Author Topic: The Carefree Adventures of Asher Renodin  (Read 9799 times)

Renodin

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Re: The Carefree Adventures of Asher Renodin
« Topic Start: September 13, 2017, 10:53:17 PM »
Right, back at it again. A battle Rp. This one is about the Siege of Oligarch City. Last vestige of the Realm of First Oligarch. The Realms of Sirion, Nivemus, Shadowdale ad Eponllyn have combined their armies to fight the lonesome warriors of First Oligarch. Hope you Enjoy!


Broken Walls

Silvery streaks fell from high above. The clouds were grey where they could be distinguished from one another. For the most part however, it was a great, grey slate blanketing the world. The fine rain was worse than actual rain in some senses. It was like taking a slow dive into a lake. You’d get just as soaked and the feeling of inevitability was the same. Asher rode with the combined army. It had made quite a detour as it travelled all the way to the southern mountains known as Evora. A place that belonged to the Realm of Eponllyn but before that the army had traversed the lands of Shadowdale and even Caligus. Only to finally be here. To look at the walls of Oligarch once more.

There used to be a road leading to the great city. With roadsides that tell would be travellers how far they still had to go and where. Some sections were cobbled but most of the road used to be just plain dirt. Packed, but still just dirt. Looking behind himself upon that ‘road’ Asher saw a great sludge of mud. Almost like a brown river. The rain dissolved the hard mud into a melange of water, horse!@#$, snot, spit and whatever else the solders left in their wake. Not to forget blood and vomit. A nasty melange that would leave the inhabitants of this land with pestilence for sure. Unburied corpses of hunted down scouts and watchdogs festering as they would. A feast for the flies but leaving questions to their former masters.

The otherwise bright and golden hair that Asher prided himself on was slack and stuck to his skull. Before him he saw a great host of Sirionites. They had brought many siege engines and so had the Nobles of Nivemus. From what he could tell those from Shadowdale all wore bows and masks. Or at the very least very concealing cowls or cloaks. The horselords of Eponllyn didn’t boast a single commander of cavalry. They too seemed lovers of archery to Asher’s eyes.

Beyond his eyes beheld the City. Oligarch. The Great Rebellion, the Changers, the Betrayers some said. Looking at it now it was a sad place. All its fields, from each direction of the wind, corpses. While in varying stages of decay and with the weather being unkind to one’s vision the sense of being in a horror story was laid on thick. A light fog did its best to shroud the worst of it but the gnawing of scavenger beasts was unmistakable and constant. The crows feasted while men blanched. Averting his eyes, Asher looked to his men. Some twenty riders. They too shared in his sombre mood. Hard not to when you are faced with so much death. One forced a half hearted smile but it crumbled as it spotted a new vista of death.

The walls of the Great City lay in ruins. All the signs where there. Huge blocks weighing more than entire houses, scattered and fallen. Small mountains of brickworks that once comprised impressive fortifications now lay where they cascaded to. A gradient most ardently attempted to be erased by the defenders. Too much work. How do hands that have mere weeks take away the labour of hands that had years to build. Upon the ruins of the old walls new hope flickered though. Wood had arisen proudly where stone and brick stood sentinel before. Not as high, not as strong and not as impressive.

Riding through the massive warcamp Asher noticed many banners he recognized. Some from Xavax and some from Sirion. Most he had no clue about though. Those from the Shadowlands were intricate and it made him think that those people had too much time tailoring.  Occasionally he took a deliberate right or left. Avoiding some banners and thus Nobles. Ever before he made it all the way to the front of the warband a horn blared. Shout rose swiftly afterwards and the camp came alive like some giant creature. Tents emptied, campfires were stamped out and a forest’ worth of banners and standards whirred about. The command was given to form up. At last the generals had decided on a plan of attack. A final assault to see Oligarch humbled.

Asher left the details to his captain, Gerolf, an impressive man and horseman to boot. Their orders were, if he recalled correctly, to stay in the back and avoid getting killed by arrow-fire. It would probably mean that his horsemen would never be able to penetrate through the allied infantry. Not up the rumble and not through the breach or amount to anything important. It already bothered him thinking about it but he resolved not to waste any of his men’ life. That at least he could do.

Taking his time riding back to his men, his eyes informed him that nearly all of the archers, marksmen and any unit even vaguely involved in ranged combat rushed to the front. There they packed together tightly and formed a massive wall. Ready to unleash death on an untold scale. Suddenly the meaning and purpose of the walls took on an entirely different meaning. Not so much for keeping people out than to keep the people inside safe from the onslaught about to be poured onto their heads.

More horns blasted and more shuffling of units and formations. A strange second line materialized. A handful of infantry contingents along with a cavalry unit and some marksmen took up position together. They looked out of place, perhaps a miscommunications. Not wasting more time on the matter Asher pressed his horse on and arrived with his unit. They looked ready although he sensed the captain already informed the men of the unlikely chance of seeing actual combat. Not that they objected, a day without violence was a good day in their books.

With the combined army ready, the horns blasted in unison. The order to move and the army did. Crossing the wet plains they marched up to firing distance. The drizzle made men slip and lose their footing. Mailed gloves instinctively went to rub wet eyes only to be halted by wiser minds, blinking would have to do. The defenders looked on from their timber walls. A pup build upon the broken shoulders of a wolf. Her bark was death and it was shrill.

As the first clouds of iron and steel fell from the sky men shuddered with their impact. Not being able to see clearly due to light fog and rain made the wait all the longer. That dreadful span of time from realizing the enemy fired upon you. Having time to wonder when it will hit but not being able to gauge their trajectory properly. Some whimpered.

Steel burrowed itself deep. Into the wet soil and into flesh. Asher could see simply dressed people tumble down the battlements. Leaving crimson streaks where their heads bashed against the fortifications before splattering on the rubble below. A ripple of panic blossomed from the allied ranks. A single bannerman furiously waved his banner. It belonged to the House of Tezokian. Ecthelion Tezokian, Lord of Sirion, Former Prime Minister of the Realm of Sirion and Commander of one of the most impressive units on the field today. The shape of a finely dressed man was being rushed off the battlefield. The man himself. Luckily the warcamp was close behind and he would be in safety soon. The effect on morale was palpable. One of the great lords was wounded and incapacitated in the very first exchange. The walls weren’t even reached yet.

Morale is a strange thing though. From the centre of the Allied army a contingent of horsemen charged through the lines. Fierce, proud and bold. They overtook the frontline and burst out like water jumping upwards after lobbing a rock into the pond. ‘’Lord Godric!’’ Asher utter as he strained his eyes to see. The banner of House ka Habb flew high.  There was nowhere for them to charge at though. The walls stood defiantly and the rubble made it hard on Lord Godric’s horsemen to advance.

Men belonging to McTavish of House Weisz dealt the next significant blow. Not that Asher knew that at the time but scribes told him afterwards, going by the banner he described to them. They were bowmen and Lord Godric, former Arbiter of Greater Xavax, unknowing or with full intent perhaps, made himself a big target. Teeth that were flashing but could never bite. The threat was perceived however and a storm of arrows descended upon Godric and his horsemen.

Before the eyes of the whole army were the dauntless horsemen were shredded. Arrows bounced of shields and deflected on sturdy armour but that only does  so much. Horses screamed and men crashed off their charging mounts. Arrows slid into tight embraces as they vanished under chest-plates and into necks. Shattering bones and piecing organs. The bodies deformed as they impacted the earth. Arms in unnatural positions. Some of them snapping off and fouling other riders. Mud flew into the air and mingled with the crimson-dust coughed up by men trying to clear their lungs of the flooding blood.

Horror crossed Asher’s face like a wave. The first banners to reach the fortifications were those of House Steele and House Ketchum. Their men had sprinted forwards and made it to the walls. They weren’t first up though as they were soon joined by many, many more.

Ladders were deployed and the slow moving battering rams chugged on, promising destruction when and if they would catch up. Asher could see the initial fighting on the walls. Swordsmen and axemen going toe to toe with desperate bowmen but also with other infantry. They didn’t belong to any Noble and heeded no commands it seemed. An organic mess best described as rabble. The inhabitants of Oligarch themselves had taken to the walls for this perhaps last and fated defence. One of the Nobles clawing out a foothold on the walls was the Count of Morshes, the Treasurer of the Eponllyn, the Lord Fydor. Leading his men from the front he hacked and swung his weapon like a lion. He was no mere Horselord, he was a Manticore. A great, winged Lion surrounded by sheep. A sneaky pitchfork pushed the man off balance though. Another viciously toppling the man off the battlements entirely.  He fell a great distance and Asher counted him among the dead instantly.  The man proved either incredibly lucky or in possession of supreme constitution for he yet lived.

Come what may though, what Fydor started marked the beginning of the end. The foothold he purchased with blood was now transforming into a veritable staging ground for invasion. Men poured onto the walls and the battering rams forced all to brace lest they follow Lord Fydor’s fate.  The gates were shattered and burned. A piece of the wooden wall collapsed and the Allied Infantry surged forwards. Scythes, daggers and clubs stood against forged steel swords and spears. Mercy was forgotten and murder reigned king. Bodies plugged holes and formed impromptu barricades that were fought over. Desperate men in burlap clothes faced off against knights. Their lives ended and the Knights laughed.

It went fast after that. Asher and his men rode closer and closer but there was no opportunity for him nor any of the other cavalry to enter the fray. The Allied infantry overwhelmed the defenders completely. Their infantry collapsed. Imagine a piece of fine pottery being tossed against a wall. It wants to stay in one piece but it utterly shatters. That’s about as close a description as it gets. The archers of Oligarch stood their ground bravely. They fired their volleys and then fired at will. With shields raised the allied infantry pursued them. The Baron of Sermbar reportedly took an arrow to the chest. Cleanly puncturing his breastplate. A Knight of Oligarch, one Kaya of House Kalkandelen fought to   the last. Facing off against half a dozen men at arms from the Black Swan Guards, led by Lady Beck of House Mozzoni. Knight Kaya fell in battle. The Silver Guard under the command of The Shadow King himself, Lindow of House Moonsun claimed another. Dame Lucienne of House Kessler was likewise surrounded and fell prey to superior numbers. Not before giving a good accounting of her virtue however. Taking more with her than any regular man would’ve.

Asher could hardly make out what was happening. He and his horsemen waited outside the fortifications. Unable to pass through the mass of warriors. All wanting to push to the fore and do their part. A horn blared roughly and uncontrolled. The sound gleeful and uncontrolled. Word spread that the Magister of Coin of Oligarch was wounded. Apparently he was shot down by the warriors of Dame Flavia of House Arindal. The great city became a hunting grounds. The defenders had no chance. They couldn’t hide, not for long at least.

Men rushed through the streets and like baying hounds they chased their quarry. Men were butchered in doorways and dismembered in the square. No place was safe and as the morning’s light fog lifted. Carnage took centre stage. With nothing left to obscure her. Bodies littered the ground, blood filled the gutters and tonight, the crows would feast again.

At the last there was King Garas of House Gabanus. The Master of First Oligarch. He and his men stood as the last defenders of their great city. An old acquaintance faced him. The Lord Speaker of Sirion, the Lord of Avamar, Thoman of House Foxglove. Where Garas stood his burned self, along his archers. Thomas led his Scarlet Sentinels forwards. Arrows were fired upon him but his men didn’t slow. Swords already bloodied hacked into the ill prepared archers under Garas’s command. Ill formed and ill equipped to deal with the onslaught. Death found them that day and The Lord Speaker struck down the lonesome King.

So Asher lived through that day. That perhaps final day of First Oligarch. A Realm borne out of conflict and ended with bloodshed. A great amount of it.