3905C RG

Unlikely Heroes <|> Medieval Low Fantasy

Saamir Syed,

Cowfallow Bridge

Saamir flailed the cleaver awkwardly in one hand; blinded as he was by the immense pain coming from his nose, and the minor concussion the Orc had gifted him. And then there was a sickening crunch, and Saamir managed to regain his vision. The Orc fell forwads with its head gruesomely cloven in two. Kordo the Ogre stood above him, flashing his stupid smile like a three year old taking to the chamber pot.

"Kordo, you big lovely thing," Saamir said, trying to smile despite the pain in his nose. "Such timing!"

"Saamir, Horace, Kordo give us a hand!” called a familiar voice from elsewhere in the melee.

Saamir peered around, blood seeping through the fingers of the hand that covered his nose. His eyes fell on Mill Grayer; a fellow farmhand a few years Saamir's junior.

Mill was in trouble, waving his scythe in an arc of not-death at an advancing band of Orcs. Other farmhands were at his side, trying to keep the greenskins from breaking through - but they were failing. Saamir knew that he'd have to take action now, or the battle would be lost in the blink of an eye.

And at that moment, Mill recoiled from a bone-shaking head butt from a greenskin that had managed to creep inside his scythe's range. Saamir cast aside the need for thought, and sprinted forwards, shoving a farmhand to the ground, and miraculously dodging the spear thrust from an Orc.

He came upon Mill, just as the boy's adversary was about to deliver a mortal blow to his skull.

"Turn Hell Hound, turn!" Saamir spat, holding his cleaver in both hands despite the burning pain in his face.

The Orc spun, flashed its large yellow incisors, and then came at Saamir in a flurry of axe blows. Saamir hopped backwards as if dancing, moving his hips left and right in an attempt to avoid the massive swings from his opponent's axe. The Orcs had so far proven themselves fierce monsters, but they had little restraint in their attacks. This was something Saamir was quickly grasping.

He moved aside an overhead swing that fractured the wooden planks beneath his feet - and it was time. With a quick but furious action, he pulled the cleaver across in a horizontal line, catching the Orc in the right shoulder. It bellowed some unintelligible curse, and pulled its axe free. Saamir felt he should move backwards again, but something else, some savage animal instinct abandoned long ago by his ancestors, whispered ever so slightly to him.

"Kill"

Saamir stuck again, slicing apart the Orc's face. It screamed - maybe cried? - and staggered backwards, a flap of flesh hanging from its left cheek. Saamir did not let up, and hacked repeatedly until the beast finally went down in a pool of darkening blood.

By now, the Orc line was faltering, and they were withdrawing from the bridge. The compact fighting environment was hindering their berserker-tastes, and they goaded the farmhands to follow them. The streets of Cowfallow were but mud and thatch, and gave wide birth for wagons and market stalls. They'd make excellent killing grounds for warriors who were used to slicing their way through a formation of men on the battlefield.

"Careful brothers," Saamir said breathlessly, leaning against Mill for support. "They'll have the upper hand on open ground. Tread lightly."

And then he remembered his father was still in Cowfallow - if he yet lived.

"On second thoughts," he wheezed. "Chase them down. If they see us halt our attack, it'll steel them. We don't want them to be steeled."

Unlikely Heroes <|> Medieval Low Fantasy

EDIT: Scratch that, I'm back online. Well that was an experience I don't wanna ever repeat for the rest of my adult life.

^ To those who weren't here earlier, I lost my internet connection due to some paying issues but it's now been resolved after much aggro.

Unlikely Heroes <|> Medieval Low Fantasy

Saamir Syed,

Cowfallow Bridge

Saamir's stomach heaved with nausea, courtesy of the Orc's gut punch that he'd recieved just moments before. The large cleaver that Horace had handed him felt heavier than anything he'd ever had to swing, but it was a down sight better option than the rusty sickle.

Two Orc warriors, their teeth gnashing white spittle everywhere, advanced on Saamir and Horace - suddenly cautious now that Cowfallow's inhabitants had felled a few of their kind.

"Ready," Saamir wheezed over the pain in his stomach. "May Kalem hold the gateway open for us just a little longer."

With that, Saamir threw himself at the foremost Orc in the way that only a bar brawler could. There was no method to his attack, no practicsed finesse, just sheer bloody-minded offense. He brought the cleaver against the Orc's wooden buckler, and found himself rebounding with twice the force; his adversary struck forwards with a sabre, but Saamir managed to step aside the fatal strike.

"Not bad," the Orc grunted, jugling its sabre in one hand. "For filth."

"I could say the same," Saamir said, his eyes narrowing.

The Orc took offense, and roared. It came at him, striking again and again, and Saamir was hard pressed to parry the attacks. The cleaver in his hands rattled with each impact of steel-on-steel, and his fingers quickly grew numb. For a moment, he feared he'd simply drop the weapon, but he managed to maintain his grip.

"Die, die, die!" The Orc bellowed, backing away momentarily. It brought up its buckler, and stood sideways on with Saamir. "You look thirsty," it said, sneering.

Before Saamir could retort, the hulking beast-man charged him with the flat face of its buckler aimed for his chest. Saamir stepped aside, leaving his left foot extended, and the Orc tripped. There was a huge crash as the sturdy wooden railing gave way to the creature's weight, and moments later, there was a splash far below.

Saamir turned rapidly, and saw the second Orc advancing on Horace. He also saw, through the clearing smoke and the rushing forms, that his comrades were fairing better than he thought possible. Half a dozen Orc dead littered the bridge -- though more than a dozen farmhands joined them.

"Push them back," Saamir called above the racket of battle. "Fear is our greatest enemy, these beasts cannot prevail against bravery!"

He felt stupid for saying it, but a rush of adrenaline made him not care too much.

As the second Orc rounded on Horace, Saamir appeared on its left, and swung. The Orc parried the cleaver, and punched Saamir across the face; he stumbled away clutching a broken nose.

Unlikely Heroes <|> Medieval Low Fantasy

Kordo, of the the Dunemail clan

@Zaresto

Accepted :D Welcome aboard!

Gerly Smith

@Crazy Doctor

Accepted. To keep the others in the loop: Gerly is a blacksmith, out in the fields fixing a plough. Not quite a farmhand, but it's keeping in line with things so I've allowed it.

Thekk

@DecadentDevil

And here comes Mr. Rain Cloud! Accepted :)

---

Ite, I'll be getting up mah post in a little while. Lemme go read what's happened since Saamir got bitch slapped by an Orc.

Why do you RP?

Pretty much what you said, in a roleplay environment you have total freedom to do whatever you want. There are no restrictions; your imagination is the limit - barring an RP's specific tastes.

Writing stories is like playing single player on a video game; sure it's fun, but after a while, you realise that all your characters are constricted by how you think - no matter how hard you try to instil yourself with a foreign thought pattern. Kinda like how bots in video games always follow the same logic, no matter how good they are, and they become predictable.

RPing is like going back to the main menu, and hitting the multiplayer button. You come up against characters and writing styles your own brain would never have been able to conceive if it only practised against itself, just like in video games you come across players that employ tactics and skills you'd of never encountered if you were stuck on single player ;)

Then you take those skills you learnt from the pros on multiplayer, and kick single player to the curb with them. :D

Unlikely Heroes <|> Medieval Low Fantasy

There we go.

I've given at least one person a jumping in point, if they want it :D

EDIT: Just to clarify, the bridge is mingled with fleeing villagers, and the first of the Orcs who have caught up with them - so it's total chaos at this point. The rest of the Orcs are either in the village, or still making their way to the bridge. We're not exactly facing a battle line at this point, just some of the advance party.

Unlikely Heroes <|> Medieval Low Fantasy

Saamir Syed,

On the Cowfallow Bridge

Saamir threw himself aside of a panic-stricken mother and her child, who rushed past him with little regard to the world around her. Her face seemed familiar, but no name came. A shoulder struck him hard, stumbling him - a man in his middle years brushing by in a fit of terror - Saamir knew him as Torick the fletcher.

This was crazy! What was he doing here? On the bridge? If everyone was fleeing the Orcs, then that was a sure sign that he wasn't going to stand more than a second. He was just one man, with a rusted sickle. His mind screamed at him to run, but his feet wouldn't budge. He had to find his father, no matter what. If he ran now, he'd never forgive himself.

"Besides," he mumbled with half a smile. "All men must die, and all men will be born anew."

His little monologue stirred him into bravery. He moved aside a couple of running youngsters, their faces wet with tears, their voices hoarse from screaming.

"Father!" Saamir called, moving forwards across the bridge, doing his best not to get run down by the fleeing villagers. "Father! It's Saamir!"

An elderly man passed by, slower than the rest, and Saamir grabbed him. "Oron," Saamir yelled above the screams and the crackle of flaming thatch. "Have you seen my father?"

Oron's creased features were blank, but eventually he shook his head.

"Very well," Saamir said. "Go, me and the others shall hold them off."

And just like that, an Orc's cleaver sung across the air, and Oron's aged face flew from his neck. Dark blood spurted like a fountain, drenching Saamir and blinding him. He stumbled backwards, his heart frozen, his mouth stammering panicked mutters - his beliefs in Kalem temporarily forgotten.

"Human!" the Orc roared, pounding its chest. "Show me you are made of something. Your kin have failed my expectations spectacularly!"

Saamir ran his sleeve across his eyes, clearing the sticky-red life force of Oron from his vision. He caught the glimpse of a menacing figure; all black leather and scaly green skin. Saamir had never seen an Orc before, and looking up at his adversary's menacing and toothy grin, he wished he hadn't.

"Why are you killing us?" Saamir sneered, spitting Oron's blood from his mouth. "Why!?"

The Orc, at least a foot taller than Saamir, released an earthly laugh that shook its armour with the force. It stopped briefly, to shove a woman from the bridge who had the misfortune of running past it, and then it calmed. "For sport, why else?"

"I just want my father, have the damned village," Saamir said, the sickle suddenly feeling heavy in his hand. "You must understand mercy?"

The Orc regarded Saamir for a few moments, and then smiled broadly. "I understand death, human, and I am it: I am death, come for thee. Fight and die, or flee and die, it's your choice!"

Saamir made to speak again, but the hulking creature was on him. The cleaver swung through the air from an overhead strike, and Saamir darted aside it; wooden planks splintered and cracked half a second later. In return, Saamir struck with his sickle, but the Orc spun quicker than any creature that size had the right of doing. A knotted green fist clenched his wrist, stopping the sickle in its tracks, and then Saamir felt an explosion in his stomach. His vision faded for a few seconds.

And then he was staring up at the blue sky; the din of battle alive around him. He coughed hard as he tried to raise himself, expecting that the Orc would at any moment finish him off.

Unlikely Heroes <|> Medieval Low Fantasy

Gnorlin Sparklebrow

@Flynn

Hogun Shantrix

@Algorhythm

Both accepted, great contributions!

---

Okay, I think we have enough to at least push the boat from the shore. We'll no doubt garner some more interest once the lurkers see how things are going to go down.

For those who read the intro, they'd of noticed that "one hundred and twenty feet" were mentioned, this is referring to sixty farmhands who head back from the fields to help the village. Some of those left when they saw what was happening, but some have stayed.

Let's say, in total, we've got about thirty-forty farmhands standing on the bridge. These NPCs are mere cannon fodder, watch them die or save them at will - or forge secondary characters from them should you wish. Their main purpose however, will be the faceless mass from which new players can spring from during the initial foray.

After the Battle of Cowfallow, any new characters will come from the villagers that fled to safety, but found their resolve late, turned, and tracked down those that held the bridge.

If there's any questions or queries, shout them out as we go, I'll do my best to answer.

Unlikely Heroes <|> Medieval Low Fantasy

Jack daggerswift

@Blizz

Sure, welcome aboard.

Mill Grayer

@Decker126

Excellent sheet, accepted :)

Unlikely Heroes <|> Medieval Low Fantasy

I also added some lore, with the Achlemey books, would stuff like that be ok?

@AbysmalDemon

Yup, everything looks fine to me now. Thanks for changing stuff, I know it's annoying sometimes.

Accepted :)