VoiD

The Fires of Anuria(Reboot)

@Sigma Kol'Kora sorry, mixed them up.
@Ozerath That's why there's an escort of fighters :)
I'm okay with whatever, though obviously given the opportunity I'd prefer Elthian to survive.

The Fires of Anuria(Reboot)

Posted!

The Fires of Anuria(Reboot)

The Theocracy of Aorolach

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Patrol near Camp Frostbite
Arctic Northlands, Malthecien-Ashtarian border

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The pilot cursed as he received reads of the still-functioning Ashtarian gunship. The missiles on his tail had yet to reach his speeds, but while they still could undoubtedly accelerate, he had reached the maximum speed of his fighter. The pilot calculated that he had time for one last pass before he had to break engagement - the Ashtar likely had reinforcements coming, and he had to get away from the thrice-damned missiles. He pulled on his stick, his aircraft completing a sharp upside-down turn and heading back towards the gunship. He unloaded with everything he had, prayed to Malthecior that it had worked, and headed back towards base to the safety of static anti-air emplacements.

---

Elthian gasped, ripping the helmet off his head. He tossed it aside - it was useless with the fist-sized blast marks on the visor. A wave of nausea and dizziness assaulted his senses, and he stumbled, clutching his head. A concussion at the very least. Elthian could already feel his power armor's recovery system supporting and bracing his body. He winced at his sore chest. Definitely a fractured rib or two. Blearily, he looked around.

Utter devastation. Nothing remained of the snowy bluff he had taken cover behind just moments before. Enormous craters were all that was left. He saw no signs of his squad. Elthian coughed up a wad of mucusy-blood. He had lost his rifle somewhere, so he drew his sidearm and checked the charge. Half a battery - it would do. He scanned the area for any signs of life. Elthian recalled that his power armor came with emergency comms systems, and he hurriedly activated them. A green blip appeared on his wrist, and urgently he followed it. After a few minutes of searching and stumbling, he nearly tripped over the body of Invoker Theuron. A massive blast mark covered half his chest, and he was missing his left arm; the wound was cauterized already. But the indicator on his arm told Elthian that his commanding officer was still alive, if barely. Grunting, he lifted the Invoker onto his back, and reactivated his comms.

"Central, this is Acolyte Elthian of Patrol Squad D4N02. We have heavy casualties and request immediate evac. I repeat, we request immediate evac."

"Understood Acolyte. We are dispatching a gunship from Camp Frostbite with escort to your position. ETA two minutes."

Elthian sagged in relief, his knees weak. He lay the Invoker next to him, and sat down heavily. He readied his pistol, though he doubted there was any hostile still alive, and if there was, it was not some infantry-man he could take down with a pistol. He settled in and waited for salvation.

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Anurian System
Approaching orbit of Anuria

[+]

The fleet made good time, approaching at a fraction of the speed of light. They stayed strictly in formation - Missionary-class as escorts to the Patriarch-class and Inquisitors as the front-liners. Reports of a battle reached them, but the Primate ordered to avoid conflict until after their forces touched down on the surface. The Patriarch-class ships carrying the invasion force entered orbit of Anuria, with the rest of the Malthecien fleet acting as an escort.

Upon entering orbit, the Patriarchs released twelve Bishop-class Atmospheric Carriers. Each carried one-hundred Crusader fighters along with twenty Priest-gunships, along with a force of ten-thousand troopers including their armor complements. Six made their way to the arctic, while the other six moved towards the outskirts of Kol'kira to set up Forward Operations Headquarters. The Primate ordered one Patriarch-class vessel, the Unflinching Zealot, along with her escort of two Missionary-class vessels, to remain in orbit to act as tactical orbital support.

The rest of the fleet turned as one to engage the enemy over the skies of Anuria. They would wait until the two enemy fleets had weakened each other, then would strike.

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@Dead Cruiser Sounds good, will do.

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Posted!

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T H E C R I M S O N C O M P A N Y

He struck.
She'd gotten her guard up - he recalled she had been spending long hours at the pell under the watchful eye of Ser Gavin. She flicked her blade to the right, crossing his blade. He bounced back and cut again at her leg, but she had already slipped her foot away. He allowed himself a small smile - she had been paying attention. He feinted low, then cut at her head twice, left then right. She made the cover for the first but the second was late and she stumbled backwards on her heels. He did it again, faster this time, but she was ready and made both covers.
Time to end it, He thought, and thrust.
"Fuck," Nell said, his sword point at her throat.
Damion laughed, withdrawing his blade and sheathing it in a quick flourish. "You were excellent, besides that one cover and your draw." He paused. "Draw a hundred times, no looking at the scabbard. Then you may go get some breakfast." He smiled at her grimace. "You won't be able to test your swordsmanship if you're dead, Nell. And I'd be hard pressed to find another squire of your caliber."
Nell bowed to him, unsuccessfully hiding the wide, silly grin on her face at his sudden praise.
"I'll leave you to it," Damion said, and walked back towards the main camp.
The camp sprawled across half a mile of land, hundreds of lines of tents carefully organized from battle groups to lances. Each company soldier was responsible for the care of his equipment, unless they had a squire to worry about it for them. Meals were set at specific times during each day. Sentries were established according to a carefully-booked schedule, mainly following the straightforward hierarchy in the company. Every soldier was assigned a rigorous training program to ensure they were in top condition; based on their progress they were promoted, which meant higher pay and more opportunity for advancement. All soldiers had the potential to become belted Knights in the company.
Lord Damion ran a tight ship, and he was damned proud of it.
He spotted Ser Haljon by the mess, and called out to him. "Jon! Gather the others for a briefing. Breakfast can wait."
The big Northman grumbled but obliged, stuffing a link of sausages into his mouth before heading off to find the other Knights that made up Lord Damion's inner circle.
He strode into his tent - an enormous working of expensive cloth - and rolled out a map of the continent on his war table. The table was large and made of exotic mahogany; heavy as hell, but it left an important impression. Damion clasped his hands behind his back and waited.
He didn't have to wait long. Ser Gavin was the first to arrive, trim and clean-cut as ever. Out of all those in his inner circle, Gavin best matched Damion's personality. As well he should, Damion thought to himself. He squired for me.
Next to arrive was Ser William, along with Ser Alexios. William's youth was far behind him; grey speckled his beard and hair, and wrinkles had begun to form around his mouth and eyes. That said, he was the best damned lance in the company, and his relatively advanced age did nothing to change the quickness of his tongue or mind. In fact, he gave Damion perhaps the most thoughtful counsel out of all those in his inner circle.
Alexios was a Knight trained in the old Atlantean fashion. He had tan skin and a carefully trimmed forked beard, along with a slight accent he never could get rid of. He was the best dagger fighter in the company, along with a close second to William with a lance. Alexios was well-versed in all things of a courtly nature, and possessed a classical education. Thus he was Damion's best advisor on all things political.
Ser Catherine arrived next. The only female knight in the company, she used to be a courtesan in Thule before joining up with the company. She didn't like to talk about her past although she did not shun it, though any man who thought her an easy mark was liable to end up in the company physician's care. Regardless, she was a well-respected figure in the company and one of Damion's best commanders. Most of the other Knights called her "Cat" for short.
Lastly, Ser Haljon arrived with the two men in charge of the company's archery corps, John Redford and his right-hand Richard Smith. Haljon, or "Bad Jon" as he was known to most of the company, was an intimidating presence anywhere he went. He stood head and shoulders over most men and weighed nearly thirty stones. His great warsword was the size of a man, and his strength was comparable to a bear. Haljon had been one of the very first members of the company, and had made it clear to Damion that the only reason he had joined was to fight. A good thing too, because he was easily the best swordsman in the company.
John Redford and Richard Smith were the two best archers in Damion's employ. Out of the two of them Richard was probably the better shot, though he didn't have John's wisdom or talent for discipline. John had been a vagrant after a skirmish robbed him of his employer, a minor Borean lord. The rumor was that Richard used to be a bandit before joining up with the company, though he seemed affable enough, if somewhat vulgar and possessing of a particularly strong lust for gold.
Damion clapped his hands together, smiling broadly as his inner circle gathered around the war table. "Sorry to interrupt your breakfast friends, but we have some planning to do. It seems we have finally found a contract..."

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Going to start working on my post now.

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@Flagg Ouch, sorry to hear that.

@DeltaV Looking forward to it :)

Enduwin: Act 1 - The Dark Awaits

Haljon Gunnarsson

Character Sheet
Name: Haljon Gunnarsson
Age: 27
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Physical Description:

A towering man of stout build, Haljon stands at a staggering 6'9, and weighs nearly forty-five stones (450 lbs). He is barrel-chested, and his arms are unusually long. Possessing strong, angular facial features, he may be considered ruggedly handsome by some. His eyes are deepset and a dark brown, almost black. A scar travels from his forehead to beneath his left eye, and his nose is crooked from multiple fractures. Haljon's mouth is framed by a large beard, which is complimented by bushy black brows. He seems to be permanently coated in a layer of dirt or dust.

Appearance

Skillset:

Haljon is frighteningly strong and a renowned swordsman. A capable leader of men, he is an expert at recruiting and training and noted as a strict, but effective, disciplinarian. He is also an able tactician, but his strategies are none too subtle and often quite straightforward. He has a peculiar interest in geography and cartography, and thus is especially knowledgeable about the layout of terrain and areas surrounding Dara and beyond. Haljon is also quite fond of history, especially of the mythological sort.

Ancestry:

Haljon hails from a land far to the north, one steeped with mythology. Tales of heroes and the sons of Gods abounded, along with those of treacherous sorcerers and vile monsters. He grew up listening to these tales, and his family even claimed descent from one of the many heroes; Letholdus, a towering demigod famous for having slain the Twelve Great Beasts by himself, in atonement for the egregious sin of kinslaying. Supposedly Letholdus was the child of the God of the Sky, and had the capability to throw lightning bolts. His great height was the result of his father wishing for him to closer to the sky. Being incredibly strong and tall, Haljon was often compared to Letholdus as he got older, possessing many of the same features as the hero in the tale.

Character History:

Haljon grew up in a village located in the far north, one without a name or place on any map. Surrounded by an icy wasteland and having never experienced any season except Winter, the village survived through ice fishing and trading with the few merchants who dared venture that far north. The fish they caught were prized for their oil, as it apparently turned flame a multitude of colors when burned. Haljon had a normal, if grueling, childhood. As the village stayed at a nearly constant population due to the climate, children were expected to take large amounts of responsibility at an early age. They were taught that duty, particularly to the village, came before all else; that a person's word was the summation of their entire being, a terrible curse befalling all those who broke theirs.

The village often had to deal with slavers who raided the village for new slaves every few years. Supposedly, the villagers were renowned for their hardiness and made excellent laborers, and thus were favored by those who made a living through the sale of other humans. Through these attacks, the villagers learned to defend themselves, quickly becoming proficient with axes and spears. They fended off the slavers for nearly a decade. Then, one year, the slavers arrived in huge numbers. Despite the villagers best efforts, they were defeated and the entire village was sold into slavery. Haljon was thirteen when this occurred, and was particularly prized by his captors due to his already-impressive physique and young, impressionable nature. He, along with the rest of his village, was loaded onto the slaver's boats and taken far south, where they were sold at the markets of great cities.

Haljon was separated from all those he had ever known, making another trip across the sea to a forested land dotted with the odd town, inhabited by a barbaric and warlike people who called themselves the Treveri. There, he became a slave-soldier and was trained in the arts of war. He became quite skilled, and he distinguished himself on several occasions in the frequent battles and skirmishes the Treveri fought. By the age of seventeen he had reached his full, towering height and was famous across the land as being a fearsome warrior. The Treveri granted him his freedom then, and offered him an official place amongst their warrior-ranks. But the Treveri had been cruel masters, and so Haljon fled the tribe in the dead of night. He boarded the first ship he found, trading one of the many prizes he had collected over the years for passage. Since then he has roamed across many lands as a sellsword, and has most recently been doing his bloody work in the city of Vrent.

Alternative Bio

Haljon was born into an impoverished noble house with a small amount of land to it's name, his father a Knight of some renown and his mother of low-nobility. From a young age, Haljon had a keen interest in martial pursuits, and could often be found sparring in the courtyard or against other boys, including commoners (though this detail was much frowned upon by his mother). His father began teaching him swordplay at age seven, and while he mainly focused on these lessons, he also managed to learn to read and write, though his penmanship is horrid and his reading laughably slow. Haljon learned basic manners and some arithmetic, though he was never good at either. However, Haljon proved to have a keen eye for strategy and tactics, and he adored military history.

Haljon was formerly taken into his father's tutelage at age fourteen. By this time Haljon was the size of a full-grown man, and his growth showed no signs of slowing. By sixteen he would be taller than his father, who was considered a fairly large man, and by eighteen he would reach his full height of nearly seven feet tall. Along with his enormous size came a tremendous strength, and he was often compared to an ox in that respect. Haljon also proved to be a more than competent swordsman, and one with a surprising amount of speed and agility. Coupled with both a weight and reach advantage, he proved to be quite the formidable foe after he was formally knighted in his twenty-first year.

However, his father's liege-lord was apparently quite power hungry, and decided he was in a prime position to rebel against the Empire and forge a Kingdom of his own. As a vassal of this lord, his father was obligated to obey, and thus Haljon found himself marching to war against the forces of the Empire, much to his dismay. The war was, as could be expected, brutal and swift; the rebellion was crushed mercilessly in a single great battle, the rebellious lord slain on the field. His parents were executed for high treason, though Haljon was spared. Apparently he had acquitted himself quite well in the battle, and he was given the option of swearing fealty to a new lord. With little choice, Haljon accepted, swore an oath, and, in the dark of the night, absconded away to a nearby town. There he bought a horse and traveled to a far corner of the Empire, near it's very frontiers.

He drank away his grief and sorrow in a tavern, selling his horse and most of his clothes and armor to support his new-found love of ale. The only thing he kept was his sword Limbcleaver, a gift from his father. At some point whilst he was drowning his misery in the cups, he was approached by a man who introduced himself as Rikard, the leader of a mercenary company of some renown. He offered Haljon a place in the company, which Haljon accepted with a significant lack of grace. Over the next several years he traveled, fought, bled, ate, shit, and sweated with the company. He learned new skills and made many friends, some of which he believed to be his companions for life. OVer time the company became more and more famous, and thus their services were required by wealthier and more powerful men. Their battles became harder, but they endured and became stronger from it. Until, however, a day came when they were simply far too outnumbered. Rikard had insisted that they could handle any foe, and thus they found themselves surrounded on one lonely hilltop by three times their number. The company fought long and hard, but their numbers slowly dwindled; and although they killed two for every one they lost, they fell one-by-one until not a single one of them was left standing.

Haljon had slain a dozen or more of the enemy, and was only taken down after he was knocked over a shallow cliff ace onto several rocks below. He was presumed dead, but in reality alive, albeit gravely injured. He cursed the nine as he fled the aftermath, and once again turned to the cups to drown his sorrow in. Over time, a deep-seated hatred of the Immortal Nine took root in Haljon's soul, blaming them for the deaths of his parents and brothers-in-arms. He dreamed of the day he could take his vengeance, and that day seemed to come a few short weeks later in the form of a robed man. He spoke to Haljon of Erthantis and his followers and offered them a place in their ranks, and of course he accepted, recalling Rikard approaching him in the same manner, years ago...

Personality:

Haljon is known as an affable, boisterous character who is fond of light-hearted jests. He is something of an alcoholic, often found drinking copious amounts of wheat ale at his favorite tavern while off-duty. His word and reputation mean everything to him, as they are some of the few things he truly values.

Equipment:

Haljon wears a thick cuirass of lamellar, as well as vambraces and greaves made of the same material. Underneath all this he wears a long mail shirt that goes to his knees (hauberk). The rest of his outfit is made up of boiled leather, covering his thighs and shoulders. His boots are made of this material, as are his gauntlets. Haljon typically does not wear a helm. He has a massive two-handed iron sword that measures six feet long, slung across his back in an intricate sheath. He has dubbed the sword "Limbcleaver". A knife with a wide blade is sheathed at his belt. He has five groats, three shields and twenty farthings.

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@DeltaV Mentioned the wrong person, sorry! I meant Kingfisher ha-ha.