During a recent excursion into the wastelands of Betholm, ravaged by the Xavax Wars.Godric was not a fan of Betholm. Not that it was a purely distasteful region, he reserved that disgust for Aeng, but it was deeply unsettling. The war had ravaged all lands of the south, but even then Betholm was always different. Most regions relied on the rich Xavax soils, but some regions like Betholm and Enubec and Oc Lu Pesh were blessed with great forests. Enubec stood aside from the others, able to rely on those same soils to support significant farming. The main difference then was that while the great road from Isadril to Ibladesh ran directly through Oc Lu Pesh, it formed the border for Betholm. Truly a backwoods region, rich wildlife and dense forests supported a relatively dense population in Betholm.
What is so unsettling, then, is that everyone in Betholm is dead. Or close to it. With the war the wildlife has been poached or fled and the once well-managed forests are overgrown with dead and rotting trees. And there is scarcely a soul. The air clings like fog to a barrow. Godric is no stranger to death, but these airs are foreboding. That many people cannot die so quickly without empowering... something.
***
Godric leads the patrol. Betholm has been recently returned to Imperium rule and orders were sent to seek out rebel forces and arrest them. Splitting into two groups, one led by his Captain Eodred and the other himself, they have set off to patrol a section deep in the forest. The horses are finnicky so late at night, they do not want to be here, every sound has them whinnying and jittery. The Torenmen are not afraid but somewhat alert: perhaps not as alert as Godric would hope. Proceeding down a narrow path in single file, he stays them with a hand. The winds blow. Finally a scream, from far off. Godric frowns, “Likely criminal scum torturing someone.†He turns his horse off the path into the brush towards the sound. The full moon can scarcely penetrate these woods and there is so much dead wood they cannot risk torches. The scream is heard again, a clamouring in the distance. The patrol tries to hurry, Warbornsson grimly leading. They finally come to a clearing, moonlight pouring forth. Godric halts them just within the dark, his eyes fixated on the far end. The horses nervously shuffle and his men try to keep quiet but begin whispering. Godric does not take his gaze off the far end. “This should be a sacred grove. But something is wrong. MÅna brings seiðr...â€
The scream again, it must be from some cabin just on the other end of the grove. A few men try to push ahead but Godric stretches out his arm and whispers, “It is a champion. Stop.†The men freeze, processing what their lord has said. Squinting eyes make out a figure in the far darkness. Tense moments pass. A man groans. The hairs on Godric’s neck stand on end as he snaps his head around, “Fly, you fools!†A cacaphony of noise erupts as horses whinny and men cry praises to Tor. Scattering, Godric finds the misfortune that his horse has elected to dash directly into the clearing. Reining in, he wheels about to see he is quite surrounded. Corpses begin shambling towards him. They are very poorly constructed, probably laying traps to find flesh to strengthen themselves. The champion stalks into the moonlight, sinewy but powerful. It’s evil eyes watch Godric, analyzing. Godric slides on his warmask and helm, drawing out his spear and shield he sits as tall as he can atop his horse. As his mind flies, trying to calculate where to break through and how to flee, the champion begins stretching its jaw. A powerful voice finally crackles out, “n̥widstós.†It grins cruelly, raising its powerful right arm into the air, black magicks almost visibly swirling, it then steps to the left, bringing the arm to its opposite hip. It repeats this step, cruel grin growing wider.
Godric’s mind swirls. He has seen this before. The corpses clamour and shuffle, clacking, they are unsure what their champion is doing. Finally he remembers some fourty years ago as a young boy. His father, engaging in a duel. An ancient ritual challenge. He dismounts his horse and sends it off; he is unsure if it will be allowed to pass, but doesn’t wait to look. Stretching tall, Godric takes in the champion who repeats the challenge. He takes a moment to recall the exact steps... he raises his right arm into the air, spear held high. Stepping left he touches dirt, shield to his side, arms come aloft and he stomps his right foot and bellows. Clacking his spear on his shield, he roars, "I am Godric, son of Warborn, whose blood and life was given by an eagle of Tor."
The champion licks its lips. Right arm held high it steps to the left, bringing both fists to its left hip. Raising both arms, it stomps then slaps its chest, foul scream bursting forth. The other corpses screech and howl. The champion calls its ancestry, “unwitÄ“... haljÅ.†Godric readies himself but his heart trembles: it is speaking the language of his father.
***
In the desecrated grove,
Where gods once sat and undead now sit,
Unafraid, Godric answers,
The challenge of the lich-kind.
This I witnessed, with my own eyes,
Just out of view, past the trees.
Unafraid Godric answered,
The challenge of the lich-kind.
Corpses clamour in the clearing,
Dukeslayer surveys his quarry,
A fatal wind blows through,
Singing his Saga for all near.
Eagle-son with strength and power,
Spear finding undead flesh,
Bellowing as he strikes,
Reveals the weakness of his foe.
The champion strikes back,
Wildly but with inhuman strength
Warbornsson scarcely has a moment,
To catch it upon his shield,
Inscribed with runes to Tor,
The Dead God speaks: it shall not break.
The clatter rings throughout the grove,
The Dead God spake, it did not break,
The undead bellows at our hero,
But he is unafraid, he has no weakness.
With the strength of his people
God-strength cannot fall
Circling they watch each other,
Spear strays through sacred soil,
Staining with desecrated blood,
Almost as if a blót.
Hundredslayer throws his spear,
Severing the undead’s leg,
But through dark and foul seiðr,
The wound does itself mend.
The beast strikes with great speed,
Before our hero can draw his blade,
Through his armour the claws dig,
Greedily grabbing flesh.
Warbornsson cries out and bellows,
The corpses tremble where they lay,
Striking the lich-kind with his shield,
Its face is crushed but its grip remains.
Our Dread Lord lays a challenge,
A branch falls from a tree.
Eagle-son accepts the challenge,
Throwing his shield aside.
Forearms like oak, he reaches up,
And swinging round in a circle,
Hundredslayer roars his answer,
Ripping clean the offending arm.
The champion trembles and it howls,
The other corpses screech in fear,
Speaking direct with the aether,
Dukeslayer is emboldend.
Diving forward at his quarry,
Warbornsson speaks not life nor death,
Rolling through the sacred grove,
He finally liberates its head.
Standing tall, the head aloft,
Cursing all the lesser gods,
Eagle-son bellows forth,
The corpses tremble in fear.
Driven by fear and anger,
Fourty corpses attack.
Our Patron is unamused,
A clap of thunder in the grove.
When the light subsides all that stands,
Is our hero, head still aloft
Fourty corpses lay crumbled,
The champion forever slain.
So it is sung.During a battle in Itor Boss, where Xavax forces crushed the five armies.Kuda Hitam (
take 1572 hits in close combat, which cause 57 casualties, wiping the unit out.Walsh Adam, High Justice of Minas Nova, Count of Jariedma has been wounded by 2nd Mounted Toren (19).A Toren cavalry charge is not like a regular cavalry charge. The Toren have no mounted combat tradition. Godric has largely pioneered the skill, having been on the opposing side of a cavalry charge one too many times. The 2nd Mounted Toren did not proceed with the rest of their men. They held. Their lord spied an opportunity. The hated Kuda Hitam, who killed his Xerarch once. Tor allowed her to return to life but revenge is a sweetness enjoyed by the living.
They proceeded, cautiously positioning themselves. And when the time was right, they charged. A Toren cavalry charge is a bunch of burly men atop horses flinging spears and axes and occasionally themselves. After the charge is complete they dismount and finish the job on the ground. Godric typically charges with his horse, who is geared in quite heavy armour, then dismounts to savour the kill. Today was different. The 2nd Mounted Toren charged the enemy position. At the front is the Dukeslayer, Godric Warbornsson, Hundredslayer of men. He is standing atop his horse, screaming, spear and shield ready. His men are mowed down by arrow fire, Godric even sustains a wound. But he has a mission.
***
Godric sees him. The hated one. Even as a bodkin stings his leg he will not be stopped. He knows his oaths. Just before his horse crashes the lines Godric throws his spear and shield: he won't need them. He leaps off directly towards Count Walsh. Knocking him from his horse he lets his anger flow. He flings Walsh's sword away and rips off his helm. Great oaken arms come down and he begins strangling him and smashing his head into the ground. Before he can be certain the job is finished Kuda Hitam close in. Warbornsson draws his sword and backs away. In his bloodlust he can scarcely remember but when he is done they are slain and dismembered around him. He looks for his prey: Walsh is being dragged away to safety. The bloodied High Justicar is unconscious but unfortunately still breathing.
"Not next time." Godric vows.
