Lord Wyron

The Fall of Scorned [A Fantasy Adventure]

@Lord Zee I've no issue with that, but I can't promise I won't get impatient sometimes XD

The Fall of Scorned [A Fantasy Adventure]

Now, I know I announce this with all of my posts, but I have the explanation that I write most of my posts late at night (and this one at almost 2 in the morning) so, again, if I missed anyone or got any sequence out of order that I need to correct, please let me know! I keep an alternate IC tab open when I'm writing posts so I can go down the line and add onto my own in a sequential order, but as with all things, I am susceptible to human error! Otherwise, my post is there!!

The Fall of Scorned [A Fantasy Adventure]

Present-Day Reflections

Brennen waited but a moment longer to ensure Kean sprang into action. The younger man looked as tired by the road as any of them had, but his quickness on the uptake impressed Brennen. The horses were disciplined, dauntless, but the Scorned seemed to wield a power more terrible than fang or poison: fear. Terror strong enough to send some men quivering to their knees. Perhaps it was the utter unholiness of their appearance; their untamed, feral savageness as the Blight, its vines, tore at them.

As the attack began, almost immediately, the tall Fae and pallid boy-priest performed some sort-of dark spell or ritual. Shadows gathered about the priest, dispersing like forks to seize the other adventurers. Brennen cursed under his breath, stepping away as if to avoid the tendrils of darkness seeping towards him. This darkness, this 'magic' as it were; no good words were spoken of it in the Bog, though its practice remained infamous. Divination by fire was common among the tribes' wise-men-and-women, reading flame to discern divine messages, predict the future. But even amongst them, superstitious fanatics began associating pyromancy with the shadows their fires cast on the ground, and pursued darker arts; communing with spirits, summoning shadows, manipulating another's Inner Flame to return them from death. Those pagans' reign of terror was short-lived, snuffed out quickly by the other tribesmen, but their ill-fame-and-fortune left a black stain on the tribes' history, like a weeping wound refusing to heal.

Suddenly, the light surrounding them vanished entirely, centered around a tiny bead that was floating in the tall Fae's palm. Brennen's earlier cautiousness became anger as a wave of cold washed over him. But before he could try and rebuke the currently-hovering Fae, the bead in her hand turned to a ray that disintegrated the Scorned monstrosity, along with a substantial part of the treeline.

As if pleased with the result, the Fae asserted her proclamation as 'Greatest Sorceress of the Brightwood Grove', yet fell to the ground with a 'thud' before her sentence could be finished.

As light returned, Brennen quickly resumed corralling the other horses with the ones he and Kean had already gathered, but not before saying to the Fae, with accusatory venom, "That is no sorcery." His voice did not raise, or possess any immediately notable anger, but it nevertheless seemed to speak volumes of his own displeasure, the suspicion surrounding the kind-of magic displayed before him.

The break in battle was short-lived, wrought with fear, as five more wolves burst through the dark woods, three of them now driven hairless by the plague that contorted their bodies and decayed their minds. The Templar found himself waylaid by one of the wolves, while one of the hairless mongrels licked at non-existent lips dripping froth and venomous drool, sizing the Pyromancer up-and-down.

Saying nothing, Brennen's mouth twisted to a scowl of rage, a low growl from deep in his throat seeming to answer the wolf in kind. Flexing his fingers in anticipation, a ball of fire materialized in his left hand, glowing and crackling brightly as it fed on his anger as he faced the monstrosity. With a sudden snarl, the wolf lunged at Brennen in a single bound, who in turn hurled the ball of fire from his hand, letting it collide mid-air with the wolf; who's guttural screech devolved into yelps and whimpers of pain as the flames gorged themselves on flesh and vegetation, leaving the beast to keep screaming that horrifyingly human-like scream.

Brennen drew the hand-axe at his side with his right hand and, without a moment's hesitation, swung the blade down on the Scorned's skull with a sickening 'crunch', and the screaming stopped. In a moment of defiance, of challenge, maybe, Brennen used his foot to kick the still-burning corpse on its back; the shadows of night blending with the sickly-black smoke, obscuring most of his hooded face from view. Yet his reply burned in the firelight.

The Fall of Scorned [A Fantasy Adventure]

Hey everyone! Just started a new job, so I've been pretty busy this weekend, but I'll try and have a post up by tonight, barring anything happening!

The Fall of Scorned [A Fantasy Adventure]

Present-Day Reflections

Brennen had never ridden a horse before. The Bog was treacherous, best trekked on foot. Winding, discombobulating paths and unstable ground would turn even the hardiest horses into a feast for the Bog's more bestial inhabitants. The look in his eyes screamed uncertainty as he slowly - maybe even warily approached one that stuck out to him, a thoroughbred blood-bay, sturdy and sinewy. The creature looked back on him with black, penetratingly empathetic eyes that seemed to pierce through him like a clean blade. Brennen outstretched a callused, dark hand, placing it on the creature's forehead and rubbing up and down slowly. The horse, as if sensing Brennen's uncertainty, nickered quickly, shaking its head briefly.

Brennen's hesitation had turn into resolve after having broken the barrier of touch. A few of the tribes back home had emphasized the domestication of creatures in the Bog, most typically being the packs of red wolves that inhabited the dryer grasslands outside the marshes. Those tribes seemed to base their entire culture around the domestication and taming of the wolves, using them as hunting aides, companions, and even clothing or raw materials for those that didn't survive. The Bog worked like that. Respect-to-the-dead was an unknown concept to the Pyromancers who emphasized pragmatism above all else. Fallen warriors had their bodies searched for useful resources, weapons, or anything else that might help the survivors last a little longer. Personal effects were left be, and once peace came, their corpses would be cremated, ashes discarded to the tribe's campfire so they may join Valaista forever, truly one with their Inner Fire.

But Brennen could feel something of a bond with this particular horse, despite his complete and utter ignorance in how he would actually ride it. He was thankful, at least, that the horses were already cleaned and saddled. After grabbing a pack, he made the first, among several attempts to mount it, inwardly cursing himself at each failure. He felt like a child, idiotically failing even the simplest of tasks. But finally, he managed to awkwardly step into the horse's saddle, incurring another annoyed nicker from the creature. Soon, the company was off, with Brennen trailing at the end of the line, struggling in silence to control the horse's movement.

The traffic of people from all different walks of life fleeing to Dramon filled Brennen with a sense of sober reflection. The threat of annihilation, the most terrible kind-of death had swiftly eliminated petty ideals of classism and social elitism. There was unity now in a mutual enemy, civilization falling back to the tribes. But as the party seemed to be the only group riding towards the danger, it gave off the instinctive sense of dread. Riding into the storm.

As night fell and the Templar dismounted, Brennen grimaced from the ache in his legs and thighs. On foot he could walk miles more than most men without complaint, face hazardous trails with agile quickness. But here he was disadvantaged, outside his element. The road would make swift work of him, were he not able to rise faster.

But everything stopped once that scream pierced through the edge of the forest. In that moment, Brennen remembered the Bog. Those screams all around him, bleeding with the screams from his own brothers and sisters in haunting chorus - the swamp set on fire, scattering the treeline like stars come to earth. How terrifyingly human, yet inhuman at the same time. Endless waves of monsters emerging from the darkness, scores of them burnt to cindered corpses, yet two scores more behind that one. Their screams, noises had stayed in Brennen's head, even longer after they were dead. And now they had come back.

"Scorned." Brennen declared, unaware he was speaking aloud as he swiftly dismounted his horse, temporarily unaware of his fatigue as his body was renewed with adrenaline. Without thinking, he reached to draw his axe, clenching it tightly, ashed knuckles turning white. His fingers tingled, twitching as he felt flame stoke from within, wanting to be let out. There was no telling how many Scorned he, and others had killed in the days before the tribe fell. Fire destroyed them easily enough, as it cleansed nearly all it touched. But still, more would come.

Then It emerged - a large wolf, twisted and deformed by the rot that plagued the Scorned, plagued the Mountain. The unholy fusion of vegetation and flesh, the lesser of both parties.

"Brennen, Kean, secure the horses away from here! The rest of you, get ready. Don't let it get a hold of you, or you're as good as dead."

The Templar's commands sent Brennen into swift action, using his free hand to grab his horse's reins and pull it back from the road, strength normally unbecoming of him giving his actions ease.

"Take them to the other side of the road!" Brennen shouted to Kean. The open space would make it easier to corral the horses, keep eyes on the Scorned. But whatever plan he had, they would need to act fast and decisively.

The Fall of Scorned [A Fantasy Adventure]

@jdh97 Oh shit, sorry to keep you waiting, my friend! My thought process has been 10% current post, 90% random-ass-side-flashback-character-who's-a-semi-blatant-homage-to-one-of-my-favorite-video-game-characters-who-I-can-cram-in-for-my-own-fun

The Fall of Scorned [A Fantasy Adventure]

I'll try and get a post up by tomorrow!

The Fall of Scorned [A Fantasy Adventure]

Nothing to worry about here! The group's just reaching Fellowship of the Ring size, so we're still A-okay, I'd wager!

The Fall of Scorned [A Fantasy Adventure]

@Lord Zee Nope! Don't mind that! Just so long as we can get this thing rolling!

The Fall of Scorned [A Fantasy Adventure]

Present-Day Reflections

Brennen paid little heed to the others who more-quietly chose their Artifacts, but did turn his attention to Sue's slightly-more dramatic approach. The staff she summoned seemed familiar to her, carrying at least some-sort of awareness. There had been tales, rumors told of powerful enchanters and warlocks capable of imbuing items with basic cognizance, perhaps even true self-awareness; but such magics were old and unfamiliar to Brennen. The Pyromancers weren't like other sorcerers, seeking to unravel all the universe's secrets through mysticism, mastering the fundaments of reality itself. Their magic was primal, wielding the forces of nature. If their magic could not aid the tribe then it served no purpose. There were some especially gifted Pyromancers, Brennen recalled, that pursued the enigmatic art of controlling poison, foul vapors, and toxins. But these few, like all Pyromancers, took their power from the world around them, wielding it as a humble part of it.

As the Emperor bid the adventurers farewell and departed, Brennen could almost-immediately sense a sort-of tension fall upon the throne room. Each of them may have been guided by the same conflict, but motive, purpose, and methodology were all different. They may-as-well have all been foreigners in unity. All that remained as echo of the Emperor's Will was the Templar, faceless and stoic.

Then tension turned to conflict, as the Templar's first commands issued were met with questioning, surprisingly enough, from the Orc-Woman. Her initial reluctant deference in front of the Emperor had faded, replaced by the sharp burning of molten steel. Though he knew little of their history, Brennen understood that zeal, that fire. Orcs, like the tribes of the Bog, valued strength - strength of mind, body, and will. The tribes' way of life had hammered that message in. If one was to lead, whether leading tribe, family, or self, they must be strong, cunning, disciplined, with the respect from both self and others in order to truly lead. The Templar may indeed have strength solidified behind his layers of steel, gold, and chainmail. But to the Orc-woman at least, it would have to be demonstrated. Brennen could respect such practices.

Her mistrust was shared by Kean, who seemed more amused by Adra's bluntness than anything else. He remembered the stories of the oldest tribes; growling, fraying against each other, fighting for leadership. They were more savage back then, willing to use blade, fire, and poison against themselves. This tribe was no different.

But the fires of opposition would fade soon, once the kindling ran out.

The Templar was quick to retort in kind, drawing his proverbial blade, striking to counter as a serpent would; looking for gaps, chinks within the armor, attacking personal area. It was effective, if cruel in Brennen's mind. The Chieftain, even one merely temporarily in command for battle, must rise above those disputes, and serve as a rock for all the tribe to follow, to look up to.

In that moment, Brennen felt a pang of pain deep in his chest, a sharp bitterness as he recalled those words echoing from his father's dead lips - preparing him to lead someday. Yet here he was, not a chieftain but a vagrant, a mercenary chosen to die combating a cataclysm. He, himself failed to lead as he should have, and it left him here. Alone.

Brennen stamped out the bitterness almost as quickly as it arrived, turning his attention to the present. The conflict seemed to die down, the group trickling towards the door behind the Templar, and Brennen followed, comforted by the warmth of the pendant deep within the folds of his robes.

He chose not to speak to anyone, not yet at least, he had nothing to say that would contribute anything to the group at hand. But he kept watch, eyes alert on the road that would-be-ahead. If this tribe was to succeed, it would require everyone's talents and skills, including his own. Though he, alone, may carry the history of the Pyromancers, he would share that history, carry its memory for a little longer.