Post by The Smith on Oct 15, 2008 22:39:15 GMT -5
The visions came to him, as they were wont to.
They came at irregular intervals, sometimes passing by for months before returning to his dreams, though they always came. It surprised him greatly that he never cried out, which he learned from his brothers, though these moments were what he dreaded most.
He saw every face. Every man. Every scream that escaped their lips came back to haunt him. Even the basilisk, with it's gouged eyes and piercing scream. So long ago that happened, yet it was as real as the light of day, or the dark of night. Sometimes the visions would be more specific and make him relive the blood, sweat, gore, and the screams. The screams. It seemed every time the terrors came, he relived every moment, including the cuts upon his own body, every one coming to life again, cutting anew. That was when he would wake, and the pain would disappear.
Tonight was no different from the other times, in fact, more vibrant in color and reality, his senses seemed to be heightened above what they had been when he lived it.
He relived a battle of the Stepstones, one which he was to lead in the absence of the King and his twelve in some other 'Free' City. Heavily outnumbered and outpositioned even going in, he wondered what ill fate the King wished him, as he massed his men and made the final preperations. He felt the pit of dread that encompassed his chest and stomach, weighting them. He forced himself to hold down the bile that threatened to escape, as he moved his white destrier to the front of the lines he controlled.
One thousand men. One thousand against nearly three times their number. A suicide mission to say the least. It was his first time in command of an actual army, and he would not fail; despite what the King may expect. He sat tall upon his horse, knowing that if his men were to see him falter, they would follow quickly.
His visions flickered between a loud speech he was giving before his men, to his squire strapping him for battle, to his head jerking toward the sky, to tens of other flashes of images before him. Finally, his vision froze upon the calm of the battlefield. Just before the storm began, before the blood was spilled, before the cries rang out.
He remembered he planned to use the enemy's over confidence and his smaller numbers to route the enemy towards a large trench, where numbers would be insignificant, and he could make his stand. The enemy had falled for it, pushing forwards, hoping to exterminate his smaller force quickly.
He had his men scout and line the walls of the trench, hiding in the darkness that engulfed it's inside. Four hundred of his men retreated, followed closely by their much larger force, fifty or more of his own already dead. The plan was working well, Galahad thought, as his men reached the checkpoint. As they passed the marked boulders, a horn sounded, vibrating the whole trench. Galahad felt it shake his whole being as he watched his men pass by.
As they passed, he and his cavalry came out and lined up to face the oncoming wrath of the enemy. Galahad raised his hand, and his fleeing men turned to set into formation once again. The enemy stopped, more than three quarters into the trench, their whole army englufed by the size of it. It was only wide enough for seventy men abreast, and it was more than filled with hard breathing men, most of which were tired of running or chasing. Lowering his hand in a swift motion, the archers came out of their hiding.
Blackness.
When the visions returned, he was in the middle of the charge. His horse's muscles buldged and contracted under him, as he moved forwards, a white lance in his hand. It was nine feet in length, and as sharp as a sword. Heavy as it was, he weilded it expertly. His cavalry clashed with their forces, like a rock thrown at the sea, crashing through it. Man after man fell to the charge, though there was no end to the masses. Eventually, the momentum was lost, though the men who had previously been running had already turned to bring up their rear, dealing with anything that had lived through the charge. Above, the archers still reigned hell upon the exposed forces, making men drop like the rain.
His lance alone had pierced at least a half dozen hearts already, before ripping it back out to impale yet another man. His old horse, Faolin, whom had died long ago, had run over atleast a dozen itself. He raised his shield as two bolts thudded into it, before thrusting his lance yet again, piercing though a man's juggular this time, spraying his white cloak with blood, making it darken with red.
Blackness.
He could feel his injuries. A bolt in the shoulder, he remembered clearly. A long gash on his shoulder; he could still feel the hot blood running down his arm. The battle was nearing an end, and the outcome was unclear. After the initial shock, the enemy commander tried to remove his forces from the trench, which only made it easier to cut down and run down the enemy, as his men advanced. The numbers were closer to even than he dare hope when they finally emerged from the darkness.
He sat high, as his men spilled out, to line up on either side; the archers shifting their position on the trench as to get a better vantage point. The cavalry lined up again, and the other moved into their alloted positions, right wing, left wing, and center. Raising his metal lance in one hand, he bellowed a shout. "For the Seven!" he bellowed, and people repeated. If they did not shout for the seven gods, they shouted for the seven kingdoms.
They charged down their prey, with renewed vigor, knowing victory was within reach, and Galahad himself pushed for the opposing commander, leading the van, and the battle. Shouting orders to his lieutenants, they repeated them back, until all was heard, flags thrown, and formations shifted.
The archers picked off the edges of the enemy lines, making them collapse in on themselves, giving his army a chance to surge past and flank them. As this happened, their troops became frantic, fightened, and scattered.
Charging through the chaos, Galahad came upon the general, who had just finished slaying one of his own. Bringing his horse forwards, he engaged, using the lance's reach to his advantage. Eventually, the general made a mistake, and Galahad's vision turned red as he thrust his lance yet again, plunging it through the chest of the general, as it came out the other side, spraying his whole being with blood and gore.
A warhammer hit his chest, and then blackness again.
He was breathing hard, both of his swords in hand, as he watched the enemy army retreat. A dead man with a warhammer lay at his feet, and his men surged past, inspired, cheering, roaring, whooping. Every sound imaginable. This battle was over; but it was only the first of many to come.
Then the pain. His whole body erupted from the past wounds he'd suffered. White hot gashes errupted on his arms, legs, torso and cheeks. He relived a hundred bolts piercing his skin, and a thousand swords slicing though his body. Clubs and warhammers winded him, and broke bones. He felt as if he would die, the pain clouding all other thought, as his visioned turned white.
He sprang up in his bed, drenched in sweat, breathing harder than if he had just finished a duel. His hair was matted, stuck to his forehead, and tears broke his eyes. He brought his hands to his face and shuttered.
Galahad improves from Master Battle Command to Grandmaster Battle Command over the span of 15 years.
Galahad improves from Expert Lance to Master Lance of the span of 15 years.
They came at irregular intervals, sometimes passing by for months before returning to his dreams, though they always came. It surprised him greatly that he never cried out, which he learned from his brothers, though these moments were what he dreaded most.
He saw every face. Every man. Every scream that escaped their lips came back to haunt him. Even the basilisk, with it's gouged eyes and piercing scream. So long ago that happened, yet it was as real as the light of day, or the dark of night. Sometimes the visions would be more specific and make him relive the blood, sweat, gore, and the screams. The screams. It seemed every time the terrors came, he relived every moment, including the cuts upon his own body, every one coming to life again, cutting anew. That was when he would wake, and the pain would disappear.
Tonight was no different from the other times, in fact, more vibrant in color and reality, his senses seemed to be heightened above what they had been when he lived it.
He relived a battle of the Stepstones, one which he was to lead in the absence of the King and his twelve in some other 'Free' City. Heavily outnumbered and outpositioned even going in, he wondered what ill fate the King wished him, as he massed his men and made the final preperations. He felt the pit of dread that encompassed his chest and stomach, weighting them. He forced himself to hold down the bile that threatened to escape, as he moved his white destrier to the front of the lines he controlled.
One thousand men. One thousand against nearly three times their number. A suicide mission to say the least. It was his first time in command of an actual army, and he would not fail; despite what the King may expect. He sat tall upon his horse, knowing that if his men were to see him falter, they would follow quickly.
His visions flickered between a loud speech he was giving before his men, to his squire strapping him for battle, to his head jerking toward the sky, to tens of other flashes of images before him. Finally, his vision froze upon the calm of the battlefield. Just before the storm began, before the blood was spilled, before the cries rang out.
He remembered he planned to use the enemy's over confidence and his smaller numbers to route the enemy towards a large trench, where numbers would be insignificant, and he could make his stand. The enemy had falled for it, pushing forwards, hoping to exterminate his smaller force quickly.
He had his men scout and line the walls of the trench, hiding in the darkness that engulfed it's inside. Four hundred of his men retreated, followed closely by their much larger force, fifty or more of his own already dead. The plan was working well, Galahad thought, as his men reached the checkpoint. As they passed the marked boulders, a horn sounded, vibrating the whole trench. Galahad felt it shake his whole being as he watched his men pass by.
As they passed, he and his cavalry came out and lined up to face the oncoming wrath of the enemy. Galahad raised his hand, and his fleeing men turned to set into formation once again. The enemy stopped, more than three quarters into the trench, their whole army englufed by the size of it. It was only wide enough for seventy men abreast, and it was more than filled with hard breathing men, most of which were tired of running or chasing. Lowering his hand in a swift motion, the archers came out of their hiding.
Blackness.
When the visions returned, he was in the middle of the charge. His horse's muscles buldged and contracted under him, as he moved forwards, a white lance in his hand. It was nine feet in length, and as sharp as a sword. Heavy as it was, he weilded it expertly. His cavalry clashed with their forces, like a rock thrown at the sea, crashing through it. Man after man fell to the charge, though there was no end to the masses. Eventually, the momentum was lost, though the men who had previously been running had already turned to bring up their rear, dealing with anything that had lived through the charge. Above, the archers still reigned hell upon the exposed forces, making men drop like the rain.
His lance alone had pierced at least a half dozen hearts already, before ripping it back out to impale yet another man. His old horse, Faolin, whom had died long ago, had run over atleast a dozen itself. He raised his shield as two bolts thudded into it, before thrusting his lance yet again, piercing though a man's juggular this time, spraying his white cloak with blood, making it darken with red.
Blackness.
He could feel his injuries. A bolt in the shoulder, he remembered clearly. A long gash on his shoulder; he could still feel the hot blood running down his arm. The battle was nearing an end, and the outcome was unclear. After the initial shock, the enemy commander tried to remove his forces from the trench, which only made it easier to cut down and run down the enemy, as his men advanced. The numbers were closer to even than he dare hope when they finally emerged from the darkness.
He sat high, as his men spilled out, to line up on either side; the archers shifting their position on the trench as to get a better vantage point. The cavalry lined up again, and the other moved into their alloted positions, right wing, left wing, and center. Raising his metal lance in one hand, he bellowed a shout. "For the Seven!" he bellowed, and people repeated. If they did not shout for the seven gods, they shouted for the seven kingdoms.
They charged down their prey, with renewed vigor, knowing victory was within reach, and Galahad himself pushed for the opposing commander, leading the van, and the battle. Shouting orders to his lieutenants, they repeated them back, until all was heard, flags thrown, and formations shifted.
The archers picked off the edges of the enemy lines, making them collapse in on themselves, giving his army a chance to surge past and flank them. As this happened, their troops became frantic, fightened, and scattered.
Charging through the chaos, Galahad came upon the general, who had just finished slaying one of his own. Bringing his horse forwards, he engaged, using the lance's reach to his advantage. Eventually, the general made a mistake, and Galahad's vision turned red as he thrust his lance yet again, plunging it through the chest of the general, as it came out the other side, spraying his whole being with blood and gore.
A warhammer hit his chest, and then blackness again.
He was breathing hard, both of his swords in hand, as he watched the enemy army retreat. A dead man with a warhammer lay at his feet, and his men surged past, inspired, cheering, roaring, whooping. Every sound imaginable. This battle was over; but it was only the first of many to come.
Then the pain. His whole body erupted from the past wounds he'd suffered. White hot gashes errupted on his arms, legs, torso and cheeks. He relived a hundred bolts piercing his skin, and a thousand swords slicing though his body. Clubs and warhammers winded him, and broke bones. He felt as if he would die, the pain clouding all other thought, as his visioned turned white.
He sprang up in his bed, drenched in sweat, breathing harder than if he had just finished a duel. His hair was matted, stuck to his forehead, and tears broke his eyes. He brought his hands to his face and shuttered.
Galahad improves from Master Battle Command to Grandmaster Battle Command over the span of 15 years.
Galahad improves from Expert Lance to Master Lance of the span of 15 years.