[Session 8] Dragon Age - Monday 8th March 2010

Sad days have passed since Vintiver’s victory over the darkspawn horde. A sad victory in light of the loss of so much in its winning. Three days have spent their course since that dark night and many tears have fallen. The Bannorn of Restenford grieves.

The fires that tore through Vintiver have given way to ash and charred remains; homes picked over by their once residents to retrieve what little belongings remain for collection. New homes have begun in earnest. The broken villagers have come together in a heartening community spirit to help each other as one family, spurred on by the heartfelt sermons of Sister Arda, supported by words from Ser Lothryn. The priestess works on tirelessly though she has barely slept since that night with so many of her parishioners requiring her pastoral and practical care. Mothers are now without sons, wives without husbands, children have lost their families and homes; much work to be done. The shock and carnage of that night has been put behind them as best it could now that the dead have been buried and prayed for by their loved ones, but the path to healing will be taken slowly but surely. Raw wounds will heal eventually if the Maker is willing. In Andraste they trust.  

West is Oakenfield, a town coming to terms with its own grief. They are deep in mourning at the shock of Ser Giles’s valiant passing. The veteran knight was much loved; well respected for his ruling as well as his prowess on the field. He had cared for and protected his family and people for many years in the names of Restenford and Ferelden.

After the battle Lady Iah and her retinue were escorted to her new home - the castle at Restenford, where they are now. There is much to-ing and fro-ing as the sun rises above  the turning leaves of the Brecilian forest. Greens are turning to gold and amber now that it is mid harvest. 

Somewhere in the castle a man just passing his prime has sat in drawn silence for the better part of three days and nights by the bedside of his daughter. He has barely ate or drank during his helpless vigil, for it was all he could do while womenfolk tended her fevered brow. He has protected her for nineteen years of her short life. He has fought in many a raging battle, not to mention Vintiver, in his time as a Knight Templar, but he could not save her from this - poison from a blighted thornbush. 

Now as the fourth dawn greets the room’s shutters he notices her fever has broken and she stirs restlessly in her sleep. The worst has passed. Good news indeed. He rises and flings open the shutters in thanks. 

Laria’s first feelings upon drifting towards waking are that she has never felt pain in her head so intense before. Her brain feels sore, her neck and even her hair seem to ache, made worse when the shock of searing light turns the world to blood red, her eyes hurt too.

“Father?” she moans, shielding her eyes from the bright light streaming in through the window. All she can see is the painful light and a shadowy figure. Ser Farradin smiles and walks over to sit and pat her hand, he sighs and looks suddenly sombre. She can read the sadness in his eyes, dark circles foretell his worry. “Daughter, I have bad news to tell.”

Elsewhere, at the Abbey arrangements are being made for the interment today. Ogden is to be laid to rest beside his uncle. Many worthies and people of Restenford are readying to attend. Back at the castle a cask has been delivered from Denerim with many breathtaking  gowns and outfits for the Lady from Lyza, a small note is included of the sum that is required. 

Iah sits in her sleeping chamber, it still feels as though she is in someone else’s home. Such a grand room of expensive furnishings and draperies cannot be for her surely? She almost misses the small stone room from the chantry where she grew up, misses the sounds of the sisters going about their daily work. It may have been small and spartan but she liked its uncluttered feel and it had all she needed there, this place has many different sounds. She feels lost in such overwhelming luxury with its foreign sounds and smells.

Betts, realising her Lady is awake, fusses over Iah. Too many questions on such a day as this. Iah makes her apologies and dismisses the castellan’s wife. Thoughts and worries pick at her mind as she begins pacing back and forth, thinking of her dear brave friend Ogden. Her heart pains and her throat aches at the thought of this day. Only moments pass before Ser Florin’s wife comes slamming through the doors back into the chamber. Shocking her from her reverie. 

“I am so sorry ma’am... your little friend, the woman who thinks she is a man, she is awake!” 

Iah rushes past Betts, straight through to Laria’s room across the corridor, and through the open door. “Laria!” She throws herself with arms open wide against her friend, hugging her tight. Laria hugs her close and continues to sob, wet faced into her friend’s hair. No need for words.

Riding through the main bailey Ser Lothryn finds he is just in time as the main funeral cortege will be leaving shortly. He quietly appraises Restenford’s castle and it’s half built state. Much will need to be done, but such thoughts will keep for now.

A normally dignified and matronly woman is startled awake in a new room, so different from the one she found the night before in the candle-lit dark when she arrived from the town of Brigton. Wiping the sleep from her eyes she realises it is a knock at the door that has awoken her. Blinking around the room for a moment she sees it is far from grand. She is still dressed as she arrived, in her traveling clothes which are now crumpled and unsightly. She asks the person at the door if they could come back in quarter of an hour when she will be ready to make their acquaintance. They agree and she quietly opens the door but a crack as the footsteps move away. It was a tall, broad-shouldered man with the clothing of a knight and long blonde hair who woke her. She does not recognise him. 

Back in the room she assesses the room, and where everything is. She has a quick look out of the window to find a very grand and expensive looking funeral cortege. Myrtle sees this as a bad omen to have found this on her first day of service but decides to keep quiet and observe what happens today. She dresses herself in simple black as a show of respect. 

Ser Farradin has excused himself from the room of his fatherly duties to allow the girls privacy to grieve. The tears of women have always made him uncomfortable. Iah and Laria ready themselves for the funeral in between bouts of sobbing and hugs. Even with the arrival of Lyza’s cask of creations they cannot find pleasure on this day in such wonders. They dress with little words, Iah helping Laria who is still shaky from so long convalescing. 

Out in the courtyard Fossett finds his brothers Garrett and Shelby shouldering Ogden’s coffin to the carriage. Lothryn passes the boys with a quiet grim nod on his way to prepare for the funeral.

“Is madam ready or should I return in another quarter?” Myrtle opens the door and makes her apologies to the knight and introduces herself. “I am Myrtle good sir. I was Lady Iah’s mother’s lady in waiting.” She smiles serenely and bows slightly. The knight introduces himself as Ser Florin, castellan of Restenford castle. He apologises that it normally would have been his wife who’d have fetched her but she is busy. He explains that she will be introduced to the Lady Iah later in the day, but for now it is the funeral today, and she is welcome to accompany himself and his wife to the Abbey. 

Soon enough everyone is ready. Garrett and Fossett escort their Lady and Laria to the front of the cortege, leaving them there to attend at the rear with Shelby and Ser Lothryn. Behind the knights walks Ser Florin, his wife Betts, Myrtle and others. Among them are a great number of Vintiver’s people, come so show respect to one who fought and died so fearlessly for them. The cortege makes its slow and deliberate march down through Restenford where the peoples line the streets as a mark of respect. 

The sun rises higher into the crisp clear sky, no clouds today, no wind. The world is silent for the passing. Two hours chime by as they follow the road back to his home. Eventually they see above the cherry and chestnut filled orchards the Abbey’s bell-tower and that the flag of the nation sits at half-mast. The Sisters are standing by the gates to greet them. The doors to the chantry have been thrown open wide to receive their fallen son. Rowan stands stoically in the doorway, while his wife Ethelia shakes with tears on his shoulder. 

The cortege eventually files in following Ogden’s mother and father who follow the coffin of their son into his funeral. A heart-achingly beautiful requiem mass is sung, words from Abbess Amelia offer comfort to the congregation and blessings upon the young dwarf with the brave heart.  Rowan speaks a few words for his son as does Ser Farradin, soon Iah is called to speak her eulogy.

“Ogden was a very dear friend here at the Abbey. We all knew him very well. We were childhood friends, tempers would rise and we would bicker but always friends no matter what. He died bravely. He will live on in story and legend. I will always remember him as he was - happy in being himself; brave and impetuous; even though he was much more than a blacksmith’s son. I call upon the knights in this room to fulfill his dream of becoming a knight, to fulfill his dream in this life and the next.”

The congregation look to the knights, the knights look at each other, trying to decide who will go forth.

“I, Ser Lothryn, would wish to have that honour. To knight Ogden on behalf of my people in thanks for the service he performed.” He steps forward and lays his sword on the cask. “I declare thee Ser Ogden, knight of Ferelden, protector of the people of Vintiver.”

The sisters begin another requiem and by its end they are all crying. Ser Florin steps up to carry on the song until Ogden is interred. His baritone voice harmonising richly with the female choir, lending it strength. Ogden’s father Rowan and Ser Lothryn seal the small tomb shut. Poetic in that it was the first and last men present in his life to do so. Abbess Amelia stands again to give her final words.

In the interim Ser Florin coughs and steers Myrtle to Lady Iah, making quiet introductions. Myrtle is pleased and curtsies low, rising with a smile and tears brimming in her eyes. She clasps her hands together and tells Iah how seeing her takes her back twenty years. She sees much of her mother in her and that she wishes she can serve her just as well as she served Lady Nimue. Iah takes her hands in hers and thanks and welcomes her, she would be glad to have someone who knew her mother so well to be as close to her when she knew her not. It will be a welcome comfort.

The congregation begins to form a line to make their condolences to the family. Iah rushes over, a girl once more in her childhood home, and hugs them both. By now Rowan’s eyes are red rimmed and wet. He smiles up at the girl he watched grow who is now a Lady. Ethelia cries all the harder for the sympathy shown.

Ser Lothryn shakes his head solemnly before joining the line. “War is not a glorious thing; this is the face of war.” He speaks with the brothers while they wait patiently. Shelby notices the lonely figure of Laria and makes his excuses to walk over.

She stands staring into air. Still standing where she stood during the service. All is a blur to her. Numb. Without a word he takes her hand and turns her into an embrace, tucking her head into his shoulder. Laria stiffens, wide-eyed for a moment then melts into sobs, holding tightly now she recognises who it is - the one man who treats her like a person and not an oddity.

Eventually the crowd is called to dinner, made by Ogden’s mother. Though she is now sitting quietly, no more tears to cry for now, the sisters of the Abbey serve the guests before taking their places. A prayer is said and all are called to enjoy the meal. It is a sombre affair though there is much talking among the guests. 

Afterwards Ser Lothryn, Ser Florin and the Abbess come and bow to Iah saying they must speak with her about Vintiver. As Abbess Amelia leads them through, Ser Florin nods to Myrtle and motions for her to follow. The brothers Unuthstill join them in the Abbess’s quarters. 

Ser Lothryn begins. 

“I agree with the other knights, while not the best time, what occurred at Vintiver needs to be discussed. The town will need to be rebuilt. The darkspawn will need to be dealt with.”

Iah understands that what happened at Vintiver has not happened in 60 years, a long time indeed and only a few elders remember it from their childhoods. Amelia’s main concern is how the people are going to survive the coming winter as their crops were raised in the attack. At this Ser Fossett suggests sharing crops from other areas in the Bann but Ser Florin explains this would be normal practice. However, the Arl of Lastford has not made tribute this year, making this impossible.

They discuss how best to broach the subject of the missing tribute. Whereupon after some exchange it is best thought that Lady Iah makes an official visit to Lastford as an introduction as the new Lady of the Land. A full procession will be arranged. 

Talk turns to the other matter of Ser Gile’s death and the issue of his daughter the Lady Nina. Fossett offers his hand if it would please the Lady and solve the issue. Iah replies that though Lady Nina should not fail to find him suitable, she is unsure on the matter and is unwilling to force any man upon the poor woman especially in this her time of grief. Ser Florin politely points out that there are four single knights within her vassalage and he is sure she would find one she likes among them. This seems very respectable and Iah advises she shall compose a letter to Lady Nina to advise her of the Sers: Lothryn, Garrett, Fossett and Shelby; of their natures and why she is making this offer.

~ o0o ~

Two days later, in the great hall in Restenford Iah is deep in talk with her vassals over the various problems at hand with her new position and lands. A messenger returns with word from Lastford.

The young boy, well dressed but clearly out of breath from his run and fast riding, falls to one knee and bows his head in respect. 

“My Lady I have returned with news. Lastford’s people have been blessed with a good crop this year and their tribute has been sent forth to Ser Edmund’s hunting lodge at the edge of the Korcari Wilds. No one knows why it has not been sent to Restenford. What’s more Ser Edmond has not been seen or heard from for some time. I am sorry to be the bearer of these tidings. Forgive me.” 

Iah thanks the boy Matthew by name, and advises she holds no ill will to the bringer of news for he is not the creator of the news itself. Little more than simple parchment, and no one could be angry at that. The boy rises and bows again and Myrtle excuses herself from the hall to take him away for food and refreshments.

“Why would he send food to an unstaffed hunting lodge in the forsaken wilds unless it is a trap?” Iah muses looking to her knights for counsel. “Is it all but food?”

Ser Lothryn explains to his lady that farmers give grain and animals in tribute and merchants give coin or goods. After Restenford, Lastford is the richest of the settlements in her Bann so the tribute would have been a sizable amount of food and money, now missing. Truly unfortunate in light of Vintiver’s recent events and situation. 

Talk turns to the procession for Lastford. Lothryn advises that though his people are in need of him, he feels he would be best accompanying Lady Iah as the matter of missing food will eventually become more pressing as time moves on, than rebuilding homes. He will leave Vintiver in the care of its Alderman Cobden in his absence. Laria too speaks out and offers to accompany her lady, feeling she cannot protect her if not by her side. 

The day passes with more talk and by evening Myrtle is helping a tired Iah ready for bed. She speaks about the Lady Nina and about the knights who may be joined in marriage with her. Iah professes she wishes to be better acquainted with Nina and know of her likes and dislikes. She feels Fossett may be the best match for her at the moment with his level-headed nature, bravery and intelligent mind. Myrtle offers to be the one who travels to Nina on her behalf and maybe offer some comfort and care in this difficult time. She has had many a year of caring for mistresses through all of life’s events. Iah is glad and feels this may be an excellent suggestion. She will not have her travel alone on the autumn roads and says she will have Garrett accompany her on the way.

Before sleep they also speak of the tribute and Myrtle asks permission to offer her own thoughts and feelings on the matter. She advises of her fears and of possible strategies. Iah listens as intently as she can though her eyes are sleep worn. Finally Myrtle says that she wishes to know those who are close to her, to be her lady’s eyes and ears. This sounds a wise offer and Iah agrees, making herself comfortable in the large bed and swathes of blankets. Enjoying the warm shadow left by the bed pan Myrtle had placed in her bed earlier. She feels glad to have her as her attendant and confident. 

Slipping into fatigued sleep she dreams of her mother that night, black lotus necklace, raven black hair braided ornately and flowing down her back. The milky hand and tinkling laughter of a woman playing chess with a shadowy opponent. She does not see her face but knows in her heart this is Nimue. She wonders if the hidden opponent may be her father?

The next morning is grey and drizzly, a more typical autumn day as October moves in. It has only been eighteen days past since the knowledge of her birth and nobility was revealed to Iah when Garrett arrived at the chantry with news of her mother’s passing.

It feels more like a lifetime ago now.

She and Laria are standing in the great hall as mounts are readied for their journey to Lastford. Ser Fossett, Ser Shelby and Ser Lothryn are resplendent in their tabards and well buffed armour. Her banners are held high. It is a pity that the weather outside for their travel has decided not to be so kind to them. As they would be a fine sight if not for wearing their cloaks and heavy mantles to keep out the worst of it. 

Iah stands dressed in Laria’s green and cream frock coat dress, marveling at the freedom the breaches give her. She muses at maybe having Lyza make her something in this style for she was sure such a shocking garment would cause a trend as well as talk. Laria, however, is uncomfortably dressed in one of Iah’s low cut gowns. She self consciously moves from foot to foot and folds and unfolds her arms, unsure what to do or how to stand appropriately. The others look on in quiet bemusement, though Ser Shelby has quite the look of wonderment.

It was decided that they should swap clothes for Laria to act as her decoy, thinking back to the attack of the Black Brigand. Though Laria has dark brown hair and is not quite as tall as Iah, it matters little when mounted up and cloaked in mantles. Despite the gown she consoles herself in the knowledge of the dagger she has hidden in her boot. No dainty ladies slippers for her.

Myrtle is absent from the hall as is Garrett, her escort. They left earlier on the road to Oakenfield to visit Lady Nina. 

Once well wrapped and securely mounted the party depart from the castle, just as heavy showers greets them in the town. On the road to Lastford Ser Lothryn speaks with Lady Iah about his thoughts. He feels Malegaunt may be trying to buy the strength of the barbarians of the Korcari Wilds through giving them tribute. If this is so it is his fear that Ser Edmund may have sided with her brother. Iah thanks him for his thoughts and asks that they listen and make no judgments until they have seen for themselves.

[next] session nine

[previous] session seven

[first] session one

[background] life of lady nimue 

[Session 7] Dragon Age - Monday 1st March 2010

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?”

****************************************************

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.

***************************************

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.

************************************************************

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.

****************************************

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

[previous] session six

[first] session one

[background] life of lady nimue

[Session 6] Dragon Age - Monday 22nd February 2010

Write-up by Dangerous Brian

After conferring with his fellow clansman, the elf unlocks the cages holding the women and children. Amid scene's of tearful jubilation, there is also heartfelt grief when the party hand over the weapons once wielded by their kin-folk, Iah even going so far as to hand the elf hunter the bow she took, that he might fend for his family. Though Iah and her escort urge haste, the Dalish refuse to leave without seeing to their dead. Laria, Ogden and Lothryn help to carry the skeletons of the fallen elves out of the castle and in to the woods.

Compassionately, they do not disclose the fate of the living Dalish hauled from the cages by the dark-spawn. Though the party -and especially Iah- feel the plight of the Dalish tug upon their heart-strings, Lothryn and Laria press upon the others to look to the safety of the living -and in particular, the threat faced by their own folk, with but three untested knights and a handful of farmers to defend them. With some haste they forgo the climbing route and instead make their way along the caltrop laden trail, Laria carefully sweeping the fiendish devices from their path with the aid of her quarterstaff.

Once again however, the log bridge proves a formidable obstacle. Iah and Ogden cross without incident, Ogden taking up a defensive position on the opposite side. Yet keen-eyed Laria is no more than half-way across when she spots the absence of a great many dead birds and the recent additions of several silken threads hanging from the trees near Ogden and Iah. Laria calls out to the others that something appears to be wrong and, with directions from Laria, Iah's own eyes soon fall upon the threads. Suddenly terrified, the apostate whispers that these are the webs of horse spiders – a cat-sized breed of spiders known to jump the length of a grown man and outrun the swiftest horse!

(OOC: Think Camel Spiders, only meaner!. Actually, the scenario calls for a single giant spider. However, working on the basis that the only thing scary than one big spider is a swarm of big spiders, I down-sized the beastie and decided to give it some friends)

Iah very quietly passes on this news to Ogden and suggests they both begin to back away onto the log and find another route. As they do so, Iah notices a number of beady black eyes regarding her from the various treetops. Laria, too turns on the log in a bid to make her way safely back the way they came. Alas, her foot slips on the mossy surface, and though her fingernails scrabble and claw deep gouges into the rotten bark in a bid to halt her fall, Laria plummets into the poisonous thorns below. Though her leather armour protects her from the worst of it, her exposed hands, throat and legs are ripped and torn, the pus coloured toxins of foul blighted plant-life pumping deep into her grizzly wounds. Yet she feels no pain from her savage injuries, seeking to fall into the quiet, peaceful embrace of a deadly sleep.

(She fails a Con check against poison. I adapt the rules for bleeding to death and informed Laria's player that her Con has been reduced to zero by the poison and that she will loose another point of con each round until she dies at -3 con. Glum faces all round from the worried players.)

Reacting almost immediately, Lothryn, closer than the others given that he has yet to set foot on the log and well-protected by his mail armour and gauntlets, lowers himself down to the gulley floor (about twenty feet below), dropping the last twelve feet or so. He sets about hacking a way through the blighted rose-bushes with his blade, cleaving a path to rescue the fair, distressed maiden.

Between the noise of Laria's rather impressive fall and Iah's sudden shout of dismay, a great racket disturbs nearby birds and wildlife within the forest – and does not fail to attract the attention of said arachnids. As Ogden watches, axe hanging at his side in limp horror, a dozen or more of the largest, hairiest spiders he has ever seen begin lowering themselves from the top branches of the trees before him. He quickly pats Iah's shoulder to gain her attention before practically propelling her backwards and onto the log. Thinking quickly, he removes the last bladder on oil from her belt and sets to creating a circular sheet of flame around his side of the log. The approaching spiders chitter in frustration and begin washing their palps with greedy anticipation.

At this same moment, Lothryn, thankfully unharmed by the thorny vines which lash out at him with a feral, unthinking will, cleaves his way to Laria's side. Yet the lass in embedded in a veritable field of barbed thorns, he realises that freeing the lass without causing her further harmful injuries may be well night impossible.

Above, Ogden and Iah scamper across the log to safety, both nearly slip and fall themselves, but manage to leap the final distance to lay spread-eagled upon safe ground while the log bridge tumbles and rolls into the gulley below, thankfully missing both Lothryn and Laria in the process.

The Knight steals himself to painfully rip Laria from her thorny bed, reasoning that, with her flesh so pale and cold, any further delay might finish her regardless. Applying his great strength he pulls her from her thorny prison and runs back in the direction from which he came, towards Iah and the healing herbs he knows her pack contains.

Ogden lowers Iah down to the waiting Ser Lothryn, who steadies her as she falls the last of the twelve feet or so to the gulley floor. There, without pause, she swiftly sets to tending Laria's wounds with herbs and pungent poultices. Her healing efforts are successful. All three gasp in delight when a deathly pale Laria sucks in a great breath of air and moans her agony. Yet the lass remains unconscious.

(In actual fact, if it weren't for Laria's place in the initiative order -after Iah- and the fact that Iah had selected the novice healing talent at first level -allowing her to use the heal skill as a minor, rather than a major, action- we'd have had our first PC death there and then. That 3 points in constitution rather than strength worked out well for her after all).

Lothryn, reasoning that the flames around the log will not be enough to stop the horse spiders from approaching them via the gulley itself, quickly lights a torch and sets himself to setting the dry, diseased rosebushes themselves alight. This plan works well, as revealed by the sibilant, pained hissing noises that erupt from the vicinity of the burning foliage.

Night falls while Iah continues tending to her friend, doing all that is possible to make the comatose woman more comfortable. Yet the angry chittering noises continue, though at a much reduced volume, implying that the numbers of the swarm have been much reduced by Lothryn and Ogden's fire-raising efforts. The two males (dwarf and human) fashion a make-shift litter from fallen tree branches and old cloaks. With Laria thus supported between the two warriors and Iah keeping a torch-lit watch, the party begins moving along the gulley floor, looking for a way up.

Eventually the gulley slopes upwards to meet the forest floor. Using the stars now-visible between the tree-tops, Lothryn sets the party on the path towards Vintiver. Finally making the boundary of the forest after many hours of distraught travel, Lothryn begins to realise that something is wrong even before they reach the edge of the treeline. With the smell of all too abundnant woods-smoke fragrant in the night-time air, Lothryn signals for the others to wait while he creeps forwards to the forest edge. Using his shield to ward his torch-flame from sight, he soon crosses a rise, to reveal the Chantry steeple of Vintiver outlined against the glow of flames. Vintiver is burning, and tiny, armed figures mill around in deadly battle outside the chantry.

~ Inside the Chantry ~

Sister Arda (played by Andy) gathers the huddled women and children together by the brazier of the Eternal Flame. Standing by her pulpit, she speaks rousing words of hope and solidarity in the face of evil, testifying that Andraste herself did not weep in fear when besieged by the force of the ancient Imperium. That she instead gave vocal prayers to the Maker and extolled the men to fight on for the lives of their families and their loved ones. While the orange glow of the burning town shines through the stained glass of the Chantry windows, she organises the womenfolk of Vintiver into teams ready to fight the flames and others ready to tend the wounded men-folk who fall in the defence of the town.

(OOC: The successful Communications roll included a 5 on the Dragon Dice. Unbeknown to the players, I began recording the number on the dragon dice for successful Military Lore and Communication checks made in defence of the Chantry or to inspire the villagers. The course of the battle would be determined by how well they could convince the terrified farmers to fight - and by how well they could lead them).

Meanwhile, the three knights, (Shelby, Fossett and Garrett, played by Caroline, Silv and Aimee respectively) stand bloodied and soot stained by the Chantry doors, now braced and barred. The three newly raised squires profess their plans for the defence of the Chantry, attempting to persuade the aggressive and near-maddened Cobden that to charge forth now would be suicide. The mighty smith, his arms stained with the blood of many dark-spawn, ignores the impassioned pleas of Shelby and (the far-less coherent, lisping) Garrett but succumbs to Fossett's far more reasoned, if undiplomatic protests. Yet, though persuaded that attack is not yet an option, he flatly refuses to accept the leadership of the knights, calling them upstarts and puppies, reminding them that he, not they, is Alderman of Vintiver.

Fossett's subsequent response is both undiplomatic and unhelpful, and though his assessment of Cobden as a clueless ass is no doubt both accurate and precise, it does little to diffuse the tensions amidst the leadership. Even as the first, dreadful reverberations of the dark-spawn ram shake the rafters of the Chantry, Sister Arda makes her way to the conferring warriors and yea, verily, deliver unto Cobden something of a dressing down. She goes so far as to remind the Alderman that, while these three may be young for knights, they did not earn their early anointing by pounding metal pigs in a bloody forge. Cowed, Cobden relents and agrees to follow Fossett's orders.

(Again, some good Communication rolls from Arda and -surprisingly- Fossett, contributing to their overall chance of survival).

The rafters shake again. Cracks begin to appear in the Chantry doors. Women weep. Children cry. Amidst the background of this panicked tumult, Cobden agrees to send some young lads with hunting bows up to the bell tower. Meanwhile, Shelby, having remembered the side chambers, presses upon Arda to provide keys for the Vestry and her living quarters. On inspecting the rooms in question, he determines that the arrow-slit window in the priestesses' bedroom is secure enough, posting only a single young lad here to watch for burning brands thrust through the opening. The other chamber he finds far more worrying, for it contains the back door. He calls a party of six farmers to him. Immediately they set about bracing the doors and piling furniture and religious paraphenelia into a barricade before this weak-point.

(Thereby preventing a rather substantial deduction of “dragon dice points” from their chance of winning).

Satisified that all the approaches are now protected (he can do little about the high glass windows) Shelby -via Fossett- orders the remaining male villagers to form up in two lines before the main doors, shoulder to shoulder, with whatever weapons they can find or have to hand. His speech is both passionate and stirring, calling the warrior hidden in the breast of every man, as he pledges to save the village or die trying. He publicly flatters Cobden a great deal, swearing that he could ask for no better man to stand beside in battle, and persuades the normally taciturn man to make a speech of his own.

Cobden's own speech is less apt, not as flowery perhaps, but delivered from the heart. Moreover, the black-smith is a local and a hero, well known as a brave man and able brawler. He swears that help is coming, that the “lord” Ser Lothryn will see the flames, as will their neighbour Ser Giles, and that even now all knights within the old Restenford lands are bearing down upon the foe.

The cheers of the assembled villagers raise the rafters, drowning out, if only for an instant, the terrible, inevitable boom, of the darkspwan ram.

Tthe doors begin to splinter...

*****************************************************************

Three miles to the westward, an exhausted Lothryn runs in his mail, as swift and sure as if the hounds of hell itself were in pursuit. Ahead, in the near-distance, he can smell the freshly cut hay from the fields of Oakenfield. As he crests a rise, the village itself comes into view into the far distance. And yet... closer still, the welcome sight of horseflesh and the glint of moonlight on steel. Lots of steel. Oakenfield is riding to war.

*****************************************************************

Elsewhere-

Iah, Ogden and Laria crash through the open door of a small thorpe, taking shelter while the sky remains lit to the north by the rape of Vintiver. Lights still burn within, the foul smell of cheap candles permeating the air, expunging the far finer smells that emanate from cooked food still set out at the table, ready to be eaten. Of the occupants, there is no sign, save that of a hasty departure.

Carefully, Ogden sets an unconscious Laria down upon a pallet in one corner of the single-roomed hovel. Iah rushes to the fireplace to build up the fire, knowing that light may give them away, but equally aware that without heat, her childhood companion may not live out the night. Outside, she hears the sound of conversation from the direction of the barn. Shushing Ogden, she creeps to the rear window, taking position beneath, and peels back her hair to better hear what is said outside. The voice she hears is a welcome one. Outside, two cultured voices speak of needing more knights, while a younger, more rustic voice, frets on the fate of his parents. With a gleeful shout, she spring up to peer out the window, coming face to face with a young Vintiver farmer and an older, blonde-haired, bearded knight. Yet Iah has eyes only for the third man, grizzled and weary. Ser Farradin. Laria's father and protector of her childhood home.

(Remember those riders Lothryn sent out? Going by how ardently Andy punched the air, Lothryn's player certainly did!)

Atop skull hill, Lothryn and the balding, aging Ser Giles exchange brusk greetings. Neither has time for platitudes on so fell a night. Giles has but six men at arms , all commoners, well-armed and trained to the lance and saddle. But few, far too few to save Vintiver. And yet Ser Giles intends to try. The old knight is still hale, his visor pulled back to reveal a many-scarred face and fierce, flinty eyes. So formidable is this proud warriors name, that Lothryn almost believes Ser Giles alone might win the day. But even with the award of a remount to his fellow knight, the band of rescuers will still number only six – for Ser Giles has sent one man north to Brigton, another south to Restenford. Even if all his men fall tonight, Ser Giles swears that Restenford and the other towns shall not be caught unprepared. Pumping his arms thrice into the air, Ser Giles calls “For the Oak and the Blade!”. The defenders of Oakenfield ride to battle. And Ser Lothryn rides with them.

******************************************

In the thorpe, Iah and Ser Farradin embrace through the window. “We had feared you all lost. Iah, tell me, where is my daughter?” Iah leads a frantic templar to his daughters sickbed. He weeps for a moment, holding her close, begging her to live. Yet when he raises his eyes from his daughter's prostrate form, they blaze with fury. At his demand, Iah explains what happened. Grimly, he stiffles a noise, somewhere between laughter and a sob, "My daughter, of all daughters, laid low by a bush." He turns his glare upon Iah. “When I return, you will give me a full accounting of events.” It is not a request. Angrily putting spur to horse, he yells for the farm boy to guard Laria and Iah.

Farradin and his companion, Ser Florin, Castellan of Restenford, ride northwards to battle. Inside the hovel, Iah wipes a wet cloth across the brow of her friend, sending a silent prayer heavenword for the people of Vintiver. Outside, a still gravely wounded Ogden looks gleefully at the farmboy's horse – Ser Lothryn's spare mount- and smiles.

****************************************************

To the west, six riders watch a band of wolves and dark-spawn, some fifty or sixty strong, frolic and romp through the burning homes, none further than a short run from the barred, closed Chantry doors. A smaller band set their backs to ramming the doors again and again, already light leaks out from inside, showing through several large cracks in the doors.

Ser Giles: “We cannot ride against that and live.”
Orange and yellow lights leap and dance across his craggy, veteran's face. The flames reflected there by the polished steel of the helm he holds in weathered, calloused hands.

Ser Lothyrn can only growl and nod. He too, is determined to try nonetheless.

Placing his helm on his head, Ser Giles flexes the shoulder joints of his armour, once. Twice. Fiercely, he growls:. “When the doors are down. We ride. Take the bastards in the rear. With the Makers grace, they'll break.”

Lothryn nods again.

Ser Giles nudges his mount forward. A patchwork beast of fur and so-many scars it would almost seem a childs hand-sewn toy from a distance, this veteran beast almost as old as the knight himself, snorts its anticipation at the bloodletting to come. Atop this veritable avatar of war itself, Ser Giles rides proud before his men, like a Prince addressing an army rather than a single knight addressing a small, hard-bitten, desperate band. Back straight. Sword held out and high before him clasping the hand of each man with him for the last time as he passes by.

Below, with a crash like the sound of hell itself bursting forth, the doors to the Chantry fall, ablaze. The roar of the dark-spawn horde echoes through the fields, only to be drowned into oblivion by the fierce call of Ser Giles:

“All men know fear”. His eyes capture those of his men this one final time. “As you love Andraste! Cloak fear with courage and FOLLOW ME!”

**************************************************************

In the Vestry, Shelby roars at the first blighted wolves to leap through the shattered side-door. Through the stained glass of the Chantry windows, Fossett sees the dark silhouettes of dark-spawn hauling themselves onto the roof. At the main doors, Garrett and Cobden roar defiance at the dark spawn pouring in. By the altar, Arda leads her flock in prayer.

The Battle for Vintiver is about to begin

Having taken command of the fighters in the Vestry, Shelby roars into the gaping, frothing maw of the first blighted, mangy wolf to leap through the shattered side-door. Through the shattered windows, Fossett spots the dark silhouettes of dark-spawn climbing siege-ropes on their way onto the roof. By the main doors, flanked by the terrified but stalwart men of the village, Garrett and Cobden scream defiance into the teeth and weapons of the dark spawn pouring in. Above the sudden sounds of clashing arms and terrifying combat, a new, hopeful sound rises, the singing of the women and children, led by a tearful but unbowed Sister Arda.


“Hold the line” comes Garrett's call, even as he meets the teeth of the first blighted wolf to leap through the flames of the barricade on his shield, for the time being he concentrates on weathering the onslaught rather than taking the lives of his foes, even as more of the foe pour in through the shattered doors. Beside him, the defenders recoil, but the line does not shatter, a few men fall only to be hoisted once again to their feet by those behind, the oncoming darkspawn met by a hedge of spear points, sharpened scythes and other farm implements. Beside him, darkspawn break against the stoic Cobden like a wave upon the rocks, but the mighty smith stands his ground, hammer swinging left and right, shattering limbs and frothing, wild maws.


In the vestry, Shelby's wolf lunges again, yet the knight once again raises his shield in time to knock the beasts head aside. Fossett meanwhile, leaps up the belfry stairs, arriving in time to see one of the youths stationed there desperately fend off a darkspawn scimitar with the stave of his bow. Grabbing the youth by his shoulder, Fossett yanks the youth back down the stairs, stepping into his place. While the straight steel of his knight's blade meets the rusty iron of the the darkspawn, he shrugs his left shoulder, his shield falling into place on his left arm.


Below, the female elf screams for mercy, cowering behind the altar as good men fight all around her. With a howl she leaps to her feet, scrabbling towards the fighting at the main doors. Sister Arda leaps forward, grabbing her and bearing the desperate, panicking elf maid to the stone floor. There, she spies and odd gleam of silver in the elf maiden's hand.


“They're just dogs boys!” Shelby calls to the men next to him, “And they'll die like dogs too” As though to prove his own words, Shelby swings mightily, his blade severing the muzzle of one blighted-wolf, the follow through severing it's throat. In a spray of dark, tainted blood, the animal falls. Around him, the men defending the vestry grit their teeth, inspired by the young knights example, and lay into their foes.


Above, Fossett takes a blow on his helm, though he recovers well, a staggering step nudges one of the boys fighting beside him, using his bow stave like a staff. Alas, the miss-step costs the boy dear, forcing his belly onto the point of another Darkspawn's scimitar. As the boy falls, Fossett orders the other lad behind him on the stairs back into the Belfry. To the lad's surprise, as much as the knight's, he obeys and sets about avenging his fallen friend.


Still beset, his fighting skills hindered by the loss of so many fingers, Garrett continues to parry blows than seeking to strike, defending both himself and the unshielded Cobden by his side. The Blacksmith however, already covered in small, minor wounds, drops a wolf with every blow, anchoring the line, inspiring the villagers with his deeds even as Garrett and the singing of the women continue to bolster their courage with words alone.


Behind the line, on the stone floor, the elf and the priestess grapple, the elf maid desperate to flee the church, the priestess equally determined not to allow the witless lass to throw her life away in her fear.


“You're not a damn wolf, you're a damned pussy!” Shelby roars, his blow severing the spine of another tainted wolf. He strides forward, crushing the beats last breath from its chest beneath his armoured boot, the might of his onslaught pushing back a second wolf until he stands, alone, in the shattered doorframe, facing a wall of eager, waiting darkspawn. Behind him, the men of his guard finish off the remaining wolves in the vestry, stepping up to stand behind the seemingly mighty warrior warding the doorway like a titan. “Come on then!” The young knight roars at the waiting ranks of darkspawn, wiping away tainted blood from his jaw with the back of a chain gauntletted hand. “Which of you bastards is next?”


Atop the bell-tower, Fossett takes a minor wound to his thigh, saved by his armour. Yet the boys next to him are younger even than he, and lack both his protective chainmail and any training in battle. Not wishing to see them die needlessly, he orders the boys back down the stairs and takes position by the belfry door. Alone, he faces down the three darkspawn who share the belfry with him, all too aware that, even now, a second group are making their way up the siege ropes towards him.


Below, Garrett yells for oil. The older boys dash forward from behind the ranks of the men, pouring pitch and oil onto the wooden furniture and bales of straw piled up by the doors. In moments, the barricade has become an inferno, but still the maddened darkspawn leap the flames and into the fray, careless of their own burning limbs


Outside, Lothryn and the mounted knights of Oakenfield charge down slope, the hooves of their mighty warmounts drumming against the hard ground, moonlight glinting from sword, mail and lance alike. To his left, the knight see's two more armoured knights ride from the south to join their line, Ser Florin and the Templar Farradin -and not far behind them, a third figure, bouncing madly atop a horse wide-eyed with fear. A figure that is all arms and stick out legs. A figure that has clearly never before rode a horse to war and has no notion of the use of a stirrup.

Ogden.


Before he can utter a sound, a single, mad voice rises up in laughter, carrying above the sounds of battle and burning homes alike. Ser Giles waves his sword in the air above him, catching the red of flames and the silver of the moon alike.

“For Oakenfield, for Andraste and for all Ferelden!”


Riding knee to knee, lance-points unwavering before them, the knights charge home.

[next] session seven

[previous] session five

[first] session one

[background] life of lady nimue