*Sighs*
I just got to read this Ludovic and I'm really flattered and impressed by your creativity. I mean, of course the Kingseekers being in the tale is very cool, but I just like how you've expounded on the 'rebellion' thing that somehow wound up in the history books. Your use of metaphor is just fantastic. Do it more. This is poetry, man.
When I read this, I saw not only the imagery of the events, but I also imagined some bard in the Buck was telling this story. I think it's the rhyme. It just really made me think of a story-teller, alive in the telling of a good story.
Pretty cool.
The longest kiss in history
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Redleafe
- Dasarian Hero
- Posts: 1193
- Joined: Mon Oct 16, 2006 3:56 am
- Main Player Character: Kyfier Redleafe
- Other PCs: Volak Redleafe
Cpl. Vhannon "Bulldog" Briggs
Ru of Cuhanna - Bioware Username: Redleafe
- Location: Ohio
I've been going through the tales section and oh my what a treasure this literature is.
I admire yout ability to survey your message so vividly. A pleasure to read. More of this would be delightful.
I admire yout ability to survey your message so vividly. A pleasure to read. More of this would be delightful.
Kyfier Redleafe, Rebel of the Daybreak Alliance.
Volak Redleafe, Champion of the Redleafe Clan.
Istan Donnerly, Paladin of Tharon.
And just like the ending of a play, when the audience is stunned, in awe of the performance, there is a brief moment of deep silence. And just like the explosion of applause thereafter, the silence too gave way to the sound of creaking wood and screeching metal. Then, as the first blow impacts into the gates, a single white-rose petal, slowly drifts down onto the ground. All eyes, drawn towards the gates, from all around.
An iron dragon's head stood impaled onto hard oak, suspended from above by four dark and rusting chains, with links the size of a man's shield, and then all inside the town began to see – their fate was sealed. It was a ram, they said, that made its way across the land, and broke through the gates at Daris and Dasar, Raven's Watch and even made its way to Corda.
It's the Beast! came a collective call of horror from within the little town, but the giant at the head of the defenders stood motionless, slowly clutching the symbol on his chest, the golden broken crown. He looked around at the few hundred gathered just behind the gates; most were soft like an autumn ripened peach, but the core. The core, just like a peach, was hard as stone, Knights ready for the final battle, one last war.
Though many have died, trying to reach the town's wall, the enemy still has many more than we! But you may not let them reach our great hall! Each of you, a Knight of the Crown and may you burn in the pits of hell if you break before your body does and if you do not make them in their own blood drown!
The words of the nameless, giant man who was about to lead his men against the Varanite attack, who was about to defend a little town that sat where two rivers met, shouted with serene composure just as the great wooden gate reinforced with iron bars began to crack. On the other side, the Beast kept pummelling the gate, and the Varanites For Varana! shouted with hate, but from within the walls a roar as if unleashed by thousands came For the Crown!, even though an order was not given, but that is why they were Kingseeker Knights, all thought the same.
Then, just as the Moon revealed its face from behind a dark and brooding cloud, splinters, arrows and spears all thrust into the gathered crowd. The gate finally gave way, and bloodthirsty men rushed in whishing everyone inside to slay. Strangely, the sound that echoed loudest was not the sound of war, but that of a saddened mandolin and a woman's voice, as a song began to spin.
As wild, hungry beasts with maddened eyes the men rushed in and just as before, the feint light that trickled down onto the ground, was not enough to reveal the trap that lay, and more blood began to pour as hundreds yet again, forever left the fray. And screams of agony and pain, was now the loudest sound.
Despite the many who no longer served Varana, they kept coming until the first blades clashed, and trumpeted the start of a deadly dance that not even heroes may exit without their heads smashed. That giant of a man no longer seemed so tall, as all the Knights appeared to have grown, not in stature but in spirit, as attackers all around would fall.
For each of us that dies, make a hundred loose their lives! he yelled, not in anger but with righteous fury, as he lifted up his shield to deflect a blow, bringing his sword and cutting down his undeserving foe. A scene that was repeated all across the field of battle, as the Knights were truly, executioner and jury.
But still they came, and the simple folk finally broke. Turned tail and ran in all directions through the smoke, on which everyone began to choke. A fire had been set, and houses all began to blaze, but the Knights still held a shape, unshaken and clear through the haze. The Dasarian crescent.
(To Be Continued)
An iron dragon's head stood impaled onto hard oak, suspended from above by four dark and rusting chains, with links the size of a man's shield, and then all inside the town began to see – their fate was sealed. It was a ram, they said, that made its way across the land, and broke through the gates at Daris and Dasar, Raven's Watch and even made its way to Corda.
It's the Beast! came a collective call of horror from within the little town, but the giant at the head of the defenders stood motionless, slowly clutching the symbol on his chest, the golden broken crown. He looked around at the few hundred gathered just behind the gates; most were soft like an autumn ripened peach, but the core. The core, just like a peach, was hard as stone, Knights ready for the final battle, one last war.
Though many have died, trying to reach the town's wall, the enemy still has many more than we! But you may not let them reach our great hall! Each of you, a Knight of the Crown and may you burn in the pits of hell if you break before your body does and if you do not make them in their own blood drown!
The words of the nameless, giant man who was about to lead his men against the Varanite attack, who was about to defend a little town that sat where two rivers met, shouted with serene composure just as the great wooden gate reinforced with iron bars began to crack. On the other side, the Beast kept pummelling the gate, and the Varanites For Varana! shouted with hate, but from within the walls a roar as if unleashed by thousands came For the Crown!, even though an order was not given, but that is why they were Kingseeker Knights, all thought the same.
Then, just as the Moon revealed its face from behind a dark and brooding cloud, splinters, arrows and spears all thrust into the gathered crowd. The gate finally gave way, and bloodthirsty men rushed in whishing everyone inside to slay. Strangely, the sound that echoed loudest was not the sound of war, but that of a saddened mandolin and a woman's voice, as a song began to spin.
As wild, hungry beasts with maddened eyes the men rushed in and just as before, the feint light that trickled down onto the ground, was not enough to reveal the trap that lay, and more blood began to pour as hundreds yet again, forever left the fray. And screams of agony and pain, was now the loudest sound.
Despite the many who no longer served Varana, they kept coming until the first blades clashed, and trumpeted the start of a deadly dance that not even heroes may exit without their heads smashed. That giant of a man no longer seemed so tall, as all the Knights appeared to have grown, not in stature but in spirit, as attackers all around would fall.
For each of us that dies, make a hundred loose their lives! he yelled, not in anger but with righteous fury, as he lifted up his shield to deflect a blow, bringing his sword and cutting down his undeserving foe. A scene that was repeated all across the field of battle, as the Knights were truly, executioner and jury.
But still they came, and the simple folk finally broke. Turned tail and ran in all directions through the smoke, on which everyone began to choke. A fire had been set, and houses all began to blaze, but the Knights still held a shape, unshaken and clear through the haze. The Dasarian crescent.
(To Be Continued)
-
Redleafe
- Dasarian Hero
- Posts: 1193
- Joined: Mon Oct 16, 2006 3:56 am
- Main Player Character: Kyfier Redleafe
- Other PCs: Volak Redleafe
Cpl. Vhannon "Bulldog" Briggs
Ru of Cuhanna - Bioware Username: Redleafe
- Location: Ohio
As wild, hungry beasts with maddened eyes the men rushed in and just as before, the feint light that trickled down onto the ground, was not enough to reveal the trap that lay, and more blood began to pour as hundreds yet again, forever left the fray. And screams of agony and pain, was now the loudest sound.
This paragraph really stood out to me, very poetic. Nice to see you back around Ludovic.
Kyfier Redleafe, Rebel of the Daybreak Alliance.
Volak Redleafe, Champion of the Redleafe Clan.
Istan Donnerly, Paladin of Tharon.
Four thousand men dispatched, sent down to where the rivers met, to end the Knightly threat. To raze the houses thatched. Four thousand men came down, sent to forever end the Crown. Four thousand. Came…
The enemy had broken through the gates, the gates guarded as if by a demon sent from the abyss, and beyond – only death awaits. The sky was showing only a few stars, an omen perhaps, of the scene below and the land, so full of scars. The smoke was rising slowly, as if wanting to cling onto the ground, pointing to the promise of rain. To wash away the pain. Of being under Varana’s chain.
The battle had gone on for some time, but the woman was still there, playing her maple mandolin, singing her delightful rhyme. The simple peasants of the town had broken soon after the gate had given way, but the Knights would fight on to the death, to serve the Crown. And the enemy was whittled down, running through the gauntlet of that town, so that only fifteen hundred men still stood, but all of them still could.
The Knights, all two hundred, were aligned in their formation, a crescent, that stood out from the smoke and haze. Focused on their foe, piercing each with their dragon's gaze. The Varanite commander, with a dismissive wave, sent forth a line of soldiers, charging at the crescent. As they locked swords, the crescent slowly turned inside out, trapping the attackers in a vice, ending each and every knave.
So the commander sent another wave, men foaming at the mouth, filled with rage and bloodlust, but they too were sent simply to their grave, face first into the dust. The Knights had lost a few as well, some injured, some dead. Some fighting with a severed limb, some simply lifeless, grim. But still holding firmly onto the sign that adorned their battered armour’s chest. As they peacefully, now went to rest.
The varanites again came for another test, this time flanking from both sides, but the Knights fought with fire in their chest. A blow came down, only to be deflected by a shield that borne the scars of battle, before a sword forged in Dasar, a head would rattle. The attacker's head flew and rolled onto the ground, accompanied a hundred times with the same sound, like an orchestra in unison, playing under a blue, glowing moon, making the attackers swoon.
Yet still they came, like metronomic ocean waves. And just like ocean waves, they broke when hitting rock. The Knights where fighting as if possessed, in defiance, as if the power of Varana they would dare mock. For each Knight that fell, they would send ten of theirs in the ground to dwell. And so, the simple folk that broke when the battle started now began to take some heart and with their fear slowly parted.
… look at them! … they’re still fighting … we might make it … long live the Crown! … this should be taken down in writing… A chorus of voices that dodged the sound of battle and the mandolin. A hope perhaps. But alas, the one thousand Varanites remaining were all the very best, warriors in gold and black who passed each and every test. The Knights, just over a hundred left, were weary, battered, bruised but still – oh, so very deft. This was it, the crescendo to an opera that no composer could ever hope to recreate, then, the commander turned towards his finest, fresh and eager troops. No speech, no grand words designed to preach. Just…
Who are you!? Talon! What are you!? Talon! Who are we!? Talon! What are we?! Talon!
Each man, screaming in reply to the commander with eyes bulging as if about to pop and spit spraying from the mouth like some great hunter beast is about to kill its prey and enjoy a sumptuous feast. The ground began to tremble as they charged, like a tidal wave, foaming at the top with pointed, polished steel, into the thin wall of men that was until this moment, as if made of finest metal, all whom fear would not feel.
The Knights began to fight with renewed vigour, but these men were no green conscripts barely trained. These men were hardened veterans, whose hands, of blood were stained. One by one, the wall began to crack and one by one, a Knight would fall onto his back. The woman now began to change her tune, to a happy, blissful melody, for she too now knew the end was near and the Knights deserved a death so full of cheer.
They fought on, bravely, oh and how they fought. That the Talon, a fear of death were taught. One Knight raised his shield to catch a blow, which broke his shield in half, before he felt a sharp pain going through his calf. As he looked down, the leg was gone, covered in blood and collapsing to the floor as a new born fawn. A final blow was struck, that split his head in two and not even for one moment, did he think to duck. Another, was still fighting with a sword stuck through his gut, with a severed arm still grasping at the hilt. This Knight would fight, charging with a tilt. Until two more Talon cut him to the bone, but he would not whisper a sound, even a moan. And those two, he’d carry to the grave and die brave, not as a slave.
Another still, was run through with a spear, and as he clawed his way closer to the man, he had not a single thought of fear. He would die, but take soldier too, with his last battle cry. This scene was repeated all across the field, as not a Knight would ever yield. Until the only Knight alive was the tower of the man who led the Knights in this, their finest hour.
He had three fingers missing, a massive gash below his eye, deep cuts, broken armour and a cut across his thigh. But he was still standing, fighting. Mighty. High. He fought onwards until four swords all went through his chest. He took a pause, grasping at the crest, before striking down again, until a sword finally went through his heart and this world, began to part.
They were all dead, and the moon now was slowly going to its bed, calling in the sun and the darkness it began to shun. The woman finally stopped playing, as a sword chopped off her head, and so – the song was dead. The attackers began to kill every man, woman and child that was left alive, as if hunters in the wild. Going house to house, killing all inside, and razing the house making sure no one would even die with pride.
Before mid-day, all that remained were blackened ruins, blood stained ground and countless bodies resting on the earth or impaled upon the needles of the pits.
Four thousand men dispatched, sent down to where the rivers met, to end the Knightly threat. To raze the houses thatched. Four thousand men came down, sent to forever end the Crown. Four thousand. Came… but barely four hundred ever left, where the rivers met – what the locals called, the longest kiss in history.
The enemy had broken through the gates, the gates guarded as if by a demon sent from the abyss, and beyond – only death awaits. The sky was showing only a few stars, an omen perhaps, of the scene below and the land, so full of scars. The smoke was rising slowly, as if wanting to cling onto the ground, pointing to the promise of rain. To wash away the pain. Of being under Varana’s chain.
The battle had gone on for some time, but the woman was still there, playing her maple mandolin, singing her delightful rhyme. The simple peasants of the town had broken soon after the gate had given way, but the Knights would fight on to the death, to serve the Crown. And the enemy was whittled down, running through the gauntlet of that town, so that only fifteen hundred men still stood, but all of them still could.
The Knights, all two hundred, were aligned in their formation, a crescent, that stood out from the smoke and haze. Focused on their foe, piercing each with their dragon's gaze. The Varanite commander, with a dismissive wave, sent forth a line of soldiers, charging at the crescent. As they locked swords, the crescent slowly turned inside out, trapping the attackers in a vice, ending each and every knave.
So the commander sent another wave, men foaming at the mouth, filled with rage and bloodlust, but they too were sent simply to their grave, face first into the dust. The Knights had lost a few as well, some injured, some dead. Some fighting with a severed limb, some simply lifeless, grim. But still holding firmly onto the sign that adorned their battered armour’s chest. As they peacefully, now went to rest.
The varanites again came for another test, this time flanking from both sides, but the Knights fought with fire in their chest. A blow came down, only to be deflected by a shield that borne the scars of battle, before a sword forged in Dasar, a head would rattle. The attacker's head flew and rolled onto the ground, accompanied a hundred times with the same sound, like an orchestra in unison, playing under a blue, glowing moon, making the attackers swoon.
Yet still they came, like metronomic ocean waves. And just like ocean waves, they broke when hitting rock. The Knights where fighting as if possessed, in defiance, as if the power of Varana they would dare mock. For each Knight that fell, they would send ten of theirs in the ground to dwell. And so, the simple folk that broke when the battle started now began to take some heart and with their fear slowly parted.
… look at them! … they’re still fighting … we might make it … long live the Crown! … this should be taken down in writing… A chorus of voices that dodged the sound of battle and the mandolin. A hope perhaps. But alas, the one thousand Varanites remaining were all the very best, warriors in gold and black who passed each and every test. The Knights, just over a hundred left, were weary, battered, bruised but still – oh, so very deft. This was it, the crescendo to an opera that no composer could ever hope to recreate, then, the commander turned towards his finest, fresh and eager troops. No speech, no grand words designed to preach. Just…
Who are you!? Talon! What are you!? Talon! Who are we!? Talon! What are we?! Talon!
Each man, screaming in reply to the commander with eyes bulging as if about to pop and spit spraying from the mouth like some great hunter beast is about to kill its prey and enjoy a sumptuous feast. The ground began to tremble as they charged, like a tidal wave, foaming at the top with pointed, polished steel, into the thin wall of men that was until this moment, as if made of finest metal, all whom fear would not feel.
The Knights began to fight with renewed vigour, but these men were no green conscripts barely trained. These men were hardened veterans, whose hands, of blood were stained. One by one, the wall began to crack and one by one, a Knight would fall onto his back. The woman now began to change her tune, to a happy, blissful melody, for she too now knew the end was near and the Knights deserved a death so full of cheer.
They fought on, bravely, oh and how they fought. That the Talon, a fear of death were taught. One Knight raised his shield to catch a blow, which broke his shield in half, before he felt a sharp pain going through his calf. As he looked down, the leg was gone, covered in blood and collapsing to the floor as a new born fawn. A final blow was struck, that split his head in two and not even for one moment, did he think to duck. Another, was still fighting with a sword stuck through his gut, with a severed arm still grasping at the hilt. This Knight would fight, charging with a tilt. Until two more Talon cut him to the bone, but he would not whisper a sound, even a moan. And those two, he’d carry to the grave and die brave, not as a slave.
Another still, was run through with a spear, and as he clawed his way closer to the man, he had not a single thought of fear. He would die, but take soldier too, with his last battle cry. This scene was repeated all across the field, as not a Knight would ever yield. Until the only Knight alive was the tower of the man who led the Knights in this, their finest hour.
He had three fingers missing, a massive gash below his eye, deep cuts, broken armour and a cut across his thigh. But he was still standing, fighting. Mighty. High. He fought onwards until four swords all went through his chest. He took a pause, grasping at the crest, before striking down again, until a sword finally went through his heart and this world, began to part.
They were all dead, and the moon now was slowly going to its bed, calling in the sun and the darkness it began to shun. The woman finally stopped playing, as a sword chopped off her head, and so – the song was dead. The attackers began to kill every man, woman and child that was left alive, as if hunters in the wild. Going house to house, killing all inside, and razing the house making sure no one would even die with pride.
Before mid-day, all that remained were blackened ruins, blood stained ground and countless bodies resting on the earth or impaled upon the needles of the pits.
Four thousand men dispatched, sent down to where the rivers met, to end the Knightly threat. To raze the houses thatched. Four thousand men came down, sent to forever end the Crown. Four thousand. Came… but barely four hundred ever left, where the rivers met – what the locals called, the longest kiss in history.
Last edited by Ludovic on Tue Jun 19, 2007 9:00 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Chia
- Dasarian Scout
- Posts: 432
- Joined: Fri Jan 12, 2007 5:43 pm
- Main Player Character: A paladin. Honest!
- Location: Anywhere, as long as it has shinies.
This is flippin' amazing!
Reminds me of one of the old paintings that the authors would spend years to make certain that they were complete to the smallest detail. The richness of the metaphors and the rhythm of the words themselves...
Wheew. That's pure unadulterated genius at work right there.
More!
Reminds me of one of the old paintings that the authors would spend years to make certain that they were complete to the smallest detail. The richness of the metaphors and the rhythm of the words themselves...
Wheew. That's pure unadulterated genius at work right there.
More!
I am not contrary!
I watched them, and I cried
As a poet gazes upon the moonlit sky.
The knights, all readied
As everyone around them fled, unleased a cry.
I watched them, and I cried
"To battle, death and glory!"
Every last one, cut down and died.
Dead, but immortal in a story.
I watched them, and I cried
As those "loyal" fled, all but those knights.
Stood still as waves of soldiers tried
To break the men, fighting for their rights.
I watched them, and I cried
As the banner of the 'seeker knights
Waved proudly, so renowned.
Defiant to the last, until the evening lights.
I watched them, and I cried
As finally they broke and were cut down.
I watched them all, with pride
As not one was chained, dying for the crown.
The End.
As a poet gazes upon the moonlit sky.
The knights, all readied
As everyone around them fled, unleased a cry.
I watched them, and I cried
"To battle, death and glory!"
Every last one, cut down and died.
Dead, but immortal in a story.
I watched them, and I cried
As those "loyal" fled, all but those knights.
Stood still as waves of soldiers tried
To break the men, fighting for their rights.
I watched them, and I cried
As the banner of the 'seeker knights
Waved proudly, so renowned.
Defiant to the last, until the evening lights.
I watched them, and I cried
As finally they broke and were cut down.
I watched them all, with pride
As not one was chained, dying for the crown.
The End.
Last edited by Ludovic on Tue Jun 19, 2007 8:58 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Torquil Lamond
- Dasarian Scout
- Posts: 458
- Joined: Mon Jun 11, 2007 9:05 pm
- Main Player Character: Commodore Lamond
- Location: Cear, Dasaria
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Chia
- Dasarian Scout
- Posts: 432
- Joined: Fri Jan 12, 2007 5:43 pm
- Main Player Character: A paladin. Honest!
- Location: Anywhere, as long as it has shinies.
You just enjoy the thought of this being an example to future (current) generations that Your Fatherness will be able to take sweet time to stomp down heavily on with the hobnailed iron red boots of Lochwar's official priestly garbMinuvas wrote:My favorite part was when they all died.
I am not contrary!