24-07-2012, 08:27 AM
(This post was last modified: 28-07-2012, 01:11 PM by Shaman Oren of Staghelm.)
This is a rough prelude to a novel based upon the Mod Nord Invasion for Mount and Blade warband. With permission/request your name/character will be written into the novel. Provided you write a mild Bio below for me to properly depict them. This prelude takes place in the Nordic mountains. A one sided battle between the Nordic Staghelm Clan and a wayward Swadian Unit. This prelude is a work in progress as well as scenes from chapter one. If you would like to be put into the tale please write a Bio Including:
Name:
Class:
Gear "looks":
Age:
Gender:
House *if applicable:
Personality:
Requested Literic Role *Good guy, bad guy, stagnant, dynamic etc. etc.:
Like a spectral veil the snow was, white and calm upon restless grounds; Blown by whispering winds that carried a voice of mourning. No sun shown upon the ground this day as glowering clouds cast their dissaproval down upon helms of Staghelm. As they decend, cold flakes come to rest upon blackened, battered, dark helms. The men below silent, a graveyard of the living as they await. With stone hands they grasp their spears, the mists of a thousand breathes rise as a prayer to the valkyr for those about to die. Eyes stare forward across the snow clad valley, shimmering and desolate. At the tip of the nordic spear he stood. Mail and axe adorning a man standing as a lone tree in a field of grass, grand and tall in his stature. Weathered skin lies still over his relaxed body as he awaits his prey. Through fur and steel he gazes at the foe, astride tempered beasts of war, lances, swords and helms disturbing the serene grace of the snowy theatre. This man, this monster, clad in naught but wolf skin and steel glared, sickened, angered by the presence of that wich did not belong... Southerners in northern land. Jarl Asgrim of the Staghelm, head of staglend, Captain of the Nordic kingdom was his name and title by blood, at his right hand his lifetime friend and shaman, Oren Ashwood of Crooked Tree.
The two men now readied themselves, chain and bitter axe head prepared for its right, longbow and readied eyes prepared for their targets. Their foes did not see the hatred in their eyes, only a pack of hungry wolves, ready to spring the trap. It was not a mighty below, a triumphant warcry, or even a call forward that begun this battle. Twas a silent, determined... hateful nod by the mighty Jarl that drew the first blood; for with this nod, the Gothi Oren drew his bow and let fly a hard capped bodkin, striking loosened snow and gravel. Thus the mountainside above the valley let loose its fury, a flume of natures wrath descending upon the wide eyed imperial soldiers. Their shields and training served nothing against the roar of the mountain, for with snow, ice and stone the flesh of the unworthy was claimed. After a thundering crash that seemed to last minutes, there was silence. One of the imperial men, a sergeant, luck y enough to be swallowed but not consumed dragged himself from snow, looking up for his Gods with forsaken eyes as he saw them, a dark wave of Staghelm wolf Soldiers charging across the field. With a lowered jaw and widened eyes he stared at them, dark, covered in furs and rattling steel, their hands like aching claws, shining axe heads sharp and murderous as their hunched bodies swiftly moved over the familiar land. They truly moved as a pack of wolves, ebbing, flowing, shifting and turning as one. Looking about for his shield and side arm the sergeant readied himself, relieved to see a considerable amount of survivors pulling themselves together.
With a cry of desperation he roused his men and grouped them in time to meet the savage animals.
"Our shields will hold, made of the finest oak and cypress, crafted by master imperial armories, there is nothing that will break our lines" The sergeant convinced himself. His mind was rattled, defeaned, the roar of the mountain having stolen his wit from him. It was not a battle that ensued as the ravenous northerners met their foe. There was no glory, there was no honor, for this was not a battlefield... Upon this hillside there was blood, the blood of prey that strayed into the wolves den...
"our shields and swords are of the finest quality, our men of the utmost noble blood and training, we cannot lose... we cannot lose... please..." The sergeant continued to convince himself as the Jarl's axe split his shield. He rose his sword in defense, broken... slivers and shards descending to the knows under his mighty blows. Even as Asgrim's axe bit into his flesh, claiming blood and bone in its wake the Imperial sergeant continued to convince himself. Panic and fear had taken his mind in the wake of that dark place. For it had dawned upon him wence the mountain come down that he was not welcome in this place... A lone survivor looked on in horror, snow still descended quietly to the ground, screams and gurgles came to rest, and the dark banner of staghelm retreated back into the unforgiving mountains. Swadian horses and men now lied before him, reduced to nothing more then meat and blood. As his eyes trailed the butchery before him he came to tears; the last banner of swadia in this northern waste lied before him. Kneeling, he scooped it up into his hands... ripped and torn, caked in the northern frost and ice.
"Is this the fate of those who tempt the northerners..." His shattered mind pondered as he gazed down at the ruins of the once glorious banner... fear filled his mind as the ice claimed its final swadian victim, thoughts of despair came to him and spoke prophesy as he came to rest in his frozen tomb.
"We have provoked a beast that we cannot contain..."
Feel free to PM me with constructive criticism or post below so long as negativity is not part of your "criticism"
Name:
Class:
Gear "looks":
Age:
Gender:
House *if applicable:
Personality:
Requested Literic Role *Good guy, bad guy, stagnant, dynamic etc. etc.:
Into the Jaws of Wolves
Like a spectral veil the snow was, white and calm upon restless grounds; Blown by whispering winds that carried a voice of mourning. No sun shown upon the ground this day as glowering clouds cast their dissaproval down upon helms of Staghelm. As they decend, cold flakes come to rest upon blackened, battered, dark helms. The men below silent, a graveyard of the living as they await. With stone hands they grasp their spears, the mists of a thousand breathes rise as a prayer to the valkyr for those about to die. Eyes stare forward across the snow clad valley, shimmering and desolate. At the tip of the nordic spear he stood. Mail and axe adorning a man standing as a lone tree in a field of grass, grand and tall in his stature. Weathered skin lies still over his relaxed body as he awaits his prey. Through fur and steel he gazes at the foe, astride tempered beasts of war, lances, swords and helms disturbing the serene grace of the snowy theatre. This man, this monster, clad in naught but wolf skin and steel glared, sickened, angered by the presence of that wich did not belong... Southerners in northern land. Jarl Asgrim of the Staghelm, head of staglend, Captain of the Nordic kingdom was his name and title by blood, at his right hand his lifetime friend and shaman, Oren Ashwood of Crooked Tree.
The two men now readied themselves, chain and bitter axe head prepared for its right, longbow and readied eyes prepared for their targets. Their foes did not see the hatred in their eyes, only a pack of hungry wolves, ready to spring the trap. It was not a mighty below, a triumphant warcry, or even a call forward that begun this battle. Twas a silent, determined... hateful nod by the mighty Jarl that drew the first blood; for with this nod, the Gothi Oren drew his bow and let fly a hard capped bodkin, striking loosened snow and gravel. Thus the mountainside above the valley let loose its fury, a flume of natures wrath descending upon the wide eyed imperial soldiers. Their shields and training served nothing against the roar of the mountain, for with snow, ice and stone the flesh of the unworthy was claimed. After a thundering crash that seemed to last minutes, there was silence. One of the imperial men, a sergeant, luck y enough to be swallowed but not consumed dragged himself from snow, looking up for his Gods with forsaken eyes as he saw them, a dark wave of Staghelm wolf Soldiers charging across the field. With a lowered jaw and widened eyes he stared at them, dark, covered in furs and rattling steel, their hands like aching claws, shining axe heads sharp and murderous as their hunched bodies swiftly moved over the familiar land. They truly moved as a pack of wolves, ebbing, flowing, shifting and turning as one. Looking about for his shield and side arm the sergeant readied himself, relieved to see a considerable amount of survivors pulling themselves together.
With a cry of desperation he roused his men and grouped them in time to meet the savage animals.
"Our shields will hold, made of the finest oak and cypress, crafted by master imperial armories, there is nothing that will break our lines" The sergeant convinced himself. His mind was rattled, defeaned, the roar of the mountain having stolen his wit from him. It was not a battle that ensued as the ravenous northerners met their foe. There was no glory, there was no honor, for this was not a battlefield... Upon this hillside there was blood, the blood of prey that strayed into the wolves den...
"our shields and swords are of the finest quality, our men of the utmost noble blood and training, we cannot lose... we cannot lose... please..." The sergeant continued to convince himself as the Jarl's axe split his shield. He rose his sword in defense, broken... slivers and shards descending to the knows under his mighty blows. Even as Asgrim's axe bit into his flesh, claiming blood and bone in its wake the Imperial sergeant continued to convince himself. Panic and fear had taken his mind in the wake of that dark place. For it had dawned upon him wence the mountain come down that he was not welcome in this place... A lone survivor looked on in horror, snow still descended quietly to the ground, screams and gurgles came to rest, and the dark banner of staghelm retreated back into the unforgiving mountains. Swadian horses and men now lied before him, reduced to nothing more then meat and blood. As his eyes trailed the butchery before him he came to tears; the last banner of swadia in this northern waste lied before him. Kneeling, he scooped it up into his hands... ripped and torn, caked in the northern frost and ice.
"Is this the fate of those who tempt the northerners..." His shattered mind pondered as he gazed down at the ruins of the once glorious banner... fear filled his mind as the ice claimed its final swadian victim, thoughts of despair came to him and spoke prophesy as he came to rest in his frozen tomb.
"We have provoked a beast that we cannot contain..."
Feel free to PM me with constructive criticism or post below so long as negativity is not part of your "criticism"