Forums » Fantasy Roleplay » Lost in the Blizzard - A village Torn

Boris leans forward in his oaken throne, resting his forearms against his knees. His dog sits at his side, eyes still on the horse.

Boris picks up his pipe and sets it aside, "I know it's a danger. But I can't leave the survivors to their fate, be there one or many.. Not without tryin'. What sort of man would I be, otherwise?"

He jerks a thumb back to his bedroom, "I'll get some rest. Get my old longbow, and axe. Then head out at the crack o' dawn."

He notices his sense of honour and integrity regarding going back to the village. This sense of honour he finds to be rather unorthodox, and foreign to him. Chivalry seemed to have only been present from the west where he came from, so hearing that from Boris does peek his interest. He's right though. If there were survivors, he can't just leave them to their fate. They need someone to save them, and since Ivan seems to be the most well armed of the two, the best he could do is accompany him on his endeavour.

"Da... We shall go tomorrow... anyway, where should I sleep for tonight?" He asks Boris. He honestly thinks he'll be sleeping on the floor tonight, as Boris doesn't seem to be the type to have another bed in such a small house.

Broris nodded his head in agreement and lurched out of his chair, knees creaking a bit as he rises, "The storm should have passed by then. Get some rest." he said with a stiff look, "You'll need it." he said as he headed to his bedroom, footsteps causing the wooden floor below to softly creak. His dog followed him, and came to rest at the foot of his bed. He would do his best to sleep the night out, but it would be a long night, with little rest - His adrenaline had already taken over, and he was more than ready to strike.

Ivan nodded, confirming the outcome of what's to happen. He has a dark feeling however that by the time morning hit, there'd be no survivors. Well, survivors in the raised town at least.

Ivan approaches his horse and gently stroke its snout, calming it down. "Easy there..." He says to him soothingly. The horse looks as if he's calming down, and slowly, the horse closes its eyes. "We'll get them... soon..." He says to the horse, not entirely expecting a response out of him.

He makes his way in front of the roaring fire and lies himself down, resting his helmet beside him. He knows what it's like to sleep fully dressed in armour, so this was of little concern for him. He closes his eyes, and attempts to drift off to sleep. Whoever now occupies the village is certain to have some form of experience, so a goodnight's rest should prep him for such people.

Meanwhile, Sargent Mike and his men have set up their camp outside what was once, the village's town hall building, now smoldering and smoking. A few more men had entered the village, since the first five put up their banner. Another ten have since laid claim of the area, for a grand total of fifteen - Though this was only a small amount, compared to who initially attacked, which was in the two hundreds.

Several large fires were lit in the village, firewood was in no short supply, since most of the houses had some, or could be used as it. The night would go by for them, rather dully. Most of the survivors in the village were either too afraid to come out, or too injured to move.

Boris managed a light sleep that evening. The storm, eventually, passed over, and left it quiet come morning. The sun was just rising over the woods, when Boris arose, gathering the supplies necessary to make a run to the village, in search of survivors. He grabbed his old longbow and slung it onto his fur laden back, as well as a hatchet, and a skinning knife. He was far more fit to hunt game animals, or wolves, than armored men - But the longbow was more than heavy enough in draw, to pierce through chain-mail, or even some light plates.

He opened the bedroom door and prodded the vagabond with his boot, "Up and at 'em."

As she heard the horses and men approach, it felt like her blood turned into ice. She held the burned book close to her chest, as she looked around her. It was dark. Almost pitch black. Then she saw the light of a few fires. She was pretty much trapped. She would have to be very careful and quiet to get out of there. She wanted to leave, but something kept her there. Her lifework, even though it was burned to the ground. She curled up in the corner, and fell in a light sleep.
As she woke up, the raiders were still there. She pulled her hood over her head, and picked the few remaining books and scriptures up, as she gently sneaked out of the barn.

(Sorry! I think I might be on a different time than you )

(Never mind xD)

The barn, where the teaching was done, was located in the Northwest corner of the town. The exit, would lead directly out into the main square. From here, looking to the left, is the tavern - The foundation and a good bit of the architecture was made of stone, so it held up against the assault, minus the doors being smashed in. But none of the militiamen had entered, for whatever reason. Directly ahead, is the smith's shop, beside that (On the right, from this angle) is a small general store, beside that (Right) is a stable. Yet this is across town, quite open to get to, and a few of the militiamen were still wandering about the area. In the town's center, is a well, which the invaders have already made us of to give to their men - Though anyone who lived here would know that the well was not limitless, and was rationed among the small community that once survived there, so they would soon have to come up with another water source. To the right of the fountain, a good fifty yards from the barn, is the town hall. A good bit of the men have already taken to occupying this building, as it now bares the standards of their kingdom, (Black flags, with triangular points at the end, and the depiction of a grey wolf's head on the front), indicating them in all certainty to be militiamen under the order of Lord Kormall, a military dictator who rules over Lochmoor, the country farther south, and east, of this village. To the immediate right, is the residential area. Mostly very small houses of timber and heavy thatching, now burnt to a husk. Of course, the entire village is littered with corpses, mainly from the town's guard, who's main concern up until now, was simply wolves, and a few roaming bandits causing trouble.

The whole village was walled in, to keep the wolves out. But there were two gates, one to her left (West) And one directly across town (South). The one south seemed more risky, as it had the highest concentration of soldiers, and they seemed to be coming in from that direction. The one to the left, seemed fairly unwatched. But she would still need to be careful.

The residents of this village may, or may not be aware, of the fact that the forces of Lord Kormall, and Lord Thaelith, king of Morhall (The largest city within a weeks travel of this village) were at war.

Kalliope looked around her to weigh her options. The smell of smoke was still very powerful and she was happy that it was winter. If it had been summer, another smell would overpower the smoke. The smell of rotating flesh. She'd lived and teached in the capital, before going here. It smelled like dead and rot. When she traveled trough this village, the smell was one of the many things that convinced her to stay.
She tore the one, remaining curtain down, and wrapped the books with it. In case she got caught, she would not give up her beloved books. She formed a ball with the cloth and books, and stuffed it under her dress. She placed it on her stomach and smoothed it out, until it looked like a baby bump. She pulled her hood further over her head, and grabbed her pocket knife. She hid the knife in the folds of her cape and snook out. She walked along with the burned down barn constantly looking behind her, to avoid getting seen.

The Militiamen seem to miss the woman passing by. They were still tired, from the long night - The events took a toll on them as well, but more physically than mentally. She would reach the nearest gate with little problems. Perhaps it wasn't even their lives they wanted, just their land.

Sargent Mike steps out of the town hall and beckons to a few of the other soldiers to enter. They do as told, without question. They were at least loyal. Five men, remain in sight in the campsite built up near the southern gate.

She would perhaps sense something amiss, as she passed the tavern building, perhaps even hear a faint, whimpering sound - Yet the exit was very close, and fleeing might not be so easy in the near future. Would she investigate the tavern? Or simply run off towards the East, for the possibility of safety?

Her heart jumped up into her throat overtime a solder passed her. One time she played dead and just went limp. The soldier kicked her head and it took all of her strength not to make a sound. The only building she recognized was the tavern. Te does was picked in, but most of the building still stood, thanks to it's stone walls. It wasn't far from her, but se couldn't just walk straight over the road and get spotted. She'd have to wait. The gate was close to her, and she was heading in the direction of her freedom, when she heard a faint noise. It was human, she guessed. She couldn't place gender and age, but the person sounded afraid. Kalliope was very empathic, and the thought of somebody else suffering who she saved herself, was unbearable. She sneaked into the tavern through the broken door. "Anyone here?" she half said, half whispered.

(Pardon me. I hope I am not being rude by posting here.)


The darkness fades...
A sable veil is cast away from Tarben's eyes, as Death draws back from their sensual kiss and abandons her newest groom.
Consciousness grasps him, and responsibility tears open his eyes- yet there is nothing to see.
There is the night, and there are distant stars of red and yellow and orange.
These are not stars, but fires. They are great fires, and that which twinkles is nothing less than the gleaming swords and mail of many war-garbed intruders.
Dull and dark eyes glare sightlessly for a time, all threat seeming far from him as he looks on the changed landscape of the village. His village.
Dust stirs softly at the corner of his lips, softer even than his peaceful breathing.
Steadily, the man is roused, yet it is neither the return of sight, nor sound, nor even touch that induces this abrupt alarm.
No, it is the smell. The cold, wet smell of wood and stone beneath winter's tenacious grace is mingled with the scent of ash and smoke and sweat. And above it all there lingers that of blood, and carrion.
A brief cry escapes his lips, but he stifles it quickly as he lifts himself hurriedly from the stoop of Ymir's general store. The shadows conceal him from sight, and he is granted a dwindling moment to stare at all the waste befallen the town.
A crestfallen expression upon his face, there is a name that rings within his mind; Yetta...
Tarben crawls away, and it would not be impossible for his fate be to die now as he rushes from beneath the roof of the store, but his thoughts are centered entirely on his betrothed.
She had not been with him when the invaders had come.
His steps are groggy as he stumbles behind huts and houses, the bleeding wound of his head having yet to release him from its crippling effect.

The Tavern reveals a dingy, singed interior. However in contrast to the majority of the village, it was still in decent condition. They attempted to burn it, and the roof was completely gone, as it was made of wood and thatch - Yet the inside, had mostly survived - The bar itself, was a darkened oak, well finished, with a smooth, stone top, the former curator likely spent years, perfecting this interior, before the invasion. There were still kegs of mead lined up on the wall behind the open bar, tin tankards sitting neatly in a row, as if ready to use like they were the day before. There was a ledger on the bar, used to keep tabs, that is no longer legible. The rounded, sturdy tables are singed each, some burnt to ash, yet some look still sturdy enough to support a drink - The chairs, the same. Each window is smashed from where torches had penetrated them, the glass shards littering the floor behind each. Kalliope would find the source of this sound in particular, behind the bar - Or, so far, only hear it. A pitiful sound, a mix of crying, and panting.

--

Tarben, having started near the general store, would find himself beside the blacksmith's old workshop, now between there and what used to be a small vegetable market - Of course, most of these supplies were already ransacked by the invaders hours ago, and sent back to whatever camp they launched their assault from. From here, he could see clear across the corpse laden square, to Kalliope, who was stalking into the Tavern, it seemed. Though, to his left from here, is the town hall, where Carmichael's men were located - Five in total, far too many for him to risk taking on in his current state. The rest were inside the town hall, but those men were left outside to keep watch. Of course, having no superior officer around, they seemed rather unfocused, simply munching on stolen food, smoking raided tobacco, and chatting among themselves about things, unrelated to the raid entirely. They were just men, afterall.

Ivan's night was almost blissful, save the rough floor he had to sleep on. He understood that a goodnight's rest would be necessary, and that he should get as much sleep as possible.

He turns over on his back and groans, opening his eyes to catch sight of Boris. He wanted to say the classic phrase: 'give me five minutes' but he knows that resting for too long will doom the otherwise alive survivors. He shoots himself up and equips his helmet. "Da... Let's get going..." He says agreeing, as he takes hold of the reigns of his horse. For some reason, he had a good feeling that there's survivors about.

((Just thought I should wait it out for a bit for BabyDragon to continue... Sorry for the wait ))

Boris pats the man on the shoulder as he arises, turning and stroking his beard, "If your horse did any business on my rug.." he trails off with a shake of his head, stepping outside with Chauncey following three steps behind. His eyes go from jovial, to determined, as he stares far east towards the village, which is quite a walk away, from his cabin, "We'd best not go in like wild bucks, kickin' up dust. I'd reckon it best we go in quiet, don't want to have to take on a raiding party with just the pair of us.."

With that, he ties an old band of leather around his head, keeping his wild grey mane out of the way of his eyes. He gives Ivan a fierce look, and says in a gruff tone, holding up his bow a little as he speaks, for emphasis, "Are you ready?"

(Don't worry about it, John I have nothing but time)

(Going to wait on posting, since it's late my time.)

Kalliope freezed. She looked around her. Was the noise just a decoy? She considered leaving the building, saving herself and her precious books. She looked around her, trying not to cry again. She took the wrapped books out from under her dress, and hid them under the old kegs. She filled her bottle with wine. The beverage could be drunk and it could be used to treat cuts and wounds. She'd gotten a pretty bad burn on her leg, when she tried to save the books from the flames. She sat sown on the least burned chair, and poured the wine over her leg. It hurt really bad, but it also felt relieving. She stood up, and walked around the bar, to find the source of the noise.

The noise is revealed to be, the former tavern keep, Horace. He is beyond badly hurt - It would appear he not only took a horrible wound to the chest, but severe, full body burns from head to toe. It was a gruesome sight, that would unsettle any - his flesh was mostly melted, clothes burned away to leave a writing, withered mass of a human being. His muscles are visible, rather than any fleshy tissues. His breath is weak, the veins in his neck pulsating with every heart beat as he struggles to intake oxygen. His fingers lie trembling over a dagger, that he lacks the strength to lift. His chest pulsates rapidly, as if his body was trying to survive.. Most notably, his eyes are dull blue, implicating the man has gone blind. He hears the footsteps, but knows not who he sees.. He simply pleads, "Kill me.. Please.." as his bony fingers tremble over the hilt of the dagger.

As soon as Kalliope sees Horace, the tears start rolling up again. She does not sob, however. She goes over top him, and sits down next to him. "Horace." she said, tears rolling from her eyes and on to him. When she'd arrived to the town, Horance was the one who feed her and gave her a place to stay, until the barn was rebuild. She picks his head up, and rests it upon her thighs. "Horace." she repeats. She strokes him over the head and starts humming. She gives him the bottle of wine and reaches for his knife. She continues her humming as he drinks, and when he's distracted she slices his throat. She drops the bloody knife, and keep humming until she's sure that he's dead. Then she allows herself to cry. She sobs silently, as she rocks back and forth, still supporting his head. She not even paying any attention to Horace's blood soaking her dress.