Corellion
03-02-2006, 12:05 PM
Well, this is an ever-so-slightly editted older story and older character. Enjoy, though it's not brilliant.
EDIT: God, I've never seen so many typos, reading through this again. My, my.
Medium Length Story :: The Beginning, by Corellion.
“Draw, Knock, Flex, Loose.” …
“Draw, Knock, Flex, Loose.” Thud
“Draw, Knock, Flex, Loose.” …
“Draw, Knock, Flex, Loose.” …
Plumage worked on birds the same way it did with arrows. It upped, and fluttered, and fell well wide. He hadn’t adorned them correctly, a fletching mistake, and one becoming far too common with his recent arrows. Maybe his knife was blunting? Maybe the wood had rotted. Either way, he had the target missed too often today, and by too much.
Bowing his head, he turned to his tutor, not making eye contact, his left hand fidgeting with the vambrace on his right arm. He spoke, and his voice was bitter, and unbroken, a heavy Brettonian accent marred his phonetics as the Reikspeil flew across his tongue. “I missed”
A russet fringe hung past the boys bowed head, and untidy hair scraped the side of his arched face. His eyes ruptured with stunning cerulean as his eyelids lifted, clear and unusually enchanting in the midmorning sun. A fine mist of sweat had settled on his brow, exertion wasn’t an easy claim to deny the boy. His face exuded sorrow as the stern, bearded face of his mentor glowered over him, and he struggled to raise his head and meet the man’s gaze. His were eyes barely keeping contact, straining to pull away, but ensnared by the look of unreserved incomprehension upon his instructor’s visage. He spoke, and his voice was thick with phlegm, making him sound like an Ostlander, when he was infact from Nuln.
“If I’ve told you once boy, I’ve told you a thousand times. Archery starts with fletching, without adequate arrows, you cannot possibly hope to hit anything. And still you pick rotted wood and diseased feathers!” He spat as he spoke, the spittle flying short of his students face. “Has your father instilled no sense of Chivalry into you? You should be a squire to him, he’s an earl you know, and not many boys have that privilege.” The mousy-haired lad turned his face; another lecture of his privileged position was heralded. He was sick of them. His mentor’s voice softened and he kneeled down to the boy, he was only ten summers old, and it was hard for the lad to keep himself from laughing. His expression twitched, and the Nulnian sympathised the lad didn’t know his position, he was young, he didn’t know the ways of the world, the ways of Brettonia.
“Look, Annau” his attention came back to the bearded man, the use of his first name denoting equality, something, given the sure to come lecture, Annau found quite ironic.
“You may not realise it, but this is important” he stressed, softly. Annau’s eyes rolled, and his tutor returned a growl.
“If you want to become one of the Yeoman, then a Knight, as your father has before you, you need to do as I say. Your father wishes you to learn Archery, and, far be it from me to fathom the wills of an Earl, but if I am here to teach you Archery, then so be it.” Annau was insensitive.
“Sir Rêver works with you on swordsmanship, on your equitation, and I fathom you do not act ill before him.” Annau opened his mouth to argue, his temper rising, but the Nulnian continued, “Don’t make excuses, you put a saddle on correctly, you hold a sword as you are told to. Yet, you fail to fletch arrows using even the most basic of rules – Good wood, good feathers.” Annau eyed the man with severe aversion.
“It’s as simple as that boy; I’ve taken you out, into the forest, pheasant hunting and fletching, on my own time, thrice. This is how you repay me?” Annau’s fists clenched, his jaw set. Who was this empire-born scruff to tutor him? Archery was forbidden to Knights, how was it meant to aid his chivalric aspirations? A Yeoman… he sighed. Was that the case? Rising through the rank-and-file scrubs as though he was born amongst them. It was a disgrace.
Annau Digatte bowed his head again, growling to himself as the hired tutor continued to berate him about his archery and fletching work. The intermittent mumbled comment about his attempts failed to concern the Nulnian, whose mood and take on the child seemed to change its angle as much and as often as a swinging pendulum, shouting one moment, soothing, quiet and falsely understanding the next. Annau was growing tired of the man, and his mind wandered off as his mentor’s attacks and sympathy commentary continued.
His life was boring; he didn’t need to go through this tutoring. He was ready now to serve the duke, to claim his place in Brettonia on the saddle, on his saddle. He was impatient for the taste of battle, for the purging of their noble lands from greenskins and daemons and necromancers and beastmen and chaos. But rules and law and custom dictated he could not, and the thought made him bitter. He was ready to prove himself, if just they gave him a chance. With a sigh of resignation, he turned his attentions back to the man in the grass before him, who was doing a poor impression of a pheasant, mid-flight.
* * *
Like the grim reaper, morning arrived far too fast for Annau’s liking. He hadn’t slept much, and thoughts of mercenary companies and dragons haunted his dreams. He had been their saviour, arriving just in time, atop a Hippogriff. Its talons had dug deep into the drake’s flank, and he had leapt off of his steed, only to find himself a peasant, cowering before the dragon. He had been burnt to a cinder, and the Hippogriff had proven to be but a mutant pidgeon, they had been slaughtered.
Now that the ordeal was revealed to be but a dream, Annau wished himself back in its place. He had had a sword, and a quick dive to the left would have avoided the death-blow, he would have rolled, spurred up on his heels. Leaping forward towards the Dragon, sword clenched firmly in both hands, swinging in a savage arc towards its vulnerable underside. The blade would have cut through it like a hot knife and fat. Alas. It was but a dream, and the young boy sulked as he rose in his chambers.
A large arched window pointed out over the west, and an opposite to the east looking out towards the distant Athel Loren, the other window’s horizon line just falling short of Brionne. Though it was invisible from the room, the Brienne River ran to the south, towards Tilea, and in the North, the massif orcal stood prominent amongst the back drops of mountains.
The sky was cloudless, and sun light washed over Annau, bathing him in warmth and balmy light. He clothed himself, intending to go out riding, and left his chambers for the grand hall, his stomach grumbling, petulant with hunger. Breakfast was served for him, ham and oats. Healthy they called it, but the two were an awful mixture. He washed them down with milk, and went outside. Sir Rêver was waiting for him, and he was surprised at the man’s preternatural sense of Annau’s wishes. Not that he dictated when he rode, but his father’s colleague usually gave the boy a say in the matter.
“Ready to Ride already?”
A smile of enthusiasm danced across Annau’s features, and Rêver returned a hearty laugh with fervour.
“But of course you are lad, but of course.”
They had been riding for five hours, and Rêver’s thighs were beginning to abrade sorely against the flanks of Nocona, his horse. Brúler Digatte’s son was a natural rider, and that, coupled with the stamina of a daemon, was enough to drive the Knight to his knees. The boy rode as if the very hounds of chaos were after him, so fast, so light. Yet, he circled and played, and toyed and dropped with his steed. For his age, Rêver had never seen a better rider, and he pondered upon his friends hopes for the boy.
Brúler was a good man, quiet, yet honest and calculating. What he had in store for Annau was the source of great curiosity for Rêver. The boy would surely become a Knight, his skills with a blade and a sword were far too good to be ignored, and though he was sure the boy was not ready for facing the enemy, Rêver felt he should, at least, attend the squire tournaments in Brionne.
The un-armoured boy rode up in front of him, comfortably, and Rêver held his horse to stop. It whinnied and stood its ground, Annau’s steed imitating it. The boy raised his sword, in a silly salute, a smile on his face. Rêver was panting, it had been far too long since he had ridden properly, and this lad was bringing him for a marathon run.
“Annau…” his breathing was laboured, and the boy noticed, smiling like a rogue.
“Yes, m’lord.” His voice was higher than usual, and Annau’s arms flopped in a mocking curtsey. Rêver laughed, and the sensation ached his ribs. Times of peace were bad on fitness, and he hadn’t been to war for long while, not since he had returned from The Badlands Crusade.
“Annau, you need to slow down. You’ll lose me lad, I’m not as youthful and energetic as I once was.” He shook his head, and took in a deep breath.
Annau raised an eyebrow. “You don’t need to slow down so as not to wait on me, I know you’re my higher” He was affronted, Rêver did not usually treat him like such a child.
“You’re my better lad; it is you who needs to wait on me. I’m getting old” he gestured to his stomach, “and fat.” Exhaling, heavily. Annau rose up in his saddle to speak, but Rêver silenced him with a wave of his hand, the boy sunk down again, realising he was being spoken to as an adult, and feeling more mature as such. “I will speak to your father when we return,” Annau’s chest swelled, and his eyes widened as comprehension of what Rêver was about to say fell upon him.
The aging man looked the young boy in the eye, the orbs of azure hope gleaming right back at him. “I think it’s time you went to Brionne, Annau. Time to show your father what me, and that Nulnian, have made of you.”
* * *
Brúler Digatte had been most impressed with his friend’s testimony of Annau’s development. Seville Rêver had assured that his son was a prodigy on horseback, that he was a menace with a sword, and that to leave his departure for Brionne until the next tournament, would be a waste of time. Herr Pilchard, a Nulnian associate of his, had assured him Annau had progressed to his fullest when it came to archery, though the man was still unsure of his fletching skills. Not that it mattered. At Brionne, all things were made and submitted by the judges, including horses, so as to ensure it was a tournament of skill only. Boy’s weren’t allowed to enter the tournament until the age of twelve years, the age of maturity, but those as old as sixteen entered. Annau had just turned eleven, and Brúler doubted the boy could stand up to a man. Indeed, throughout the tournament’s long and noble history, only twice had the youngest competitor won, and on both accounts, it was through default and disqualification. Nevertheless, a true knight would succeed where others had failed, and so far, Anna had proven true of his aspirations. His son had proven to be the man Brúler had always dreamed of birthing, a true knight of Brettonia. A truly blessed follower of the Lady.
The time had come. The time for Annau to prove himself. Brúler just hoped his son wasn’t found lacking…
Annau was whole-heartedly aware of what honour, and risk, was being bestowed upon him. His father had agreed to send him to Brionne at the next Festival of the Lake. He was going with Rêver as his advisor, and several Questing Knights were accompanying the troupe, both as a favour to Brúler, and to protect them as their code demanded. His father has assigned two other men that Annau did not know, as retainers to the boy. Guardians from harm. Unlike the Questing Knights, they would remain with him until his return from Brionne, whereas the Questing Knights would leave them once the city-gates were in sight.
They were leaving tomorrow, and Annau was being tutored Reikspeil but the omnipotent-as-ever Pilchard, who Annau knew solely as ‘That Conceited Whining Nulnian Bastard’. It seemed his archery mentor was a thousand times more relaxed when it came to teaching language, than he was at Archery. Infact, he seemed to revel in watching the juvenile’s lips writhe and contort to pronounce the harsher words of the empire. He taught the lad simple phrases, slipping in manners here and there that the boy was unaware of. Laughing with great mirth when the lad muddled his ‘t’s and ‘d’s and asked him for a prostitute instead of an apple, which of course, earned him five minutes of silence as the lad sulked, his back turned moodily away from him. “Brúler better hope maturity isn’t a category” he chuckled to Rêver, who was watching with interest, and laughed kindly beside the Nulnian before attempting to console the adolescent. “Annau doesn’t need it, even if it was” the lad’s head lifted, “he’ll show Brettonia how a true champion wins. Eh, sport?” Annau smiled, and shot Pilchard a trademark scathing look, happy that there was someone showing a little confidence in his abilities.
The Nulnian turned away, darkly, “Let’s just hope the arrows are provided. Or young Annau might not do as well as he thinks…” despite his feelings for the lad, he felt a connection with him. He was stubborn as a mule; but a good lad. One destined for great things, no doubt.
“No doubt…” he muttered to himself. Rêver turned to him, an eyebrow raised. “Nothing…” Pilchard muttered, his head turning to the east. “Nothing…”
Bachmann
03-09-2006, 06:35 PM
500-1000 Category:
Charmed
Ratraz raised his mud-caked nose in the air and sniffed, his whiskers quivering in the cool night breeze.
“Ratraz ssmell filthy human...” he chattered to himself, his lip curling up over his yellowed teeth in disgust merely at the thought. For an instant he considered hunting down the prey he knew to be nearby, imagining the pleasure he would take in running his blade across their throat. His mission, however, came from Skavenblight itself and Ratraz dared not risk the wrath of the Council by wasting time on recreational pursuits. His thoughts were drawn inexorably to…
“Yess”
There was always time, however, to inspect the treasure he bore.
Ratraz glanced around furtively. Seemingly satisfied that no covetous eyes were upon him, he squatted down on a weather-beaten boulder, concealed from the main highway by a copse of golden-brown trees. Slowly and deliberately he untied the small leather pouch attached to his belt and carefully removed the contents. Setting the pouch to one side he unwrapped the piece of calfskin in which his prize was bound, his wickedly clawed paws already trembling with trepidation. He stared transfixed at the imperfect lump of lustreless matter before him, oblivious to the three pairs of eyes now studying him from the copse.
The longbow sang it’s deadly hymn and too late Ratraz realized his folly. Rising from his haunches he reached for his dagger. It was all a fraction too late. His actions were an exercise in futility as the iron-tipped shaft nestled squarely in between his shoulder blades, with enough punch to send him barrelling off the boulder. In the commotion, a flailing paw sent the curious black lump bobbling off into the dried grass and shingle which littered the clearing. Frantically he searched for it, scrabbling at the loose dirt and stone with the last few ounces of strength in his rat-like frame, chattering incoherently as he went. Black, sticky blood oozed out over the underlying vegetation. Ratraz, with considerable effort, twisted onto his back. Like some macabre snow-angel he lay there flailing in the grass, a dark stain spreading ever further as his life-tide ebbed away, his panicked mind driven closer to insanity by the imminence of his death. Beside him, he thought he caught a final glimpse of the architect of his destruction, the prize he carried, the Council’s burden. But then, like everything, it was gone.
Perched on the boulder, longbow drawn and aimed at the inert Skaven body, the Elf glanced sideways at the bearded figure circling the boulder on the blindside, holding for a signal. From within his pot helmet there emanated a long sigh and the bearded man straightened. He looked almost disappointed to be re-sheathing his sword. He lobbed a mouthful of spit onto the bloody body at his feet.
“Saw the head off, burn the remains and bury the ash in a hole. Take no chances with these filthy vermin”. He stomped off in the direction of the highway, uncorking his water flask and taking a deep pull on something wholly more substantial than water, before remembering something and turning his great frame back towards the boulder.
“Get a move on you two! And don’t touch any of its kit but to lob it on the pyre, ye hear!” Muttering a string of curses, he carried on his way.
But only one of them paid him any heed. The other had heard a different call.
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