Post by Tobias Lysand on Dec 27, 2010 14:14:59 GMT -5
((Well, here's a chaptered story I'm working on. I'm not sure how I feel about this one, but... Here you go. ))
Smolder
Chapter One
“Vespersia's dead.”
The quill hovered a moment over the page before descending, transferring black ink smoothly onto the white paper. Another name was added to the already lengthy list, written in neat – if small- letters. Blue eyes stared down at the list before they slowly raised themselves to look at the centurion holding open the tent flap. A shiver worked its way down his spine as the cold autumn air blew into the tent, bringing along with it the heavy scent of moisture; it was going to rain soon.
“How many is that, Lysander?”
The quill dipped into the ink again before scratching against the paper. The optio remained silent a moment longer, blond ponytail bobbing up and down just slightly as his eyes trailed down the list of names and then back up. “Nineteen dead. Four critically wounded, probably going to be sent back to Suntheorn. Four more walking wounded. They'll be out another month, probably more.”
“So then that leaves us...”
“Seventy three.” Lysander pressed his lips together, glancing over at his superior. “We were hit hard by this battle, sir.”
“I see. Have you started on any of the letters to their families yet?” The centurion ran a hand through his tussled brown hair wearily.
The quill was set down with a gentle snap. “No sir,” he replied quietly.
He sighed. “Well you'll have to get on that. With the century's clerk gone I know a lot has fallen onto you, but...”
“I know, sir. I know.”
“Centurion Tiberius!” There was a clanking of armor followed shortly by a man stumbling into the tent, going to attention.
“At ease,” the centurion replied. “What is it?”
“The legate would like to see you sir.” The man snapped down from attention, but still stood rather stiffly.
“Alright. You're dismissed. I can get there myself.” Tiberius turned his stern gaze to Lysander. “I want you to get started on those letters, understand? Then get yourself some rest. You must be exhausted.”
“Yes sir.” Lysander watched the pair of soldiers exit the tent, leaving him in complete solitude.
His eyes focused on the blank paper for a few moments before he took a deep breath, picking up the quill and dipping it in the ink before beginning to write the cruel unforgiving words for the first name on the list. ‘It is with a heavy heart that I write to inform you…’ The pen wavered in his hand, causing a small blot of ink to splash upon the page. This time the quill was snapped down with more ferocity. A hand was raised to his forehead as he drew another shaky breath. This was his least favorite duty; writing the letters to the family of the paladin who died in battle. Staring at the blotch of darkness on the page for a moment, he abruptly cast it aside with an unhappy sigh, grabbing a fresh piece.
Far too many of the century had been killed by the dark knights of Sudanvar in the series of skirmishes that had taken place over the past days. He knew that as a paladin the greatest honor is to die in battle and that the light would receive their souls, but they could have served the light so much better alive.
It didn't take long for Lysander's hand to begin cramping, but he pressed on, letter after letter being completed. With each one he wrote, the bitter taste in the back of his throat became all the more potent. He was reminded of something that his mentor Eavernthern, who he had squired with, had told him.
'We are paladin of Suntheorn, Lysander. We are servants of the light, but our only companion is death.'
He had often wondered how true those words were, but looking at the sizable stack of letters before him...
He was suddenly assaulted by a rush of cold air, making him shiver and drawing his gaze away from his work. Standing in the entrance was a woman with a high brown ponytail and soft brown eyes. She was wearing standard tan breeches and calf-high boots with a maroon tunic. Around her neck was a small medallion that bore a sun on it- a symbol that she bore the same rank as Lysander.
“You're still wearing your armor.” There was an amused lilt to her voice that caused him to give her a small smile.
“You know I don't take my armor off unless I'm polishing it or sleeping, Rhea,” he reminded her gently. He set down his quill, armor plates clanking together as he ran a critical eye over the metal. The golden sun that was embedded onto his left shoulder- a symbol of his rank of optio- glittered quietly in the candle light.
“Tch. I'm surprised you don't just sleep in that armor.” She shook her head for a moment, offering him a crooked grin.
“Sometimes I wonder if it would be more convenient,” Lysander said thoughtfully, standing and rolling his shoulders back. “How's Reivar?”
“You know how dwarves are,” Rhea answered. “Won't let any of the healers take a look at his wounds. Says he's going to let them heal the old fashioned way.”
“Still spitting at the mages of Elnostia?”
“No, he's managed to break that habit at least.”
“Am I to assume that the fact no one's tied him down and forced a healer on him means that his wounds are just minor?” He inquired, turning his attention to heating the wax on the seal he was about to use.
“Just scratches, or so he says. He probably got them from pieces flying off the ranks of black knights he tore apart. Sometimes I have to wonder if they even need the rest of the first century, or if he could handle everything on his own.”
Lysander made a sound of amusement that wasn't quite a laugh, focused on his work still as he bent over his desk.
Rhea sighed, leaning over to lean on the wood. “I trust that the second century didn't make out so well then?”
“Seventy three of us left,” he answered, sealing a letter with the red wax. “And the third century?”
“We fared a bit better. Eighty of us remain. From what I understand the centuries entire third cohort suffered badly.” She sighed.
“The entire legion's suffered badly,” Lysander corrected. “We've been hounded by the Sudanvarians for days... I would have thought the main force would have arrived by now. I just hope that they haven't been intercepted and delayed.”
“Well the mages haven't sensed anything,” Rhea pointed out, cautiously optimistic.
“Mages. I don't trust them to know things like that. Their senses can be fooled as easily as a cloud blocks the sun,” he replied dismissively. He finally turned from his work to look at her. “I don't like this waiting. We've managed to repel the forces they're using to test us, but it's only a matter of time before they just form together a few of their units and crush us. They're wearing us down slowly. Our numbers and our moral.”
Rhea blew air through her lips. “I hope you don't talk that was in front of your century.”
“You know that I don't.” He sealed the last letter, giving them one last look over. “Now have you come here on business?”
“Just a personal visit, Lysander. No need to be so stiff all the time.” She offered him another one of her crooked grins.
The optio managed to offer her a smile of his own. “Stiff? I'd hardly call my sense of duty stiffness. You make it sound so... unvaliant.”
“Unvaliant?” Her crooked grin grew. “Oh you're valiant alright Lysander. I'm surprised you haven't drowned in your valiance yet.”
“Well I'm a strong swimmer.”
“Just one of your many talents I suppose.”
“Among so many I'm not surprised you didn't remember it.” There was a seriousness to his tone that made her raise an eyebrow, but his facade cracked as the two burst out laughing.
Their laughter was interrupted by the faint notes of a trumpet in the distance. The two optios immediately fell silent, straining their ears to hear. The sound repeated again, and Rhea stiffened, hand going to her blade.
“That's not an order to prepare for battle,” Lysander realized, chin lifting. “It looks like they've finally decided to show up.” He grabbed her arm. “Come on!”
They left the tent, to join the crowd of paladin gathering to watch the new comers arrive. They carried the banner of Suntheorn proudly, the golden sun waving on its white banner. Some distance behind it was another banner; a light blue emblazoned with a golden pair of angel's wings, surrounded by swirling lines- the symbol of the light mages of Elnostia. Beneath the banners marched a long procession of soldiers. Lysander ran his trained eye down the columns, searching for the standards that would tell him just who had been sent to their aid. The fourth and third legions... Along with two cohorts of battle mages. He let out a low whistle. Whatever was being planned, it had to be big...
“Lysander is that...?” Rhea pointed toward a pair of men riding toward the front of the column on white horses. One wore the white robes of a master mage, the other the white and gold armor of a top general of Suntheorn... Make that THE top general.
“Sir Nepheran!” Lysander realized, straightening. “If he's here then... Then something big is going to happen.”
She nodded slowly. “Something big, and we're going to be right in the middle of it.”
Smolder
Chapter One
“Vespersia's dead.”
The quill hovered a moment over the page before descending, transferring black ink smoothly onto the white paper. Another name was added to the already lengthy list, written in neat – if small- letters. Blue eyes stared down at the list before they slowly raised themselves to look at the centurion holding open the tent flap. A shiver worked its way down his spine as the cold autumn air blew into the tent, bringing along with it the heavy scent of moisture; it was going to rain soon.
“How many is that, Lysander?”
The quill dipped into the ink again before scratching against the paper. The optio remained silent a moment longer, blond ponytail bobbing up and down just slightly as his eyes trailed down the list of names and then back up. “Nineteen dead. Four critically wounded, probably going to be sent back to Suntheorn. Four more walking wounded. They'll be out another month, probably more.”
“So then that leaves us...”
“Seventy three.” Lysander pressed his lips together, glancing over at his superior. “We were hit hard by this battle, sir.”
“I see. Have you started on any of the letters to their families yet?” The centurion ran a hand through his tussled brown hair wearily.
The quill was set down with a gentle snap. “No sir,” he replied quietly.
He sighed. “Well you'll have to get on that. With the century's clerk gone I know a lot has fallen onto you, but...”
“I know, sir. I know.”
“Centurion Tiberius!” There was a clanking of armor followed shortly by a man stumbling into the tent, going to attention.
“At ease,” the centurion replied. “What is it?”
“The legate would like to see you sir.” The man snapped down from attention, but still stood rather stiffly.
“Alright. You're dismissed. I can get there myself.” Tiberius turned his stern gaze to Lysander. “I want you to get started on those letters, understand? Then get yourself some rest. You must be exhausted.”
“Yes sir.” Lysander watched the pair of soldiers exit the tent, leaving him in complete solitude.
His eyes focused on the blank paper for a few moments before he took a deep breath, picking up the quill and dipping it in the ink before beginning to write the cruel unforgiving words for the first name on the list. ‘It is with a heavy heart that I write to inform you…’ The pen wavered in his hand, causing a small blot of ink to splash upon the page. This time the quill was snapped down with more ferocity. A hand was raised to his forehead as he drew another shaky breath. This was his least favorite duty; writing the letters to the family of the paladin who died in battle. Staring at the blotch of darkness on the page for a moment, he abruptly cast it aside with an unhappy sigh, grabbing a fresh piece.
Far too many of the century had been killed by the dark knights of Sudanvar in the series of skirmishes that had taken place over the past days. He knew that as a paladin the greatest honor is to die in battle and that the light would receive their souls, but they could have served the light so much better alive.
It didn't take long for Lysander's hand to begin cramping, but he pressed on, letter after letter being completed. With each one he wrote, the bitter taste in the back of his throat became all the more potent. He was reminded of something that his mentor Eavernthern, who he had squired with, had told him.
'We are paladin of Suntheorn, Lysander. We are servants of the light, but our only companion is death.'
He had often wondered how true those words were, but looking at the sizable stack of letters before him...
He was suddenly assaulted by a rush of cold air, making him shiver and drawing his gaze away from his work. Standing in the entrance was a woman with a high brown ponytail and soft brown eyes. She was wearing standard tan breeches and calf-high boots with a maroon tunic. Around her neck was a small medallion that bore a sun on it- a symbol that she bore the same rank as Lysander.
“You're still wearing your armor.” There was an amused lilt to her voice that caused him to give her a small smile.
“You know I don't take my armor off unless I'm polishing it or sleeping, Rhea,” he reminded her gently. He set down his quill, armor plates clanking together as he ran a critical eye over the metal. The golden sun that was embedded onto his left shoulder- a symbol of his rank of optio- glittered quietly in the candle light.
“Tch. I'm surprised you don't just sleep in that armor.” She shook her head for a moment, offering him a crooked grin.
“Sometimes I wonder if it would be more convenient,” Lysander said thoughtfully, standing and rolling his shoulders back. “How's Reivar?”
“You know how dwarves are,” Rhea answered. “Won't let any of the healers take a look at his wounds. Says he's going to let them heal the old fashioned way.”
“Still spitting at the mages of Elnostia?”
“No, he's managed to break that habit at least.”
“Am I to assume that the fact no one's tied him down and forced a healer on him means that his wounds are just minor?” He inquired, turning his attention to heating the wax on the seal he was about to use.
“Just scratches, or so he says. He probably got them from pieces flying off the ranks of black knights he tore apart. Sometimes I have to wonder if they even need the rest of the first century, or if he could handle everything on his own.”
Lysander made a sound of amusement that wasn't quite a laugh, focused on his work still as he bent over his desk.
Rhea sighed, leaning over to lean on the wood. “I trust that the second century didn't make out so well then?”
“Seventy three of us left,” he answered, sealing a letter with the red wax. “And the third century?”
“We fared a bit better. Eighty of us remain. From what I understand the centuries entire third cohort suffered badly.” She sighed.
“The entire legion's suffered badly,” Lysander corrected. “We've been hounded by the Sudanvarians for days... I would have thought the main force would have arrived by now. I just hope that they haven't been intercepted and delayed.”
“Well the mages haven't sensed anything,” Rhea pointed out, cautiously optimistic.
“Mages. I don't trust them to know things like that. Their senses can be fooled as easily as a cloud blocks the sun,” he replied dismissively. He finally turned from his work to look at her. “I don't like this waiting. We've managed to repel the forces they're using to test us, but it's only a matter of time before they just form together a few of their units and crush us. They're wearing us down slowly. Our numbers and our moral.”
Rhea blew air through her lips. “I hope you don't talk that was in front of your century.”
“You know that I don't.” He sealed the last letter, giving them one last look over. “Now have you come here on business?”
“Just a personal visit, Lysander. No need to be so stiff all the time.” She offered him another one of her crooked grins.
The optio managed to offer her a smile of his own. “Stiff? I'd hardly call my sense of duty stiffness. You make it sound so... unvaliant.”
“Unvaliant?” Her crooked grin grew. “Oh you're valiant alright Lysander. I'm surprised you haven't drowned in your valiance yet.”
“Well I'm a strong swimmer.”
“Just one of your many talents I suppose.”
“Among so many I'm not surprised you didn't remember it.” There was a seriousness to his tone that made her raise an eyebrow, but his facade cracked as the two burst out laughing.
Their laughter was interrupted by the faint notes of a trumpet in the distance. The two optios immediately fell silent, straining their ears to hear. The sound repeated again, and Rhea stiffened, hand going to her blade.
“That's not an order to prepare for battle,” Lysander realized, chin lifting. “It looks like they've finally decided to show up.” He grabbed her arm. “Come on!”
They left the tent, to join the crowd of paladin gathering to watch the new comers arrive. They carried the banner of Suntheorn proudly, the golden sun waving on its white banner. Some distance behind it was another banner; a light blue emblazoned with a golden pair of angel's wings, surrounded by swirling lines- the symbol of the light mages of Elnostia. Beneath the banners marched a long procession of soldiers. Lysander ran his trained eye down the columns, searching for the standards that would tell him just who had been sent to their aid. The fourth and third legions... Along with two cohorts of battle mages. He let out a low whistle. Whatever was being planned, it had to be big...
“Lysander is that...?” Rhea pointed toward a pair of men riding toward the front of the column on white horses. One wore the white robes of a master mage, the other the white and gold armor of a top general of Suntheorn... Make that THE top general.
“Sir Nepheran!” Lysander realized, straightening. “If he's here then... Then something big is going to happen.”
She nodded slowly. “Something big, and we're going to be right in the middle of it.”