Unraveller — Roleplayer Guild

Drip. . .

Drip. . .

Drip. . .

Blood runs thick when it ask naught be spilled. 

Or so concluded then a young knight, eyes ablaze with life, with fear. Those very same orbs marveling upon the sight before them, their knight brother lay as a sack upon the wooded battlement. That moment froze the man as it would to any green as he, sense took him again, and that squire grown dropped all the same, lest he wish a similar fate. A bolt of grotesque length driven through between the eyes held dear, no armour would stand for it.

Alarums raised, so say they a score insurmountable marching upon that Lavasian fortress-town. Cacophony played out in the ears of every man, woman, child, and beast before those paltry walls. Frantic boot-falls of the mustering brigades, both watchmen, militia, and knights as he. Calls of father to mother and mother to son, begging to quit this place 'fore the Sun sunk beyond the hills. Rhythmic, constant beating of metal upon metal, as belfrys rung of utmost intent. And yet all but one sound fell deaf to the novice's ears.

Drip. . .

Drip. . .

Drip. . .

Consumed by stupor did so he watch, watch the crimson life of a dear comrade eek as sap through bark. Pooling as slow syrup that snuck at agonizing pace through the cracks and nooks of boards below, trickling to be the first of many stains upon the mail of men in their maneuvers. 

Knew not the knight was the length at which his back settled against the palisade, dare he cared not either, save until storied words of Lord Maleagant wandered in memorium, 'Be it not blade nor beast, nor terror nor rashness as the bane of man; Inaction would you find as allied black. To do naught is to be shorn deepest, is to be harrowed to the bone. . .'

Still yet quivering under the coming duress, no spectator who had witness he then would assume Glamhoth blood. Despite the man's countenance, he was no battle-forged barbarian, and indeed it showed. Still, revitalized, legs carried without abandon for held within was the resolve that required the toking of memory. So it was. So it was. Even that night, and the countless nights thereafter amidst the Dark Crusade, paled when held aloft to the certain desolation that lay before the knight-proper now.

Drip. . .

Drip. . .

Drip. . .

The elder man-at-arms squeezed firm the final drops of his water-skein into his awaiting mouth. From atop the man's mount those sunken eyes took tally of the sanguine murk just beyond a cobbled-road's horizon. A calm, practiced breath drew in through flared nostrils just above greying bristles, the air following soon outward in a sigh. Just as swift with it, the mighted man swung down from the burden of his beast, whom chortled in response.

Laborious steps took the giant all about the saddled horse, from between lips came a light and gentle whistle. A tune both he and the beast took delight and measure in. Slowly, slowly he unclasped belt and hook, bar and reign, throwing each item aside with nary a care. The sight perhaps, were there the living to behold it, would be in no mere contrast to the black mire that lay but a few steps more. A mask, for the horse's sake, or so would the man convince himself. 

At last a horse free, the wild-haired knight stepped live to meet its visage. Whispered had he through that ever gruff, yet compassionate tone.

" Of what may beleaguer us upon the path ahead I cannot say, know however this Artur, 'Tis no place for even the stoutest of horses. Dare not protest as I know you would, turn about my steed, my friend. . . Turn about and live a life grand as only an animal could in this age."

With that, the knight too wheels around, his destination in sight. Yet he cannot help but cast a few more words to the beast behind.

"Think not toward fleeing again to Lavas, the wilds are of greater circumspect now. . . Until again we meet Artur. . . Pray it long and storied from now."

Only the hesitant clop of hooves fading away had comforted that steady advance, until even they were lost to him, hung over and left were only the profane silence of the dead whom choked the streets. The light hung low in the sky now, and even so it appeared unable to pierce the veil of miasma that lingered amidst the shattered bazaar. Ruin to ruin, husk to husk, finished he then the words of his master, ". . . Yield not your spirit to uncertainty, waylay not under duress, for even the deepest of the dark cannot overcome a man steadfast in will."

Carried the knight had the meaning to the very center of the Six Corners, what green and good there lay left gasped for life, strangling under the weight of innocent blood. 'Could spirit, could resolve alone saved these folk. . ? Nay, could it even ere madness' blade in slight?' Gerhard huffed upon his own musings, rather than elect to sop through that bog, he'd instead navigate the sea of mort flesh before him, for he could see it now, the ruinous carcass of a once grand shrine to ale. 

Without allowing his oft' wandering mind to stagnate too long upon the potential of a ruse, the well-built man stole within at gentle pace. Without the wherewithal to draw the blade from its sheath, Gerhard delves into the ashen remains, to which the first sight of life comforts those weary bones. A moment there spent in silence, squinted eyes gauging the seated, younger man. However, before the other could speak, the knight made to cast his cape of blue abaft, gesturing an arm below the chest in a bow, as the proper folk are aught to do. And with it, a cascade of his soft-spoken accent.

"Deign we to meet under such gloom, see I that neither feast nor rest are to avail us this day. Nevertheless, before you now, Ser Brandt of the Lavasian order, under charge of knight-commander Maleagant. Assume you just as ignorant as I to this tragedy fresh?"

The grim stoicism of this circumstance certainly does not escape from the elder man's demeanor, yet still, upon that worn down face remains the warmth he ever casts. Knew not he, what fate would befall him that day, nor the days soon after. . .
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