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In Midoran's Name!
Posted: 04 Jul 2005 02:58 AM |
Haven,
An ironic name for the encampment in the Midor mountains, a valley in the upper mountains nestled between two guarding mountaintops. Cold, Rainy, Windy, with the occasional sunny day for contrast and to drive home the misery. Add to that, the charm and good graces of the local orc tribes and their ogre allies and you had a sure fire winner for a lovely encampment.
In spite of all this, the warriors there were... hopeful.
In the encampment, the armours and weapons smiths were putting their final effort in to prepare all the arms of the true Faithful of Midoran. The news had already spread throughout the camp, that the Usurpers, the so called "Righteous Swords" had left with most of their forces for the ruse that led them to Ferein. Truely it was a sign of Midoran's blessing in their undertaken that the enemies of Midor would leave their prize mostly undefended. He surely clouds their vision and judgement.
And now was the time to prove their renewed good faith. They would take back Midor and hold it against the returning "Righteous Swords". The city would be finally saved from the corruption that had infected the clergy. The White Bishop will be exposed for the fraud that he is and the people freed from his Tyranny. Midoran would guide their arms to see the day won.
Finally, after being in silence for far too long, the loyal Paladins were to take definitive and final action for such was the test their Lord demanded of them in his silence.
Around the camp, the knights and warriors of the true faith continued with their final preparations. The captains conferred with the high Paladin and his curious advisor, an old knight from a far off time. Runners were sent calling all those back to the encampment who were still loyale to Midoran. Their army was preparing to move.
The High Captain, busy with a thousand details a General had to attend to, called for a runner. "Carry these words to the White Maiden", he said to the runner, 'The Army is preparing to move. We march at dawn. On the third day we will arrive at the Gates of Midor.' Now hurry and deliver my words, for time is short"
With a nod, the runner leaves the encampment.
There will be war. Midoran's will be done. |
Purpose in life: finding better ways of allowing players to kill themselves. Repeatedly.
--
"...Cause he mixes it with love
And makes the world taste good."
--
<@James42> Lawful good isn't in your vocabulary, it's on your menu.
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Re: In Midoran's Name!
Posted: 04 Jul 2005 03:00 AM |
| ((*bump*)) |
Purpose in life: finding better ways of allowing players to kill themselves. Repeatedly.
--
"...Cause he mixes it with love
And makes the world taste good."
--
<@James42> Lawful good isn't in your vocabulary, it's on your menu.
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Re: In Midoran's Name!
Posted: 06 Jul 2005 05:41 AM |
*nightfall, in the Midor Forest*
*an unknown officer walks up to the High Paladin*
"The troops are bedded down for the night Sir. We have double watches set up. The priests have informed me that they are preparing their prayers for tomorrows march. Our scouts have reported seeing no signs of enemy activity"
The old Paladin stood silently as he heard the report spoken, his mind elsewhere thinking of the coming battle ahead
"Very good Captain", the old Paladin spoke. "Turn in for some rest. We'll have a busy today tomorrow"
"Midoran's will be done"
The young captain hesistated in his returning salute. "Is..Is it really Midoran's will Sir?"
"Of course it is son. Never loose faith, even if you need to question it from time to time. Now go. Dawn will be here soon"
The officer saluted. "Midoran's will be done Sir!"
((ooc: the Midoran Loyalist forces will be on the great plains, Wednesday Evening, US time in final preparation for their march to Midor. )) |
Purpose in life: finding better ways of allowing players to kill themselves. Repeatedly.
--
"...Cause he mixes it with love
And makes the world taste good."
--
<@James42> Lawful good isn't in your vocabulary, it's on your menu.
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Massacre
Posted: 06 Sep 2005 11:59 AM |
The first wave had gone and been duly slaughtered, and by the looks of it, some sort of conference was going on up in the frontlines. It was frustratingly difficult to tell what was going on from back here, and not for the first time, Lillian wished she hadn’t been assigned to one of the auxiliary platoons.
“Exchanging death threats, no doubt,” Claude remarked conversationally. “We probably won’t even get a shot at them, what with magic being awry here. Our mages stand as much of a chance of blowing us all up as they do of decimating the enemy.”
“Incorrect,” Evelyn piped up irritably in that high, squeaky voice of hers. “We’ve studied the unusual phenomenon that affects the usage of magic on the Plains and have prepared appropriately for—”
“Sir,” Lillian snapped abruptly. “Over to the north...”
The amused tone vanished from Claude’s voice, replaced by uncharacteristic grimness. “I see them.”
It started as an outpouring of red-clad knights from the north, soon joined by an equally large army of more red knights from the south. Within moments, from all directions and as far as the eye could see, a veritable sea of red troops had begun to sweep through the Plains, moving with frightening precision to cut off the rebel paladin army. Reinforcements had arrived for the Righteous Swords, and what had begun as a close fight between the Swords and the rebelling Paladins had now become a scene of certain slaughter for the rebels as the red tide closed in around the white army.
Which was not to say that the Midoran army was comprised entirely of Righteous Swords. Here and there, the occasional white speck of paladin armour could be seen amidst the red, like a piece of flotsam drifting in a red sea. But, perhaps tellingly, the vast majority of what had once been the old Paladin Order of Midor was on the side of Blanche La Belle, the White Maiden.
Up on the front lines, High Paladin Rayinor Liam was gesticulating and barking out orders. Drums and trumpets sounded out, repeating his commands to the remainder of the army.
Both armies let fly identical standards depicting a pure white cross.
~*~
What happened next was a blur.
~*~
... “I am Midoran!” ...
Light. Light everywhere and a voice booming across the Plains, echoing in the hearts and minds of those present. Midoran had arrived.
And he was on the side of the Righteous Swords.
... “The faithless will fall!” ...
White mingling with red as the rebels abandoned their side to rejoin the red knights, desperate to absolve themselves in the eyes of their god.
... “WE CAN FIGHT! WHAT ARE WE HERE FOR?” ...
Blanche’s voice feebly, desperately trying to reclaim the hearts of the rebels. And failing.
... “Damn it. Damn it, don’t go back to him! Don’t you remember why we left? What Midor and Midoran now stand for? There’s nothing there for you to go back to!” ...
Claude’s voice joining in with Blanche’s. And the voices of others who, against all odds, remained inexplicably loyal to the White Maiden.
Blanche uttering words of defiance in a small voice that could not be heard, not from back here, not from this distance and at that meek volume.
She stood alone against a god, armed only with her faith.
... “Then you will die. As will all the unfaithful.” ...
Midoran’s response. Midoran’s judgement. Midoran’s will.
~*~
Their troops dead or deserted. An army of thousands reduced to a pitiful handful of rebels, standing against the combined might of the Righteous Swords, the reformed Paladin Order of Midor, and Midoran himself. All in the space of five minutes.
Claude watched the fleeing paladins with a mixture of disbelief and stunned horror before his training kicked in. He did a quick head count of those remaining. Not good. Out of the fifty or so that had been under his command, barely a dozen remained, the rest having fled to join the Righteous Swords or casually slain by Midoran himself.
“We’re going to make our way over to Lady Blanche and gather any remaining troops we can find,” he decreed authoritatively. “We need to regroup—”
“Are you mad?” Evelyn demanded shrilly. “We’ve lost. We’re on the wrong side and this is what we deserve for turning our backs on—”
“Stand down, Evelyn,” Lillian cut her off sharply.
“You’re idiots, the whole lot of you!” Evelyn’s staff began to glow dangerously in her hands. “It’s bad enough that you’re not smart enough to be wizards. But now you’re not even smart enough to be real paladins! How can you even consider continuing this stupid war when Midoran’s shown up ON THE OTHER SIDE!”
“Evelyn, put the staff away. Lillian, don’t—!”
Seventeen years. Seventeen years they’d known each other. Seventeen years of friendship undone in one moment, in one battle, by one god.
Lillian’s hand went warningly to her sword hilt as she stepped forward.
Evelyn was faster.
The staff flared once with energy. Time slowed to an agonising crawl. In the deathly stillness, a small woman wielding a staff uttered incantation after incantation with impossible rapidity, weaving intricate patterns in the air.
Time resumed.
One after another, hundreds of blazing blue-white missiles streaked through the air, seeking the remaining survivors in the immediate vicinity with deadly precision.
“Lillian, use the amulet!” Claude snapped. “Protect the White M—”
A brilliant blue-white explosion lit up the area.
Then another, and another, and still more as the missiles unerringly found their mark. A dozen bodies, sparking with residual magical energy, thudded to the ground.
Evelyn let out a ragged breath and surveyed her handiwork, then raised her eyes to the distant, glowing figure of her god. Slowly she straightened, a look of reverence replacing her usual cynical expression.
“Midoran’s Will Be Done,” she said softly.
~*~
“You’re lucky to be alive,” Angelius said.
The Hound Archon sheathed his sword and held out a hand to Lillian. Wincing, she allowed herself to be helped up, her left hand involuntarily clenching around the elaborate talisman around her neck.
Her thumb found the empty indentation that had once held a gemstone. So the final charge had been expended, then. It hadn’t been luck at all.
Slowly, her gaze swept across the Plains. At the sheer bloody devastation wrought by the battle. At the bodies of the fallen, strewn about haphazardly like broken, discarded toy soldiers. At the tattered banners. At the crows that had begun to peck away at the dead with callous disregard.
At the lack of red-clad knights amongst the fallen.
“Lucky...” she repeated hollowly.
“Don’t you start with the survivor’s guilt stuff. I’ve seen enough people do that for today,” Angelius grumbled. “Hey, if you can walk on your own, the survivors are all meeting at the crossroads to head off to Haven. I need to see if there are any more around, okay?”
“I’ll help you look,” Lillian murmured groggily. She threw a defiant look at the Archon, as if daring him to say no.
Angelius started to protest, then thought better of it. “I guess you can finish checking this area,” he acceded reluctantly. “I’ll be over in the east checking near the road to Mirghul.”
“As you wish, sir Angelius.”
The Archon threw another odd look at her, then waved cheerily and trotted off to the road. Lillian didn’t see him leave. Her gaze was fixed on the southern horizon, where the white walls and towers of Midor stretched up to pierce the perfect blue sky. A brilliant aura of golden light crowned the outline of the city. It was like a stylised, extravagant painting rendered by an overzealous artist.
The place had never seemed so alien in her entire life.
Reason dictated that she should be there right now, seeking absolution for siding with the rebels, revelling in the homecoming of Midoran, and cheering the sound defeat of the paladin army that had dared to oppose the Just Hand.
The simmering anger and hollow ache in the pit of her stomach said otherwise. They had not betrayed Midoran. Midoran had betrayed them. Every man and woman who had fallen today had done so believing that they served his will, followed his ideals. And had been punished for their faith with death and disgrace.
No one would remember them. No one would honour their lives or commemorate their deaths. In the White City, their names were no doubt cursed and uttered with spite, and their families would have either disowned them or be disgraced along with them. And considering what a spectacle the battle had been, it wouldn’t take long for lowlife scum to arrive and desecrate and loot the corpses of the fallen.
Justice. Temperance. Courage.
For a god who was supposed to represent those three virtues, Midoran had just done a marvellous job of displaying none of the three. On the contrary, he’d shown the exact opposite.
Slowly, deliberately, Lillian turned her back to the White City and focused her attention on the grisly task at hand.
The war hadn’t ended. It had only just begun. |
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