Post by Kenthor HaGadol on Oct 16, 2007 22:30:43 GMT -5
Inasmuch as many have undertaken to compile a narrative of the things that have been accomplished among us, just as those who from the beginning were eyewitnesses have delivered them to you, it seemed good to me also, having followed all things closely for some time past, and also that I myself witnessed these things, to write an orderly account for you, most excellent reader, that you may have certainty concerning the things you have been taught, and perhaps even seen.
In the days when there was no king of the land of Mittelmarch, even ere their first Crown War, it came to pass that there was a bard named Kenthor HaGadol, of the division of Myrddin Emrys, the son of Taliesin. He had sojourned in the Land Between the Lands before; then, as a warrior. Now he sojourned according to the calling he now had, as a bard, a singer of songs, and master of lore, no longer of the blade. He was highly regarded by those who came after him for his voice was strong, and his mind was keen, and this is the way of it . . .
It came to pass, as Kenthor walked, and communed with the nature with which he was so familiar and loved so dear, that a scented whisper of wind spoke to him. It told of a disturbance not far from where he was. And so, seeing that there was nothing to prevent his investigation, and since he had a curious mind, he made his way into the breeze. The day was warm, and there was happiness in his heart, so he traversed on in peace, singing softly to himself, as was his wont. His joy increased as he sang, and despite the smell, He sang in full voice, so that he might have missed all sign of the cause of the smoke, had there been no clashing.
And clashing there was, as there is always in battle. For there, as he heard the sound in mid-stride, he silenced himself, and quickened his pace. And cresting the foothill he beheld, as one who sees death for the first time, the presence of orc. They were deep in combat, sparring, as it were, with men dressed as those whom Kenthor knew not. These strange men, though, were in conflict with the enemy of all that was holy in these very Northern Steppes. Valiantly fought the strangers, yet could only hold their own, for they neither triumphed over the horde of orcs, nor were they driven back thereby. Kenthor beheld the battle, and it did not sit well with him. But all was soon to be put to right, for with a bellowing battle-cry as from the Bean Sidhe, down flew from the other side of the vale none other than the Dragoons, whose swords were swift, whose schields were strong, and whose aim flew true when they threw their yellow-tipped chafeveleyn.
Down the mountain flew the Dragoons, like bats from the underworld, streaming down against their unwitting foes. A cheer rose from the strangers, whose plight had just now changed, seemingly for the better. Ah, but many things are not as they seem, nor do the good deeds, done by just men and for right reasons, often bear good fruit.
Down flew the Dragoons, as a wave crashing into the shore, penetrating and cleaving, wreaking havoc amongst the orcish horde. Deep they sliced, cheered on by the men in strange dress: deep, and deeper still. The orcs shrieked their cry of rage, and began to ignore the strange men, foisting all their malice against the Dragoons. Loud was the clamor, and the Dragoon war-song rose high in the warm, late summer sky.
Led by Militis, Pen-y-Cat, and Bishop of cunning skill, the Dragoons hacked their way into the center of the thronging, stench ridden mass of orcish flesh, whose blood was staining this hallowed ground black. It was at this time, when the Dragoons battled to the center of the encircling orcs, and the strange men, to whom the Dragoons had come in succor, guarded their flank, that it behooved Kenthor to rise from his perch, and intercede with Heaven, for victory in the vale.
He rose from the dale, and ascended a mound, raising his stave to the sky. With a bellowing call Kenthor sounded out loud the words of the Dark Tongue:
Dagda! Dagda Samildanac!
he cried, and the clouds covered the sun.
Some of the strangers, who had turned their attention to protecting the flank of the Dragoons, looked up to see the bard standing tall on the mound, interceding 'twixt heaven and earth. And the sound of his voice, amplified by the newfound cloud cover, which was growing thicker and darker every moment, seemed to hearten the Dragoons, and they fought fiercer, should such a thought be conceived.
But it came to pass, as do all good things, that when the orcs saw that their plight was worsened, their commander, a hideous, great, swarthy hog-tusked hairy beast, roared a command to his fellows. They fell back from their task, and retreated a few steps, Dragoons and strangers at guard, tense, wary for trickery.
Alas, too late did Kenthor see the signal that passed between the commanders, but in one swift motion, the Dragoons were hard pressed from left, front, and right, by the orcs, who were clamoring worse, now. Kenthor lost all concentration on the Dark Tongue, and the cloud cover dispersed.
So it was that under the full light of day, in the Vale of Treachery, the Dragoons rear lines were slain. Not by arrows, or strength of orc blade, but by the betrayal of those whom they had come to help, giving aid when none other could.
And it came to pass, that when the cry of victory was in Kenthor's throat, there it died, and gave birth to the groan of lamentation. Kenthor watched helpless, distracted by the betrayal, concern for his comrades furrowing his brow, as the orcish allies revealed the true nature of their mission: it had not been for expulsion of orc raiders from the land, as it is commonly rumored, even today. It was to decimate and destroy, if they could, the glorious band of warriors called the Dragoons.
Seeing their plight, and the light of day dwindling, the Chieftains of the Dragoons formulated the plot whereby they might save some of their band.
Fighting as though there were never to be sunrise again, Bishop and Militis beat back the pressing orcs, hacking and slaying, circling and guarding the fallen. Their efforts would have been in vain were it not for the cunning exploits of one Peasant, a skilled man, whose fleetness of foot is much renowned even today. The Princess of Battle, Ematai herself had joined in the fray against the orcish-breed. But never again shall songs of valor be sung for those whose last breath curs'd orc and treacherous men. For from the dead of that day, no trace remained - neither flesh, bone, nor armaments - after the Dragoons had escaped.
Bishop and Militis; valor and might. Others there were, too, who fought on that day. Bishop and Rowan, Lampir and Varden, Silverfox and Militis, Peasant and Orli, Alatis and Shadow, and Ematai, Princess of Battle. These were but a few of those who survived, and lived to tell the tale, which you, dear reader, have doubtless heard.
However, so that future generations may learn the tale of the impossible done, of Dragoons Vanquished, and of vengeance bitter and complete, I myself have drawn this up, of my own hand.
I, Kenthor HaGadol write this and these stories, so that you, O Reader, may learn and have a life less worse, in these dark times of no light. That is my tale, as true as it is grim.
Let them hear it, who will.
In the days when there was no king of the land of Mittelmarch, even ere their first Crown War, it came to pass that there was a bard named Kenthor HaGadol, of the division of Myrddin Emrys, the son of Taliesin. He had sojourned in the Land Between the Lands before; then, as a warrior. Now he sojourned according to the calling he now had, as a bard, a singer of songs, and master of lore, no longer of the blade. He was highly regarded by those who came after him for his voice was strong, and his mind was keen, and this is the way of it . . .
It came to pass, as Kenthor walked, and communed with the nature with which he was so familiar and loved so dear, that a scented whisper of wind spoke to him. It told of a disturbance not far from where he was. And so, seeing that there was nothing to prevent his investigation, and since he had a curious mind, he made his way into the breeze. The day was warm, and there was happiness in his heart, so he traversed on in peace, singing softly to himself, as was his wont. His joy increased as he sang, and despite the smell, He sang in full voice, so that he might have missed all sign of the cause of the smoke, had there been no clashing.
And clashing there was, as there is always in battle. For there, as he heard the sound in mid-stride, he silenced himself, and quickened his pace. And cresting the foothill he beheld, as one who sees death for the first time, the presence of orc. They were deep in combat, sparring, as it were, with men dressed as those whom Kenthor knew not. These strange men, though, were in conflict with the enemy of all that was holy in these very Northern Steppes. Valiantly fought the strangers, yet could only hold their own, for they neither triumphed over the horde of orcs, nor were they driven back thereby. Kenthor beheld the battle, and it did not sit well with him. But all was soon to be put to right, for with a bellowing battle-cry as from the Bean Sidhe, down flew from the other side of the vale none other than the Dragoons, whose swords were swift, whose schields were strong, and whose aim flew true when they threw their yellow-tipped chafeveleyn.
Down the mountain flew the Dragoons, like bats from the underworld, streaming down against their unwitting foes. A cheer rose from the strangers, whose plight had just now changed, seemingly for the better. Ah, but many things are not as they seem, nor do the good deeds, done by just men and for right reasons, often bear good fruit.
Down flew the Dragoons, as a wave crashing into the shore, penetrating and cleaving, wreaking havoc amongst the orcish horde. Deep they sliced, cheered on by the men in strange dress: deep, and deeper still. The orcs shrieked their cry of rage, and began to ignore the strange men, foisting all their malice against the Dragoons. Loud was the clamor, and the Dragoon war-song rose high in the warm, late summer sky.
Led by Militis, Pen-y-Cat, and Bishop of cunning skill, the Dragoons hacked their way into the center of the thronging, stench ridden mass of orcish flesh, whose blood was staining this hallowed ground black. It was at this time, when the Dragoons battled to the center of the encircling orcs, and the strange men, to whom the Dragoons had come in succor, guarded their flank, that it behooved Kenthor to rise from his perch, and intercede with Heaven, for victory in the vale.
He rose from the dale, and ascended a mound, raising his stave to the sky. With a bellowing call Kenthor sounded out loud the words of the Dark Tongue:
Dagda! Dagda Samildanac!
he cried, and the clouds covered the sun.
Some of the strangers, who had turned their attention to protecting the flank of the Dragoons, looked up to see the bard standing tall on the mound, interceding 'twixt heaven and earth. And the sound of his voice, amplified by the newfound cloud cover, which was growing thicker and darker every moment, seemed to hearten the Dragoons, and they fought fiercer, should such a thought be conceived.
But it came to pass, as do all good things, that when the orcs saw that their plight was worsened, their commander, a hideous, great, swarthy hog-tusked hairy beast, roared a command to his fellows. They fell back from their task, and retreated a few steps, Dragoons and strangers at guard, tense, wary for trickery.
Alas, too late did Kenthor see the signal that passed between the commanders, but in one swift motion, the Dragoons were hard pressed from left, front, and right, by the orcs, who were clamoring worse, now. Kenthor lost all concentration on the Dark Tongue, and the cloud cover dispersed.
So it was that under the full light of day, in the Vale of Treachery, the Dragoons rear lines were slain. Not by arrows, or strength of orc blade, but by the betrayal of those whom they had come to help, giving aid when none other could.
And it came to pass, that when the cry of victory was in Kenthor's throat, there it died, and gave birth to the groan of lamentation. Kenthor watched helpless, distracted by the betrayal, concern for his comrades furrowing his brow, as the orcish allies revealed the true nature of their mission: it had not been for expulsion of orc raiders from the land, as it is commonly rumored, even today. It was to decimate and destroy, if they could, the glorious band of warriors called the Dragoons.
Seeing their plight, and the light of day dwindling, the Chieftains of the Dragoons formulated the plot whereby they might save some of their band.
Fighting as though there were never to be sunrise again, Bishop and Militis beat back the pressing orcs, hacking and slaying, circling and guarding the fallen. Their efforts would have been in vain were it not for the cunning exploits of one Peasant, a skilled man, whose fleetness of foot is much renowned even today. The Princess of Battle, Ematai herself had joined in the fray against the orcish-breed. But never again shall songs of valor be sung for those whose last breath curs'd orc and treacherous men. For from the dead of that day, no trace remained - neither flesh, bone, nor armaments - after the Dragoons had escaped.
Bishop and Militis; valor and might. Others there were, too, who fought on that day. Bishop and Rowan, Lampir and Varden, Silverfox and Militis, Peasant and Orli, Alatis and Shadow, and Ematai, Princess of Battle. These were but a few of those who survived, and lived to tell the tale, which you, dear reader, have doubtless heard.
However, so that future generations may learn the tale of the impossible done, of Dragoons Vanquished, and of vengeance bitter and complete, I myself have drawn this up, of my own hand.
I, Kenthor HaGadol write this and these stories, so that you, O Reader, may learn and have a life less worse, in these dark times of no light. That is my tale, as true as it is grim.
Let them hear it, who will.