kaza125
Lord of Altera
Plot: The family that was held tight after the siege is now splintered and afar from each other. As Rynic deepens into the wild and mind driven by finding his family, a young man forced into the Aberstan milita finds want kind of side he is one. Rynic must realize who he is if his kin is to survive. .. (Will contain swearing)
Prologue
Everyone in the plains could hear the crackling burning behind them.
A thousand yards behind and the fire was still glazing over spines of militia, coating them with warmth. The sound of blood driven soldiers boasting of their kills came from man to man, as they were on foot, on horse or on a cart being pulled by a horse. Dondar Ice was on one of the ten carts, he was on the left side furthest to the back with his hands shaking vigorously like it was the coldest day of winter. Dondar’s hands thrust in the pockets of his boiled leather leggings to conceal the trembling.
“Oi”. A man rather close calls out. “Oi, you”. Dondar felt an iron fist knocking against his knee, he looks up to the other side of the cart to see a man in his thirty’s, sharp stubble and a short black haired head. He tilts his head to the side and glares on Dondar. “So. You’re a fighter?”. He asks and Dondar makes no reply, shrugs while attempting to hide his quivering hands. The man lets out a hearty chuckle and leans back while admiring the burning village behind them.
“First time at war kid?”. Kid. Dondar despised being called that, the baker, the guards and his older brother back home countless times they entitled him as ‘kid’. The name brought up past memories which were shortly interrupted by the cart taking a halt which took Dondar’s balance off, but he managed to catch himself on the wooden panel, effortlessly nailed to hold the cart together. Dondar looked up to the rest of militia which had also taken a stop, something important was about to happen. A heavy pounding set of steps came drumming through Dondar’s ears which grew louder each step, so much that he couldn’t hear his own thoughts. The owner of those feet came into view and he was a fearsome man. A tall figure, built like a bull and with shoulder blades that should rip his steel armour to pieces. He was bald with a black goatee and moustache and had eyes the colour of onyx. His face could tell his history in war, he had matching slit scars from his eyes to the bottom of his chin. He took a brief look at the militia and spat to the soft grass.
“So I ask for an army and this is what the King gives me. Bakers, gardeners, thieves and rapists who have never held an iron blade nor gutted another man… This is what the King gives me.” His deep, cold, icy voice silences everyone. “Winning wars is easy when the threat runs away. These villages you burn should of, and shall not give you any renown, glory or titles. You are the King’s militia under my command, your sacrifices put forward will not be written nor remembered, the King and his actions will last the ages while you do his bidding… The burning shall stop for today. In two nights time we will march into the woods and find these rebel survivors who continue to disclaim your King and we will kill them”. He turned away and headed forward, but from behind him came his squire, who had the cocky noble look, the man who would sleep with your wife, just because he could buy her gifts and give her land.
“Your Lord Commander has commissioned to make camp here, in the plains. Tents will occupy six men at a time, larger tents will be made for the armoury, storage and war room”. The stingy man proudly followed the steps of his master, and with his action everyone came off their carts and horses and started to unpack. Dondar took off his heavy pack and dropped it on the ground, unfortunately his gear was packed enough that it all flew out making a mess on the soon to be camp ground. Dondar sighed and started to pick up his gear. First was his blue cloak given to him by his brother, then a butter knife, but as soon as he reached for his tent pack someone else got their first.
“Excuse me tha-“.
“Not to worry mate, here’s your tent pack, don’t lose it”. It was the same man on the cart. Dondar gave his thanks and continued to pick up the rest of his gear while being watched by the man.
“What’s ya name? I’m Armen Murphy, come from Cattlesbree in the North, not the nicest of places, but the quietest, main reason why I live there, that and the whores. The best whores are in the most, ‘unexpected places’. Which is a rule I carry with me, and in my pants”. Another hearty chuckles came from him which was mildly interrupted by Dondar who threw his cloak on the ground in slight outrage.
“Look, I’m busy here, go pester someone who would care, not that anyone one would, best luck would be someone death perhaps?”.
“No need to be a cunt, just trying to lighten the mood”.
“How can you? That dam fire seems to be doing the trick!”.
“This isn’t going to get easier you know. This war will only get harder, and you need people to get you through it”.
“I don’t need your help”.
“Aye my lad, but you do”. Armen glared at him for a moment and started to walk away, Dondar sighed and spoke up.
“Could you-Could you give me a hand?”. He asks in a questionable and apologetic tone. Armen turned with a grin and picked up the blue cloak.
“Be a pleasure.”
Prologue
Everyone in the plains could hear the crackling burning behind them.
A thousand yards behind and the fire was still glazing over spines of militia, coating them with warmth. The sound of blood driven soldiers boasting of their kills came from man to man, as they were on foot, on horse or on a cart being pulled by a horse. Dondar Ice was on one of the ten carts, he was on the left side furthest to the back with his hands shaking vigorously like it was the coldest day of winter. Dondar’s hands thrust in the pockets of his boiled leather leggings to conceal the trembling.
“Oi”. A man rather close calls out. “Oi, you”. Dondar felt an iron fist knocking against his knee, he looks up to the other side of the cart to see a man in his thirty’s, sharp stubble and a short black haired head. He tilts his head to the side and glares on Dondar. “So. You’re a fighter?”. He asks and Dondar makes no reply, shrugs while attempting to hide his quivering hands. The man lets out a hearty chuckle and leans back while admiring the burning village behind them.
“First time at war kid?”. Kid. Dondar despised being called that, the baker, the guards and his older brother back home countless times they entitled him as ‘kid’. The name brought up past memories which were shortly interrupted by the cart taking a halt which took Dondar’s balance off, but he managed to catch himself on the wooden panel, effortlessly nailed to hold the cart together. Dondar looked up to the rest of militia which had also taken a stop, something important was about to happen. A heavy pounding set of steps came drumming through Dondar’s ears which grew louder each step, so much that he couldn’t hear his own thoughts. The owner of those feet came into view and he was a fearsome man. A tall figure, built like a bull and with shoulder blades that should rip his steel armour to pieces. He was bald with a black goatee and moustache and had eyes the colour of onyx. His face could tell his history in war, he had matching slit scars from his eyes to the bottom of his chin. He took a brief look at the militia and spat to the soft grass.
“So I ask for an army and this is what the King gives me. Bakers, gardeners, thieves and rapists who have never held an iron blade nor gutted another man… This is what the King gives me.” His deep, cold, icy voice silences everyone. “Winning wars is easy when the threat runs away. These villages you burn should of, and shall not give you any renown, glory or titles. You are the King’s militia under my command, your sacrifices put forward will not be written nor remembered, the King and his actions will last the ages while you do his bidding… The burning shall stop for today. In two nights time we will march into the woods and find these rebel survivors who continue to disclaim your King and we will kill them”. He turned away and headed forward, but from behind him came his squire, who had the cocky noble look, the man who would sleep with your wife, just because he could buy her gifts and give her land.
“Your Lord Commander has commissioned to make camp here, in the plains. Tents will occupy six men at a time, larger tents will be made for the armoury, storage and war room”. The stingy man proudly followed the steps of his master, and with his action everyone came off their carts and horses and started to unpack. Dondar took off his heavy pack and dropped it on the ground, unfortunately his gear was packed enough that it all flew out making a mess on the soon to be camp ground. Dondar sighed and started to pick up his gear. First was his blue cloak given to him by his brother, then a butter knife, but as soon as he reached for his tent pack someone else got their first.
“Excuse me tha-“.
“Not to worry mate, here’s your tent pack, don’t lose it”. It was the same man on the cart. Dondar gave his thanks and continued to pick up the rest of his gear while being watched by the man.
“What’s ya name? I’m Armen Murphy, come from Cattlesbree in the North, not the nicest of places, but the quietest, main reason why I live there, that and the whores. The best whores are in the most, ‘unexpected places’. Which is a rule I carry with me, and in my pants”. Another hearty chuckles came from him which was mildly interrupted by Dondar who threw his cloak on the ground in slight outrage.
“Look, I’m busy here, go pester someone who would care, not that anyone one would, best luck would be someone death perhaps?”.
“No need to be a cunt, just trying to lighten the mood”.
“How can you? That dam fire seems to be doing the trick!”.
“This isn’t going to get easier you know. This war will only get harder, and you need people to get you through it”.
“I don’t need your help”.
“Aye my lad, but you do”. Armen glared at him for a moment and started to walk away, Dondar sighed and spoke up.
“Could you-Could you give me a hand?”. He asks in a questionable and apologetic tone. Armen turned with a grin and picked up the blue cloak.
“Be a pleasure.”