Write-up by Dangerous Brian
Lances splinter, horses rear, flesh rends and the ground heaves. The armoured charge of knights and men at arms strike home against an all but oblivious foe. Lothryn's lance takes a darkspawn through the mouth and throat, shattering as the armoured, angry knight spurs past the falling foe. All around him, the brave armsmen of Oakenfield drop their ruined weapons, swords rasping free from scabbards and axes unhooked from saddles. With a fierce shout, the mounted warriors roar their blood-lust and darkspawn turn to meet them.
Not far behind, a flailing dwarf raises his own voice in answer to the warriors battle-cry, axe raised high and swung about his head. Fortunately, only the twinkling stars in the sky bear witness as Ogden topples from the saddle, his wildly swinging axe unbalancing the proud dwarf, sending him crashing to the floor. His brave horse rides on to battle without him.
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Astride the shattered ante-room door, Shelby brings his sword down upon the back of another corrupted wolf, sending it crashing to the wooden floor with barely a whimper. Behind him, the brave townsmen who share his defence of this entrance gaze upon the young man and his feats with something akin to hero-worship. The young knight calls his defiance of the foe, gore-smeared and gasping. “Come you scabby dogs! Death awaits you!” He clangs his glistening blade against the scarred and pitted metal of his shield. “Who dies next?”
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Outside, the press of battle parts for but a moment, affording Lothryn a single, clear glimpse of a terrifying foe. A giant form, clad from head to toe in black plate, eyes afire with infernal light, swings a mighty falchion the length of a grown man, cleaving through a charging man-at-arms from the mans armoured head to the very belly of his mount. In four bloody portions they fall, man and horse, with the ill-fated rider's feet still caught in the stirrups of his dead mount. Ser Faradon, a mere horse length from the fallen pair, looks across in horror, meeting the gaze of Ser Lothryn with his own.
With a hoarse, near quivering voice, Lothryn calls to the older knight. “We need to bring that beast down!” Incredulous, Ser Farradin, slashing the throat of a genlock that sought to catch him unaware, hollar's back. “Oh you think so, do you?”
Meanwhile, perhaps a furlong behind, Ogden rises from the muddy ground. Head lowered like a charging bull, he grasps his fallen axe from the churned ground and sprints onward, yelling a fierce dwarven war-cry all the while.
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Behind their burning barricade, Cobden and Garrett call encouragement to the weary, wounded men beside them. Though they swing and shout with all their might, inspiring the simple farmers around them to greater and greater feats of endurance, the men are tiring quickly from many small wounds. One by one, they begin to fall.
Seeing the plight of the exhausted men-folk, Sister Arda calls for the women and children to drag the wounded back from the barricade. Yet as a few tentative souls make their way forward, the terrible, dying scream of a horse drives them back to their huddle against the far wall. Occupied as she is with the hysterical elf girl, she is unable to move forward herself and must satisfy herself by exhorting the terrified woman-folk to sing over the noise of bloody battle, if only to spare the horrors from reaching the ears of the children.
Upstairs, in the belfry, Fossett desperately fends off the genlock swarming the belfry, his back to the stairwell and his rear foot resting on the second step from last. With panted gasps he instructs the surviving youths to flee downstairs and support the others with their bowfire. Three darkspawn glare evilly at him, grinning as the defenders seemingly abandon the lone knight to his fate. Fossett calls upon Andraste to watch over him, tearing the grin off one foes face with a single blow from his gauntleted fist. In retaliation, a second darkspawn shoulders past the first, striking high, but Fossett ducks beneath the blow. His blade bites through rusted iron to land a wound on the creature's belly, even as the the darkspawn's own weapon clatters against the bell, setting it to swing back and forth across the belfry, its loud ringing rattling the teeth of every warrior present -knight and darkspawn alike.
Below, while the bells first peal shakes the temple's very stones, Cobden drops another darkspawn. Garrett leaps atop the pile of corpses at the mighty blacksmith's feet, sword held high in defiance. “Fight! Fight men of Vintiver! Fight for your wives, fight for your children, fight for your home! Up! Up! Fight for your very lives!” Inspired by his bravery and fine, though slobbery words, the men of Vintiver grip their weapons a little more tightly, grit their teeth and offer a ragged cheer. Two gravely wounded men, lying prostrate in their own sticky blood behind the main battle line, drag themselves to their feet, weapons lifted in bloodied, weary hands, their bandages trailing behind them, and force themselves once more into the fray.
In the ante-room, Shelby looks out at a sea of shaken foes. Though they wave, they brandish weapons and snarl menacingly, not one seems willing to charge the seemingly invincible warrior blocking their path. Only when a mighty hurlock, a veritable giant of his kind, steps from the throng do the cowardly beasts resume the attack. Two genlock, propelled onward by their lumbering champion, crash to the ground when they batter themselves against the shield of the unyielding knight. Yet their mighty champion lunges forward over their prostrate, groaning forms, his spear biting deep into Shelby's armoured thigh. Shattered rings fall from his chainmail to the cold, temple floor. Behind him, his despairing men quail at the approving roar of the assembled multitude before them.
His pain, smothered by a righteous fury, Shelby is unbowed. His eyes blaze with the promise of the vengeance to come.
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Lothryn glances first at the massive, armoured form before him, then again at his sword. Realising the weapon he wields would be as useless as a broom against so mighty a monster, he throws the discarded wepaon to the ground. Giving spur to his mighty mount and venting forth a furious war-cry, he unhooks the warmaul from his back. With the ground shaking beneath his hooves, Lothryn puts all his might into a single, back breaking blow. The hammer finds it target, crushing the plate protecting monsters armoured spine. Though the impact nearly throws Lothryn from his horse, the monster is barely staggered. It turns the infernal light of its blazing, purple eyes full upon a shaken Lothryn, and with lightning speed the monster brings it's mighty blade down upon the passing haunch of Lothryn's proud steed. The blow lands so close behind the knights saddle that he feels the wind of it's passing. Blood sprays his armoured back. The knight strives to stay atop his wounded mount, but it is hopeless. As the proud steed's hind quarters fall away to the rear, the brave knight learns that the folly of trying to ride a two-legged, dying horse. The horse's ruined corpse topples to the ground. Too late the knight realises his peril. He tries to roll away, but with one foot caught in the stirrup, he falls beneath the still considerable bulk of the slain destrier, his right ankle trapped under the withers of his dead horse. A giant shadow falls astride him, blotting out what little starlight can penetrate the clouds and smoke to illuminate the field. The proud knights looks up, up, up into the blazing, murderous eyes of death incarnate.
Time slows... he sees every bead of dew, every drop of blood condensed on the cool, black iron of the monsters blade. Every pit and groove of rusted metal in it's armour. Off in the distance, above even the noise of battle, he hears an owl hoot, the soft clatter of a spear dropped in the mud. The squelch of trampling feet. Mixed amidts the smells of blood and offal, he can smell the sweet scent of wet grass, of newly turned earth. With agonising slowness, he watches the creatures blade rise in a crescent, only to descend in a terrible arc, every bloody bead cast aside seeming to fall through the air with all the languid careless of a snowflake. As the blade nears, the brave knight closes his eyes....
…....and hears a loud clatter, reminiscent of a bull charging a wagon.
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Shelby feigns weakness, staggering back into the room. The champion roars at the gathered throng behind it, the two fallen genlock pressing forward into the room. Shelby, strikes out at the two, disappointed by the failure of his attempt to lure the champion forward. Two men move forward on both his flanks, to flank each of the genlock in turn. Despite their brains being rattled by their earlier fall, both creatures stave off Shelby's attack. The wounded knight grits his teeth against the pain of his wound and fights on.
Elsewhere, Garrett catches a glimpse of mounted figures beyond the flames of the barricade. Aware that darkspawn would rather eat a horse than ride upon it, he gives voice to a joyous cheer. Alas, he chooses the very moment that the bell repeats it toll to shout the news. Yet Cobden, also, sees a glimmer of hope appear before him. His booming voice carries all through the Temple. “Knights! Knights! The garrison of Restenford has come!” Knowing this to be impossible, Garrett realises the riders must have come from Oakenfield, but being no pedant, he simply grins, hoping that Ser Giles and his half dozen men will be enough to turn the tide of battle.
In the chaos and noise of the belfry above, Fossett takes another few steps back down the stairs, sacrificing the bell-tower for the greater security of the narrow stairwell. Here, though the foe has the advantage of height, only one can press an attack upon him at a time. The genlock in question lunges forward, abandoning it's axe in the close confines and instead trying to brain the knight with it's spiked helm. Fossett takes the blow upon his shield, kicking up at the darkspawn in a most un-knightly manner, aiming at a most unchivalrous target. The blow connects, but, alas, who would have thought that a darkspawn would see the need to acquire an armoured codpiece. Despite the pain of his now shaky knee, the young knight continues to hold his own against the horde pressing down upon him.
Ogden picks himself up from the ground for the second time in moments, standing astride the fallen, befuddled Ser Lothryn. The eight foot armoured monster, toppled by the tackle of a 200 pound, armoured dwarf throwing himself at it's knees, rises up menacingly from the mud. His many wounds reopened by his series of falls, his bloody bandages dragging in the mud beside him, the exhausted dwarf gives voice to a defiant roar. Axe swinging, he meets the charge of the enraged monster.
It is the last, courageous act of a true hero.
Lothryn struggles to his feet even as the dwarf falls, catching Ogden's mangled remains before they can come to rest on the profane soil below. Craddling the dwarf against his armoured chest for but a moment, he watches the light fade from the warrior's eyes, then gently places Ogden upon the ground. With the sneering monster watching, a few scant yards away, Lothryn takes up Ogden's axe. When the monster meets his steady gaze, it smiles....
Inside:
Fossett flails his sword wildly over the top of his shield, wounding his genlock foe in the shoulder. To his surprise, it screams and falls back, blood spurting in an arterial spray from what he had expected to be no more than a superficial wound. He plants his feet on the stairs behind him, beckoning the next genlock forward with his sword. Shaken, it looks back over it's shoulder at it's fellows, cramming the stairs behind it. It's advance is cautious. The beast seems to be in no hurry to die.
Below, Garrett, seeing many of the darkspawn beyond the barricade falter, gives voice to a cheer. Yet even as the men to his side surge forward, Cobden at the head, he calls them back. Something tells him that his time is fast approaching. But not yet. Not yet. Soon, the battle will reach the tipping point.
In the vestry, Shelby and his men fight on. The hurlock champion patiently bides his time, until one of the men tears open a genlock throat with his pitchfork. Shelby leads his companions in a cheer, and presses home his attack against the second genlock. The hurlock champion stalks forward...
Lothryn meets the charge of the armoured giant, Ogden's axe crashing into its armoured chest. The beast doesn't even flinch. Ser Giles, still mounted, charges the beast from behind, roaring for Lothryn to run. Sword held before him like a lance, Ser Giles rides full tilt at the beast. His sword snaps under the tremendous impact, the beast staggers for a moment, but spins round in a full circle, his falchion glistening wetly in the grim light. For the third time that night, the wicked blade claims a victim, the head of the brave knight of Oakenfield tumbles over Ser Lothryn's right shoulder, his lifes-blood mingling with that of the brave Ogden, further soaking Lothryn's already bloody tabard.
In the stairwell, Fossett smacks the hesitant darkspawn with his shield, following up with a well aimed thrust that takes the staggered beast through the socket of the eye. It falls with nary a whisper. Yet another takes it's place.
Cobden adds a hurlock to the mound of crushed and broken bodies that lie before him. Beside him, one the wounded men, returned to battle by Garrett's inspiring leadership, slays another with his bill-hook. Fewer and fewer foes attempt the barricade. More and more seem to be occupied by the milling horsemen outside.
The second genlock in the vestry falls to a villager's sickle. Shelby orders the two men guarding his flanks to fall back. He charges the waiting hurlock, fighting astride the bodies knee deep atop the shattered door. Both champions test one another with a half dozen light blows, each taking the measure of the other.
In the belfry, Fossett takes another wound. The cut is small, but is above his left eye, caused by a blow to the head that pressed the brim of his pot-helm into his scalp. Though it is but the tiniest nick next to his other wounds, it bleeds profusely, clouding his vision. The genlock before him laughs and presses the attack.
Below, Garrett watches the last genlock on this side of the barricade fall. The few beasts still visible through the flames seem shaken and unsteady. Towards the rear of their ragged formation, he sees a few flee back into the night. Turning, he looks each man of the village in the eye, holding each one, appraising, seeking some fire, some hint of further reserves burried deep down. What he sees in those weary, tired eyes, is a furious anger. Mere heartbeats pass, he turns to Cobden and allows himself a small nod. Throwing his shield aside, Garrett takes his blade and without a word, he leaps the burning barricade before him. He feels no need to look back. He knows the men of Vintiver are with him.
In the vestry, Shelby withdraws his sword from the chest of the hurlock champion. Outside, genlock jaws fall to the floor. Scornfully, he kicks the hurlock's kneeling form to the ground. And then? Shelby smiles and steps through the door...
Ser Farradin, afoot now and bleeding from many wounds, charges to Lothryn's side, his blade strikes the monsters armour, seeking a weakness. Lothryn too presses his attack, aiming Ogden's axe for the creature's back, when the armour has been splintered and shattered by numerous blows. Though he draws black, tarry blood, the beast hardly seems to notice. It fights on, each blow coming closer to severing a limb than the last.
In the belfry, Fossett makes a vicious thrust under the rim of his shield. His blow takes a genlock in the groin. He twists savagely, the beast letting out an unearthly howl that can be heard even over the peal of the bell. He steps over the fallen foe, advancing up the stairs. The genlock before him turns to flee.
Garrett lets out a mighty roar, hacking his way through the genlock ranks, Cobden at his side at the head of a flying wedge. Darkspawn fall before them, the rear ranks throwing their weapons and shields aside in flight, giving full voice to their fear in an gutteral, almost feral tongue.
Shelby advances, his pace quickening, his sword ready. Even before he reaches the front rank of the waiting rabble, first one mounted warrior, then a second, strikes the formation from the rear. The formation shattered, Shelby leaps into the fray, swinging his sword as though reaping hay, a crop of severed limbs and mangled bodies falling at his feet. The men of his guard charge forward with him, armed with pitchfork, sickle and hoe. All about them the foe break. “Victory!” cries Shelby, hacking at the retreating back of another foe. “We have Victory!”
His army fleeing around him, the monstrous beast fights on, careless of defeat. Ser Farradin presses the attack once more, seeing Lothryn's plan, taunting and manoeuvring the beast to give Lothryn the opening he needs. The beast is unnaturally fast, even with one man to either side it twists and turns, fast as a serpent, parrying blows and lashing out with monstrous strength, each impact of blades leaving the arms of the two knights more weary than the last. At last, Ser Farradin forces an error. The Templar falls to his knees suddenly. Rashly, the beast turns to administer the death blow. The falchion flashes up once more, ready to descend in deadly motion yet again.
Seizing his chance, Lothryn buries Ogdens axe in the small of its back. With all the slow, stateliness of a falling tree, the beast falls first to its knees, then to the bloody soil beneath. In moments, it is no more, the only remnants of its existence an oily slick staining the grass of the village green.
While the battered men of Vintiver and Oakenfield roam the field, slaying any foul darkspawn that yet lie dying upon the field, Lothryn falls to his knees and places Ogden's axe upon the brave dwarfs ruined chest.
[next] session eight
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