28-07-2012, 01:10 PM
Blood Brothers...
The smell of spring flowers filled the air, wind blew gently through leather, steel, and fur. The sun, peeking around clouds watched down as the men of Stag-helm, remnant of Swadia Heroes of the land gathered with spear and sword and axe at the ready, prepared to meet their gods in glory. As lazy clouds passed by one could hear horns of war blowing and the howling of the winter Worgs. The Stag-helm resistance was now near the Rhodok border, a river between them and the trackers of Sargoth, an elite force of Worg tamers and riders. The day was clear, sunny, fresh from a night of soft warm rain. The smell of spring was a welcome fragrance... soon to be mired with the scent of blood, shit, and the bowels of man and beast. Across the river from the Swadian army stood rank after rank after rank of Sargothian Worgs and their spiteful masters. These were no run of the mill soldiers. Expert hunters, ruthless and cruel. They spent their days raising blood hungry wolves with the purpose of eating the flesh of man. They had been sent from the cold north with one purpose... feast upon the stag... With bow and spear they waited, forming ranks of horse and wolf, their helms ragged and animalistic with bone and fur adorning them, some wore the shaven faces of their kills, a ghastly and grim site for those they would face. The entirety of their army reeked of blood and beast. They've been blowing their horns for hours now, pounding on drums wildly as they intoxicated themselves with dark poultices. Drugged, blood thirsty, wild... these men were ready to dine upon those opposite of them, or die trying.
Facing them from the hill opposite the river stood the men of Stag-helm, hardened warriors of the far north, the knights of Swadia, and the mercenaries who have come to not only fight for gold... but their homes. As well as the Stag-helm banner flew a banner of Swadia The Pandion knights also let their flag aloft, several of their surviving warriors alight with righteous fury at the enemy now raping their beloved home. Amongst their ranks stood Wolf's blood, Gashy, a man referred to as “the working class hero” for his time spent aiding the poor and destitute and more often called Worker, another fellow simply called “guy the blades-man”, and the fiery Murrow Their banner waved hard in the winds above their heads and despite the grim nature of their business here they continued to joke around, wolf's blood and his friend punching and paling around despite Murrow's obvious disgust. They had all been friends for a long time, nicknaming each-other, fighting and bleeding together... they were family defined. Along with the banner-men and knights of Pandion, stood several auxiliaries Sir Talgion, the self proclaimed defender of cheese, mentally damaged as a boy and molded into a white knight figure stood next to sir William the gladiator, a stoic and foreboding young man who's armor and weapons revealed his profession well. For in his right hand rested the blade known as “Swadia's hope” and in his left was the shield passed down to him by his fathers “royal shield”. He was a hopeful lad, carrying the last of his blood line. Despite the burden upon him to be great and honor his fathers' he was happy and always carried himself without fear.
At the tip of their formation was Jarl Asgrim of Stag-helm, his Gothi and Brother Oren of Ashwood with his Lover Artisia Derya who rode atop her mighty steppe horse “dawn stride” with bow and saber at the ready. Along side them was Sir Joseph William Vane, the knight of Rhodok lands, his plated warhorse shining brightly in the midday sun, his hair pulled down into his silver plate mail “heart's ward”. Atop his head was a winged plated helm, and a-clasp his breath was a long green cape with the bear of Rhodok lands woven into the thread. His longsword remained sheathed as he held his shield and lance “Wyvern tail” at the ready. Despite his feminine air he was truly a sight to behold. The mighty tip of the Swadian cavalry... a force not to be taken lightly. For it was in this state that he earned his name “The thundering rider” for his horse and lance had laid to waste the mightiest of foes that challenged him. As he looked down from his horse at Asgrim and his brother he couldn't help but put his faith in their command. Both brothers stood tall in their armor. Asgrim, adorned in a heavy layer of mail and gambeson was wearing his renowned horned helm of the stag, with axe “Bone Seeker” and round shield at the ready. The fur of dire wolves hung about his shoulders in an ironic display to his foes that the wolves of Nordlund were not a threat to the mighty stag. The elder brother, Oren, wore his Hood of the Raven, dark and adorned with the ravens of Odin's messengers. Around his neck was a cape woven of thick bear hide, hemmed with light gray fur. His chest was adorned with a thick leather jerkin, padded and reinforced with splints of thick steel here and there. Both brothers wore dark green pants and leather boots that bore the claws of wolves at the toe. A secret but deadly weapon in a pinch. Oren held his mighty spear in his right hand, created of a thick Ashwood from his home village and adorned with a heavy tip at the end. On his back was his longbow and a quiver of the finest arrows found in the north. Behind them stood the ravenous wolves of Stag-helm, lean, hungry... menacing as their shields thundered, heralding in the old gods to walk this battlefield. They could hear the horns blowing across the stony brook. The wild drums, thundering and pounding as their foes drugged their minds to dull the pain and send them into a wild frenzy. They were all ready, for across the field stood those who sought not to kill them... but to devour them in body and in mind, then to find and repeat the same gory task to those they loved and cared for. It was personal...
“I hate the smell of wet dogs...” Asgrim growled as he raised his hand. This would be the start of a bloody affair, all the more reason for him to pick the fight. Look back over his shoulder to his brother he nodded and returned his frozen gaze back toward the traitorous Nords only dozens of yards away. His brother, receiving the order grinned menacingly and lifted his hand back to draw a long, thick arrow, the tip of it broad and jagged... fashioned into a flat stag's horn symbol; the edges razor sharp and pointed. As he knocked his arrow so too did his followers, foresters of Nordlund, un-matched in accuracy and cunning. He drew his bow back slowly after lifting it high, the slightly re-curved edges adding an intense weight to the draw, the dangerous draw became visually apparent as the ox sinew string let out a jet of dust at each end and strained under the heroic draw pressure. The shrill creeks of the string would cause a lesser man to fear for a snapped lash into his eyes. Thus with a hawk like shriek he cried out to his foes and released the deadly draw. Following suit his men loosed their arrows, the renowned “cry of the hawk” sounded out in force as a deadly rain soared through the air like so many hunting barbs. As they came to descend they taught their foes a true and fore-boding lesson... all men can bleed. With thundering force the arrows found their marks; piercing mail, and leather and skull alike. Howling and shrieking floated across the river as man and beast were struck down by the gruesome stag arrows. After a moment a unsettling silence came and the hungry wild men howled back in anger. Their wolves followed suit and a haunting droll of eery cries floated to their ears. In response Asgrim lifted his head up and let out a bellowing roar which was in turn answered by his own men.
“It seems we're all introduced brother... shall we play?” Oren spoke darkly from below his hood, bow at the ready. And with a slow nod and a lowering of his broad shoulders Jarl Asgrim charged forth, his wolves at his heals, eager for blood and death. They moved in unison, a pack, a flock of death. Their dark furs and helms making them appear to be a single mass, moving and fluctuating like a black river... following Stag-helm's charge were the Crimson blades, Pandion knights, and the thundering roar of Joe and his knights. Within moments the earth shook as the forces of Swadia seethed forward, hungry for glory or doom. Artisia rode past and Oren looked up at her, the woman known as Murrow riding behind her, blades drawn and ready and for a moment he contemplated her new lover. It did not burden him to know that Murrow and Artisia had frequently made love, even with him there. In fact the experience, although knew, had helped him come to understand and love them both more then he would have been able to before. As his trailed forward again he saw them, rank after rank of dark and powerful wolves.... the size of horses but with the teeth and ferocity of a rabid animal. It almost appeared that their foe were riding bears as they might as well have been. Soon the battle was joined and the creek at their feet ran red with dark blood.
Joseph vane and his knights were the first to meet the enemy. With lances lowered and shield ready they immediately came to blows, splintering and exploding lances resounded as the yelps and cries of wolf and rider sounded out. After meeting the heart of his first foe and passing by the wolf he veered his horse and spurred himself forward again. Joe's lance, the Wyvern's tail met its mark again, and again, and again. Piercing Mount and rider alike. Deadly accurate and precise were his strikes over and over he penetrated his foes without missing a mark. The battleground about him raged and turned and soon he found himself corned by the ravenous bites and attacks of his hungry foes. Thus he fought, thrusting his lance again, and again into the jaws and faces of his enemies till at long last his horse was halted and reared, sending him hard onto his back in the creek. As he fell he reached for his sword calmly, staring up through his visor before feeling the percussive thud of the stones below him, the water rushing into his armor as he rose to see the opened maw of a Worg, hungry and starving for his blood. With a grand thrust his blade met his foes brain. Rising to a knee he threw his sword arm out wide, legging a charging Worg and sending its rider down into the creek. He could hear the snapping and wet grinding of the riders spine as he folded in on himself, crushed by the weight of his mount. As he finally made his way up to his feet he instinctively lifted his shield to halt the deadly strike of a passing rider's jagged saber The blade slid slowly across Joe's shield, humming with a sickening harmony before his own blade retaliated, striking true into the groin of his foe and taking him from his wild mount. Joe looked down at the dirty man below him, mostly naked, young... teeth jagged and hair messy. Again and again he thrust-ed his blade into the young boy, penetrating over and over till the life left his eyes. He lifted his hazel eyes up to the raging battlefield about him and watched as man and animal fought ravenously for their lives. On the far side of the creek, where blood ran thick about their ankles were the Pandion knights.
Guy the blades-man, with bow at the ready dodged and strafed unrefined foes as arrow after seeking arrow found their marks, splitting skull and piercing flesh. His eyes watching and waiting for targets, taking rider from wolf over and over. Next to him stood worker and his long time friend wolf's blood. The two of them slung around each-other war-cleaver and eastern blade swinging in unison. The battle had hit the knights hard and wolf's blood's bow had been shattered in a sudden attempt to shield himself from a jagged maul. Thus they fought, the two men a force to recon with. Worker, was a hefty, large man, and each blow of his war-cleaver split flesh from bone and shattered his foes armor and shield. With precision Wolf's blood swung his blade, cutting with exact strikes over, and over, until blood and fur caked himself and his weapon. A stray wolf caught site of the Pandion unit, nearly pinned down and charged from behind. Its jaws wide it snapped down hard onto guy, nearly forcing him to drop his bow as it slung him down hard into the river bed, bubbling blood and screams came from him as he pounded his fists into the beast. Just as he thought himself dead... a meal for his enemy he saw the shield of his long time friend and ally, Gashy, slam into the beasts head from the side, throwing his shoulder into the blow Gashy pushed his blade straight into its eye and tackled it down. With desperate and manic blows Gashy hacked the animals skull until an eye and brain matter stuck to his wildly swinging weapon.
The four Pandion knights fought, and continued to fight, even the wounded man guy continued to fire his bow from his place on the creek banks. Nearby to that in the center of the storm stood William, the young child who had made his way as a mighty gladiator. His shield and sword swinging with thundering force as the allies around him were torn apart, the jaws and spears of his foes tearing into their flesh and ripping them limb from limb. The young boy was not wide eyed as he witnessed the man next to him screaming, gurgling, choking on his own blood as his head was viciously torn from his shoulders. He did not flinch as the rank in front of him was battered down with hammer and maul, their skulls and bodies breaking below the swings of their foes.
“Keep fighting... Keep fighting... Dodge... parry... attack... forward, wait now back... to the left” His thoughts were calm, collected, driving him to fell foe after foe in a never ending river of fur and blood. At his side stood the man called “Legend” by those who knew him. The two were similar, calm... practical men. Legend also favored his sword and shield, standing in plates next to the young boy as they relied on each-other for support, seeing the army around them thinning. He was a tall man, shining in his blood soaked armor with thick arms and a broad chest. They were quiet, the sound of their grunting and splashing helped to drown out the screams and roars around them. Legend used his shield skillfully, throwing it out often as a more deadly weapon then the sword in his hand. Even the shield on his back was a useful tool, littered with arrows and a broken javelin that he had blocked from behind. They had come to fight well together, Legend and William. Their shields and swords were a union and they capitalized upon it well.
They stood back to back, with a quick juke William dodged the jaws of a wolf, legend bringing his sword up to stab into the soft underside of its head before throwing his left arm out to slam it into the rider, William, rolling over the animals back stabbed into the chest of the dismounted wild-man and kicked him away, sliding his blade out. They spun, William ducked and legend's blade swung over his head, taking the arm of the enemy that had appeared suddenly behind him with weapon high, following his swing in full legend lifted his shield to block the enemy bringing his blade down and William spun around him to cut the foe down, again back to back they stepped forward and spun their shields inward to slam them onto both sides of the head of a Worg that had attempted to lung between them. As their shield pounded in unison in a spin against the beasts skull the brought their blades down at once, taking its head off and sending the body into a convulsive fury, spewing blood and bile into the water.
On the outskirts of the field Murrow and Artisia rode. Arrows flying with a howl from the Khergit woman's bow as Artisia fought off the closing enemies. Her blades, Graben and Sky-scorcher, hummed and twirled almost independently in her hands as she warded off the jaws of snapping wolves. The two women were clad in tight fitting leather armor, Artisia wearing a lammelar vest and hard leather pants with knee high boots and Murrow in her dark brown and gray, tight fitting attire. Their lithe and thin bodies worked well atop Art's horse as they rode the outskirts of the fight, loosing and loosing barbed arrows into the fray. With keen green eyes Murrow kept her targets in sight, striking them down and tearing their flesh and fur as they strayed far too close for their own good. As they rode they found themselves pursued by a mounted archer. continued...
The smell of spring flowers filled the air, wind blew gently through leather, steel, and fur. The sun, peeking around clouds watched down as the men of Stag-helm, remnant of Swadia Heroes of the land gathered with spear and sword and axe at the ready, prepared to meet their gods in glory. As lazy clouds passed by one could hear horns of war blowing and the howling of the winter Worgs. The Stag-helm resistance was now near the Rhodok border, a river between them and the trackers of Sargoth, an elite force of Worg tamers and riders. The day was clear, sunny, fresh from a night of soft warm rain. The smell of spring was a welcome fragrance... soon to be mired with the scent of blood, shit, and the bowels of man and beast. Across the river from the Swadian army stood rank after rank after rank of Sargothian Worgs and their spiteful masters. These were no run of the mill soldiers. Expert hunters, ruthless and cruel. They spent their days raising blood hungry wolves with the purpose of eating the flesh of man. They had been sent from the cold north with one purpose... feast upon the stag... With bow and spear they waited, forming ranks of horse and wolf, their helms ragged and animalistic with bone and fur adorning them, some wore the shaven faces of their kills, a ghastly and grim site for those they would face. The entirety of their army reeked of blood and beast. They've been blowing their horns for hours now, pounding on drums wildly as they intoxicated themselves with dark poultices. Drugged, blood thirsty, wild... these men were ready to dine upon those opposite of them, or die trying.
Facing them from the hill opposite the river stood the men of Stag-helm, hardened warriors of the far north, the knights of Swadia, and the mercenaries who have come to not only fight for gold... but their homes. As well as the Stag-helm banner flew a banner of Swadia The Pandion knights also let their flag aloft, several of their surviving warriors alight with righteous fury at the enemy now raping their beloved home. Amongst their ranks stood Wolf's blood, Gashy, a man referred to as “the working class hero” for his time spent aiding the poor and destitute and more often called Worker, another fellow simply called “guy the blades-man”, and the fiery Murrow Their banner waved hard in the winds above their heads and despite the grim nature of their business here they continued to joke around, wolf's blood and his friend punching and paling around despite Murrow's obvious disgust. They had all been friends for a long time, nicknaming each-other, fighting and bleeding together... they were family defined. Along with the banner-men and knights of Pandion, stood several auxiliaries Sir Talgion, the self proclaimed defender of cheese, mentally damaged as a boy and molded into a white knight figure stood next to sir William the gladiator, a stoic and foreboding young man who's armor and weapons revealed his profession well. For in his right hand rested the blade known as “Swadia's hope” and in his left was the shield passed down to him by his fathers “royal shield”. He was a hopeful lad, carrying the last of his blood line. Despite the burden upon him to be great and honor his fathers' he was happy and always carried himself without fear.
At the tip of their formation was Jarl Asgrim of Stag-helm, his Gothi and Brother Oren of Ashwood with his Lover Artisia Derya who rode atop her mighty steppe horse “dawn stride” with bow and saber at the ready. Along side them was Sir Joseph William Vane, the knight of Rhodok lands, his plated warhorse shining brightly in the midday sun, his hair pulled down into his silver plate mail “heart's ward”. Atop his head was a winged plated helm, and a-clasp his breath was a long green cape with the bear of Rhodok lands woven into the thread. His longsword remained sheathed as he held his shield and lance “Wyvern tail” at the ready. Despite his feminine air he was truly a sight to behold. The mighty tip of the Swadian cavalry... a force not to be taken lightly. For it was in this state that he earned his name “The thundering rider” for his horse and lance had laid to waste the mightiest of foes that challenged him. As he looked down from his horse at Asgrim and his brother he couldn't help but put his faith in their command. Both brothers stood tall in their armor. Asgrim, adorned in a heavy layer of mail and gambeson was wearing his renowned horned helm of the stag, with axe “Bone Seeker” and round shield at the ready. The fur of dire wolves hung about his shoulders in an ironic display to his foes that the wolves of Nordlund were not a threat to the mighty stag. The elder brother, Oren, wore his Hood of the Raven, dark and adorned with the ravens of Odin's messengers. Around his neck was a cape woven of thick bear hide, hemmed with light gray fur. His chest was adorned with a thick leather jerkin, padded and reinforced with splints of thick steel here and there. Both brothers wore dark green pants and leather boots that bore the claws of wolves at the toe. A secret but deadly weapon in a pinch. Oren held his mighty spear in his right hand, created of a thick Ashwood from his home village and adorned with a heavy tip at the end. On his back was his longbow and a quiver of the finest arrows found in the north. Behind them stood the ravenous wolves of Stag-helm, lean, hungry... menacing as their shields thundered, heralding in the old gods to walk this battlefield. They could hear the horns blowing across the stony brook. The wild drums, thundering and pounding as their foes drugged their minds to dull the pain and send them into a wild frenzy. They were all ready, for across the field stood those who sought not to kill them... but to devour them in body and in mind, then to find and repeat the same gory task to those they loved and cared for. It was personal...
“I hate the smell of wet dogs...” Asgrim growled as he raised his hand. This would be the start of a bloody affair, all the more reason for him to pick the fight. Look back over his shoulder to his brother he nodded and returned his frozen gaze back toward the traitorous Nords only dozens of yards away. His brother, receiving the order grinned menacingly and lifted his hand back to draw a long, thick arrow, the tip of it broad and jagged... fashioned into a flat stag's horn symbol; the edges razor sharp and pointed. As he knocked his arrow so too did his followers, foresters of Nordlund, un-matched in accuracy and cunning. He drew his bow back slowly after lifting it high, the slightly re-curved edges adding an intense weight to the draw, the dangerous draw became visually apparent as the ox sinew string let out a jet of dust at each end and strained under the heroic draw pressure. The shrill creeks of the string would cause a lesser man to fear for a snapped lash into his eyes. Thus with a hawk like shriek he cried out to his foes and released the deadly draw. Following suit his men loosed their arrows, the renowned “cry of the hawk” sounded out in force as a deadly rain soared through the air like so many hunting barbs. As they came to descend they taught their foes a true and fore-boding lesson... all men can bleed. With thundering force the arrows found their marks; piercing mail, and leather and skull alike. Howling and shrieking floated across the river as man and beast were struck down by the gruesome stag arrows. After a moment a unsettling silence came and the hungry wild men howled back in anger. Their wolves followed suit and a haunting droll of eery cries floated to their ears. In response Asgrim lifted his head up and let out a bellowing roar which was in turn answered by his own men.
“It seems we're all introduced brother... shall we play?” Oren spoke darkly from below his hood, bow at the ready. And with a slow nod and a lowering of his broad shoulders Jarl Asgrim charged forth, his wolves at his heals, eager for blood and death. They moved in unison, a pack, a flock of death. Their dark furs and helms making them appear to be a single mass, moving and fluctuating like a black river... following Stag-helm's charge were the Crimson blades, Pandion knights, and the thundering roar of Joe and his knights. Within moments the earth shook as the forces of Swadia seethed forward, hungry for glory or doom. Artisia rode past and Oren looked up at her, the woman known as Murrow riding behind her, blades drawn and ready and for a moment he contemplated her new lover. It did not burden him to know that Murrow and Artisia had frequently made love, even with him there. In fact the experience, although knew, had helped him come to understand and love them both more then he would have been able to before. As his trailed forward again he saw them, rank after rank of dark and powerful wolves.... the size of horses but with the teeth and ferocity of a rabid animal. It almost appeared that their foe were riding bears as they might as well have been. Soon the battle was joined and the creek at their feet ran red with dark blood.
Joseph vane and his knights were the first to meet the enemy. With lances lowered and shield ready they immediately came to blows, splintering and exploding lances resounded as the yelps and cries of wolf and rider sounded out. After meeting the heart of his first foe and passing by the wolf he veered his horse and spurred himself forward again. Joe's lance, the Wyvern's tail met its mark again, and again, and again. Piercing Mount and rider alike. Deadly accurate and precise were his strikes over and over he penetrated his foes without missing a mark. The battleground about him raged and turned and soon he found himself corned by the ravenous bites and attacks of his hungry foes. Thus he fought, thrusting his lance again, and again into the jaws and faces of his enemies till at long last his horse was halted and reared, sending him hard onto his back in the creek. As he fell he reached for his sword calmly, staring up through his visor before feeling the percussive thud of the stones below him, the water rushing into his armor as he rose to see the opened maw of a Worg, hungry and starving for his blood. With a grand thrust his blade met his foes brain. Rising to a knee he threw his sword arm out wide, legging a charging Worg and sending its rider down into the creek. He could hear the snapping and wet grinding of the riders spine as he folded in on himself, crushed by the weight of his mount. As he finally made his way up to his feet he instinctively lifted his shield to halt the deadly strike of a passing rider's jagged saber The blade slid slowly across Joe's shield, humming with a sickening harmony before his own blade retaliated, striking true into the groin of his foe and taking him from his wild mount. Joe looked down at the dirty man below him, mostly naked, young... teeth jagged and hair messy. Again and again he thrust-ed his blade into the young boy, penetrating over and over till the life left his eyes. He lifted his hazel eyes up to the raging battlefield about him and watched as man and animal fought ravenously for their lives. On the far side of the creek, where blood ran thick about their ankles were the Pandion knights.
Guy the blades-man, with bow at the ready dodged and strafed unrefined foes as arrow after seeking arrow found their marks, splitting skull and piercing flesh. His eyes watching and waiting for targets, taking rider from wolf over and over. Next to him stood worker and his long time friend wolf's blood. The two of them slung around each-other war-cleaver and eastern blade swinging in unison. The battle had hit the knights hard and wolf's blood's bow had been shattered in a sudden attempt to shield himself from a jagged maul. Thus they fought, the two men a force to recon with. Worker, was a hefty, large man, and each blow of his war-cleaver split flesh from bone and shattered his foes armor and shield. With precision Wolf's blood swung his blade, cutting with exact strikes over, and over, until blood and fur caked himself and his weapon. A stray wolf caught site of the Pandion unit, nearly pinned down and charged from behind. Its jaws wide it snapped down hard onto guy, nearly forcing him to drop his bow as it slung him down hard into the river bed, bubbling blood and screams came from him as he pounded his fists into the beast. Just as he thought himself dead... a meal for his enemy he saw the shield of his long time friend and ally, Gashy, slam into the beasts head from the side, throwing his shoulder into the blow Gashy pushed his blade straight into its eye and tackled it down. With desperate and manic blows Gashy hacked the animals skull until an eye and brain matter stuck to his wildly swinging weapon.
The four Pandion knights fought, and continued to fight, even the wounded man guy continued to fire his bow from his place on the creek banks. Nearby to that in the center of the storm stood William, the young child who had made his way as a mighty gladiator. His shield and sword swinging with thundering force as the allies around him were torn apart, the jaws and spears of his foes tearing into their flesh and ripping them limb from limb. The young boy was not wide eyed as he witnessed the man next to him screaming, gurgling, choking on his own blood as his head was viciously torn from his shoulders. He did not flinch as the rank in front of him was battered down with hammer and maul, their skulls and bodies breaking below the swings of their foes.
“Keep fighting... Keep fighting... Dodge... parry... attack... forward, wait now back... to the left” His thoughts were calm, collected, driving him to fell foe after foe in a never ending river of fur and blood. At his side stood the man called “Legend” by those who knew him. The two were similar, calm... practical men. Legend also favored his sword and shield, standing in plates next to the young boy as they relied on each-other for support, seeing the army around them thinning. He was a tall man, shining in his blood soaked armor with thick arms and a broad chest. They were quiet, the sound of their grunting and splashing helped to drown out the screams and roars around them. Legend used his shield skillfully, throwing it out often as a more deadly weapon then the sword in his hand. Even the shield on his back was a useful tool, littered with arrows and a broken javelin that he had blocked from behind. They had come to fight well together, Legend and William. Their shields and swords were a union and they capitalized upon it well.
They stood back to back, with a quick juke William dodged the jaws of a wolf, legend bringing his sword up to stab into the soft underside of its head before throwing his left arm out to slam it into the rider, William, rolling over the animals back stabbed into the chest of the dismounted wild-man and kicked him away, sliding his blade out. They spun, William ducked and legend's blade swung over his head, taking the arm of the enemy that had appeared suddenly behind him with weapon high, following his swing in full legend lifted his shield to block the enemy bringing his blade down and William spun around him to cut the foe down, again back to back they stepped forward and spun their shields inward to slam them onto both sides of the head of a Worg that had attempted to lung between them. As their shield pounded in unison in a spin against the beasts skull the brought their blades down at once, taking its head off and sending the body into a convulsive fury, spewing blood and bile into the water.
On the outskirts of the field Murrow and Artisia rode. Arrows flying with a howl from the Khergit woman's bow as Artisia fought off the closing enemies. Her blades, Graben and Sky-scorcher, hummed and twirled almost independently in her hands as she warded off the jaws of snapping wolves. The two women were clad in tight fitting leather armor, Artisia wearing a lammelar vest and hard leather pants with knee high boots and Murrow in her dark brown and gray, tight fitting attire. Their lithe and thin bodies worked well atop Art's horse as they rode the outskirts of the fight, loosing and loosing barbed arrows into the fray. With keen green eyes Murrow kept her targets in sight, striking them down and tearing their flesh and fur as they strayed far too close for their own good. As they rode they found themselves pursued by a mounted archer. continued...