War Roleplay Revistited

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ooc: Some people may remember the old WAR roleplay started by Gopher a while ago. Yeah, well I'm starting another one after a short dicussion with Elios about how he believes that people who roleplay wars have too much time on there hands. So here we go:

IC: The messenger from the Kingdom of Ofheo rode fast and hard to the outlying towns and villages. "By order of King Narhil, the villages must empty! Unless you are able to fight, in that case you must make your way to Ofheo! Any who ignore these orders shall be left to the mercy of the invading Imral army, and of mercy they have none, so take heed!"
The messenger soon left the village to deliver the message to each village along the eastern area of the kingdom. Each village he entered was soon a chaotic mess of scrambling villagers, attempting to save their precious possessions from the ruthless armies of Imral.
Ofheo and Imral had long been at each others throats but not one of the people had expected their relations to degrade so swiftly. The king had heard of the approaching army coming from the north many days ago and was franticaly throwing up defences against the unexpected attack. The defences were far from finished however and the army was approaching fast.

ooc: here's the deal, a freeform game where you take the role of anything that takes your fancy within reason. You can be great or small from one army or the other, or even an innocent townsperson if you want.

 

He walked with a steady gait across the field. Tired, hungry, and exhausted from days of travel, he nonetheless strode forward pleasantly. His gnarled oak staff thumped methodically into the soft grass. He hummed a small tune as he walked, feeling in a surprisingly good mood. Several heavy satchels swung at his sides, and a bedroll on a strap lay across his back, but he hardly felt the weight any more.

To any who viewed him, he could easily be mistaken for a walking tree limb. Nearly seven feet tall, he nonetheless spanned no more than two feet from shoulder to shoulder. His gray robes were tattered and stained with dirt and grass. He kept his hood over his eyes to block out the sun. Deep within the shadows of his hood, two eyes glowed faintly yellow.

"Only mid-day," he said cheerfully to the raven resting lazily on his shoulder. His voice sounded like sandpaper over a chalkboard. "Plenty of sunlight to travel under. What say you to that, hm?"

The fat, ugly bird opened its scarred beak and squawked a reply. The strange bit was, it actually replied. The language was difficult to discern to those uneducated in Celestial, but its answer was fairly obviously a positive one.

Laughing, the hooded figure continued onward.

 

OOC: I just thought I'd clear this up as I've gotten two PM's about it now. This game is a free form game, there are no rules and no DM. You can be or do anything you want.
And I don't feel like making lengthly RP responses right now, I'll add more later

 

When the messenger announced that war was coming, Morningstar had ran home. It was not easy to weave through the panicing crowd, but he had done it, and now flung open the door.

The house was small, comprising only of a two rooms. The rooms were simple, yet comfortable. A bow of black horn hung on the far wall. Beneath it lay a two handed sword. Morningstar bound over to them and hefted them from the rack. The sword was suprisingly light for its size, even the lithe form of Morningstar to carry and swing it with a single hand.

In the corner in the room, a armour skeleton stood, bathed fully in a black armour with a resplent tree of a faint gold emblazoned on the chest. On its head sat a winged helm of the same metal. This armour, like the sword was amazingly light. The items had been created long ago by a master of the craft. Swiftly Morningstar donned these.

Standing at the mirror, Morningstar gazed at himself. It had been a long time since he had kitted himself for battle. A long time since he had smelled the stench of open bowels that the dead released on the battlefield. Now he knew why he had never signed on with an army.

Still in front of the mirror, he lifted the winged helm to his head. It was open faced, allowing his handsome, almost womanly features to stay revealed. With a last glance at the mirror Morningstar left the cottage, and headed for the stables. He intended to ride for Ofheo, to stand alongside the other men willing to die for the protection of there families and homeland...

 

"Another killing spree?" sighed Aegron. Silently he turned and walked to his home just outside town in the woods. Finally home he opened the chest next to the hearth and took out a leather jacket made out of suprisingly (sp?) soft but sturdy leather and after putting on his jacket he took the stick standing in the corner next to the chest. The stick is about 4 long not unlike a walking stick. A wakizashi strapped on the right side of his belt and his quiver on the left side he stepped out with his bow and walking stick. Aegron saddled his horse and trodded of to town.

[ March 06, 2003, 16:20: Message edited by: aegron ]

 

His ears perked up.

"War? War? Oh, no. War is bad. The killing. The blood. Last day we killed, there was blood everywhere. Cyric didn't like it. Nope, not at all. Blood is bad. Killing is bad."

The lunatic stood up from the ground and continued to rant to himself.

"I hate the war. D'you hear it, Cyric? I hate it! I damned, fuggin' hate it! I don't want the damned blood! I don't want the fuggin' kiling? Why?

He bashed his fists against a stone wall, and a waterfall of tears poured from his eyes. The townspeople were staring. But they, no, not they, they didn't know about the blood and killing. And how bad it was.

The lunatic screamed to Cyric, screamed at the sky. He shaked his fist at the heavens. He yelled and screeched until his throat was sore. And when he had no energy left, he sank and fell on his knees.

His tears of rage ebbed into sobs of rue.

"Y-y-ou're right. There will be killing. B-b-but I want the peace. Peace, you say? Peace? Yes, if that means we all get the peace, the boys and the kittens and all, I'll do it. To get peace, we must make war. Yes, peace. Yes, Cyric. I'll do it. I'll kill the armies and generals and soldiers. Kill 'em all."

The lunatic sprinted off into the woods, in search of nightshade leaves and vipers.

[ March 06, 2003, 21:44: Message edited by: C'Jakob ]

 

A sandy haired lad of about fifteen strode into the village hall, an old shortsword hanging at his belt. His bold, almost arrogant manner was betrayed by the signs of fear in his eyes, and was obviously an act for the benefit of the two pitchfork-armed boys following him. He knelt at the elder's feet and offered his sword. "My life belongs to Narhil, and by extention you," he said, "I ask a place with the militia you send to battle."

 

He and his men had fought for justice for the past fifteen years. His service was to Tyr and to that cause to which his god was devoted too. He and his knights were an elite formation of heavy cavalry, clad from head to toe in full plate and wielding lances and the other assortment of weapons the knights carried when the lance wouldn't serve.
All of these knights were either paladins or clerics or something in between in the service of Tyr and by extension justice. They would defend this land to the last man, it was their duty as knights of Tyr, it was their calling.
Their leader, a man approaching his fifties looked down at his hands. Soon enough he would cover those worn hands with his gauntlets and take up the sword and lance again. He realized that those very hands had wielded his blade in countless battles. He wondered if he would ever retire "Not likely" he muttered under his breath. He put his gauntlets back on and gave the command to ride, it was time to see justice done!

 

ooc: ooookkkk, I take it that you people are setting it in FR with all those refeerences to FR gods?

IC: "What is that fool playing at?!" screamed the King Narhil's loudest and rashest advisor. "He tells the allies we're trying to repair our relations with to stuff themselves, declares war on them and then starts spreading it around that they started this mess, what is he trying to achieve?"

"Quen, you are an idiot. We had to do this sooner or later. Taking over Imral will further our cause and besides, it will just be one more thorn out of our side," said the King's military advisor.
"You mean you've been planning all of this?" Quen was immediatly suspicious as that paticular advisor had a long record of conspiring on matters that were none of his concern.

The two advisors of King Narhil had just left the king's audience chamber and were walking along the corridors of the castle. The meeting had been to advise on where villages should be fortified and where the towns should be burnt before the enemy reached them. Quen had argued fiercly on the burning of villages, but it seemed to him that the King had already made up his mind on the matter.

In response to Quen's accusation the advisor smiled smuggly and walked off, leaving Quen fuming over the whole situation...

[ March 09, 2003, 06:07: Message edited by: Aikanaro ]

 

(Aikanaro, you didn't exactly go in-depth into the whole setting, so I just assumed it was in an FR-like world. Sorry if you intended different.)

(Also, I don't mean to whine, but could you put spaces between paragraphs? Whatever responses you put will probably be important, but I dislike not having a break between text.)

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The lunatic had found his nightshade leaves and a baby viper. He dangled it from its tail, and watched it with sick curiosity, as a child observes a spider he has just pulled the legs off of.

The serpent thrashed and hissed and him. The lunatic did not flinch.

"Death, death, death. You're death. You know that, right? Cyric knows that. Why don't you? I see the death in your lips, in your teeth. Why don't you? Why can't you bite more? Are you afraid? Selfish? Greedy?"

The lunatic snarled at the snake.

"If I eat you, will I become death? Will I have it at my fingertips? Only one way to find out, no? Only one way."

He slid the snake's body down his throat. With a sickening crunch, he bit into its neck, and devoured the viper's body.

He held the lifeless head up his own. The lunatic kissed the serpent's face.

He had his poison. He had his death. He smiled. There'd be no armies, no soldiers, and no killing.

[ March 07, 2003, 21:43: Message edited by: C'Jakob ]

 

Within hours the village was a ghost town. The villagers huddled fearfully on wagons as grim-faced militia-men torched the fields, and piles of goods that could not be taken on the wagons. The armies of Imral would find nothing here.

When the last of the fires was lit, the soldiers returned to the wagons. Those who were destined for battle took one last chance to embrace their children and elderly parents, but not the boys. The boys had no family to leave.

The tearful farewells concluded, and the wagons rolled out in two long convoys. One bearing those men who wore the sword - and many women too, such was necessity in these parts - to battle, and the other carrying the old, young and sick to the safety of a nearby citadel.

 

He returned to the dead village.

"Scorched earth. Burn the houses. Starve the enemy. Make the little boys homeless. Red fire, red fire. Burning the town down. Burn it down, burn it down. But the armies, they'll come. They'll come. They'll come and take the wastelands for themselves. And then everybody dies, right? They die! They die! Why?

You won't kill, you sick armies. Armies of snakes, rats, and whores. You're not going to kill. Oh, no. Oh, no. No one will kill. Death'll take you all before you kill."

He stood, alone, in the forsaken, burning town square. He carried a large pitcher of water in one hand, and a bag of poisons in the other. And he waited for the armies.

 

ooc: feel free to do whatever you like to the world and set it wherever takes you fancy

IC: The young warlord of Imral rode his horse slowly at the front of the army. He rode in a laid back, unworried manner, carrying on coversations with people on either side of him.
His name was Rath and he was liked well enough by the people. He had an easy demeanour and enough charisma to set his people at ease.

He was not well known for any military succeses as he had had none, but for womanising and getting drunk.

His father, the ruler of Imral, had sent him out to lead the army, hoping that it would be a positive influence on his warrior skills. Not that he was a bad warrior, he had just shown more skill on the diplomatic front.

The force he was leading wasn't particulary large. About 3000 swords and 300 horse but it should be enough to take some of the smaller villages before reinforcments arrive

 

The ride for Orfeo was not long, two days on the bay gelding Morningstar rode in on. At thirty two, he was considered old for a fighting man. Morningstar preffered the term 'veteran'.

Orfeo itself was large, comprising of many sectors, filled with the different types of people living there. They were seperated by race and religion.

The bay nearly reared as the sounds of bustling townspeople flocked around them, attempting to continue life as normal. Yet there was no way to disguise the increased guards and the replacement of wearing on the battlements.

Where to go to report, was the question edging on Morningstar's tongue. he had to lean over in the saddle to ask directions...

 

He soon found a small spot growing on his vision: a village. "Ah... A rest. Wonderful." His weary old bones needed it terribly.

As he neared the first farmhouses, he stopped, peering about curiously. Not a sound... Odd. He strode further into the village. House after house he passed, empty.

"Now what's all this then, Quesse?" he rasped at the bird. Quesse cawed with a small flap of wings that resembled a shrug.

 

Chelminis jumped from tree to tree, being as silent as he could. He was on a potentially dangerous mission. He stopped about 11 miles from the charted location of the Imralian army, meaning they should arrive in about 90 minutes.

Ahh, what was taking so long? According to the sun, it was about 5:30. Chelmenis had been perched high in a tree for approximately 3 hours.

Then, suddenly, a twig crackled. Chelmenis shot up. Using his inherent night vision, he saw three clumsy human scouts....

 

The wagons creaked over a small rise, and the soldiers looked sorrowfully back as the plumes of smoke from there former home disappeared from view. The boy and his two companions looked back with them, but their minds were more on what lay ahead.

Some days later, the convoy rolled into Ofeo, where it was greeted by an officier in full dress uniform with a plumed helmet. "Is this rabble the best you can offer?" he shouted at the head militaman, gesturing with his sword, "move them to the field right away, and await further instructions!"