Post by Daresh on Nov 8, 2004 15:44:20 GMT -5
THE BRIGHT spring sunshine poured over the ramparts and lit upon a sward just inward from the wall. A group of men in chain armor, lead by another in full plate and a flowing purple cloak, were conducting archery practice. A group of young boys were standing to the side, thrilled to watch warriors ply their trade. "Away!" cried the leader, and ten longbows twanged as one and the targets downrange bristled with broadheaded arrows. The young boys followed almost as fast, this being the fifth round of shot. Young hands were pulling them out almost as soon as the arrows hit the targets; the boy who returned the most would earn a copper penny.
"Wow! This one went nearly through!" exclaimed a tow-headed boy of around 10 with delight. "Look, Trens! The arrowhead is nearly poking through the back! I'm going to shoot like that when I grow up." His companion, a younger boy with tousled brown hair and dirty fingernails, turned a grinning face to his friend. "C'mon, Brandon! You know there's only a
few openings in the Arabel Guard every year. I doubt they'll have to stoop so low as to let you in!" "Oh yeah?" exclaimed Brandon. "You can follow your father into the Tormite priesthood, Trens, but I'll get in the Arabel Guard, and I'll be the best archer the city has ever seen!".
THE CITY baked under the summer heat as cicadia droned lazily in the trees. Two teenage boys paused in drawing water from the neighborhood well to watch a squad of men march past in the blazing sun, heading to the West gate. "For Cormyr, Obarskyr, and the Purple Dragon!" shouted the boys. Suddenly, they realized that two of the soldiers in the command were smaller than the others, and the way they moved when they walked...awkwardly, they stared at the first woman soldiers in the Arabel guard they had ever seen.
"Wow, would you look at that!" whispered Brandon to his companion. "I can't wait another year to get in the Guard! Master Garron says I'm a good enough shot now!" His friend was frantically trying to look everywhere *but* at the two woman in their tight leathers. He kept frantically trying to remember what Master Alorren had said about temptations of the flesh, and how they could guide a man away from true devotion to Torm. Trens was sure that some clerics of Torm were married, so it must work out somehow... Frowning, he swung his head back towards the retreating column. Tight leathers? Usually the Guard wore chain....but this group was in leather armor, with light spears and shortswords instead of the pikes and longswords usually favored. And woman? It was not exactly forbidden for women to join the Guard, but it was of those things that woman Just Didn't Do. There had been talk of
fighting off in the south, with what was said to be an incursion of Zhentarim raiders along the coast of the Wyvernwater...but this group was headed to the High Horn gate, and the road to the Stormhorns. If the humanoid tribes up in those inhospitable mountains were becoming active, it would be at the most innorportune time for Cormyr. Or the most opportune time, if you were a Zhentarim agent charged with making sure the Purple Dragons were busy elsewhere....
THE WAGONS rolled continuously into the city, passing under the elm trees that lined the King's Way, flaming in their bold autumn colors. A teenage boy, having finished his last assigned errand, ran up to a dust-covered official standing at the intersection holding a chalkboard. "Brandon!" the official shouted over the din. "Take this lot to the Temple of Illmater! Step lively now, more are inbound!". Too out of breath to do more than nod, the tow-headed boy jumped ahead, catching the attention of the lead driver. "This way!". The wagon obediantly turned down Elder Street, causing a column of grim-faced middle-aged men in mismatched armor to step hastily aside. They had an unobstructed view into the bed as the
wagon swept past. A half-dozen men and one woman lay packed in the bottom; dirty cloths hastily wrapped around burned and bloody wounds dripping with red, and smashed limbs hastily secured with broken weapons and fresh-cut branches. One of the men marching off to the battlefield swallowed his bile long enough to lean into the wagon and whisper to one of the conscious veterens. "What's happening? How is it on the field?" The man focuses his remaining eye on the questioner. "Don't march far...there is no more Army. Lord Elegen has fallen....some magic that caused black tentacles to swarm up around him, and smashed him down. We couldn't recover his body, so they'll be no Raising for him this time. They'll be here soon." He coughed, then managed to add before falling back weakly "Red wizards of Thay were seen with them." The man stepped back into his group, swallowed, resolutely faced forward, and headed out into the setting sun.
Brandon led his charges down the street, through one of the market squares now jammed with refugees from the estates and farms to the north, and onto the Temple Way. The first temple was dedicated to Chauntea; the gentle earth mother's gardens were now covered with the sick and exhausted escappees from the Zhentarim devestation to the south. The Council of Clerics had determined She was better at caring for the sick, and her clerics might be overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of battle wounded. For them, the temples and halls of the more marital minded gods waited; Tyr, Illmater, Helm, and Torm. As they passed the new-built Temple of Torm, Brandon spotted a familiar figure moving among the wounded waiting to be seen by the clerics. "Trens! Minister Agnon will want a report...when can Torm take another group?" "I'll check with Master Alorren and get word to Agnon, Brandon. The priests are nearly exhausted." His voice dropped "They've taken to storing the dead in the catacombs, hoping the cool air will retard decay long enough for them to be Raised. But they're aren't
enough priests who can handle that kind of divine power to get to them in time..." Brandon looked his younger friend in the eye. "Don't worry. The King is surely sending relief from Suzail and Marsember. And...the army will be returning soon. They have more clerics with them, to help here." Trens looked up at his words. The army returning meant only one thing; the
battle was lost, and Arabel would soon be under siege.
WINTER DARNKESS spread east to west across the city as the sun set behind purple colored clouds. A cold wind had sprung up as evening fell, but had died down with the dark. A line of men huddled behind the crenellations that ran along the top of the wall. Horns, drums, trumpets, screams, and the sound of blades beating on shields washed over them from the armies that waited just beyond shot outside the walls. Young boys and a few girls, holding baskets of arrows and bolts, waited behind the men, with more crouched in shelter behind the wall. One of the older boys, holding a longbow and quiver, jumped slightly as a smaller form dashed along the wall and knelt next to him with a small sloshing sound. Waterproofed skiens were
slung all over his form. "Brandon! Here....milk. Have one...I'm to give one to everyone along the line." "Milk, Trens? Are you out of your mind? What good is that! Now, beer, on the other hand..." "Brandon! You might have talked your way into helping defend the wall, but you've got another year before you can drink like the soldiers can! Besides.." Trens managed
to flash a grin in the dark "This is milk from cows blessed and raised by clerics of Chauntea, the Earth Mother. It has healing properties. Not strong, like the potions the acoloytes make for adventureres, but it's a help.". Brandon knew that actual healing potions were is desperate short supply, and were being held back for use in dire need only. "Thank you, Trens. I'm sure my arm will be tired soon enough from putting arrows into these beasts!".
As Trens started to move away, Brandon heard the sound from over the wall changed in pitch, became beserk, and even louder, something he had not thought possible. A sergeant peeked around an opening in the top of the wall. "Here they come! Prepare". Sweating suddenly in the chill air, Brandon pulled an arrow from his quiver and fit it to his longbow. "Steady,
men....steady...now! Stand ready!" At the call, as he had been practicing daily for the last fortnight, Brandon smoothly pivoted on his right foot, stood to clear the battlement, and drew his string back to his ear.
The crossbow bolt hissed out of the darkness and took him full in the forehead, pitching him backward off the wall with a gout of brains splaying from the hole, his unused longbow falling with a clatter at the feet of his friend kneeling in the darkness.
"Wow! This one went nearly through!" exclaimed a tow-headed boy of around 10 with delight. "Look, Trens! The arrowhead is nearly poking through the back! I'm going to shoot like that when I grow up." His companion, a younger boy with tousled brown hair and dirty fingernails, turned a grinning face to his friend. "C'mon, Brandon! You know there's only a
few openings in the Arabel Guard every year. I doubt they'll have to stoop so low as to let you in!" "Oh yeah?" exclaimed Brandon. "You can follow your father into the Tormite priesthood, Trens, but I'll get in the Arabel Guard, and I'll be the best archer the city has ever seen!".
THE CITY baked under the summer heat as cicadia droned lazily in the trees. Two teenage boys paused in drawing water from the neighborhood well to watch a squad of men march past in the blazing sun, heading to the West gate. "For Cormyr, Obarskyr, and the Purple Dragon!" shouted the boys. Suddenly, they realized that two of the soldiers in the command were smaller than the others, and the way they moved when they walked...awkwardly, they stared at the first woman soldiers in the Arabel guard they had ever seen.
"Wow, would you look at that!" whispered Brandon to his companion. "I can't wait another year to get in the Guard! Master Garron says I'm a good enough shot now!" His friend was frantically trying to look everywhere *but* at the two woman in their tight leathers. He kept frantically trying to remember what Master Alorren had said about temptations of the flesh, and how they could guide a man away from true devotion to Torm. Trens was sure that some clerics of Torm were married, so it must work out somehow... Frowning, he swung his head back towards the retreating column. Tight leathers? Usually the Guard wore chain....but this group was in leather armor, with light spears and shortswords instead of the pikes and longswords usually favored. And woman? It was not exactly forbidden for women to join the Guard, but it was of those things that woman Just Didn't Do. There had been talk of
fighting off in the south, with what was said to be an incursion of Zhentarim raiders along the coast of the Wyvernwater...but this group was headed to the High Horn gate, and the road to the Stormhorns. If the humanoid tribes up in those inhospitable mountains were becoming active, it would be at the most innorportune time for Cormyr. Or the most opportune time, if you were a Zhentarim agent charged with making sure the Purple Dragons were busy elsewhere....
THE WAGONS rolled continuously into the city, passing under the elm trees that lined the King's Way, flaming in their bold autumn colors. A teenage boy, having finished his last assigned errand, ran up to a dust-covered official standing at the intersection holding a chalkboard. "Brandon!" the official shouted over the din. "Take this lot to the Temple of Illmater! Step lively now, more are inbound!". Too out of breath to do more than nod, the tow-headed boy jumped ahead, catching the attention of the lead driver. "This way!". The wagon obediantly turned down Elder Street, causing a column of grim-faced middle-aged men in mismatched armor to step hastily aside. They had an unobstructed view into the bed as the
wagon swept past. A half-dozen men and one woman lay packed in the bottom; dirty cloths hastily wrapped around burned and bloody wounds dripping with red, and smashed limbs hastily secured with broken weapons and fresh-cut branches. One of the men marching off to the battlefield swallowed his bile long enough to lean into the wagon and whisper to one of the conscious veterens. "What's happening? How is it on the field?" The man focuses his remaining eye on the questioner. "Don't march far...there is no more Army. Lord Elegen has fallen....some magic that caused black tentacles to swarm up around him, and smashed him down. We couldn't recover his body, so they'll be no Raising for him this time. They'll be here soon." He coughed, then managed to add before falling back weakly "Red wizards of Thay were seen with them." The man stepped back into his group, swallowed, resolutely faced forward, and headed out into the setting sun.
Brandon led his charges down the street, through one of the market squares now jammed with refugees from the estates and farms to the north, and onto the Temple Way. The first temple was dedicated to Chauntea; the gentle earth mother's gardens were now covered with the sick and exhausted escappees from the Zhentarim devestation to the south. The Council of Clerics had determined She was better at caring for the sick, and her clerics might be overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of battle wounded. For them, the temples and halls of the more marital minded gods waited; Tyr, Illmater, Helm, and Torm. As they passed the new-built Temple of Torm, Brandon spotted a familiar figure moving among the wounded waiting to be seen by the clerics. "Trens! Minister Agnon will want a report...when can Torm take another group?" "I'll check with Master Alorren and get word to Agnon, Brandon. The priests are nearly exhausted." His voice dropped "They've taken to storing the dead in the catacombs, hoping the cool air will retard decay long enough for them to be Raised. But they're aren't
enough priests who can handle that kind of divine power to get to them in time..." Brandon looked his younger friend in the eye. "Don't worry. The King is surely sending relief from Suzail and Marsember. And...the army will be returning soon. They have more clerics with them, to help here." Trens looked up at his words. The army returning meant only one thing; the
battle was lost, and Arabel would soon be under siege.
WINTER DARNKESS spread east to west across the city as the sun set behind purple colored clouds. A cold wind had sprung up as evening fell, but had died down with the dark. A line of men huddled behind the crenellations that ran along the top of the wall. Horns, drums, trumpets, screams, and the sound of blades beating on shields washed over them from the armies that waited just beyond shot outside the walls. Young boys and a few girls, holding baskets of arrows and bolts, waited behind the men, with more crouched in shelter behind the wall. One of the older boys, holding a longbow and quiver, jumped slightly as a smaller form dashed along the wall and knelt next to him with a small sloshing sound. Waterproofed skiens were
slung all over his form. "Brandon! Here....milk. Have one...I'm to give one to everyone along the line." "Milk, Trens? Are you out of your mind? What good is that! Now, beer, on the other hand..." "Brandon! You might have talked your way into helping defend the wall, but you've got another year before you can drink like the soldiers can! Besides.." Trens managed
to flash a grin in the dark "This is milk from cows blessed and raised by clerics of Chauntea, the Earth Mother. It has healing properties. Not strong, like the potions the acoloytes make for adventureres, but it's a help.". Brandon knew that actual healing potions were is desperate short supply, and were being held back for use in dire need only. "Thank you, Trens. I'm sure my arm will be tired soon enough from putting arrows into these beasts!".
As Trens started to move away, Brandon heard the sound from over the wall changed in pitch, became beserk, and even louder, something he had not thought possible. A sergeant peeked around an opening in the top of the wall. "Here they come! Prepare". Sweating suddenly in the chill air, Brandon pulled an arrow from his quiver and fit it to his longbow. "Steady,
men....steady...now! Stand ready!" At the call, as he had been practicing daily for the last fortnight, Brandon smoothly pivoted on his right foot, stood to clear the battlement, and drew his string back to his ear.
The crossbow bolt hissed out of the darkness and took him full in the forehead, pitching him backward off the wall with a gout of brains splaying from the hole, his unused longbow falling with a clatter at the feet of his friend kneeling in the darkness.