Duncan the Elder smoked on a cigar from the comfort of his Jorenic castle of Barden.

Duncan Baruch, Father Zeno's patron, laughed.

thought maybe there was a hidden message in here for me but i guess not