Post by The Smith on May 25, 2009 22:46:26 GMT -5
"RELEASE! RELOAD! RELEASE! MOVE YOU WOMEN, FASTER!"
Borcas was shouting orders for so much time that his throat was aching. But he had not the luxury of time or rest. Instead he was urging his horsemen in complex maneuvers, circling around he enemy, showering the Others with a rain of dragonglass arrowheads, or charging at the wights with torches at hands, crushing their foes under hooves while they moved with incredible speed. The demons of ice were terrible to behold, more horrifying than any of the men could even imagine, but the danger of the mindless shells of their servants was even greater, as they were far more numerous. Black hands were rising to grasp them and drag them down to their doom every moment, yet the Dothrakis followed their leader like mad men. They charged repeatedly through the mass of wights, swinging torches left and right, leaving burning carcasses as they retreated to release another volley before charging again. It was a bloody business and the Dothrakis were falling one by one, each dying a hero's death, but the pile of their slain foes was growing for every single man that was killed.
The Queen and her daughters were fighting at the other side of the valley, their dragons and the fiery blade of Saella felling scores of the White Walkers, driving their troops onward, deep within the enemy ranks. Borcas turned his eyes again to his own men and urged them once again. Ser Aethan was fighting by his side, parrying blows and dealing fatal strikes. Iggo, his most trusted friend was following close behind, his club parting the icy blades of the Others in two with a single strike. Borcas was proud of his invention. A simple device, yet enough to counter the lack of Valyrian Steel for his troops. A wooden club with fragments of obsidian installed to it, able to cut through the crystal armor of the demons they faced with a single swing. And then, what he feared all along the battle, came true. Suddenly, the ranks of the White Walkers opened wide and their cavalry marched to meet the Dothrakis. Ghostly riders atop dead horses and white spiders, wielding their pale swords, shouting inhuman cries as they charged.
But Borcas was prepared. He shouted an order at the Dothraki tongue and his men draw their lances. It was a weapon designed only for such a case, with a shaft longer than a spear and a head of dragonglass. Borcas was joined by Ser Aethan and three of his surviving men, as more than half his force were already dead. They charged at the Others, singing desperately and wild at the face of doom, answered by the cries of their foes, voices that could drive a man insane. Borcas charged toward what seemed to be the leader of the Other's cavalry. He lowered his lance, saw the Other's blue eyes and aimed at his head, intended to pierce his skull. He charged at full speed and... he missed, gods be damned, he missed! The gaze of the demon was now upon him, and Borcas lost himself in the great deep of this glare. Instead of a demon at the heart of Winter, in front of him was Alexander, with his bloodied face, just as he was when he died.
"Son, you failed me." His voice was full of contempt, full of scorn. "See what you caused. I told you to not move away from my force. Yet, you had to charge headlong, leaving me to hold the enemies here with a tenth of their force."
"Father!" Borcas cried. But his words seemed stuck to his throat. "Father!" He shouted again with the same result, but his strength was failing him. And it was getting colder, a sweet cold, though in the Dothraki Sea it was never so cold, as long as he could recall.
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Ser Aethan had just impaled another of his foes, when his lance splintered. He drew his club of obsidian and turned his head around to see what was happening. Less than ten Dothrakis were alive by now, but the cavalry of the Others was scattered, like dust is scattered by the first blow of a wild wind. He saw the Queen burning through the ranks of the White Walkers and the prowess of their other allies and sensed victory was near. But when he turned his eyes again to Borcas, what he saw terrorized him. He was standing at the midst of the carnage motionless, as if his mind was somewhere else. Even more than that, one of the demons was closing in to deal the fatal blow to him. Aethan gave up to rage and turned his horse toward the Other. Their weapons met with a great shriek, but it was the blade of the Other that did not withstand the touch of obsidian. With a second swift strike, Aethan killed him. Suddenly, Borcas was himself again.
------------------------------------
When he raised his eyes, he saw a battlefield that had changed. The cavalry of the Others was no more, but even of his own men, only four remained. Ser Aethan Hill and only three of the Dothrakis. Iggo, Jaqho and Moro. But this time victory was within their grasp, not just a distant promise. They charged at the enemies again and again, at a berserk rage, sensing nothing save for a red veil that covered everything. And suddenly, the battle was over. The walking dead had been defeated. Borcas claimed that he heard a great lament as the Queen fallen atop her dragon, the greatest of the three, but who can be sure about such a thing?
///////////////////////////////////////////////
Borcas was standing aside, surveying the battlefield where his men had died, when he saw the three surviving of his warband approaching. And as he turned to greet them, they bowed.
"Blood of my blood," said Iggo.
"Blood of my blood," echoed the voice of Jhaqo.
"Blood of my blood," replied Moro.
Borcas was pleased and he respected all of the three warriors. "I accept your oath and name you Ko, and you will ride with me and keep me safe from harm. Rise now, my bloodriders." And with that he finally turned his back to the battlefield and moved toward the remnants of the army.
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Borcas Redwyne gains Legendary: Battle Command, Cavalry
Borcas was shouting orders for so much time that his throat was aching. But he had not the luxury of time or rest. Instead he was urging his horsemen in complex maneuvers, circling around he enemy, showering the Others with a rain of dragonglass arrowheads, or charging at the wights with torches at hands, crushing their foes under hooves while they moved with incredible speed. The demons of ice were terrible to behold, more horrifying than any of the men could even imagine, but the danger of the mindless shells of their servants was even greater, as they were far more numerous. Black hands were rising to grasp them and drag them down to their doom every moment, yet the Dothrakis followed their leader like mad men. They charged repeatedly through the mass of wights, swinging torches left and right, leaving burning carcasses as they retreated to release another volley before charging again. It was a bloody business and the Dothrakis were falling one by one, each dying a hero's death, but the pile of their slain foes was growing for every single man that was killed.
The Queen and her daughters were fighting at the other side of the valley, their dragons and the fiery blade of Saella felling scores of the White Walkers, driving their troops onward, deep within the enemy ranks. Borcas turned his eyes again to his own men and urged them once again. Ser Aethan was fighting by his side, parrying blows and dealing fatal strikes. Iggo, his most trusted friend was following close behind, his club parting the icy blades of the Others in two with a single strike. Borcas was proud of his invention. A simple device, yet enough to counter the lack of Valyrian Steel for his troops. A wooden club with fragments of obsidian installed to it, able to cut through the crystal armor of the demons they faced with a single swing. And then, what he feared all along the battle, came true. Suddenly, the ranks of the White Walkers opened wide and their cavalry marched to meet the Dothrakis. Ghostly riders atop dead horses and white spiders, wielding their pale swords, shouting inhuman cries as they charged.
But Borcas was prepared. He shouted an order at the Dothraki tongue and his men draw their lances. It was a weapon designed only for such a case, with a shaft longer than a spear and a head of dragonglass. Borcas was joined by Ser Aethan and three of his surviving men, as more than half his force were already dead. They charged at the Others, singing desperately and wild at the face of doom, answered by the cries of their foes, voices that could drive a man insane. Borcas charged toward what seemed to be the leader of the Other's cavalry. He lowered his lance, saw the Other's blue eyes and aimed at his head, intended to pierce his skull. He charged at full speed and... he missed, gods be damned, he missed! The gaze of the demon was now upon him, and Borcas lost himself in the great deep of this glare. Instead of a demon at the heart of Winter, in front of him was Alexander, with his bloodied face, just as he was when he died.
"Son, you failed me." His voice was full of contempt, full of scorn. "See what you caused. I told you to not move away from my force. Yet, you had to charge headlong, leaving me to hold the enemies here with a tenth of their force."
"Father!" Borcas cried. But his words seemed stuck to his throat. "Father!" He shouted again with the same result, but his strength was failing him. And it was getting colder, a sweet cold, though in the Dothraki Sea it was never so cold, as long as he could recall.
------------------------------------
Ser Aethan had just impaled another of his foes, when his lance splintered. He drew his club of obsidian and turned his head around to see what was happening. Less than ten Dothrakis were alive by now, but the cavalry of the Others was scattered, like dust is scattered by the first blow of a wild wind. He saw the Queen burning through the ranks of the White Walkers and the prowess of their other allies and sensed victory was near. But when he turned his eyes again to Borcas, what he saw terrorized him. He was standing at the midst of the carnage motionless, as if his mind was somewhere else. Even more than that, one of the demons was closing in to deal the fatal blow to him. Aethan gave up to rage and turned his horse toward the Other. Their weapons met with a great shriek, but it was the blade of the Other that did not withstand the touch of obsidian. With a second swift strike, Aethan killed him. Suddenly, Borcas was himself again.
------------------------------------
When he raised his eyes, he saw a battlefield that had changed. The cavalry of the Others was no more, but even of his own men, only four remained. Ser Aethan Hill and only three of the Dothrakis. Iggo, Jaqho and Moro. But this time victory was within their grasp, not just a distant promise. They charged at the enemies again and again, at a berserk rage, sensing nothing save for a red veil that covered everything. And suddenly, the battle was over. The walking dead had been defeated. Borcas claimed that he heard a great lament as the Queen fallen atop her dragon, the greatest of the three, but who can be sure about such a thing?
///////////////////////////////////////////////
Borcas was standing aside, surveying the battlefield where his men had died, when he saw the three surviving of his warband approaching. And as he turned to greet them, they bowed.
"Blood of my blood," said Iggo.
"Blood of my blood," echoed the voice of Jhaqo.
"Blood of my blood," replied Moro.
Borcas was pleased and he respected all of the three warriors. "I accept your oath and name you Ko, and you will ride with me and keep me safe from harm. Rise now, my bloodriders." And with that he finally turned his back to the battlefield and moved toward the remnants of the army.
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Borcas Redwyne gains Legendary: Battle Command, Cavalry