I've commented before about Kingdom of Amular's very generic RPGness and I'm here once again to harp on this point. They released their most recent developer interview explaining their Destiny (aka Class) system. The video has a promising start with a developer talking about how they were getting away from the problems of most RPG class systems before promptly showing a video of an RPG class system that is like every other single class system in any RPG ever designed. The small tweak they made is that your character is a blank slate to start, with no base class such as mage, rogue, warrior, etc.
This is all well in good, but Amalur needs to stop with the EA/Bioware "this game is SO different, but lets show a generic video that completely contradicts that" tactics and start promoting Amalur for what it is: another RPG, just like all other RPGs, but hopefully executed better. The longer they spend introducing videos about how they are doing things differently, the longer it takes for me to figure out they are fibbing.
Video below:
Monday, November 14, 2011
Friday, November 11, 2011
NaNo WriMo Day 11: Holding
Chapter 11: Holding
Enlil sprinted through the open field as arrows skipped along the ground behind him. He was covered in a thin layer of dust, dulling the freshly oiled sheen on his leather armor. He reached the small stone wall and cleared it in a single jump. The adrenaline surged through his body and his voice came alive as he spoke to the small group gathered in the grove. “The bloody cunts. They brought the entire clan.” He leaned against a nearby fruit tree and worked on catching his breath.
It had only taken two days of searching the rugged hills to find what they had thought to be the remnants of the long hidden hill tribe known as the Black Crows. It was suspected they had been coming out of the hilltops and raiding among the foothills and plains. Sure enough, here they were invading the simple farmlands of a rightful citizen of Alb. However, remnants wasn’t a proper description. Enlil had spotted an entire tribe traveling together; women, children, and warriors. Many warriors.
Enlil’s party had worked its way back down from a pair of twin hill tops that the locals had grown fond of calling the “humps”. The farmstead had taken hold near the creek that split the hills. The Alb farmer and his woman had been hospitable the first night. The second he seemed irritated when he learned of the presence of the Black Crows.
Had it been Enlil’s decision, he would had let the farmer be and set a hard ride for the camp, but it was not Enlil’s decision to make. His feathered sergeant, Caedmon, had ordered the men to hold fast deep in the grove out of site. Enlil suspected he meant to gather more on the Crows as they passed and favored a slower journey back to the main force instead of a frenzied escape with or without the farmer in tow.
Unfortunately, it hadn’t taken long for the Black Crows to prove the plan folly. On the morning of the third day, a shout had come from the farmhouse. Caedmon had sent Enlil and another unfeathered soldier, Turin, to investigate. The two found the farmer split open from ear to ear on the back store room’s floor. Knocked over foodstuffs trailed out of the room mixed among bloody foot prints.
Turin was the first to follow the trail and catch site of the thieves cresting the far hedge row, black feathers streaming from their hair. Turin agreed to head back into the grove while Enlil surveyed the stone house for the farmer’s lady friend. The scream had definitely been that of the farmer. Either the woman was dead as well, hidden elsewhere in the house, or she was deaf.
His and Turin’s entrance into the house meant that they had cleared the main dwelling. All that remained was the stable outside the low stone wall of the orchard. Enlil closed the distance between the two buildings quick and silent enough. A peak through the closest door revealed nothing. A pig waddled in the corner while the plow horses whinnied at his sudden presence. Hens pecked the ground as they passed in and out underneath the rough wood doors.
Enlil did not care much for the mystery of the missing woman. She may have been carried off in the night or played an excellent game of hide and seek. Yet, he knew Caedmon would question him, so he figured a look into the pasture down was warranted. It was through the hedge row, so he would most likely get a glimpse of the retreating thieves.
He approached the hedge row with caution as he trotted down the path at a slight jog. The first arrow whizzed by before he could react. The second nearly caught him in the groin. By the third arrow Enlil had begun his retreat. The thieves hadn’t meant to escape at all. They were going back to advise of clearing the house. A line of Black Crow warriors popped up like rodents from a city sewer as Enlil looked over his shoulder.
The distinctive whooping cry known to the eastlanders as an order for battle among the hill tribes chased Enlil as he ran. More arrows loosed in his direction as he made the wall.
At first the thrill of the moment drove a smile across Enlil’s face, but as Caedmon appeared from the thicket of trees Enlil knew something was wrong. The Crows had already sent scouts into the grove and the blood streaked across the sleeves of Caedmon’s white sergeants doublet spoke silent confirmation of the danger they faced.
The hefty nature of the fruit trees provided a natural barrier preventing the threat of arrow fire throughout the grove. Caedmon’s band worked it’s way along the rows back to their horses. Having finished the scout in silence had given them enough of a head start to mount up and choose a route for escape.
As soon as the mounted men broke through the long gap in the stone wall the air buzzed to life. Arrow fire cascaded from all directions as the Crows revealed themselves. Horses screamed and threw riders. Enlil found himself as the lone rider as he watched as Caedmon’s horse crumpled. He spurred his mount and made for creek knowing the creekside hills were his lone chance.
Enlil had only enough time to look back once. The Crow warriors descended upon the downed men in a frenzy. The fight was over before it started with only Caedmon able to bear his sword long enough to trade blows one for one. Enlil turned back forward concentrating on his flight. He needed to get back to the Alban camp.
Cold water splashed up from the creek and the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves thundered upon the stone of the creek bed. Enlil was shocked to realize the horse was racing on without him. Pain caught up with the sensation of water grabbing at his armor. He struggled to get to his knees as dark spots began to obscure his vision. The blackness consumed him and he toppled, limp-bodied into the creek.
Enlil awoke with a grogginess reserved for the worst of nights of drinking. He shot up hoping to keep his head above water. However, Enlil realized he was back in the dark room somewhere hidden within Castle Black. Memories of his previous captivity amongst the Black Crows flooded his mind. He did not much like being a prisoner, but at least it was not a new experience.
Orten slumped in the small fishing skiff, it’s small sail fighting the edge winds of the storm. The pain ate into Orten from all directions. A sleep came over him as smoke trailed the boat. The skiff cut a course northward and entered the storm. The storm responded with a whipping of wind and the attack of rain. The waves grew and crashed into the skiff, yet it held course powered by the vary winds that worked to destroy it.
Word count: 11070
Enlil sprinted through the open field as arrows skipped along the ground behind him. He was covered in a thin layer of dust, dulling the freshly oiled sheen on his leather armor. He reached the small stone wall and cleared it in a single jump. The adrenaline surged through his body and his voice came alive as he spoke to the small group gathered in the grove. “The bloody cunts. They brought the entire clan.” He leaned against a nearby fruit tree and worked on catching his breath.
It had only taken two days of searching the rugged hills to find what they had thought to be the remnants of the long hidden hill tribe known as the Black Crows. It was suspected they had been coming out of the hilltops and raiding among the foothills and plains. Sure enough, here they were invading the simple farmlands of a rightful citizen of Alb. However, remnants wasn’t a proper description. Enlil had spotted an entire tribe traveling together; women, children, and warriors. Many warriors.
Enlil’s party had worked its way back down from a pair of twin hill tops that the locals had grown fond of calling the “humps”. The farmstead had taken hold near the creek that split the hills. The Alb farmer and his woman had been hospitable the first night. The second he seemed irritated when he learned of the presence of the Black Crows.
Had it been Enlil’s decision, he would had let the farmer be and set a hard ride for the camp, but it was not Enlil’s decision to make. His feathered sergeant, Caedmon, had ordered the men to hold fast deep in the grove out of site. Enlil suspected he meant to gather more on the Crows as they passed and favored a slower journey back to the main force instead of a frenzied escape with or without the farmer in tow.
Unfortunately, it hadn’t taken long for the Black Crows to prove the plan folly. On the morning of the third day, a shout had come from the farmhouse. Caedmon had sent Enlil and another unfeathered soldier, Turin, to investigate. The two found the farmer split open from ear to ear on the back store room’s floor. Knocked over foodstuffs trailed out of the room mixed among bloody foot prints.
Turin was the first to follow the trail and catch site of the thieves cresting the far hedge row, black feathers streaming from their hair. Turin agreed to head back into the grove while Enlil surveyed the stone house for the farmer’s lady friend. The scream had definitely been that of the farmer. Either the woman was dead as well, hidden elsewhere in the house, or she was deaf.
His and Turin’s entrance into the house meant that they had cleared the main dwelling. All that remained was the stable outside the low stone wall of the orchard. Enlil closed the distance between the two buildings quick and silent enough. A peak through the closest door revealed nothing. A pig waddled in the corner while the plow horses whinnied at his sudden presence. Hens pecked the ground as they passed in and out underneath the rough wood doors.
Enlil did not care much for the mystery of the missing woman. She may have been carried off in the night or played an excellent game of hide and seek. Yet, he knew Caedmon would question him, so he figured a look into the pasture down was warranted. It was through the hedge row, so he would most likely get a glimpse of the retreating thieves.
He approached the hedge row with caution as he trotted down the path at a slight jog. The first arrow whizzed by before he could react. The second nearly caught him in the groin. By the third arrow Enlil had begun his retreat. The thieves hadn’t meant to escape at all. They were going back to advise of clearing the house. A line of Black Crow warriors popped up like rodents from a city sewer as Enlil looked over his shoulder.
The distinctive whooping cry known to the eastlanders as an order for battle among the hill tribes chased Enlil as he ran. More arrows loosed in his direction as he made the wall.
At first the thrill of the moment drove a smile across Enlil’s face, but as Caedmon appeared from the thicket of trees Enlil knew something was wrong. The Crows had already sent scouts into the grove and the blood streaked across the sleeves of Caedmon’s white sergeants doublet spoke silent confirmation of the danger they faced.
The hefty nature of the fruit trees provided a natural barrier preventing the threat of arrow fire throughout the grove. Caedmon’s band worked it’s way along the rows back to their horses. Having finished the scout in silence had given them enough of a head start to mount up and choose a route for escape.
As soon as the mounted men broke through the long gap in the stone wall the air buzzed to life. Arrow fire cascaded from all directions as the Crows revealed themselves. Horses screamed and threw riders. Enlil found himself as the lone rider as he watched as Caedmon’s horse crumpled. He spurred his mount and made for creek knowing the creekside hills were his lone chance.
Enlil had only enough time to look back once. The Crow warriors descended upon the downed men in a frenzy. The fight was over before it started with only Caedmon able to bear his sword long enough to trade blows one for one. Enlil turned back forward concentrating on his flight. He needed to get back to the Alban camp.
Cold water splashed up from the creek and the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves thundered upon the stone of the creek bed. Enlil was shocked to realize the horse was racing on without him. Pain caught up with the sensation of water grabbing at his armor. He struggled to get to his knees as dark spots began to obscure his vision. The blackness consumed him and he toppled, limp-bodied into the creek.
Enlil awoke with a grogginess reserved for the worst of nights of drinking. He shot up hoping to keep his head above water. However, Enlil realized he was back in the dark room somewhere hidden within Castle Black. Memories of his previous captivity amongst the Black Crows flooded his mind. He did not much like being a prisoner, but at least it was not a new experience.
***
Orten slumped in the small fishing skiff, it’s small sail fighting the edge winds of the storm. The pain ate into Orten from all directions. A sleep came over him as smoke trailed the boat. The skiff cut a course northward and entered the storm. The storm responded with a whipping of wind and the attack of rain. The waves grew and crashed into the skiff, yet it held course powered by the vary winds that worked to destroy it.
Word count: 11070
Thursday, November 10, 2011
NaNo WriMo Day 10: Brother
Chapter 10: Brother
“I am not his brother.” Gurley’s tortured speech bounded around the dank cellar walls. “He would not want you calling me that.” Orten did not treat him like a brother. There was no point in admitting brotherhood.
“You are of the same mother are you not?” The obscured light and shadows cast by the stone restraints prevented Gurley from identifying his questioner.
“You do not understand.” Gurely protested. The question had seemed odd.
“Oh I think I do.” The man slipped his gauntlet off. The strike was harder than the previous, but at this point Gurley did not notice. He lay limp, strung like a puppet from the stone pillars below the grate in the ceiling. He could hear the click of boots on the floor above.
His captor motioned in the shadows. “Splay him open until he talks.” A crowd of hooded figures crowded into the cellar. “Slowly.” As the speaker passed out the door way torchlight lit his face just enough for Gurley to make out a smirk on the man’s face.
You fool. You will get nothing. Gurley prepared himself as the cold smoothness of a blade pressed against his inner thigh.
Orten hated the feeling. He had hated it as much that day outside the jailers yard so many years ago as he did now. Pain; it was not something he was accustomed to. He grasped his leg as the sensation cut into him. He cursed his mortal form taking no solace in it’s nearby end. It only troubled him slightly as he thought it over. His path was set.
“Mister you aww right?” the little boy asked snapping Orten back to the fact he was standing on the beach on the outskirts of a small fishing hovel. Smoke clouded around him and flames spurted from every crevice of his body. His clothing no longer disguised the effects of being so far away from the castle.
Not long at all now. “A boat.” Orten coughed. He watched as the little boy pointed towards a row of skiffs. Smoke trailed as he cut his way across the beach. Looking up the coastline, he hurried himself as the outer edge of the storm blackened.
Enlil could hear the screaming from down the hall. He wondered where Govad was. Was he alive? Were these his screams that tormented this night? He did not have time to linger on the question as the pounding headache wracked him again. Wincing in pain he slumped in the chair before bunching into a ball.
“We can do this all night Captain.” The Thunderer sat behind a simple wooden desk adorned at the corners with raised pillars. The chair back reached just enough with matching pillars to exceed the height of the man sitting there. He spoke again. “It is very simple. What did the Wind Lords charge of you at this camp.”
“Again, nothing.” Enlil did not lie. “The camp was fake. A show. That is how it was when I arrived.” Enlil found it easier to speak to the facts without the looming threat of violence standing next to him. It was apparent the Thunderer had a different interrogative style and motive than that of Clydas. Enlil could not help but feel like he was suddenly needed, as if some key was locked away in his knowledge. The only problem was he didn’t know what it was and therefore could not leverage it.
A meal was brought in as Enlil covered the details of his siege and his attempt to cut off the cliff-side supply line. This seemed to intrigue the Thunderer momentarily as he inquired about the details of what was pulled over the castle walls. As far as Enlil’s recollection, it had always looked mundane, food crates and barrels of drink.
Enlil continued into the downfall of the camp after the bloody siege. He hadn’t really thought about the aftermath much. The camp had fallen into chaos quickly. Quicker than even he had imagined. He began to piece together a picture bigger than what he had paid attention to at the time. The more he spoke to the Thunderer, the more he found the signs of something greater at work.
First there had been the delayed influx of new recruits, shortly followed by the first late gold shipment. Then there were the paymaster visits and wage cuts. Then the supply shipments disappearing without word, communication break downs to the southern most Albian strongholds. What he had first assumed was punishment for his poor judgement started to feel suspicious. It was clear from the force that the Thunderer brought upon Castle Black that it was important. Yet, not important enough for a force from the midlands to contain until now. Enlil had assumed this was due to the proximity. Alb was directly north of the land bridge that Castle Black sat upon. It only made sense for the Wind Lords to pledge troops to the cause.
More details sprang to mind as Enlil spoke with the Thunderer. The conversation turned towards the arrival of the Fravashi and his unfortunate treatment at their hands. The Thunderer had seemed amused at the situation though, which disheartened Enlil slightly. Chewing ate a piece of boned meat, Enlil spoke about the storm.
“I was knocked out as it passed, but the bloody thing was beyond spectacular when it first anchored. It felt like we were surrounded by solid walls of gray. No one dared pass through the storm initially. It took a day or so for the men to realize the Fravashi were gone and for the storm to break enough for travel.” Enlil quite enjoyed the fruits that abounded a bowl that had been set before him. He sipped again at the reddish liquid in the goblet he had been given.
“That is good for now captain. I am going to take my leave for the night.” The departure of the Thunderer had almost saddened him. Enlil had started to enjoy the talk, but that enjoyment was cut short as the headache returned. He faded back into his chair as the door clanked shut. The solid click of the lock echoed through the room as darkness crowded in. At least Enlil wasn’t hungry. The screams continued.
“I am not his brother.” Gurley’s tortured speech bounded around the dank cellar walls. “He would not want you calling me that.” Orten did not treat him like a brother. There was no point in admitting brotherhood.
“You are of the same mother are you not?” The obscured light and shadows cast by the stone restraints prevented Gurley from identifying his questioner.
“You do not understand.” Gurely protested. The question had seemed odd.
“Oh I think I do.” The man slipped his gauntlet off. The strike was harder than the previous, but at this point Gurley did not notice. He lay limp, strung like a puppet from the stone pillars below the grate in the ceiling. He could hear the click of boots on the floor above.
His captor motioned in the shadows. “Splay him open until he talks.” A crowd of hooded figures crowded into the cellar. “Slowly.” As the speaker passed out the door way torchlight lit his face just enough for Gurley to make out a smirk on the man’s face.
You fool. You will get nothing. Gurley prepared himself as the cold smoothness of a blade pressed against his inner thigh.
***
Orten hated the feeling. He had hated it as much that day outside the jailers yard so many years ago as he did now. Pain; it was not something he was accustomed to. He grasped his leg as the sensation cut into him. He cursed his mortal form taking no solace in it’s nearby end. It only troubled him slightly as he thought it over. His path was set.
“Mister you aww right?” the little boy asked snapping Orten back to the fact he was standing on the beach on the outskirts of a small fishing hovel. Smoke clouded around him and flames spurted from every crevice of his body. His clothing no longer disguised the effects of being so far away from the castle.
Not long at all now. “A boat.” Orten coughed. He watched as the little boy pointed towards a row of skiffs. Smoke trailed as he cut his way across the beach. Looking up the coastline, he hurried himself as the outer edge of the storm blackened.
***
Enlil could hear the screaming from down the hall. He wondered where Govad was. Was he alive? Were these his screams that tormented this night? He did not have time to linger on the question as the pounding headache wracked him again. Wincing in pain he slumped in the chair before bunching into a ball.
“We can do this all night Captain.” The Thunderer sat behind a simple wooden desk adorned at the corners with raised pillars. The chair back reached just enough with matching pillars to exceed the height of the man sitting there. He spoke again. “It is very simple. What did the Wind Lords charge of you at this camp.”
“Again, nothing.” Enlil did not lie. “The camp was fake. A show. That is how it was when I arrived.” Enlil found it easier to speak to the facts without the looming threat of violence standing next to him. It was apparent the Thunderer had a different interrogative style and motive than that of Clydas. Enlil could not help but feel like he was suddenly needed, as if some key was locked away in his knowledge. The only problem was he didn’t know what it was and therefore could not leverage it.
A meal was brought in as Enlil covered the details of his siege and his attempt to cut off the cliff-side supply line. This seemed to intrigue the Thunderer momentarily as he inquired about the details of what was pulled over the castle walls. As far as Enlil’s recollection, it had always looked mundane, food crates and barrels of drink.
Enlil continued into the downfall of the camp after the bloody siege. He hadn’t really thought about the aftermath much. The camp had fallen into chaos quickly. Quicker than even he had imagined. He began to piece together a picture bigger than what he had paid attention to at the time. The more he spoke to the Thunderer, the more he found the signs of something greater at work.
First there had been the delayed influx of new recruits, shortly followed by the first late gold shipment. Then there were the paymaster visits and wage cuts. Then the supply shipments disappearing without word, communication break downs to the southern most Albian strongholds. What he had first assumed was punishment for his poor judgement started to feel suspicious. It was clear from the force that the Thunderer brought upon Castle Black that it was important. Yet, not important enough for a force from the midlands to contain until now. Enlil had assumed this was due to the proximity. Alb was directly north of the land bridge that Castle Black sat upon. It only made sense for the Wind Lords to pledge troops to the cause.
More details sprang to mind as Enlil spoke with the Thunderer. The conversation turned towards the arrival of the Fravashi and his unfortunate treatment at their hands. The Thunderer had seemed amused at the situation though, which disheartened Enlil slightly. Chewing ate a piece of boned meat, Enlil spoke about the storm.
“I was knocked out as it passed, but the bloody thing was beyond spectacular when it first anchored. It felt like we were surrounded by solid walls of gray. No one dared pass through the storm initially. It took a day or so for the men to realize the Fravashi were gone and for the storm to break enough for travel.” Enlil quite enjoyed the fruits that abounded a bowl that had been set before him. He sipped again at the reddish liquid in the goblet he had been given.
“That is good for now captain. I am going to take my leave for the night.” The departure of the Thunderer had almost saddened him. Enlil had started to enjoy the talk, but that enjoyment was cut short as the headache returned. He faded back into his chair as the door clanked shut. The solid click of the lock echoed through the room as darkness crowded in. At least Enlil wasn’t hungry. The screams continued.
Word count: 9897
Wednesday, November 09, 2011
NaNo WriMo Day 9: Back to Castle Black
Chapter 9: Back to Castle Black
Gurley was surprised when Jacco cut his restraints. He would have stood if his legs would cooperate, but pain still burned deep within his crippled leg which was now probably broken. Yet, the feeling of a miniscule freedom of movement washed over him like the cool water of a mountain spring. His momentary rejuvenation was interrupted by the sudden cracking sound of Jacco’s whip. In the broken silence, a stinging sensation across Gurley’s back.
“Get tup.” Jacco’s splintered speech rubbed Gurley’s anger.
“My leg.” Gurley tried not to plead. “My leg you slant-eyed fucker.”
“You midlanders, always wit ta curses.” Jacco strutted around Gurley as if he was a prized pig, prodding and examining him. The look on Jacco’s face seemed to confirm Gurley’s complaint. The word midlander stuck in Gurley’s mind. He was tempted to reveal the fact that he was not from the midlands, or the east, or anywhere Jacco would know of, but the moment passed while Gurley reflected on the naivety of Jacco. Why or how Orten withstood such stupidity was beyond Gurley.
“Tis is tow tis gonna work.” Jacco went on to explain how Gurley was to act the part of a runaway slave that Jacco had been sent to retrieve. As those within Castle Black probably did not know of Orten and the boys departure nothing would seem suspicious. After all, Jacco had made a habit of coming and going unseen from the castle for years. It would not be the first slave he had returned with. Maybe the first male slave, but that was not of concern at the moment. What worried Gurley was why Jacco wished to return to the castle. Worse, why did he need him when he did return.
Enlil did not know quite what was transpiring. The days and nights had spiraled about him in a patchwork of flashing colors and a web blurred talk. He could sense things taking place but his mind lacked control of his physical self. It was not long before he felt his mental state slipping into the void as well.
So when he opened his eyes and felt the cool roughness of wet beach sand clinging to his cheeks he did not question it. He felt his fingers first, then his toes. The directness of the midday sun forced him to squint. The beach stretched about him in all directions. He could tell immediately that he was a good distance from the camp as the cliff which Castle Black sat upon loomed over him like an angry god looking upon a damned sinner. The sheer cliff face that had so tormented him stood clean of it’s normal ropes and pulleys. He took mental victory of this fact.
However, when an itch came across his nose he realized he couldn’t raise his hand. Terror struck him as he realized he had been buried up to his neck in the beach sand. The tide was out, but Enlil knew that was the point. A slow and painful death at the hands of tide awaited him. Enlil broke into a furious struggle which turned on him as he became further entrenched in the sucking mud.
A cacophony of metal and men brought his attention upwards. He knew these sounds well from his many days as a soldier. A siege had set upon the castle above him. Ladders and orderly lines of men poured over the castle walls. A crumbled tower could be seen collapsing in on itself.
What Enlil saw next stunned him. Thunder slammed through the area as bolts of lightning streaked into the castle. Generous plumes and wisps of smoke rose from the inner walls, a new one appearing with every bolt. The Thunderer. Stories and children’s tales ran through his mind. Years of service, dozens of bloody battles, and his time at the Academia. Nothing compared to seeing the truth. Had these great powers been kept secret from the nation of Alb? What else had this midlands King held from the eastlanders?
Time passed slowly as a she-crab skittered across the sand before being consumed by the hungry waves. Enlil had given up following the battle above as the sounds of men dieing trailed off and the sky grew silent. Enlil surmised that the castle was taken. Not even the finest cavalry in the land would have survived the force the Thunderer rained from the heavens.
The longer Enlil watched, the slower the waves seemed to encroach. Death sat an eternity away choosing to punish him slowly. Enlil slowed his breathing after realizing the harder he breathed the more the sand pinched. Hope was fading, but his instincts failed to allow his body to quit.
Enlil was on the verge of fading when the shadowy figures appeared at the range of his blurry vision. It had seemed hours had passed since the crab, but the distance of the waves told him it had not been long.
“Dig him up.” The smooth voice cut through Enlil’s labored breathing. It wasn’t long before Enlil could feel his body being escorted across the beach. Wet sand faded into dry sand. The late afternoon sun became hidden beneath a tent’s roof. Slight comfort was found as he was propped into a padded chair, yet his vision had not fully returned.
“First the Fravashi and now that bastard Orten.” Enlil could just make out the one speaking. Golden brown hair stuck at ear level in knots of sweat. “We have much more to discuss than I had thought Captain. Our little ruse here seems to have escaped your minuscule understanding. Years of planning wasted.” The man paused. “Do you know who I am?” Another pause. “What I am?”
“The Thunderer” It came out more of a question than an answer.
“Yes, Thunderer. This is what you eastlanders call me in your stories. Stories no doubt until today you knew as nothing but fiction. A man who calls upon the power of the gods to strike furious destruction from the heavens.” The words flowed into Enlil. “I am no story Captain. I am the justice of the gods manifested in man.”
“My scouts saw no one leave the castle and only saw two men enter. From the accounts of your paid man and smith, and those paltry fellows back in town who likened you more to a fart in the wind than a feathered Captain of the winded ranks, no one has left Castle Black in years.” The Thunderer continued. “I find it hard to believe a man as fat as Orten Fareen escaped unnoticed.”
“Not all is lost. We have taken captives, two of interest above the others. One of those being his brother. When we have the garrison placed in the castle proper, you and I will be having a very long talk about things. I suggest if you wish a better fate than the rest of your nation you start remembering some things.”
Gurley was surprised when Jacco cut his restraints. He would have stood if his legs would cooperate, but pain still burned deep within his crippled leg which was now probably broken. Yet, the feeling of a miniscule freedom of movement washed over him like the cool water of a mountain spring. His momentary rejuvenation was interrupted by the sudden cracking sound of Jacco’s whip. In the broken silence, a stinging sensation across Gurley’s back.
“Get tup.” Jacco’s splintered speech rubbed Gurley’s anger.
“My leg.” Gurley tried not to plead. “My leg you slant-eyed fucker.”
“You midlanders, always wit ta curses.” Jacco strutted around Gurley as if he was a prized pig, prodding and examining him. The look on Jacco’s face seemed to confirm Gurley’s complaint. The word midlander stuck in Gurley’s mind. He was tempted to reveal the fact that he was not from the midlands, or the east, or anywhere Jacco would know of, but the moment passed while Gurley reflected on the naivety of Jacco. Why or how Orten withstood such stupidity was beyond Gurley.
“Tis is tow tis gonna work.” Jacco went on to explain how Gurley was to act the part of a runaway slave that Jacco had been sent to retrieve. As those within Castle Black probably did not know of Orten and the boys departure nothing would seem suspicious. After all, Jacco had made a habit of coming and going unseen from the castle for years. It would not be the first slave he had returned with. Maybe the first male slave, but that was not of concern at the moment. What worried Gurley was why Jacco wished to return to the castle. Worse, why did he need him when he did return.
***
Enlil did not know quite what was transpiring. The days and nights had spiraled about him in a patchwork of flashing colors and a web blurred talk. He could sense things taking place but his mind lacked control of his physical self. It was not long before he felt his mental state slipping into the void as well.
So when he opened his eyes and felt the cool roughness of wet beach sand clinging to his cheeks he did not question it. He felt his fingers first, then his toes. The directness of the midday sun forced him to squint. The beach stretched about him in all directions. He could tell immediately that he was a good distance from the camp as the cliff which Castle Black sat upon loomed over him like an angry god looking upon a damned sinner. The sheer cliff face that had so tormented him stood clean of it’s normal ropes and pulleys. He took mental victory of this fact.
However, when an itch came across his nose he realized he couldn’t raise his hand. Terror struck him as he realized he had been buried up to his neck in the beach sand. The tide was out, but Enlil knew that was the point. A slow and painful death at the hands of tide awaited him. Enlil broke into a furious struggle which turned on him as he became further entrenched in the sucking mud.
A cacophony of metal and men brought his attention upwards. He knew these sounds well from his many days as a soldier. A siege had set upon the castle above him. Ladders and orderly lines of men poured over the castle walls. A crumbled tower could be seen collapsing in on itself.
What Enlil saw next stunned him. Thunder slammed through the area as bolts of lightning streaked into the castle. Generous plumes and wisps of smoke rose from the inner walls, a new one appearing with every bolt. The Thunderer. Stories and children’s tales ran through his mind. Years of service, dozens of bloody battles, and his time at the Academia. Nothing compared to seeing the truth. Had these great powers been kept secret from the nation of Alb? What else had this midlands King held from the eastlanders?
Time passed slowly as a she-crab skittered across the sand before being consumed by the hungry waves. Enlil had given up following the battle above as the sounds of men dieing trailed off and the sky grew silent. Enlil surmised that the castle was taken. Not even the finest cavalry in the land would have survived the force the Thunderer rained from the heavens.
The longer Enlil watched, the slower the waves seemed to encroach. Death sat an eternity away choosing to punish him slowly. Enlil slowed his breathing after realizing the harder he breathed the more the sand pinched. Hope was fading, but his instincts failed to allow his body to quit.
Enlil was on the verge of fading when the shadowy figures appeared at the range of his blurry vision. It had seemed hours had passed since the crab, but the distance of the waves told him it had not been long.
“Dig him up.” The smooth voice cut through Enlil’s labored breathing. It wasn’t long before Enlil could feel his body being escorted across the beach. Wet sand faded into dry sand. The late afternoon sun became hidden beneath a tent’s roof. Slight comfort was found as he was propped into a padded chair, yet his vision had not fully returned.
“First the Fravashi and now that bastard Orten.” Enlil could just make out the one speaking. Golden brown hair stuck at ear level in knots of sweat. “We have much more to discuss than I had thought Captain. Our little ruse here seems to have escaped your minuscule understanding. Years of planning wasted.” The man paused. “Do you know who I am?” Another pause. “What I am?”
“The Thunderer” It came out more of a question than an answer.
“Yes, Thunderer. This is what you eastlanders call me in your stories. Stories no doubt until today you knew as nothing but fiction. A man who calls upon the power of the gods to strike furious destruction from the heavens.” The words flowed into Enlil. “I am no story Captain. I am the justice of the gods manifested in man.”
“My scouts saw no one leave the castle and only saw two men enter. From the accounts of your paid man and smith, and those paltry fellows back in town who likened you more to a fart in the wind than a feathered Captain of the winded ranks, no one has left Castle Black in years.” The Thunderer continued. “I find it hard to believe a man as fat as Orten Fareen escaped unnoticed.”
“Not all is lost. We have taken captives, two of interest above the others. One of those being his brother. When we have the garrison placed in the castle proper, you and I will be having a very long talk about things. I suggest if you wish a better fate than the rest of your nation you start remembering some things.”
Word count: 8848
Tuesday, November 08, 2011
NaNo WriMo Day 8: The Sentinels
Chapter 7: The Sentinels
Orten had found the Sentinels just outside the reach of the storm’s edge. The smooth marble pillars hovered above the tree tops and stood silent, uncaring of his approach. Each was evenly spaced from the next one in a line as far as the eye could see, a visible barrier to the lands of Reichland to the south. He knew he was at the right location when he saw the jagged stones that criss-crossed the top of the hill. A single Sentinel pillar popped over the tree tops and overshadowed the area. The sudden realization that it had been almost twenty years since his last visit hit Orten with a saddening relief.
The ride through the storm had worn on Orten and as he dismounted the signs of exhaustion draped him like a cloak. A crackling sounded as he stepped through the dry leaves and tied his massive mount to a nearby tree. The beast stood eerily silent. He propped himself against a nearby stone and eased himself down. Streams of water cascaded off his outer clothing as he removed it. The hiss of steam could be heard escaping into the air as his rear settled neatly into a newly created puddle that had taken resident in a crevice between two stones. Orten knew the farther he went the worse it would get. The rising smell of smoke closed in on him. He drifted off to sleep as he waited for the boys to come through the storm and meet him.
It wasn’t often the hunter moved north beyond the protection of the Sentinels unless something interesting was to be found. The presence of the six women on the other side of the border had definitely scratched at his curiosity. He followed them slowly as he worked his way through the underbrush. He watched as their dresses flapped in the wind and they pointed this way and that. They seemed visibly uncomfortable standing in the open, yet none of them spoke or voiced a complaint. No horses or other mounts followed them. The women were traveling by foot.
At first he had assumed the group was lost, traveling on the outskirts of the storm to the north in the vain hope of staying dry. It wasn’t obvious at first, but the more he observed of the women the more he realized they were actively searching for something. While the women were interesting, the hunter figured it was best that he did not become that which they searched for. Once they had gone from the immediate area, the hunter worked his way back through the Sentinels to the south.
However, out of the corner of his eye, his curiosity was peaked again. A plume of smoke rose from the top of a nearby hill at the edge of the forest with a peculiar stone outcropping. Again, it was on the other side of the Sentinels. The hunter worked his way to the trees and Sentinel overlooking the area. The source of the smoke stopped him from crossing the Sentinel line. The rancid smell of burning flesh attacked him as he surveyed the scene.
At first it was a single burnt skeletal carcass propped up like a child’s doll against the rocks. More remains could be seen scattered throughout the stones. The hunter couldn’t put a solid count on it, but several doomed souls had met their demise here. A darkened circle on the ground crept outwards as more of the forest floor caught and the fire spread. A wide-shouldered horse stood tied to the tree nearest the stones, seemingly unphased by the fire and corpses.
The hunter turned and broke into a sprint. He headed south, not looking back. Sentinels save me he prayed silently as his lungs sought to keep up with his rapid pace.
Orten caught a second wind as he passed another marble pillar. A mental click turned over in his head noting the number of Sentinels he had passed. He knew the momentary burst of energy that the boys had provided him would only allow him to maintain his guise for a short period and the blasted storm whores had cut him off from his horse. Which may have been for the better as on horseback his guise would not have worked at all. His speed afoot sufficed to see him safely away.
Orten knew he couldn’t head back into the storm, their storm. Heading south was not a viable path either. First, there were the Sentinels to cross and secondly there were the Reichland forces. Not that the Reichs were particularly of concern, but he did not need any delays. And it did not matter as the presence of the Sentinels deterred any further movement south. He couldn’t be sure why that was the case; passing the Sentinels may be inconsequential or it may be disastrous. Orten was not a gambler at this stage and lessons taught long ago echoed in his mind. Mother had always warned of the Sentinels. Your kind is not meant in the south she was fond of telling him.
So Orten worked eastward towards the sea. The storm visibly curved back north towards Castle Black and it was very likely a boat could be found amongst the numerous fishing villages along the coast. He looked down at his hands and for the first time realized that years of hiding his true self were near their end. Streaks of crackling fire began to burst from the pores of his skin with tiny wisps of smoke disappearing into the air around him. Not long at all he thought to himself.
Orten had found the Sentinels just outside the reach of the storm’s edge. The smooth marble pillars hovered above the tree tops and stood silent, uncaring of his approach. Each was evenly spaced from the next one in a line as far as the eye could see, a visible barrier to the lands of Reichland to the south. He knew he was at the right location when he saw the jagged stones that criss-crossed the top of the hill. A single Sentinel pillar popped over the tree tops and overshadowed the area. The sudden realization that it had been almost twenty years since his last visit hit Orten with a saddening relief.
The ride through the storm had worn on Orten and as he dismounted the signs of exhaustion draped him like a cloak. A crackling sounded as he stepped through the dry leaves and tied his massive mount to a nearby tree. The beast stood eerily silent. He propped himself against a nearby stone and eased himself down. Streams of water cascaded off his outer clothing as he removed it. The hiss of steam could be heard escaping into the air as his rear settled neatly into a newly created puddle that had taken resident in a crevice between two stones. Orten knew the farther he went the worse it would get. The rising smell of smoke closed in on him. He drifted off to sleep as he waited for the boys to come through the storm and meet him.
***
It wasn’t often the hunter moved north beyond the protection of the Sentinels unless something interesting was to be found. The presence of the six women on the other side of the border had definitely scratched at his curiosity. He followed them slowly as he worked his way through the underbrush. He watched as their dresses flapped in the wind and they pointed this way and that. They seemed visibly uncomfortable standing in the open, yet none of them spoke or voiced a complaint. No horses or other mounts followed them. The women were traveling by foot.
At first he had assumed the group was lost, traveling on the outskirts of the storm to the north in the vain hope of staying dry. It wasn’t obvious at first, but the more he observed of the women the more he realized they were actively searching for something. While the women were interesting, the hunter figured it was best that he did not become that which they searched for. Once they had gone from the immediate area, the hunter worked his way back through the Sentinels to the south.
However, out of the corner of his eye, his curiosity was peaked again. A plume of smoke rose from the top of a nearby hill at the edge of the forest with a peculiar stone outcropping. Again, it was on the other side of the Sentinels. The hunter worked his way to the trees and Sentinel overlooking the area. The source of the smoke stopped him from crossing the Sentinel line. The rancid smell of burning flesh attacked him as he surveyed the scene.
At first it was a single burnt skeletal carcass propped up like a child’s doll against the rocks. More remains could be seen scattered throughout the stones. The hunter couldn’t put a solid count on it, but several doomed souls had met their demise here. A darkened circle on the ground crept outwards as more of the forest floor caught and the fire spread. A wide-shouldered horse stood tied to the tree nearest the stones, seemingly unphased by the fire and corpses.
The hunter turned and broke into a sprint. He headed south, not looking back. Sentinels save me he prayed silently as his lungs sought to keep up with his rapid pace.
***
Orten caught a second wind as he passed another marble pillar. A mental click turned over in his head noting the number of Sentinels he had passed. He knew the momentary burst of energy that the boys had provided him would only allow him to maintain his guise for a short period and the blasted storm whores had cut him off from his horse. Which may have been for the better as on horseback his guise would not have worked at all. His speed afoot sufficed to see him safely away.
Orten knew he couldn’t head back into the storm, their storm. Heading south was not a viable path either. First, there were the Sentinels to cross and secondly there were the Reichland forces. Not that the Reichs were particularly of concern, but he did not need any delays. And it did not matter as the presence of the Sentinels deterred any further movement south. He couldn’t be sure why that was the case; passing the Sentinels may be inconsequential or it may be disastrous. Orten was not a gambler at this stage and lessons taught long ago echoed in his mind. Mother had always warned of the Sentinels. Your kind is not meant in the south she was fond of telling him.
So Orten worked eastward towards the sea. The storm visibly curved back north towards Castle Black and it was very likely a boat could be found amongst the numerous fishing villages along the coast. He looked down at his hands and for the first time realized that years of hiding his true self were near their end. Streaks of crackling fire began to burst from the pores of his skin with tiny wisps of smoke disappearing into the air around him. Not long at all he thought to himself.
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