ebatalis
05-26-2012, 05:07 PM
It was like being at sea, this plain of grasses that stretched to the brink of the horizon and beyond; her eyes filled with sky wherever they looked. In the milky brightness of day the moon hung lonely and high, pale white, cupped in darkness and clearly spherical in form; ‘There’s no wind today,’ remarked the man sitting poised in the saddle of a northern warsteed. ‘I haven’t the stomach for another burning.’ ‘Nor I,’ she replied, and tore her gaze from the moon, blinking as though returning to herself and the world of man. The air lay thick and hot today, shimmering above the stubby grasses that stretched between the two armies. The heat waves were causing the dark, glittering massif of enemy riders to loom with an unreal closeness. He clucked his tongue as his own steed tossed its head again. He was a lesser rider than her since his upbringing did not demand it , and his steed was young and still untested. Right besides him she bent forward and stroked his young mount neck with a naked hand. “Look at that pair”, she tried to communicate to the animal by thought alone, eying the still form of the warrior and his mount. “See how proud they look together.
The young stallion skipped once on its hind legs. ‘Easy, boy,’ he soothed, still stroking the muscular neck of the animal, flattening the grain of its coarse hair, black as pitch between the bands of white. At last the stallion began to settle, began to snort the fear from its lungs and calm itself. Leather creaked as he straightened in his saddle, uncorking a waterskin and taking a long drink. He gasped and wiped his mouth dry. ‘I could do with something a little stronger,’ he complained.
Jonathan grunted, leaned between their mounts and spat upon the ground. Blades of tindergrass popped and crackled as they absorbed the sudden moisture. It was the same all across the plain; a constant background noise could be heard – like uncooked rice raining down on far shingles, as the secretions of the two armies wrought a chorus of similar minute reactions from the grasses beneath their feet. Along the line, other mounts were prancing edgily beneath their riders’ attentions. The heavy Mhoran destriers could smell the enemy war-wolves in the odd scrap of breeze, leashed within the distant ranks facing them in this nameless spot in the sea of wind and grasses.
The People’s Army was outnumbered today. But then they were always outnumbered, a fact that hadn’t stopped them from learning how to win against an enemy overly reliant on grumbling conscripts and the established hierarchical forms of warfare. Today, the confidence of the old Mhoran warriors and guardians alike was apparent as they waited for the fighting to begin. This was it, they all knew, the big throw of the die; everything that either side could muster had been committed to this final confrontation. A cry rose up and spread along the ranks; The burdened with age Guardian Argail Groos, leader of the army, was cantering on his pure black Destrier past the lines of the the men who today would anchor the left flank of the main formation. A long spear bobbed upright in his hand, a red flag trailing from it above the dust that coiled from his mount’s hooves. An image was stitched across the cloth: The Golden Lion of the North, protector of the dispossessed. It was snapping and fluttering likea flame. Argail rode with the easy grace of a man taking an early morning ride for the pleasure of it, as confident as the rest of the veterans of the people’s army. Their strategy for this battle was a sound one, and it had been proposed by “General” Argail Groos, overall leader of the army and hero of the revolution. They had voted overwhelmingly in its favour when the army had held its general assembly during the night. With the main body of their forces acting as bait for the overwhelming numbers of enemy runners, and with feints to the flanks designed to entangle the overlords’ predictable warg riders, the real killing stroke would be delivered by the heavy cavalry in the lead of Lady Knight Elsa Eaglebearer from the battlefield wings, hidden in the long grasses to thesouth-west, directly behind the position of the gathering armies. With every side of the enemy engaged and ensnared in the action, they would sweep around long and fast, and in all the confusion take the centre of the enemy from behind, hoping to create the type of rout they had seen countless times before.
‘Today is the day, brothers!’ Argail roared with passion. ‘Today is the day!’ Men raised lances and hollered as he passed by. Even Jonathan, not one for outward displays of enthusiasm, felt a rousing of pride as the men cheered and pumped their fists in reply. A plume of dust rose around the general as he drew his war mount to a halt. With dancing steps he turned the mount to face the far ranks of the enemy. At the sight of them the steed snorted and swiped its tail. Together, they waited as silence fell.
“ It is a day bards will sing and scholars will record for” “A day that our children will remember as the day few fought against many, and won” “A day that all that is good conquered over utter evil”
The men once again roared with passion and like if the wind carried the flame their roar could reach the other side of the battlefield, where snarls and guttering came to a halt. Men from the Empire United will fight against the single enemy that had been tormenting the for almost two centuries, and amongst them the leader of the Ghealie Sidhe with his finest knights who vowed to clear all evil from their former homes, was already preparing the assault plan in his head. On the mid side of the Mhoran freedom warriors along side with whoever guardian made it to the battle and conscripts from all over Mhoried. On the rear the single detachment that made it from the Imperial City led by Lady Eaglebearer would comprise the heavy cavalry. The east side was crammed with a huge detachment from the once famous Lion’s Pride, riders from Coeranys ,led here by Raenwe ibn Daouta, the Lion of the East as they called him. They all knew the goal, in all ears echoed the words of the old war veteran as soothing whispers from the heavens, and all eyes were know fixed to the golden haired young girl whose short blond hair could fairly make her look more of a warrior than a lady in the midst of the battlefield preparing to take lead of the army and lead it with courage to the field of glory that laid before them.Elves now already called her “Raa” and on her side now an elven warrioress was taking her place ready to give her life to protect her. Lady Ondine Mhor turned with her bluish eyes towards her companion and with a single look she nodded her to move forth. “It is time Luelith”, with a nod Luelith acknowledged and urged her white steed towards Ondine, “Lye nuquernuva sen e dagor , amin khiluva lle a' gurtha ar' thar,” she called to her, and with that the last heir to the Throne of the duchy of Mhoried , the Lady Mhora turned to the assembly of men and women who were here today to fight for the remnants of the long lost Empire.
The young stallion skipped once on its hind legs. ‘Easy, boy,’ he soothed, still stroking the muscular neck of the animal, flattening the grain of its coarse hair, black as pitch between the bands of white. At last the stallion began to settle, began to snort the fear from its lungs and calm itself. Leather creaked as he straightened in his saddle, uncorking a waterskin and taking a long drink. He gasped and wiped his mouth dry. ‘I could do with something a little stronger,’ he complained.
Jonathan grunted, leaned between their mounts and spat upon the ground. Blades of tindergrass popped and crackled as they absorbed the sudden moisture. It was the same all across the plain; a constant background noise could be heard – like uncooked rice raining down on far shingles, as the secretions of the two armies wrought a chorus of similar minute reactions from the grasses beneath their feet. Along the line, other mounts were prancing edgily beneath their riders’ attentions. The heavy Mhoran destriers could smell the enemy war-wolves in the odd scrap of breeze, leashed within the distant ranks facing them in this nameless spot in the sea of wind and grasses.
The People’s Army was outnumbered today. But then they were always outnumbered, a fact that hadn’t stopped them from learning how to win against an enemy overly reliant on grumbling conscripts and the established hierarchical forms of warfare. Today, the confidence of the old Mhoran warriors and guardians alike was apparent as they waited for the fighting to begin. This was it, they all knew, the big throw of the die; everything that either side could muster had been committed to this final confrontation. A cry rose up and spread along the ranks; The burdened with age Guardian Argail Groos, leader of the army, was cantering on his pure black Destrier past the lines of the the men who today would anchor the left flank of the main formation. A long spear bobbed upright in his hand, a red flag trailing from it above the dust that coiled from his mount’s hooves. An image was stitched across the cloth: The Golden Lion of the North, protector of the dispossessed. It was snapping and fluttering likea flame. Argail rode with the easy grace of a man taking an early morning ride for the pleasure of it, as confident as the rest of the veterans of the people’s army. Their strategy for this battle was a sound one, and it had been proposed by “General” Argail Groos, overall leader of the army and hero of the revolution. They had voted overwhelmingly in its favour when the army had held its general assembly during the night. With the main body of their forces acting as bait for the overwhelming numbers of enemy runners, and with feints to the flanks designed to entangle the overlords’ predictable warg riders, the real killing stroke would be delivered by the heavy cavalry in the lead of Lady Knight Elsa Eaglebearer from the battlefield wings, hidden in the long grasses to thesouth-west, directly behind the position of the gathering armies. With every side of the enemy engaged and ensnared in the action, they would sweep around long and fast, and in all the confusion take the centre of the enemy from behind, hoping to create the type of rout they had seen countless times before.
‘Today is the day, brothers!’ Argail roared with passion. ‘Today is the day!’ Men raised lances and hollered as he passed by. Even Jonathan, not one for outward displays of enthusiasm, felt a rousing of pride as the men cheered and pumped their fists in reply. A plume of dust rose around the general as he drew his war mount to a halt. With dancing steps he turned the mount to face the far ranks of the enemy. At the sight of them the steed snorted and swiped its tail. Together, they waited as silence fell.
“ It is a day bards will sing and scholars will record for” “A day that our children will remember as the day few fought against many, and won” “A day that all that is good conquered over utter evil”
The men once again roared with passion and like if the wind carried the flame their roar could reach the other side of the battlefield, where snarls and guttering came to a halt. Men from the Empire United will fight against the single enemy that had been tormenting the for almost two centuries, and amongst them the leader of the Ghealie Sidhe with his finest knights who vowed to clear all evil from their former homes, was already preparing the assault plan in his head. On the mid side of the Mhoran freedom warriors along side with whoever guardian made it to the battle and conscripts from all over Mhoried. On the rear the single detachment that made it from the Imperial City led by Lady Eaglebearer would comprise the heavy cavalry. The east side was crammed with a huge detachment from the once famous Lion’s Pride, riders from Coeranys ,led here by Raenwe ibn Daouta, the Lion of the East as they called him. They all knew the goal, in all ears echoed the words of the old war veteran as soothing whispers from the heavens, and all eyes were know fixed to the golden haired young girl whose short blond hair could fairly make her look more of a warrior than a lady in the midst of the battlefield preparing to take lead of the army and lead it with courage to the field of glory that laid before them.Elves now already called her “Raa” and on her side now an elven warrioress was taking her place ready to give her life to protect her. Lady Ondine Mhor turned with her bluish eyes towards her companion and with a single look she nodded her to move forth. “It is time Luelith”, with a nod Luelith acknowledged and urged her white steed towards Ondine, “Lye nuquernuva sen e dagor , amin khiluva lle a' gurtha ar' thar,” she called to her, and with that the last heir to the Throne of the duchy of Mhoried , the Lady Mhora turned to the assembly of men and women who were here today to fight for the remnants of the long lost Empire.