The Gate Still Stands - A Crimson Fist Narrative Writeup
May 26, 2019 23:37:15 GMT
Dorian, Grimes, and 6 more like this
Post by Varis/G'Lorth/Sundilar on May 26, 2019 23:37:15 GMT
Danton blinks the sweat out of his eyes, the dark outlines of rocks and figures sketching themselves against the gloom in shades of grey. Above his head a thick rope creaks as the engineers winch it into place, loading the great scorpion with a twelve-foot steel bolt. Danton swallows as he ducks back below the parapet, the hot air of the tunnels making a desert of his throat, and tries not to think what kind of enemy you need twelve feet of steel to stop. He fancies he’ll have an answer to that question sooner than he would like.
Beside him, Kamar shrugs her huge shoulders, the well-oiled pauldrons of her half-plate scraping against the rough-hewn stone of the ramparts with a metallic rasp. The half-orc woman seems calm, her breathing steady, but Danton can see the vein in her temple pulsing faster than a fiddler’s fingers at High Harvest Fair. Unconsciously he touches the blood drenched black iron gauntlet emblazoned on his breastplate, thinking back to the dust of the training yard and Gretcha’s barked instructions.
The Vorstborn next to him calmly checks the straps on her armour, her thick fingers surprisingly nimble as they run over the buckles and clasps for what must be the fiftieth time today. Danton flashes her what he hopes is a winning smile.
“They sound pretty angry, friend.”
The dwarf looks at him out of the corner of her eye, barely turning her head, and mutters something in the sharp-edged local dialect. When he doesn’t reply she gives a gentle sigh and switches to heavily accented common.
“Angry is not problem. Quiet. That is problem.”
As though taking their cue from her words, the clattering and howls from the tunnel fade to nothing. There are a few moments of near total silence, broken only by Kamar’s breathing and the creak of leather straps as soldiers shift their weight, bracing for what is to come.
Suddenly a single note rends the air, a dolorous blast from some twisted horn. Sound erupts in the far tunnels, screams and wails of fury and pain, and the unmistakable thunder of feet on stone. Danton looks at the Vorstborn next to him.
“What now?”
The woman looks at him, the torchlight making her eyes flash as she hefts the narrow hammer in her mailed fist.
“Now we kill.”
Together they rise and turn to face the onrushing hoard. Danton’s eyes pick out a myriad of forms – humans, dwarves, some kind of lizard folk, even an ogre shambling along to his right. On they flow like an avalanche, the strange horn somehow carrying above the cacophony of hellish sound.
The huge armaments of the Thunder Gate roar, sending pots of alchemical fire and huge boulders sailing down into the mass of bodies, but still they come. Bolts of arcane energy crackle down and spheres of ice splinter amongst the onslaught, sending frozen shards tearing through the ranks. But still they come.
The wave of screaming bodies seems to break against the wall and then, suddenly, there is an orc in the crenulation in front of him, eyes clouded with mindless rage and mouth flecked with blood and thick foam. He raises his shield, instinct and training taking the place of thought as the creature crashes into him, bearing him to the ground and clattering a torch from its sconce on the wall nearby. He feels the weight of the creature crushing the breath from him as it claws at his face, his throat, his eyes, the guttering flame making its visage a mask of savage rage.
Mustering all his strength, he lifts his shield an inch, then two, his right hand dropping to his belt to pull his dagger free, but just as the blade slides from its sheath the creature jerks, it’s head exploding in a shower of gore that splatters Danton’s faceguard. Then the weight is being pulled from him, and a steel gauntlet is dragging him to his feet.
He looks into the eyes of Dwarven woman, settling his shield on his arm and reclaiming his sword.
“The Gate stands.”
He nods, stepping back to the wall. Together they beat back the creatures surging over the fortifications, as eldritch flames tear through the darkness and wave after wave of steel bolts rain from the bastions above.
Finally, there is a moment of stillness, the insane roar of their foes dying to a murmur, broken occasionally by the moans of their own wounded. His companion leans back against the wall, sweat and blood glistening beneath her helmet. Exhausted, Danton pulls his own helm from his head, gasping for air as he stoops to pick up the fallen torch. As he straightens, he hears a sharp curse, looking to the dwarven woman but finding her eyes fixed on a point over his shoulder.
His head whips round in time to see the shadows left by the extinguished torch coalesce into a figure. Taller than either of them by nearly a foot and veiled in black silk, the elven woman’s shock of white hair stands in stark contrast to her glittering, insect-like carapace of overlapping black steel plates. Red eyes twinkle with malice as a wicked blade flashes out towards his throat. He flinches back, his reflexes saving him from a killing blow, but the dagger still scores a shallow gash along his cheek. He goes to lift his shield but finds his arms strangely heavy, knees buckling beneath him as fire roars through his body from the cut on his face.
He falls, hearing the figure give a high, cold laugh as she steps over his prostrate form toward his companions. Kamar swings her maul with bone-rattling force, but the creature merely steps aside, catching the half-orcish woman with a precise blow to the weak point in her armour beneath the shoulder. The dark steel of the blade bites deep as Kamar’s weapon clatters to the ground, her knees giving way and sending her toppling over Danton, who now finds himself completely unable to move.
The Vorstborn backs up, raising her shield to block one strike and then another, as their assailant dances forward, pushing the dwarf back with each viperish strike. She feints low, smashing the pommel of the dagger into the dwarven woman’s helm and pushing her lazily back with a disdainful boot. Reversing her grip, she pauses to savour the killing blow, a dark, viscous liquid running along the edge of her blade.
Suddenly, a throwing axe flashes from the gloom, knocking the Drow’s dagger from her hand. She utters what can only be a cruse in some sibilant language and turns to face her new attacker. Standing on the slick stone of the rampart is a dwarven man, glistening breastplate emblazoned with a rising sun in gold, a simple warhammer held in one hand and a shield in the other.
The elven woman smiles mirthlessly and draws another blade, stepping towards the newcomer but suddenly there is a flash of light, as though the noonday sun had been transported to the heart of this mountain holdfast. The Drow hisses in pain, turning half away to shield her eyes. Danton watches as the man walks calmly forward, his weapon now radiating the glare of the sun.
“We are a light in the darkness – and ours is a shining beacon of hope.”
With patient, steady blows, like a mason shaping stone, he drives the elven woman back, Danton’s vision fading as they recede from view and the world dissolves into darkness.
Light. He struggles to consciousness, the dwarven man kneeling over him. In the background, Kamar and the Vorstguard woman stand ready, weapons returned to hands and eyes turned out towards the darkness. The man has removed his helm, and his head and face are entirely hairless, something even in his addled state Danton registers as odd for a dwarf.
The man rises, reaching down to offer Danton his hand.
“Come my friend. The Gate still stands.”
Beside him, Kamar shrugs her huge shoulders, the well-oiled pauldrons of her half-plate scraping against the rough-hewn stone of the ramparts with a metallic rasp. The half-orc woman seems calm, her breathing steady, but Danton can see the vein in her temple pulsing faster than a fiddler’s fingers at High Harvest Fair. Unconsciously he touches the blood drenched black iron gauntlet emblazoned on his breastplate, thinking back to the dust of the training yard and Gretcha’s barked instructions.
The Vorstborn next to him calmly checks the straps on her armour, her thick fingers surprisingly nimble as they run over the buckles and clasps for what must be the fiftieth time today. Danton flashes her what he hopes is a winning smile.
“They sound pretty angry, friend.”
The dwarf looks at him out of the corner of her eye, barely turning her head, and mutters something in the sharp-edged local dialect. When he doesn’t reply she gives a gentle sigh and switches to heavily accented common.
“Angry is not problem. Quiet. That is problem.”
As though taking their cue from her words, the clattering and howls from the tunnel fade to nothing. There are a few moments of near total silence, broken only by Kamar’s breathing and the creak of leather straps as soldiers shift their weight, bracing for what is to come.
Suddenly a single note rends the air, a dolorous blast from some twisted horn. Sound erupts in the far tunnels, screams and wails of fury and pain, and the unmistakable thunder of feet on stone. Danton looks at the Vorstborn next to him.
“What now?”
The woman looks at him, the torchlight making her eyes flash as she hefts the narrow hammer in her mailed fist.
“Now we kill.”
Together they rise and turn to face the onrushing hoard. Danton’s eyes pick out a myriad of forms – humans, dwarves, some kind of lizard folk, even an ogre shambling along to his right. On they flow like an avalanche, the strange horn somehow carrying above the cacophony of hellish sound.
The huge armaments of the Thunder Gate roar, sending pots of alchemical fire and huge boulders sailing down into the mass of bodies, but still they come. Bolts of arcane energy crackle down and spheres of ice splinter amongst the onslaught, sending frozen shards tearing through the ranks. But still they come.
The wave of screaming bodies seems to break against the wall and then, suddenly, there is an orc in the crenulation in front of him, eyes clouded with mindless rage and mouth flecked with blood and thick foam. He raises his shield, instinct and training taking the place of thought as the creature crashes into him, bearing him to the ground and clattering a torch from its sconce on the wall nearby. He feels the weight of the creature crushing the breath from him as it claws at his face, his throat, his eyes, the guttering flame making its visage a mask of savage rage.
Mustering all his strength, he lifts his shield an inch, then two, his right hand dropping to his belt to pull his dagger free, but just as the blade slides from its sheath the creature jerks, it’s head exploding in a shower of gore that splatters Danton’s faceguard. Then the weight is being pulled from him, and a steel gauntlet is dragging him to his feet.
He looks into the eyes of Dwarven woman, settling his shield on his arm and reclaiming his sword.
“The Gate stands.”
He nods, stepping back to the wall. Together they beat back the creatures surging over the fortifications, as eldritch flames tear through the darkness and wave after wave of steel bolts rain from the bastions above.
Finally, there is a moment of stillness, the insane roar of their foes dying to a murmur, broken occasionally by the moans of their own wounded. His companion leans back against the wall, sweat and blood glistening beneath her helmet. Exhausted, Danton pulls his own helm from his head, gasping for air as he stoops to pick up the fallen torch. As he straightens, he hears a sharp curse, looking to the dwarven woman but finding her eyes fixed on a point over his shoulder.
His head whips round in time to see the shadows left by the extinguished torch coalesce into a figure. Taller than either of them by nearly a foot and veiled in black silk, the elven woman’s shock of white hair stands in stark contrast to her glittering, insect-like carapace of overlapping black steel plates. Red eyes twinkle with malice as a wicked blade flashes out towards his throat. He flinches back, his reflexes saving him from a killing blow, but the dagger still scores a shallow gash along his cheek. He goes to lift his shield but finds his arms strangely heavy, knees buckling beneath him as fire roars through his body from the cut on his face.
He falls, hearing the figure give a high, cold laugh as she steps over his prostrate form toward his companions. Kamar swings her maul with bone-rattling force, but the creature merely steps aside, catching the half-orcish woman with a precise blow to the weak point in her armour beneath the shoulder. The dark steel of the blade bites deep as Kamar’s weapon clatters to the ground, her knees giving way and sending her toppling over Danton, who now finds himself completely unable to move.
The Vorstborn backs up, raising her shield to block one strike and then another, as their assailant dances forward, pushing the dwarf back with each viperish strike. She feints low, smashing the pommel of the dagger into the dwarven woman’s helm and pushing her lazily back with a disdainful boot. Reversing her grip, she pauses to savour the killing blow, a dark, viscous liquid running along the edge of her blade.
Suddenly, a throwing axe flashes from the gloom, knocking the Drow’s dagger from her hand. She utters what can only be a cruse in some sibilant language and turns to face her new attacker. Standing on the slick stone of the rampart is a dwarven man, glistening breastplate emblazoned with a rising sun in gold, a simple warhammer held in one hand and a shield in the other.
The elven woman smiles mirthlessly and draws another blade, stepping towards the newcomer but suddenly there is a flash of light, as though the noonday sun had been transported to the heart of this mountain holdfast. The Drow hisses in pain, turning half away to shield her eyes. Danton watches as the man walks calmly forward, his weapon now radiating the glare of the sun.
“We are a light in the darkness – and ours is a shining beacon of hope.”
With patient, steady blows, like a mason shaping stone, he drives the elven woman back, Danton’s vision fading as they recede from view and the world dissolves into darkness.
Light. He struggles to consciousness, the dwarven man kneeling over him. In the background, Kamar and the Vorstguard woman stand ready, weapons returned to hands and eyes turned out towards the darkness. The man has removed his helm, and his head and face are entirely hairless, something even in his addled state Danton registers as odd for a dwarf.
The man rises, reaching down to offer Danton his hand.
“Come my friend. The Gate still stands.”
