Clumsywordsmith

Where is your "writing sanctuary"?

The toilet. Nothing gets the creative juices flowing quite like dropping a big ol’ deuce.

Sengoku Space Opera

This looks pretty groovy. I’m into it.

[♛] 𝓡equiem. // the rise of soldier.

Roger that! Enjoy the show; seems you've got quite the cast of characters Here. Things open up/people leave or whatever, give me a shout.

[♛] 𝓡equiem. // the rise of soldier.

So Tuesday -- today -- is the deadline, yes? Considering putting a character together when I get home from work; would've done it earlier, but was making sure some other RPs I was involved with were well and truly dead before I got too much on my plate.

The Secret World

I had quite a bit of fun with this concept in the past. I've a suitable character and such in mind. I'm in.

Of Crusade & Conjure [Blissy & Clumsywordsmith]

(I was drowning, drowning beneath the dark blue of some frigid ocean – water filled my mouth, my lungs... each sputtering gasp a mockery of the one before, yet still my body fought. Still I could not sleep. Lungs burning with the anticipation of a breath, I forced my way upward; thrashing arms pull me toward what passes for light – a shimmer, and then!-- the uncompromising feel of solid ice against my palm. I hammer with my fist, hand gone numb even as I smash it over and over again into the unyielding stuff. And then – only then – very gradually... does my vision begin to fade. The comforting warmth of death's cold embrace rescues me from the agony. The burning in my lungs drifts far, far away even as I find my thoughts swept into the darkness of that eternal void.)

It is dusk. Last, bloodshot rays of a lingering sun drawing their fingers across the bleak horizon. The misty grey of swirling smoke and ash seep across the gaps between lengthening shadows; a chill wind is in the air, and the unearthly sound of wailing, screaming voices floats up from the wooded foothills in the distance. A great plain – sea of dark-green grass slowly growing grey in the waning light – and striking a pale path across its length, a long cobbled road. Four roads converge upon the walls of a great, gated city – four roads spiral out toward the far points of the compass. Ashala. City of emperors. City of Gods.

(Yet no gods grace us with their presence now – nor have they ever, not in the living memory of any mortal being. And instead only the unholy surge of the demonic host advancing below; the scent of death and stench of fear driven toward us with the growing winds. And we – silent grey company in the midst of Ashala's mighty host – stand ready as the wardens of old. Blades in hand, searing blaze from the light of scriven runes across helms and armour holding the darkness back. Etched totems surrounding us in a ring, and the quiet sound of the earth thrums beneath our feet with the crescendo of a slowly growing power.

The first wave crashes into the waiting men below. Fear and terror notwithstanding, the grim determination of men defending their home – their very lives and existence as a race – holds them fast. The howling abominations of the demon thralls hurl themselves upon spear and pike with abandon, three more springing to take the place of each fallen. Thus, little by little, the sons of men find themselves driven up the hill toward our eager weapons. Taking the last few yards before the crest of the hill, they fall back in good order through gaps in our own lines – fresh reserves stepping up from behind as the first defenders find time to regroup.

But it is no mere band of rebels we fight today – nor even some barbaric horde or rival empire – for the moment our men have regained the safety of their own lines, a new force is through into the fray. Monstrous beasts – hideous and huge, things of charred hide and spiteful horns – charge toward our waiting battle line. With them come the Demonic Lords: creatures of fire, ice and plague. Death stalks cloaked along the flanks, ghostly apparitions appearing just long enough to strike their hapless victims, before vanishing again to the shadows.

Our totems hold the worst of the charge at bay, creatures slowing even as the ground rumbles and shakes beneath the strain of the interwoven spells. For a moment longer it holds – rumble beneath shifting to a pulsing drone, like some huge metal cord pulled taut and then plucked.

Then it snaps. Hideous laughter screaming through in the wake of a chill wind, shards of biting ice and snow tearing across my face. Frost laces its way across the ground even as I pull closed the visor of my helmet, image of the runes burning in my mind as my I fall into the quiet contemplation of battle.)

Even as the Empire's legions give way all around, strength of man gradually fading against the advance of their relentless foes, still the fell-handed Stewards of Ashala stand their ground, closeknit wall of flesh and steel and runic wards holding back the greater press of the demon host. Still, no power might last forever against that might – and gradually, one by one, the men are cut down – glow fading from the runes as their will falters, inevitable death approaching.

Until, finally, there is only one. Struggling still. And though the charred and frozen corpses of comrades lay in a pile all about – sprinkled amongst the lumbering shapes of their fallen enemies – the figure fights still, light blazing with an unfettered fury. Bright fire of keen blade striking time and time again upon his indomitable foe. A creature – vaguely humanoid in shape – but formed of icey fire, crystalline veins pulsing with an unholy blue. Back and forth across the ruined hilltop they surge, until – at the last – even as the rune-etched blade plunges into the Demon's chest, the creature clutches at the heart of its opponent, left arm shimmering an ethereal blue as it plunges through armour and flesh alike, clawing at the plateclad breast...)

(And then I am awake again. Or so it seems. Stark grey of the Lyceum walls from my youth, stone stacked atop stone to the untidy grey of ancient slate roof. So near it seemed – yet so very far away... and I stood upon a bridge in the midst of the garden pond, and watched the edge of a raindrop go sliding down, down my finger and toward the pool of water below. Only to land with a -plop- and the little ripples of approaching laughter. Laughter. I -knew- that voice, I thought. Though when I glanced up all that I saw was the icy grin of that ever laughing demon, and the laughter drew into a long and wailing howl. The sound of glass against stone. Of ice shattering across a marble floor.

I clutch my ears, fear and panic overtaking my senses as I turn, step – bridge gone!-- and go splashing into the frigid pool below. I sink like a stone, kicking in futile protest against the weight pulling me down. The laughter only echoes louder in my ears: I was drowning, drowning beneath the dark blue of some frigid ocean – water filled my mouth, my lungs... each sputtering gasp a mockery of the one before, yet still my body fought.

Again, and again! And again the ice above... and this time – this time I stretch forth my arm, focus my will and push -through- the ice above. Come crashing through the frigid depths into the sunny warmth of another midsummer's day – and grasping for all my worth I cling to the hope of escape. The world shifts... and finally, I think, I am awake.)



It is quite without warning that the silent man – a moment ago sleeping quite peacefully -- his even, steady breaths giving no hint of the hidden turmoil within – opens his eyes with a start, gasps several times as attempting to breath underwater, before snatching at the waiting woman's arm, grip surprisingly strong for one ill so long. The slate grey of his searching eyes flit uncertainly about the room – as though he were still struggling to piece together his surroundings – until at last they seem to settle upon the woman at his bedside. It takes a moment for any kind of recognition to take hold, until eventually – some semblance of sanity seeming to return – he releases her arm, straightens a little in the cot and coughs. Manages to ask – words rasping from between ragged breaths:

“Where... is this? And who...” his gaze now returns to the woman as he bluntly continues: “Might... you be?”

Avalon: A Tale of Arthurian Legend

Yep, I'm still here.

Avalon: A Tale of Arthurian Legend

<Snipped quote by Sirrah>
The definition and usage of Sirrah came to my mind when reading that post leaving me rather confused why that guard wasn't eating his teeth after he was informed who he was dealing with. XD

@Gowi

Hah! But it'd be rather unchivalrous to punch a guard's teeth out over a reasonable mistake, don't you think? Arian's one of Arthur's Knights -- not a street thug.

And I'm doing pretty well over here, AH -- working in the AC for the rest of this stupid hot week is nice for a change. Of course, that'll all change again come Monday...

Avalon: A Tale of Arthurian Legend

(Soft scent of flowers upon the quiet air, and I knew I had arrived well before the city spires appeared upon the further rise: I found myself murmuring quietly beneath my breath, even as I urged my steed on down the winding trail to the city below:

“Rings of flowers in her hair;
Never seen, a maid so fair:
Measure once, her graceful step;
Swaying life – such...”

And then I felt the words leave me – thoughts, for a moment, lost in another time:

...Roses, covering her face – and she laughed. Sprang away from behind the bush, turned to me and looked – eyes flickering from beneath dark tresses of unruly hair.

“So slow! Not a stag, but a hog. Hog lord, we shall call you!” And then she was off again, darting through the garden greenery, words trailing away in a stream behind her: “Catch me if you might, oafish pig!” And I ran, of course. But the briars snagged at my cloak. And the branches whipped in my face. And by the time I had come to the little pond at the garden's centre she was already gone, whipsering away down the hill like a quiet wind. I panted. It was hot. Leant over the water – stagger back as I see the dead whites of those lifeless eyes staring back. Roses, indeed, covering her face: red seeping in streams from some unseen wound. But when I reach to the water she is gone – and I blink, stand with a start as a voice bursts out near at hand.

“I said, Sirrah, what business have you in Camelot?” And the face was not exactly kind – grim, dour frown with heavy hand now resting upon the hilt of his weapon. The others, too, shifted uneasily nearby. Hands inched toward bows. Fingers tapped upon spearshafts. Arian blinks several times, then coughs – straightens in the saddle and extends both hands palm outward, annoucning even as he scrabbles for the medallion about his chest:

“Sir Arian Hydd, goodman – Knight of the realm. Called forth on urgent errand to Camelot. Regent's bidding.” The guard squints, brown eyes narrowing as he eyes the silver stag held aloft in Arian's hand. He puckers up his lips, spits in the dirt nearbye before grunting in acknowledgement:

“My apologies... Sir.. please, the city is yours.” Still, the gaze that follows Arian on his way beneath the city gates is more than a little suspicious; not, perhaps, that the guard could be blamed: a few days hard ride had done his appearance little good, and were it not for the impressive horse between his legs, or the ornately ornamented sword at his side he might have appeared no more than any common thug. (I did not blame the man, at any rate – and couldn't help but wonder how long I'd been sitting there, lost in thought, before I came to – figured it was best not to know, and instead chose not to look over my shoulder as I tucked the medallion away, wound my way along the ancient city streets toward the gates of the fortress looming above.

It was much as I had rememberd it, from years since past – and indeed, in all likelihood it were me – not the city – that had changed in the time between. Quite a crowd had already begun to gather by the time I arrived, though – as I scanned the faces around me – none I recognised. Not yet, at any rate. Save Sir Delwin – though it had been many years since last we crossed paths.)

Swinging from the saddle, Arian lands amidst the swirling drape of his mud-streaked cloak with a soft crunch of the cobbles at his feet. He hands the reins to a boy nearby – tosses him a copper coin with a deft flick of his fingers – then strides toward Delwin. He offers the man something like a smile, inclining his head by way of greeting before offering his hand in a firm clasp, announcing as he does so:

“It does me well to see you again, Brother – my apologies I could not come... hmm... better appointed.” And with these words he steps back, gives a faintly self-conscious glance toward his disheveled traveling clothes, then proceeds to fall into line with the rest of those waiting before the great gates.

Avalon: A Tale of Arthurian Legend

I could hear the baying of the hounds, echoing clear across the moor – and I was running, footfalls pounding out a steady cadence against the coarse ground below. There were flames – flames in the distance – and somewhere between the scent of ash and fumes lurked the cloying stench of death. Decay. Figures appeared now upon the further hill; eyes glowing orbs in the darkness, fingers taloned claws: branching horns upon their hideous heads, and they bore down upon me even as I drew my weapons, gave a final cry and hurled myself into the fray... A great light from above. The rattle of thunder.

(And I surged from my bed with a wordless cry, axe already between my fingers – arm cocked as if to throw – and there in the doorway the little serving boy. He makes as if to speak, then his eyes go wide – from the snarling expression still wrought across my face, to the axe held aloft in my hand. I cough, slowly the lower weapon as I drag knuckles across my sleepy eyes.)

“Apologies, boy. What is it?” The boy does not respond at once. Eyes still wide, features seem caught between the decision of whether to flee or to stay – but eventually he takes a breath, steps a little further into the room and summons up the courage to speak:

“Sorry to trouble you, m'lord – but there's a man down there. Says he's to see you, m'lord.” (He goes quiet again, large brown eyes remaning locked upon the weapon still in my hand – though it is resting upon the coverlets, now. No longer the same threat. I follow his gaze. Quirk my lips into something like a smile and release the weapon, swivel about and plant my feet upon the creaking wooden floor before pushing from the bed.

“Not to worry, lad – I mean you no harm. Just... some men you'd be better careful trying to wake.” The boy nods vigourosly a few times, eyes still wide as he begins to step back from the door – gaze now fixed upon Arian's half-dressed form, running now over the ugly pattern of scars and welts that lace their way across his back and abdomen – the Knight, for his part, merely bends over to scoop up a loose fitting smock from where it had been left – crumpled – from the night before. Pulls the linen tunic over his head, wraps a belt about his waist and then shoves the axe through a loop. Gives a nod.

“Lead on. Let's meet this fellow, shall we?” The boy gives a wordless grunt, scampers off toward the crooked wooden steps leading to the inn below – the only light to be seen is that of his little lantern, amber glow pouring from between the slits in the tin visor. It is only halfway down the stairs, however, that the boy drags together a few words to speak again:

“But... but... I hadn't reckoned you for a Knight, m'Lord – my father was most awfully displeased with himself too, to discover it.. I've...” Another stutering pause. The light falters as he rounds the corner, steps down the landing and continues on:

“Been wanting to ask, though – you've kilt men, then? Kilt them -dead- like, Sir?” Arian does not respond – just gives a noncommital grunt – and not until they reach the entrance to the common room below does he turn to the boy and speak.

“Two things, boy, to keep in mind – and if they are the only two things you ever remember, it may well be enough. Firstly: “ here he raises his forefinger, eyes narrowing a bit as he continues: “One must never – under any circumstances – ask a lady how many winters she has seen... and secondly:” here he raises his second finger, eye brows raising a little as he gives the youngster a baleful stare: “Secondly, one must never ask a man about those he has slain; only a braggart will tell you... and only a fool would ever ask.” With that, he sweeps wordlessy by and steps into the dim light of the room beyond.

The inn is a quaint little place – and though small, a cheery fire still rages in the hearth even at such an ungody hour. Few patrons remain; a trio of drunkards sitting in the corner, one of their number already snoring away, head lying upon a puddle of beer in the middle of the table. The other two drinking quietly, seemingly having reached that stage where enough is enough, and yet one merely waits upon the other to admit that it is finally time to retire for the night. A pair of men playing at dice. The inkeeper, wearily mopping up the mess of a bartop.

And then the stranger – dressed in the royal tabard, face drawn and wearied. Boots spattered in mud. He turns at once to Arian as the man emerges, eyes him up and down with a dubious frown before stating:

“Sir Arian... Hydd, yes?” The knight merely nods, then plucks at the silver medallion about his neck – pulls it out briefly for the man to see.

“You have found him. What of it?”

“Word from Camelot. You are needed.” And without further comment, he extends a length of scroll – then turns toward the inkeeper and demands:

“A room for the night, fellow?” Frowning, the man shakes his head.

“Nah. Sorry, m'lord – we're full up this eve'. Unless you're keen to sleep in the stables...”

But Arian – after no more than a few moments of scanning over the scroll – simply shakes his head and remarks:

“No, not at all goodman. He can have my room. I shall not be needing it any longer.” And with that, he turns and sprints back up the rickety old steps – taking them three at a time – calls out to the drowsing boy as he rushes past: “Ready my steed, boy – and be snappish about it!”

(It takes no more than a few moments for me to ready myself. What few possessions I have already packed in my saddlebags, and all that remains is to pull on my traveling clothes, strap on my sword belt and sling the roundshield across my shoulder. My maille and helm I leave packed away – they won't be needed, I think, on the road from here to Camelot.)

And so, with the sun low at his back and shadows long before him, Sir Arian finally rides beneath the great gates of the fortess city. Camelot. City of kings and heros. It would be intriguing to see, no doubt, just what need the Lord Regent had of them. And who else would be there to answer the call.